AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the first angsty piece I've written, and because of
a good response from a friend (Thank you Collin!) I decided to post it and
see what you all think. This is all there is to it, no more chappies. Wow.
. . this is actually the first short thing I've written, too, lol. Be
warned. . . angst abounds.
Missing Heart:
Standing on the parapet, she gazed out over the sunset, thinking how amazing it was that the sun could still follow its normal path in the sky. How could he do so, now that he was gone? For so long, it had seemed as if the sun, moon, and stars had all revolved around him.
Estel. Hope. He had been the hope of Middle Earth, the hope of men, and now he was gone. How could the White City stand, as solid as ever, when its savior no longer drew breath?
"It is time," he had told her. She had known that the moment would come, when those eyes, so full of wisdom and love, would close for the last time, but as she had knelt by his side, it had not seemed possible. When the streaks of gray had finally taken over his once dark and vibrant hair, she had told herself that it was a sign of his wisdom, a mark to distinguish him from lesser men, not the indication of aging that it truly was. But al her denial had not saved him, had not lengthened the time they had together.
As she stared up into the clear sky, at the stars, which were just beginning to strain to be seen, it was nearly impossible to fathom that he was gone. Gone? How absurd! He was right here, behind her, with his arms wrapped around her as they gazed together into the sky as they had done countless times before. But no, it was a cold stone wall behind her, and the soft folds of her shawl wrapped around her instead of the warm body and strong arms of her husband.
Now he was lying in a tomb, as cold and lifeless as the wall that now supported her trembling form. Never again could she loose herself in the depths of his eyes, for they were now lifeless and dull. Never again would his lips curl up into a smile or press lovingly against her own.
"So regal he looks!" the people had cried as he was placed in his tomb. "As regal in death as in life!"
"No!" she had wanted to scream. "That is not Estel; that is not my husband! My husband was warm, kind, loving, brave; not an empty shell like this, which has been made to be a façade of majesty!"
She had not cried. Not when he died, not when he was laid to rest, and not when her son had received the crown of Gondor. Her sorrow did not cost her tears; it cost her life. Even now she could feel it leaving, seeping out slowly, each moment a painful reminder of what was missing; her husband, her love, her heart.
Missing Heart:
Standing on the parapet, she gazed out over the sunset, thinking how amazing it was that the sun could still follow its normal path in the sky. How could he do so, now that he was gone? For so long, it had seemed as if the sun, moon, and stars had all revolved around him.
Estel. Hope. He had been the hope of Middle Earth, the hope of men, and now he was gone. How could the White City stand, as solid as ever, when its savior no longer drew breath?
"It is time," he had told her. She had known that the moment would come, when those eyes, so full of wisdom and love, would close for the last time, but as she had knelt by his side, it had not seemed possible. When the streaks of gray had finally taken over his once dark and vibrant hair, she had told herself that it was a sign of his wisdom, a mark to distinguish him from lesser men, not the indication of aging that it truly was. But al her denial had not saved him, had not lengthened the time they had together.
As she stared up into the clear sky, at the stars, which were just beginning to strain to be seen, it was nearly impossible to fathom that he was gone. Gone? How absurd! He was right here, behind her, with his arms wrapped around her as they gazed together into the sky as they had done countless times before. But no, it was a cold stone wall behind her, and the soft folds of her shawl wrapped around her instead of the warm body and strong arms of her husband.
Now he was lying in a tomb, as cold and lifeless as the wall that now supported her trembling form. Never again could she loose herself in the depths of his eyes, for they were now lifeless and dull. Never again would his lips curl up into a smile or press lovingly against her own.
"So regal he looks!" the people had cried as he was placed in his tomb. "As regal in death as in life!"
"No!" she had wanted to scream. "That is not Estel; that is not my husband! My husband was warm, kind, loving, brave; not an empty shell like this, which has been made to be a façade of majesty!"
She had not cried. Not when he died, not when he was laid to rest, and not when her son had received the crown of Gondor. Her sorrow did not cost her tears; it cost her life. Even now she could feel it leaving, seeping out slowly, each moment a painful reminder of what was missing; her husband, her love, her heart.