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Seven Deadly Drabbles, or The Fosterling

Chapter 1: The Fosterling

by curiouswombat

First Encounter

‘Lust’, thought Elladan. The Dúnedain spoke often of lust – a child with a lusty cry, a man with a lust for life or a lusty appetite…

Currently the small, black-haired scrap of humanity, son of his many times cousin Arathorn, was displaying clear signs of all three, Elladan decided with amusement.

All too soon this babe would be a youth - and then he would come to Imladris, following his forefathers; hopefully he might also show a lust for learning.

‘Although,’ Elladan thought wryly, ‘if his predecessors were any indication, he is equally likely to show a healthy lust for ellyth…”

A Lesson Learnt at Last

“Wrath, in its purest form, presents with self-destructiveness, violence, and hate that may go on for centuries.”

Erestor’s voice, as he instructed his young pupil, made it clear that wrath was to be avoided or, at the very least, controlled.

His former students, passing by, paused. Elrohir looked at his twin, saying nothing, yet his glance spoke volumes.

“It was justifiable wrath…” Elladan said, firmly. “And yet, I believe Erestor is right. Had we not learnt to think, these last years, of life outside our wrath we would have been destroyed by it.”

Another pause. “We are more effective now…”

Rite of Passage

He watched himself in the mirror as he brushed his hair; not quite as long, yet, as his brothers’ – and he wished it less inclined to wave.

He twisted hair back from his face into the familiar braid at his back, but there was plenty still for the ceremony…

A little later he stood between his father and his mentor; a field of faces turned towards them.

Adar and Glorfindel took loose hair from either side and twisted and tied in rhythm.

He thought his heart would burst with pride as Adar spoke; “Congratulations Estel. Now you are a warrior!"

"A son is a son 'till he takes a wife..."

It was said that Lord Elrond had a daughter who had spent the past years at the home of her grandparents.

Gilraen watched Estel grow. The time approached when he must learn who he was, become Aragorn son of Arathorn, and take up his role amongst the Dúnedain.

Now she envied Lord Elrond his daughter; perhaps, had Arathorn lived, she would have had her own daughters. For she knew that her son would soon be lost to her; she would see him only rarely.

But daughters? Ah, they were a comfort to their parents for the whole of their lives…

Full to the Brim

In the months in which he grew from Estel to Aragorn he became aware of just how much beauty surrounded him, throughout his childhood, in Imladris.

But now he knew it was only the setting for the greatest jewel of all.

Just as, in childhood, he had sneaked up to the table to stuff himself on sweetmeats, now he gorged himself on her perfume, devoured every soft word she said, could not satiate himself no matter how many sideways glances at her he stole. Arwen was all he wanted, everything he wanted, and thoughts of her filled him beyond bearing.

A Greed of the Heart

He had never been avaricious, he thought, had never sought more than his rightful portion of anything. He had desired neither the ring of power Gil-galad had thrust into his hands nor the One Ring offered him by Frodo. He had eschewed, from choice, all titles safe that of ‘Master’.

Then Elrond corrected himself; once in his life he had been greedy for more and, now, he felt that same greed.

Then he had wanted more time with his brother; now he was greedy for any extra hour, any extra minute, in which to keep his daughter still beside him.

Missing Breakfast

He saw the soft grey fingers of first light beckoning in the day; but stayed abed. He saw the sky turn to the blue of a blackbird’s egg but, un-rangerlike, had pulled the bedding up, not down.

Now the sky was a clear bright blue and he felt the warmth of the sun. Yet he was loath to rise… at least from bed.

In such proximity to his new Queen, curled into his side, watching him, Aragorn was aware of a very different kind of rising. It would not be sloth that kept them from the breakfast table this morn…

The End.


Disclaimer: The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only, and all rights remain with the estate of JRR Tolkien.