Aragorn cast his eyes to the sky above, still with the haunted look that had occupied them throughout the journey. Knowing that this was the right thing to do, that this was what he had to do, didn't make it any easier. That it was the lesser of two evils made it no less evil in itself, and Aragorn was fully aware of this. Gimli had tried in his blunt Dwarvish way to cheer the King up, but it had worked little. Aragorn's spirits had only been slightly raised when Legolas had drawn him apart and spoken to him gently about having to chose the lesser of two evils, much like Legolas himself had been forced to chose destroying the Ring above the good of his people.
The company drew up, Aragorn led them, with a vanguard of the cream of Elven and Dwarvish warriors, all clad in the colours of Gondor. Behind them followed a large army made up of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth and more besides. Some Elves had not yet left for the Grey Havens, and they had been gathered under the standard of Haldir, Guardian of the Golden Wood before Galadriel and Celeborn left. The Wood-Elf pledged willingly the service of him and his followers to protect Middle Earth at all costs, that when the elves had all departed and long been forgotten, one tale might speak about their last stand against this mysterious foe. The Dwarvish armies had been stirred into helping by the persuasive words of Gimli; the men had all gladly sworn to serve the King and lay down their lives to save the future. Upon hearing of the plight, Merry and Pippin, the Hobbits of the Shire, had offered to lead a Hobbit army to serve Aragorn; fighting to keep a straight face, Aragorn had thanked them graciously but insisted that Hobbits far from home would not be happy, and that he could not bear to see such a sweet race suffer. Looking over the force, he was glad of this- no one should be forced to suffer this, let alone the Halflings.
Oft had Aragorn wished that Gandalf had not passed from Middle Earth to the Havens when the Ring had been destroyed. Gandalf had insisted that his time was over, the Fourth Age was not his time- yet Aragorn missed his wisdom and his friendship. Running his hands through his hair, Aragorn contemplated that he would be much surer of his decision had Gandalf been there to show approval. Or his Elf-Father, Lord Elrond. All he had left was Arwen, for whom he did not let a day go past without mourning for the immortality she left behind for him.
Shaking his head, Aragorn dispersed the thoughts that would drag him into melancholy and focussed on what he had to do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Marcus shivered and pulled his blankets around him yet further. In the dark of the night his eyes could still see shapes moving around him- human, yes, human shapes, not that it meant anything in these days of woe. He could hear the low noises that formed the background noise he was gradually getting used to. In his days as a businessman in downtown London he has never imagined a worse sound than constant traffic noise, but the ceaseless sounds of human suffering he heard now had proved him wrong. One of the shapes moved closer to him, muttering under it's breath as it approached. When it got near, Marcus raised his head and shouting loudly at the shape, which squealed and fled slowly, yet not before he had caught sight of what it was. Indeed, it was human, or had been until the Attacks which had doomed most of mankind. It had been a woman, a bright person who probably had had a good life for herself before the end of everything. Now she looked inhuman, a sight from beyond the grave- limp blond hair framed a face dominated by burns and sores from poisoning and a desperate struggle to survive. Blind pupils stared out desperately at nothing, at a vision that only she could see and escape to. Her hands were knurled, her back bend double and she dragged her leg behind her in a grotesque parody of walking. Whispering a song to herself she left him alone, some of the other shapes leaving with her in what he supposed was a social group. He shook his head in pity for them.
Shifting position, Marcus coughed violently, tasting the bitter blood in his mouth and on his dry, cracked lips. His joints screamed at being forced to move, his head swap with the motion long after he was forced to stop by the rebellion of his flesh. He settled down in his position for the night, thinking before he fell under how pretty the colours swimming before his eyes were- he has almost forgotten beauty, yet strangely he recognised it when it came before him. Curled around a small bundle of food his raspy breathing settled into a regular pattern as he gave himself up to the sweet oblivion of sleep. Almost silently, the woman crept up near him, listening intently to his breaths as they went in and out. A small smile crept over her worn face as she heard the note of them change slightly, then as they faded. The man gave himself not only to the oblivion of sleep but to the oblivion of death; the only difference a small trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, and a smoothing of the suffering lines around his face. The woman roughly tore the food package from under him and ran.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
OK, that bit had nothing to do with Middle Earth or LotR yet, but it lays the background for the rest of the story, yeah? It's midnight now, so I'm not going to even think about starting the next chapter.....
