WARNINGS: none that I know of
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters or places named here, and I receive no money from writing this. Wait, why am I doing this again? ;)
THE LAST HOMELY HOUSE
What has this come to?
I know that it is necessary, though my heart bleeds like the rivers that flow through this valley. My valley. This was my dream, my vision in the dark times of my childhood. As far back as I can remember, I do not remember my first home. I remember dark forests and strange hands, but that was not home. I hoped this would be my last home.
The wind whips my hair around me, and the banners pitch in the darkness. Emblems of war, of high kings of Elves and Men and hopes of peace. This is necessary, this surrender. I lean on the rail of the balcony and look down to the campfires that glitter below me. It is like a second sky, though it makes my blood run far colder. Cold, like the sea that lapped at my feet as I walked along the beaches of another land. Those memories are far away, and I hoped to bury them under the mortar and stone of the Great House of Imladris. But those memories are like the ocean's tide. They recede but for a while before returning in full force.
I escaped from the sea-longing that so dooms our kind, though the cry of the gulls still haunts my distant dreams. I escaped from war and blood and I fled to this little hollow in the mountains with my small band of refugees. This was to be a place of peace, where none were allowed who would speak of war or bloodshed, save in tales sung in front of a warm fire with a glass of wine in hand.
The fires do blaze brightly, but in the forges where the hammers ring out day and night, bringing forth blades and bows and arrows. Weapons of war, the Men say. Good, strong iron; straight-fletched arrows; sharp edges that cleave armor. Good weapons, true blades that are works of art in themselves. So there is beauty still in death. But to my ears the ringing of the forge is a death toll.
I would not do this necessary thing, had it truly been a choice. But who am I to deny my King? A herald to a great king and a greater age, Gil- galad would say if I asked. I do not ask. I accept, as I accepted the armies that wound down the mountain paths, one after another, a long procession of Elves and Men. I saw each grim face as they passed through the gates I raised with my own hand and opened with my heart. Would that I had locked them up and threw the key to the bottom of the river! I do not wish to march to war! To rally troops under fragile banners! To watch as my friends and family fall under the hands of fell creatures!
But these are the thoughts and fears of a single Elf, be he a great lord or a simple scholar. There are thousands below me, laughing in the face of war beside the campfires. There are a thousand voices on the air and thoughts left unspoken.
The armor I wear feels heavy now, weighted by responsibility to my home and my people. I do not wish to see this valley come under the darkness I see on the horizon, so I surrender my home and my hands to fate. I will march to war tomorrow, and I will rally armies under the banners of great and terrible Kings. I will fight for my people and my family and my home. And when I return—if I return—I will ride through the gates and tear them down, and the river will wash the blood from my hands. And I will be home.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters or places named here, and I receive no money from writing this. Wait, why am I doing this again? ;)
THE LAST HOMELY HOUSE
What has this come to?
I know that it is necessary, though my heart bleeds like the rivers that flow through this valley. My valley. This was my dream, my vision in the dark times of my childhood. As far back as I can remember, I do not remember my first home. I remember dark forests and strange hands, but that was not home. I hoped this would be my last home.
The wind whips my hair around me, and the banners pitch in the darkness. Emblems of war, of high kings of Elves and Men and hopes of peace. This is necessary, this surrender. I lean on the rail of the balcony and look down to the campfires that glitter below me. It is like a second sky, though it makes my blood run far colder. Cold, like the sea that lapped at my feet as I walked along the beaches of another land. Those memories are far away, and I hoped to bury them under the mortar and stone of the Great House of Imladris. But those memories are like the ocean's tide. They recede but for a while before returning in full force.
I escaped from the sea-longing that so dooms our kind, though the cry of the gulls still haunts my distant dreams. I escaped from war and blood and I fled to this little hollow in the mountains with my small band of refugees. This was to be a place of peace, where none were allowed who would speak of war or bloodshed, save in tales sung in front of a warm fire with a glass of wine in hand.
The fires do blaze brightly, but in the forges where the hammers ring out day and night, bringing forth blades and bows and arrows. Weapons of war, the Men say. Good, strong iron; straight-fletched arrows; sharp edges that cleave armor. Good weapons, true blades that are works of art in themselves. So there is beauty still in death. But to my ears the ringing of the forge is a death toll.
I would not do this necessary thing, had it truly been a choice. But who am I to deny my King? A herald to a great king and a greater age, Gil- galad would say if I asked. I do not ask. I accept, as I accepted the armies that wound down the mountain paths, one after another, a long procession of Elves and Men. I saw each grim face as they passed through the gates I raised with my own hand and opened with my heart. Would that I had locked them up and threw the key to the bottom of the river! I do not wish to march to war! To rally troops under fragile banners! To watch as my friends and family fall under the hands of fell creatures!
But these are the thoughts and fears of a single Elf, be he a great lord or a simple scholar. There are thousands below me, laughing in the face of war beside the campfires. There are a thousand voices on the air and thoughts left unspoken.
The armor I wear feels heavy now, weighted by responsibility to my home and my people. I do not wish to see this valley come under the darkness I see on the horizon, so I surrender my home and my hands to fate. I will march to war tomorrow, and I will rally armies under the banners of great and terrible Kings. I will fight for my people and my family and my home. And when I return—if I return—I will ride through the gates and tear them down, and the river will wash the blood from my hands. And I will be home.