Another ficlet

[elvenpiratelady]

Two new fics in a month? How strange...

Title: The Heirs of Rohan
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: n/a
Summary: Old kings, new heirs, and the future of the Mark.

Warning: Slight sappiness at the end.

Word count: 1457

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Tolkien. I just read Appendix A too often.

AN: This came about when I was reading about the kings of Rohan at tuckborough.net, and it mentioned that the third king lived to see the birth of his great-great-grandson. I don’t think even the Elves managed to top that, at least not any that we know. Aldor was the third king of Rohan, living to 101 years and ruling for 75 of them. Fréa, Fréawine, Goldwine and Déor are his canonical descendants, and were kings of Rohan after him. Faegennes, Beda and Edric are OCs, but fit into the canon without any major suspension of disbelief.

 

 

 

Aldor the Old: He was Brego’s second son. He became known as the Old, since he lived to a great age, and was king for 75 years. In his time the Rohirrim increased, and drove out or subdued the last of the Dunlendish people that lingered east of Isen. Harrowdale and other mountain-valleys were settled. Of the next three kings little is said, for Rohan had peace and prospered in their time.

- Appendix A, ‘The House of Eorl’

 

 

Aldor, grandson of Eorl, third King of the Mark, sat looking out over Rohan, in the morning of a fine autumn day. His eyesight wasn’t as it was in his youth, but he could make out the bright colours outside: blue sky, white mountains, green hills. Except for an occasional traveller on the road and a few white clouds drifting lazily past, there was no movement: no orcs in the mountains, no reports of villages attacked and burned. When he was young, he would have been immediately suspicious, and would have taken a patrol out anyway, but he was an old man now, and he left that sort of thing to his son and grandson. Today was a lull in the storm, a brief respite, a chance to lick wounds and sharpen swords against tomorrow. A day of rest.

 

A day of rest. A day of peace. Well, he’d have enough of both, soon.

 

Aldor the Old was what the people were calling him now – he was old, but not deaf, not yet – in respect, perhaps a little in fear, as if he’d found eternal youth while riding through the tall grass of the Westfold. Yet men in Gondor, he’d heard, could easily expect to see their hundredth year if they weren’t killed in their youth… perhaps that would be true also of the men of the Mark, if a day ever came when there were no more orcs left in Mordor. Long-lived as he was, Aldor doubted that he or his son or even his grandson would live to see it.

 

The thing was that he’d never expected to live this long… as a boy, he’d never imagined that he would reach a hundred years, always knowing, knowing that he would die at the end of a sword, or an axe, or an arrow, or, if he survived them, the quiet fading into old age and eventually death. He’d lived and ruled as best he could, but he was no Gondorian, and life was always eventually a deadly thing.

 

And yet here he was, still king when other men of his generation were twenty years dead. He hadn’t tried to escape death, he’d just avoided it when the opportunity arose and continued to live, much to his surprise, and probably his son’s and grandson’s too, although nothing had come out of it. Fréa was a highly honourable man, and had never given any indication of being impatient for the crown. But a man had to learn to make his own way in life without his father standing over him, Aldor reflected, and it would be hard to begin at seventy-four.

 

A polite cough brought him back to his thoughts, and alerted him to the young woman standing in front of him. She was holding a baby, but she was too young for it to be hers, wasn’t she? Aldor had given up on guessing people’s ages. Yet she seemed familiar. He knew that he had seen her before, even if he had forgotten her name. But this was the first time she’d brought a baby… and he remembered, in a sudden rush of thoughts, why she was here.

 

He smiled an old, wrinkled smile, and motioned for her to sit, noticing how gently she lowered herself onto the seat, carefully adjusting the arm that supported the baby’s head. ‘That’s him, then? The new heir?’

 

‘Yes, sire.’ The heir to whom, Aldor wasn’t quite sure, but it didn’t matter, really. There was a son to take up the kingship of the Mark, and that was all that mattered. ‘Who is he? Fréawine’s son?’

 

‘Fréawine’s grandson, sire.’ And that makes me his great-great-grandfather, Aldor thought. How quickly the generations come…

 

‘And who are you?’ Far too rough, he cursed himself, but the girl only smiled patiently. She’s done this before, he realised glumly. A failing memory was a very annoying thing.

 

‘I am Faegennes, daughter of Fréawine, sire. Your great-granddaughter,’ she added quietly.

