Disclaimer: I do not own any copyrighted characters or plot lines. See first chapter for more detailed disclaimer.
It was the very next day when Gandalf and Faramir returned to visit Culdalcár, this time bringing with them several people who were unknown to the half-elf, and two who were known.
"Culdalcár!" two voices cried out simultaneously from the doorway, and he was overwhelmed moments later by two very enthusiastic hobbits. There were some tears shed, and much laughter as the two small bodies did their best to inspect every inch of the protesting half-elf. Culdalcár did his best to distract the two Perrianath from his wounds by asking to be introduced to their companions. One by one, the eight members of the Fellowship of the Ring greeted him with smiles, nodding of the head, or simple words. When Samwise swiftly corrected Frodo's introduction of "Strider," a laugh ran about the room.
"My lord Aragorn," Culdalcár bent his head in acknowledgement. "I would bow, my lord king, lord prince," he nodded to Aragorn and Legolas, "But I fear that I would do myself injury, and then be forced to suffer the attentions of the healers for so much longer!"
Gandalf chuckled. "And you made it quite clear that you would be seated with your family during the coronation, my dear Culdalcár! Nay, suspend all such salutations until your body is hail and hearty. You will have need of all your strength and wit when the good ladies of Gondor see your sweet face!"
"I am not so sweet of face that they will see mine before those of the elves, milord," Culdalcár laughed.
"But, beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Culdalcár," Samwise interjected, "Ain't you an elf, sir?" Several surprised eyes turned toward the hobbit.
"You are an elf," Frodo spoke in perfect assurance. "You glowed in the night when I lay in the Black Tower, dying of poison." The two looked at each other, their eyes showing the depth of pain associated with that memory. "I saw your power there, even if none of the orcs or other beasts did. You shone with the power of the sun as you gave me your strength; I thought I was delirious with the Spider's venom until you collapsed on top of me." Culdalcár winced slightly as he remembered that night.
"Culdalcár is the son of an elf, it is true," Gandalf mused, "But he is also the son of a man."
"I was raised by a kinsman after my mother's death," Culdalcár explained. "The man I called Father was her cousin. I never knew my elven father."
There was silence for a long moment as his visitors digested the information. Then Faramir's head came up, eyes blazing. "You knew Galador," he marveled quietly.
Culdalcár laughed heartily. "And Gilmith," he nodded, eyes twinkling. Faramir gaped, then laughed breathlessly.
"You will tell me everything of our history, Uncle," he spoke, and it was not a request. Culdalcár laughed once again, but knew he would be sequestered away by the scholar-warrior at some time in the near future.
"Bah!" One of the hobbits, Pippin, scoffed lightly. "As much as we hobbits love a good genealogy, it is time for drinking and making merry!"
"Oi! You couldn't make me do anything if I didn't want to!" the other young hobbit declared with a laugh. The men, elves, and Ringbearers watched in fond amusement as the two youngsters wrestled across the floor and up onto Culdalcár's bed against the other hobbits. It took several minutes of gleeful squeals and shouts before Frodo gave his cousins several clouts over the head and ordered them – laughingly – to cease their fighting at once.
Moments later, a healer came bustling in, followed closely by the elf lord Elrond. The Fellowship and Faramir were swiftly ushered out, minus the King Aragorn, with the hobbits promising to return as soon as possible. When only the healers were left with Culdalcár, the man-elf raised an eyebrow in question.
"It has been requested by several people," Elrond began sardonically, lifting his own eyebrow, "That I ensure you be healed sufficiently to attend the great feast tonight." Culdalcár failed to censure his laughter, though in truth he tried little. Elrond's other eyebrow went up.
"Most of my hurts are all but healed," the man-elf admitted to the healers. "But for the wound to my thigh, there is nothing to impede my presence at the feast. In truth, I greatly desire to be able to walk of my own power…" The warriors in the room grimaced in sympathy.
"Then we shall focus on healing your thigh," Elrond declared, and the healers bent to their task. Culdalcár closed his eyes as the healing power sought the depth of the wound in his thigh.
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All of Minas Tirith was alive with people: men, elves, dwarves, and four hobbits (two of whom were constantly underfoot, giving the impression of an army of hungry hobbits rather than the actual few).
Culdalcár was also up and about, leaning heavily on a crutch but happily upright. His many-times-great niece had brought him a beautiful outfit of blue and copper robes, with an inner tunic and leggings of a very soft brown, almost cream, and butter-soft brown leather boots. When the young woman had brought the folded clothing to his room in the healers' ward, she had very pointedly ignored his questioning glance at the tiny gold elvish sigils embroidered on collar and cuffs of the robes. Culdalcár suspected that Mithrandir was meddling, as per his usual.
The man-elf walked carefully from the healers' ward – alone, having sent his niece to go ready herself for the banquet rather than stay beside him. He was hardly an invalid, he had told her firmly, nor was he a child to need a minder. She had returned the firm look with one of her own and returned that she had many warrior brothers and cousins, all of whom said the same from their sickbeds, and all of whom would have killed themselves of carelessness were it not for their sisters, mothers, wives, and healers. Culdalcár had laughed heartily, kissed her on both cheeks, and sent her on her way.
