The Myths are Real

It’s late. My son is on my shoulder and I’m holding The Two Towers with one hand, trying not to drop it.

We’re deep in the chapter where Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli meet the Riders of Rohan. The three of them have been running for days across the open plains, barely sleeping, chasing the Orcs who took Merry and Pippin. They don’t know if their friends are alive. They don’t know if they’ll get there in time. And now a company of armed horsemen has wheeled around and encircled them. Spears lowered. Nowhere to go. Éomer, the Marshal of the Riddermark, demands to know their business. Aragorn introduces himself as Strider.

Éomer insults Galadriel. Gimli won’t let it stand. Éomer tells him he’d take his head if it stood a little higher from the ground. Legolas, without a word, fits an arrow to his bow. Spears tighten around the three of them.

Aragorn steps between them. Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, Elessar, the Elfstone. He draws Andúril, the sword that was broken and reforged. The sword of the kings of men.

Éomer steps back. Tolkien writes that a look of awe crosses his face and he casts down his proud eyes. The legends of old are standing in front of him. The myths are real.

My son shifts against my shoulder. The moon is casting heavy shadows across the walls and the reading light is the only thing on in the house, and something catches in my throat and holds. Not sadness. Something older. The skin on my forearms draws tight. There’s a heat behind my sternum that doesn’t rise to my eyes — it just sits there, pressurizing, like something inside me is trying to stand up straighter.

And then I notice: my son is squeezing me tighter. His head is pressing harder into my shoulder. Not shifting to get comfortable. Pressing in.

He’s feeling it too.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. We just stay there for a second before I turn the page.

I can feel it in his grip.

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