Post by Admin on Jan 3, 2021 0:33:59 GMT
Author: quodamat
Ranking: 3rd place
Summary: Arwen is alarmed, Éowyn is irritated, Faramir feels awkward, and Aragorn just wants someone to tell him what’s going on. Apparently even a Rivendell education can’t prepare you for everything.
Rating: PG-13 (for a light-hearted look at the “joys” of adolescence and speculative comments on Elven biology)
I own nothing in this story, and have no desire to profit from it: I offer it simply as an affectionate tribute to Prof. Tolkien’s work. Despite being quite tongue-in-cheek, this story has its roots in genuine curiosity about life in a family of both Elves and Men.
A piercing cry rang through the royal quarters of Minas Tirith.
“You are heartless, Eldarion! Heartless! And I am not being silly!”
The sounds of a slamming door and muffled sobs followed close on this pronouncement, eliciting a sigh from the Queen. It seemed that reading her youngest daughter’s most recent story—presented proudly, if a bit anxiously, for Arwen’s perusal—would have to wait.
“Annúneth, darling, perhaps now would be a good time to see if Elboron will take you to the market as you planned yesterday. I promise I will finish reading your story very soon.”
The little girl gave a dramatic sigh of her own, but quickly perked up at the thought of an adventure with the boy she looked up to as a favorite older cousin. Watching her skip from the room, Arwen spared a grateful thought for the extended series of Council meetings that had brought Faramir to the city with his family in tow.
Before the Queen could take further action, her son entered the room, glancing warily behind as if he feared pursuit.
“Eldarion, what did you—”
“Nothing! Truly, Naneth, I was only trying to help! I cannot understand why Esteliel refuses to be comforted.”
Arwen looked closely at her eldest child, who seemed genuinely confused.
“Do you not know what ails her?” she asked, her concern mounting. If this were something more than a spat between her two good-hearted but admittedly strong-willed children…
Eldarion heaved an exasperated sigh and flopped onto a settee before answering.
“It seems she is in mourning,” he answered, rather unhelpfully.
“Mourning for…?”
“The fall of Gondolin.”
“Gondolin!” Arwen was beginning to understand her son’s bewilderment. Esteliel was a compassionate girl, but not one given to dramatic flights of melancholy. If someone were to grieve over the ancient city, she would have expected it to be Sérewen, her third child, who seemed to have inherited an elegiac temperament from her Elven forbearers.
“We studied its downfall with our history tutor this morning,” Eldarion continued, shaking his head in bemusement, “but it is not as if we had not heard the tale before. Yet Esteliel is beside herself, never mind the passing of Ages!”
“And you called her grief silly?” Arwen asked, eyebrow raised in disapproval. Such mourning over a history lesson might be uncharacteristic, even well-nigh incomprehensible, but she would not have her son make light of suffering, whether that of his sister or of the doomed Noldor.
“Not all her grief,” Eldarion protested. “I admit it is a sad tale, though I would not join her weeping. I only said she might as well leave off lamenting Glorfindel, who is quite recovered from his fall, as we ourselves witnessed when he visited last summer! If he does not mourn his death, why should she?”
“I see…” the Queen murmured, somewhat at a loss. Eldarion’s response was understandable, if not overly sensitive. Surely her daughter’s sorrow must be fed by some underlying cause.
Arwen sat alone in her solar a short time later, more confused than ever, though grateful that the heart-wrenching sobs from her daughters’ suite finally seemed to be abating. Her attempts to comfort Esteliel had been soundly rebuffed: the girl insisted through the closed door that she needed no help and desired no speech. Sérewen had chosen that moment to return from her riding lesson, and it was not long before her own lip was quivering and her eyes brimming with tears, certain she was witnessing some catastrophe.
Eldarion, to his credit, had ushered the younger girl away, assuring her that no tragedy had befallen them (“at least this side of the drowning of Beleriand”). As soon as Arwen returned, however, he had hastened away to the training grounds in search of his friends, muttering about “hysterical sisters” as he went. A few more reassurances and some distracting questions about her beloved horse seemed to settle Sérewen’s fears, and at her mother’s suggestion the girl had retreated to bathe before dinner. Lessons with the riding master were cherished by all her children, but inevitably left them covered in dust and stable smells.
