Family Ties

Boromir stomped through the Steward’s House, a small and very bad-tempered whirlwind.  He made sure that he banged his wooden sword against everything that got in his way, imagining that he was using it against the bigger boys who had enraged him.

‘Oh dear,’ his mother said softly as her second son stirred briefly before settling back into his nap.

The door of Boromir’s chamber slammed, and, just in case nobody had noticed it the first time, opened and slammed again.

Finduilas drew a quick breath as she approached.  Her husband had come home to spend the afternoon working in his study and, if he was disturbed by his son’s bad mood, he would be most displeased.

She opened the door and looked down at the heap of red-cheeked rumpled boy scrunched up next to his army of Gondor’s soldiers, watching as he knocked one proud knight from his horse with a vicious flick of his finger.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ he growled.

Her eyes twinkled with the gleam of sunshine on water. ‘I think you’ve broken that poor soldier,’ she said.

‘He’s not a soldier, mother,’ her son told her impatiently, ‘he’s a knight of Lebennin.’

‘Ahh,’ his mother replied, suddenly understanding some of his mood, and she sat beside him, waiting for him to tell her.

After a while, looking down, his dark hair hiding his face, Boromir released the words that were troubling him.  ‘It’s not fair,’ he said. ‘They keep calling me names.  They say because you’re from Dol Amroth that I’m elfy.  They laugh at me.’

She stroked his hair away from his eyes.  ‘They tease you because you are the Steward’s son, my sweet, and because they are bigger than you – and because they can.  If you laughed back and didn’t care, they would stop.’

‘I don’t want to be elfy,’ he complained.

‘If you are ‘elfy’, then they are, too,’ she told him gently. ‘Mantir’s great grandmother was a daughter of the Swan Prince; Aladon’s grandmother on his mother’s side – and his great great grandmother on his father’s side. There is not a noble house in Gondor that does not share the bloodlines of Dol Amroth.’

Boromir wrinkled his nose.  He could not work up any interest in the complicated lines of ancestry that kept a whole department of library staff in employment.

His mother continued to smooth his tumbled hair. ‘Everybody knows about the elf maiden who married the first Prince of Dol Amroth,’ she said.  ‘Traces of her can still be read in the eyes of many of her descendents – although,’ she added to her son,’ I do not think that I can see them in you.  But she was not the only one to share her blood with the lords of Gondor.  Shall I tell you a story, my son?’

Boromir settled against the soft blue of his mother’s gown and listened.

The Sailor and the Sea King’s Daughter

Arpharion was the son of a prince. He grew up by the sea in a far distant land, in a castle whose towers overlooked the glittering and restless waves.  Arpharion loved the sea in all her moods: the bright sparkling hyacinth of summer, when she laughed with her courtiers; the clear green face she sometimes offered in the stillness of an early morning; the moody grey impatience of spring, when she shrugged her shoulders at the land in a display of petulance.  He even loved her full blown temper tantrums when she attacked the land in wild frenzy and hit at the tall towers, smashing and grinding all those things that stood before her. 

Thus it was no surprise to his family that, rather than training with sword and horse to take up the duties of a knight, young Arpharion pleaded with his father for the opportunity to take ship and court his beloved ocean for her favour in commerce and war.  His father was reluctant to agree, for he knew her to be fickle and he had lost his own father to the fury of the waves.  But Arpharion was persistent and even princes must play their part.  Arpharion went to sea.

He grew up and he grew older.  From boy to man, from seaman to captain, the restlessness of the sea took him across her wide waters and showed him the world. Fortune favoured him and he was content.  His father died in all good time, but his brother was heir, so Arpharion continued to blow into his home port occasionally, with the wind in his hair and the salt breeze in his lungs, to laugh with his family before leaving with the morning tide.  And so passed the years.

Then, at the far end of a hard and bitter winter, pestilence struck the land.  None were safe; not youth, nor age, nor power, nor pity protected any from the creeping death. Soon, villages were empty, towns burned, crops remained unplanted in the fields and the wails of those remaining filled the land.

When Arpharion made landfall next, he found that he was now prince.  His brother and wife, his nieces and nephews, fair and young and strong and tall were dust in the tombs of their forefathers. Only his mother remained.

She bade him stay; commanded him to marry and beget heirs, lest their princedom crumble and fade into legend. 

He refused her orders; told her bitterly that the land was clearly no safer than the sea; said he would come back; that fate sent him forth on one last voyage.

He fled the castle and embarked to head out into the open water.

For four days and three nights Wave Rider headed westwards towards the home of the setting sun.  Arpharion could not have said what drove him forth under full sail; he only knew that he must go. 

At sunset on the final day, he heard from the crow’s nest the cry he had been awaiting.  Sighted in the water was a boat, small and shallow and grey, as insubstantial as the dawn mist.  In the bottom of the boat was a figure.

Arpharion ordered the sails furled.  Without thought of safety he dived headlong into the rolling sea to reach the stranger and he brought the small vessel to the side of the Wave Rider to carry the slight form aboard his ship.

She was beautiful beyond compare.  As he stepped onto the deck she opened her eyes to look into his face.  Her eyes were the blue of the summer sea as it sparkles with the laughing light of the sun. Her hair was like the silver foam breaking on the edge of the reef and she was clad in shimmering silk as soft and flowing as a gently ebbing tide. 

‘The Sea King has made me a fine gift,’ Arpharion whispered, ‘for he has sent his daughter to be my bride.’

