Seascapes

SEASCAPES

By Capella

Author's note: The two central characters belong to JRRT, the others are mine.
No profit is made, no offence intended.

This story will be NC17 in later chapters, and involves both slash and het scenes. There are 10 chapters in all.

This is a sequel to Sea Longing by the same author. You are advised to read that first for this to make sense. It forms part of the same universe as the series Call of the Sea, the story of Aragorn and Legolas.

The author greatly welcomes feedback.

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SEASCAPES

Chapter 1


‘It should be a crime,’ thought the prince, ‘to feel aught but joy on a day such as this.’

With a sigh, he turned from the window, with its long, wide view of the glittering sea, and returned to matters at hand.

Heledir was sitting at the dark wood desk and frowning at the papers before him.

As he regarded the secretary in silence, Imrahil felt a much missed smile return to his lips. Kingfisher, indeed. No doubt his mother had chosen the name in fondness for the bright-eyed, quick-limbed babe who had brought such colour to her life. She was not to know that her son would grow to be a solidly serious man, ever dependable, but hardly given to the flashes of brilliance characteristic of his namesake. Heledir had worked for the prince for some twenty years; Imrahil was genuinely fond of him and would trust him with his very life, but the sea would turn to liquid gold before the man could ever surprise him.

‘And that is all too true,’ he reflected, ‘of much of my life.’

Having read through the last two letters, signed them with a flourish and sent Heledir on his way, the prince at last retired through the heavy door at the rear of the study, into his private rooms. Once inside the bedchamber he shrugged off the stiff brocade robe and stretched slowly and thoroughly, luxuriating in the freedom of the simple cotton garments he wore beneath. Striding to the long mirror, he stood a while regarding his image and pondering the reality of his existence.

The face staring back at him was not that of an old man, although Imrahil had passed his seventy-first birthday some two months before. If asked, a stranger may have said he looked upon a strong healthy man of forty summers, long of limb and uncommonly fair of face. Not many moons ago, the prince would have had to scold himself for the satisfaction the sight in the mirror gave him. These days, however, it seemed to bring him little but frustration.

Long life is held to be a blessing by those who do not possess it, but small joy it brings to the man who must watch, as those he loves grow old and die around him. Since the passing of his beloved Glantathar e yee years previously, Imrahil could find no pleasure in the prospect of another seventy years of lonely rule, and still lonelier nights in the great royal bed.

His advisors had, in recent weeks, begun to suggest the idea of a second marriage. No doubt they meant well, hoping to soothe the prince’s strange moods now that the official period of mourning was over. Some had gone so far as to mention individual women by name; high born and comely every one, and young enough to remain at his side for maybe half a century, given good health and a modicum of luck.

Imrahil would have none of them. These young women were mere girls to him, not even so old as his own dear daughter. Other men might envy him the opportunity to take to his heart such youth and beauty, but the prince remained unmoved. He would live another eight decades alone if need be, but no such child would ever replace Glantathar in his affections.

They had married young, and for love, although both his father and hers had approved of the match. With Glantathar he had found passion at first, then latterly great companionship, but always a deep, unwavering affection. Her quiet wisdom had sustained him through the difficult years before Aragorn’s accession, and he had come to rely on her utterly. He had known from the start that he would outlive her, should he be spared a warrior’s death; but the knowledge had done nothing to ease his pain when the consumption finally took her.

The prince sighed once more and turned from the mirror, walking instead to the long window with the seat overlooking the sea.

It had been a glorious afternoon, hot and clear, with all the promise of early summer. Imrahil gazed out across the tumbling cliffs to the turquoise water beyond, and felt his heart quicken in his chest. No doubt young men all over the city had felt the same stirrings today, and had found some excuse to take themselves down to the sea with their friends or sweethearts, as Imrahil himself would once have done. He had little opportunity to seek such pleasures now.

In spite of himself, the prince often found himself reminiscing fondly about the days before the fall of Sauron: in those hard pressed times he had at least known his purpose. He had ridden at the head of a company of fine knights into the thrill and tumult of battle, and felt the freedom from formality and ritual that he so longed for. In the twelve years of peace since Aragorn became King, his life had changed beyond measure. Although he still rode for sport or hunting as often as he could, and trained several times a week with sword or spear, these days most of his time was spent on tasks which could at best be described as petty administration.

