A Walk Down Memory Lane
He stood just beyond the end of the cobblestone road. The middle aged man had a leather tunic, covered partially by the gray cloak he wore. He wore simple leather pants, and worn leather boots. At his side rested an old leather scabbard, with a dirty sword hilt protruding from its mouth. The man's face was older, with wise, kind eyes looking off into the distance. His shoulder-length brown hair was unkempt and tangled, and his short beard was just beginning to show gray. Over his head was a gray hood, which gave him the appearance of a simple traveler.
The wide cobblestone road went on for only about eighty feet before it passed below a tall arch. A gray, broken stone wall surrounded the archway. A small sign hung lopsidedly from the bricks above the path. Only one word was written on it. Osgiliath.
The man passed under the arch, without even a passing glance at the singular word. He knew where he was. Memory made sure of that. In twenty years, much had happened, yet in this ruined city nothing had changed. As he passed crumbled stone houses, fallen bridges, and toppled towers, memories of the past seemed to seep through the very stones beneath his feet and come to life.
A once bustling city, Osgiliath was a great place of trade, with merchants' stores on every corner and easy access to customers of the northern and southern territories of Middle-earth through Anduin, the Great River, which flowed through the center of the city. Now a dark, sad current swept through the canal, as if the waters had knowledge of what had transpired in this very city twenty years previously.
As he took slow, melancholy steps over the bridge crossing the river, he stopped and looked down into the waters. Reflected back towards him was a young man, clothed in a tanned leather tunic, with darker leather pants and boots. Around his shoulders were the ends of a gray cloak, held together by a silver leaf. On his hip sat a shining leather scabbard, holding a brilliant, sharp sword. His arms were down by his sides, bearing leather bracers and gloves. But the face was still one of grief, of one who had lost something valuable long ago, and still dealt with the ghosts of his past.
He turned away, and continued walking. It had been so long since he had seen that man; he thought that he no longer remembered him. But it seemed that he hadn't. He shook his head. It was too long ago to worry about, too far in the past to deal with.
As he crossed the bridge, he began to see the cause for all this destruction. Broken spears, rusted swords, and pieces of armor could be seen in the road, against walls, and on buildings. Seeing all of these brought up many memories. Some, memories of courage, determination and victory. Others, and many more, memories of fear, hopelessness, and loss. "Such is the way of war," he whispered.
He heard a loud crunch and metal break beneath his feet. He took a step back and bent down. He picked up the metal and held it in his hands for a few moments. It was a helmet, nothing special. Its design was very simple, just two pieces of metal welded together down the middle to give the top a crested look. A single sheet of metal stuck out the back, to act as a headdress. But that wasn't what interested him. The charcoal black imprint of a hand over the forehead held his attention. These creatures of darkness, the Uruk'hai, had overrun this place long ago, and their dark stain still held in this part of the world.
The hand was very similar to another one, one dealt with long ago that was kept locked up in a tower far to the north and west, guarded by great giants, with skin as tough as bark, eyes old as trees, and wise as Wizards. The Hand was white, and long ago meant peace and protection, but turned into the symbol of death and destruction. The White Hand of Saruman.
The White Hand brought many memories to the aged warrior's mind, memories of a fortress north in the Eastfold Anórien, where he had faced many of these monsters bearing the White Hand. Memories of an old King fighting alongside him. Memories of Elves and Men fighting together. Memories of victory, and horror.
He dropped the headpiece and stood up. Memories of darkness were of no good to him. He was about to start forward again when he saw something shine against the dull background of the ruined street. He walked over, stooped low, and pushed away the rubble covering the item. It was a sword, still sharp and shining. Only a thin film of dust covered the blade. Grasping the blade, he stood and swung it in the air as an expert swordsman swings to test a blade's balance. It felt good in his hands. As he studied it, he noticed a small golden symbol on the cross-guard. It was a view from the side of a small golden flower in bloom. The symbol of a Knight of Gondor.
He set the sword down, flat upon the ground. He felt a deep sense of sadness and loss in seeing a symbol of such honor tossed among rubble. He grabbed a small stone, and set it beside the sword. Soon, more stones came to join it.
Not long after, a small cairn had been made. Holding a larger stone in his lap, and a nail in his hand, he sighed. He began to beat the nail into the stone, carving words into the rock. He finished the epitaph and laid the headstone in its rightful place. Written upon it were the simple words, A soldier of Gondor, who died fighting.
For a while he sat there, thinking of the many other graves he had seen, the other men who had died needlessly. Died by the thousands. Most he never knew personally, but a few he knew very well. The tomb in Edoras and within it the corpse of Théoden, King of Rohan, was one of these, along with the grave within the beautiful Caverns of Helm's Deep, where Gloin's son lies.
Most painful of all was the River Anduin itself, where the previous heir of Gondor was slain by Orcs. It was the place where he was separated from both the Ring-bearer and his greatest companion, who left the Company to join his ancestors in the stars. A tear slowly tracked down his face in honor of Boromir, whose heart had always been for what was best for his country.
But in remembering those who had died to protect hope, he did not forget those who had lived to see it come. Éomer, Captain of the Rohirrim, still rode abroad, defending the peace Gondor had brought to Middle-earth. Gandalf the White still lent knowledge to the likes of Men where it was needed. Samwise Gamgee was living happily, making many visits from his home to meet his friends abroad the world. And Frodo, dear Frodo, was across the sea with the Elves, happily living in the Undying Lands with his uncle Bilbo.
Rising to his feet, and determination on his brow, he went back the way he came. He may not be able to do anything for the dead, but the living were another matter entirely. He ran over the bridge, and if he had looked into the water he would have seen the same young man running, but dressed in steel armor rather than leather clothes. A red cape swirled behind him, and upon his head a silver crown rested. Gone was the grief and loss, replaced with determination and courage. He raced down the destroyed streets, leaving behind the memories of sadness and death. He passed under the archway at the entrance of the city and began to slow himself down.
He went on for only a little more and stopped. He had reached the end of the road. Looking up, he saw in the distance a great white city in a mountainside, brilliant and beautiful. The distance between him and the city was all a flat plain, filled with recently planted crops for the new season. Things were all right, though not quite the same.
He again strode forwards, and smiled. A horse was grazing ahead of him, a beautiful white stallion, saddled, and ready to ride. He whistled, and it looked up and trotted over towards him. It gave a neigh, and he patted its head. He mounted the horse and turned it back towards Osgiliath, and breathed deeply.
Finally, he drew a breath and whispered aloud, "I will not let our past decide our future. There is work to be done." He turned his horse around, and added, "and cities to rebuild." He tugged on the reign's and the horse began a steady trot towards the city. It wasn't long before he looked back, and for a moment, he thought his eyes deceived him. A ray of light came through the clouded sky and struck the city with a peaceful light. The man smiled.
Turning forward again, he continued his journey to the city. And Aragorn, son of Arathorn, King of Gondor, was never seen in Osgiliath again.