He wandered through the palace, looking out occasionally at the lush gardens and stately courtyards of upper Minas Tirith. Bight swaths of fabric decorated the outer carapaces and arches in honor of the king and his bride; flowers and sweet-smelling herbs were strewn everywhere; servants scurried from one level of the palace to the next, carrying bundles of cloth, baskets of food, and large skeins of mead, ale, and wine. Several times, Culdalcár was forced to limp swiftly to the side in order to avoid a page boy running through the inner carapace bearing his master's laundry, mail, and weapons; the lads stuttered hasty apologies, bowed, and hurried on their way. Servant girls bearing their mistress's clothing and ornaments managed to move more gracefully out of his way, going at just as swift a pace as the page boys.
When he arrived in the great banquet hall, he slowed his approach and moved to walk on the outside of the pillars which lined the outer area of the hall.
He halted only a few pillars down the row and watched the busy movement of dozens of servants and the many dignitaries, lords, ladies, and war heroes who were to partake of the great festal celebration. The heir of the kings had come, and all of Middle Earth was to bear witness to his coronation!
Culdalcár watched as more and more people flowed into the hall. Bright clothes and shining precious metals and precious stones of various brilliance and hues flashed in the dwindling light of the sun; this was an occasion that merited the finest clothing and jewelry that the lords and ladies possessed.
Torches and many-tiered chandeliers lit the full length and breadth of the room as the sun set; flickering shadows began to grow in corners and behind pillars, and the half-elf used them well. He had little inclination to join the politic and egoistic conversations taking place between various dignitaries, half of whom had been able to avoid actually fighting in the War for the past decades. Instead, he remained concealed in the shadows of the pillars, watching the elves and dwarves and those men who were confident enough in self to speak to them.
There were near to three dozen elves in the great hall, all of high standing in the various elven courts; there were fewer dwarves, but they stood out enough among the crowd that they seemed almost as numerous. The elves likewise were obviously not of the race of Men, but where the dwarves were almost ignored by many of the lords and ladies, the elves were stared at to an almost uncouth degree. Culdalcár found himself somewhat relieved that his elven heritage was not so obvious…
The Peredhil stiffened suddenly in reaction to the sensation of silent movement behind him; he quickly halted his fingers' movement toward the dagger at his side as he breathed in once, recognizing the scent of his many-times-removed nephew. "You ought not sneak up on me, Faramir," there was a hint of warning in his voice, a slight growl marring his tones. The War had only just concluded; the habits of warriors were not so lightly ended.
"I beg your forgiveness, Uncle," Faramir spoke apologetically, a slight note of dry humor in his voice; the former Ranger of Ithilien well understand such instinctive reactions. The Peredhil turned to face the Steward, raising an eyebrow when he saw the two sons of Elrond also standing there. Faramir gestured the two forward slightly. "Lords Elladan and Elrohir of Imladris, I would present you with Lord Culdalcár of Dol Amroth." All three Peredhil sketched out slight bows. "Culdalcár, you will be seated near to the Lords Elladan and Elrohir this even. I had hoped that you might..."
"Alleviate one another's boredom?" Culdalcár asked, eyebrow still raised. Faramir's mouth twitched slightly. "Keep one another out of trouble?" There was quiet laughter from the sons of the Elrond. "Or perhaps, you simply wish to ensure my good behavior at this feast?" The laughter grew more pronounced.
"You did manage to set the hall at Dol Amroth alight, when last you sat to banquet," Prince Imrahil appeared from the inner hall, his face amused. Culdalcár smiled slightly, much to the amusement of the other four.
"I was countering an assassin's attack," he protested gently. "And it was the assassin from Umbar who toppled the candlesticks onto the drapery." He gave the Prince an admonishing look. "I believe that assassin was meant for you, my cousin, and I was the one to rid you of him."
"If you had claimed the title of Prince as was your right, it would have been you who was targeted," Imrahil returned with equal good humor. Culdalcár merely scoffed.
"I may be descended of Galador," he replied insistently, "But I have neither the desire nor the right to the title of Prince. My dear brother Angelimír, your grandfather, knew my character and preferences far too well to offer me rights to the rule of Dol Amroth, though he may have merely suspected that my elven heritage would someday press me into holding a different title, one not of men."
"And does it?" One of the Peredhil twins, Elladan, asked curiously. "What title might you hold among the Firstborn, Lord?"
Culdalcár shrugged elegantly. "I know not, my lords. I know but little of my elven heritage."
"Yet you do possess the Gifts of the Firstborn," Faramir pointed out mildly. "Though you little show it to those unfamiliar with your person." The three of Numenorean descent exchanged small smiles, well used to the secrecy surrounding Dol Amroth's lonely Lord.
"Aye, and he has proven most uncommonly resilient, of a certainty," Imrahil continued, a note of wry gratitude in his voice.
"The stubbornness of my grandfather Adrahil is bred strong in me, were one to give heed to my father Rofeth," Culdalcár laughed, eyes alight with remembered fondness. Imrahil placed a hand on his shoulder for a moment, then released his kinsman with a sigh.
"'Tis a time of merriment and celebration, my lords," Faramir reminded them good-humoredly, then beckoned them firmly towards the banquet tables.
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