Working Title: Self-discovery - Chapter 2
Summary: Day 7 (Belegost) – overcoming prejudice; Day 8 (Dorthonion) – identification with, or connection to, one's land, country, or culture; Day 9 (Nargothrond) – a character deciding between loyalty and betrayal; Day 10 (Gondolin) – use the line "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times" as a theme or title.
A/N: A reader may have to stretch to *see* the challenge responses in this section of the story, particularly the connection to land, country, or culture, but it will be more explicitly realized later in the story through Aragorn. In a vague, rather impressionistic way, I used the ship's captain for all the prompts for 7, 8, 9 & 10. Unbeta'd so all grammatical, spelling and time line errors are mine.
Warnings: If you dislike multiple POVs, do not read further as the POV switches casually here, back and forth between Aragorn and Borlath, the ship's captain.
"It seems you spend all your free time here, staring at the water. What is it your eyes see, young one?"
Aragorn glanced over briefly as the man joined him at the rail, unsure if the light tone conveyed mocking sport or honest question. It was true, if he was awake and not climbing the rigging, manning ropes or learning the subtleties of the great wheel that steered the ship, he could be found in his favorite place here in the bow.
"Water," he stated, imbuing the response with as much dismissal as he dared.
He was slightly wary of the ship's captain, though he had judged him as honorable a man as to be found in Lindon. And Aragorn had spent much of his spare time in the port city frequenting the dockside taverns, watching and listening, before he had approached Borlath with his proposal.
To voyage beyond the known territories, one needed a captain with more than experience and so he had gone looking for courage and tenacity, expecting, rather naively he had had soon realized, to recognize them easily among the swashbuckling mercenaries populating the waterfront.
"You have learned young to keep you own council," Borlath remarked, arcing a long stream of weed juice out into the water from between his stained teeth. "What has made you so cautious, I wonder?" Turning, he rested his elbows behind him on the railing at which Aragorn leaned, the better to observe the visage that had not yet learned to school itself to impassivity.
Aragorn fought down the urge to wince. The man's tone was friendly enough, but he sensed beneath it, a measuring, and wondered if he had been found wanting.
The long nights of tavern crawling had provided plenty of fodder for an active imagination. Tales of leviathans large enough to swallow whole ships, fish with female head and chest along with finned tails for feet, spouting water sometimes funneling down from the sky, sometimes spiraling up from the sea, fish as big as boats, shipwrecks. And passengers whose gold had bought passage only to a watery grave. Those latter stories he had heard in the taverns only the locals knew about, the ones tucked away discreetly in the back alleys and stews of the waterfront. He had the gift of stillness and the ability to fade into the background as though no more than a piece of furniture and had learned a lot in that manner, not only about the places he wished to visit, but also - among the crews that plied their trade out of Lindon harbor - who would be the most likely to accept his gold and not take his life.
Aragorn had been quite pleased with himself that he had thought to negotiate half his passage as crew, with half the remaining cost paid up front, the balance to be paid upon arrival back on the continent. He had not thought the gleam in the captain's eye, avarice, but five days at sea with no land in sight, nor any talk of land among the crew had him a little spooked.
"I have seen the maps, I have an approximate idea of how long it should have taken us to reach Tol Morwen." He broke his silence at last, a little relieved to find he could utter the words without a quaver in his voice. He rather doubted this man would quail at the thought of justice delivered at the hands of his foster brothers.
Borlath threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Have you now?" He slapped Aragorn on the back genially. "Well then, Master Mariner, how long should it have taken us?"
There was no mistaking the humorously mocking tone this time.
"Five days." Aragorn turned his head, relived to find the blue eyes watching him were smiling, the mobile mouth twitching back a matching expression. "Yet my eyes behold only water."
"And were those maps any older than you, m'lord?"
"Aye, the maps were older than I." It seemed like everything and everyone he encountered lately was older than he. "And I am no lord, as you well know, Borlath." Aragorn imparted stiffly, slanting a mild glare at the captain.
"So you say," Borlath agreed pleasantly, keen eyes fixed on the slight blush that tinted high cheekbones already well-tanned. "So you say." The flush deepened and the boy cut his gaze back to the water rather than endure the inquisitive stare. "Well then, I will attempt to assuage your fears. I have no intention of allowing the crew to toss you overboard and steal your dragon hoard of gold. You intrigue me." Borlath turned and rested his elbows on the railing alongside the very young pilgrim who had hired his ship. He had watched the boy work his fingers to the bone in order to earn his passage, yet the clothing he wore was well-cut, if filthy, his bearing that of a young noble, his manner quite self-assured when he wasn't worried he was going to be thrown to the sharks. "Last night while you slept the sleep of the righteous—" There went that thought-provoking blush again. "We were becalmed. Else we would be lying off the leeward side of Tol Morwen right now." He let the silence lie between them for a few minutes before asking, with a gentle solicitude his crew would have found extremely foreign to the man they knew, "Tell me you story, young master."
