Reunion Chapter 1
By Rose G
Disclaimer - All these characters belong to His Majesty, Tolkien. I am not making any money from this, which seems very unfair.
A/N- This takes place shortly after the breaking of the Fellowship, starting the night before they see Saraman in the woods. It's just my ideas about how Aragorn might have felt after losing his oldest friend in Moria - something that seems to get glossed over in the book. PG-13 for lots of angst, and a suicidal Ranger.
Aragorn slipped down from Hasufel's back, pressing the dark grey head hard against his own. For a few precious seconds, the warmth and un-judgemental friendliness of the horse comforted him, hiding the inescapable darkness from his view, and ensuring the Elf and Dwarf did not see the grief etched on his face.
'Aragorn?' Legolas spoke softly, still mounted on Arod with Gimli behind him. 'Are we making camp here?'
The Ranger bit back an unpleasant reply, although his answer was still shorter than he intended. 'Leave me alone, Legolas.' His voice was rough, telling of his grief, and the Elven prince respected his view, dismounting and beginning to build a fire.
Hours later, Aragorn lay in the firelight, watching Legolas and Gimli sleeping peacefully, despite the fear that had touched them when the white shape had moved through the trees and the horses had bolted. He was weary, weary, as he had never been before, yet sleep eluded him. The white figure had not filled him with fear, only a blatant recklessness and a disregard for his own safety, for his life no longer seemed worth fighting for.
Loneliness assailed him, both the physical loneliness of having only two sleeping companions in an empty, desolate part of Middle Earth and the terrifying mental loneliness of a leader with no one to turn to. He lay on his back, watching the dark sky above that matched his mood, with ragged black streamers of cloud racing across the moon, listening to the wind howling through Fangorn forest. Gandalf's voice sounded in his mind, again and again, messages, friendly jests, important counsel and most importantly to the Ranger, words of friendship and trust that he had heard so rarely from others. Forgetting for a moment, he looked wildly around for his friend. Tears rose in his dark, unfathomable eyes and he brushed them away, angry with himself. Arathorn's son, Elendil's heir to Gondor would not weep for a fallen comrade.
Yet his grief was too deep, too personal, for him to follow his counsel. Only three weeks had passed since Gandalf fell, and in Lorien, his memories had seemed blurred, indistinct, so that grief had not touched him. Now, in the shadows of the wild night it was overwhelming. On silent feet he rose, stumbling on the ground rutted with Orc prints and moved out of the firelight so Legolas and Gimli would not see him.
And there he lay like a dead thing, dark hair blowing across his pale face, bearing his grief silently, with a pathetic dignity. He wept silently, without words, as he had not done for many long years. Never had he realised how much he depended on the Wizard, his dearest friend save Halbarad. It was thus that Legolas saw him the next dawn, tossing restlessly in troubled sleep with tears drying on his rugged face.
The chase after the Orcs that day was long and hard, despite the fact that the track was easily found by Aragorn and plain enough for even Gimli to see. Aragorn run in front of the others, stumbling often, slowing until Legolas caught up with him and a fear of allowing the other to see his grief drove him on.
It was later that day they found the hobbit tracks, the Mallorn leaves and crumbs of the Eleven waybread, yet even those visible tokens of their friends survival failed to lighten Aragorn's heart. Sunk deep in bewidered misery, he did not protest when Legolas, observing the Ranger's exhaustion, called a halt by some towering cliffs.
They kept no watch for it was still light, and Aragorn sat with his head bowed to his knees, unable to rest. Almost unconsciously it seemed to the others, he grasped Anduril firmly in his right hand, running his fingers over the side of its blade. A wild, almost panicky look was in his eyes.
'Legolas, do you think Aragorn's all right?' Gimli spoke in an undertone.
The Elf shrugged. 'I believe he misses Gandalf, as we do, yet he cannot bear to speak of his grief or allow others to see it. He has spent too long wandering the wilds on his own to easily talk to others. And yet I do not trust him to be sensible at this time, while he cries bitterly, and Anduril rests in his hands. I shall watch him while you sleep. Just try not to snore, Gimli!'
I wrote this because in the book, after Gandalf fall there is no real mention of the others grieving for him, which I think Aragorn, at least would have done, as they were such good friends. I know Aragorn probably wouldn't have been this down, but when I wrote it, I was. Let me know what you think, and I'll have chapter 2 up soon, which is about how Aragorn feels about Gandalf's return.
