The River's Claim
Written by: Angeli
Author's Note: Like I said, I don't really want to call this a sequel, because that's really not what it is. I could call it a follow-up, but it's more like a second part, or an event that took place later. But I'll just call this the follow-up to "My Heart Shall Weep." It's really not necessary to have read "My Heart Shall Weep," although it may make this story a little easier to understand. This one takes place upon the fields of Rohan, just after Aragorn fell off the cliff and into the river. This may not be as well-written as I would have liked, but I gave it a shot. It's probably a bit on the dramatic side, but I feel that it really needs to be that way. Constructive criticism is welcome. A very huge thanks goes to Mickie for giving me the idea behind this story!
Disclaimer: All belongs to Tolkien. Story is mine.
~*~
He fell.
Pain. It strikes me like pins being thrust into my heart slowly, one after the other.
Fell. He fell.
Please, not again.
I gripped that bloody orc's collar until my knuckles were white and burning, and I felt strength enough in my fingers to rip it away, though I could feel my fingertips aching to travel to his slimy neck. For the words that were spit with blood from his mouth, he did not deserve the eased passing the Dwarf had promised him.
"He's dead."
The words rang mockingly in my ears with his terrible, raspy voice.
"Took a little tumble over the cliff."
"You LIE!" I spat with a growing anger that would not be contained.
Blood the color of night was spilling over his lips and staining his horrible yellow teeth. With each laugh that spilled from those lips my rage escalated further. My eyes blazed with its fire. My hands were hot with its fury. Adrenaline began to flow freely through my veins. But before I could inflict the terrible anger building up within me, my victim's eyes rolled back and his head slumped. His breathing stopped. I was about to drop him when my eyes slipped down to his wretched hand and saw that there was a small object held within it. Opening his limp fingers, I found the beautiful Evenstar hidden in his palm. My anger burned anew to see such beauty tainted by the grip of a hideous monster, yet as I took the necklace from him, my grief deepened, for now I realized that orc had spoken truth. Aragorn had fallen.
Death was all around me now, everywhere in this field and everywhere in my memory, staining the purity of what once had only been memories of happiness. Still I struggle to understand this grief, though now I have tasted more than my share. Confusion had before tormented me with death played out before my very eyes, when Gandalf descended into Moria; when Boromir lay bleeding among the fallen leaves at Amon Hen; when we were almost certain the two hobbits had been slain and burned among the bodies of Saruman's terrible monsters. It was everywhere; there was no escape from it. The very hand of death crawled through all that was innocent and beautiful in this world, ripping all from the trembling hands of the living. Even in the darkest of my nightmares I would be willing to seek refuge from this Black Thief and its wanderings.
Perhaps I did not understand grief. Indeed, I was perplexed by it. But I could feel it. I did not have to understand it to feel it. Nor did I have to understand it to know the anger and hatred it drove me to experiencing.
I did not have to understand it to fear it.
In but a breath of a moment I moved to the edge of the cliff. I found myself peering disbelievingly over the rock, as if by the light of a miracle I would him climbing back up. Yet no, no, I could see only the rushing waters below. Or was that swirling water merely tears swelling in my eyes? I could not tell the difference.
He fell.
Horror began twisting its way through my features. The bitter darkness of that reality tore at my heart. Not him. Not here. Not now. Not this.
I watched the white water of the river as it collided with the rock walls surrounding it, and suddenly I could feel the torrent of that water rushing over my own body. The river that claimed my King's life now claimed the light of my heart, and I could feel it beginning to break.
"I was not meant for this! Not this. I was not created to bear this!"
"But it was your decision." My decision.
I felt a presence at my side, and out of the corner of my eye I could see the regal face of Théoden following my gaze to the water below. Vaguely I heard him murmuring instructions to one of his soldiers, and I paid him little heed until four words passed my ears that echoing terribly through my mind.
"Leave the dead behind."
My eyes were on him the moment the final word left his lips, burning questions into his soul with the blaze of a glare. He held my gaze, and I could feel him searching the depths of the Elven confusion, anger, and fear that swirled in furious rivers in my eyes.
You would leave him? Leave him behind? He is not dead!
He fell.
He is not dead!
How could he survive?
Aragorn is too strong.
And losing that strength is a grievous tragedy.
How can you leave him?
How can you stay?
He is not dead.
He fell.
He is NOT DEAD!
Théoden turned from me then, placing a firm hand on my shoulder in a dismissing act of pity I did not need. With what flames of passion I had left within me, I screamed to the field of Rohan, to the hills of Gondor, to the very farthest reaches of Middle Earth without ever letting a whisper of sound depart from my lips.
I was not made for this. I was not made to despair.
I was made to hope.
So as I turned my back upon the river that had swallowed my King, I found the strength left to smile a frightened, anger, hopeful smile. I clutched the precious Evenstar to my palm, feeling its metallic chain tighten around my fingers.
I did not have to understand grief to fear it.
But I was made to hope.
