Author's Note:
Disclaimer: Do not own LOTR.
Dedicated To: The people of war, whose tears we cannot wipe away, whose grief we can never fathom.
"The voices of those in trouble are often the least heard."
Can you hear us?
We who have neither the power nor the wealth to make our voices known, nor do we have the strength to intimidate others to give us their attention.
We are dressed in rags compared to your riches, our joys simply lying in our families which are like wealth to us. Our joys lie in the lands we toil and farm, taking in the fruits and crops were blessed with.
But the fires have come and with it have come the enemy. The nighttime sky is full of screams of women as they run in fear from the enemies who will cause them harm. The children are crying, till their voices are reduced to whimpers or abruptly cut off when a cruel blade would swing for their throats.
Our crops are gone, our livelihood destroyed, the mothers are begging for food and the men are helpless. The children ask for their playmates, too innocent to comprehend death. Little did we know it was only the beginning.
Can you hear us?
We who have done you no harm; we who do not know how to wield a bow or a sword. And yet we are passed by as if we are seeds upon the wind, insignificant, as long as your bread is on your table and your bed is warm by the fire and your roof is upon your head as a shelter.
My wife was killed, did you know? The orcs had come and took her away in a raid, until we found her speared against a tree. The farmer lost his dear little boy to the enemy, who looked for a plaything to torture. They found him later, his flesh ripped apart and a look of fear frozen in his eyes. Our grief knew no bounds that day, and the entire town mourned.
Can you hear us?
Our screams echo in the night but our voices are now stolen by the wind, leading it away from where you dwell. The ground has become wet with our tears and with the blood of our families and still the ground is treacherous; it is soaked but it dries quickly, soon leaving no evidence as the days pass us by.
Can you hear us?
She lost her husband today, to the wound he was not supposed to get. He was only a blacksmith's helper. He was protecting her from the enemy who came to raid their town and they intended to get her, with child she may be. He was no soldier but they cut him down and left her to suffer the death of her beloved. She died soon after, you know, and the child went with her, for no aid could come to keep the babe alive… there was no healer in the town.
Can you hear us?
Our eyes still swim with tears of sons and daughters we have lost. The young depart from this world and yet the old linger. And yet when we look upon your face, we see eyes that are dry, caught in the wonders of a life you have and we do not. Power and wealth, it seems, have deceit mixed in their splendor and glory.
Can you hear us?
You who call yourselves peacekeepers and people's guardians! The orcs have come and gone and they come again, and the cycle continues. The agony knows no bounds and we sleep in the night in fear of what the dawn brings.
Were we born to be killed?
"The old often have words that cannot be spoken, and few understand."
He presented a picture that surpassed their wildest dreams.
He was garbed in clothed of black and red, with polished armor over it. His sword hung by his side, one hand resting upon his thigh and the other holding the reins leisurely. His eyes were grey and kind, his beard neatly trimmed and his hair combed back with a crown resting upon his head. He looked younger than his age, which was a trait of the Dunedain. He was handsome; it was sure, for his age only added to his beauty. It became him, and there was wisdom upon his face.
They gathered hesitantly around the coming procession of the King, and his guards. His Steward rode beside him. Him they knew; Faramir of Gondor, Faramir the Kind. He came time to time, dressed in rough Ranger's garb to their town when his missions and errands brought him there. Their eyes, for now, however, were trained upon their new King.
Just as they were curious of the King, the King was curious of him. The King stopped, reining in his horse, causing the others behind him stop as well. The Steward pushed his horse forward, giving the King a questioning look, but the royal paid him no heed. His eyes searched the crowd and it seemed to the people that he looked grimmer and sadder as he looked on. The town was one of the many that suffered the worst, with few people and large, newly dug graves in the graveyard. The roads were dirty, the houses were feebly reconstructed, meant to provide more of a flimsy shelter than is a home that would last years. The children wore no shoes and their clothes were nearly in rags.
An old man stepped in front of the crowd, bent with age. His beard was stark white and bushy, his frame now thin from not only his age but from lack of adequate food. His hair was few, his shiny scalp visible in the sunlight. His grey eyes were no longer keen as they once were, and now he squinted, incapable of looking too far.
The King looked at the old man for a long while before dismounting and tossing the reins to his Steward, who caught them cleanly. He marched forward until he and the old man stood face to face. For a long while the old man and the King looked at one another. They needed to speak no words, for their gaze was speaking enough. One held pain and grief of experiences come by war and the other sad but understanding. The crowd looked at awe at the queer pair, not understanding what was happening, and at last the King reached forward and took the old, wrinkled and gnarled hands into his callused, war-weary and travel-worn ones.
"I hear you." The King said quietly. To that the old man fell to his knees and wept.
Author's Note:
I honestly have nothing to say, except my goal was to touch that human heart inside all of us. If I have not, then I have failed.