Chapter Six
Currents of Life
The wind caught the lush black fabric and tossed it out, unfurling the flag of the king of Gondor. The seven jewels embedded in the banner winked in the early morning sunshine, and the silvery threads of a white tree shimmered. Then the wind turned and the fabric doubled back upon itself. The glimmering was lost in folds of darkness, but then, like a whip the standard opened wide again and presented itself for all to see.
Eldarion stood at the base of the flagpole silently pulling on the ropes. Hand over hand he grasped the white cord and raised the flag ever higher. For too long it had rested listlessly at half mast, but now it would be restored to its proper position of honor. The three months of mourning for King Elessar were now passed, and Eldarion had insisted on raising the flag himself. He had desired no ceremony or pomp to accompany its climb, save merely the privilege to replace it atop its tall pole himself. So none stood beside him as the flag traveled to its accustomed height and no trumpets announced its arrival. The only noticeable difference between this morning and that of the last was the absence of the tolling of bells, and Eldarion breathed a sigh of relief that they were gone.
Looking up at the flag after securing its ropes, Eldarion's thoughts strayed to the past. He remembered the day his father had lifted him onto his shoulders, carried him to the flagpole, and allowed him to touch the rough cords. He had clasped his hand too tightly and a sharp splinter had embedded itself into his soft palm. The memory of it caused Eldarion to squeeze his hand into a fist and then massage the sore place with his thumb. Of course Aragorn had set his son down and, kneeling, taken the little hand in his to look for and remove the splinter.
Now Eldarion stood by the flag not as a small boy, but as a grown man – as king. He wore the green cape and eagle pin, which had together become an integral part of his wardrobe. He wore them whenever possible as a sort of memorial to his father and as a comfort to himself. The folds of fabric held a fragrance that alluded to memories of carefree days and held for him a strength he could not describe. Knowing his father had worn the same attire while making critical decisions, riding over the country side, and laughing with his family somehow made his new position as king bearable.
Eldarion lips formed a bitter smile. The sound of laughter had not been heard for so many days. His mother, who had always loved laughter, now resigned herself to her lonely fate with grim quietness and expressionless sadness. No one else had reason to laugh either, for they were all busy with the duties placed before them. His sisters quietly went about their business, and if they had joyful conversations he did not hear them. Those from Dol Amroth had returned home a month ago, and the hobbits, too, had departed. The elf Legolas was even now building a grey ship in Ithilien to sail from Middle-earth and across the sea.
And, worst of all for Eldarion, the steward's children had returned home to Ithilien, though he had remained in the White City to aid the new king. Eldarion missed Theodwyn far more than he wished to. Just when he was determined not to think of her, he found himself doing exactly that. When he became discouraged and confused by the decisions he needed to make he would involuntarily remember her composure and steadiness, longing to possess those qualities and desiring her assistance. And when he stood alone on the balcony at night, his hands gripping the railing and his head bowed in frustration and exhaustion, he remembered how she had looked in the starlight with her hair blowing gently in the breeze. Now, as then, he longed to embrace her and feel her head against his shoulder, but when he opened his eyes and extended his hand he reached only for an apparition and the wind whispered over deserted stone.
The steady pace the palace had regained was not one Eldarion particularly enjoyed. There were matters to be attended to concerning the resting place of King Elessar. A permanent stone coffin was under construction and nearly finished. The chamber was once again subject to cleaning and the beds of Master Meriadoc and Thain Peregrin were removed to their customary situation. These arrangements were difficult for Eldarion to oversee because of the strong emotional weight he still bore.
Yet with time he was healing. It did not come as quickly as he desired, nor did it come the way he would have hoped for. He did not forget the pain, as he had supposed he would, but each day it became more endurable. The sadness slowly subsided to the depths of silent reflection, and his external emotions were no longer held in thralldom to his grief. Memories of old days came to him now as a gentle fragrance in summer days, or as the wind blowing on the shore of a grey beach. They made him feel comfortable, sometimes they made him smile and sometimes they drew forth a liquid film over his eyes. The hardest memories were those surrounding his father's last days and death. He tried not to think on them, for they always caused him to loose his composure.