Aragorn hesitated, seeking an answer that would satisfy without revealing anything. He did not know his face had already spoken volumes. "I am too young to have a story, Master Borlath," he responded eventually, flicking his fingers as if dismissing the thought that he was even worthy of a story.
"Everyone has a story." Silence came easily to the ship captain and he had learned to use it effectively. When no further response was forthcoming, he added thoughtfully, "I believe I can deduce much of yours."
"I'm sure you can," Aragorn replied lightly, the arrogance of youth making him bold in his own mocking assertion. "Young man, defying authority to find his place in the world, drifting. I'm sure you've ferried many like me, Captain."
"Nay. I have not."
Aragorn tensed at the flat denial.
"I expect you've been warned to keep your origins well hidden. But there is a destiny writ upon you, visible to the discerning eye."
"You will get no ransom from my family," Aragorn asserted aggressively. "I would not tell you anyway, who they are."
When the booming laugh had finally died away to chuckles, Borlath turned a smile upon his companion. "Ah, but you have already told me." He watched the grey eyes widen in alarm as the quick mind flew over all that had passed between them.
"I have told you nothing."
But there was, again, a distance in the stance, a slight pulling away, though the young man remained where he was, leaning against the rail.
"Shall I tell you, then, Master Dúranu, what you have told me about yourself?" Borlath did not wait for an answer. He was well aware the youngster was torn between fleeing to his cabin and desire to understand how he'd given away anything. "You were raised by elves though you are mortal. Am I right?"
"Why would you think that?" Aragorn asked curiously, neither confirming or denying what he considered a stab in the dark.
"Ah, but you told me long before we took ship, and have confirmed it over and over as I have watched you work among the men. You wear the clothing of a mortal man, but it is made from elven cloth; your mannerisms, your speech, your hair, even the way you move, is elven. It is not affectation, rather it is as natural to you as breathing." Borlath paused before appending. "Shall I go on?"
Perhaps it was obvious he had lived among elves, Aragorn relfected. He was dressed much like his Dúnedain relatives, a parting gift from his mother, but the cloth of his clothing had been woven on elven looms. It had never occurred to him to exchange his clothes in Fornost. And it was true, he wore his hair long in the elven style, pulled back in a queue like his brothers. Neither had he considered that his elven upbringing might have auditory and visual repercussions. To his ear, his Common had been no different from the speech of the Lindoners. And who ever pondered the way they moved? That last allelgation, he suspected, might have a lot to do with having Glorfindel as a sword master.
Borlath took it as a challenge. "Since you do not deny you were raised by elves, there a few places in Middle-earth left to choose from. You are not from Mirkwood, I have had dealings with their king. He has had trouble bringing up his own spawn, he would not willingly take on another's, much less one of mortal get. So, Lothlorien or Rivendell. The child of Galadriel and Celeborn is long removed from this earth and I do not see the lady as the motherly type. Which leaves Elrond of Rivendell, who has long been known to foster the sons of his brother's line."
"Conjecture built upon myths and faery tales," Aragorn postulated airily, praying his voice would not break with the sudden overwhelming sense of fear pressing down on him like a smothering blanket. The memory was sensory and triggered a rush of adrenalin that made his heart pound sickeningly. He had only just learned of that long ride as a two-year-old, from the Dúnedain settlement to Rivendell, a few months ago. Though he had no physical recall of the event, it had left an indelible mark. He had woken in a cold sweat his first night out of Rivendell, from the same nightmare that had plagued him as child – a body swathed in blankets, the shaft of a broken arrow protruding from the outline of the head. By the time he had had the verbal skills to describe the dream, he had been too frightened to give voice to the images, imagining them as portents of his own adult life that if spoken aloud, would come true.
A hand closed over his shoulder, grasping firmly, anchoring him again in the sunlight. "You should know, Master Shadow," Borlath translated the elven name Dúranu into Common, "that the eyes are the most telling. Only the great Númenóreans had eyes the color of the silvering seas at dusk."
"Who are you?" Aragorn managed to contain the physical shudder that wanted to run through his body. "By all appearances you are an Easterling, though why you ply your trade from Lindon rather than Umbar, I cannot decide."
"Do you wish me to understand I am not the only one who may play at guessing games?" Borlath laughed again.
The sound was beginning to grate in Aragorn's ears. "I was under the impression the Haradrim avoided contact with the men of the west unless joined in battle."
"Aye, they do, for the most part. And you are correct in your perceptions. You have a good head on your shoulders. I am an Easterling, as you name us, though by design rather than birth and perhaps that has informed such prejudices as I have."
Aragorn silently observed that the sea captain appeared to be a very learned man with his style of speech and his apparently broad knowledge of the First Age, not to mention what sounded like personal knowledge of Aragorn's forbearers.
