Title: A Lesson Learnt
Author: [livejournal.com profile] hithluin
Rating: G
Summary A night in a tavern serves as an important lesson taught by a younger brother to his older sibling
Disclaimer: All not true, belongs to the Prof.
Notes: Written in a spurt of inspiration from [livejournal.com profile] seleneheart's fic To Absent Friends which is posted in the new community [livejournal.com profile] the_five_armies which I am proud to have joined. Though I was mightily tempted to write about people moping about Boromir too, I shall save that for another time. This fic, in honour of the new community :)



As he entered in through the doorway, he wasn't sure what to think of the place. The tables were all rough and battered and the colour of the furniture had all darkened to a muddy brown. The smell of the roast and the ale was pleasant enough, but the smoke from various pipes and weeds seemed to cling to the walls of the tavern like a flea to a dog.

"So what do you think of it, big brother?" the younger man asked, gesturing towards the patrons who were most blatantly enjoying themselves.

"It looks like the sort of places you frequent," the older man replied tactfully, "not my sort of place though. Why on the fifth circle, little brother?"

"Oh stop being a stuck up brat, brother! I know you secretly visit these sort of places in your own free time to be friendly with a few serving wenches and to have a few pints too--"

"Anarion!" Isildur cried out in astonishment, trying to hush up his little brother by creating an arm-lock around his throat. It was a good thing he was slightly taller than Anarion.

"Isildur, let me go," Anarion said, struggling to be free of his brother's arm, but still with a cheeky grin on his face. Reluctantly, Isildur released his little brother, but not without ruffling his hair a little. Isildur was highly conscious of public opinion, and for any commoner in Minas Anor to see the two rulers of Gondor rough-housing around in a tavern would be highly bad form.

---

"May I get you anything, my Lords?" the barkeeper asked, coming to personally serve Anarion and Isildur after having led them to a table that was suitably dark and hidden enough in a corner for Isildur's tastes.

"Two pints for me and my brother, and remember what I said about how to address me!" Anarion said, giving the barkeeper a huge grin.

"Right, of course, Anarion. I just thought Lor--, I mean, your brother might be offended," the barkeeper hastily apologised.

"For tonight, we're both merely commoners, my friend, " Anarion assured him. "Is Ioreth in today?"

"That she is, would you like me to call her for you?"

"Maybe later. First, the two pints if you don't mind?"

"Right away, sir."

And with that, the barkeeper trotted off back to get their pints. Isildur, still with a questioning look on his face now raised his eyebrow in a rather bizarre expression.

"And what was that about, Anar?" His tone was neither rebuking nor disciplinary though Anarion could sense the disapproval in it.

"Don't you ever miss Andúnië? Númenor? Don't you ever miss being common, Isil?"

"We were never "common", little brother. Of course I miss Númenor, but even there, we were always the sons of our father, the Lord of Andúnië. Why do you ask this, Anar?" Isildur replied, his confusion increasingly worked up by the strange question.

"I like it here, Isil. I like to be like any other man in this tavern, or else, to pretend to be like one, just for one night. It gets so tiring having the responsibility of the lives of thousands and thousands of men and women, and being Lord of a city named after me, and of a grand and glittering capital atop the waters of the Anduin. Every once in a while I just feel like throwing those responsiblities away and enjoying myself here. Sometimes, I want men to know me as Anarion and not as the Lord of Minas Anor."

"Isn't that a little dangerous, Anar? I can sympathise with you, little brother, but we still have enemies. You can't trust the dark Númenoreans that sometimes travel up from the Harad regions, or some of these lesser men who live their incredibly short lives, totally ignorant of what is right or wrong, good or evil."

Their conversation paused as a barmaid delivered their tankards, flashed a bit of cleavage, got a familiar pat from Anarion on her bottom, and then went off on her way again.

"Isil, you are far too serious! I'll grant that all you've just said is incredibly true, but what's life without a little risk, eh? There is such a thing as being too selfless. I love the men I govern in this land, but I'm not willing to give them my life. I can have as much fun as I want in my own city, in any guise I wish to choose."

