Sons of the Steward
folder
Lord of the Rings Movies › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
3,601
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Lord of the Rings Movies › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
3,601
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings book series and movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Prologue
Sons of the Steward
Rated: NC17
Author: Elven Demagogue
Summary: Boromir and Faramir are accused of raping and murdering an Elven emissary, so Lord Celeborn sends two Elves on a mission to Minas Tirith.
*
A golden leaf trailed from the treetops down as inevitably many others had before. Eyes of blue watched the descent in absent fascination. Early autumn was upon the Golden Wood, coloring the landscape in colors of burnt gold and orange. It was quiet here, touched by the last lingering years of a fading peace that would be gone well before the Elves were. He could recall when they used to plan for a future away from Middle-Earth, but that had been destroyed. Now he wondered what would happen to them. Perhaps they would learn to accept life instead of shun it. He had been such a fool, he reflected, thinking on times passed. They all had been.
With a breath the mortal man bent down and ran his fingers within a stream at his feet. The water was cool, as soft as a lover’s touch. Aragorn smiled at the conjurings of his imagination and memory playing together with thoughts of a face he would never see again. But that was neither here nor there. He had let go of that childish dream years ago.
Which was, in part, why he felt so out of place here within the dying realm of Lothlórien. The ghosts here had changed a great deal, but not so much that he could forget the time he had spent here before. The faces were the same even if their eyes held things other than blessedness and songs. When he had looked upon the Marchwarden at first it had been like being taken back through time.
But then Haldir’s expression had hardened against him. It had not been unexpected—they now called all Men of Gondor Ringslaves—and in truth it helped to quell the old feelings. Sharply he had been asked why he was returning and just as sharply Aragorn had demanded to see Lord Celeborn. They may despise the world of men, but they would have to change just as the rest of Middle-Earth had. Either that or perish. Denethor would love seeing to that, he knew. In fact he only waited for the proper reason like a lion stalking a lamb. Soon the grudging Elves would give him that reason and he would eradicate them.
Footsteps echoed through the brush, causing the once-Ranger to stand up. He saw forms within the shadows of the trees, approaching swiftly. Celeborn would not like his being here. Aragorn felt he would do well enough to state what it was he had come for before being asked to leave. Yet what he had to say might interest the elder Elf Lord. These were no beings of light anymore. They were giving that up with each passing year, falling to the same darkness as their mortal brethren. Aragorn had recognized this when he had heard what had happened between Rohan and Lórien. Éomer had been a fool to murder the emissaries the Elves had sent. Lothlórien had lashed out in revenge and lashed hard, starting a two-year war. Now Rohan was trying to pick up the pieces of their broken land. Indeed only a fallen race of Elves could be so brutal. They were all slaves of the growing darkness. Celeborn would want to act on this knowledge, one way or another.
The familiar face faded in from the shadows and Aragorn put his hand to his breast, bowing his head in standard Elvish greeting. “Suilad, Celeborn o Lórien.”
(Greetings, Celeborn of Lórien.)
The Elf Lord did not return the gesture. “Man ceri anirich, Aragorn? Edain trasta gwaith nín.”
(What do you want, Aragorn? Men trouble my people.)
Aragorn sighed and nodded once. “An sen udherich. Ind telin na theled. Le lastatha nin?”
(For this I will not remain. Though I come with purpose. Will you hear me?)
The Lord of Lothlórien seemed to consider for a moment, his intense gaze lingering upon Aragorn’s seeking any malice or deception. There was none of course. He came openly, his intentions visible. And that may have been what it was that ultimately caused Celeborn to relent. “Lastathon le, Aragorn. Pedi lim.”
(I will hear you, Aragorn. Speak fast.)
“Gerin ist an le,” the former-Ranger began.
(I have information for you.)
The Elven Lord held up his hand to forestall him. “Man ceri anirich an sen ist?” he asked suspiciously. “Le buio Gondor, al-Edhil.”
(What do you want for this inftiontion? You serve Gondor, not Elves.)
Aragorn nodded in concession of this fact. He did serve Gondor, by influence if the throne would forever be denied him. “Milui nuith. Alvach orad.”
(Kind thoughts. Nothing more.)
Celeborn frowned at that, lapsing into Common perhaps to distance himself from Aragorn. “Kind thoughts? You are no longer an Elf-friend, Aragorn. You made your allegiances perfectly clear when you followed Boromir to serve a country that would seek to further itself beyond its bounds. I know the mind of Denethor and that you serve him appalls me.”
Abandoning the use of Elvish, Aragorn shook his head. “I do not serve Denethor, my lord. I serve Gondor and if trying to influence the Steward to make the right choices includes turning a blind eye to some of his bad ones, so be it. I will do anything to see my country bettered if I can. Maybe your people consider me blackened because I chose not to wrest the Ring from Boromir when he took it from Frodo, but I have not forgotten from whom my raising came. I come in service to that old affection because it is the right thing to do.”
