Authors ~ Halo Son and Bill the Pony
Disclaimer ~ Bill and I do NOT own LOTR (which is a major bummer really…I think most of the world wishes they owned them…) and we do NOT own Dragon Heart or the principle for it either.
Rating ~ PG
Authors' Notes ~ Halo: Look everyone! We have been good! We are now posting chappie 2!
Bill: YAY! Reviews! Lots and lots of reviews!
Halo: Um Bill…do you think it may be a good idea to run away very, very quickly now?
Bill: *blinks*
Halo: Remember how this chappie ends?
Bill: Yeah…oh…*runs*
Halo: ACK! Wait for me! *Runs after Bill*
Summary ~ A LOTR story with a twist from the film Dragon Heart. When Aragorn is wounded saving Legolas his only chance to live is to accept an offer from a dragon, but what are the consequences of his decision? When the King starts acting unlike himself, will anyone defy or go against him for the good of Gondor and its people?
The Lord Of The Rings
Dragon Heart
Chapter 2-One Too Many Mistakes
The light of the sun was not destined to be their ally this night. It sunk from sight the moment Roheryn's hoof first touched the cooling earth. In all of their hearts, it struck an ill foreboding.
It was as the company passed in a small procession beneath the white arch that the last hints of the sun's glow died entirely, and with that little comfort died their high spirits. None felt this quite as keenly as the prince of Eryn Lasgalen and one of the noble lords of Ithilien. A chord had changed to a minor in the undying song of Ilúvitar, dampening the joy and bliss he had just shared in a merry reunion with friends from all reaches.
Roheryn's ears pricked forward, his nostrils flaring as he tested the night breeze. Aragorn patted the silky black neck, stilling the horse's nervous fidgeting as the wind picked up, rustling hair, mane, and the long grasses of the plains. Something in the cool air tingled in all the four-legged beasts an anxious shiver, a faint smell of sour malice.
"Friend, do you not think that in time they will settle their petty dispute? We can depart in the morning if yet there is ill will among them," Faramir spoke at Elessar's shoulder. His concern was not well guised. His light azure eyes narrowed as he stared out tot he shadowed road. "Or allow a number of your men to go out so you may remain behind and spend time with your family. In my business visits I have seen that you spare far too little time."
Aragorn nudged Roheryn into a jog, signalling the others to do likewise. "Waiting would only lead to more blood shed."
Faramir kept pace beside him. "Then allow that number to depart now, if that will so ease your heart and that will leave you to tend to more pressing matters."
"You do not call a village threatening to massacre each other a 'pressing matter'?"
The Dúnadan shook his head, his hand tightening around the reins. "Nay, Aragorn, but must I remind you that you are no longer a Ranger, but a king? You cannot risk yourself as you did before."
"Faramir is right, friend." Legolas said from where he rode beside the king. There was a knowing twinkle in the elf's eye. He remembered all too well the adventures he had shared and heard tell of by way of the elven twins from Imladris. Then the elf's tone turned grave, his sharp gaze seeking out the cause of the unease stirring in him. "Something feels, off. There is a warning in my heart that things will go ill this night."
Aragorn had heard quite enough. He had learned to have a long-suffering patience after he had taken up his duty as king, but there were yet things that he would not do. One of which was to sit idle. Why must being a king change so much, did they really expect him to remain the picture on the hall, or the statue in the courtyard to which the people looked to for protection while his men and friends did the real labour?
He raised a hand, silencing Faramir's next attempt to convince him otherwise than what he had decided. "I am a king, yes, but I am still a Ranger. No rank or blood can change that," he said strongly.
"But Aragorn," Gimli began clinging to Legolas's slender waist from where he sat behind the elf upon Arod. "Do you find it so insufferable to use some thread of caution as to…"
Roheryn halted at his master's bidding, the few men following progressively reining their mounts in at the abrupt stop. A spark of impatience ignited in Aragorn's eye, one that Gimli had seen before. "Do not turn on me as well Gimli, it seems I have enough mothers to hound me already."
The dwarf of Erebor posted his callused hands on his stout thighs, feeling for the time seated enough as they had stopped their forward motion. "You are mistaken, Aragorn. I do not turn against you, neither do I seek to mother you, none of us are. Goodness knows, man," Gimli chuckled deeply with a throaty grumble, "that would be a hopeless cause for anyone, save of course the Lady Arwen. But hear me now, we seek only to give you counsel, counsel that sounds quite sound in my aged logic." The dwarf tugged a bushy strand of greying beard.
