Disclaimer::Wakabe Writing Firm doesn't own Lord of the Rings

A/N: Isuzu has run off with our writer, but luckily, I was able to grab this from her before she was chained to her desk with the newest chapter of Rules. Hopefully, our little writer will be able to escape soon. Wish us luck.- Damon (Banshee Secretary, Wakabe Writing Firm)

Death Dare Not Part

This is the end.

A screaming comes through the skies. The light of angry red flashes across the heavens. The wind rips into the earth below, tearing up all that dares to defy its might. Violence and destruction take hold of the land, leaving none in its path untouched by its cruel hands. There is a howling, a growling, a groaning, a moaning. There is no peace here. There is no love. There is only violence and hate so raw that not even this grandiose display of pure power and fury can show the extent of it wrath, the far-reaching consequences of those in a land east of here, where death has claimed many, and those left alive are faced with an inevitable doom.

This is the beginning.

There is no one left in that world of darkness, no one that dares to survey the land that was once their home. Better for them all to pretend to be dead, to be at peace, than to be in a land that can offer them nothing more. Better to close their eyes and sleep and dream of days gone by, of a life untouched by the evil of that battle, by the damning actions of a king that should have let go of a cursed treasure taken from his enemy. It was better for them all to pretend that this was all a dream, that there was nothing left, that if they stayed still long enough, could ignore the pain of their wounds and the suffering of their stomachs, that they could join their brethren in an eternal slumber that was not yet ready for them.

This is life after the end, when all seems lost.

But they do eventually rise again, shaking off the dirt and dust of fires and ashes and death and decay. They know that they cannot stay here, that this land is forsaken, even if only until it no longer brings them the pain of who lie buried beneath them, if indeed they are buried at all. Half heartily, they rummage through the wreckage, packed what they could and left the rest to rot, hoping that when they returned, if they returned, that there would be no trace of what once was there. They could not stay, when it would do no good for anyone, when it would make the sacrifices of brothers and fathers and uncles and husbands and sons be in vain, because those that survived them decided to join them before their time. Because though for some, life no longer held enough meaning to continue, that they would leave to pass out of these lands, and escape the heavy burden time and surviving those that died and should have lived.

This is the growth of new life, small, fragile, but defiant of all odds, ignoring the call of extinction and destruction and death without rebirth.

They now are in a new land, a new home, far from where they once lived, away from the reminders of battles and death and tragedy and loss. These are children that survived in the safety of their mother's wombs as their fathers died. They don't understand why it is that their mothers sometimes cry at night. They don't know why it is that they carry names that speak of loss and love. They don't know why it is that their uncles tell them stories about their fathers that they have never met. All they know is that something happened to papa, and now he isn't here, so mama is sad. They don't like the hurt they see in their mother's eyes, and they want to take it all away. But they can't, so they just do their best to give them a reason to smile, a reason to laugh, even if it means that they have to endure lots of kisses and cuddles and fretting. They just want to help, even if it just means being there.

These are generations gone by, years without a king, a division between the lands, and an estrangement between kin and kingdoms.

How long they had gone without a king was anyone's guess. Few bothered to remember, and those who did had their reasons for such. They eventually returned to the land of their ancestors, and some of them were able to keep the past behind them, as they tried to focus upon the needs of today, knowing that just to get to the next minute, they had to force themselves to breathe through the pain of being in a place that was once full of life and happiness and beloveds that were gone now, forever.

These are childhoods filled with monsters that don't come from under the bed, and saviors that they are taught to fear.

They all know of the Rangers of the North, the Dunedain that wander the lands, with their hoods up, and eyes like hawks, but more powerful, that pierce the soul and mind in a single glance, leaving many feeling unbalanced, swaying slightly in the wake of a roaring wind passing through their bodies and minds. It makes people unsettled, to see these haunted, silent figures as they walk through their towns, never staying very long, always moving, always wandering, blending into the shadows, appearing and disappearing. It makes everyone unsettled, because it is in this that they are confronted with just how vulnerable they truly are, how much they do not know, and how much danger they have placed themselves in, simply by living.

This is death, which is not the end.

This is life, which never truly starts.

The passing of years and seasons, as life goes on and old wounds finally scar over, never gone, but no longer so painful. It is said that time heals all wounds, but for those that have survived their loved ones, they know this not to be true. All time does is make one accustomed to the pain, forces the bearer to learn to live with it or die from it. But in doing so, they give the future a hope, a chance. So they keep going, even when they do not wish to. All those who had been alive during those dark days were gone, their children gone as well. There was no one left alive that could speak of the horrors and terrors of that time that was mortal. Those that were immortal tended to keep themselves from the mortals, having known betrayal, or sorrow, or heartbreak, or pain from the Edain.

These are small moments of perfection and paradise.

The fire roaring, a family gathered around, laughter filling the air. A boy getting his first sword lesson, learning of honor and courage and his proud history. A mother holding her newborn child for the first time. A wedding long anticipated between lovers. Reunions, special moments. Things lost in time, small things that really mattered, because they led up to the creation of a person.