"Eldarion?"
The voice startled him from reminiscence. Gilraen stood before him, her forehead creased and her eyes troubled.
"What is it, sister?"
"Naneth said she is going to leave the city."
"Leave?"
"Yes. She said she needs to be free from it, that she needs to go home."
"This is not home?"
"That is what I asked. She has had many homes beside this one, though I wonder if any will suffice."
"You mean she cannot be content here without Ada?"
Gilraen nodded.
"Can any of us?" he muttered, looking at the ground.
"Are we to be orphans, Eldarion?"
He looked up suddenly, her voice was shaking. He took her hand and squeezed it gently. She closed her eyes and a tear slid down her cheek.
"Worse things have happened," he began, but then changed his mind. He pointed to the silver ribbon glimmering far below them, the river Anduin.
"Do you see the water, Gilraen? It is like our lives. For a time we all are side by side with those we love, but the current is not always steady. There are blessed shallows of contentment, but there are also rapids and whirlpools. Like the rising of the tide our lives are for an hour or a year overflowing with pleasure, and then low tide comes and we slither lifelessly around the muck. We have reached a low tide in life. Eddies take us and would drown us if we let them, but we won't. We must be strong and struggle against the suction of stronger currents, remembering that every stream leads to the sea. But we can only reach the waves of freedom through times of trial. We pass now through difficult times, but know that clearer waters await us beyond the bend."
Author Note:
Okay, everyone, here's the latest chapter! I hope it's a good one...
I've decided to go back and rework the names, because I do like stories to be as accurate as possible. After doing a tiny bit of research, I figured out that Theodwyn would have to be Faramir's great-granddaughter. In a Lord of the Rings genealogy we have it lists Faramir's grandson by the name Barahir, so I guess he'll become the steward now. It may take me a while to completely fix the previous chapters, so hang in with me. I'm going to put more priority on writing new chapters than revising old ones, just to let you know.
Thank you all for reading, and please continue to review!
Vané Alasse
Currents of Life
The wind caught the lush black fabric and tossed it out, unfurling the flag of the king of Gondor. The seven jewels embedded in the banner winked in the early morning sunshine, and the silvery threads of a white tree shimmered. Then the wind turned and the fabric doubled back upon itself. The glimmering was lost in folds of darkness, but then, like a whip the standard opened wide again and presented itself for all to see.
Eldarion stood at the base of the flagpole silently pulling on the ropes. Hand over hand he grasped the white cord and raised the flag ever higher. For too long it had rested listlessly at half mast, but now it would be restored to its proper position of honor. The three months of mourning for King Elessar were now passed, and Eldarion had insisted on raising the flag himself. He had desired no ceremony or pomp to accompany its climb, save merely the privilege to replace it atop its tall pole himself. So none stood beside him as the flag traveled to its accustomed height and no trumpets announced its arrival. The only noticeable difference between this morning and that of the last was the absence of the tolling of bells, and Eldarion breathed a sigh of relief that they were gone.
Looking up at the flag after securing its ropes, Eldarion's thoughts strayed to the past. He remembered the day his father had lifted him onto his shoulders, carried him to the flagpole, and allowed him to touch the rough cords. He had clasped his hand too tightly and a sharp splinter had embedded itself into his soft palm. The memory of it caused Eldarion to squeeze his hand into a fist and then massage the sore place with his thumb. Of course Aragorn had set his son down and, kneeling, taken the little hand in his to look for and remove the splinter.
Now Eldarion stood by the flag not as a small boy, but as a grown man – as king. He wore the green cape and eagle pin, which had together become an integral part of his wardrobe. He wore them whenever possible as a sort of memorial to his father and as a comfort to himself. The folds of fabric held a fragrance that alluded to memories of carefree days and held for him a strength he could not describe. Knowing his father had worn the same attire while making critical decisions, riding over the country side, and laughing with his family somehow made his new position as king bearable.