Aragorn lowered his voice to a condescending tone, too low for the other men, save for Legolas, Faramir and Gimli, to hear. "Since when did the dwarves give sound counsel? We waste precious time in pointless discourse while men threaten to cut each other's throats! I will not sit in a cushioned chair and leave the protection of my people to others." The king took a breath, turning away from his friends. When next e spoke, his voice was controlled and cool as a winter breeze. "I have taken your counsel, I have thought on it, and I have chosen against it."
Wordlessly, Aragorn nudged his black horse into a swift canter from a standstill. The king left no room to be questioned. His posture was ridged, and if his companions could have seen his face, they might have mistaken it for an imaged of a warrior carved in stone.
Faramir's brow tightened as the king's chosen riders passed around them like the streams water flowing around a solitary stone. "He is a good king, Legolas my friend, but it is said that an old horse is hard to re-train to a new discipline."
The elf beside him laughed sadly. "I do not think that Kind Éomer would so readily agree with your analogy." He patted Arod's neck, the horse fidgeted beneath the elf and the dwarf, eager not to be left behind. "I think that 'Once a Ranger, always a Ranger' may be more fitting."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Torches lit the night, flickering and licking hungrily at the darkness. The orange light danced across scowling faces, deepening every scowl and snarl. Women hugged their children to their breasts, huddled in the doorways of their huts, watching with wide eyes as the their men folk's heated tempers clashed. How had it come to this, why must their husbands and firstborn sons threaten their brothers over earth? Dirt! Were they really willing to destroy each other over dirt?
The men were divided, a strip of earth five feet wide acting as an invisible wall. But walls did nothing to repel bitter words. Heavy ash staves and curved sickles were thrust in the air, emphasising both threat and oath. Blood boiled, and it seemed that that crimson gift would be spilled upon the earth they fought and quarrelled over all too soon.
It was at the swell of this battle of wills where words were ready to break way to steel that the king and his company mounted the knoll overlooking the settlement. The women folk gasped, hands clamped to their mouths in both fear and relief. Their king was a just man, noble and fair in his ways. But children still feared the rod of discipline that no mindful parent would spare, even if they knew and believed firmly that it was out of love. Wives and sisters, mothers and daughters all feared for their loved ones, what would their king do? They had not expected for word to reach the city of the drama in the village, neither had they ever dreamed that the king, himself, would ride out to settle the matter!
Seated straight in the saddle, his shoulders pushed back and his head held high, Aragorn rode forth from the hill, descending into the settlement with Faramir, the Steward of Gondor on his left and Legolas and Gimli on his right. The captain of the king's guard rode behind them, leading his riders. Even small in number as they were, they struck a powerful sight, but not powerful enough to dismay the anger of the men.
Roheryn ducked his broad head as Aragorn sat back in the saddle, pulling to a halt. "Word of your troubles have reached my ears, fellow men of Gondor. What is it that divides you so?" said Aragorn.
The men backed a step, looking to each other in collective unease. Each one waited for another to speak and answer their king. It was a man of many seasons that stepped forward for one side. He bore many scars and his skin leathery from long hours of toiling in the path of the sun. But his eye, the one he still had, was bright with spirit. The man bent a knee stiffly, out of respect to his king. "They, the men of the south fields I mean, are claiming our land as their own to harvest. They say that it is theirs and we have no right to it."
"What is your name, friend?" Aragorn asked, leaning on the cantle of the saddle.
"I am Halden, sire, and I have long protected the people of this village. It is my duty to see that they are not taken advantage of as these scroungers seek to do." The man named now known as Halden, cast his single eye on the men to his left after rising.
There was an ill-favoured growl that rumbled from the throat of a comparatively young and wild haired man of the opposing side. "You lie, son of scum! We are neither scroungers nor plunderers. We seek only to take back what is ours. Generations have my family farmed the land you now waste yourself upon, Halden. Before even you were born, was this earth ours!"
Aragorn straightened, his heart was not turned to favour this quick tongued youth, but it was his duty to hear both sides. "Pray tell then, lad, what do you call yourself?"
"I am called Krisk, and it is my duty to see that my people are given their dues and not cheated by these thieves! I must be sharp as my name so dubs me if I am to see through this man's lies," said Krisk.
