Working Title: Self-discovery/4
Author: Tanis
Summary: Day 11 – Himring – sacrificing to achieve a goal. Day 15 - The Shire/sharing a meal. Day 18 – Wilderland – acts of kindness/generosity originating from a generous heart.
A/N: Many thanks to Ragnelle, who's canon catch (subsequently edited to fix it) in the first chapter of this story, allows for the unfolding at the end of this chapter. Further - sadly, intellectual research can only take you so far in trying to describe what it might be like to smoke hashish from a hookah. Imagination has supplied what cold, hard facts could not. Hopefully it will be howlingly hilarious if I have got it very wrong, for anyone who has experienced it, rather than dismally depressing. Insights welcomed with open arms.
Aragorn unhooked his boot heel from the bottom rung of the low stool he had found, reaching to massage a cramp in his leg as he stretched it out underneath the table. On his left, visible through a port hole, the luminous disc of red sun was sinking slowly into the sea, a maiden preparing to bathe in her evening chambers. He rose, stamped feeling back into a foot that had gone to sleep, and lifted a hand to massage the back of his neck too. He was stiff and cramped all over from having sat hunched over the maps for so long.
He had grown inured to the ship's bells chiming the hour, but judging by the position of the sun, he must have been sitting for a long time. Aragorn rocked forward on his toes and folded with the ease of youth, over his knees, stretching the tight muscles in back and shoulders.
He had not spent the entire afternoon on Númenor, though he had travelled throughout much of the lost kingdom. There were other maps as well: of The Shire, where Mr. Bilbo Baggins, the burglar Aragorn had met briefly years ago in Rivendell, had said he resided; and Bree, which he'd ridden through as he'd left home for Fornost; as well as Rhudaur and the Ettenmoors, all of which lay inside the borders of the old kingdom of Arnor. While none of those places had responded to his touch the way the map of Númenor had, they had still provided far more detail, particularly topographically, than the maps in the Imladris library.
In some strange way though, even the maps of Third Age Middle-earth had seemed to foment a different perspective.
He straightened, rolled his shoulders, and moved to lean against the hull by the nearest porthole. Much of the cabin was in deep shadow now, as the horizon hungrily swallowed the remaining sliver of Anor. At sea, he'd noticed twilight lingered long, as though the water captured and reflected the light of the days of bounteous sunshine. Their voyage had been blessed – or so Borlath claimed – five days at sea and nary a sight of cloud nor rain.
As he'd studied the map of Arnor and Gondor, old stories he'd learned by rote had blossomed with new understanding in his mind. Founded by the faithful Elendil and his sons, the Northern Kingdom, though it had split, had survived in some form for twenty-three generations. No mean feat while living in the shadow of Angmar. Fifteen generations of Dúnedain had succeeded the kings of the three kingdoms. He represented the sixteenth, he had been told.
His own afternoon's wanderings had augmented the knowledge he had stored with details that perhaps had always been there, but a shift in perspective had nuanced some different connotations. Isildur had been a charismatic leader of men; a man who, with his family, had remained faithful to the ways of the Valar under dire circumstances in the very teeth of the Dark Lord's pit, had kept alive the seed of Telperion in the White Tree, risking certain death to do so, and ultimately defeated the foul spawn by cutting the One Ring from Sauron's hand.
In elven lore, Isildur's moment of choice on Mt. Doom defined his entire life. One choice - and all the man's prior deeds were as nothing. He, too, Aragorn had realized, would be judged among the immortals by his choices; the scenario had fully engaged his sense of fair play.
He turned back to the table and began carefully stowing away the maps in the labeled storage cabinet, cataloging the visceral feel and texture of each one as his fingers rolled hides and parchment, smoothing furrows and rimples.
Behind him, he heard the cabin door open and glanced over his shoulder in time to see Borlath ducking to avoid the low lintel as he backed into the room. The man turned, revealing a loaded trencher balanced on one arm and a foaming pitcher extended from the other. "I thought to find you here still. There is flint and steel behind you, kindle some light else shortly we will be unable to see what we eat."
Aragorn glanced again at the faintly glowing horizon. "I did not hear the bell for the evening meal." He found the striking pair easily and lit the candles in their hurricane lanterns behind the graceful, leaf-shaped sconces.
"That is because it has not yet sounded." Borlath set the pitcher on the low brass table, followed by the platter. "Are you this fastidious when you are at home, Master Dúranu?" the captain interrogated as Aragorn slid the last map into its assigned space, leaving the top of the table clear.