With her first and third children thus occupied, and her fourth undoubtedly being entertained by the obliging and good-humored Elboron—she really must remember to thank the boy!—Arwen’s thoughts returned to her second-born. It was most unlike Esteliel to isolate herself thus, and Arwen felt certain there was more to her emotional outburst than the defeat of an ancient kingdom, however movingly rendered in story and song. She was just beginning to wonder if she ought to speak with her children’s history tutor when Sérewen burst back into the room.
“Nana, Nana, come quick!” the girl cried, her eyes again filled with tears. “Esteliel is hurt!”
Éowyn emerged, chuckling, from Esteliel’s bedroom and gave Arwen a wry look.
“Well, aside from working herself into a frenzy of worry, she’s no worse off than any of us, and better than some.”
This was not what Arwen had expected. “But—but—surely you have not had time to examine her properly?” she stammered.
“What?” Éowyn laughed. “She hardly needs examining! I explained everything—no need to embarrass the poor girl further.”
Arwen stared at her friend in growing consternation. “You—will you do nothing then?”
Éowyn’s expression faded into a look of confusion and mild concern. “Arwen, I can well imagine how uncanny it must seem to see your daughter growing so quickly, but, truly, ‘tis not so strange! Esteliel will manage as we all do. All she needs is a little reassurance, a hot compress, and a respite from oblivious older brothers.” She paused, a thoughtful look on her face. “And perhaps some honey cakes. I adore honey cakes, especially when ... Yes, we must certainly bring her some honey cakes.”
Arwen’s eyes flashed her anger at Éowyn’s seeming callousness, and things might have gone ill for the Lady of Ithilien if the King and Steward had not entered at that moment. Arwen flew to her husband and began pulling him toward their daughters’ rooms.
“Estel, you must come at once—I know not how to help our child. I should have called for you, Council or no, but she said she could not bear it, and I thought the Lady Éowyn, having studied with the healers—but all she can speak of is honey cakes, and our daughter is dying!”
“Dying!” Éowyn exclaimed before Aragorn could respond. “Whatever gave you such a thought? My Lady, surely you knew this day would come. I am surprised you were not expecting it at any time!”
With that Arwen gave an inarticulate cry and buried her face in the shoulder of her husband, who looked torn between fear and bewilderment. Éowyn threw up her hands is dismay and spoke over Arwen’s head.
“My Lord, I know not whence comes this talk of dying! The child was simply distressed, which is understandable enough, though I would have thought”—here she cast a baleful look at the weeping Queen—“such things would go easier for one with a mother by her side. But, never mind: if I could endure with naught but a blundering older cousin and a kitchen maid to comfort me, your daughter will do well enough.”
The King now appeared utterly at a loss, rubbing his wife’s back distractedly as he tried to make sense of Éowyn’s fragmented narrative. A helpless look in his Steward’s direction revealed an expression of dawning comprehension followed by an uncharacteristic avoidance of eye contact.
“Would someone please tell me what ails my daughter?” he asked desperately.
Éowyn stared expectantly at Arwen, who, if possible, wept even harder. Faramir, meanwhile, exhibited all the signs of a newfound fascination with the ceiling. A long moment passed.
“Are all Elves plagued with such shyness?” Éowyn asked the room at large. Finally, though, she took pity on Aragorn’s obvious anxiety, and her tone softened.
“Nothing has come upon your daughter, my Lord, save that which comes upon most every girl at one time or another. ‘Tis hardly an ailment—indeed it points to her good health. Why your Lady is so overwrought by something she must have endured I know not how many times in her long life—”
“I have endured?” Arwen cried, startled out of her sobs. “Never have I experienced an affliction of such a kind, nor have I heard of such a thing! I know not why you think this hurt so commonplace!”
“You have borne four children!” Éowyn exclaimed, truly exasperated now. “You can hardly—”
Éowyn’s rant was interrupted by a distinctly uncomfortable looking Faramir, who pulled his wife aside and whispered hastily in her ear. The royal couple listened anxiously to the lady’s barely audible responses.
“No, I just assumed … of course I’m aware … but surely … yes … yes, I do see what you mean … well, how would I know?”
Éowyn turned back to the King and Queen with a look of frank speculation. Faramir, blushing furiously and still eyeing the ceiling, cleared his throat before she could speak. “Perhaps, my lady, you could describe your daughter’s … symptoms … to your husband.”