"Krisk," repeated Aragorn. "It is a fitting name, but I think that is not so much as to do with your mind as it pertains to your tongue." It was a gentle reprimand, but served only to ruffle the feathers of the young hawk all the more. Aragorn saw this, and he was grieved to see so much spirit wasted in such a greedy and overzealous mind. "You each claim to own this land, and you each claim to name it in your people's name. But I wonder, which one of you really means this?"
Halden tipped his head in respect as Aragorn met his one eye. "Lord, these men are mongers for blood, I have seen it before. They wish only for this good tilled earth to spoil with their foul attempts for farming. They see our plenty and want it for their own!"
Krisk cried in rage, his sword shrieking from its scabbard. The sword was old and scarred by irresponsible use, as was its sheath. Clearly, Krisk knew little of how to care for his weapons. It was either that, or he was too lazy to do so. "Halden, you serpent! I would have your head mounted on a spear if I had my way!"
Beside Aragorn, Faramir, Legolas and Aragorn tensed along with the king's guards. Hands tightened on hilts. Faramir raised a hand slightly then lowered it slowly and by the tilt of his head he motioned the men to remove their hands from their weapons. They tread at the edge of a weakened cliff as it was, drawing steel now would be as inviting a herd of oliphaunts to join them for a picnic on that ledge.
Halden did not speak; he was a shrewd man. Faramir could see this. Krisk, in his foolish impudence, proved Halden's point clearer than any words he could say. The men on Krisk's side began to jeer and shout again, swords were drawn and old knives were brandished against the ash staves and sickles of the farmer villagers.
What was the spark that ignited the bloodlust of Krisk's men, Aragorn was never sure. There was only a harsh cry, then a scream, and then silence. Dead silence. A villager fell. Krisk's bloodied blade glistened in the flickering light of the torches. "You have gone too far, vile creature!" cried Halden, his stern expression replaced by the face of one who had lost one of his own family to the hands of a beast, a beast who had known full well what it had done.
Aragorn mirrored Halden's expression. At a word from his Steward, guards dismounted ready to seize the man who had committed this murder. But fate was against them. Krisk had chosen his followers well, too well. They did not back when the king's men approached, in fact, it was much the opposite. Swords were drawn, challenging anyone to dare and take their leader. But it would prove that Aragorn and his friends would not be alone in the struggle that was eminent. Halden's folk brandished their staves and harvesting tools, few of them carried arms.
"Lay down your weapon, Krisk, I command you as your king. It is either that, or death." Aragorn said, the Flame of the West gripped tightly in one hand. Legolas beside him had his bow drawn taught, an arrow aimed at Krisk's throat.
Krisk's lips curled, his sword arm raised. "Then I will die," his arm dropped. He ducked suddenly just as the elf's arrow left his bow. The arrow buried itself in the next approaching man's neck that was haplessly behind his leader. The calm before the storm had broken. The numbers of Krisk's men outnumbered even their small force joined with Halden's folk. But the mounted men counted as two, horse and man combined.
Joining the screams of the slain men, were the anguished cries of women and children. There were a few, the brave few, that picked up whatever tool they could find and joined the fight alongside their loved ones. Many of these were slain or wounded little after they had entered the fray. Krisk's men had no mercy, they gave no quarter whether they fought men, women or mere babes. Gimli had slid from Arod's back the moment the first sword was drawn. Using the blunt head of his axe, he delivered great blows that knocked both wind, and ribs out of position.
The folk of the village stayed by their king. Staff and dagger finding flesh, but not without a mortal price to many of the loyal few. How was it that it had come to this? Aragorn was grieved beyond measure to see his own people killing each other over land. But his grief would have turned to rage if his eyes had not been so quick. A man cloaked in dark raiment stood from where he had been concealed crouched on the hillside behind a rock. In his hands he held a bow, and arrow on the string. It was aimed at the unsuspecting back of one of his dearest friends.
"Legolas! Move, get out of the way!"
The elf turned slightly, catching the faint sound of his voice over the clatter and screams of the enraged men. But even to his keen hearing, he could not tell the words said. Aragorn looked back, the archer had drawn the string taught. He had no other choice. Digging his heels uncommonly hard into Roheryn's sides, he charged both over friend and foe, one thought on his mind prevailing over all else.
From his position on the knoll, the archer's eyes widened. It was too late to catch the arrow now flying free, hissing savagely towards its target. But there was an obstruction that would wreck havoc.
