Title: Not To Keep
Summary: "He was tired from the months at war, and he lay in bed in silence. It gave her the time to look him over, to find the injury that had brought him home to her…" [Vignette of a wounded soldier's return from the fight against Sauron]
Rating: G
Category: Drama/Romance
Author's Notes: This story was inspired by a Robert Frost poem of the same name. I was looking through a book of his poetry earlier today, and this one stood out. It's an amazing piece of work, and I highly recommend it. Then I went to see Return of the King, and the women seeing off Faramir's company reminded me of it. This only took about 20 minutes to write, but I do like it.
I usually write something, wait a day or two to go back and revise it, but I couldn't bear to make myself this time. It was the fastest thing I've ever written, and the words flowed oddly well. I am trusting my instincts on this one, and posting it. Obviously, it takes place sometime during Sauron's rise of power, but before the Battle of Pelennor Fields and whatnot.
The next chapter of "Through the Eyes of the Dunedain" will be up sometime early next week; I've been busy with essays for school.
Disclaimer: "Not To Keep" belongs to Robert Frost, and I bow before such moving poetry. I do not own Lord of the Rings, which is an equally moving piece of literature.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*+*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
She wrung her hands, waiting for the noise at the gate that would announce the arrival of wounded. He would be in there, her husband would. They had seen it fit to send him back to her. That is what the letter had said a week before- that he had been wounded and would be returning to her. In her dreams these words carried a threat. He would be coming back, but at what cost? Surely he was still alive. They did not send back the dead. These were the thoughts she kept in consciousness. But as the night closed in on the bed they had shared, whispers spoke words of warning.
Yet here she was, a week later and no ill news had arrived. There was a clatter at the City gate, and she ran through the cobblestones as quickly as her feet would carry her. She passed markets and homes alike, and those she passed knew from her speed the errand that bore her in such a hurry. Some smiled, glad to see the return of their own. Others wept, for there was no reason for her loved one to return when theirs would not.
They were there, solemn in their garb. The White Tree was on their breast plates, a mockery of what had once been a noble kingdom. It was little more now then a few cities bound in memory of what had once been. The Tree was dead, and had been dead for many years. There was no king.
Some of the men were in a wagon, unable to even sit, but hers- He held himself erect on his horse, barely wincing as each hoof landed.
She ran to him, and did not let him fully dismount before enwrapping him in an embrace. He held her hand, even as she pulled away. He brushed aside a tendril of hair that had fallen from her braid, all the tenderness a man could show in his action. A smile on his lips relieved her of her worries, and they went to their meager abode.
He was tired from the months at war, and he lay in bed in silence. It gave her the time to look him over, to find the injury that had brought him home to her. There was no disfiguration she could see. His face was still the same, if aged by experience. His hands still held their strength, even though they were now too busy on the mound her stomach had become while he was away to show it. She finally asked him, wonder and terror combined.
"Tell me what has brought you home, my love."
She awaited his answer, glad to have won such a victory. Him home, and away from danger.
"Enough, yet not enough."
Her face fell, and the spark of vitality in her eyes dimmed. He gives her a weak smile, an insufficient compensation for such news.
"A spear through and through, high in the breast. Nothing but what good care and medicine and rest- and you a week, my love- can cure me of to go again."
There was silence, and he could read in her eyes the anger and fear that tore at his own breast. Here he lay, with nothing to do but get well enough to ride off again. In time, her eyes became something else, a question.
How was he to go a second time?
It was a question she dared not ask, as much as she loved him. It was not a question to ask, with his eyes begging her not.
For the moment, a silence lay over them. A fire cast nothing but shadows in the room, and he could not see the tear upon her cheek which matched his. The same thought ran through their minds, tainted with the bitterness of war:
They had given him back to her, but not to keep.