His eyes sparked with anger, Celeborn glared for a long moment, considering him. He seemed about to turn Aragorn away, but a voice stopped him. “We will hear your words, Aragorn.” Her voice was cold. They turned as Galadriel came from the shade of the trees to stand beside her husband. “Speak what it is you have to say.”
Looking between them, uncertain for a moment, he hesitated until Celeborn nodded curtly. Then, taking a breath, he spwhatwhat he came to say. “A few years ago, before the Elves cut off all contact with Gondor, an emissary came to Minas Tirith to speak with Lord Denethor. She went missing.”
“I fully recall the tale,” Celeborn responded with a frosty tone and equally frigid eyes. “Her guards came back saying they knew not where she had gone and that your people werss tss than cooperative when it came to allowing them to aid the search.”
“I cannot speak for Lord Denethor’s actions,” the Ranger defended himself, feeling himself at the brunt of the blame. “I can only tell you that I know the truth of what happened. And I know who was responsible. The guards did search and found her in an alley on one of the lower tiers of the citadel. She had been raped and slain, then left there. I did not speak then because I did not know who it was that had done this thing, but last month the one’s responsible bragged to me of their fell deed. I came that you may at least know this much.”
Galadriel looked at him intently. “Go on.”
“It was the sof thf the Steward. Boromir and Faramir. They told me of the conquest with great joy. It filled me with outrage, but I can do nothing myself without sacrificing what I am trying to accomplish.” He cocked his head. “I know that the Elves have acquired a taste for vengeance. I thought you might wish the opportunity.”
The Elf Lord did not appear grateful for this knowledge and was instead distrustful. “This would serve you, their deaths, would it not?”
Aragorn sighed. “You may wish to believe that is the reason I came, for indeed it would, but when they spoke of her screams as they covered her mouth and of her eyes when they took her…I wanted to do the deed myself. I want that they should pay for what they did, but as I said, I cannot t myt myself. Do as you will with what I have said.” Turning away towards the path out of Lothlórien, Aragorn took but one step before he was called to stop.
“Wait, Aragorn.” It was Galadriel. She put her hand to his shoulder and turned him with more command any sharp shout would have held. “What do you propose we do?”
He turned with sincere eyes, still feeling the penetration of that gaze, even if she no longer wore the Ring that powered her mind-reading abilities. He averted his gaze after a moment. “My lady, do as you will, but I would not be opposed to bringing with me someone that could see vengeance done. I have sworn to Denethor I am here on a mission of peace. It would not be unexpected of me to bring another emissary with me. I will wait near the Silverlode for three days and then depart for Minas Tirith and forget this matter.”
He did not look back into her face as he left their presence, but heard her soft words carry along the winds. “We must tell her.”
Rated: NC17
Author: Elven Demagogue
Summary: Boromir and Faramir are accused of raping and murdering an Elven emissary, so Lord Celeborn sends two Elves on a mission to Minas Tirith.
*
A golden leaf trailed from the treetops down as inevitably many others had before. Eyes of blue watched the descent in absent fascination. Early autumn was upon the Golden Wood, coloring the landscape in colors of burnt gold and orange. It was quiet here, touched by the last lingering years of a fading peace that would be gone well before the Elves were. He could recall when they used to plan for a future away from Middle-Earth, but that had been destroyed. Now he wondered what would happen to them. Perhaps they would learn to accept life instead of shun it. He had been such a fool, he reflected, thinking on times passed. They all had been.
With a breath the mortal man bent down and ran his fingers within a stream at his feet. The water was cool, as soft as a lover’s touch. Aragorn smiled at the conjurings of his imagination and memory playing together with thoughts of a face he would never see again. But that was neither here nor there. He had let go of that childish dream years ago.
Which was, in part, why he felt so out of place here within the dying realm of Lothlórien. The ghosts here had changed a great deal, but not so much that he could forget the time he had spent here before. The faces were the same even if their eyes held things other than blessedness and songs. When he had looked upon the Marchwarden at first it had been like being taken back through time.
But then Haldir’s expression had hardened against him. It had not been unexpected—they now called all Men of Gondor Ringslaves—and in truth it helped to quell the old feelings. Sharply he had been asked why he was returning and just as sharply Aragorn had demanded to see Lord Celeborn. They may despise the world of men, but they would have to change just as the rest of Middle-Earth had. Either that or perish. Denethor would love seeing to that, he knew. In fact he only waited for the proper reason like a lion stalking a lamb. Soon the grudging Elves would give him that reason and he would eradicate them.
Footsteps echoed through the brush, causing the once-Ranger to stand up. He saw forms within the shadows of the trees, approaching swiftly. Celeborn would not like his being here. Aragorn felt he would do well enough to state what it was he had come for before being asked to leave. Yet what he had to say might interest the elder Elf Lord. These were no beings of light anymore. They were giving that up with each passing year, falling to the same darkness as their mortal brethren. Aragorn had recognized this when he had heard what had happened between Rohan and Lórien. Éomer had been a fool to murder the emissaries the Elves had sent. Lothlórien had lashed out in revenge and lashed hard, starting a two-year war. Now Rohan was trying to pick up the pieces of their broken land. Indeed only a fallen race of Elves could be so brutal. They were all slaves of the growing darkness. Celeborn would want to act on this knowledge, one way or another.
