Malicious Outcomes
It is said that the Gondorians know no fear. That is not true – or why else would I be here?
The rough rope of the noose rubbed the pale skin of my neck raw and bloody as Lord Denathor, the steward of Gondor readied Minas Tirith for my hanging. The gathering citizens murmured with hushed apprehension, pointing and staring at me. Disgust flickered across their faces as the angry wind buffeted my golden hair, letting loose ripples of fire.
The noose grazed my skin, mocking me and never letting my thoughts stray from my punishment. Punishment. They had no idea. It was not my fault – I have no control over my powers or over my emotions, and as my power and feelings are linked, well, it can be a bit of a problem. Magic courses through my veins and when a strong emotion overtakes me it has a habit of bursting free. The question is, of course, why does it not wield itself now? Now when I need it most. Now when I am minutes, if not seconds away from dying.
As I recalled the recent cause of my current state I wondered if my life would have followed a different path, had Aragorn son of Arathorn – my father and the rightful king of Gondor – become king. Everyone had known that I was strange. The offspring of a man and an Elf, but to be honest it never bothered me. Not until now anyway. They feared me of course, being magic and the daughter of Aragorn and Arwen. I was powerful, and my magic was like a caged lion longing to break free and flood into the world. It had to be controlled, and it would have been if my mother and father were here, but no, they were out fighting in the East. I can imagine them fighting side by side, keeping the armies of Mordor at bay. My parents, how I long to see them one last time.
A slight movement towed me through my hazy thoughts and gently brought me back to reality. In front of me, hiding at the back of the swarming mass of crowds, stood the White Tree of Minas Tirith, proud and beautiful in the watery, washed out sun. Although I could feel the wind slapping my frozen face, it seemed not to affect the white tree. It was anchored with beauty, never fading, time not seeming to affect it, but, as it captivated my acute mind, I realised something I had not before. Staring unflinchingly at the bright, beautiful tree I noticed that each step toward me that Lord Denathor took, a pale flower, whiter than the coldest winter, shrivelled up and died, floating gently to the hard stone ground. A sight so untrue that a sudden sadness wrenched my heart and let loose the fiery tears of my sorrow.
All fire has to be fuelled. The fuel for this particular calamity was a boy. Not just any boy, but the boy who was the leader in his group of jackals. They were like snakes, sly and quick. They struck without warning. A sharp edged flint flew through the air, gashing my right cheek. Warm, sticky, red blood oozed up and gushed down my face, dripping onto the cold flagstones beneath my tingling feet. I was itching to run, but my mind wouldn't let me. It would not let me back off defeated. I was too proud. The writhing mass of jeering vipers cut me off as they swarmed around me. They called me names and they accused me of being a witch. A witch, well that was a sound enough judgement to make – maybe they weren't as stupid as they looked... But then, then they went and started to denounce my parents as being filthy scum and no better than orcs and wargs. That above all else, set my emotions roaring and my powers spilling from my fingertips. Great raucous flames whipped through the dry and dusty air, encircling the leader in a skulk of hungry, flaming foxes. In a matter of seconds the tall broad boy was a pile of bones. The memory of my horrendous accident haunted me, always leaping into my mind and barely retreating into the shadows.
A flicker of movement. A familiar face. Hesidh! I knew he would come. Hope kindled in my heart. Hesidh – he would help. I had known him since I was born and we had fallen in love. After the disaster today he was the one who had helped hide me, the one who I could trust. We were to marry soon and we had been given my father's blessing. My father had respected him and I did too. He was so strong and had a surprising amount of influence with the King. He had the power to let me live and he would, he would. He would still love me when others did not. He must have been so worried when he returned to our hiding place to see that the guards of the citadel had taken me. Poor Hesidh – Do not despair, I willed him to look at me and as he looked up I saw a worried and sad smile on his face.
Hesidh walked slowly and forcefully towards me, quickly arriving at the front of the muttering crowd and leaning in to whisper to me. Relief welled up inside me and I went to thank him, but then his mask of an expression slipped off and in its place laid a look of contempt and arrogance. Instead of a worried smile, there was a loathsome smirk. 'He was my son' Hesidh snarled with anger and hatred. 'You have a son?'An uncertain gasp was choked from my quivering lips. The betrayal hit me and ricocheted through my body. 'Yes and I hope you go to the bottomless, fiery chasm of hell for this' growled Hesidh dangerously.
Hesidh walked away without a backward glance, striding through the crowd like a shark in the ocean. As he walked out of my vision I felt my whole world crashing down around me, splinters of an open window. The final steps of Lord Denathor's march sounded like a clock striking down the last seconds of my frugal life. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.