B2MeM 2011, Day Thirty-Homecoming, Part Two
Day 30: Grey Havens
Today's Challenge:
"You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right."
--Maya Angelou
Write a story or poem, or create a piece of art on the theme of leaving or returning home.
My answer is:
Imrahil pulled the hood of his cloak closer about his face and heard the crackle of ice upon it. He sighed. The lights of Dol Amroth showed but dimly through the rain and sleet and there were only two miles to go. It was well after dark. He’d made a decision to press on at the ten mile mark, though there was a decent inn on the highway there. The sense of urgency that had driven him since receiving Elphir’s and Andrahar’s and Amrothos’ letters had not ceased. He and his escort had made good time on this journey despite the thoroughly wretched weather and he had conceived of a profound desire to sleep in his own bed this night.
“It’s good to be back, isn’t it, sir?” Esteven asked, trotting at his right hand.
“It certainly is,” he responded, realizing with a sudden shock that he’d not seen Dol Amroth since riding to Minas Tirith for the siege. He’d seen Lorien and Rohan and a host of other places, but not home. And this wasn’t the homecoming he’d envisaged, sneaking back into the city in the dead of night like some sort of thief. No, he’d wanted it in daylight, where he could see his city and his people and they could see him. And he hadn’t wanted it for some time yet. He was still not sure of his heart or his loins where Hethlin was concerned.
But what was one to do when one’s oldest son wrote a letter that said You are needed, the political situation demands it, and one’s sworn brother wrote a letter saying I’ve been slapping your lady-love around and I nearly got your whole family killed and by the way, I grabbed up one of Boromir’s bastards on my way home and one’s youngest son wrote a letter saying It was actually a very interesting poison and would have killed us instantly and relatively painlessly with lots of incomprehensible gibberish you didn’t understand about that, only to finish with You need to come home, they’ve all gone mad here?
What one did was go to the King and the Steward and beg leave to go, despite the fact that one was still needed in Minas Tirith. Having heard the details about the pirate attack they’d been understanding, agreeing that it was a delicate matter and best handled by Imrahil, whom the Haradrim knew well. He’d not told Aragorn or Faramir about the boy-he wanted to see the lad for himself before raising hopes on that account. And he’d not told either of them about Andrahar either-it was Dol Amroth business and he was conflicted himself on that account. It seemed he’d set his friend up for failure, by not speaking up when Aragorn insisted that Hethlin go to Dol Amroth in the first place and then by abandoning Andrahar to train her alone because of his inability to control his loins or feelings. We are what our childhood makes us and Andrahar is still a child of Harad, where women simply don’t ever fight. And he has had to wrestle with that all alone, while still grieving for Boromir. Once again, I’ve done him a disservice.
And was it grief for Boromir that had caused Andrahar to fasten upon this lad, wishful thinking creating a connection where none existed? That was the most troubling thing about the whole matter, though it seemed that no true harm had been done, there being no declaration to the boy or anyone else yet. But there was the potential for great harm to the lad. If Andrahar chose to adopt him regardless, then well and good. The lad could do no better than Andra for a father. But if his regard for the lad lessened if the connection to Boromir was disproved, what then? The boy was at a sensitive age and needed careful handling.
If he proved in fact to be Boromir’s son, that brought its own set of problems, but they were joyous ones and ones Imrahil was only too willing to solve. We must not overburden the lad with our expectations and I must see about some sort of portion for him.
The sleet stopped suddenly and the wind shifted southwest. A faint drizzle misted the escort instead, welcome relief by comparison. Esteven looked at his liege.
“I think it just got warmer!”
Imrahil grinned. “Of course. I’m home.”
They arrived at the gates of Dol Amroth, darkly gleaming in the light of the sputtering torches, but a short time later. Esteven rode forward.
“Open for the Lord of Belfalas, Prince Imrahil the Fair!” he called out. A hubbub broke out among the guards on the gate.
“You will be punished for that ‘the Fair’ business, just so you know,” the Prince muttered to his captain when he returned to the escort. “I hate that and you know it.” Esteven grinned back at him.
