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“Not So High A King” Summary: In T.A. 249, Eldacar of Arnor’s coronation commences, but some of the observers have come quite far to see the King…
Hands “How like you they are, Ardamirë.” Eärendil frowned. “What mean you, Laurefindil?” he challenged. He had invited Glorfindel aboard as Vingilótë sailed on the anniversary of Ondolindë’s destruction, and risked covering the Silmaril, sailing nearer to Annúminas. “Valandil, for a start.” “For that,” Glorfindel replied quietly, gesturing at Valandil’s bier below them. The King’s body was being caressed by gentle hands. Elros! No – King Eldacar. “May you have long life and reign well, my son,” Eärendil whispered.
Face Reign well, my son. “Uncle? Forgive me, I was… elsewhere a moment. Did you speak just then?” Eldacar turned to regard Elrond’s ancient eyes – startling in an otherwise youthful face. “Nay, Nephew, not I,” Elrond replied. “Come, it is time.” Numbly, Eldacar forced himself to follow Elrond from Valandil’s bier, through the throng. Elrond bore the Elendilmir to the dais on a cushion. Eldacar knelt, and Elrond crowned his multi-great-nephew ceremoniously. Eldacar stood and faced the throng. “Now come the days of Eldacar! Behold the King!” Elrond proclaimed. The people cheered. Only Elrond saw his nephew’s face, wet with tears.
Key “Uncle Elrond?” The Peredhel turned to regard the dark-haired young man. At sixty-four, this prince of Arnor still had the gift of Elros’ longevity upon him and bore the wearing of years but lightly. “Arantar? What may I do for you?” “Is there any way I can help Father?” So, Elrond had not been the sole witness to Eldacar’s grief. “Give him this, Nephew,” Elrond decided, withdrawing a small, leather-bound book, locked fast,from the pocket of his robes, and the key that went with it. Elrond passed them to Arantar with reverence. “Whose was this?” Arantar wondered. “My father’s.” (Bibelot: A small object of curiosity, beauty or rarity; a miniature book, especially one that is finely crafted. Pronounced BEE-buh-low or bee-BLOW.)
Crown The new King was seated upon the throne of his fathers, head bowed. On his brow sat the Elendilmir – not the original, lost with Isildur, but a fair copy forged in Imladris, which had been Valandil’s. “Adar, look what Uncle Elrond has brought.” Arantar carried the bibelot to Eldacar. “It was Lord Eärendil’s.” Eldacar looked up, surprised. “Thank you, Uncle,” he said. “I look forward to studying Daeradar’s words.” “One thing you may learn from him – uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” Elrond murmured. “’Tis a heavy responsibility. Still, I have every faith you can do it, Nephew.”
Strike “My king.” Eldacar looked around, espying his father’s Steward, Laurendil. My Steward, he corrected himself. “Come hither, Laurendil. What news?” The older Man shook his head. “King Eärendil approaches.” Elrond regarded Laurendil with surprise. “King Eärendil!” “My cousin,” Eldacar explained. “He is nearly forty years my elder, and never fails to remind me of it, despite my technically senior rank. Bid him to enter, Laurendil.” Elrond frowned as Eärendil approached, garbed in silver and black. His mithril winged crown was more splendid than the Elendilmir. It seemed a strike to Eldacar’s seniority and majesty, Elrond thought. Eldacar thought so, too.
Spring King Eärendil approached, his gaze piercing as he took in his surroundings. The King of Gondor sighed, and Eldacar braced himself for another complaint of the wilderness Eärendil had been forced to traipse through. “Cousin.” Eldacar tensed. “Be welcome to my hall, Eärendil. I am sorry I had no trumpeter to greet you, no flowers to give you at our meeting.” Eärendil laughed sardonically. “Would I insist on those? Not at such a time as this.” He sprang forward and clasped a shocked Eldacar in his muscular embrace. “My grief is yours, Eldacar. It is no easy thing, becoming King.” For the "Weather" prompts. Snippets of the life of Aragorn II pre-War of the Ring. *** Weather Storm Title: Tall Ships and Tall Kings Challenge: Weather (Storm) Author: Kaylee Arafinwiel Characters: Elrond, Estel (Aragorn II) Summary: Seven-year-old Estel inquires about the day’s history lesson.