~*~
End.
Written by: Angeli
Author's Note: Like I said, I don't really want to call this a sequel, because that's really not what it is. I could call it a follow-up, but it's more like a second part, or an event that took place later. But I'll just call this the follow-up to "My Heart Shall Weep." It's really not necessary to have read "My Heart Shall Weep," although it may make this story a little easier to understand. This one takes place upon the fields of Rohan, just after Aragorn fell off the cliff and into the river. This may not be as well-written as I would have liked, but I gave it a shot. It's probably a bit on the dramatic side, but I feel that it really needs to be that way. Constructive criticism is welcome. A very huge thanks goes to Mickie for giving me the idea behind this story!
Disclaimer: All belongs to Tolkien. Story is mine.
~*~
He fell.
Pain. It strikes me like pins being thrust into my heart slowly, one after the other.
Fell. He fell.
Please, not again.
I gripped that bloody orc's collar until my knuckles were white and burning, and I felt strength enough in my fingers to rip it away, though I could feel my fingertips aching to travel to his slimy neck. For the words that were spit with blood from his mouth, he did not deserve the eased passing the Dwarf had promised him.
"He's dead."
The words rang mockingly in my ears with his terrible, raspy voice.
"Took a little tumble over the cliff."
"You LIE!" I spat with a growing anger that would not be contained.
Blood the color of night was spilling over his lips and staining his horrible yellow teeth. With each laugh that spilled from those lips my rage escalated further. My eyes blazed with its fire. My hands were hot with its fury. Adrenaline began to flow freely through my veins. But before I could inflict the terrible anger building up within me, my victim's eyes rolled back and his head slumped. His breathing stopped. I was about to drop him when my eyes slipped down to his wretched hand and saw that there was a small object held within it. Opening his limp fingers, I found the beautiful Evenstar hidden in his palm. My anger burned anew to see such beauty tainted by the grip of a hideous monster, yet as I took the necklace from him, my grief deepened, for now I realized that orc had spoken truth. Aragorn had fallen.
Death was all around me now, everywhere in this field and everywhere in my memory, staining the purity of what once had only been memories of happiness. Still I struggle to understand this grief, though now I have tasted more than my share. Confusion had before tormented me with death played out before my very eyes, when Gandalf descended into Moria; when Boromir lay bleeding among the fallen leaves at Amon Hen; when we were almost certain the two hobbits had been slain and burned among the bodies of Saruman's terrible monsters. It was everywhere; there was no escape from it. The very hand of death crawled through all that was innocent and beautiful in this world, ripping all from the trembling hands of the living. Even in the darkest of my nightmares I would be willing to seek refuge from this Black Thief and its wanderings.
Perhaps I did not understand grief. Indeed, I was perplexed by it. But I could feel it. I did not have to understand it to feel it. Nor did I have to understand it to know the anger and hatred it drove me to experiencing.
I did not have to understand it to fear it.
In but a breath of a moment I moved to the edge of the cliff. I found myself peering disbelievingly over the rock, as if by the light of a miracle I would him climbing back up. Yet no, no, I could see only the rushing waters below. Or was that swirling water merely tears swelling in my eyes? I could not tell the difference.
He fell.
Horror began twisting its way through my features. The bitter darkness of that reality tore at my heart. Not him. Not here. Not now. Not this.
I watched the white water of the river as it collided with the rock walls surrounding it, and suddenly I could feel the torrent of that water rushing over my own body. The river that claimed my King's life now claimed the light of my heart, and I could feel it beginning to break.
"I was not meant for this! Not this. I was not created to bear this!"
"But it was your decision." My decision.
I felt a presence at my side, and out of the corner of my eye I could see the regal face of Théoden following my gaze to the water below. Vaguely I heard him murmuring instructions to one of his soldiers, and I paid him little heed until four words passed my ears that echoing terribly through my mind.
"Leave the dead behind."
My eyes were on him the moment the final word left his lips, burning questions into his soul with the blaze of a glare. He held my gaze, and I could feel him searching the depths of the Elven confusion, anger, and fear that swirled in furious rivers in my eyes.
You would leave him? Leave him behind? He is not dead!
He fell.
He is not dead!
How could he survive?
Aragorn is too strong.
And losing that strength is a grievous tragedy.
How can you leave him?
How can you stay?
He is not dead.
He fell.
He is NOT DEAD!
Théoden turned from me then, placing a firm hand on my shoulder in a dismissing act of pity I did not need. With what flames of passion I had left within me, I screamed to the field of Rohan, to the hills of Gondor, to the very farthest reaches of Middle Earth without ever letting a whisper of sound depart from my lips.
I was not made for this. I was not made to despair.
I was made to hope.
So as I turned my back upon the river that had swallowed my King, I found the strength left to smile a frightened, anger, hopeful smile. I clutched the precious Evenstar to my palm, feeling its metallic chain tighten around my fingers.
I did not have to understand grief to fear it.
But I was made to hope.
~*~
End.