FROM OSGILIATH TO THE END OF ALL TIES
A/N: I once had this fic up on the website, but left it hanging for months because I had finished the game and was too lazy to get round to finishing it. Recently I replayed the game and decided to take down the story so I could edit it (hopefully for the better). At the moment, I'm fighting at Minas Tirith, and will add the next chapter once I've completed the game.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Description: A small fic about the game 'The Lord of the Rings: The Third Age'. This story is a continuation (and alternate version) of the scene at the end of the 'Osgiliath' level, and beyond.
THE THIRD AGE: DEPARTING OSGILIATH
Piercing shrieks and yells of dying men echoed around the city of Osgiliath. Orcs, trolls and a whole manner of other fell creatures swarmed the streets of the ruined citadel, where bodies of Gondorians and Orcs alike littered the ground. Faramir and his men had been overwhelmed by the host of Orcs and had been forced to flee. After rescuing Idrial from the Witch-king, Berethor's company had followed suit, departing on a crude Orc raft.
"It is Morwen for whom you are destined," Idrial said grudgingly, withdrawing Berethor's hand from where it lay on top of hers. She could not have anticipated the journey she was to experience when she had been sent, by the Lady Galadriel, to travel with this man. She could not have ever imagined she might find herself falling for him. And now, after the arrival of Morwen, it seemed that this 'budding romance' had been doomed from the beginning. Idrial was surprised to find herself saturated with jealousy as Berethor and Morwen grew closer as the Gondorian continued on his road of discovery.
Berethor impulsively caught the elf's arm when she turned to move away across the raft. "I will choose whatever fate pleases me. I am no toy of the Gods." His fierce, proud eyes confronted hers, daring her to speak out against him.
Idrial did not reply, but pulled her arm free of the Gondorian's grip and walked across the grimy wood to the other side of the Orc raft. Though she did not utter a word, Berethor could tell from her icy glare that she wished to be left alone. His smooth, proud face creased into a frown. He had guessed her feelings for him long ago in Moria, and gradually Berethor had admitted his own feelings to himself. But why could neither of them pluck up the courage to tell one another? He supposed one of the barriers preventing them was Morwen. The man and elf had been getting ever closer after the kiss in the dark halls of Moria, yet the arrival of the Maiden of Rohan had divided the company. Berethor, always one to give aid, had willingly offered to assist Morwen in her quest to locate her family and had unwittingly offended Idrial in the process. Women could be so hard to read!
Deciding it would be better to sort matters out sooner rather than later, Berethor was about to turn round when Hadhod, seeing his anguish, joined him where he stood upon the raft. "Women, eh?" the dwarf growled in an amused voice. "They're like a different species."
Berethor felt uncomfortable. Idrial was but a few inches away from them and in earshot of their conversation. "Err…" For once, the noble Gondorian was lost for words. He wholeheartedly agreed with this statement, but didn't wish to voice his opinion so close to the two women vying for his heart. He may be proud and slightly stuck-up, but he was no idiot.
Hadhod seemed not to notice his companion's embarrassment and aimless mumbling, and started a long conversation in his rough voice about dwarf women. The tall man standing next to him shifted uneasily as he felt the chance of repairing his friendship with Idrial slipping away. He had never felt this way before, with all these different emotions raging inside him. It was tearing him apart.
The night closed in around them, and soon not even the elf could see her slender hand waving about in front of her face. The smoky air was stifling, and Berethor felt suffocated. His armour, now a great burden to his weary self, was like a metaphor for his state of mind and the emotions rampaging through it; it weighed and slowed him down. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the Nazgûl's penetrating screech, and it turned his heart cold as memories of a distant curse plagued him.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and Berethor jumped out of his reverie. He was not entirely surprised to find that Hadhod had left him to speak with Elegost, who was considerably more talkative than the troubled Gondorian. He jerked around and, to his surprise but great delight, came face to face with the last person he had expected. Idrial.
During the time Berethor had been agonising over the whole situation, Idrial had not been enjoying the 'view'. She too had been thinking it all over while trying to avoid eye contact with Morwen, who had been smirking at her for the entire duration of the ride on the raft. "You remember your first encounter with the Ringwraiths," she said knowingly, with a nod. Then she sighed, and, removing her hand from his back, added sympathetically, "You feel cold."
"I feel his blade. The pain of the old wound does not falter; I feel it when he screams." Berethor let out a great sigh and looked at his feet, feeling ashamed of his weakness and his betrayal in the past. It was the greatest of his burdens, and he knew that it would remain with him for the rest of his life, niggling at his mind and conscience.
Idrial shot him a pitying look, hesitated for a moment, and then set her hand upon his.
A foul wind started up, sweeping an oily scent towards them. Far off, towards the direction of Osgiliath, the company could hear the faint sounds of battle cries and the squeaking of metal upon metal. Mordor's army marched towards Minas Tirith. The six people aboard the raft feared the City of Kings would already be engulfed by the tens of thousands that wished to destroy it, before they reached the White City.
But, as fear gripped the hearts and minds of the free folk inhabiting Middle Earth, one stayed blissfully immune, just for a while. Idrial felt a warm feeling in her stomach, and a flicker of a smile crossed her sharp, aloof features. The shield around her heart crumbled, and fate, usually so hard to divert, took a different course.
"If we survive this war, could I see you again? For it is all that my heart hopes for," Berethor enquired quietly, unsure of himself.
"We'll see," the she-elf replied, smiling awkwardly. It was so unusual for her, yet she felt that she was walking into uncharted territory. She felt shy, and afraid.
Berethor opened his mouth, intending to spill his heart and admit his feelings for her. But no sound came out. So much time he had spent rehearsing what he would say to her; things he would never be able to bring himself to tell her. He could talk on for hours, yet he just couldn't get to the point and say the three words that mattered; I love you.