Something was wrong, something was terribly wrong. All the warning Legolas had felt had thus far been nameless whispers, but now they shrieked to be heard. The air tightened 'round him, choking both breath and thought. He gasped, fighting against the sudden cloud that enveloped his mind. Legolas twisted in his seat, looking back to where Aragorn had last been, instinctively.
Horror struck his heart, paralysing him.
Aragorn was falling. His friend was falling from Roheryn's back. He need to move, needed to catch his friend before he fell. He couldn't let him fall! Dreamlike, he slid from Arod's back, stumbling and striking down any that hindered him. Light feet carried him over bloodied earth, but not even with the wings of the Eagle Lord could he reach him in time. There was no sound. The drama playing before pewter eyes was mute save for his own harsh breathing. Red stained a vision of black and grey, glaring and painfully stunning.
Amidst the blur and undefined frenzy of chaotic battle, sharp and clear as a spring sky after a heavy rain, lay the king of Gondor and Arnor, Strider, Ranger of the North, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Estel, brother of the heart to Legolas. Death could almost be seen hovering behind the fallen man.
Finally his voice returned to him, it was used for nothing but crying his friends name as he fell to his knees beside the body. An arrow, viciously built and crudely crafted protruded from the king's back. "Aragorn," he cried softly, his crystalline eyes darkening a shade. Legolas gathered his friend in his arms gently, wordlessly begging him to open his eyes and tell him he was fine and it was all nothing but a sick joke.
All movement ceased, farmer folk and intruder alike stopped, their arms lowering as they looked to the pair. Faramir had taken the distraction, the king's guard - for all the good they did him - and the villagers in a rage fell upon Krisk's followers, slaying many, lying their wrath and grief upon them without mercy. It was Gimli who at last slayed the fleeing coward, Krisk. But all was in vain, the blood that was spilled that night did nothing to bring back the fleeting beats of Aragorn's heart. Not even Legolas's broken pleas could coax his friend's eyes to open.
Not even the blood-curdling roar, that threatened to deafen all ears, could rouse the king. All eyes turned heavenward, lips parted, some uttered prayers, some cursed, many screamed. What it was, no one was sure at first, but some afterwards named it as fire born on the wings of the deep.
TBC…
Disclaimer ~ Bill and I do NOT own LOTR (which is a major bummer really…I think most of the world wishes they owned them…) and we do NOT own Dragon Heart or the principle for it either.
Rating ~ PG
Authors' Notes ~ Halo: Look everyone! We have been good! We are now posting chappie 2!
Bill: YAY! Reviews! Lots and lots of reviews!
Halo: Um Bill…do you think it may be a good idea to run away very, very quickly now?
Bill: *blinks*
Halo: Remember how this chappie ends?
Bill: Yeah…oh…*runs*
Halo: ACK! Wait for me! *Runs after Bill*
Summary ~ A LOTR story with a twist from the film Dragon Heart. When Aragorn is wounded saving Legolas his only chance to live is to accept an offer from a dragon, but what are the consequences of his decision? When the King starts acting unlike himself, will anyone defy or go against him for the good of Gondor and its people?
The Lord Of The Rings
Dragon Heart
Chapter 2-One Too Many Mistakes
The light of the sun was not destined to be their ally this night. It sunk from sight the moment Roheryn's hoof first touched the cooling earth. In all of their hearts, it struck an ill foreboding.
It was as the company passed in a small procession beneath the white arch that the last hints of the sun's glow died entirely, and with that little comfort died their high spirits. None felt this quite as keenly as the prince of Eryn Lasgalen and one of the noble lords of Ithilien. A chord had changed to a minor in the undying song of Ilúvitar, dampening the joy and bliss he had just shared in a merry reunion with friends from all reaches.
Roheryn's ears pricked forward, his nostrils flaring as he tested the night breeze. Aragorn patted the silky black neck, stilling the horse's nervous fidgeting as the wind picked up, rustling hair, mane, and the long grasses of the plains. Something in the cool air tingled in all the four-legged beasts an anxious shiver, a faint smell of sour malice.
"Friend, do you not think that in time they will settle their petty dispute? We can depart in the morning if yet there is ill will among them," Faramir spoke at Elessar's shoulder. His concern was not well guised. His light azure eyes narrowed as he stared out tot he shadowed road. "Or allow a number of your men to go out so you may remain behind and spend time with your family. In my business visits I have seen that you spare far too little time."
