Well. This story is more overdue than British train, isn't it? Did everyone have a good summer? Mine involved working, sleeping and not much else, hence the really late story. Not to mention I've re-written the bare bones of the plot eight times and I still don't know how it's going to end. Hmm. I've tried a new approach to this story, there's first and third person perspectives plus past and present tenses that I hope aren't confusing, so opinions on this are extremely welcome. Someone asked me to cut out all my swearing, so I'll try not to use profanities (I love that word) anymore. Swearing is like my 4th favourite pastime so I want you to know this is extremely difficult and not fun. Pah.
There are a few questions that I've wanted answering all summer by Americans:
How bad are you at cricket?! My god. It was hilarious. Finally there's a sport I can comprehensively state that England are better at than the U.S.A. Cracking!
When did Usher develop man boobs?
What's with the pre-pubescent singer you're torturing us with? That Jojo chick is like four.
Does American politics involve anything other than negative campaigning? Stop telling me the other guy's an idiot and tell me what you're going to do if you're elected.
If any of you happen to run into a Mr Malcolm Glazer, could you please hit him repeatedly with a shovel while rationally explaining that Manchester United is not for sale? That's not really a question, more of a request…
Anyway, make yourself comfortable, this is gonna be a bumpy ride.
Title: Shadows and Scars
Summary: Severed bonds, shattered trust. Anger, confusion, resentment, terror, loneliness, pain, guilt. Two people struggle to cope after events rip their friendship apart, can there be forgiveness when some scars can never be healed?
Chapter One: Unravelling Memories
Drums. Drums. Drums. All around.
Ear-splitting, hypnotic, never-ending.
Again. Again.
His head swirled uncomfortably.
Thud, thud.
Deafening.
Thud, thud.
Comforting, yet unbearable.
Thud, thud.
Ceaseless.
He was still alive while the drums still echoed in his ears.
The beat quickened.
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
Danger.
Move. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Move.
Open your eyes.
Run.
Electricity, like a bolt of lightning, shooting through his veins, tearing into every limb, a shrill screeching filling his eardrums until they almost burst. His spine arched in agony, his arms and legs flagging on the ground like lead. His mind raced horrendously, his temples burned and eyes throbbed. His pained cry only rang loudly around him, intensifying his suffering, but still he roared for mercy.
And then silence fell, the screams ceased and he collapsed into darkness.
I watch them. From the darkest corners of taverns I watch them. Alone and silent I watch them. Families dining together, laughing and talking. Friends stand near the bar, leaning their arms casually on the counter, their jugs of ale clattering against each other, toasting one another's good fortune and I sit and stare from my solitary table.
It is a voluntary isolation. Men have offered me drinks and ladies a friendly smile or a kind ear but I do not accept them. People quickly grow weary of loners and now perhaps the isolation is no longer voluntary. I have lingered in this place too long, the locals grow in suspicion and I in unease. They know my face, though different from what it was before; I cannot risk detection. I am too close.
The sideward glances and the whispers continue, they continue to think I cannot hear them, and I continue to listen. The hour grows late, guts continue to swell with alcohol, and I have no option but to leave if I want to avoid drawing unwanted attention from a drunk picking a fight. I cannot deny that I am afraid, I am a strong man but I dare not fight. A fight tends to stick in one's mind, for a while at least, and I do not want that.
This is now my home, as the lonely lands I passed through to get here were my home, and the strangers here are as close to family as I have now. I am a loner, a wanderer, whose family and past are nothing but a stubborn wound.
Sweat bubbled on his skin, streaming down his temples, oozing into his matted locks. His head tossed and turned, onto each side of the damp pillows, the clammy sheets clung to his skin uncomfortably. Low moaning escaped his parched lips and his veins bulged and swelled and muscles tensed, his chest rose and fell fast and hard. His fingernails dug into the cotton, leaving little black smears from the dirt ingrained in his pores, until finally his eyes snapped open, white glistening in the darkness. The warmth of the room stung his throat as he inhaled deeply, trying to calm his nerves.
He needed air.
