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6 Fourth Age: The White Tree; [ Open ]
Topic Started: 24 Aug 2008, 02:22 PM (751 Views)
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It would not be long now before the celebration started. Six years had passed since the downfall of Sauron. Aragorn could scarcely believe it had been so long. His obligations to the people of Gondor and Arnor had kept him busy. Routing the fell beasts in Ithilien and the North, negotiating trade with hostile countries, rebuilding Emyn Arnen, and traveling to Annunimas had seemed like such quick directives at the time, but it had taken six years of his rule and the tasks still were not complete.

Standing here before the White Tree, Aragorn could not help but miss his friends who were now gone, either to Valinor or the halls of their fathers. It did not seem possible that Middle-earth could move forward without them, but the resiliency of Men was unparalleled.

Aragorn had tried to be a just King to honor their actions and memories. He thought he had succeeded, but there were times when he looked North and wondered how much simpler his life would be without the crown. Simpler, he had to remind himself, but not complete. The Captains of the West would have had no leader to march on the Black Gate, and Frodo would have had no chance to destroy the One Ring. Elrond would have never given Arwen to a Ranger.

It was this blossoming tree, one which only flourished because of his presence in Gondor, that reminded Aragorn each day of what Frodo had taught him. The greatest gift anyone could give was their life. His life belonged to the people of Gondor and Arnor.

In the background, the minstrels who would be playing at the feast tonight began rehearsing a traditional tune to warm up their instruments. Aragorn sang along in a low voice, singing for himself and not anyone else.

Gondor! Gondor, between the Mountains and the Sea! West Wind blew there; the light upon the Silver Tree. Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Kings of old.

His voice trailed off with the dying music. A small smile had replaced his contemplative frown.



OOC: Lyrics by JRR Tolkien from “The Two Towers”
 
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Gwenneth, sweet Gwenneth.

There wasn't a man that could pass her - or even a sheepish boy - that didn't tweak his line of vision to behold the fair face beauty. With hair of silk sable, eyes of temperamental sea blue and skin the pallor of savory cream, she was a sight not to be missed when it came to Minas Tirith. Tonight being no different, with the celebration drawing ever closer and her fathers firm conviction that she be at her best for the gala-event. Gwenneth had been pampered, her flesh massaged with fine oils and her hair freshly cleaned, even the evening gown of dark to royal blues and silver had been tailored for just this occasion by the Chamberlains orders.

Still, if one took a moment to glimpse pass the pretty shape of her mouth or her eyes and their bewitching colour, the lackluster of her gaze would show through and through. The dullness of them seemed out of place for the young lady, when all of her friends were giddy and giggling with glee, she was solemn and stoic. Chin level and her nose? Well, to her fathers dismay it was stuck in a book. It always was though, wasn't it?

Her thirst for knowledge insatiable and perhaps seeded by the overly sheltered life her father has made her live. Never truly allowed the company of a gentlemen without his escort and definitely not allowed to dance with one. Perhaps yet another reason why her excitement wanned before given the opportunity to shine fully.

Gwenneth propped her right thumb up, licked the tip with her tongue and quickly turned another page. The old, leather worn book was on herbal remedies and as a student and lover of plants she found herself enthralled completely. So much so, that as she approached The great White Tree and in sequence the King himself, she drifts with very slight awareness of his presence.

His tall, prominent figure little more than a silhouette in the peripheral vision of her gaze. The tree, a tall and taunting form that she seems to glide, more than walk, her wholesome figure around in wide repetitive circles that slowly began to shrink. It isn't until they do that Gwenneth slowly pulls her attention from the book and to the back of the man whom she approaches from behind.

It takes her a moment and only a moment for her to realize the King's identity and elegantly droops down to the floor in a very low and graceful curtsy.

"Begging your pardons, My King. I hadn't realized I wasn't alone. Please, forgive my lack of manners."

Remaining tight and low to the floor, Gwenneth keeps her eyes on the ground between herself and the back of Aragorn's ankle. Meeting the hard, blank canvas with an intimate gaze full of respect and a little bit of embarrassment.

Sweet, Sweet Gwenneth. Only she could be so kind and so naive.
 
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The sun was quickly sinking below the distant mountains, and Aragorn spotted the Officer of Protocol, a portly man called Thandir, bobbing around like the puppet on its string. He would want the King to enter the Merethrond soon, as the festivities could not begin until he was present. Aragorn noted no person eager to move into the Hall of Feasts, however. Many were lingering around the courtyard or else just arriving.

