ALL ALONE CHAPTER 3
by ROSE G
Disclaimer - These ain't my characters, never have been, never will be.
Note - Mel, I apologise for doing this to your favourite character, and I'll help you with that A-Z when I get a minute. And if your initials are T.J, and you know a Rose and a Mel, and you're a Tolkien fan like us, please give us a break on the homework.
As the sun rose undimmed for the last time in Middle Earth, darkness was seeping onwards over the horse fields of Rohan, the majesty of Minas Tirith, the forbidding splendour of the Lonely Mountain and the beauty of Lothorien. And Aragorn paced the Shire even as the hobbits prepared to leave. A strange restlessness filled him, forcing him to walk ever onwards at the halting gait that would mark him for the rest of his days, short though they would be.
He was afraid now, in a way he had never been. Afraid of something that would happen whatever he did. He was bitterly afraid of his death, now it was near. The doom of man was something he had always regarded as a gift - a chance to escape Middle Earth when all had become too much for him - and now the thought filled him with dread. Yet whatever murky circles outside the span of the mortal world he was destined to tread, he would remember the Shire and the sharp taste of pipe-weed in his mouth, for he had loved them.
He shook his head as he walked, still unable to believe what he had heard Gandalf mutter last night, as he kept watch over the ranger on his last night in the Shire that he had guarded for so many years. 'Boromir....' His voice trailed away into silence, broken only by his racking cough.
Gandalf, back into position as leader, was arguing with Pippin over travel plans. 'Fool of a Took! Aragorn is dying, and the Dark Lord is massing his armies. Orcs, I am told, are marching into Gondor, and you ask if there is time to stop off at the Prancing Pony. We must hurry to Bree, for it is only there that assistance can come for Aragorn. Where is he, anyway?'
'Gone off.' Gimli growled through a large mouthful of cram. Outside, Legolas was mounting a fiery elven horse, whose chestnut coat was gleaming with the light of the sun, moon and stars captured in the hide of a living beast. Merry and Sam were waiting, complaining about the weight of their packs, and the fact that Gandalf and Aragorn would ride as they walked. The two groups, according to Gandalf would go different ways - but which, the White Rider would not say.
A girl waited at Bree, in a meeting destined since the time Aragorn had first looked at Arwen walking under the star shine at Rivendell. As old as time she seemed, with ethereal beauty that had not been seen since Luthien herself had walked the fair glades and in her eyes was wisdom greater than that possessed by Elrond. And it was for Aragorn, Telcontar, the Ranger of the Dunedain, that she waited. Aragorn, who had gifted his heart to Elrond's daughter, who had gone over sea long days since. Aragorn, upon whom the burden of saving Middle Earth was laid and who rejected the burden because he would fight on his own rather than ask for help.
Gandalf called Shadowfax to him, and the great horse whose mane and tail looked like the spray from a cascading waterfall as he moved came to him, head lifted in greeting. The group headed out, Gandalf on Shadowfax, bearing his staff and Aragorn's pack. Legolas and Gimli rode together, followed by the four hobbits walking alongside Sam's beloved Bill, who was carrying the packs.
Something, a sense of something ending made Frodo look back at Bag End, Bilbo's home before it had been his, the setting were so many dramas in the War of the Ring had been played. 'Farewell.' He whispered under his breath, as he realised that he would never see the place again.
Most of that day, they rode in the half-light that had covered the Shire since dawn. It was not a mist, nor cloud, but something so tangible that they felt they could touch it. And when they flagged, and Bill stumbled, only love of Gandalf and Aragorn carried them on, step by weary step.
Aragorn was waiting for them as they forded the Brandywine River; his grey cloak pulled over his head as he lay waiting. Darkness was seeping over him, as unstoppable as the tide of the Sea over which Arwen had gone. His sword arm, the one that had been injured in that last dreadful battle between the forces of Gondor and the first line of attack that had issued out of Minas Tirith itself, was aching, the wound touching the bone. Long had he fought in that battle, at first from Roheryn's sturdy back and then on foot when a snarling Warg had unhorsed him. And then, under cover of darkness, he had left the battlefield as a defeated, hunted leader of a beaten army. They had believed him dead in that battle, and as far as he knew, the few survivors in Gondor were still mourning for their King Elessar, Elfstone.
Gandalf looked at the ranger with pity, and realised that the only hope for both Aragorn and Middle Earth itself lay in a swift journey to Bree and the fact that the Valar themselves were taking an interest. He sighed as Aragorn rose unsteadily to his feet and leant on Shadowfax, who stood as one turned to stone. Never had he stood so patiently while war sounded in his ears, and never had his coat shone so brightly, a beacon of hope and a reminder of the days that had gone, as the darkness seeped around them.
A few minutes later, when night fell they was travelling again, Aragorn riding Shadowfax, and the hobbits jogging to keep up. The elven horse pranced, wanting to go faster, and making light of the two riders it bore. Gandalf walked beside his mighty steed, White Rider and White Horse together, and a light shone about them and Aragorn too, as they went to war to save the realms they had believed free of fear after Sauron fell.