Stumbling down the stairs, his bare feet thudded dully on the oak steps; he fumbled with the bolted door, his hands slick with sweat. With a loud bang, the heavy bolt moved and the door swung open, his full weight upon it, and he slumped to the ground. The stench of stale beer and ale soaked in the black earth invaded his nostrils, and his stomach, already in knots, lurched. His whole body shook, his back shimmered in the moonlight, faded scars darkened with the heat radiating from within. Tears of disbelief and confusion flooded his face, a whimper slipped from his swollen lips. The quiet street loomed above him, the buildings tall and narrow, leaning in over the dirt track road and he wondered if he had ever felt this alone. Breathing deeply, the cold air whistled down his throat, his lungs heaving but still his heart beat so fast it felt nothing more that a vibration in his chest.
He trembled, lip quivering and the anger that had been festering in his heart was replaced with sickening turmoil. Still his breathing refused to settle, and he continued to wheeze and snort frantically. A hand rested on his arched back, startling him into jumping to his feet. He stared at the man suspiciously, his eyes wide and wild, like an animal backed into a corner. The face blinked back at him, familiar and concerned.
"Young master, what is the matter? You look like death just passed through you. Are you ill?" He had a deep voice, as you would expect from someone of his stout build.
The words came to him slowly, distorted, as if he were underwater. "I am well, Butterbur, I am sorry to have woken you." He finally managed to mumble, staggering a few paces back.
Sweat continued to drizzle down his forehead, and his stomach seared with pain. Instinctively he rested his quaking hand across his belly, and immediately felt a hot crimson tide swallowing his fingers, seeping beneath his fingernails and into the cracks of his knuckles.
"Good gracious, you are injured!" The innkeeper spoke as softly as his gruff demeanour allowed, his shaggy brown mop of hair was greying at the sides, and his beard too was littered with flecks of silver. "I would get the closest thing to a healer we have in these parts but I sent him home hours ago nursing a belly full of ale."
"It- I am quite alright, I-I have just over-stretched myself." He murmured. "It is an old woun-" The words caught in his throat and trailed off, gazing down at it aimlessly, watching his clammy skin enveloped by blood, the smell of iron filled his nostrils, swirling in his head until everything went black.
His eyes fluttered open and the bright comforting daylight greeted him. The room slowly drew back into focus and three familiar figures gazed down at him, their elegant faces, lean and pale. His mouth, dry with a foul taste, curled into a relieved smile, a smile that was not returned, and an uneasy silence stifled them.
A sharp pain shot through him and he winced, and it all came rushing back.
"Do not try to move, Aragorn, you are still very weak."
Aragorn. He called him Aragorn. The only other time he had ever called him that was the day he told him his true identity. His name was Estel; at least it was here anyway. He tried to sit up but couldn't and slumped back onto the soft pillow.
"What's going on? Why can I not move?"
There was an uncomfortable silence, he watched his elven brothers look away, one toward the window, the other at his feet.
"It is for your own good."
The remoteness in his voice was what galled him the most. Galled was not the word though; galled is what he would say if he still had any pride. It hurt. It enraged him.
"My own good? How can strapping me to this bed like a prisoner be for my own good?" He spat, rage filling his body.
"For our own good then." He heard a voice say, who he supposed was one of his twin brothers.
"Why am I being held prisoner, what about him? He put me in this bed, he who put this hole in my gut with no remorse. Where is he?"
There was no reply.
His eyes flew open, a sudden pang of fear waking him from a feverish dream. Rising from the bed he lay on, he scanned the room, it was empty and unfamiliar, but he guessed he was still in the inn. For a moment he sat motionless, as if it were safer not to move, and he felt his heart beat in his chest, making his whole head throb uncomfortably. There was a soft glow at the small windows as the last moments of dusk lingered stubbornly, and other than the low embers of the fire, it was the only light in the room. He could hear the raucous laughter of the drinkers downstairs; it comforted him, confirming that he was still in the inn where he had lost consciousness.
Climbing off the bed, his bare feet sunk into the soft fur pelt, his still trembling hands slipped tentatively over his stomach, his fingers rubbed against the coarse but clean bandages wrapped around his torso. He smiled gratefully, yet a nervous twinge stayed within him and he quickly fumbled for his clothes.
"…I tell you, that lad in there is bein' hunted by them elves." A hushed whisper from the corridor stopped him in his tracks.
He moved quickly to the door, leaning in closely to the gap to hear the conversation more clearly.