"Where do your prejudices lie?" he asked curiously.
Borlath appeared to consider the query seriously. "I will have no truck with arrogance or false hubris. Mind, there are prideful men who exhibit neither trait, there is a difference, but I do not tolerate the aforementioned."
"I see. Perhaps I am fortunate that experience expunges much of youth's arrogance. I suppose I was full of priggish presumption when I left my home."
"What makes you think you are not now?" Borlath inquired affably.
"I am on this ship," Aragorn riposted, "am I not?"
"That you are and I will go one further and tell you I do not see the insolence of youth in you. It is a credit to your upbringing that you appear to recognize your limitations and are willing to accept education where you find it. What – or whom - do you seek among the ruins of Tol Morwen?"
"I do not know," Aragorn replied simply. "I have no hunger to meet a dragon at the Stone of the Hapless." He shook his head to rid himself of the ingrained response to plied questions, as though he answered his tutor. And was surprised to find the fear had lifted; he felt – if not free, certainly freer. His foster father had drilled into him the importance of keeping his new identify secret, that there were those who sought his life yet and would not hesitate to harm him if they but thought he was of the line of Isildur. But the sharing of this burden both of secrecy and lament, had lightened its unaccustomed weight. "I suppose," he mused, "I am looking for the true parts of the old story."
"Have you decided which parts were a lie?" Borlath inquired, the quirking eyebrow clearly indicating to Aragorn what the ship's captain thought of his animadversion.
"No," he admitted. "I have not been able to separate lies from truth. And yes, I know that likely indicates only my perception of events."
"It is true then, that you were fostered by Lord Elrond in Rivendell."
"I was."
"And raised as a child of the House of Elrond from all appearances."
"Yes."
"Then it is true, too, that you are a descendent of his brother, Elros."
"I did not know this until recently."
"But no one ever told you that you were not."
"The point is," there was asperity in the youthful voice, "no one told me that I was either."
"Would it have mattered, as you were growing up, if you had known you were of the House of Elros? Would you have studied more? Less? Learned different habits? Grown into a different man? Become something other than the adult I am sure your foster father is proud to own his son?"
"I will never know, will I? I was not given that opportunity."
"Yet you were given the opportunity to grow up without thought of shadow, without knowing need, without grief, without want. Without fear as a constant companion." Borlath weighted his next words with a deep solemnity. "It was the best of times and the worst of times?" And then grinned. "No, it was the best of times. It is writ all over you as clearly as your destiny, heir of Isildur." He turned and held out his palm peremptorily. "Give me your hand."
Surprising even himself, Aragorn instinctively obeyed. He, who for the last six months had inexorably resisted any command, docilely lifted his hand.
Borlath took it and turned it palm up. "Did my Lord Elrond also teach you of the longevity of your natural house?" He glanced up from his scrutiny of the callused palm. "Did he?"
Aragorn opened and closed his mouth. There had been little discussion of the nature of his natural family, he had not stayed long enough for the subject to come up and his time with his mother had been short. He knew, of course, intellectually, of the famed longevity of the Northern Dúnedain; application of the lessons to himself, however, had not crossed his mind.
"Do you see this line? It is your lifeline. Do you see how it runs long and unbroken? That should ease your mind that I speak the truth, yes? When I assure you, again, I will not allow the crew to throw you overboard, no matter how poor your skill with the sails and ropes."
It was difficult not to respond to the flashing grin. Aragorn let his lips curve in a slight smile. "I had no thought of being thrown overboard."
The grin broadened so the entire mouthful of weed-stained teeth were on display. "You do not lie well, Dúnadan, but have no fear, all your secrets are safe with me."
As he had known it would, the subtle emphasis on the all further allayed the fight or flight response the boy's body had instinctively activated. Borlath felt the tension drain from his companion's stiff limbs and watched the tightly clenched fists relax and curve over the railing again. He was not a kindly man, his benevolence extended only so far as boredom took it, but he had experienced an affinity with this young man that had not touched him for an age or more. They shared neither kith nor kin, yet the brightly flaming spirit of adventure calling to his own would not be denied.
"Come, I have maps as well, let us see how they compare with the ones you have seen."
Aragorn brightened. He had excelled at geography and loved maps. Among the ones he had tucked away in his belongings were copies he had made of Elrond's father's maps, along with many of his own of Rivendell and its surrounds. Of the few compliments he had wrested from Elrond's chief advisor, the ones regarding his map-making skills had been among the most prized. In this alone he had surpassed all the elves of Rivendell. It did not require a far-seeing eye, merely a keen one; neither feats of strength or valor, only patience and persistence and a talent for drawing. All of which had been within his reach.
"I will show you were we are and see if you can calculate how long, at our current rate of progress, it should take to reach our first destination."
TBC