Acrostic

For my dear friend Linda Hoyland on her birthday.

Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien.  Thanks to Thranduil Oropherion Redux for beta reading.

After that talk with Elrond, he didn’t quite know what to do. What was he supposed to do? The world, the familiar halls and corridors of the Last Homely House, seemed unchanged and unimpressed by the sudden revelation.  There was nothing in the tapestries, the fireplaces, the carved chests or the statues to acknowledge that he, he was changed and would never be the same again. For a while, he wandered aimlessly from room to room, until, by chance, he came across a looking glass. He squared his shoulders and smoothed down his hair. Descendant of kings, who would have thought it?

-o-o-o-

Rangers seldom ate anything but the simplest of fare, and often had to make do with whatever they could forage in the wildernesses of Eriador. He would have liked to think of himself as anything but pampered, but the truth was that  half-burned rabbit without even a grain of salt was very much an acquired taste. So much so, indeed, that he had failed to acquire it in six years. With a barely perceptible sigh, he received his wooden bowl from the hands of the comrade whose turn it had been to cook. He would have to bring his mind and his palate to appreciate this dish. It simply would not do to begin dreaming again of Rivendell’s First Cook and her delectable chicken pie with sage and onion, not to mention her rhubarb and apple crumble.

-o-o-o-

Arwen was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, but so were all the other elf-maidens. One was as shapely as the next, with shining hair, eyes like gemstones and lily-petal skin. Perhaps Arwen moved a little more graceful, smiled a little sweeter, but he could not believe that his heart was so blindly ruled by the pleasure of his eyes alone.

Across the table, he saw her gently lay her hand on her father’s when he reached out for the wine jug again, and silence her brothers' bickering with a look. That, perhaps, was it.

-o-o-o-

Gondor was a disappointment. Approaching from the North, he found the farmsteads of Anorien as simple and crude as those of the Rohirrim, and somewhat less striking for want of the carved horse-head gables. He passed unchallenged through the rustic lands, which made him consider their watchfulness with disdain. Ranger or not, someone ought to have spotted him. Nobody did.

At last he came to the gates of Minas Tirith, and there the seal of Rohan’s king gained him entry. The city had looked impressive from afar, but as he wound his way higher and higher, he saw empty houses in every circle, and others that stood in disrepair, not from some attack of the enemy, but because the remaining strength and wealth of Gondor’s people all flowed into the struggle against that foe and left little for the upkeep of her former splendour. The White Tree, a sad skeleton beyond all hope of rebirth, made him flinch.

When he was ushered into the citadel, though, and before the Lord Ecthelion, he had to suppress a smile of satisfaction. The steward’s gaze, calm and penetrating, could have withstood the stare of Elrond himself. There was power in Gondor yet.       

-o-o-o-

On the other hand, he might as well join them.  If the quest failed, there would be no kingship to claim anyway, and if it succeeded – and how small was the chance that it would succeed! – then his claim would stand all the stronger for having aided the defeat of Sauron.

Thus he reasoned with himself in his bedchamber at night and convinced himself that his passion was prudent, his desire the call of duty. However, in his heart of hearts he knew what really drove him. There was a small hand attached to a small body that had taken upon itself to carry this burden, hurt already and bound to be maimed even more. If the Halfling had to go on that grisly path, he ought not go without the sword of Elendil.  

-o-o-o-

Ruling turned out to be a pleasure, not the burden he had expected. Duty and responsibility made high demands of him indeed, but he found himself thrilled with his powers of rising to those challenges. Every time another building in the war-shaken city was restored, every time a missive from Harad showed that his labours for peace began to bear fruit, his heart was soaring, and he took the inevitable set-backs in his stride.

And now this.

“Is it quite certain? You were not mistaken?”

“No, Sire. It is a fertile land with mild and pleasant weather, forty-seven days’ ride east from the Sea of Rhun. They have been dwelling there for a long time.”

He stood up and took the parchment the lieutenant proffered.

“I think I shall take the news to Fangorn myself,” he said.

-o-o-o-

Not yet, he thought. Heavily scented honeysuckle snaked up over the arbour in this quiet corner of the citadel. Over the years, Arwen had turned the place into a pleasure garden in which all the citizens of Minas Tirith were welcome to refresh themselves. He, too, felt refreshed by the fragrant shade. Had it not been for the weariness of his limbs and his spirit, he would not have entertained such thoughts as were on his mind these days. Thoughts of finality, thoughts of great weight and solemn purpose, like a heavy, steel-girded door slamming shut.

From between the quivering twigs of the honeysuckle, where it had sat for some time in silence and stillness, a sparrow hopped down and flittered about on the path. Somewhere below the Seventh Gate, as child was laughing. The stones of the wall felt warm to the touch.

Not yet, he thought. But soon.