Cats'Tales

“So you desire to wed my daughter?” The grizzled Ranger eyed Gilavir suspiciously. “Why?”

“She is fair as the sunrise, sweeter than honey, lovelier than-”

“I have heard on good authority that you desired a wife for the sole purpose of knitting your socks!”

 Gilavir flushed. “I did once, but that was before I met your Inzilwen.”

“What if I were to tell you that her knitting skills were sadly lacking and she could not make socks if her life depended on it?”

“I should still wish to wed her.”

“You may have her then. In truth she knits well!”

Deep in thought, Aragorn pondered a knotty problem concerning affairs of state. His fidgety fingers felt in his pocket and grasped at his pipe. He took it out and looked at it longingly.

“Estel!” Arwen cried accusingly, appearing from around a corner. “I thought you had quit that nasty habit.”

“I have,” said Aragorn. “It was just a momentary lapse. He flushed like a child caught planning some mischief.

“Why so coy?” Arwen demanded crossly. “I know you want to light it. I will ensure you are not tempted again.” She seized the pipe and cast it into the fire.

Deep in thought, Aragorn pondered a knotty problem concerning affairs of state. His fidgety fingers felt in his pocket and grasped at his pipe. He took it out and looked at it longingly.

“Estel!” Arwen cried accusingly, appearing from around a corner. “I thought you had quit that nasty habit.”

“I have,” said Aragorn. “It was just a momentary lapse. He flushed like a child caught planning some mischief.

“Why so coy?” Arwen demanded crossly. “I know you want to light it. I will ensure you are not tempted again.” She seized the pipe and cast it into the fire.

He should have been granted the errand. It was his dream! Faramir groaned in frustration and ran his hands through his dark hair. To be fair, Boromir had dreamed the same dream, but only after Faramir had recounted it to his brother. Maybe Boromir had sensed his thoughts as they had slept alongside each other on the eve of the battle. Alternatively, had he talked in his sleep and caused his brother to dream?

Why had his father decided to send Boromir? His brother could less easily be spared. Faramir had questioned his father but received no answers. He could guess them, though. Denethor did not trust him. He knew the old lore as well as his father did.

Many swords had been broken in countless battles against the enemy as well as in kinstrife. Only one broken sword was deemed worthy of remembrance, though, Narsil, the sword of Elendil that had been shattered beneath him. His son, Isildur had pulled the broken sword from beneath his father’s body and cut the thing of which we do not speak, from the Dark Lord’s hand. Mithrandir had told him the tale.

Could it be then that some heir of Elendil’s yet lived and breathed?

Faramir thought of other dreams that he had dreamed; of the White Tree, alive and blossoming, as fair as Nimloth of old. Beside the tree had stood a man, tall and mighty as Elendil himself, wearing a crown and bearing a sceptre. Faramir had knelt to pay him homage and the King had smiled.

Months had passed, though, and there was no news of Boromir. Had some mishap befallen him? Surely he would sense if Boromir had been slain? Or what if an even worse fate had befallen him? He was alive but taken by the enemy?

He should have been granted the errand. It was his dream! Faramir groaned in frustration and ran his hands through his dark hair. To be fair, Boromir had dreamed the same dream, but only after Faramir had recounted it to his brother. Maybe Boromir had sensed his thoughts as they had slept alongside each other on the eve of the battle. Alternatively, had he talked in his sleep and caused his brother to dream?

Why had his father decided to send Boromir? His brother could less easily be spared. Faramir had questioned his father but received no answers. He could guess them, though. Denethor did not trust him. He knew the old lore as well as his father did.

Many swords had been broken in countless battles against the enemy as well as in kinstrife. Only one broken sword was deemed worthy of remembrance, though, Narsil, the sword of Elendil that had been shattered beneath him. His son, Isildur had pulled the broken sword from beneath his father’s body and cut the thing of which we do not speak, from the Dark Lord’s hand. Mithrandir had told him the tale.

Could it be then that some heir of Elendil’s yet lived and breathed?

Faramir thought of other dreams that he had dreamed; of the White Tree, alive and blossoming, as fair as Nimloth of old. Beside the tree had stood a man, tall and mighty as Elendil himself, wearing a crown and bearing a sceptre. Faramir had knelt to pay him homage and the King had smiled.

Months had passed, though, and there was no news of Boromir. Had some mishap befallen him? Surely he would sense if Boromir had been slain? Or what if an even worse fate had befallen him? He was alive but taken by the enemy?

“I do not understand why you are so keen on this “Dead Poets Society,” said Éowyn. “You should concentrate on living poets. You are a fine poet yourself, who can write poetry of your own, rather than merely study the words of men long dead.”

“Always so practical, my Éowyn!” Faramir kissed her. “Even though you’re such a strong woman, the best laid plans are your open hands!”

“There you go making up poems again,” said Éowyn. “It just proves what I said.”

“Your words are wise,” said Faramir. “I will suggest that each member of the society write a new poem and read it to the others at the next meeting we hold.”

“What shall the poem be about?” asked Éowyn.

 “Nimloth, of which our White Tree is a scion,” said Faramir. “Or maybe about the dream Boromir and I had telling us to seek for the sword that was broken.

“Trust you to even write new poems on old lore!” said Éowyn.

“What would you have me write then?” Faramir questioned.

 “Why not write one about a poisoner, who killed all the poets of old? Or maybe the poets are still alive but taken prisoner by the enemy?”

My dearest mother,

The Sons of Elrond are standing here beside me waiting while I pen you a few brief lines.

We are in good health and have been made most welcome in our refuge, but it is not home. I miss you so much as well as father, and Inzilbeth. Has Halbarad grown? I miss my friends too, and my heart is heavy with grief for my husband.

I can at least hope that one day I will see you all again, but not within the circles of the world will I ever behold my husband again! I had truly grown to love him. We shall not see his like again.

Estel is my solace and my pride and joy. One must have a mind of winter not to love him and smile at the things he does and says. He is the sweetest, most affectionate child who charms everyone he meets. He rarely cries or frets for his old life. Our host has provided him with a pony and he loves all animals, especially puppies and kittens. This spring he was much taken with the lambs too and was troubled that he could not bring them indoors.

It troubles me that Estel will have little chance of making friends of his own age. I play with him and make myself smile even when my heart is breaking. I have my child and he is my life and my heart’s joy. I think often on your words about his future and hope your farsight proves true.

I cannot say more, dearest mother, lest unfriendly eyes should chance upon this letter and threaten Estel’s safety. The sons of Elrond have promised to bring your reply when they are able.

I think of you every day, dearest mother,

Your loving daughter.