“But you’re pretty and you’re just to boot, so it suits you, my lord!” he protested.
“I’m telling Andra on you.”
“Ouch!”
“Ouch indeed. There will be much ouch in your future.”
The gates creaked open slowly. The gate-guard was there to meet them as they rode in.
“Sergeant Brethil,” Imrahil greeted the commander. “How do you, sir?”
“Feel like the day’s dawned already, now you’re here, my lord. Welcome home!”
“Thank you. How is that lovely wife of yours?”
“Expecting another, my lord.”
Imrahil blinked. “What is that, number six?”
“Seven, my lord,” Brethil said with pardonable pride.
“Good man! And good lady too, I should say!” Chuckles ran around the guard. Imrahil fished in his purse for some coin and leaned down to hand it to the man.
“For the name-day feast.”
Brethil saluted. “Thank you, my lord.”
“How are the roads?”
“A bit slick in the steeper parts, my lord. You might need to dismount in places. They’re sanding now, but they’ve not got them all done yet. The docks road is the best.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“My pleasure, my lord.”
The escort moved off and the gate closed behind them. Brethil gestured to two of his men.
“Go to the Chief Constable and give him my compliments,” he told the first, “and you-turn out those off-duty laggards of ours in the tavern,” he said to the second. “Get the word out, quick and quiet. The Prince is home and that man doesn’t deserve to come home to no welcome!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Imrahil was no fool. When he was met with a cheering crowd at the upper end of the docks district, he knew just how it had happened.
“I should take that money back from Brethil,” he muttered under his breath. Esteven heard and laughed. But Imrahil was touched as well. It was a nasty night and those who waited for him could just as well have stayed inside their warm taverns and homes.
Making the best of things, he threw back his hood and slowed his escort to a crawl, to better greet his people. “Imrahil! Imrahil! Imrahil!” the chant arose, from sailors and soldiers and merchants, from whores and housewives. Lights were kindled in the houses all along the road he traveled, the light seeming to go before him as he rode to the castle. The throng swelled as folk from other streets got the word and joined the crowd. Though there were no flowers at this time of year, women waved ribbons and scarves from the upper windows and there were torches and lanterns a-plenty. It was as warm and festive a scene as could be imagined for a cold, rainy, winter’s night.
The Prince leaned down from his horse to take hands, to greet and once, to take up a fretful baby at it‘s mother’s behest. The weariness of the ride had left him. An actor told me once that he fed off the crowd and so I have found it to be as well. A Prince is succored or scorned by his people. There was no scorn to be found here this night and a very great deal of love.
At the gates of the castle he turned Caerith around to address the crowd. He raised his hand and all fell silent.
“Since I left you, I have been to places too terrible to speak of and places lovely beyond imagining. I have met the foulest and fairest of beings. But I have never found a place I love more than this one or any people better than those I rule. Thank you for your lovely welcome! Go home now, and get warm! The next decent day we have, if it should ever come,” and there was scattered laughter from the crowd at this, for truly the winter had been one of the worst in recent memory, “there will be a feast day, on me!” Cheers arose again. “My seneschal will be posting my court schedule within the next two days.” Imrahil raised his hand once more and once again, silence fell.
“I am fortunate that I was one of the ones lucky enough to come home. Valar bless those who were not, and keep them close. Thank you again, and a good night to you!”
Another cheer arose and then, laughing and singing, the crowd began to disperse. Imrahil and the escort passed through the arch and then there were suddenly hostlers to take Caerith and Mariel with a hot brandy posset and his sons to embrace. In next to no time, he was seated in a blissfully hot bath with a hot meal to hand and soon after that , was dry and warm in his own bed, the bed he’d once shared with Nimrien and hoped one day to share with another. He looked about at all his favorite books and things, just as he had left them a world ago, and sighed in contentment. There was but one fly in the ointment.
“Where is Andra?” he had asked Elphir.
“He’s with the boy, at his house,” had come the response.
“Send him to me in the morning, alone, when I wake.”