She said nothing, but clutched at his tunic as if he were her only hope of safety.

He took her to his cabin and placed her gently on his narrow bunk.  He brought her water to drink, more precious on board ship than ever wine could be.  He gave her food and clean bedding, and wisely left her to rest.

She ate the food and drank the water, though she would not remain within the wooden walls. She rose and followed him out into the open where the sun warmed her and the breeze kissed her, but, despite the many questions asked of her, she spoke not.

As the Wave Rider headed back to land, she followed him, her eyes always on him, but no word ever passed her lips.

‘As you seem to have no name, I will call you Gaeriel,’ he said, ‘for you are truly the daughter of the sea.’

He brought his bride to his mother, who looked at her doubtfully; for to her mind suitable princesses were unlikely to be fished from the sea.  However, she was not one to fight the wind and, at this time, any wife would be better than none; so she dressed the silent maiden in silks and velvets befitting her rank and ensured the wedding took place before her son could take ship for another distant shore.

Summer turned to autumn and the seasons moved on.  Arpharion lingered on shore in the company of his wife, attending to the business of a prince, while Wave Rider lay at anchor in the harbour.  But even the Sea King’s daughter could not keep the prince’s heart from the ocean for long. Even as she carried his child within her, he slipped from the castle on a bright spring morning when the tide was high, to let the sea bear him away on another voyage.

As her child waxed, so the Sea King’s daughter waned.  With no husband to hold back the shadows, she grew ever paler and her silence filled the castle.  They feared that they would lose mother and child both, but when her time came, her son’s wail pierced the wall that surrounded her and tied her to life. She held him close and for the first time since she had been found, she allowed a tear to fall. 

By the time Arpharion returned, the child was walking and his chatter filled his mother’s ears.  The prince was happy to see his wife contented in the stone walls of his castle, able only to see the margins of the sea, while cut off from the rocking of the waves and powerless to bathe in the song of the deep ocean beyond the sight of land.  He loved her and his son, but he could not live landbound. He gifted her with another child to make up for the want of his presence before returning to dance before the wind over the wide waters.

This time the silent princess bore a daughter, who was blessed with the surf-silvered hair and ocean deep eyes of her mother.  Mother and children grew well and strong in the sea air, learning to endure the frequent absence of the prince as he led his roving life across the face of the seas.  From time to time he returned for a season or two, and often a new child would arrive to remind his people of his visit. And so time passed. Sons grew to men and daughters to beauty, but the Sea King’s daughter remained fair and pale and silent, unaltered by the wearing of the years.

Then, early one autumn, the wind rose to fury and the sky turned glowering and dark.  The waves began to twist and stir, as if uneasy.  Gradually the troughs between the waves grew deeper and the peaks swirled, clawing at the sky.  Rain whipped down to thrust the water back, but the battle between the two grew ever fiercer.  The sky began to throw lightning bolts at the water and the complaints of the thunder rocked the stone towers.

Those watching the storm from within the castle saw suddenly a patch of white on the charcoal sea.  A ship was running before the storm, dropping into the depths below the waves before rising gallantly to fight its way forward again.  Then, in one moment, as it sat triumphant at the top of the biggest wave, a river of lightning tore down to pounce on the brave vessel and consume it utterly.

Never from the day she had been drawn from the sea had the Sea King’s daughter spoken.  Not even in childbirth had she cried out, not even in all her love for her children had she sung them songs of joy, but now she screamed the endless agonised wail of a soul rent from its body. 

‘It’s Wave Dancer,’ said her son, stricken. ‘It’s father’s ship.’

From the sea she came, and to the sea she returned.  When the burnt spars and planks of Wave Dancer came drifting to shore in the quiet stillness of the morning, they looked for her, but she had gone as if she had never been; nevermore to be seen in the lands of men.

Connections

‘How did she do that?’ Boromir asked. ‘Did they look for her properly?’

‘I’m sure they did,’ his mother told him. ‘If I disappeared, I’m sure you would search carefully for me.’ She hugged him fondly.  ‘Elves can never be found unless they want to be, and I don’t suppose the Sea King’s Daughter was any different.’

‘Which house did she marry into?  Was it Dol Amroth?’ he asked.

‘I’m not telling you,’ his mother answered. ‘If you want to find out you can go and look it up in the library.  I’m sure one of the assistants would help you.’  She laughed, aware that the chances of her son being prepared to risk exposure to dusty scrolls in a quest for knowledge were slight.

‘Do elves really exist, mother?’ he asked.  ‘I’ve never seen one.’

‘You’ve never seen the Falls of Rauros, either,’ she said. ‘Nor yet the caverns of Henneth Annun.  Do you doubt that they exist?’

‘It’s not the same,’ he said, unarguably. ‘I would like to see elves.’                 

‘Maybe one day,’ she told him. ‘You never know.’

***

Over thirty years later, Boromir watched a silent shadow detach itself from trees that had seemed empty a moment before and step into camp on feet that scarcely bent the grass stems. 

The dwarf cursed as he felt the elf’s presence at his shoulder. ‘Don’t do that!’ he grunted. ‘Not unless you want an axe in the belly.’

The flaxen hair caught the light as Legolas turned away, a slight grin of satisfaction on his face at the pleasure of having caught the dwarf out yet again.

A flash of memory lit in Boromir’s mind, and a small boy was listening to the gentle lilt of his mother’s voice telling him tales.  He looked consideringly at the fair elf for a while. ‘Tell me, my friend,’ he said, ‘does the Sea King have a daughter?’