"Don't be stupid, what would elves be wantin' with 'im?" Another voice rebutted.
"'Cause he's one of them Rangers, folk around here call 'im 'Strider', and they mix with all types, even elves. Why else would they be in the wilds around 'ere?" The voice was the unmistakable rumble of Butterbur, and his words turned Strider's blood cold.
He was known here now. Strider. A strange alias, and another name to add to his growing list. More importantly however, he was being tracked down, and quickly. He was not ready to be found. Before it was out of anger and confusion about his incarceration, now it was because he could not look them in the face. There was too much guilt, too many unanswered questions, too many fractured relationships. It was too big a task for him to take on. He had hurt too many people. Hurt was an understatement. As the memories surfaced each night, as frightening and horrific as they were, he was grateful for them.
And so he left. Waiting for the moon to rise, Strider sat alone at the window, watching in silence as had become his usual practise. The room did not look out onto the main street, but a side alley, giving him a reasonably easy exit out of the window. He left the money owed for the room and the little extra he could afford to thank them, and slipped silently out of the window, scaling easily down the timber clad walls. Pulling his hood over his head, he slinked down the lonely road, into the shadows of the night.
It is the only way. I have thought of nothing else this past week in the wilds and there is no other path to take. I am not ready to face them. I do not want to be in those cells, I have only been in there once and still the blood stains my hands. I deserve to be in there, I still cannot explain my actions, only tell you what they were but I should be rotting in that place. A real man would turn himself in, accept the consequences for his barbaric acts, but I am not a real man, I am still that scared little boy, too afraid to face life.
So here I stand, upon the edge of a cliff, staring down at the scurrying water, wondering whether the memory of me will disappear as quickly as the river gushed. What kind of memory of me will they hold? That snivelling wreck of a boy, the cocky arrogant youth who fell for someone he was so unworthy of, or the savage brute he was now? A wonderful array of choice.
I hope they do not remember me.
The slick smudge of mud and uprooted turf from my boot marks the slip. The remaining grass flattened by my falling body at the edge of the overhang. There are tears in my eyes as I descend, blood spatters and smears on the grey rock and dull green moss. There is a rocky bank at the bottom, only a foot or so wide, but enough for my limp body to smack into with a sickening thud before sliding silently into the cold wash of the Baranduin unconscious or already dead. And on that damp shore, a dark brownish crimson stain threatening to be lost to the river will confirm their fears, and the ring that sets me apart from other men lays among the loose stones, stained red, proof that it was I who did indeed fall and enough to end their search.
That is the plan at least. I climbed carefully down the rock face barefoot, my boots hanging around my shoulders, the route of my plummet carefully mapped in my head, the blood provided by a self inflicted wound. Like I said, there is no other way. I am not ready to die, nor do I want to spend my days being hunted. I need some time to think, away from everyone.
It is a coward's way out, but I am a coward, and it is all I can think to do.
I wander upstream along the narrow bank, my steps lighter than a feather, until I reach a safe crossing point and vanish into the Shire as dusk descends upon my lonely trek.
The sun sat high in the early afternoon sky, hidden behind the hazy blanket of wispy white clouds. The swift breeze whistled around them, sending their long ebony locks fluttering in all directions. Neither noticed as they rode on, silent and preoccupied, faces etched with sadness, but with keen, watchful eyes.
"Do you think it was wise to ride so far ahead of the others? He may still be in that town."
"Estel was spooked, he left the place he was nursed within hours of regaining consciousness, he has no intention of being found and so I think he fled Bree and got as far away as he could." He explained calmly and methodically.
"Elladan, what if he is too injured to travel this quickly?" His twin asked quietly.
The elf turned to meet his brother's worried gaze. "He climbed out of that window and down a wall with ease, I think he is able enough to hold this pace, especially if he is determined to evade us."
"Then why do we not just let him go?" Elrohir spoke softly, and his brother swore he heard a little pleading in his voice.
"Because of what he did, we need to know why-" He fell silent, his eye catching something in the distance.
With a quick gesture, both rode toward it quietly and dismounted about twenty feet away. The river rumbled more loudly with each step they took though they could see nothing of it apart from a clear drop, but both had their eyes fixed on the small campsite ahead. There was no shelter, but the ashes in the small fire clearing were still smouldering slightly, and so had not long been abandoned. Elladan knelt down, noticing something tucked behind a rock.