The company drew up, Aragorn led them, with a vanguard of the cream of Elven and Dwarvish warriors, all clad in the colours of Gondor. Behind them followed a large army made up of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth and more besides. Some Elves had not yet left for the Grey Havens, and they had been gathered under the standard of Haldir, Guardian of the Golden Wood before Galadriel and Celeborn left. The Wood-Elf pledged willingly the service of him and his followers to protect Middle Earth at all costs, that when the elves had all departed and long been forgotten, one tale might speak about their last stand against this mysterious foe. The Dwarvish armies had been stirred into helping by the persuasive words of Gimli; the men had all gladly sworn to serve the King and lay down their lives to save the future. Upon hearing of the plight, Merry and Pippin, the Hobbits of the Shire, had offered to lead a Hobbit army to serve Aragorn; fighting to keep a straight face, Aragorn had thanked them graciously but insisted that Hobbits far from home would not be happy, and that he could not bear to see such a sweet race suffer. Looking over the force, he was glad of this- no one should be forced to suffer this, let alone the Halflings.
Oft had Aragorn wished that Gandalf had not passed from Middle Earth to the Havens when the Ring had been destroyed. Gandalf had insisted that his time was over, the Fourth Age was not his time- yet Aragorn missed his wisdom and his friendship. Running his hands through his hair, Aragorn contemplated that he would be much surer of his decision had Gandalf been there to show approval. Or his Elf-Father, Lord Elrond. All he had left was Arwen, for whom he did not let a day go past without mourning for the immortality she left behind for him.
Shaking his head, Aragorn dispersed the thoughts that would drag him into melancholy and focussed on what he had to do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Marcus shivered and pulled his blankets around him yet further. In the dark of the night his eyes could still see shapes moving around him- human, yes, human shapes, not that it meant anything in these days of woe. He could hear the low noises that formed the background noise he was gradually getting used to. In his days as a businessman in downtown London he has never imagined a worse sound than constant traffic noise, but the ceaseless sounds of human suffering he heard now had proved him wrong. One of the shapes moved closer to him, muttering under it's breath as it approached. When it got near, Marcus raised his head and shouting loudly at the shape, which squealed and fled slowly, yet not before he had caught sight of what it was. Indeed, it was human, or had been until the Attacks which had doomed most of mankind. It had been a woman, a bright person who probably had had a good life for herself before the end of everything. Now she looked inhuman, a sight from beyond the grave- limp blond hair framed a face dominated by burns and sores from poisoning and a desperate struggle to survive. Blind pupils stared out desperately at nothing, at a vision that only she could see and escape to. Her hands were knurled, her back bend double and she dragged her leg behind her in a grotesque parody of walking. Whispering a song to herself she left him alone, some of the other shapes leaving with her in what he supposed was a social group. He shook his head in pity for them.
Shifting position, Marcus coughed violently, tasting the bitter blood in his mouth and on his dry, cracked lips. His joints screamed at being forced to move, his head swap with the motion long after he was forced to stop by the rebellion of his flesh. He settled down in his position for the night, thinking before he fell under how pretty the colours swimming before his eyes were- he has almost forgotten beauty, yet strangely he recognised it when it came before him. Curled around a small bundle of food his raspy breathing settled into a regular pattern as he gave himself up to the sweet oblivion of sleep. Almost silently, the woman crept up near him, listening intently to his breaths as they went in and out. A small smile crept over her worn face as she heard the note of them change slightly, then as they faded. The man gave himself not only to the oblivion of sleep but to the oblivion of death; the only difference a small trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, and a smoothing of the suffering lines around his face. The woman roughly tore the food package from under him and ran.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
OK, that bit had nothing to do with Middle Earth or LotR yet, but it lays the background for the rest of the story, yeah? It's midnight now, so I'm not going to even think about starting the next chapter.....