One guest was so enthralled with her book that she did not even look up when she passed. A smile spread across Aragorn’s lips. Everywhere in Gondor were little hints of its noble ancestry. The subjects’ adoration of the library was only one example. They were well-versed in almost any field the King could think of, so much so, in fact, that the King’s Council often sounded like a herd of philosophers braying at him. Even as he thought about the Councilors, they appeared as a solid mass in his peripheral vision.

At least his pages knew better than to linger. After seeing Aragorn dressed in the traditional sable and silver, and successfully having the crowns delivered to the royal chambers, the boys had wisely disappeared into the crowd. They would show up again only when Aragorn beckoned them.

Eventually, however, the young lady remembered her setting and her place. She fell into a practiced curtsy. Not a common servant girl in her lady’s cast-off dress then. From the way she had been walking with her nose in a book, he deduced that the seventh level was familiar to her. Aragorn motioned for her to rise.

“You were never in danger of being rude,” Aragorn said honestly. “What do you call yourself, my Lady?”

Perhaps she would give a name that was familiar, though he doubted it. It was Arwen who knew all the ladies of court. Aragorn was waiting for the second half of her introduction. It was her father he would most likely know.

Talking to this young woman would be a welcome reprieve from hearing Thandir recite the protocol of beginning a feast and from listening to the King’s Councilor work over some topic they had already discussed today and would touch on tomorrow as well. He would endeavor to engage her in conversation until Arwen rescued him from formality or it truly was time to begin the banquet.

“Any book that can capture your interest so must be exceptional. What is it you are reading?”
 
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It was foolish of her to feel that slight bit of glee when he permitted her to stand and addressed her further into conversation. But Gwenneth couldn't help it. Aragorn was a legend that she read about in books, in stories and song but had never been a palpable man of flesh to look upon and talk with until that moment. He had always been King, a very real and vital essence of Gondor itself, but to her he'd been a little bit of a myth. An unseen entity you never saw but always felt or imagined you saw passing down a hall or through a door.

Never the less, Gwenneth held her composure beautifully in front of the King and met him with a steady but respectful gaze of thalassic blue.

"Gwenneth, my King;" she half curtsied again with a dip of head. "Daughter of your Chamberlain Sadorannant Marroc."

In front of her chest she crossed her arms over her torso and cradled the book she'd been reading comfortably against her abdomen. Subconsciously stroking her thumb along the weathered leather texture of the edging. It was more a habit, as a mother would affectionately a young child, than a nervous fidget.

"An introduction of a three part tome, scribed by the Herbalist Hann Tirnion.” Starring down upon the book with a bit of an appreciative smile towards it, “I’ll confess to my King that to some such a book might not hold much value, but it is my desire to apprentice down on the sixth level in the Houses of Healing one day with great and practiced healers to learn from.”

In the distance, the crowds have thickened. The throngs of people beginning to boil up from even the lowest level of Gondor to make their way to the celebration. Among them is the Chamberlain himself, dressed in the same immaculate tones of blues and silver thread work as his daughter. The trail of his long cloak spreading out behind him like wings of a dragon with every long stride he takes but pauses as he nears the entrance and catches a glimpse of the White tree for himself.

Although she is well versed, the Chamberlain can only wonder what Gwenneth has to say to the King or more importantly, what a King might have to say to her.
 
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Aragorn successfully kept his eyebrows from arching, though when he spoke, he could not keep the incredulity out of his voice.

“You are my Chamberlain’s daughter?”

The man was not what Aragorn had perceived as the fatherly sort, nor did this girl seem at all like him in attitude. Surely a child raised by Sadorannat should have been more taciturn and business-like. Aragorn was thankful she was not, however, or she would have been one more person to escape from.

“I have read this book,” the King said, with an approving smile. “The second volume is much better, in my opinion. Take heed of the legends he writes of. Most of them are true, but forgotten by the Healers of Minas Tirith.”

Since the War of the Ring, many young people had desired to train as Healers or become soldiers. Both were noble professions, and the kingdom would be in ruins without them. It always gladdened Aragorn’s heart to hear of one more Gondorian seeking those careers.

“You’ve begun with a good book, Gwenneth. I would also recommend The Art of Healing by Branwen Brandirien. It is written in the Silven dialect, but I believe there is a translation in the library here. The Elves know more of healing than any other.”

Aragorn observed the crowds arriving from the lower levels. Seeing the common man dressed in his finest and viewing the seventh level for perhaps the first time this year put a renewed smile on his lips. He caught sight of a young boy with black ringlets dodging in between his parents’ legs to catch a glimpse of the full height of the Tower of Ecthelion.

“You were very young when the War of the Ring was won, Gwenneth.” It was not a question, but a statement. “Do you remember it? Or has it passed from your mind like a vague dream?”
 