Aragorn rode as one in a dream, for Shadowfax's gait was easy, and all fear had left him as long as Gandalf stood with him. With the sight that belonged to his race, he could see the armies invading Gondor, Minas Tirith laying burnt and a man on the outskirts of Mordor controlling the armies. A shade, a mere wraith of a man with a proud face, raven dark hair, and eyes of grey. In his control lay the Orcs, the evil Wargs, trolls and fell nameless beasts. And a werewolf, greater than the mighty beast slain by Hourn when the World was young, howled it's loathsome curse as it lay below Rohan gap. Aragorn's lips formed the words 'I trusted you' but he had no strength to speak them. Gandalf turned to him as they reached Bree, and Aragorn saw through the mist that clouded his eyes, the girl who waited for him.
The rest of the Company gathered around Gandalf, and waited. For a long moment they looked at each other, feeling the pain of leaving, and then Gandalf spoke.
'We have spent long in each other's company, yet an end is come. Middle Earth is waning - our days are almost done. Aragorn shall fight on, for that is his nature, and I shall not leave while he stands undefeated. But I can not lead you into this war, for the efforts of mortals are useless against the power of the Lord, who was once trusted by us, and who has overcame death in a way even I, Gandalf, could not. This is a war we cannot win, and yet I say to you, fight and be proud. There are still the Havens, and maybe I shall meet you there, and maybe we shall meet in battle, but I feel in my heart that it shall not be so. Fare thee well, my friends.' He walked quickly away, Shadowfax by his side and Aragorn raised a hand in farewell.
The four hobbits, Legolas, and Gimli looked at each other. Alone, confused and now leaderless, it felt to Frodo as though Gandalf had lead him into danger and then abandoned him. It was Legolas who spoke first. 'Gandalf fears the dark lord in a way he never feared Sauron. He has spoken of him, and I heard Aragorn's mutterings as he rode. I fear that I know of whom they speak, and evil it is if I guess right. I believe that the man they fear may be...'
A clear voice floated back to them on the breeze. 'Yrch!' Aragorn yelled in the elven tongue that he knew so well. A bow sung, there was a thud as of a horseman falling, and only Shadowfax's call disturbed the night. The company fell silent, and Legolas never finished his sentence.
This is two chapters more than I planned to write, and there's a couple more to come. I promise to reveal whom the Dark Lord is in the next chapter, as if you can't guess it from all those clues. It might be a while before chapter 4, because of the homework situation. Please R/r, those reviews keep me going.
by ROSE G
Disclaimer - These ain't my characters, never have been, never will be.
Note - Mel, I apologise for doing this to your favourite character, and I'll help you with that A-Z when I get a minute. And if your initials are T.J, and you know a Rose and a Mel, and you're a Tolkien fan like us, please give us a break on the homework.
As the sun rose undimmed for the last time in Middle Earth, darkness was seeping onwards over the horse fields of Rohan, the majesty of Minas Tirith, the forbidding splendour of the Lonely Mountain and the beauty of Lothorien. And Aragorn paced the Shire even as the hobbits prepared to leave. A strange restlessness filled him, forcing him to walk ever onwards at the halting gait that would mark him for the rest of his days, short though they would be.
He was afraid now, in a way he had never been. Afraid of something that would happen whatever he did. He was bitterly afraid of his death, now it was near. The doom of man was something he had always regarded as a gift - a chance to escape Middle Earth when all had become too much for him - and now the thought filled him with dread. Yet whatever murky circles outside the span of the mortal world he was destined to tread, he would remember the Shire and the sharp taste of pipe-weed in his mouth, for he had loved them.
He shook his head as he walked, still unable to believe what he had heard Gandalf mutter last night, as he kept watch over the ranger on his last night in the Shire that he had guarded for so many years. 'Boromir....' His voice trailed away into silence, broken only by his racking cough.
Gandalf, back into position as leader, was arguing with Pippin over travel plans. 'Fool of a Took! Aragorn is dying, and the Dark Lord is massing his armies. Orcs, I am told, are marching into Gondor, and you ask if there is time to stop off at the Prancing Pony. We must hurry to Bree, for it is only there that assistance can come for Aragorn. Where is he, anyway?'
'Gone off.' Gimli growled through a large mouthful of cram. Outside, Legolas was mounting a fiery elven horse, whose chestnut coat was gleaming with the light of the sun, moon and stars captured in the hide of a living beast. Merry and Sam were waiting, complaining about the weight of their packs, and the fact that Gandalf and Aragorn would ride as they walked. The two groups, according to Gandalf would go different ways - but which, the White Rider would not say.
A girl waited at Bree, in a meeting destined since the time Aragorn had first looked at Arwen walking under the star shine at Rivendell. As old as time she seemed, with ethereal beauty that had not been seen since Luthien herself had walked the fair glades and in her eyes was wisdom greater than that possessed by Elrond. And it was for Aragorn, Telcontar, the Ranger of the Dunedain, that she waited. Aragorn, who had gifted his heart to Elrond's daughter, who had gone over sea long days since. Aragorn, upon whom the burden of saving Middle Earth was laid and who rejected the burden because he would fight on his own rather than ask for help.