"With things that do not belong to me – aye, I treat them with the respect they deserve." Three long strides and he was pulling out one of the funny little purple mushrooms, trying to gracefully dispose his long legs in the short space. Astride, his knees nearly touched the floor, but the table was too low to get under it and he found it very uncomfortable.
"Spread your knees and cross your ankles," Borlath advised, pushing a plate of food across the table.
That worked when he mimicked his host, leaning a forearm on the table. Aragorn dug in with gusto, all healthy young appetite.
The meat was much spicier than his palette was accustomed to, the textures of the accompanying strange side dishes very different, but the fare was neither boring nor inedible, and as he had never acquired epicurean tastes, he cared little what he ate. Though he tended to avoid anything with open, sightless eyes and it seemed, since boarding the ship, every meal had included something staring at him.
"You do not like our ale?" Borlath observed in response to the mild look of distaste the youngster displayed as he cautiously sipped at the beverage.
Aragorn shrugged. "I'm told it's an acquired taste. I have not yet acquired it." He glanced across at his meal companion. "Is the ship provisioned for a year's journey?"
"Nay, she is not large enough to accommodate those kinds of stores." Borlath cleaned his plate with a piece of flat bread and dipped it in the hot, spicy coulis the young one was avoiding like the plague.
"Then we would have to make stops…" Aragorn trailed off.
"Aye, we would." The ship captain drained his mug of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his fist. "This troubles you?"
"No. I saw many islands on the maps, but - they are inhabited?"
"We do not need humans to restock larder or essentials such as water. We have rope and sail cloth to mend as needed, and timber is readily available on most of the islands. This far north, they tend be forested rather than tropical, though some straddle warm currents and are mostly beach. All have fresh water." Borlath pushed his plate away and picked up the tankard of ale before him. "The map did not satisfy your curiosity?"
A slight hesitation preceded a pensive sigh. "Somewhat. It is not the same as standing on the ground, as you noted earlier."
"Hoist by my own petard?" Borlath's lip's twitched beneath the dark mustache. "Númenor is not the kingdom you inherit."
Aragorn pushed his own cleared plate forward and crossed his arms on the table. "The terms of our contract are to make for Meneltarma, yet I sense you attempt to steer me from that course. Why?"
Borlath studied the earnest, open young face, wondering what experiences would stamp their mark indelibly upon it. "Had I thought to inquire more closely into your heritage, I would never have agreed to our bargain."
The shoulders tensed, sinking the bowed neck between them. "That makes no difference."
"You know that is not true," the captain murmured. "I cannot risk your life on a …" he stopped abruptly, matched the youngster's ruminative sigh and changed tack. "I will tell you plainly, again, the trip is dangerous. You are a king in exile, my lord, your people need you. In your old age, perhaps you will remember this as the first in the long line of personal sacrifices required to mount a throne."
"And if I do not wish to mount a throne?"
"I would tell you from experience, the best leaders do not, but they are ruled by more than their own desires. Many are born to the role and must assume its mantle when they are barely out of the cradle. Consider – you have had the gift of freedom for twenty years."
"Is the tame bird free, though it lives not in a cage?"
"Were you collected and returned to your hidden valley when you tested your wings?" Borlath retorted.
Aragorn slid his hands around the bottom of his tankard, circling it aimlessly over the tabletop. "It seems I am to be returned will-you-nil-you to your perception of preservation."
The sting of the omission of oath-breaking was not lessened by the diplomacy of the accusation.
"Aye," the captain acknowledged the direct hit with a slight bow from the waist, "I would break my oath to see you safely returned."
"Thus the map?"
"If you imply it was in the nature of a bribe, I will admit to no such trickery. There is no guilt in attempting to influence your thinking as determines your set course; neither will I bear the entire burden for gainsaying your desires."
"I was never dishonest with you, Master Borlath."
"Truth has many shadings, does it not? I believe you did not attempt to deceive me; however, you withheld information that would have altered my decision had I known." Borlath reached across the table to still the circling tankard. "Look at me."
Aragorn raised his eyes, his face painstakingly set in blank lines.
He learns quickly, Borlath observed silently. "In my place, what choice would you make?"