By Rose G
Disclaimer - All these characters belong to His Majesty, Tolkien. I am not making any money from this, which seems very unfair.
A/N- This takes place shortly after the breaking of the Fellowship, starting the night before they see Saraman in the woods. It's just my ideas about how Aragorn might have felt after losing his oldest friend in Moria - something that seems to get glossed over in the book. PG-13 for lots of angst, and a suicidal Ranger.
Aragorn slipped down from Hasufel's back, pressing the dark grey head hard against his own. For a few precious seconds, the warmth and un-judgemental friendliness of the horse comforted him, hiding the inescapable darkness from his view, and ensuring the Elf and Dwarf did not see the grief etched on his face.
'Aragorn?' Legolas spoke softly, still mounted on Arod with Gimli behind him. 'Are we making camp here?'
The Ranger bit back an unpleasant reply, although his answer was still shorter than he intended. 'Leave me alone, Legolas.' His voice was rough, telling of his grief, and the Elven prince respected his view, dismounting and beginning to build a fire.
Hours later, Aragorn lay in the firelight, watching Legolas and Gimli sleeping peacefully, despite the fear that had touched them when the white shape had moved through the trees and the horses had bolted. He was weary, weary, as he had never been before, yet sleep eluded him. The white figure had not filled him with fear, only a blatant recklessness and a disregard for his own safety, for his life no longer seemed worth fighting for.
Loneliness assailed him, both the physical loneliness of having only two sleeping companions in an empty, desolate part of Middle Earth and the terrifying mental loneliness of a leader with no one to turn to. He lay on his back, watching the dark sky above that matched his mood, with ragged black streamers of cloud racing across the moon, listening to the wind howling through Fangorn forest. Gandalf's voice sounded in his mind, again and again, messages, friendly jests, important counsel and most importantly to the Ranger, words of friendship and trust that he had heard so rarely from others. Forgetting for a moment, he looked wildly around for his friend. Tears rose in his dark, unfathomable eyes and he brushed them away, angry with himself. Arathorn's son, Elendil's heir to Gondor would not weep for a fallen comrade.
Yet his grief was too deep, too personal, for him to follow his counsel. Only three weeks had passed since Gandalf fell, and in Lorien, his memories had seemed blurred, indistinct, so that grief had not touched him. Now, in the shadows of the wild night it was overwhelming. On silent feet he rose, stumbling on the ground rutted with Orc prints and moved out of the firelight so Legolas and Gimli would not see him.
And there he lay like a dead thing, dark hair blowing across his pale face, bearing his grief silently, with a pathetic dignity. He wept silently, without words, as he had not done for many long years. Never had he realised how much he depended on the Wizard, his dearest friend save Halbarad. It was thus that Legolas saw him the next dawn, tossing restlessly in troubled sleep with tears drying on his rugged face.
The chase after the Orcs that day was long and hard, despite the fact that the track was easily found by Aragorn and plain enough for even Gimli to see. Aragorn run in front of the others, stumbling often, slowing until Legolas caught up with him and a fear of allowing the other to see his grief drove him on.
It was later that day they found the hobbit tracks, the Mallorn leaves and crumbs of the Eleven waybread, yet even those visible tokens of their friends survival failed to lighten Aragorn's heart. Sunk deep in bewidered misery, he did not protest when Legolas, observing the Ranger's exhaustion, called a halt by some towering cliffs.
They kept no watch for it was still light, and Aragorn sat with his head bowed to his knees, unable to rest. Almost unconsciously it seemed to the others, he grasped Anduril firmly in his right hand, running his fingers over the side of its blade. A wild, almost panicky look was in his eyes.
'Legolas, do you think Aragorn's all right?' Gimli spoke in an undertone.
The Elf shrugged. 'I believe he misses Gandalf, as we do, yet he cannot bear to speak of his grief or allow others to see it. He has spent too long wandering the wilds on his own to easily talk to others. And yet I do not trust him to be sensible at this time, while he cries bitterly, and Anduril rests in his hands. I shall watch him while you sleep. Just try not to snore, Gimli!'
I wrote this because in the book, after Gandalf fall there is no real mention of the others grieving for him, which I think Aragorn, at least would have done, as they were such good friends. I know Aragorn probably wouldn't have been this down, but when I wrote it, I was. Let me know what you think, and I'll have chapter 2 up soon, which is about how Aragorn feels about Gandalf's return.