Working Title: Self-discovery
Author: Tanis
A/N: I only managed to fit in Day 14/Armenelos (loosely) religious rites, and Day 17/Bree – gift exchange in this section. I have every intention of meeting all the challenges, 'cause I'm so enamored of my beautiful passport, so if I cannot meet all of them as the story progresses, in the story, I'll got back and pick them up individually. Because I want my passport to look like I'm well travelled in Middle-earth.
A subtly spicy aroma stung his nose pleasurably, stirring dormant desires deep in his soul as Aragorn stopped abruptly on the threshold of the captain's cabin. He could not have articulated what they were, only that something beyond the physical world beckoned enticingly; he followed it willingly further into the room.
"Come, come," Borlath boomed, his long strides measuring the illusory length of the room.
To Aragorn, it appeared much longer than the few steps required by the ship's captain to cross to the map table partitioning off this section of the room in which he stood. His quick eye noted strategically placed mirrors that elongated and stretched the proportions of the room.
A kaleidoscope of color whirled before his vision as his mind tried to register the exotic décor. Small, brightly-colored, tooled-leather footstools, shaped like mushrooms, dotted the multiple layers of thick carpet spread from wall to wall along the floor. Repeating the floor patterns, jewel-toned wall-hangings almost, but not quite, disappeared behind layers and layers of gauzy materials draped from the low ceiling in emerald green and royal purple interspersed with bismuth blues and dark pinks, all shot through with what appeared to be mithral and gold stripes.
A row of sea chests lined the wall underneath the enlarged porthole windows, some flat, others rounded on their tops, some decorated with metal studs, others painted with intricately repeating floral patterns. Leaf-shaped wall sconces hid glass-shielded candles at shoulder height between the portholes and in the middle of the sea of carpets, a low brass cut-work table, surrounded by the little mushrooms, perched by itself. And on the table sat a see-through blue glass bottle filled with water in which swirls of some substance hung suspended.
His eyebrows shot to his hairline. "A shisha?" he exclaimed, looking to Borlath for confirmation.
"Aye," the man nodded, "Look at it if you like. Your education was even more far-ranging than I imagined."
"I have only seen a picture of one, drawn in the margin of a very old scroll. Its description and purpose fascinated me as a young boy." His attention completely absorbed by the glass vessel and attached flexible tubes, Aragorn missed the quirked eyebrow accompanying the twitch of the lips.
Borlath, however, did not let the moment pass unnoticed. "And you are how old now?"
"Twenty," Aragorn murmured absently, fingers wandering over the carved-ivory mouthpieces at the end of the tubes.
"You are welcome to try it some evening."
That brought the dark head up and a grin blossomed. "Smoking, I am reliably informed, is a filthy habit."
"Spoken like a true elf." Borlath returned the grin. "Come," he motioned with his head toward the map table. "I think you will enjoy these as much as the narghile. Perhaps more."
"Say it again? I did not quite catch the inflection of your word for it." Aragorn left off his minute inspection to join Borlath at the map table. "Why – perhaps more?" he wanted to know, eyes widening again at the careless array of priceless maps spread over the table. Some had the mapmaker's seal, many of which he recognized as premier map makers from the First Age.
"I wonder if I was wrong to loose your tongue." Borlath drew a round, wooden cylinder out of a series of cubbyholes built underneath the table. "I suspect you were the bane of your unfortunate tutors."
"If a thing is worth knowing, it is worth knowing well," Aragorn quoted, loosing also, the last threads of resentment binding him to anger. He would have loved to show these to Erestor, who had a love of maps as well, especially old one.
"Do not lose your curiosity, young one. In my language it is called a narghile; westerners name is shisha. The smoke of the narghile is quite potent. It may induce chimeras and can leave you with a head sorer than if you had been imbibing spirits non-stop for days."
The sea captain unscrewed a plug at the end of the cylinder mounted with the carved head of horse whose flowing mane appeared so life-like, Aragorn's fingers itched to explore it.
"It would be wise to practice prudence in your experimenting," Borlath expounded as he tapped the open cylinder against his wide palm and pulled at the lip that appeared tightly rolled inside the canister. "While it helps some with sea-sickness, it has the opposite effect on others. You are a good sailor; I rather doubt you wish to experience the extreme. As to why you will enjoy these perhaps more – you be the judge." With care, he unrolled and spread the aged map, drawn on a parchment-thin hide, over top of the others.
