Everything belongs to Tolkien and New Line. Not to me. I am not a dead genius nor a cinema company.
This is a mesh-together of a few scenes from Aragorn's life, raising ideas as to where he pulled that dramatic speech in ROTK from. Bookverse/Movieverse, since I did include one of the twins, who, I think, did not make an appearance in the movies, but the speech is obviously from the movie.
Please review! (:
Sons of Gondor! Of Rohan! My brothers.
He pushed unruly locks out of his eyes, shaking droplets onto the rider by his side, who turned to him with a wry smile.
"I'm wet enough, no need to wet me more." Throrongil smiled, wishing he actually knew the name of the man beside him. When riding like this to battle, either exhausted, injured, incredibly focussed or all three, relationships did not grow fast. Right now, they were all suffering from an unpleasant combination of the three, and to be honest, did not feel like talking. The rain fell steadily, unendingly, and he felt the ridiculous pangs of homesickness. Homesick for where, Ara- Thorongil? He questioned himself, not without a tinge of bitterness. Eriador? Rivendell? The Angle?
Definitely not Rohan. Not beside this warrior, friendly as he might be. Not a part of him, the way the Dúnedain and a few of the Eldar were.
Through twenty years of growth in the sheltered beauty of the Last Homely House, through the years with his kin serving the remnants of Elenna-nórë.
And now a new name, a new home.
He was jolted from his reflections on his unfortunately large number of identities by a sudden cry up ahead. Ears honed by years of competition with Elves picked up the faintest crashing of a being through the thick forestry, and he cursed softly, wishing for the superior sense of the Firstborn that could have given them earlier warning. But there was no time to brood, as the army of orcs drew closer. Drawing his sword and sensing the thick aura of resignation that permeated the air, he spurred his horse, swiftly obliterating the wistful memory of elvenbred horses, so different from the horses of the Rohirrim.
Battle. He naturally recoiled from the idea of killing, but long years of doing the exact thing had desensitised him to the act, and now he struck foes down almost as an instinct. It has saved his life many times.
Fighting really does draw people closer, he thought rather cynically as he grabbed the Rider's arm to save him from a well-aimed slice of a scimitar, the two of them ending up smashing against a tree uncomfortably close to each other. A gasped 'Thanks' was all the Rider- of course, his name was Brego. A good man- could manage before they were caught in the whirling, deadly dance again.
Fighting back to back, side to side. Not brotherhood, but a mutual need to survive and a mutual desire for the other to survive.
How many people had died for him?
And as he spun to stick his sword into the orc about to slice Brego's head off, he felt just the faintest flicker of friendship.
I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me.
Terror.
Wild, animal, unfettered terror.
As he watched the blood, so red, so irreversible, bitter helplessness took hold of his heart, and his hand faltered over the wound. What can men do against such reckless hate?
A time would come when, grown and weathered by fate and life, he would understand the truth and untruth of that statement, a time when he would disagree with the despair of the king echoing his words from long ago.
But it was not here. It was not now.
Here and now, the stark reality of Elladan lying prone before him, eyes open and staring and a vicious, frighteningly deep gash on his forehead. He couldn't do this. He could not. And his foster brother was fading.
No. Aragorn! It was Elladan and Elrohir who had played with him, teased him, comforted him, trained him, laughed at him...loved him, taking the inevitable pain of his mortality in exchange for the joy of their love.
He would not fail Elladan now.
From which deep recesses of his quaking heart he'd drawn that courage he would never comprehend, but he placed a hand gently on the elf's brow and lost himself to a world of everlasting darkness where all those who wander are lost.
So lost.
Elladan was standing, eyes trained to the West, an expression of deepest bewilderment, grief and painful longing painting his face with hues of sadness. Aragorn hesitated, unsure, before deciding that if he'd been stupid enough to land himself here, he might as well take the plunge. He stepped forward, placing a hand on his brother's arm.
"Elrondion, heed me. Return to the light, sail not to Valinor, not yet. Middle-Earth has need of you yet. Come home, brother."
Then he was falling, and Arda called him back. The only glimpse he managed to catch before unconciousness claimed him was of Elladan's eyes opening.
And he knew that that day, fear had been overcome and courage triumphed.
A day may come when the courage of Men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day. An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the Age of Men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight!
Dread.
It hung in the air, but he cared not. For he was the Lord of all Arda and with this, this little trinket, this great weapon, the world would be his. And minions would bow to him and Sauron himself would be smote down by him.
A new Lord. A Dark Lord, great and terrible and all-powerful.
Turning, he lifted his treasure- his precious- admiring the glint of gold in the dim light. My precious...
"Estel?" A broken voice that still held hope.
Come to think of it, didn't that word mean hope? In the language of the elves? And wasn't that voice...that voice. Hadn't it once been the most beautiful thing in the world to him? Hadn't it once sung of moonlight and roses and utter beauty? Hadn't it once been the voice of someone who had given up the gift of Ilúvatar to the Firstborn...for him?
But the Ring was so much more beautiful. And her voice only sounded of cheap love to him now. Why should he care for elves? He was the Dark Lord.
"Leave me." He could not quite bear to strike her, for some unfathomable reason. He should, of course. But something...something stayed his hand. No, he could not strike this Evenstar.
But he could not love her either, anymore.
"Aragorn. Estel, Dúnadan, Elessar! Is this how you will end? What of the rejection you swore? To turn on the Shadow and embrace the light? Do you remember? Oh, Estel!"
"Leave!"
He sensed her heartbreak, knew that Arwen Undomiel would fade.
But he could not quite understand why he cared.
And as she left, he whispered, though trying not to:
Arwen vanimelda, namárië!
No! Jerking up with horror written across his brow, he snatched at the pendant, clutching at it desperately.
It would not end this way.
He swore.
By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, Men of the West!
He captured her lips in a kiss, passion unrestrained enveloping them in a diaphanous cloud of utter love and longing.
Undómiel.
Of midnight hair and skylight eyes, a soul with the wisdom of 2,000 years and a heart that had chosen a mortal man and a mortal life.
Arwen. Evenstar. So much between them, and so much to be.
Would he come out of this? Would she?
Not likely, he realised. Elrond was right. To bear the everlasting memory of a love that would last beyond the edges of time for the long, long years of an immortal's life...or to die and extinguish the light of the Evenstar?
"It was a dream, Arwen..."
Catching his breath at her pained look, seeing her despair.
But he cannot lose her. He cannot let the world lose her.
"Nothing more." Oh, so much more.
And he slipped the pendant into her limp hand, the fear and distress in her eyes cutting his heart.
"It was a gift." As is your life? No, Undómiel, you cannot diminish your life's grace for me.
"Keep it."
By all that I hold dear.
For you.
I will fight.
Rohan. Gondor. Elladan. Elrohir. The remnants of the Fellowship. Two small hobbits facing the Black Gate, yet another two facing Mount Doom. Arwen.
Elessar...
The Eye calls him.
And he will answer.
So he turns to look at those he loves, and turns back.
And he charges.
For Frodo.