“Yes, Father.”
Today's Challenge:
"You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right."
--Maya Angelou
Write a story or poem, or create a piece of art on the theme of leaving or returning home.
My answer is:
Imrahil pulled the hood of his cloak closer about his face and heard the crackle of ice upon it. He sighed. The lights of Dol Amroth showed but dimly through the rain and sleet and there were only two miles to go. It was well after dark. He’d made a decision to press on at the ten mile mark, though there was a decent inn on the highway there. The sense of urgency that had driven him since receiving Elphir’s and Andrahar’s and Amrothos’ letters had not ceased. He and his escort had made good time on this journey despite the thoroughly wretched weather and he had conceived of a profound desire to sleep in his own bed this night.
“It’s good to be back, isn’t it, sir?” Esteven asked, trotting at his right hand.
“It certainly is,” he responded, realizing with a sudden shock that he’d not seen Dol Amroth since riding to Minas Tirith for the siege. He’d seen Lorien and Rohan and a host of other places, but not home. And this wasn’t the homecoming he’d envisaged, sneaking back into the city in the dead of night like some sort of thief. No, he’d wanted it in daylight, where he could see his city and his people and they could see him. And he hadn’t wanted it for some time yet. He was still not sure of his heart or his loins where Hethlin was concerned.
But what was one to do when one’s oldest son wrote a letter that said You are needed, the political situation demands it, and one’s sworn brother wrote a letter saying I’ve been slapping your lady-love around and I nearly got your whole family killed and by the way, I grabbed up one of Boromir’s bastards on my way home and one’s youngest son wrote a letter saying It was actually a very interesting poison and would have killed us instantly and relatively painlessly with lots of incomprehensible gibberish you didn’t understand about that, only to finish with You need to come home, they’ve all gone mad here?
What one did was go to the King and the Steward and beg leave to go, despite the fact that one was still needed in Minas Tirith. Having heard the details about the pirate attack they’d been understanding, agreeing that it was a delicate matter and best handled by Imrahil, whom the Haradrim knew well. He’d not told Aragorn or Faramir about the boy-he wanted to see the lad for himself before raising hopes on that account. And he’d not told either of them about Andrahar either-it was Dol Amroth business and he was conflicted himself on that account. It seemed he’d set his friend up for failure, by not speaking up when Aragorn insisted that Hethlin go to Dol Amroth in the first place and then by abandoning Andrahar to train her alone because of his inability to control his loins or feelings. We are what our childhood makes us and Andrahar is still a child of Harad, where women simply don’t ever fight. And he has had to wrestle with that all alone, while still grieving for Boromir. Once again, I’ve done him a disservice.
And was it grief for Boromir that had caused Andrahar to fasten upon this lad, wishful thinking creating a connection where none existed? That was the most troubling thing about the whole matter, though it seemed that no true harm had been done, there being no declaration to the boy or anyone else yet. But there was the potential for great harm to the lad. If Andrahar chose to adopt him regardless, then well and good. The lad could do no better than Andra for a father. But if his regard for the lad lessened if the connection to Boromir was disproved, what then? The boy was at a sensitive age and needed careful handling.
If he proved in fact to be Boromir’s son, that brought its own set of problems, but they were joyous ones and ones Imrahil was only too willing to solve. We must not overburden the lad with our expectations and I must see about some sort of portion for him.
The sleet stopped suddenly and the wind shifted southwest. A faint drizzle misted the escort instead, welcome relief by comparison. Esteven looked at his liege.
“I think it just got warmer!”
Imrahil grinned. “Of course. I’m home.”
They arrived at the gates of Dol Amroth, darkly gleaming in the light of the sputtering torches, but a short time later. Esteven rode forward.
“Open for the Lord of Belfalas, Prince Imrahil the Fair!” he called out. A hubbub broke out among the guards on the gate.
“You will be punished for that ‘the Fair’ business, just so you know,” the Prince muttered to his captain when he returned to the escort. “I hate that and you know it.” Esteven grinned back at him.
