Title: Crushed Petals
Rating: PG-13
Method to Her Madness: Were my friend and I the only people who burst into wild applause when Denethor, son of Ecthelion, fell flaming from the top of Minas Tirith? Yes? No? Maybe so? Pfff, no matter. After seeing Return of the King twice (hopefully more *squeal*) I was attacked by a plot bunny from out of no where in the theater (quite embarrassing really). Therefore.. Here she be...my newest fanfic. Scene to be recalled would be when sorry bastard, I mean Denethor, has Faramir go to retake Osgiliath. As the men walk down the streets, the women toss flowers to the road, yet one man actually takes the flowers from one into his hand. That's the extra I'm working with. Ever wonder what stories there were? What lives were behind those spelled out for us? Here's that man's story…short as it may be, but I hope I captured…something o.O…I took many liberties with this…yet I don't really own any of it. *sigh* How depressing. Hope it's enjoyable 'least… Moreso I hope I didn't shame Tolkien's writing by my writing..-.-. Blah. Well, on with the show..er, fic…..
It's hard to understand why we are going out to our deaths. Did we so poorly at our jobs we were to be punished? Or was it simply that Denethor, if not Faramir himself, have lost their minds? Such were the thoughts of Reynod, son of Rehgad, as Faramir, Captain of Gondor, led his men out of the White City. Their goal was to regain Osgiliath. With this in mind it seemed only obvious that the later idea was the most sensible. Only someone out of their mind would send two score, at most three score, men out to regain a city overrun by thousands of orcs.
Riding down the stone streets, the echoes of their mounts hooves ringing in his ears, Reynod lets his gaze leave his captain, willing himself not to bother with why. It was always a silly question, anyhow. That's what he always told his children. His children, two boys and a little girl. That little girl was grown now(they were all grown now), and he had given her away to the man she loved two years ago now. Showing his age truly now, was he not? Long past his boyhood, married and having children of his own, let alone four grandchildren, the new lights of his life.
But even those lights are dim now. The looming shadow of the darkest possible evil looms over their beloved city. Their beloved city, let down by those men trusted to protect it. It was a bitter thought, and he chastises himself slightly for it, asking himself if he could do better in their places. But, he was right to think such things, in his position. For the time at least. And to think, should he return, and should this darkness pass, he would have a fifth grandchild to adore, his daughter's first. There was always hope was there not? Was there not? he asks himself and wishes he could say the answer he wants to say. Yet looking out to Osgiliath, there was hardly any encouragement to that hope.
Besides the murmur of the crowd, soft, almost grieving, another voice reaches Reynod's ears. The White Wizard's. He is not the White Wizard, of course, but was otherwise called Mithrandir, or so he had heard. Never once had he held conversation with the man, if man you could call him, but yet he could agree at once he was a good hearted fellow. A quick movement to his right causes him to take his gaze from the desolate view of the slowly opening gates. He turns his eyes to find his wife. His lovely wife, who time had done no ill, in his eyes at least. He could see in her eyes an understanding, vague but there, and a terrible sadness he wished he could take away as soon as he caught glimpse of it. She leaned out to hand him something, and with a somewhat reluctant hand, reached out to take it.
Simbelmynë. A small white flower, common in Rohan that covers the mounds of those fallen royals of the house of Eorl. It was uncommon for those of Gondor and Rohan to marry, yet that was the farthest thing from his mind when he met Ewyllen. She had agreed to live in Minas Tirith with him, for some reason or another Reynod would never fully understand, yet would always miss her home with a dull ache. He had never ceased to be astounded by her ideas and what could be called philosophy, and the simbelmynë and it's inferred meanings was only one of many.
She had always told him that she didn't understand why death was always a time of despair and grief. Of course, upon first hearing this Reynod had clearly thought her mad, but on hearing her explanation, he saw plainly what he should have a while ago. Sadness of course followed death, it was only natural, but to think it was an end was something brought on by other people over time. There had to be something else, and, maybe, that person's death was the beginning of a much better existence. And was therefore something to be mourned and celebrated. Ironically she had much the same view on marriage. It was only fitting then, that she chose the simbelmynë as their flower at their wedding. A beautiful yet simple flower, which held so much in it's meaning, it was hardly just a flower at times.
Reynod met Ellewyn's eyes and forced up a smile, for her at least, and pulled the small bundle of precious flowers to him. He could never guess where she had gotten them, but he could guess what they meant. Whatever happened out there, after all was said and done, the next morning would be a new beginning. For everyone.
The gates of the citadel opened and across the fields of Pelennor, a ghost of dulling silver white before an onslaught of dark sky, stood Osgiliath. The earth thrummed with the company's mount's hoofbeats, carrying them ever close to their end. They all knew, they all accepted, and finally, at least Reynod understood, why. His children, his grandchildren, their precious city, his wife, the simbelmynë…those were what they were racing to death for. Some good may yet come of this, what it would be they would never know, but they were riding so that those behind them might be given time, should they retake the city. Hopeless, and sent by a surely maddening Steward, but still echoing their captains cry and rally to the city.
Reynod's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, and the delicate white flowers set between the two were crushed, sending small white petals to the dying earth beneath them. And Reynod's voice lifted with his fellow men, just as the arrows came raining down.
Final Note: Hmmm kinda lengthy…Not really all I wanted methinks..o.O But then again I wrote this half asleep 12-1 ish in the morning...Might work on it some more and reupload it…It should be fair enough to post...hope ye enjoyed...r/r please! ^^