Seeds of the White Tree

Chapter 12 - Coming of Age

OoOoO

Eldarion wasn't sure which he was more excited by; that Legolas and Gimli had proposed such an outing in celebration of his coming-of-age birthday, or that his mother and father had actually agreed to it. When their 'uncles' had brought the suggestion to Aragorn and Arwen there had been bemused smiles and raised eyebrows all around. Eldarion could have reached out and grabbed a handful of the envy rolling off of Túrien in waves. When at last Aragorn had given his permission, a whoop of glee had come dangerously close to escaping Eldarion's chest.

It wasn't that he'd never had a drink before; far from it in fact. In the past though, a glass of wine at the end of a banquet, stealthily poured behind his mother's obliging back or a half-choked gulp of mead with Elboron and the squires behind the stables had been about the extent of it. Alcohol wasn't necessarily forbidden in their household. It was just that their parents viewed drink as an occasional indulgence for those wise enough to keep their heads around it, rather than a recreational pursuit. That was why, at five-and-twenty years of age and now by the laws of Gondor, a man, Eldarion had never once in his life been drunk before. That was also why Legolas and Gimli explicitly asking permission to take him and his friends out for a, to quote the dwarf directly, "proper sousing" was so exciting.

Which brought them to here and now, on their way down to the fourth level of Minas Tirith; well entrenched into the streets and districts frequented by the everyday folk of the White City. To Elboron's vocal surprise and Elfwine's protesting, they had passed over several establishments in the upper levels. Eldarion had expected they would surely stop at The Lone Beacon, a wine-shop of refinement and beauty marked by a large brazier atop its portico and fragrant gardens filled with mingling nobility quaffing goblets of southern vineyards. Legolas hadn't so much as slowed his long, fluid gait as they passed. Nor did the elf linger at the doorway of The Cresting Wave, a fine lounge where minstrels and their wealthy patrons were inclined to gather, listening to stringed instruments and sipping bright liqueurs.

Rather than stopping at any of the high class parlors boasted by the upper levels, Legolas seemed content to let Gimli lead the way further and further down into the city. The dwarf's pace was slow compared to the rest of them, and slower even now that he leant heavily on a cane of pale ash wood. That Gimli was walking at all after his injuries at the Sea of Rhûn was a blessing, a blessing which everyone was silently grateful for. It had been almost a month since that fateful day though, and the mood was high amongst the group trailing behind their chaperones.

"I'm not sure what I'm looking forward to most," Elfwine was saying, already taking long pulls at the hip flask of malt liquor he had brought. "Watching you two fall into your cups for the first time, or getting there myself." His flask gave an ominously empty sounding slosh and the young Third Marshal wrinkled his nose. "The grog you Gondorians make isn't any fit match for the golden mead overflowing the cups in Edoras, but it's been too long and I'll happily take what I can get at this point."

Eldarion laughed. "I still call it unfair that you've been drinking freely with your father and the other Riders since your twentieth. Then again, that's Rohan in general for you."

"Got something smart to say about my homeland, princeling?"

As always, Elboron was at the ready with a diplomatic interruption. "We just admire the liberal ways of the horselords is all, cousin. After all, they made you Third Marshal, did they not?"

Mischief glinted flintily in the lamplight reflected by Elfwine's dark green eyes. "Oho! Remind me to rouse you extra early in the morn, Elboron. Your sharp wit needs a little dulling methinks!"