(no subject)
*Dusts off Lyric Table*
Title: Illumination
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Aragorn, Denethor/Finduilas, Arwen, Boromir, Eldarion
Prompt: 5: we just can't stop believing, because we have to try; we can rise above, the truth and the lies
Word Count: 907
Rating: PG for very slight inneundo.
Summary: Aragorn can only hope that it was worth the wait.
Author's Notes: Partially inspired by a poem by F. Scott Fitzgerald:
My candle burns at both ends,
It will not last the night;
But oh, my foes and ah, my friends,
It gives such a lovely light!
Nothing belongs to me.
Some days, it feels as if I merely trade one lie for another. Estel was happy, and as truthful as any boy might be, but his saftey lay in the lie his mother had told him. I did not discover my true self until that lie was broken. Yet within days, I had a new lie, a new name, and a new reason for living.
I learned, over the years, to let the name come to the character. It seemed more honest that way. But Strider, Longshanks, Elessar, Thorongil, and even Aragorn; they were all roles, all characters. Only here, only with “I,” is there no role, no mask. But here, I think, is sometimes the hardest, for I must decide which masks to let someone see.
Not even Arwen knows them all, for what good is it for a queen to associate herself with some tavern tough or some feckless wandering mercenary? There are some that I would prefer she not meet. Boyish arrogance and occasional bouts of recklessness are my most easily forgiven foilbles. But sometimes, the old masks must be revealed.
I wore the star of Thorongil with the most honorable of intentions, but even those may cause harm. From the day the erstwhile captain from Rohan came to Gondor, he began sowing seeds of trouble. He fought well, certainly, perhaps too well. I look back at that time, and sometimes even I am agape at his victories. Dizzy with his successes, he gave little thought to the honors that the Steward showered upon him, or the shy attentions of the court ladies. He had earned them, had he not? He had certainly not asked for all of this. So he brushed away the butterflies, as gently as he could, thinking of the greater lady that awaited him under another name, and he used his influence only when he thought he might offer good advice. Thorongil gave no mind to the other man who stood in his shadow, the aloof soldier who bore his father’s indifference with stubborn pride.
Sometimes, I wish Thorongil had not been quite so innocent. It would make for many fewer headaches for Aragorn Elessar.
I avoided mentioning it to Boromir; I had always doubted that he would remember the captain that had left Boromir’s beloved country when the child was but two years of age. Still, it preyed upon my thoughts, leaving me to wonder what would happen when I met the other Steward’s son I had once known. Boromir had been skeptical of my claim, but willing to accept me as a fellow traveller, an equal swordsman. Denethor had not been so openminded. I had not dared to bring up my history when I was Thorongil, for Denethor had hated the captain enough without meeting the king behind him.
I had not feared Denethor then. I had not even treated him as a rival. Thorongil, as I have said, was innocent to the point of stupidity at times. But even he was wise enough to know better than to purposefully anger Gondor’s Captain-General without reason. I held Lord Ecthelion’s favor, but it was a much more fragile thing than many may have realized. I was respected in Gondor, yes; I would even venture so far as to say that I had friends there. But I was an outlander, an exotic foreigner who would not - could not - share much more than a fair mind for strategy at warfare and a distant, well-meaning charm with the court. Aye, Ecthelion liked me, but I was merely a useful curiosity at best to the rest of his court, and one with very little use in the eyes of his heir. I did my duty to Lord Ecthelion, as I had done my duty to Thengel before him, but I knew I had no home more permanent in Minas Tirith than I had had in Rohan, heir to the throne or not.
It meant a long, long wait until things could die down and I could try once more with all of the knowledge that I had learned and none of Thorongil’s mistakes to my name, but I have become good at waiting. My Arwen has taught me the value of patience. She has always been worth the wait.
I admit, I have been tempted over the years. A young man cannot help but be flattered at the first woman that makes eyes at him. Alone and far from my elvish and Dunedain brethren, it was harder to remind myself why I waited when noble young ladies haunted my steps. I learned to shut my eyes and turn away from them, but a part of me greatly envied those that need not wait. Living under the shadows, it seems all court butterflies must act as moths, drawn to the fires of of a passionate warrior. I banked my nature low, unwilling to burn anyone by mistake. And yet… Gods help me; the flame may be drawn to the moth, as well.
I have seen the results of such unions. Neither individual is the stronger for it, but one cannot help but admire the sparks thrown off from the combination. Like burning embers, children’s lives are all too brief and fragile, but beautiful beyond compare. Arwen and I have waited long for this, banking our fires. One can only hope that our spark might rise to the stars, illuminating the man behind the masks.
