This one, technically, did not need to be altered because the lyrics were mine, but it just felt wrong to leave them in when all the others were gone. I don't think it really hurts this one, anyway, to have them taken away.
No Hope
A lonely torch set into the wall near a large and cluttered desk provided the only glow in the large room filled with parchment and dusty tomes long unused. The room was silent save for the hopeless roar of the torch and the deliberate scratch of a quill. It was the middle of the night, but the room's lone occupant paid the time no mind. He busied himself with papers and bills, looking over treaties and matters of state, reading letters, his hands and mind engaged to keep his heart at bay. There were so many emotions he did not want to feel, could not, and so long as he was focused on Gondor, trivial matters that could not be ignored, he could not think of Arwen. At least, that was the idea.
It went well, fairly well, considering a part of his mind always had and always would focus on the elf-maiden who had stolen his heart. It kept his mind blank, mostly unengaged as he went through motions, motions he had made every night for weeks. There was much that needed to be caught up on, affairs that needed to be put in order, yet that was not why he persued his task.
The rustle of paper flipped, rubbing against its own, then stillness and the quill scraped once more. Duty was easier than love, than listening to the heart. It was easier to pretend nothing but his status as king and ruler existed than to fight the longing in his very heart, his soul. It was easier to pretend there was no past than to deny eyes of deepest sapphire in a sweet and flawless face, easier to pretend there was no Arwen than to pretend it was not her name on his lips. It was easier to erase all that had gone before he was king than to remember their moments together and know there would be no more.
Because it was easier, he escaped every night to his study to continue what he had not finished the night before or the lonely night before that and lost himself amid piles of parchment and ink amid the scratch of a quill, his only companions save his thoughts and they were so much easier to bear. Sleep brought him no release, for even there he could not escape her, even here.
Aragorn dropped the quill and buried his face in his hands, rubbing them up and down as if he sought to erase his every thought from his mind. Every sight of beauty was compared to her, every wish wound its way to her, every room reminded him of what he had thought to share with her, a life they would never know. Every room . . . but this one. This one held Elrond for him, so similar was it to the elven lord's own study that he could have been in Rivendell, and that brought its own pain.
He had gained the throne and lost the only family he had ever known. He had desired what was not his to claim and he had lost his father. He had bowed to his father and hurt his love, his heart, but did not regain his father's favor, and so had lost them both. With them, he lost his brothers, for they had gone to Rivendell to pass over the sea and return a family once sundered back to fullness, gone to a place he could never go far beyond the horizon.
A sob jerked his form, shuddering through his form with the agony of release, voicing the sorrow that had only ever escaped in sleep, a hoarse cry that was deadened before it could pass to other ears. His hands slid down to clamp over his mouth as icy tears worked their way past his lashes and down his cheeks, streaking the ashy skin.
He had nothing . . . nothing but an empty heritage and a heavy burden he knew not how to bear. And pain.
o/o/o/o/o
The moon hung heavy in the sky, drifting towards dawn too slowly for its observer's piece of mind. A gentle breeze, carrying a chill she did not feel, teased her hair, wrapping their strands around her arm. Disconsolable, she looked up at the stars and wished for the contingent of the Golden Wood to come so she could be freed from her tortured existence.
Rivendell had not been her home for many years, since her mother left, and she found the halls just as painful as ever, but with new reason. Aragorn had lived here. He had run through the halls, strolled and played in the gardens, slept in the rooms, studied with her father and learned his healing touch, traveled into the heart of her family and claimed her own. Silver eyes, both pleading and hard, haunted her every step. It was easier to forget her heart was broken under the stars.
Blue eyes that did not catch the light of the stars like they used to turned from them, a sigh escaping and weary footsteps bore her back inside. She passed under the arched doorway of her father's house then padded softly down the hallway, desperately trying not to remember the last time she had seen Aragorn so many long years before: the age that had weathered his face with care, the wisdom that had sat upon his brow, the mix of light and dark, hope and fear that danced just behind his eyes, visible to those who could see. She turned a corner and ascended the stairs, bracing himself for when she reached the top. Everyday the staircase seemed to stretch on interminably, the time passing slowly as if was not where she wished to be, yet disappearing in a flash, what she knew lay at the top forever catching her unprepared.
This time was no different.
She stopped, her eyes riveted to a families dose as memory assaulted her and tears she thought long dried up spilt down her cheeks. Aragorn's room, a painful reminder, a mockery of the hope she had felt and held dear through the long years of trial.
With a choked cry she continued quickly past, nearly running in her desire to escape her memories. Her grandmother could not arrive too soon.
o/o/o/o/o
Elladan and Elrohir rode like the wind, pushing their steeds as hard as they dared in their rush. Time was close and both were reminded of the mad rush to save Gondor and Middle-earth from the destruction of Sauron's hand. The two elves would almost prefer to relive that than continue where they were, pain tearing their family apart.
Their hearts lifted, then, when Minas Tirith lay near before them, only about five leagues distant and dawn just barely touching its tallest tower; though they could not yet relax, they could hope.
The ground rolled away beneath them and they were not halted as they passed through the first gate, though they did call a greeting, and raced across the Pelannor fields, the horn that resounded across the land announcing their presence as it traveled faster than they across the wide expanse of land that lay before them, faster than they could hope to travel.
They dismounted at the inner circle, two hands already waiting to lead the elvish horses away for rest. Without comment, they were nodded through the inner gate. A drawn and harried man met them just inside the door of the palace, and it was a startled moment before either recognized the man for who he was.
Dull silver eyes darted between them anxiously. "I had not expected you back so soon," Aragorn said.
Elladan stepped forward. "We had not expected it either."
"What is wrong?" demanded Aragorn, scanning the brothers for injuries. "You were not attacked? You are not injured?"
"Nay, we are well," assured Elrohir. "It is on different purpose that we rode hither with much haste."
"Speak, then," Aragorn bid, swallowing apprehensively, his breathing heavier than usual, though he thought nothing of it.
"We would not speak of it here," the elder said, and the man nodded immediately, leading them away from the guards and into a small room off the main hall that was rarely used but was still well furnished. Once inside, he turned to look at the elven twins expectantly. Elladan sighed. "We bring word from Father."
Aragorn stopped breathing, fear choking off his lungs though his mind would not form a solid thought on what he feared. He made no move to interrupt.
"He bids you ride with all haste to Rivendell."
"Why?" breathed the king.
Sad blue eyes held his steadily and he spoke but one word. "Arwen."