"I am well warned." Aragorn instantly bent over it.
"We'll see." Borlath rifled through the maps beneath and withdrew another, layering it over edge of the full-scale map of Númenor and another of First Age Middle-earth.
The third map was semi-transparent and Aragorn saw the Blue Mountains had been lined up over one another so ocean topography to the west and the land of the Third Age to the east lay atop the First Age renderings, every detail clearly visible through the pellucid overlay.
The captain set his left index finger on a miniscule dot on the overlay. "This is Tol Morwen. This," he spread his fingers and set his middle finger on a second, larger dot, "is Tol Fuin. Here is Himling." His hand steepled over his three fingers. "While the Númenor map is much larger scale, I have positioned it in about the area it is in relation to these three islands."
He saw the distance sink into that quick mind and lifted his fingers. "The voyage to Meneltarma is not to be undertaken lightly. It is a long journey and perilous."
"How do you know that?" Aragorn moved eagerly around the table. "No one in this Age has found the sacred mountain." He glanced up from the maps, grey eyes narrowed. "At least not since the second cataclysm."
Borlath merely smiled.
"Have you been there?" Aragorn demanded.
"Did you not just state emphatically no one has been there since Númenor drowned in the Second Age?"
"I did not." Aragorn had played word games with the best of the best. "I said no one has found it in this Age."
"I have sailed that way often. The journey has become a rite of passage, though not precisely in the sense of faith or religion. The young make it for the adventure, the old because they wish to view the Blessed Realm in hopes legend speaks truly." With a look, Borlath closed the subject of any intimate knowledge of the island. "As you see, the distance is great. Depending on wind and tides, it could take as long as a year to make the round trip."
"I am in no hurry," Aragorn stated, tracing with his finger the lands over which they had sailed. The dwarven realm of Belegost, surely, though Nargothrond's cavernous halls lay further to the east than he had imagined while watching the sea go by.
The ship might even anchor over Dorthonion when they reached Tol Fuin. And they would surely pass over the realm of his foster father's long dead adversary and ally, the March of Maedhros. He wondered if there might be ruins still, of Maedhros fortress on Himring, to be found on Himling.
Borlath's chuckle drew the attention of his wandering fëa. "You have no pressing desire to lean of the realm you will inherit some day?"
Aragorn rolled his eyes. "A kingdom of surpassing worth." One part of his mind remained fixed upon the tally of places drowned now, lost forever beneath the Great Sea, that he would never be able to visit. "A scattered people, barely able to feed and clothe themselves, a city deteriorating in both its politics and policies, and if my father had the the right of it, vast mountain ranges inhabited by orcs and goblins and all manner of heinous creatures bent on extinguishing my life."
South and west of Tol Morwen would lie the famed island of Balar. His mother's most prized possession was a necklace fashioned out of dwarven gold, perhaps from Belegost, and strung with a single pearl the size of the end of his thumb. The provenience of the necklace was unknown, save that it had been passed down through many generations of his mother's family. The pearl was of such quality it could only have come from Balar, where, it was told in lore, the beaches had been strewn with the moon-wrought gifts of the sea.
"Maps can show you distances and help you orient where you are. They are not able to give you a feel for the land beneath your feet, they do not reveal the secrets the earth holds, nor tell you of the lives your people lead. They cannot teach you the smell of a place; they are no good with languages or customs," Borlath replied mildly, watching the finger hover over the Falls of Sirion.
"Nine miles of underground river." Aragorn sighed wistfully. "And falls my father says were stories and stories high. Does water transmute water? Do the falls still flow under water? He said the noise was so loud you could not make yourself heard in the ear of the person standing next to you."
Across the table Borlath had folded his arms over his chest and was watching him.
"So many things lost as a result of the arrogance of my ancestors. What truths must we uncover in this Age, in order to right the wrongs our forbearers have wrought upon the world? Or will we also chose poorly and bring down the wrath of the Valar?"
Silence filled the well of souls contained within the walls of the captain's quarters.
They have raised a philosopher, Borlath pondered, unsure if the augury bode well or not.
A shaft of sunlight breached the round porthole nearest the table, brilliantly illuminating the gilded writing on the maps both above and below. On the map of the star island, the capital city of Armenelos lit as if the gilt-painted letters had absorbed the sun's rays and were reflecting them back.