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Even a King does not know it all, a fact that reveals itself through Aragorn’s surprise to who she is. Her response is only to offer a small, quiet smile and nod of understanding. His doubt, one that so many people often fostered, was expected. Gwenneth had lived a sheltered life growing up and even now barely set foot on any other level but the seventh. A lifestyle that had definitely not been her own choosing either. Sadorannant Marroc was a strict man and even stricter father. He set rules and boundaries, a gilded caged she often called it, that she was simply expected to abide to at all times.

“Yes, My King. Though you might say I bare little more than his name in likeness? But he is a good man and father, we complete each other off nicely I like to think.”

Her smile is charming, a pleasant glow that comes upon her features slowly as a rising sun. Even there, in the shape of her mouth there is no similarity to the Chamberlain’s - so it must be her mother’s smile that she wears.

“My King had studied Hann Tirnion also? It pleases me to hear it and to know the second is even better than the first. I haven’t put it down since I picked it up earlier this morning and doubt very much that I will until its done.”

In sequence, her eyes followed the eb and flow of the King’s subtle glances. Directing her attention towards the crowds also, for a peek at the group full of faces filled with eager anticipation. The Chamberlain was hard to miss, not for his lavished attire or form, but for the stiff stoic expression he wears when all others around him smile.

“Young enough, yes, to not have understood why it was we were fighting but just that we were. Not so young that I could ever truly forget it. Mostly I remember the helplessness I felt, my King. I wanted so badly to be of use then, to do a bit of tending? To boil water even but father would not have it, he was too afraid I’d be hurt. So I stayed with the other ladies and children, telling stories to calm the youngest of us. I understand now though, why Gondor fought. Why we had to fight.”

It showed in her eyes too, a steely sort of blue that isn’t a thing to reckon with or cast even a flicker of doubt towards. A pungent confidence, educated and studious, that is so rarely seen in a young woman of her age. Filled with understanding, pride and prowess for her Kingdom, her people and yes even the man that she stood before – her King.

“Though I suspect there are few better than yourself that remembers it all. As I have the chance, I’ll thank you for that. For all that you did, before you were returned as King and even now. I’m not so green to think any of it easy on you, but you do well My King. You do right by Gondor and the people see it.”
 
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The young lady replied graciously about her father, and Aragorn was glad to hear it. Although he did not consider his Chamberlain a particularly amiable man, he was pleased to hear that, towards his daughter at least, he was the slightest bit pleasant.

“I am glad to hear it, my Lady.”

Flurries of emotions passed over Aragorn’s face while he listened to Gwenneth impart her tale of the Ring War from a younger perspective. Her kind spirit was obvious, and he was certain she would do well in the Houses of Healing. It was her father’s part that troubled him.

Protectiveness from affection Aragorn understood. After all, he had talked with Lord Elrond many times about Arwen. But the city of Minas Tirith was not besieged until the end. On that day, Aragorn could not have faulted any man who kept his daughter safe. But in the months and years preceding that, the notion of withholding aid for personal gain put a frown on his lips.

“Your father did what he thought best, I am sure,” Aragorn managed to say. “Your part in seeing to the children was no small matter, though it may seem so.”

Echoes of words he had once spoken resounded through his head. That had been a time for valor without renown. He was sorry to know it had come to pass here in Minas Tirith, just as he had predicted.

A bittersweet grin tugged at the corner of Aragorn’s mouth, but fell away quickly. Gwenneth was right: few knew better than him the cost of that war. She was thanking the wrong person, however. Aragorn had only played one part, and a smaller one at that.

“There is one who knows better.” His eyes strayed to the distant line of mountains. Mount Doom was quiet now. There was no spit of red from beyond. “Frodo Baggins bore a greater burden than I will ever know. It was only through him that Gondor survived.”
 
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Gwenneth stood for a moment, in her studious nature and watched the Kings curious change of expressions. Each one slow to arrive and lingered long enough to suggest his thoughts but nothing concrete or certain. What she could know for sure was his words on the legendary hobbit. Frodo Baggins had sacrificed so much in his time, had so bravely carried the burden of the ring by himself for so long there was a part of Gwenneth that felt sorry for him. His task had been no easy slight.

“Aye.”

In a single word, the daughter of the Chamberlain agrees whole-heartedly. Frodo’s sacrifice made way for all of mankind’s survival, but still;

“But, my King is it not through you that he is remembered? Survived by? Is it not through you, the Fellowship and most of all his friends that he was strong enough? That he knew he must be strong enough for. That though he journeyed alone, he never truly was. Your majesty suggests my part in the war was not so small, so meaningless and I would suggest that neither was your part in being his friend nor in his ability to succeed.”