Gandalf called Shadowfax to him, and the great horse whose mane and tail looked like the spray from a cascading waterfall as he moved came to him, head lifted in greeting. The group headed out, Gandalf on Shadowfax, bearing his staff and Aragorn's pack. Legolas and Gimli rode together, followed by the four hobbits walking alongside Sam's beloved Bill, who was carrying the packs.
Something, a sense of something ending made Frodo look back at Bag End, Bilbo's home before it had been his, the setting were so many dramas in the War of the Ring had been played. 'Farewell.' He whispered under his breath, as he realised that he would never see the place again.
Most of that day, they rode in the half-light that had covered the Shire since dawn. It was not a mist, nor cloud, but something so tangible that they felt they could touch it. And when they flagged, and Bill stumbled, only love of Gandalf and Aragorn carried them on, step by weary step.
Aragorn was waiting for them as they forded the Brandywine River; his grey cloak pulled over his head as he lay waiting. Darkness was seeping over him, as unstoppable as the tide of the Sea over which Arwen had gone. His sword arm, the one that had been injured in that last dreadful battle between the forces of Gondor and the first line of attack that had issued out of Minas Tirith itself, was aching, the wound touching the bone. Long had he fought in that battle, at first from Roheryn's sturdy back and then on foot when a snarling Warg had unhorsed him. And then, under cover of darkness, he had left the battlefield as a defeated, hunted leader of a beaten army. They had believed him dead in that battle, and as far as he knew, the few survivors in Gondor were still mourning for their King Elessar, Elfstone.
Gandalf looked at the ranger with pity, and realised that the only hope for both Aragorn and Middle Earth itself lay in a swift journey to Bree and the fact that the Valar themselves were taking an interest. He sighed as Aragorn rose unsteadily to his feet and leant on Shadowfax, who stood as one turned to stone. Never had he stood so patiently while war sounded in his ears, and never had his coat shone so brightly, a beacon of hope and a reminder of the days that had gone, as the darkness seeped around them.
A few minutes later, when night fell they was travelling again, Aragorn riding Shadowfax, and the hobbits jogging to keep up. The elven horse pranced, wanting to go faster, and making light of the two riders it bore. Gandalf walked beside his mighty steed, White Rider and White Horse together, and a light shone about them and Aragorn too, as they went to war to save the realms they had believed free of fear after Sauron fell.
Aragorn rode as one in a dream, for Shadowfax's gait was easy, and all fear had left him as long as Gandalf stood with him. With the sight that belonged to his race, he could see the armies invading Gondor, Minas Tirith laying burnt and a man on the outskirts of Mordor controlling the armies. A shade, a mere wraith of a man with a proud face, raven dark hair, and eyes of grey. In his control lay the Orcs, the evil Wargs, trolls and fell nameless beasts. And a werewolf, greater than the mighty beast slain by Hourn when the World was young, howled it's loathsome curse as it lay below Rohan gap. Aragorn's lips formed the words 'I trusted you' but he had no strength to speak them. Gandalf turned to him as they reached Bree, and Aragorn saw through the mist that clouded his eyes, the girl who waited for him.
The rest of the Company gathered around Gandalf, and waited. For a long moment they looked at each other, feeling the pain of leaving, and then Gandalf spoke.
'We have spent long in each other's company, yet an end is come. Middle Earth is waning - our days are almost done. Aragorn shall fight on, for that is his nature, and I shall not leave while he stands undefeated. But I can not lead you into this war, for the efforts of mortals are useless against the power of the Lord, who was once trusted by us, and who has overcame death in a way even I, Gandalf, could not. This is a war we cannot win, and yet I say to you, fight and be proud. There are still the Havens, and maybe I shall meet you there, and maybe we shall meet in battle, but I feel in my heart that it shall not be so. Fare thee well, my friends.' He walked quickly away, Shadowfax by his side and Aragorn raised a hand in farewell.
The four hobbits, Legolas, and Gimli looked at each other. Alone, confused and now leaderless, it felt to Frodo as though Gandalf had lead him into danger and then abandoned him. It was Legolas who spoke first. 'Gandalf fears the dark lord in a way he never feared Sauron. He has spoken of him, and I heard Aragorn's mutterings as he rode. I fear that I know of whom they speak, and evil it is if I guess right. I believe that the man they fear may be...'
A clear voice floated back to them on the breeze. 'Yrch!' Aragorn yelled in the elven tongue that he knew so well. A bow sung, there was a thud as of a horseman falling, and only Shadowfax's call disturbed the night. The company fell silent, and Legolas never finished his sentence.
This is two chapters more than I planned to write, and there's a couple more to come. I promise to reveal whom the Dark Lord is in the next chapter, as if you can't guess it from all those clues. It might be a while before chapter 4, because of the homework situation. Please R/r, those reviews keep me going.