Aragorn stared at it, mesmerized.
"That is a map meant to be explored." Unfolding his arms, Borlath searched among the maps until he found a cloth of chamois and passed it across the table. "Wipe your fingers before you touch it. It is very old and absorbs skin oils these days."
Aragorn, eyes still traveling the map of Númenor, took the cloth and absently scrubbed his fingertips. Laying it aside, he touched the gilt lettering over the capital city of Armenelos and found himself standing in the middle of a wide avenue, in front of a soaring circular building whose silver dome shone brightly under a mid-day Anor. Startled, he stepped back, losing contact with the map and the vision instantly dissipated.
"Interesting," mumurmed Borlath, threading his fingers thoughtfully through the forked beard he affected. "Few it is have I known who could call forth the map's latencies. Did you recognize the temple of the Dark Lord?"
Aragorn blinked as if blinded by the sunlight flooding the cabin. "Dark Lord?" he parroted, taking a further step back from the table. His father had often told him there was no such thing as magic. That what men considered sorcery was merely an extension of the elves natural ability to manipulate the harmonies of the natural world in which they live. "What necromancy is at work here?"
"None. There is nothing amiss with the map. It is merely that the mapmaker imbued the artifact with his memories. The map only recognizes those whose fingers bear the genes of the maker himself. There is no evil in, I can assure you; you will come to no harm from handling it. See-" Borlath touched the map. "My fingers conjure nothing. It is yours if you like; it belongs with someone who can appreciate it for all its facets."
Aragorn thrust his hands behind his back, the naked desire on his face at odds with his shrinking posture. "That map is - is very – very valuable," he stuttered. "You cannot just give it away. And I cannot take it."
"Why not?"
Aragorn slid his gaze hungrily over the arms of the star island.
"You would not need to stand physically on the peak of Meneltarma if you spent time with the map. Why not see what else it shows?"
"I have only your word there is no evil in the thing."
"Would you recognize evil if you saw it?"
Aragorn lifted his gaze to the man across the table, though not his head. Youth was evident in his voice as he offered, "I think so. I have met evil when in the company of my brothers. I know its feel, the smell of it, the taste of it on your tongue."
"And did you feel any of those things when you touched the map?"
"Nay."
"Then test it again, with foreknowledge perhaps you will learn something different."
Hesitantly the young man stepped back up to the table. For a moment his fingers hovered over the fingers of the star, then drifted down to lightly touch the arm of Andustar. The aromatic fragrance of pine, fir and spruce rose around them as they stood under a canopy of beech and oak interlaced over the heads of the evergreens. The carpets beneath their feet were now pine needles rather than hand woven rugs.
Borlath watched hesitant delight flit across the pensive features.
Aragorn traced his fingers tenuously over the bay of Eldanna and felt himself flying as if on the back of one of Manwë's eagles, the water below the blue of Arwen's eyes, lightly frosted with drifting whitecaps. His eyes beheld the great tower of Meneldure Elentimo, heir to throne of Númenor and an avid star gazer. He saw the abode of the eagles and then dipped and landed, as his fingers walked up the map to Mittalmar, on a wide plain where his ears were assaulted by the thunder of galloping hooves and a herd of magnificent horses broke to either side of him as if he stood physically amongst them.
"So must have stood the maker of the map," Borlath remarked patiently. "As you can see, the maker did not deign to sign his work, though it must have traveled with Elendil on the tide of the Númenor's drowning. Sense you evil any evil in it?"
"I do not," Aargorn admitted, though still troubled. "I cannot take it though; it is too valuable. I have nothing with which I may gift you in return."
"Gifts are not always meant to be reciprocated in kind. S'truth, young one, you are nigh unto impossible. You do not yet realize you are a gift in yourself." Borlath waved a deprecating hand. "Take it - or not - as you desire. It is of no import to me. I must return to the wheel." He turned abruptly away to wend his way through the palatial accouterments. "With luck and wind we will anchor off Tol Morwen before moonrise tonight. Stay as long as you like. There are many other maps that will provide information without startling that well-honed sense of self-preservation your adopted family has instilled."
The door banged shut behind the captain and Aragorn, thrilled to be left alone to explore the treasure trove Borlath had amassed, immediately fell to examining them inquisitively.