A single aniseed curl broke loose from the sweptback mane and curled over her temple and cheek as she looked upon the King. Her heart bled for the lament of the King’s loss and shone through her eyes in form of comfort and understanding. Bright blues spires inviting and cool as a summer’s rain.

Gwenneth found it hard to believe that it was so easy to speak with the King of Gondor. That what she had thought would have been nervous sensations and fidgets, turned comfortable pieces of body language that hinted at the easiness she was feeling. This fact determined without a doubt this King, Aragorn of Gondor, was a good and worthy one. It was this moment that she would swear to herself to serve him as best possible and give him the loyalty he deserved.

Now she smiled, a sunlit grin that stretched out as the rising sun upon the horizon of her features and warmed even their gloomy bit of conversation.

“I’d like to one day visit the Shire where Frodo hailed, to witness for myself the rolling hills of green and the houses neatly tucked inside them. If for no other reason than to honor the memory of the placed he loved.”
 
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“Yes, through us all. Every day we are alive is a gift from Frodo, though he is no longer with us.”

The King turned from the mountains on the eastern border to look down at the girl standing before him again. Her words were pure and honest, but with a touch of youthful innocence. Noble though the sentiments were, Aragorn’s memories of the events were skewed by age and destiny.

“The great philosopher Valarion wrote that, if a man is pure, he has nothing more valuable to give than his life.* That is what all the Fellowship offered to Frodo. I cannot deny your truth. It was no small thing.”

Aragorn could not say everything he thought. It was not prudent, and the courtly nobles would surely balk if they heard their King say it, so he held his tongue. But even as he pondered his own mortality and insignificance, his eyes scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Faramir.

He was glad for a lighter subject to attach to. The War of the Ring was sewn into the fabric of his life, but even on today, the sixth anniversary of victory, Aragorn could not bear to think about those events too deeply.

“The Shire is a marvelous place and Hobbits fascinating creatures. I cannot claim to have been there often. We have a treaty with the Shire Hobbits so that we may use their lands for travel if we do not despoil it. Not many here give much thought to it, but the Shire was invaded during the Ring War as well.”

Saruman’s work in the Shire was a terrible thing, but some good had come of it in the end. Merry and Pippin, “unnatural” as they might be seen by their fellow Hobbits, had saved the Shire, and for that, their adventures would be forgiven. Sam, as well, had proven himself to more well-to-do Hobbits.

“Peregrin Took will come to Gondor from time to time, and Meriadoc Brandybuck to Rohan. Perhaps you might converse while they are in the south. Certainly I will travel to meet them. You will be most welcome to join my retinue, Gwenneth.”




* Quote by Mahatma Gandhi
 
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The Chamberlain stood stone stiff and with cool stoicism captured perfectly upon his features. His heavy stare settled across the way and on the lissome figure of his child. Gwenneth had been in a lingering conversation with the King for some time now and it itched at his patience like a bad rash. She had no right to converse with the King and Eu forsake him, but the Chamberlain had to bite back his disdain over the fact Aragorn would so boldly talk with Sadorannant’s child without his presence or knowledge – afterall Aragorn was still a man. The entire episode chewed at the Chamberlain in all the wrong ways and unable to bare it a moment longer, did he finally break from the crowd and approach the White Tree and King, for himself.

“Truly?” Gwenneth’s voice is more a lilt of finely tuned chords than voice. Excited and filled with eager disbelief and excitement over Aragorn’s offer. “I would be both delighted and honored” accepting the offer completely before pausing and reflecting a sort of hard truth through her features. Her father would not approve of the venture; he never did when such things required Gwenneth to leave Gondor’s seventh level never mind the city walls.

“Though, with all due respect, I must consult with my father for permission first and foremost.”

The chamberlains gait showed no signs of the irrational thoughts that processed through his brain and as a cunning actor might have, Sadorannant approached on que, with esteem respect hovering in his gaze for the King. Indulging a deep, low bow towards Aragorn and a subtle but stern nod towards Gwenneth in greeting.

“Forgive the intrusion, my King, but I’ve been looking for my daughter and I noticed you’ve found her for me.”

Out of respect and simple etiquette, Gwenneth returns her fathers cool greeting with a curtsy and an enthusiastic smile that his own features had not offered. He was her father, despite his harsh appearance and rigid personality. It was something not even Gwenneth could change and had gone her entire life learning to accept and love despite the hardship of it.

“I trust you’ve been on your best behavior, Gwenneth?” Taking a fathers tone towards Gwenneth and giving little more than a quick glance in her direction to watch for her response.
 
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