My Sons for Gondor

She stood in the door this morning... my daughter-in-law, widow of my eldest, her face numb with shock.

„They’re marching to Osgiliath, mother.“

She cries beside me, but I can’t. My heart is empty and cold. I have given my husband for Gondor, and he fell in Harad. My eldest died in Ithilien, same as my second one, slain by orcs.

And now I see them riding down the street, the hoofs clattering aloud in the deadly silence. Flowers are falling on the ground as if thrown into an open grave.

Two dead sons.

And there goes the third one. To keep you from harm (for rabidsamfan)
(Minas Tirith, June 3018)

You want to go desperately. I can see it in your eyes.

You started dreaming the night before we lost the bridge. I woke near dawn and heard your voice, murmuring and moaning, and I leaned over you and touched your bandaged shoulder – a little too hard, obviously, for you winced and rocketed up, staring at me with unseeing eyes.

“Boromir…?”

“You had a dream, little brother. Must have been a bad one.”

Your gaze cleared and you leaned back on your good arm, your face pale and confused in the dim light.

“Not really.” you said slowly. “Only strange… I don’t understand it.”

“What happened?”

I had to ask. I am the only one who does in our family. Father doesn’t want to hear of your dreams. The last one you dared to mention made him angry for days. Not angry with me, of course. It’s always you. Always.

And as always, you told me. You told me of the darkened sky in the East and the faint light in the West, and of the clear voice from afar. You recited the poem, rhyme after rhyme. You’ve always had the head for poetry, keeping the most complicated ballads and songs in your mind without any effort, while I sat in our study, watching the open window and waiting desperately to go to my next swordfight lesson with Melendor. Our tutor was desperate too, the poor man. But he was more than happy to educate you.

Then dawn came, and the attack, and there was no time to think of dreams. I remember how we crawled out of the water, gasping in the smoky air, blind and deaf from the cries of that terrible creature bringing despair and grief to the ruins of what had once been the crown of Gondor. We lost the bridge, but the foe was forestalled by the river. We had time to go home, to report.

And now you want to go. You asked Father to let you leave, but he refused. I could have told you before. And I have never loved you more but for the sudden stubbornness in your eyes when he turned away, and for the second attempt to get his permission, rewarded with a cold gaze and a slammed door.

I love him, little brother. And I love you.

I don’t want you to get lost in this undertaking. We don’t even know exactly where this Imladris can be found. Hundreds of miles between Minas Tirith and a place sprung up from a dream and from the legends you enjoy to read so much.

How many times now have you dreamed of the darkened sky and the faint light? I know you will tell me the dream again if I ask, and more than once. I’m the only one to listen since Mithrandir has gone.

I will do my best to remember every word and every line of that strange poem.

For Isildur’s Bane shall waken,
and the Halfling forth shall stand.

What is Isildur’s Bane? And what in the name of all kings is a Halfling?

Anyway, I don’t care. I will go instead of you. Father will let me leave, and I will find out what all this is about, while you stay here. I have friends in Rohan, and Father will need your knowledge of Ithilien.

Perhaps he will finally see your value when he does not have to look past me. Perhaps he will see the light in your eyes, and the deep love you have for him. I can see it. I know how much you try to please him.

I love him, little brother. But sometimes – only sometimes – I hate him for not loving you.

Different (for rabidsamfan)
(Minas Tirith, around 2995)

First he thought it was the eyes.

The White Wizard’s eyes were black as obsidian, ignoring him as if he were invisible... or worse, someone unworthy of consideration, not important enough to speak to, a child, a nothing.

The boy watched his father giving their noble visitor access to the library; he saw the tall figure bow with supple elegance and heard the polite words of esteem, spoken with a wonderful voice, deep, rich and smooth like dark honey.

„My other son.” the Steward said. The wizard’s gaze merely touched him before he went out with a careless sweep of his flawlessly white robe. The boy remained between the high pillars, his knees inexplicably weak, his mouth dry. He dashed out into the courtyard and reached the fountain, filling his mouth with clear, cold water. He felt as if he had escaped a fatal menace.

It was more than a year later when he met the other one, and it was close to the fountain that he heard him for the first time… a shrill whistling, drilling into his ear and making him turn around in surprise.

The robe of the old man was grey and crinkled, his cloak blue, the hem soaked with dirt from a long ride. When the boy stepped close, hesitatingly and still a little astonished, the stranger crouched before him and he gazed into twinkling eyes under heavy brows, filled with a mischievous grin.

"You did not guess, did you, that a sound so loud could come from a man so old?" he said, and the boy gave him a shy smile. "Tell me, can you whistle, too?”

The boy couldn’t and he felt ashamed, but then he raised his chin and spoke with his high, clear voice.

“No.” he answered. „But I know the names of all kings since Isildur came from Numenor and ascended the throne of Gondor.”

„Oh, really?” the old man answered. „Tell me.”

„Elendil, Isildur, Anárion…” the boy began, „Meneldil, Cemendur, Earendil…” And he numerated the ancient rulers of the glorious kingdom his father governed, the sonorous syllables of their names rolling over his tongue while the sun sank deeper and the fountain sprayed liquid gold over the dead trunk of the White Tree.

At last he reached Earnur and grew silent.

„Very good, child.” the stranger said, his voice a deep, friendly rumble. „I am really impressed. What do you think… shall I now show you how to whistle?”

„Oh… would you?!”

Not the eyes alone made the difference, the boy decided later when he had found out the astonishing fact that this was another wizard.

Their hearts were different, too.