These are the tragedies and anguish of life.

Orcs that kill and plunder and destroy in the dark of night. Funerals for so many that died too young. Mothers and sisters and wives grieving, singing their laments to those that have gone. This is life after the light of your life has left, where breathing hurts and sleep never offers peace, only visions of death and destruction, and a love that is no more. Captured and tortured beings, who, if saved, will never recover from the blow dealt to their souls in those dark places, where not even love can truly reach them.

This is the blossoming of something yet unnamed, foreign but familiar: something called Hope.

Small and fragile moments, where it is sparked. It is so delicate, that even the slightest cold of despair could kill it. But still it survives, stubborn and determined to continue, to grow, to blossom into something more, something beautiful and wonderful: the fulfillment of Hope. They all know that it can be fulfilled. They know that there is more to life than this ever encroaching darkness and death that spreads from the east like a disease, destroying all in its path and leaving behind a wake of devastation and destruction and death. So they cling to hope, cling to it desperately, in the dark of the night, and the sound of screams in the mountains roll down, sending children into silent terrors they dare not give voice to, least they call down those monsters into their homes. They cling to hope when they send their boys off to learn the art of war and husbands into a battle that never ends. They cling to hope when they see the refugees come in from villages not far from them, where their brothers lived, and died. They cling to hope, because at times, it is all they have besides the never ending grief and sorrow and anger that comes from living in the days of growing darkness.

This is trial and error, filled with pain and grief and hard lessons that leave everyone questioning the the world, wondering where the gods are, in their darkest hours, and why they are so alone, even among the throngs of people and life.

Scrapped knees and small cuts, tended to by the loving hands of a mother. A broken arm from climbing up a tree and then plummeting to the ground. A deep sword wound to the arm, blood running hot and fast from the open cut. Broken ribs from falling off a horse. A hand severed from the rest of the body. An arrow to the chest, inches from the heart. The fallen bodies of brothers in arms and a family made from steel and sweat and blood oaths dead, with but two survivors, who would forever bear within their minds the burning memories of their fall, the screams, and the silence.

This is love leaving, where the unknown and what-ifs come forth with a vengeance, and are almost enough to destroy.

Letting go and staying behind is in itself a special hell. There is no strength more under appreciated, more sublime and true, than the strength it takes a mother to let go of her son to a way of life that will end in death. There is no purer love, than a wife who is willing to relinquish her hold on her husband as he kisses her one last time before jumping upon his horse, and leaving her behind. There are no words to describe the courage it takes for a daughter to wrap her small arms around her father's neck one last time, before smiling and pretending like she is still innocent to the ways of the world, to the death that she knows will be dogging her father's every step while he is away defending her. There are not enough words to describe what it is like to be left behind, isolated in a crowd of others, feeling torn because a part of your heart is out there, and might not ever come back.

This is a returning home, even if only in body and not soul, or solely in spirit and not body.

If they are able to return home under their own power, the joy that sweeps through them is overwhelming, profound, and soul deep. It does not know any bounds as it takes hold of their hearts and minds, a feeling of being whole again and happy. But if they are borne upon the backs of their brothers, if their eyes are forever closed, never to open again and smile, then there is no sound more wretched in the world than the screams and cries that rise, nor is there anything more horrible than the silence only interrupted by the quiet tears falling from her face onto the floor. The sight of a family looking upon the body of a man held so dear to them dead is one that will never stop haunting the watchers, because now they know what their own will look like if they should pass away. But perhaps what is worse is the wandering and denial of those who do not have a body to mourn over. The pain and hope that still fills their eyes, and the all consuming grief that follows.

This is a decision made to defy all odds, to succeed where others have failed, to bring forth some measure of comfort to those who have lost so much.

These are the men that ride into a battle that is hopeless, that stand against evil and darkness that encroaches upon their land. Here, in the heat of battle, in the time when they are closest to death, they feel the power of the forces of invaders that would take their kin and destroy their home, and they match it with their own. They bring forth sword and shield, spear and arrow. They do not back down. There is too much at stake if they fail. And even if they die, they die knowing that they have bought their loved ones a little more time, a little more hope, even if only for a little.

This is the first step toward the end of an era.

In the Wild, deep in winter, she bears down, knowing that it will be soon. She need but be strong for a little while longer and then the much anticipated event will finally come. Too long has she waited for this, and though her husband cannot be there with her, she knows that she will not bear this alone, not truly. Because she bears the same burden that her mother-in-law did, that all women who bound themselves to the Line of Kings did. Even now, she feels their spirits around her, whispering words she cannot hear, giving her strength to bring forth a child that may yet have the strength to survive this world and this life.

This is a tribute of the past, a gift for the present, and the ruler of the future.

He is so small, so tiny in her arms, but so beautiful. She cannot think of a more perfect child she has ever seen, and knows that he is meant for greatness. They have two years of joy, two years where she knows what it means to be complete and whole. And then in the blink of an eye, it's over. Then, it is all she can do to get her child to safety, to a place that will shelter him from evil, if only for a small time. She knows now what it was that she had known then; he is meant for greatness, meant to take back what was lost so long ago. He was meant to never truly be hers, because she was to sacrifice everything she had so that she could keep the last connection to her husband alive. She knows he will be great. But she will not be there to see just how great.