"But Anar, you can't for--"

"Isil, for once in your life, shut up and listen to me. Stop thinking about affairs of state. Promise me that you will do that, and that you will enjoy this night with me as two drunken commoners, and tomorrow morning, you may lecture me as much as you'd like."

Isildur paused for thought, and rubbed the rim of his tankard with his thumb as he cast a suspicious eye around the tavern. He could sense no aura of evil or ill-intent coming from anyone in the area. In fact, everyone around him seemed to be enjoying themselves and in high spirits. It was still too early in the evening for anyone to be drunk, but already, laughter spilled across the room as easily as the ale was passed around from the bar to the customers.

"Are you sure about this?" Isildur asked again, tempted to agree to whatever Anarion had just said despite the warnings going off in his brain.

"There are some things you should never give away, Isil, trust me," Anarion replied, before bursting out with laughter.

---

"Thank you, Anar. That was a lesson I think I needed," Isildur confessed to his little brother the next morning. Though still hungover, the concoction that Anarion had introduced to him as a cure was working miracles.

"I told you to trust me," Anarion replied with a grin.

"What was the name of that tavern again?"

"The Five Armies. And next time you go, remember her name is Ioreth," Anarion replied, knowing exactly what his brother's next question was going to be.

"Cheeky little brat," Isildur muttured under his breath.

"I have it on good evidence that father was once a cheeky brat himself, so it is only reasonable that I would be one too," Anarion quipped back, having heard what Isildur had said.

Isildur rolled his eyes. "I'm going to have something to eat, I'll see you later down in the meeting room," Isildur said and waved a goodbye to Anarion, as he strolled towards the kitchens for his lunch. Though Isildur's memories of the night were admittedly a little jumbled and distorted from too much drink, there was always one thing he remembered clearly, and its message was seared into his memory until his dying day.

There were simply some things in life that you just can't give away.



Referred to the Silmarillion to update my memories but most of the details taken from my memory which is falliable and therefore, probably wrong. Apologies in advance

Date: 2004-10-26 12:50 pm (UTC)From: [personal profile] seleneheart
seleneheart: (celtic warrior)
*adores*

The other set of fated brothers! I can easily see Anarion being the one to prod Isildur in to kicking up his heels and having a little common fun.

Date: 2004-10-26 04:31 pm (UTC)From: [identity profile] shebit.livejournal.com
Nice. Despite the comment at the top about Silm, I still saw them so clearly as two other brothers of Gondor - you echoed them so well.

That Anarion will cause trouble - not as much as his brother is destined for, though.

Date: 2004-10-26 06:34 pm (UTC)From: [identity profile] shebit.livejournal.com
The Ring is the one thing he really should have given up.

Ooh, nice picture of Aragorn on your icon. Is that in Rohan when he notices the trail of the hobbits leading away from the orc pile?

Date: 2004-10-27 02:34 am (UTC)From: [identity profile] shebit.livejournal.com
The brothers are welcome back to the tavern for a sequel any time.

Ah, yes, awful stew and difficult questions about his age. I can see it now. Although, if memory serves, he actually lied. I believe that it was his birthday only a few days before they rode out from Edoras, so he was actually a year older than he said. I'm such a canonphile.

Date: 2004-10-27 06:26 am (UTC)From: [identity profile] shebit.livejournal.com
The Battle of the Hornburg was on the night of the 3rd, so they were travelling on the 2nd and 3rd - he'd litteraly turned 88 in the last couple of days, but told her he was 87. Maybe his birthday slipped his mind in all the confusion. Or PJ's *g*

Date: 2004-10-27 10:45 am (UTC)From: [identity profile] shebit.livejournal.com
I'm a very forgiving fan, though. I know and love canon, but I still love everything PJ did, too - I know people who despise the films just for the changes to the story.

Aragorn strikes me as the kind of person who, no matter what was going on, would still know exactly what day it was.

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