Aragorn nudged Roheryn into a jog, signalling the others to do likewise. "Waiting would only lead to more blood shed."
Faramir kept pace beside him. "Then allow that number to depart now, if that will so ease your heart and that will leave you to tend to more pressing matters."
"You do not call a village threatening to massacre each other a 'pressing matter'?"
The Dúnadan shook his head, his hand tightening around the reins. "Nay, Aragorn, but must I remind you that you are no longer a Ranger, but a king? You cannot risk yourself as you did before."
"Faramir is right, friend." Legolas said from where he rode beside the king. There was a knowing twinkle in the elf's eye. He remembered all too well the adventures he had shared and heard tell of by way of the elven twins from Imladris. Then the elf's tone turned grave, his sharp gaze seeking out the cause of the unease stirring in him. "Something feels, off. There is a warning in my heart that things will go ill this night."
Aragorn had heard quite enough. He had learned to have a long-suffering patience after he had taken up his duty as king, but there were yet things that he would not do. One of which was to sit idle. Why must being a king change so much, did they really expect him to remain the picture on the hall, or the statue in the courtyard to which the people looked to for protection while his men and friends did the real labour?
He raised a hand, silencing Faramir's next attempt to convince him otherwise than what he had decided. "I am a king, yes, but I am still a Ranger. No rank or blood can change that," he said strongly.
"But Aragorn," Gimli began clinging to Legolas's slender waist from where he sat behind the elf upon Arod. "Do you find it so insufferable to use some thread of caution as to…"
Roheryn halted at his master's bidding, the few men following progressively reining their mounts in at the abrupt stop. A spark of impatience ignited in Aragorn's eye, one that Gimli had seen before. "Do not turn on me as well Gimli, it seems I have enough mothers to hound me already."
The dwarf of Erebor posted his callused hands on his stout thighs, feeling for the time seated enough as they had stopped their forward motion. "You are mistaken, Aragorn. I do not turn against you, neither do I seek to mother you, none of us are. Goodness knows, man," Gimli chuckled deeply with a throaty grumble, "that would be a hopeless cause for anyone, save of course the Lady Arwen. But hear me now, we seek only to give you counsel, counsel that sounds quite sound in my aged logic." The dwarf tugged a bushy strand of greying beard.
Aragorn lowered his voice to a condescending tone, too low for the other men, save for Legolas, Faramir and Gimli, to hear. "Since when did the dwarves give sound counsel? We waste precious time in pointless discourse while men threaten to cut each other's throats! I will not sit in a cushioned chair and leave the protection of my people to others." The king took a breath, turning away from his friends. When next e spoke, his voice was controlled and cool as a winter breeze. "I have taken your counsel, I have thought on it, and I have chosen against it."
Wordlessly, Aragorn nudged his black horse into a swift canter from a standstill. The king left no room to be questioned. His posture was ridged, and if his companions could have seen his face, they might have mistaken it for an imaged of a warrior carved in stone.
Faramir's brow tightened as the king's chosen riders passed around them like the streams water flowing around a solitary stone. "He is a good king, Legolas my friend, but it is said that an old horse is hard to re-train to a new discipline."
The elf beside him laughed sadly. "I do not think that Kind Éomer would so readily agree with your analogy." He patted Arod's neck, the horse fidgeted beneath the elf and the dwarf, eager not to be left behind. "I think that 'Once a Ranger, always a Ranger' may be more fitting."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Torches lit the night, flickering and licking hungrily at the darkness. The orange light danced across scowling faces, deepening every scowl and snarl. Women hugged their children to their breasts, huddled in the doorways of their huts, watching with wide eyes as the their men folk's heated tempers clashed. How had it come to this, why must their husbands and firstborn sons threaten their brothers over earth? Dirt! Were they really willing to destroy each other over dirt?
The men were divided, a strip of earth five feet wide acting as an invisible wall. But walls did nothing to repel bitter words. Heavy ash staves and curved sickles were thrust in the air, emphasising both threat and oath. Blood boiled, and it seemed that that crimson gift would be spilled upon the earth they fought and quarrelled over all too soon.
It was at the swell of this battle of wills where words were ready to break way to steel that the king and his company mounted the knoll overlooking the settlement. The women folk gasped, hands clamped to their mouths in both fear and relief. Their king was a just man, noble and fair in his ways. But children still feared the rod of discipline that no mindful parent would spare, even if they knew and believed firmly that it was out of love. Wives and sisters, mothers and daughters all feared for their loved ones, what would their king do? They had not expected for word to reach the city of the drama in the village, neither had they ever dreamed that the king, himself, would ride out to settle the matter!
