Longing

Aragorn’s hand tightly gripped the goblet of wine, brought it to his lips, and gulped its content in one big swallow.  He almost slammed the empty glass onto the hard wooden table but knowing better, he rested it quietly beside a saucer full of grapes and slices of pears, heaving and lifting his bowed head.  The Dunadan turned to his wife sitting on his right with a pair of bloodshot eyes, alarming Arwen.  ‘Sire, are you ill?’  she cried.

Aragorn shook his head, with a gesture more like one who was trying to clear his head out of wooziness.  ‘I’m neither ill nor drunk,’ the King exclaimed, but with a voice so slurred everyone would surely doubt his words.  Aragorn stabbed an olive with his fork and ate it greedily.  ‘I’m not!’  he insisted.

Indeed he was neither ill nor drunk even though his head felt as though it were full of cotton balls.  Aragorn felt more as if he were in a … void.  His mind was numb.

‘You are missing him.’  A voice from the left started Elessar King, and he swirled his head around.  Faramir.

Aragorn frowned, his mouth curving to say something but he stopped it.  Instead, his eyes were turning dreamy like and a smile was ghosting on his lips.  ‘Him?  Who is him?’  Aragorn spoke more to himself.  ‘Who is he who had come suddenly out of nowhere?  Who is he who bore such delicate features and a gentle heart?  Who is he who could incite my heart so, and still does?’

The King of Gondor sighed and focused his eyes on Faramir, who caught Arwen’s glimpse towards them.  The Lady seemed to listen intently to their conversation, and looked as concerned at Aragorn as Faramir did.  Pain and longing were shadowing the very life of Aragorn as he poured his heart out to the Prince of Ithilien, battling with another wish that must have mostly come out of his right mind.

‘I merely want the best for him, Faramir,’ the forlorn King whispered.  ‘I want Frodo well and healed.’

Faramir held him fast.  ‘I know, brother.  I know.’

~ * ~ fin ~ * ~