Disclaimer: if anything at all was mine I wouldn't be here, would I? Some one of the fellowship betrayed the others. Aragorn seems to be most likely or Boromir, but as the name isn't mentioned you can imagine it being any on you want.
The land is desolated, scorched black by the great fire, stretching out as far as I can see. My ears have not yet forgotten the roaring of it, my skin not the heat and my eyes, ah, I was a blind fool at that time.
And I have yet to feel regret.
A white, pure snow slowly covers the bare desert, covering up my many mistakes. How ironic it seems to me.
The halls are empty. The cold stones carry the whispers of a thousand years, of people's joy and tears, of the screams I tore from them these last four years. All in His name. Now there's no one left within these bleak walls. My prison cell.
The city has crumbled, a shadow of it former glory, back to the pile of rock it once was hewn from.
Dust to dust.
Through the broken windowpanes I stare to the east. Twirling snowflakes obscuring my vision. I laugh mirthlessly. The forges of the East lie dormant it seems, their fires diminished to a threatening glow, a present reminder. There is no one left to fight them, no one who dares oppose Him. I do not search to defeat Him.
I still await salvation, as it was promised to me.
My only companion in this lonely existence is the withered tree, a bittersweet memory. It is hollowed, worn nearly to death and yet it still bears leaves. A few, colourless grey leaves. It's white bark is torn away by the wolves' claws. They search for me.
The wind howls, plays within the room. It tugs at the curtains, the pages on the desk rustle giving it all an eerie sense of life. The sound echoes within the halls, trapped between those walls as I am, shrieking in its agony. Leaves from last autumn swirl across the floor, the sound of scurrying rats. I do not turn around. The wolves have come to claim me.
Forlorn, I see the wind play among the last tree leaves…and scatter them.
So sorry for the days to come
So sorry for the days we're living in
Sorry for what I have become
Well I don't know what made me write this. A melancholic spell I guess. I know it doens't seem to make any sense.
