All alone Chapter 1
By Rose G
Discliamer: I don't own any of these, they're all Tolkien's. Anyway, it isn't worth sueing me - I'm broke again. BTW, this is my first ever piece of fanfic, so be nice. R/r PLEASE.
Aragorn walked out of Gondor the same way that years ago he had entered it. Quietly, unobtrusive and quickly. Left with a heavy heart and stinging eyes as behind him rose the wailing of the women and children for their loved ones, and the bickering of the few remaining men as they fought over his crown.
A stranger to the area would only have seen a lanky man, clad in a travel stained cloak and worn leather boots. Maybe they would have commented on his long hair and his steely grey eyes. Certainly they would have noticed his steady loping strides, and his rugged good looks. But only a very few in the world would have known that his face was pale from pain, and that he fought back tears with every regular step.
Jog, jog, jog, endless jogging that Aragorn forced himself to do simply because it hurt him, and because physical exhaustion was the only way he knew to stop the terrifying memories from creeping up on his troubled mind. The endless miles covered on foot in darkness jarred his long legs until even walking was an agony. His attempts to sleep proved fruitless, for his sweat turned chill on his skin and pain like knives jumped from his wounds. The only colour about him was his dark hair and the rich blood that seeped from his wounds. Long years had passed since Aragorn had been injured, and the fear of the unknown was heavy upon him.
Fear - fear of what was happening behind him in Minas Tirith, and what would happen to himself, for he was unable to go back to Gondor or Rivendell, drove him on, down the old path. Past the sights of the outward journey he stumbled, going through Moria in a sprint caused by terror. He found the shelter of the stone trolls, and cast himself down into a sleep that he thought he would never awaken from.
It was much later when he had the strength to move. Anduril he left behind him, too tired to lift it. Never had a Ranger, a man of the Dunedain, come creeping so pitifully into Hobbiton, as Aragorn son of Arathorn did that night, four weeks after he set out. Moving at a pathetic broken gait, he sobbed for breath even as he approached Bag End.
He tapped hesitatingly at the brightly painted door much like Gandolf had done one fine Spring day years before. No answer came, and he let himself in, settling down in the darkest corner. Blood run from his wounds, his whole body felt heavy as lead and everything was growing dark. Fear clawed at his great heart.
It was thus that Gandolf, stopping at Bag End for reasons of his own, found him. It was a strange sight that greeted the hobbits - the man more dead than alive, and the White Rider stooped over him. Briefly, one part of the Fellowship of The Ring was reunited.
By Rose G
Discliamer: I don't own any of these, they're all Tolkien's. Anyway, it isn't worth sueing me - I'm broke again. BTW, this is my first ever piece of fanfic, so be nice. R/r PLEASE.
Aragorn walked out of Gondor the same way that years ago he had entered it. Quietly, unobtrusive and quickly. Left with a heavy heart and stinging eyes as behind him rose the wailing of the women and children for their loved ones, and the bickering of the few remaining men as they fought over his crown.
A stranger to the area would only have seen a lanky man, clad in a travel stained cloak and worn leather boots. Maybe they would have commented on his long hair and his steely grey eyes. Certainly they would have noticed his steady loping strides, and his rugged good looks. But only a very few in the world would have known that his face was pale from pain, and that he fought back tears with every regular step.
Jog, jog, jog, endless jogging that Aragorn forced himself to do simply because it hurt him, and because physical exhaustion was the only way he knew to stop the terrifying memories from creeping up on his troubled mind. The endless miles covered on foot in darkness jarred his long legs until even walking was an agony. His attempts to sleep proved fruitless, for his sweat turned chill on his skin and pain like knives jumped from his wounds. The only colour about him was his dark hair and the rich blood that seeped from his wounds. Long years had passed since Aragorn had been injured, and the fear of the unknown was heavy upon him.
Fear - fear of what was happening behind him in Minas Tirith, and what would happen to himself, for he was unable to go back to Gondor or Rivendell, drove him on, down the old path. Past the sights of the outward journey he stumbled, going through Moria in a sprint caused by terror. He found the shelter of the stone trolls, and cast himself down into a sleep that he thought he would never awaken from.
It was much later when he had the strength to move. Anduril he left behind him, too tired to lift it. Never had a Ranger, a man of the Dunedain, come creeping so pitifully into Hobbiton, as Aragorn son of Arathorn did that night, four weeks after he set out. Moving at a pathetic broken gait, he sobbed for breath even as he approached Bag End.
He tapped hesitatingly at the brightly painted door much like Gandolf had done one fine Spring day years before. No answer came, and he let himself in, settling down in the darkest corner. Blood run from his wounds, his whole body felt heavy as lead and everything was growing dark. Fear clawed at his great heart.
It was thus that Gandolf, stopping at Bag End for reasons of his own, found him. It was a strange sight that greeted the hobbits - the man more dead than alive, and the White Rider stooped over him. Briefly, one part of the Fellowship of The Ring was reunited.
