Characters: Aragorn, Arwen, Eldarion and OFC
Source: Fourth Age fanage
Disclaimer: Tolkien’s characters, stepping out to a slightly different dance…
It was not completely to her approval that Aragorn and Eldarion spent time with The Woman, but... even her grandmother spoke of their similar paths in life – ‘divided certainly, but always destined to cross. If he was not King, then she might be Lady of the Dúnedain… a path that was never yours.’
Queen Arwen could be gracious… she had his constant love; she could allow that a tiny part of his fea belonged with Her.
Her jealousy had dimmed. She’d long ago accepted his undying devotion to the she-elf as his destiny… but it still ached, now and then.
Only towards adulthood had Eldarion understood the Lady’s Garden, strewn with sea-shells, didn’t belong to the old woman his father took him to meet there every so often, but to the Steward’s late mother.
Then he’d also realised, these two were the same age, knew the same tales, same people, could sing the same ballads… especially when they’d been drinking tea at the picnics she prepared for them…
It had always puzzled him how they could go from laughter to tears over their teacups… until he noticed that theirs were topped-up from a special flask he wasn’t allowed to touch.
Eldarion smiled at the memories… He’d been what? Six? His father, dressed in worn leathers laying on the rough grass, helpless with laughter, while she chased him around the roses to get the flask back. He’d only wanted a sip, but it burnt his throat, making him cough.
She’d caught him, and after scolding him, said ‘if you want to pick-pocket, I’ll teach you to be more subtle’.
That had made his father cough.
Then she’d said… “Time you practised your mother-tongue, young man; we’ll teach you The Lay of Lúthien.”
He’d not understood why his singing made his mother cry.
“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost…”
“You’re not teaching him that old doggerel?”
“That ‘old doggerel’ is something that defines you; your son should know his father in all his aspects.”
His father had shrugged, returning to shaping the little longbow to the right size for him. Meanwhile, they sat on the grass and she had him repeat it, promising marchpane cake if he learnt it properly.
“…Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.”
Years later, whenever he had marzipan… he still heard the words.