“Tall ships and tall kings, three times three. What brought they from the foundered land…” Estel recited, as Elrond listened. “Adar, is it true the ships almost drowned?” Elrond nodded. “It is true,” he replied. “Such a storm arose in the wake of the Downfall that the nine ships of the Faithful were overwhelmed. But for the grace of Ulmo they would have been lost ere they came to ground.” “But the kings,” Estel protested, “if I was king, I would have told Ossë to play nicely.” “Would you indeed?” Elrond asked. Estel wondered at his foster-father’s suddenly intent gaze.
Frost
Title: Deep Roots Are Not Touched “’Ware, Estel!” The hiss pulled the foster-son of Elrond up short; he dropped into a crouch beside Elladan, behind a boulder at the cave-mouth. Just in time – earth-shaking footsteps lumbered past, and Estel Elrondion shivered from more than the frosty chill of the mid-Rhiw night. “Have you seen those before, ‘Dan?” “Elrohir and I have hunted teryg often in company with the Dúnedain,” Elladan whispered back. “What are you doing?” Estel was only half-listening; a glint of tarnished silver in the troll-hoard caught his attention. “Elladan, what’s this?” Elladan’s heart clenched as Estel showed him the bloodstained star-brooch. Ai, Arador!
Title: On to Rohan T.A. 2957
The swirling mists that rose from Anduin lay heavy on the Emyn Muil, until dawn broke over the plains of Rohan. Aragorn rode beside Targon, glad of his elder kinsman’s company. When they approached Meduseld, he tried not to stare, and once in the presence of Thengel King, bowed respectfully to his elder. “Greetings, Thengel King,” Targon said, when bidden to speak. “I am Targon son of Dirhael; this is my nephew, Thorongil son of Beren. We come to take service with you, if you will accept us.” Thengel smiled. “Be welcome, then. Come, we will speak more over luncheon.” Title: Gondor Calls for Aid A/N: References to Fiondil’s Stirrings of Shadow – the names of Thengel and Morwen’s elder daughters come from there, and the reference to Denethor having met Thorongil and become sworn-brother to him is to that story as well. Théodfrid is twenty-three, Théodhild seventeen, Théodgiefu ten, and Théodwyn five. T.A. 2968 “Earntungol, no, stay!” The Dúnadan swung Théodwyn up into his arms. The youngest of Thengel and Morwen’s daughters clung to his neck, showers of tears mingling with the spring rain. “I know, little shieldmaid,” Thorongil murmured, speaking Rohirric. “I must go.” He had served Thengel nearly eleven years. “Let me.” Twenty-year-old Théoden offered a wan smile, and Thorongil nodded, giving the aetheling the child. “We will miss you.” “I will miss you too.” Thorongil clasped the prince’s shoulder. “Perhaps you will return to Mundburg.” He farewelled the princesses; Théodgiefu wept in Théodfrid and Théodhild’s arms. His gwador, Denethor, was calling. Title: A Promise in Lothlorien T.A. 2980
Aragorn left Gondor, and wandered alone in Lothlorien, clad in Elven raiment. Midsummer came, and Thorongil found his way to Cerin Amroth, where Arwen was dancing alone. He called joyfully, “Arwen, vanimelda!” She ran to him. “When first we met, you were a boy,” she marveled. “Now you are truly a man, Estel.” “A man with but one love,” he said. “What answer will you give, Undomiel?” “I will cleave to you, Dúnadan,” Arwen murmured, and shivered despite the warmth of the sunshine. Aragorn placed the Ring of Barahir on her finger, kissing Arwen tenderly. “Here is my pledge, beloved.” Title: Giver of Hope T.A. 3007, Eriador, the Angle
The heat was blistering in the Angle that summer. As Arien’s cruel rays beat down on his brow, Aragorn found himself thinking of Harad. Perhaps, though, it was the pain in his heart that made this journey worse. He entered the healer’s tent, where his mother lay in bed, unmoving. She seemed frail, aged beyond her hundred years – not such a long life, for a Dúnadaneth. “Naneth,” Aragorn murmured. “Have hope that all shall be well.” “Ónen i-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim,” Gilraen replied. Tears stung Aragorn’s eyes. “Naneth, please…” “Farewell, my Estel,” Gilraen whispered. “I love thee, ion nin.” |
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