Title: Illumination
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Aragorn, Denethor/Finduilas, Arwen, Boromir, Eldarion
Prompt: 5: we just can't stop believing, because we have to try; we can rise above, the truth and the lies
Word Count: 907
Rating: PG for very slight inneundo.
Summary: Aragorn can only hope that it was worth the wait.
Author's Notes: Partially inspired by a poem by F. Scott Fitzgerald:
My candle burns at both ends,
It will not last the night;
But oh, my foes and ah, my friends,
It gives such a lovely light!
Nothing belongs to me.
Some days, it feels as if I merely trade one lie for another. Estel was happy, and as truthful as any boy might be, but his saftey lay in the lie his mother had told him. I did not discover my true self until that lie was broken. Yet within days, I had a new lie, a new name, and a new reason for living.
I learned, over the years, to let the name come to the character. It seemed more honest that way. But Strider, Longshanks, Elessar, Thorongil, and even Aragorn; they were all roles, all characters. Only here, only with “I,” is there no role, no mask. But here, I think, is sometimes the hardest, for I must decide which masks to let someone see.
Not even Arwen knows them all, for what good is it for a queen to associate herself with some tavern tough or some feckless wandering mercenary? There are some that I would prefer she not meet. Boyish arrogance and occasional bouts of recklessness are my most easily forgiven foilbles. But sometimes, the old masks must be revealed.
I wore the star of Thorongil with the most honorable of intentions, but even those may cause harm. From the day the erstwhile captain from Rohan came to Gondor, he began sowing seeds of trouble. He fought well, certainly, perhaps too well. I look back at that time, and sometimes even I am agape at his victories. Dizzy with his successes, he gave little thought to the honors that the Steward showered upon him, or the shy attentions of the court ladies. He had earned them, had he not? He had certainly not asked for all of this. So he brushed away the butterflies, as gently as he could, thinking of the greater lady that awaited him under another name, and he used his influence only when he thought he might offer good advice. Thorongil gave no mind to the other man who stood in his shadow, the aloof soldier who bore his father’s indifference with stubborn pride.
Sometimes, I wish Thorongil had not been quite so innocent. It would make for many fewer headaches for Aragorn Elessar.
I avoided mentioning it to Boromir; I had always doubted that he would remember the captain that had left Boromir’s beloved country when the child was but two years of age. Still, it preyed upon my thoughts, leaving me to wonder what would happen when I met the other Steward’s son I had once known. Boromir had been skeptical of my claim, but willing to accept me as a fellow traveller, an equal swordsman. Denethor had not been so openminded. I had not dared to bring up my history when I was Thorongil, for Denethor had hated the captain enough without meeting the king behind him.
I had not feared Denethor then. I had not even treated him as a rival. Thorongil, as I have said, was innocent to the point of stupidity at times. But even he was wise enough to know better than to purposefully anger Gondor’s Captain-General without reason. I held Lord Ecthelion’s favor, but it was a much more fragile thing than many may have realized. I was respected in Gondor, yes; I would even venture so far as to say that I had friends there. But I was an outlander, an exotic foreigner who would not - could not - share much more than a fair mind for strategy at warfare and a distant, well-meaning charm with the court. Aye, Ecthelion liked me, but I was merely a useful curiosity at best to the rest of his court, and one with very little use in the eyes of his heir. I did my duty to Lord Ecthelion, as I had done my duty to Thengel before him, but I knew I had no home more permanent in Minas Tirith than I had had in Rohan, heir to the throne or not.
It meant a long, long wait until things could die down and I could try once more with all of the knowledge that I had learned and none of Thorongil’s mistakes to my name, but I have become good at waiting. My Arwen has taught me the value of patience. She has always been worth the wait.
I admit, I have been tempted over the years. A young man cannot help but be flattered at the first woman that makes eyes at him. Alone and far from my elvish and Dunedain brethren, it was harder to remind myself why I waited when noble young ladies haunted my steps. I learned to shut my eyes and turn away from them, but a part of me greatly envied those that need not wait. Living under the shadows, it seems all court butterflies must act as moths, drawn to the fires of of a passionate warrior. I banked my nature low, unwilling to burn anyone by mistake. And yet… Gods help me; the flame may be drawn to the moth, as well.
I have seen the results of such unions. Neither individual is the stronger for it, but one cannot help but admire the sparks thrown off from the combination. Like burning embers, children’s lives are all too brief and fragile, but beautiful beyond compare. Arwen and I have waited long for this, banking our fires. One can only hope that our spark might rise to the stars, illuminating the man behind the masks.