The lean jaw hardened briefly as teeth clenched. "I suppose with the wisdom of ages, I too would make a similar choice," he ground out. "But I have neither age nor wisdom to shield me from yet another disappointment." Aragorn shoved the little mushroom back with barely checked temper. "Thank you for sharing the maps and the hospitality of dinner in your quarters. Mayhap I should thank you too for your generosity in not immediately turning back on uncovering what I had been explicitly enjoined to keep hidden." He rose, hovering for a moment, leashed temper simmering in the grey eyes that stared down at the ship's captain. "Why did you not?"
Borlath reached casually for the shisha. "There is no inherent danger in these waters. We might meet an occasional squall or water spout, nothing my crew is not fully conversant with. I have no fear disaster will strike so long as we are prudent." He leaned to a trunk that turned out to be fitted with many little draws and withdrew a small packet and another set of flint and steel.
Across the top of the trunk, Aragorn's eye perceived a line of linked oliphants carved of flawless jade, the trunks of the ones behind, attached to the tail of the one before. His mind was busily engaged storing the knowledge unfolding before him.
The blue glass container was an elongated shape that bellied out in unevenly spaced, symmetrically smaller curves as they rose, topped with a metal stem that ended in a chamber of sorts, into which Borlath placed the contents of the packet, covering it with a perforated metal screen. The screen soon housed small bits of ashy charcoal.
"This you are welcome to consider in the nature of a bribe. If you will be seated again, we may proceed to enhance your education with pleasures of both the body and the mind."
Telltale emotions flashed like lightening across the revealing countenance unable to maintain the blank façade.
Borlath allowed the self-disgust, disappointment and dismay to go unremarked. He could be generous when it suited him and in this instance it would not do to grind away all that defiance. Deftly, he kindled the coals in the metal screen and blew gently to encourage the small flames.
"Do not confuse anger with pain," he said, as the charcoal began to glow cherry red. "Nor betrayal with prudence. Now - sit, if you will, or go, but do not stand glowering at me as though I were the enemy." Reaching for one of the mouthpieces, he drew gently to initiate the process and closed his eyes.
Inquisitiveness won over temper, allowing no other course of action. "Fickle faculties, Estel," Aragorn mumbled, maneuvering the mushroom back into place in order to plant himself atop it again.
Borlath allowed that to pass as well, though his sharp ears caught the unlooked for name. Hope would not be destroyed under his watch.
Now that he had been offered the opportunity to try the shisha, perversely, Aragorn could not make up his mind to do so. He well knew his father would not be happy about this experiment, though in the week he had spent in the Dúnedain settlement, he had seen many of the men smoking pipes. The smell had been pleasantly earthy and aromatic, if less exotic than the mingling smells of the captain's cabin. Which, he now realized, carried an undertone of the smell of the shisha.
Tentatively he fingered the end of the tube nearest to hand.
"Taste this as you would taste a woman, slowly and with patience. Sip rather than gulp; the pleasure, like intimacy, is meant to build to a peak," Borlath instructed lazily. "The first few times, you will want to release the smoke rather than swallow it." He demonstrated, taking a shallow breath and opening his mouth to let the smoke escape. "When you have mastered that, try holding the smoke in your mouth for a time. The more your body absorbs, the more intense the pleasure."
Aragorn lifted the mouthpiece to his lips. It was cool and the taste of it tingled on his tongue, until he cautiously drew in a cursory breath. It was warm and fragrant in his mouth and tasted slightly minty. As instructed, he pursed his lips and blew the smoke out rather than inhale.
Across the table, Borlath watched with half-lidded eyes. "Relax. Allow your mind to wander as it will without guard or restraint. So far you have seen only the disadvantages of kingship. Wander, if you will, along the less traveled path. Seek the ascendant side as assiduously as you have sought to know the deprivations you will face."
The combination of lulling voice and creeping lassitude stole the will to challenge the directive. Aragorn rolled smoke around in his mouth and released the restraints he had clamped over the desire that had risen as swiftly as the Bruinen in spring. A vision of the Evening Star exploded like cascading fireworks in his mind's eye. Images swirled, tumbled away, meshed and tore apart, wove new scenes that slowed and moved with stately elegance across his inner vision. He was unable to focus on any one piece, but the sense of disparity and opposition was dispelled by an atmosphere of radiating peace, a feeling of well-being that refused impingement.
A part of his rational mind warned against illusory grace imparted under the influence of a soporific, but he ignored it and sat back to let the journey take him where it would.
TBC