Seated straight in the saddle, his shoulders pushed back and his head held high, Aragorn rode forth from the hill, descending into the settlement with Faramir, the Steward of Gondor on his left and Legolas and Gimli on his right. The captain of the king's guard rode behind them, leading his riders. Even small in number as they were, they struck a powerful sight, but not powerful enough to dismay the anger of the men.
Roheryn ducked his broad head as Aragorn sat back in the saddle, pulling to a halt. "Word of your troubles have reached my ears, fellow men of Gondor. What is it that divides you so?" said Aragorn.
The men backed a step, looking to each other in collective unease. Each one waited for another to speak and answer their king. It was a man of many seasons that stepped forward for one side. He bore many scars and his skin leathery from long hours of toiling in the path of the sun. But his eye, the one he still had, was bright with spirit. The man bent a knee stiffly, out of respect to his king. "They, the men of the south fields I mean, are claiming our land as their own to harvest. They say that it is theirs and we have no right to it."
"What is your name, friend?" Aragorn asked, leaning on the cantle of the saddle.
"I am Halden, sire, and I have long protected the people of this village. It is my duty to see that they are not taken advantage of as these scroungers seek to do." The man named now known as Halden, cast his single eye on the men to his left after rising.
There was an ill-favoured growl that rumbled from the throat of a comparatively young and wild haired man of the opposing side. "You lie, son of scum! We are neither scroungers nor plunderers. We seek only to take back what is ours. Generations have my family farmed the land you now waste yourself upon, Halden. Before even you were born, was this earth ours!"
Aragorn straightened, his heart was not turned to favour this quick tongued youth, but it was his duty to hear both sides. "Pray tell then, lad, what do you call yourself?"
"I am called Krisk, and it is my duty to see that my people are given their dues and not cheated by these thieves! I must be sharp as my name so dubs me if I am to see through this man's lies," said Krisk.
"Krisk," repeated Aragorn. "It is a fitting name, but I think that is not so much as to do with your mind as it pertains to your tongue." It was a gentle reprimand, but served only to ruffle the feathers of the young hawk all the more. Aragorn saw this, and he was grieved to see so much spirit wasted in such a greedy and overzealous mind. "You each claim to own this land, and you each claim to name it in your people's name. But I wonder, which one of you really means this?"
Halden tipped his head in respect as Aragorn met his one eye. "Lord, these men are mongers for blood, I have seen it before. They wish only for this good tilled earth to spoil with their foul attempts for farming. They see our plenty and want it for their own!"
Krisk cried in rage, his sword shrieking from its scabbard. The sword was old and scarred by irresponsible use, as was its sheath. Clearly, Krisk knew little of how to care for his weapons. It was either that, or he was too lazy to do so. "Halden, you serpent! I would have your head mounted on a spear if I had my way!"
Beside Aragorn, Faramir, Legolas and Aragorn tensed along with the king's guards. Hands tightened on hilts. Faramir raised a hand slightly then lowered it slowly and by the tilt of his head he motioned the men to remove their hands from their weapons. They tread at the edge of a weakened cliff as it was, drawing steel now would be as inviting a herd of oliphaunts to join them for a picnic on that ledge.
Halden did not speak; he was a shrewd man. Faramir could see this. Krisk, in his foolish impudence, proved Halden's point clearer than any words he could say. The men on Krisk's side began to jeer and shout again, swords were drawn and old knives were brandished against the ash staves and sickles of the farmer villagers.
What was the spark that ignited the bloodlust of Krisk's men, Aragorn was never sure. There was only a harsh cry, then a scream, and then silence. Dead silence. A villager fell. Krisk's bloodied blade glistened in the flickering light of the torches. "You have gone too far, vile creature!" cried Halden, his stern expression replaced by the face of one who had lost one of his own family to the hands of a beast, a beast who had known full well what it had done.
Aragorn mirrored Halden's expression. At a word from his Steward, guards dismounted ready to seize the man who had committed this murder. But fate was against them. Krisk had chosen his followers well, too well. They did not back when the king's men approached, in fact, it was much the opposite. Swords were drawn, challenging anyone to dare and take their leader. But it would prove that Aragorn and his friends would not be alone in the struggle that was eminent. Halden's folk brandished their staves and harvesting tools, few of them carried arms.