This is the bitter taste of failure and loss, mixing with the the brew of victory and relief.

Known by another name, in the land of men. He travels and does what he must, does his best to help. He isn't perfect, nor is he all knowing. He tries his best, and sometimes, it is simply not enough. Men die, women are killed, and babes are slaughtered. He sees this, knows now why his mother hid so much from him, and wishes that it were not so. But it is. So he continues to fight, to learn, to become familiar with the ways of men, but keeping the teachings of the elves. He is a man of many worlds, at times torn by where he is from, where he is, and where he will someday be. But still, he marches on, because he has much to do, and many to help. He just prays that he will never have to know the ultimate defeat: his childhood home and sanctuary destroyed, the Age of Men over before it ever began, and the loss of all that is good in the world.

This is Fate, no longer content to be in the background, pushing forward and forcing his hand.

He has the blade now, he has had the years of training. He knows what he must do, but still he resists. He knows well what will happen if he accepts this, knows that there will be no backing down after this, no way to turn back. So he hesitates, not wanting to think that he will become the beginning of a new age. Because if he is, then it means that so much of his family will leave, that there will truly be no illusions to ever hide in again. He has kept few with him, but those that he does reside in the safe keeping of his kin, one of whom he knows will sail for sure if he is successful. He does not want it. But he hasn't much of a choice.

This is the moment where a mother, unseen, watches and rejoices.

He is crowned. The White Wizard, a friend and a mentor for many years, stands before him, and lets him reclaim the lost heritage of his fathers. He knows that this is for more than just him. He knows that this is for everyone there, gathered in the court. He knows that this is for his father, who never got to see his little boy grow up, who was nothing more than a faded memory and a name in the history of his line. This is for his mother, who gathered her strength in order to survive the grief of losing the other half of her soul and kept her son safe until it was time for her to let him go. This is for the men that have died defending their homes against Mordor, the women who have been been forced to grieve loss again and again, and the children that never had the chance to grow up in true peace. And he knows that they are why he rose here.

This is five years later.

One of their own is dead, and he still cannot help but mourn the loss of a brother in arms. Two others have left Arda for the paradise of Valinor, where he can never be. His place is here, with the race of men, fated to kneel before death, as he will one day. Another two wander the world, a friendship between two unlikely people, not only because of their race but their personalities. He cannot help but hope that they will not be parted in the same cruel way that they will be from him.

This is ten years later.

There is peace and love and light and wonders that he knows that he had always looked for. In this place, though he no longer has the same freedom as he once did as a Ranger, he knows that he is doing a world of good, and ensuring that though his ada is no longer there to guide him, that his teachings pass on. He will not let his people fall, and will do what he must in order to keep them safe.

These are hours and minutes and moments that steal your breath and things that make you cry.

The child in his arms is tiny, and ever so precious. He knows now what it means to be a father. He knows the joy of having this wonderful child in his life, this extension of himself, as well as someone entirely different from him. He never thought he could know a more profound joy. He could not remember smiling more.

This is the proof that everything that was suffered, all that was lost and found and destroyed and rebuilt and created, was worth it.

When his son plays in the courtyard and runs up to him. When those small arms wrap around his leg and he looks up at him with glee and smiles, his front tooth missing. He melts with that smile, and cannot help but laugh with his child, throwing him up in the air. He knows that this is so perfect, that this moment is wonderful and that he would have never had it without the sufferings of the past to give birth to the joy of this future.

This is the passing of the torch.

He knows that it is time. He cannot stay for much longer, and though he knows the pain that his death will bring, he knows that he cannot stay much longer. It was just as they said, men are doomed to die. He was not going to try and plea to the Valar to let him know the peace of Valinor, no matter how much his heart called to the people there. He would not be another foolish Numenor that feared death. He had known death all his life. He had no true cause to fear. But like everyone faced with the unknown, he is hesitant to take that final journey. But he can linger no longer, and so he gives his last goodbye, to a son that he has been blessed with watching grow, daughters that are strong and will hold the family together, and a partner that he knows will one day accompany him to the Fate of Men, having renounced immortality for him.

This is one last heartbeat, one last smile, and a feeling of peace.

There is pain at first, and then a growing numbness. There is not much time, and for a moment he regrets choosing to go. He will not know another sunrise, in its glorious hues. He will never see Rivendell again, never speak the fair tongue of his family. He will not watch his son rule, nor will he see his grandchildren. But then a peace settles upon him, and for one last moment he is blessed by the blood of his ancestors with one last vision. It is a happy one, with his descendants gathered around, happy and cheerful, strong and beautiful. And he knows that all will be well, even if the road will be long and hard. He smiles, and lets go.

This is life and death; frustrating, unfair, but beautiful and worthwhile in its flawed and scarred way.

This is the promise of more; of a life after you, and a continuation of what you have left behind.

This is what death cannot, dare not take, not even from you...

...

Life.