Now it was Arwen’s turn to whisper in her spouse’s ear. Éowyn struggled to conceal a look of vindication as Aragorn’s fearful look was overtaken by one of chagrinned relief.
“Ah…” the King said, suddenly almost as eager as his Steward to avoid catching anyone’s eye. “I had forgotten.”
Arwen looked helplessly around the room, bewildered as to why no one seemed to comprehend the gravity of her child’s plight.
Aragorn wrapped a gentle arm around his wife.
“My love, the Lady Éowyn is correct. Esteliel is neither ill nor wounded. She is simply taking her first steps into womanhood.”
“You speak in riddles, Estel!” Arwen snapped. “You are no better than Éowyn. Our child is suffering and—”
Faramir cleared his throat. “Perhaps Éowyn and I should leave your Majesties to discuss matters in private?”
Much to Aragorn’s chagrin, their Majesties’ “discussion” lasted until dinnertime and resumed after the children retired for the night. After progressing through fear, confusion, and more than one bout of vividly expressed anger, Arwen had arrived at a grim determination that no other innocent Elf should encounter the grim realities of mortal femininity without fair warning.
“What if one of the Elven healers in Ithilien should made the same mistake? I know they tend Faramir’s people on occasion. No, Estel, you must inform them of this … this condition.”
“As you wish, my love,” Aragorn replied, suppressing a sigh with expertise born of decades spent hiding his true thoughts in forests, inns, and council halls alike.
When Arwen left, Aragorn slumped in his seat and ran a hand over his eyes. Learned healer he might be, but he did not relish the thought of discussing the delicate inner workings of mortal women with an audience of half-disbelieving Elves. Sighing deeply, he poured a glass of wine from a decanter on the sideboard and sat down at his desk, planning to draft a letter to the chief healer among the Elves of Ithilien.
Five minutes later, Aragorn was still staring dejectedly at the blank parchment in front of him. Then, suddenly, he sat up straighter, an unusually devious smile lightening his features.
After all, he thought to himself, it would be inefficient for him to speak to each healer individually, as would no doubt be necessary to ensure their understanding. Further, this important information should be conveyed to the healers in person and as soon as possible, but he did not make it to Ithilien often. No, far better to delegate.
The King inked his pen and began his missive.
“Dear Legolas…”
Ranking: 3rd place
Summary: Arwen is alarmed, Éowyn is irritated, Faramir feels awkward, and Aragorn just wants someone to tell him what’s going on. Apparently even a Rivendell education can’t prepare you for everything.
Rating: PG-13 (for a light-hearted look at the “joys” of adolescence and speculative comments on Elven biology)
I own nothing in this story, and have no desire to profit from it: I offer it simply as an affectionate tribute to Prof. Tolkien’s work. Despite being quite tongue-in-cheek, this story has its roots in genuine curiosity about life in a family of both Elves and Men.
A piercing cry rang through the royal quarters of Minas Tirith.
“You are heartless, Eldarion! Heartless! And I am not being silly!”
The sounds of a slamming door and muffled sobs followed close on this pronouncement, eliciting a sigh from the Queen. It seemed that reading her youngest daughter’s most recent story—presented proudly, if a bit anxiously, for Arwen’s perusal—would have to wait.
“Annúneth, darling, perhaps now would be a good time to see if Elboron will take you to the market as you planned yesterday. I promise I will finish reading your story very soon.”
The little girl gave a dramatic sigh of her own, but quickly perked up at the thought of an adventure with the boy she looked up to as a favorite older cousin. Watching her skip from the room, Arwen spared a grateful thought for the extended series of Council meetings that had brought Faramir to the city with his family in tow.
Before the Queen could take further action, her son entered the room, glancing warily behind as if he feared pursuit.
“Eldarion, what did you—”
“Nothing! Truly, Naneth, I was only trying to help! I cannot understand why Esteliel refuses to be comforted.”
Arwen looked closely at her eldest child, who seemed genuinely confused.
“Do you not know what ails her?” she asked, her concern mounting. If this were something more than a spat between her two good-hearted but admittedly strong-willed children…
Eldarion heaved an exasperated sigh and flopped onto a settee before answering.
“It seems she is in mourning,” he answered, rather unhelpfully.
“Mourning for…?”
“The fall of Gondolin.”