The familiar face faded in from the shadows and Aragorn put his hand to his breast, bowing his head in standard Elvish greeting. “Suilad, Celeborn o Lórien.”
(Greetings, Celeborn of Lórien.)
The Elf Lord did not return the gesture. “Man ceri anirich, Aragorn? Edain trasta gwaith nín.”
(What do you want, Aragorn? Men trouble my people.)
Aragorn sighed and nodded once. “An sen udherich. Ind telin na theled. Le lastatha nin?”
(For this I will not remain. Though I come with purpose. Will you hear me?)
The Lord of Lothlórien seemed to consider for a moment, his intense gaze lingering upon Aragorn’s seeking any malice or deception. There was none of course. He came openly, his intentions visible. And that may have been what it was that ultimately caused Celeborn to relent. “Lastathon le, Aragorn. Pedi lim.”
(I will hear you, Aragorn. Speak fast.)
“Gerin ist an le,” the former-Ranger began.
(I have information for you.)
The Elven Lord held up his hand to forestall him. “Man ceri anirich an sen ist?” he asked suspiciously. “Le buio Gondor, al-Edhil.”
(What do you want for this inftiontion? You serve Gondor, not Elves.)
Aragorn nodded in concession of this fact. He did serve Gondor, by influence if the throne would forever be denied him. “Milui nuith. Alvach orad.”
(Kind thoughts. Nothing more.)
Celeborn frowned at that, lapsing into Common perhaps to distance himself from Aragorn. “Kind thoughts? You are no longer an Elf-friend, Aragorn. You made your allegiances perfectly clear when you followed Boromir to serve a country that would seek to further itself beyond its bounds. I know the mind of Denethor and that you serve him appalls me.”
Abandoning the use of Elvish, Aragorn shook his head. “I do not serve Denethor, my lord. I serve Gondor and if trying to influence the Steward to make the right choices includes turning a blind eye to some of his bad ones, so be it. I will do anything to see my country bettered if I can. Maybe your people consider me blackened because I chose not to wrest the Ring from Boromir when he took it from Frodo, but I have not forgotten from whom my raising came. I come in service to that old affection because it is the right thing to do.”
His eyes sparked with anger, Celeborn glared for a long moment, considering him. He seemed about to turn Aragorn away, but a voice stopped him. “We will hear your words, Aragorn.” Her voice was cold. They turned as Galadriel came from the shade of the trees to stand beside her husband. “Speak what it is you have to say.”
Looking between them, uncertain for a moment, he hesitated until Celeborn nodded curtly. Then, taking a breath, he spwhatwhat he came to say. “A few years ago, before the Elves cut off all contact with Gondor, an emissary came to Minas Tirith to speak with Lord Denethor. She went missing.”
“I fully recall the tale,” Celeborn responded with a frosty tone and equally frigid eyes. “Her guards came back saying they knew not where she had gone and that your people werss tss than cooperative when it came to allowing them to aid the search.”
“I cannot speak for Lord Denethor’s actions,” the Ranger defended himself, feeling himself at the brunt of the blame. “I can only tell you that I know the truth of what happened. And I know who was responsible. The guards did search and found her in an alley on one of the lower tiers of the citadel. She had been raped and slain, then left there. I did not speak then because I did not know who it was that had done this thing, but last month the one’s responsible bragged to me of their fell deed. I came that you may at least know this much.”
Galadriel looked at him intently. “Go on.”
“It was the sof thf the Steward. Boromir and Faramir. They told me of the conquest with great joy. It filled me with outrage, but I can do nothing myself without sacrificing what I am trying to accomplish.” He cocked his head. “I know that the Elves have acquired a taste for vengeance. I thought you might wish the opportunity.”
The Elf Lord did not appear grateful for this knowledge and was instead distrustful. “This would serve you, their deaths, would it not?”
Aragorn sighed. “You may wish to believe that is the reason I came, for indeed it would, but when they spoke of her screams as they covered her mouth and of her eyes when they took her…I wanted to do the deed myself. I want that they should pay for what they did, but as I said, I cannot t myt myself. Do as you will with what I have said.” Turning away towards the path out of Lothlórien, Aragorn took but one step before he was called to stop.
“Wait, Aragorn.” It was Galadriel. She put her hand to his shoulder and turned him with more command any sharp shout would have held. “What do you propose we do?”
He turned with sincere eyes, still feeling the penetration of that gaze, even if she no longer wore the Ring that powered her mind-reading abilities. He averted his gaze after a moment. “My lady, do as you will, but I would not be opposed to bringing with me someone that could see vengeance done. I have sworn to Denethor I am here on a mission of peace. It would not be unexpected of me to bring another emissary with me. I will wait near the Silverlode for three days and then depart for Minas Tirith and forget this matter.”
He did not look back into her face as he left their presence, but heard her soft words carry along the winds. “We must tell her.”