“But you’re pretty and you’re just to boot, so it suits you, my lord!” he protested.
“I’m telling Andra on you.”
“Ouch!”
“Ouch indeed. There will be much ouch in your future.”
The gates creaked open slowly. The gate-guard was there to meet them as they rode in.
“Sergeant Brethil,” Imrahil greeted the commander. “How do you, sir?”
“Feel like the day’s dawned already, now you’re here, my lord. Welcome home!”
“Thank you. How is that lovely wife of yours?”
“Expecting another, my lord.”
Imrahil blinked. “What is that, number six?”
“Seven, my lord,” Brethil said with pardonable pride.
“Good man! And good lady too, I should say!” Chuckles ran around the guard. Imrahil fished in his purse for some coin and leaned down to hand it to the man.
“For the name-day feast.”
Brethil saluted. “Thank you, my lord.”
“How are the roads?”
“A bit slick in the steeper parts, my lord. You might need to dismount in places. They’re sanding now, but they’ve not got them all done yet. The docks road is the best.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“My pleasure, my lord.”
The escort moved off and the gate closed behind them. Brethil gestured to two of his men.
“Go to the Chief Constable and give him my compliments,” he told the first, “and you-turn out those off-duty laggards of ours in the tavern,” he said to the second. “Get the word out, quick and quiet. The Prince is home and that man doesn’t deserve to come home to no welcome!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Imrahil was no fool. When he was met with a cheering crowd at the upper end of the docks district, he knew just how it had happened.
“I should take that money back from Brethil,” he muttered under his breath. Esteven heard and laughed. But Imrahil was touched as well. It was a nasty night and those who waited for him could just as well have stayed inside their warm taverns and homes.
Making the best of things, he threw back his hood and slowed his escort to a crawl, to better greet his people. “Imrahil! Imrahil! Imrahil!” the chant arose, from sailors and soldiers and merchants, from whores and housewives. Lights were kindled in the houses all along the road he traveled, the light seeming to go before him as he rode to the castle. The throng swelled as folk from other streets got the word and joined the crowd. Though there were no flowers at this time of year, women waved ribbons and scarves from the upper windows and there were torches and lanterns a-plenty. It was as warm and festive a scene as could be imagined for a cold, rainy, winter’s night.
The Prince leaned down from his horse to take hands, to greet and once, to take up a fretful baby at it‘s mother’s behest. The weariness of the ride had left him. An actor told me once that he fed off the crowd and so I have found it to be as well. A Prince is succored or scorned by his people. There was no scorn to be found here this night and a very great deal of love.
At the gates of the castle he turned Caerith around to address the crowd. He raised his hand and all fell silent.
“Since I left you, I have been to places too terrible to speak of and places lovely beyond imagining. I have met the foulest and fairest of beings. But I have never found a place I love more than this one or any people better than those I rule. Thank you for your lovely welcome! Go home now, and get warm! The next decent day we have, if it should ever come,” and there was scattered laughter from the crowd at this, for truly the winter had been one of the worst in recent memory, “there will be a feast day, on me!” Cheers arose again. “My seneschal will be posting my court schedule within the next two days.” Imrahil raised his hand once more and once again, silence fell.
“I am fortunate that I was one of the ones lucky enough to come home. Valar bless those who were not, and keep them close. Thank you again, and a good night to you!”
Another cheer arose and then, laughing and singing, the crowd began to disperse. Imrahil and the escort passed through the arch and then there were suddenly hostlers to take Caerith and Mariel with a hot brandy posset and his sons to embrace. In next to no time, he was seated in a blissfully hot bath with a hot meal to hand and soon after that , was dry and warm in his own bed, the bed he’d once shared with Nimrien and hoped one day to share with another. He looked about at all his favorite books and things, just as he had left them a world ago, and sighed in contentment. There was but one fly in the ointment.
“Where is Andra?” he had asked Elphir.
“He’s with the boy, at his house,” had come the response.
“Send him to me in the morning, alone, when I wake.”
“Yes, Father.”