“Gondolin!” Arwen was beginning to understand her son’s bewilderment. Esteliel was a compassionate girl, but not one given to dramatic flights of melancholy. If someone were to grieve over the ancient city, she would have expected it to be Sérewen, her third child, who seemed to have inherited an elegiac temperament from her Elven forbearers.
“We studied its downfall with our history tutor this morning,” Eldarion continued, shaking his head in bemusement, “but it is not as if we had not heard the tale before. Yet Esteliel is beside herself, never mind the passing of Ages!”
“And you called her grief silly?” Arwen asked, eyebrow raised in disapproval. Such mourning over a history lesson might be uncharacteristic, even well-nigh incomprehensible, but she would not have her son make light of suffering, whether that of his sister or of the doomed Noldor.
“Not all her grief,” Eldarion protested. “I admit it is a sad tale, though I would not join her weeping. I only said she might as well leave off lamenting Glorfindel, who is quite recovered from his fall, as we ourselves witnessed when he visited last summer! If he does not mourn his death, why should she?”
“I see…” the Queen murmured, somewhat at a loss. Eldarion’s response was understandable, if not overly sensitive. Surely her daughter’s sorrow must be fed by some underlying cause.
Arwen sat alone in her solar a short time later, more confused than ever, though grateful that the heart-wrenching sobs from her daughters’ suite finally seemed to be abating. Her attempts to comfort Esteliel had been soundly rebuffed: the girl insisted through the closed door that she needed no help and desired no speech. Sérewen had chosen that moment to return from her riding lesson, and it was not long before her own lip was quivering and her eyes brimming with tears, certain she was witnessing some catastrophe.
Eldarion, to his credit, had ushered the younger girl away, assuring her that no tragedy had befallen them (“at least this side of the drowning of Beleriand”). As soon as Arwen returned, however, he had hastened away to the training grounds in search of his friends, muttering about “hysterical sisters” as he went. A few more reassurances and some distracting questions about her beloved horse seemed to settle Sérewen’s fears, and at her mother’s suggestion the girl had retreated to bathe before dinner. Lessons with the riding master were cherished by all her children, but inevitably left them covered in dust and stable smells.
With her first and third children thus occupied, and her fourth undoubtedly being entertained by the obliging and good-humored Elboron—she really must remember to thank the boy!—Arwen’s thoughts returned to her second-born. It was most unlike Esteliel to isolate herself thus, and Arwen felt certain there was more to her emotional outburst than the defeat of an ancient kingdom, however movingly rendered in story and song. She was just beginning to wonder if she ought to speak with her children’s history tutor when Sérewen burst back into the room.
“Nana, Nana, come quick!” the girl cried, her eyes again filled with tears. “Esteliel is hurt!”
Éowyn emerged, chuckling, from Esteliel’s bedroom and gave Arwen a wry look.
“Well, aside from working herself into a frenzy of worry, she’s no worse off than any of us, and better than some.”
This was not what Arwen had expected. “But—but—surely you have not had time to examine her properly?” she stammered.
“What?” Éowyn laughed. “She hardly needs examining! I explained everything—no need to embarrass the poor girl further.”
Arwen stared at her friend in growing consternation. “You—will you do nothing then?”
Éowyn’s expression faded into a look of confusion and mild concern. “Arwen, I can well imagine how uncanny it must seem to see your daughter growing so quickly, but, truly, ‘tis not so strange! Esteliel will manage as we all do. All she needs is a little reassurance, a hot compress, and a respite from oblivious older brothers.” She paused, a thoughtful look on her face. “And perhaps some honey cakes. I adore honey cakes, especially when ... Yes, we must certainly bring her some honey cakes.”
Arwen’s eyes flashed her anger at Éowyn’s seeming callousness, and things might have gone ill for the Lady of Ithilien if the King and Steward had not entered at that moment. Arwen flew to her husband and began pulling him toward their daughters’ rooms.
“Estel, you must come at once—I know not how to help our child. I should have called for you, Council or no, but she said she could not bear it, and I thought the Lady Éowyn, having studied with the healers—but all she can speak of is honey cakes, and our daughter is dying!”
“Dying!” Éowyn exclaimed before Aragorn could respond. “Whatever gave you such a thought? My Lady, surely you knew this day would come. I am surprised you were not expecting it at any time!”
With that Arwen gave an inarticulate cry and buried her face in the shoulder of her husband, who looked torn between fear and bewilderment. Éowyn threw up her hands is dismay and spoke over Arwen’s head.