His family were some comfort to him, but in truth they brought him heartache in equal part. He missed Lothiriel, with her calm wise beauty so like to her mother, and he worried for her as she sat at Eomer’s side in Rohan. Imrahil had no doubt that the young king of the Mark would treat his daughter well, for he clearly worshipped her. But how would she fare in that land of mountain and plain, so far from the sea she had loved all her life? The prince lived daily with the memory of his sister’s tragic end. He knew it had likely owed more to the nature of his brother-in-law than to her physical removal from Dol Amroth, but it haunted him still, and he feared that some echo of it may yet come to torment Lothiriel.

As for his sons, he could honestly say that Merenin brought him naught but pride and happiness. In the tall, passionate man he saw much of himself, but with a good deal of his mother’s composure to balance his warrior’s speed and fire. He would be a true and loving husband to his new young wife, and one day he would make a fine leader. Celaeren, of course, was a different matter. Imrahil could feel the frown drawing his brows together as he thought of his youngest child. His love and understanding would never be enough to overcome the man’s bitterness at the hand fate had dealt him. Not for the first time, the prince silently cursed his heritage, as he wondered what more he could do to help his son.

A sudden burst of noise from the courtyards below interrupted the train of his thoughts. He could not see the source of the clamour, for his window faced outwards from the castle walls, nor did he recognise any one voice. His stomach clenched, however, as his mind immediately returned to Celaeren. Surely his son had not returned so soon from his visit to their kin in Anfalas? One of Imrahil’s most trusted captains was travelling with him, and the loyal soldier knew how to deal with the younger man’s habits. He was ashamed to admit it even to himself, but the prince had been looking forward to two or three months of peace in the absence of Celaeren’s unsteady temper.

The courtyard became quiet once more and Imrahil allowed himself to relax. Though the tension drained from his body, his readiness to misinterpret the cause of the disturbance left his thoughts unsettled. It was quite apparent that Celaeren’s problem could be pushed to one side no longer. When he returned to Dol Amroth, the prince vowed, father and son would talk openly at last, and seek a solution together.

Gazing out to the horizon, and marvelling at the intensity of the blues mingling there, Imrahil forced himself to clear the anxieties from his mind. The day was too beautiful to waste what was left of it on such despondent musings; he would steal some moments for himself before his duties called him again. He went back in to the study, but quickly returned with a book of poetry in his hand, before settling on the comfortable window seat to enjoy the late afternoon sun.

The prince was not allowed to rest for long. He knew from the hurried footsteps of his manservant that something must be amiss, even before he saw the man’s face. Wearily resigned to the likelihood of unsettling news of his son, he stood and laid his book aside. Neledhen’s look, however, spoke of excitement, not distress.

“My lord,” he said breathlessly, with a hurried bow. “Belgan bids me inform you that a messenger is come from Gondor.”

“Indeed?” Imrahil strode across the chamber and stood by the bed as the other man held the robe wide for his arms. “And is his message so urgent that I must be disturbed at my rest?”

“I know not what his news may be,” replied Neledhen, “but he has requested an audience with you forthwith.”

Imrahil found himself to be intrigued and not a little cheered by the thought of urgent news from the King. Perhaps Aragorn had some need of him in Minarithrith, some council or new deed that required his attendance. He could not deny that he would gladly wel suc such a summons, and the diversion from his cares that it might offer.

Stepping into the study, he found the steward Belgan before him. The grey haired man nodded respectfully, then looked him in the eye.

“My lord, a messenger is come from Gondor, with scrolls from the King, and from Ithilien.”

“So Neledhen tells me.” Imrahil replied shortly.

“He will not state his mission, but desires a private audience with you.”

“Does the messenger have a name?” asked the prince, one eyebrow raised.

“None that he would give; he bears the royal emblem, but . . .” the steward seemed lost for words.

Imrahil narrowed his eyes. “Yes?”

“He is a . . . strange . . . man.”

The prince laughed suddenly. “Perhaps, Belgan, it is too long since you ventured from this fair city and your mind grows narrow. We have nothing to fear from the men of Gondor. Send him to me.”

The steward bowed and left the room, and Imrahil stood by his desk, glancing idly at the papers there. At the gentle knock on the study door he turned suddenly, and his heart began to beat fast and loud, although he could not have explained why.

“Enter,” he said, firmly.

One look at the tall, slim figure who walked lightly into the study was enough to explain why old Belgan had thought him strange, for his kind had not been seen in Dol Amroth for countless years. Imrahil forgot to breathe for a moment in his surprise, and there was a pause before he found the words of greeting.

“Well met, my friend,” he managed finally. “This is indeed unexpected.”

The figure stepped into the middle of the room and performed an elegant bow, his blond hair falling forward across his shoulders. Then he stood, and met the other’s eyes.

“Prince Imrahil,” said Legolas, in his low, melodic voice, “I have come to learn of the sea.”