Eldarion lips formed a bitter smile. The sound of laughter had not been heard for so many days. His mother, who had always loved laughter, now resigned herself to her lonely fate with grim quietness and expressionless sadness. No one else had reason to laugh either, for they were all busy with the duties placed before them. His sisters quietly went about their business, and if they had joyful conversations he did not hear them. Those from Dol Amroth had returned home a month ago, and the hobbits, too, had departed. The elf Legolas was even now building a grey ship in Ithilien to sail from Middle-earth and across the sea.
And, worst of all for Eldarion, the steward's children had returned home to Ithilien, though he had remained in the White City to aid the new king. Eldarion missed Theodwyn far more than he wished to. Just when he was determined not to think of her, he found himself doing exactly that. When he became discouraged and confused by the decisions he needed to make he would involuntarily remember her composure and steadiness, longing to possess those qualities and desiring her assistance. And when he stood alone on the balcony at night, his hands gripping the railing and his head bowed in frustration and exhaustion, he remembered how she had looked in the starlight with her hair blowing gently in the breeze. Now, as then, he longed to embrace her and feel her head against his shoulder, but when he opened his eyes and extended his hand he reached only for an apparition and the wind whispered over deserted stone.
The steady pace the palace had regained was not one Eldarion particularly enjoyed. There were matters to be attended to concerning the resting place of King Elessar. A permanent stone coffin was under construction and nearly finished. The chamber was once again subject to cleaning and the beds of Master Meriadoc and Thain Peregrin were removed to their customary situation. These arrangements were difficult for Eldarion to oversee because of the strong emotional weight he still bore.
Yet with time he was healing. It did not come as quickly as he desired, nor did it come the way he would have hoped for. He did not forget the pain, as he had supposed he would, but each day it became more endurable. The sadness slowly subsided to the depths of silent reflection, and his external emotions were no longer held in thralldom to his grief. Memories of old days came to him now as a gentle fragrance in summer days, or as the wind blowing on the shore of a grey beach. They made him feel comfortable, sometimes they made him smile and sometimes they drew forth a liquid film over his eyes. The hardest memories were those surrounding his father's last days and death. He tried not to think on them, for they always caused him to loose his composure.
"Eldarion?"
The voice startled him from reminiscence. Gilraen stood before him, her forehead creased and her eyes troubled.
"What is it, sister?"
"Naneth said she is going to leave the city."
"Leave?"
"Yes. She said she needs to be free from it, that she needs to go home."
"This is not home?"
"That is what I asked. She has had many homes beside this one, though I wonder if any will suffice."
"You mean she cannot be content here without Ada?"
Gilraen nodded.
"Can any of us?" he muttered, looking at the ground.
"Are we to be orphans, Eldarion?"
He looked up suddenly, her voice was shaking. He took her hand and squeezed it gently. She closed her eyes and a tear slid down her cheek.
"Worse things have happened," he began, but then changed his mind. He pointed to the silver ribbon glimmering far below them, the river Anduin.
"Do you see the water, Gilraen? It is like our lives. For a time we all are side by side with those we love, but the current is not always steady. There are blessed shallows of contentment, but there are also rapids and whirlpools. Like the rising of the tide our lives are for an hour or a year overflowing with pleasure, and then low tide comes and we slither lifelessly around the muck. We have reached a low tide in life. Eddies take us and would drown us if we let them, but we won't. We must be strong and struggle against the suction of stronger currents, remembering that every stream leads to the sea. But we can only reach the waves of freedom through times of trial. We pass now through difficult times, but know that clearer waters await us beyond the bend."
Author Note:
Okay, everyone, here's the latest chapter! I hope it's a good one...
I've decided to go back and rework the names, because I do like stories to be as accurate as possible. After doing a tiny bit of research, I figured out that Theodwyn would have to be Faramir's great-granddaughter. In a Lord of the Rings genealogy we have it lists Faramir's grandson by the name Barahir, so I guess he'll become the steward now. It may take me a while to completely fix the previous chapters, so hang in with me. I'm going to put more priority on writing new chapters than revising old ones, just to let you know.
Thank you all for reading, and please continue to review!
Vané Alasse