“My Lord, I know not whence comes this talk of dying! The child was simply distressed, which is understandable enough, though I would have thought”—here she cast a baleful look at the weeping Queen—“such things would go easier for one with a mother by her side. But, never mind: if I could endure with naught but a blundering older cousin and a kitchen maid to comfort me, your daughter will do well enough.”
The King now appeared utterly at a loss, rubbing his wife’s back distractedly as he tried to make sense of Éowyn’s fragmented narrative. A helpless look in his Steward’s direction revealed an expression of dawning comprehension followed by an uncharacteristic avoidance of eye contact.
“Would someone please tell me what ails my daughter?” he asked desperately.
Éowyn stared expectantly at Arwen, who, if possible, wept even harder. Faramir, meanwhile, exhibited all the signs of a newfound fascination with the ceiling. A long moment passed.
“Are all Elves plagued with such shyness?” Éowyn asked the room at large. Finally, though, she took pity on Aragorn’s obvious anxiety, and her tone softened.
“Nothing has come upon your daughter, my Lord, save that which comes upon most every girl at one time or another. ‘Tis hardly an ailment—indeed it points to her good health. Why your Lady is so overwrought by something she must have endured I know not how many times in her long life—”
“I have endured?” Arwen cried, startled out of her sobs. “Never have I experienced an affliction of such a kind, nor have I heard of such a thing! I know not why you think this hurt so commonplace!”
“You have borne four children!” Éowyn exclaimed, truly exasperated now. “You can hardly—”
Éowyn’s rant was interrupted by a distinctly uncomfortable looking Faramir, who pulled his wife aside and whispered hastily in her ear. The royal couple listened anxiously to the lady’s barely audible responses.
“No, I just assumed … of course I’m aware … but surely … yes … yes, I do see what you mean … well, how would I know?”
Éowyn turned back to the King and Queen with a look of frank speculation. Faramir, blushing furiously and still eyeing the ceiling, cleared his throat before she could speak. “Perhaps, my lady, you could describe your daughter’s … symptoms … to your husband.”
Now it was Arwen’s turn to whisper in her spouse’s ear. Éowyn struggled to conceal a look of vindication as Aragorn’s fearful look was overtaken by one of chagrinned relief.
“Ah…” the King said, suddenly almost as eager as his Steward to avoid catching anyone’s eye. “I had forgotten.”
Arwen looked helplessly around the room, bewildered as to why no one seemed to comprehend the gravity of her child’s plight.
Aragorn wrapped a gentle arm around his wife.
“My love, the Lady Éowyn is correct. Esteliel is neither ill nor wounded. She is simply taking her first steps into womanhood.”
“You speak in riddles, Estel!” Arwen snapped. “You are no better than Éowyn. Our child is suffering and—”
Faramir cleared his throat. “Perhaps Éowyn and I should leave your Majesties to discuss matters in private?”
Much to Aragorn’s chagrin, their Majesties’ “discussion” lasted until dinnertime and resumed after the children retired for the night. After progressing through fear, confusion, and more than one bout of vividly expressed anger, Arwen had arrived at a grim determination that no other innocent Elf should encounter the grim realities of mortal femininity without fair warning.
“What if one of the Elven healers in Ithilien should made the same mistake? I know they tend Faramir’s people on occasion. No, Estel, you must inform them of this … this condition.”
“As you wish, my love,” Aragorn replied, suppressing a sigh with expertise born of decades spent hiding his true thoughts in forests, inns, and council halls alike.
When Arwen left, Aragorn slumped in his seat and ran a hand over his eyes. Learned healer he might be, but he did not relish the thought of discussing the delicate inner workings of mortal women with an audience of half-disbelieving Elves. Sighing deeply, he poured a glass of wine from a decanter on the sideboard and sat down at his desk, planning to draft a letter to the chief healer among the Elves of Ithilien.
Five minutes later, Aragorn was still staring dejectedly at the blank parchment in front of him. Then, suddenly, he sat up straighter, an unusually devious smile lightening his features.
After all, he thought to himself, it would be inefficient for him to speak to each healer individually, as would no doubt be necessary to ensure their understanding. Further, this important information should be conveyed to the healers in person and as soon as possible, but he did not make it to Ithilien often. No, far better to delegate.
The King inked his pen and began his missive.
“Dear Legolas…”