"It is Estel." The elf said grimly. "I recognise his shirt." He continued, turning to his silent brother.
"I think I know where he went." He murmured shakily. "Elladan…"
Rising to his feet, the bloodied and torn tunic still in his hand, he moved without a sound, his heart thudding nervously until he reached Elrohir, who was sitting on the overgrown grass. He peered down at the skid mark that the other twin was running his slender finger over, and then over the edge, where the dark stain still glared painfully. His stomach lurched, and his hand rested upon the soft head of his brother and pulled him to his thigh comfortingly.
"It might not be him."
"You just said it was."
"I know… we should take a better look before jumping to conclusions." Elladan whispered, and made his way down the side slowly, his elven agility making the task simple enough.
Standing on the bank in an uncomfortable hush, the brothers stared at the smudge of blood for a few moments, unblinking and unable to look away. The sky grew a little darker, the clouds thickening and greying, the wind gaining strength and a chill that made them both shiver sympathetically.
"There's a storm coming." Elrohir said quietly. "We should move on, find him before it hits. Estel will be injured and maybe unconscious-"
"He's dead, brother." The elf cut him off gravely. "No one would have survived this fall, it is over forty feet."
"Estel is strong, he has been in many scrapes and accidents and been fine, this is no different." His voice trembled and suddenly he began to sound like a young boy.
"He landed on hard rock, if that didn't kill him, then the weight of his pack would have dragged him underwater and he will have drown-" He paused, lip quivering, staring down at his feet.
Elrohir shook his head, and stepped forward, submerging his feet into the swelling waters that crashed along the rocks with increasing ferocity as the weather turned. "We cannot just assume that he is dead or even be sure it was he who fell." He hissed, though each word he spoke became more and more unintelligible as his emotions tipped over, and the tears rolled down his fair cheeks. "Estel?" He cried loudly, his voice carried in the wind and echoed around them.
Elladan said nothing, jaw locked solemnly as he tried his hardest not to break down like his sibling. His eyes flittered around their surroundings; there were a few scraggy plants struggling to survive, but it was mainly algae covered stones on a bed of grey and dull green that was the cliff disappearing beneath the river.
"Estel?"
He gazed at one spot for longer than he had the others, where a curious silvery grey glint had caught his eye until, finally, he took a small step and lent over and fingered it tentatively. Palming it, he straightened up and apprehensively opened his shaking hand, and ran his finger over the cold metal; the drying blood clung mockingly to his skin. Without a word, he approached his brother, who still stood in the water shouting into the distance, kissed him softly on the forehead and placed the ring in his hand, before slinking away watery eyed.
This letter reaches you as our home lies in a state of mourning and sorrow. My father feels you should be told of this news, though Elladan and myself were hesitant because of the recent breakdown in relations between you and our young foster brother. I know much anger and hurt remains in your heart toward him, and we will never fully know what happened or why Estel acted the way he did, but I know that he always thought greatly of you.
Perhaps you will be unmoved and feel nothing more than relief at what we have to tell you, but hopefully there is still a part of you that remembers your brotherly bond that had been so strong this past decade. We believe that Estel has perished in a tragic fall. There is little more I can tell you, nor can I bear to continue, my heart is being shattered all over again.
I will write again soon, my friend.
He stared at the parchment silently for a moment, his gaze trailing slowly over the words, written with a trembling hand, smeared with the agonised tears of a grieving sibling. An illiterate man could tell you what was written. Scanning the short message once more, his fair hair stood uneasily on end and his breath caught in his throat. Yet no sadness came over him, shock perhaps, but he would not grieve. He simply wanted rid of the memory, of that shadow that seemed to hang over him.
No more.
The paper crumpled reluctantly in his hands and it drifted to the floor with a soft rustle.
"I care not." He mumbled irritably.
"Dinner is served, my Lord Legolas." An elf announced formally, startling the immortal prince.
"Thank you, I will be along shortly."
To be continued?
It's a bit bitty (great use of vocabulary I know) but they won't be so short and as many in the rest of the story. I would really appreciate some feedback because I'm rather nervous that it's a bit shit…