"Lay down your weapon, Krisk, I command you as your king. It is either that, or death." Aragorn said, the Flame of the West gripped tightly in one hand. Legolas beside him had his bow drawn taught, an arrow aimed at Krisk's throat.
Krisk's lips curled, his sword arm raised. "Then I will die," his arm dropped. He ducked suddenly just as the elf's arrow left his bow. The arrow buried itself in the next approaching man's neck that was haplessly behind his leader. The calm before the storm had broken. The numbers of Krisk's men outnumbered even their small force joined with Halden's folk. But the mounted men counted as two, horse and man combined.
Joining the screams of the slain men, were the anguished cries of women and children. There were a few, the brave few, that picked up whatever tool they could find and joined the fight alongside their loved ones. Many of these were slain or wounded little after they had entered the fray. Krisk's men had no mercy, they gave no quarter whether they fought men, women or mere babes. Gimli had slid from Arod's back the moment the first sword was drawn. Using the blunt head of his axe, he delivered great blows that knocked both wind, and ribs out of position.
The folk of the village stayed by their king. Staff and dagger finding flesh, but not without a mortal price to many of the loyal few. How was it that it had come to this? Aragorn was grieved beyond measure to see his own people killing each other over land. But his grief would have turned to rage if his eyes had not been so quick. A man cloaked in dark raiment stood from where he had been concealed crouched on the hillside behind a rock. In his hands he held a bow, and arrow on the string. It was aimed at the unsuspecting back of one of his dearest friends.
"Legolas! Move, get out of the way!"
The elf turned slightly, catching the faint sound of his voice over the clatter and screams of the enraged men. But even to his keen hearing, he could not tell the words said. Aragorn looked back, the archer had drawn the string taught. He had no other choice. Digging his heels uncommonly hard into Roheryn's sides, he charged both over friend and foe, one thought on his mind prevailing over all else.
From his position on the knoll, the archer's eyes widened. It was too late to catch the arrow now flying free, hissing savagely towards its target. But there was an obstruction that would wreck havoc.
Something was wrong, something was terribly wrong. All the warning Legolas had felt had thus far been nameless whispers, but now they shrieked to be heard. The air tightened 'round him, choking both breath and thought. He gasped, fighting against the sudden cloud that enveloped his mind. Legolas twisted in his seat, looking back to where Aragorn had last been, instinctively.
Horror struck his heart, paralysing him.
Aragorn was falling. His friend was falling from Roheryn's back. He need to move, needed to catch his friend before he fell. He couldn't let him fall! Dreamlike, he slid from Arod's back, stumbling and striking down any that hindered him. Light feet carried him over bloodied earth, but not even with the wings of the Eagle Lord could he reach him in time. There was no sound. The drama playing before pewter eyes was mute save for his own harsh breathing. Red stained a vision of black and grey, glaring and painfully stunning.
Amidst the blur and undefined frenzy of chaotic battle, sharp and clear as a spring sky after a heavy rain, lay the king of Gondor and Arnor, Strider, Ranger of the North, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Estel, brother of the heart to Legolas. Death could almost be seen hovering behind the fallen man.
Finally his voice returned to him, it was used for nothing but crying his friends name as he fell to his knees beside the body. An arrow, viciously built and crudely crafted protruded from the king's back. "Aragorn," he cried softly, his crystalline eyes darkening a shade. Legolas gathered his friend in his arms gently, wordlessly begging him to open his eyes and tell him he was fine and it was all nothing but a sick joke.
All movement ceased, farmer folk and intruder alike stopped, their arms lowering as they looked to the pair. Faramir had taken the distraction, the king's guard - for all the good they did him - and the villagers in a rage fell upon Krisk's followers, slaying many, lying their wrath and grief upon them without mercy. It was Gimli who at last slayed the fleeing coward, Krisk. But all was in vain, the blood that was spilled that night did nothing to bring back the fleeting beats of Aragorn's heart. Not even Legolas's broken pleas could coax his friend's eyes to open.
Not even the blood-curdling roar, that threatened to deafen all ears, could rouse the king. All eyes turned heavenward, lips parted, some uttered prayers, some cursed, many screamed. What it was, no one was sure at first, but some afterwards named it as fire born on the wings of the deep.
TBC…