 

Faegennes, Aldor mused. He had known another woman called Faegennes, had she been his mother? Or perhaps his grandmother. Had Fréawine named her because of that? Or had he thought of it himself? New ideas tended to repeat themselves, he knew. ‘That would make you his aunt, then.’

 

Faegennes smiled at the baby. ‘Yes, sire.’

 

‘What is his name?’

 

‘Déor, sire.’

 

‘What about his mother? Is she… is everything…’

 

‘She is well, sire,’ Faegennes assured him. ‘She recovered quickly from the birth. But he was crying for most of the night, and so she’s very tired, so I said I’d look after him.’

 

‘That was kind of you.’

 

‘It was nothing, sire,’ she replied modestly, ‘I wasn’t busy, and I love children.’

 

‘That is well.’ She is your great-granddaughter, his mind chided him, and you know nothing about her except her name, which you’ll soon forget again. He didn’t deliberately forget names, but three daughters and a son made for a lot of grandchildren, and this girl was his grandson’s child. And she must have a brother, he realised, if she was Déor’s aunt, and he had no idea who the man might be. That was a sobering though. Did he walk past his descendants without having any idea of who they were? Worse, did they know he didn’t recognise them?

 

That would not happen here, at least, he decided. ‘How old are you, Faegennes? Do you have any brothers, any sisters?’

 

A surprised look appeared on her face, to be replaced just as quickly by a thoughtful expression. ‘I am fifteen years old, sire. I have an older brother, Goldwine. He’s Déor’s father. And an older sister, Beda. She’s married to the lord of the Eastfold.’

 

‘And what about you, Faegennes? You are not married yet?’

 

‘No, sire, not yet,’ she said with a smile. ‘But I’m to wed Lord Edric next year. His grandfather has lands near Snowbourn.’

 

‘Do you love him?’

 

Faegennes hesitated. ‘He is a good man,’ she said at last.

 

The match hadn’t been her idea, Aldor surmised. Did she have a secret sweetheart, or was she too young to have ever experienced love? For a moment, he considered summoning Fréawine and asking him about it… but perhaps he would be meddling. Ha, meddling in his own family’s affairs! But Fréawine was a wise man, and really, it wasn’t anything to do with him…

 

That was the thing about living for so long, he thought sourly. The world became irrelevant, and yet you lived on…

 

‘May I hold him?’ he asked, suddenly aware that the silence had gone on for too long.

 

‘Of course, sire.’ Faegennes stood, and carefully shifted Déor into his arms. The movement woke the infant, but he did not start crying. Aldor looked down into eyes that were still the milky blue of a newborn. Fréa had had eyes like that, he thought, but then all children did at that age. He had held his son in a room like this, and his grandson. Had he ever held his great-grandson? He couldn’t remember. But the warm, solid weight was the same, and the fuzz of golden hair. He had held his son like this, seventy-four years ago…

 

And one day, if he was lucky, Déor would hold his own grandson, just as Aldor was doing now, and know that the family would continue on…

 

And suddenly, everything made more sense. He had been worried recently, wondering what would become of the Mark. And now he knew. Fréa would be king when he died, and then Fréawine, and then Goldwine, and Déor. The Mark would be safe for four generations, at least. It would be Déor’s task to make it safe for more after that. He no longer needed to worry.

 

‘Thank you, Déor,’ he said to the baby. ‘And thank you, Faegannes,’ he added. Faegennes started, but was well-trained enough to murmur, ‘It is nothing, sire.’

 

‘No,’ Aldor said quietly, ‘it is not nothing.’ He was not sure if she heard him, though, because Déor had began to wriggle and whimper. He allowed her to take the baby again. ‘I’m sorry, sire, but I think he wants his mother…’

 

‘Go on, then. Give her my best wishes.’ She nodded, dipped a quick bow, and crossed to the door. ‘Faegennes?’ he called.

 

The girl – the young woman, he corrected himself, Fréawine’s daughter – paused in the doorway. ‘Yes, sire?’

 

‘Your marriage next year, I hope…’ he paused. ‘I hope it brings you happiness.’

 

She smiled then, a real smile which did not quite hide her uncertainty, absent-mindedly stroking Déor’s head to quieten him. ‘I hope so too, sire,’ she replied, and slipped out the door, leaving an old king to look out over the Mark with new memories.