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

A/N: So, listening to Shane Koyczan's "To This Day" was amazing, and inspired out little writer to do something. So here's what came from it as she listened to it on repeat until she finished this piece. Hope you enjoy, and we'll post the link for it at the bottom. Many thanks, and please enjoy.-Damon (Banshee Secretary, Wakabe Writing Firm)

The words echoed inside his head, never-ending in their quest to become embedded and heavy like lead. They don't leave, they don't stop, and even in the most noisiest of spots, he hears them above all other sound. In the silence, it is worse, harsh consonants and foul vowels louder than before, demanding attention when stimulation is lacking. He knows those words well, can recite them at any time. He will always remember what was said, in the subtle glances and whispered languages of fear and hate from those that do not want him there. He can still hear the words of those that were bolder with their hate- not for his spirit, still fragile and new at the age of thirteen, or the soul of the man at ninety three- that demanded his death, and begged for his departure, because what he was and is, is a Man among the immortal, that should not be blessed with the love of a family that was once in mourning, or a protector of their village, made evil and wild because he wanders the land and does not hail to a father from their own soils.

The words resonate deep in his bones, never letting go, leaving him burning and flushed one minute and then cold and shattered the next. They like to wreak havoc on his body, made strong against beasts most foul but so vulnerable to creatures fair and jolly that like to take out their anger and hate upon those that confess too easily the shortcomings of their own selves. Every time that they are spoken, he feels them being carved into his skin, burned across his face and slashed across his wrists. He wants to hide, he wants to die, he doesn't want to be. Because when history shows that his are a fallen people, and that the future is bleak, where can he turn to when those that he would seek deny his bond to them to keep?

The words repeat inside his heart, never able to stop, from those that he trusts with all that he is. He wants to be able to silence them, to make them go away. He doesn't want them to take their rusted knives to his heart, which has so few things to guard itself against the words shouted in a moment's anger, tempers flared and hair on end. He doesn't want their axes to strike at his heart, left open to their touch, because he trusts them not to hiss those words when they think he's not there, that he can't hear them, that he doesn't know. He doesn't want their hammers to pound against the soft walls of his heart, when they mutter about him, when he is there, at the age of five, innocent and free of the trappings that await him at twenty, angry because his youth stands between them and a hunt or a party or a girl or an adventure. He doesn't want their arrows to lodge themselves into his heart, which he has entrusted to them, to protect and guard against those that he knows would take it and break it. He trusts them to have a care for the delicate and bruised thing, which they had once swore to defend and protect from outsiders and thieves that would give nothing in return but a lasting sorrow that never ends.

He just wants it to stop, to have peace in his head. He doesn't want to hear their words that never end. He wants silence and peace and contentment that he can't remember ever having, because what memories are there of that time have faded or become blurred, obscured in the haze of youth and lost to the pains of the young. He wants to be able to look upon his memories of people he loved and not have that voice inside that speaks of all the times they cast him aside- for duty, for pleasure, for cruelty, for his own "good." He doesn't want to remember the way they gripped too hard, as they glared death into his eyes, their own filled with a hatred that had left his scarred and feeling small because he told them they were wrong. He doesn't want to feel the heat of blood long since spilled flowing down him again, as he watches a knife be sharpened by an elf that he once trusted to never raise a sword against him.

He doesn't want to remember the way that those he trusted and loved and had devoted himself to had been the ones who hurt him the worst- not usually with fists or swords, poisoned arrow tips or spears. But with something much worse- the ragged scars that cover his heart, which have faded some with time, but are never really gone. He knows they are there, can feel them in the dark of the night when the anguish of pain thought long dead rear up and reopen wounds, the gashes bleeding heavy and hot, as though the wound were just inflicted.

He doesn't want to feel it.

He knows that they regret those things, knows that they have all long since made up these wrongs. There had been apologies on both sides, because in truth, no one side in these confrontations was truly innocent. He has long since reconciled with friends and family, and indeed, knows that they too have not let those words they had spit out in a rage or a fury. He knows this, has always known this, but still his heart cannot quite let go of past hurts. His mind still recalls every word that was said- be it by stranger or brother, a poor farmer or an elven lord. He doesn't want to hear, but he can't get away from them. He wants to bury those words deep in the ground, wants to lock them away in the furthest mines and the deepest holes. He doesn't want to carry them with, because it means that he hasn't really let it go.

But he has, he really has.

He knows that he doesn't hold what they said against them. He has long since let the love he holds for those he holds close to his heart wash away the pain inflicted with sharp words and withering glares. He has learnt to harden his heart against those that he has sworn to protect, under a myriad of names and appearances as he runs from the past, and the call of destiny in his blood that they all push him to accept and have. He has let whispered apologies and regretful eyes sew up the scars that are inflicted on his heart from the beloved brothers in all but blood put there.

So when he bleeds in the night, from a wound inside that no surgeon can heal, he learns to patch himself up, with memories of love. When those screaming vile slurs and violent harsh words race through his blood, battering his body in ways that could not be seen, he lets the whispered voice of gentleness and love and tenderness rise up from within. He lets the soft words said in a glance or a caress to overwhelm the hard clawing of something less than hate.

It doesn't always work, doesn't always release that hurt that has been secretly stored away. But he tries, he tries, he has to keep trying. Because life is full of pain, which makes it all the more real. And he knows that if he can make it to the end of the day, to look up at the stars and see the Star of High Hope, still shining despite its history of pain, then it's all okay. He is not as alone as he feels, and needs but open himself to his inner heart, which holds all he loves and the truth that he guards against the lies of moments of anger and hurt. He just has to make it to the end of the day. Make it to the end of the day so that he can share a moment of peace with brothers and kin. He just has to make it to the end of the day, where the final battle between sorrow and peace begins again. Make it to the end of the day, to remember why it is all worth it. He just has to make it to the end of the day.

Because for all that he hurts and all of his aches, there's still too much love in his life to make him fade away.

www. youtube watch?v= sa1iS1MqUy4

Just take out the spaces. Hope you enjoy