Author's Note: Welcome to chapter 9. I hope y'all enjoy it. Please review!
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"That is quite a tale," Elrond said, leaning back in his chair. He had been speaking with Aragorn on the subject of their guest's past for some time, and the elf felt—for the first time in some years—out of his depth. "And you believe what he says to be true?"
"I do," Aragorn confirmed with a nod. "There is no reason to fabricate such a story."
Elrond knew his foster son's words to be true. If Rancelevon had wanted to craft a lie, he would have made it more believable. Still, it was difficult for even the son of Eärendil to swallow despite all the strange things he had seen in his lifetime.
"If I had known his darkness was so great," Elrond ventured after a moment, "I would have perhaps recommended action sooner. I did not realize he bore such pain."
"Neither did I," Aragorn said. "This 'HYDRA' he speaks of trained him to not feel pain, or at least not like we do. It is only by the grace of Eru that he retained any remnant of sanity."
"Indeed," the Elrond agreed. "What is his plan now that he knows himself and his guilt?"
"I have told him to seek forgiveness, and I believe he will when he returns. Until Eru sends him back to his land, he wishes to remain in Imladris, with your blessing of course."
"He will have it," Elrond replied with a small grin. The Lord of Rivendell stood from his seat and stepped toward the door of the small room. "I am encouraged through this experience," the elf remarked distantly. "Darkness can mar things beyond recognition, but never beyond healing. There is light and beauty that no shadow can touch. There is always hope."
Aragorn grinned as he following the elf to the exit. "It is no small wonder that Sauron has such great fear of the light; darkness is merely the absence of light, and when the light shines on it, the darkness cannot overcome it." Then, in a quiet voice, he whispered a part of Bilbo's poem. "From the ashes a fire shall be woken; a light from the shadow shall spring."
Elrond said nothing in response, but he felt the weight of the truth, recalling to his mind how Morgoth had been defeated at the end of the First Age when all hope seemed gone. Despite all the poison sown in the world and its inhabitances, forgiveness and joy were found in the end, by the grace of Eru. No Dark Lord could take what Eru held in His hand, nor could one overcome what He purposed.
The ranger bowed respectfully to Elrond and then excused himself. He walked down the halls to the hearth where he was greeted by the familiar sight of Bilbo and Bucky listening to the elves sing. Bilbo had a stack of parchment on his lap, and he kept looking up and speaking with Bucky before scribbling down more notes.
"Good afternoon, my friends," Aragorn said brightly. "How do you two fare?"
"Quite well, Dúnadan," the hobbit said without looking up. "Rancelevon is telling me more of his first encounter with you. I am writing the long-anticipated song to tell that great tale. Someday it will be a cherished classic!"
Bucky and Aragorn looked at each other and smiled. The elderly hobbit continued to write away as Aragorn approached the warm hearth and sat down. It felt strange to sit beside someone who had done and suffered so much, but the feeling soon passed. Bucky was his friend, and that was how he would treat him.
The afternoon passed by quickly as the song took shape. The three mortals worked and laughed over their work while the elves continued create beautiful music on the other side of the room. Bucky, now able to consciously enjoy the experience, felt happiness that he had not known since he was with Steve and the Howling Commandos in 1945. A part of him wished he could remain in Imladris forever, though his desire to see Steve was much stronger.
At about five o'clock, the boar Aragorn and Bucky had killed on their hunt had finished cooking, and the great hall filled with guests. The dinner was delicious, as always, and Bucky contributed to the conversation almost normally. The dwarves were particularly fascinated with his arm, and when he had made it plain that he was willing to talk, they asked him countless questions about it. The guests spoke together late into the evening until the moon rose and most people retired.
When the hall had cleared out, Bucky went out to the edge of the balcony and stared over the valley, taking in every detail that he could. The stars shone brightly, and the river sparkled like glass beneath them. The only sounds were trees stirring in the wind and birds giving their last calls of the day. It was truly the picture of splendor, and though it calmed the pain he still bore, no beauty could erase it. Aragorn's words had soothed him greatly, but he was still guilty, and he was inclined to doubt that he could receive complete forgiveness from anyone. He certainly didn't deserve it.
"What is it that plagues your mind, Bucky?" Aragorn asked as he stepped up to his friend's side. "You seem troubled."
"The valley seems so pure and clean," Bucky said with a sigh. "I don't belong here. It's almost like I can feel the blood on my hands. I am comforted by what you've told me, but it doesn't change the reality I'm living in now."
"Your healing will be complete when you return to your world," Aragorn assured him.
"But can we really count on that?" Bucky inquired, looking his companion in the eye. "You sound more confident than I can understand."
Aragorn put his hand on Bucky's shoulder firmly. "I do not possess infinite wisdom, but I do think that based on where your story has led you, it is likely that your stay here has only been preparation for your life in your own world. Events are not ordered by chance; all things progress towards one goal, whether on the scale of one man or in reference to all the histories of all the worlds. Take comfort in our reliance on wisdom higher than our own."
Bucky was unaccustomed to relying on anyone or anything for his own survival, but in this case, he truly had no other choice. He gave a slow nod and then turned away from the beautiful view of the valley and towards his own quarters. He could stop neither his nightmarish memories nor the constant string of accusations from appearing in his mind; he might as well not give himself something more to worry about. He'd rather cling to hope and be wrong anyway.
"Please," he called quietly to the silence in his room as he took one last look out his window before going to bed. "Please, can I go home?"
It was not merely the desire of someone who had been sent to a completely different world than his own for several days, but also the plea of one who had not truly been home since he left it as a young soldier in 1945. Bucky didn't know if he believed anyone would hear his words, but he felt a bit better for having said them. And there was the off chance that they weren't in vain.
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