Clouds, Yet No Rain
Aragorn stood outside, overlooking Minis Tirith from his bedroom balcony. The city was quiet, and mostly dark, with only few pinpricks of light reaching up to his gaze. Below him he could see his personal guards, changing shifts for the night. Behind him, he could hear his wife.
Arwen had gracefully entered the room, clothed in a blue silken dress, she was an exquisite site to behold. The blue dress covered her shoulders, but dipped low in the front. Yet her modesty was not compromised. Long flowing sleeves extended from the shoulders, at the ends of which, her strong, yet delicate, slender hands appeared. The dress flowed over her body, clinging to her waist, and then training out around her legs. A silver crown cut keenly and strikingly across her forehead, contrasting to her dark hair, which had made her notably beautiful amongst the elven folk. During her numerous years she had attracted many gazes, but the only man who had attracted her gaze in return was the one she had married. A mortal man. And she did not regret her choice.
She crossed the room, and came up behind Aragorn, standing besides him in the cool night air, her dress fluttering in the wind. He put his arm around her. A precious moment of peace, not recently enjoyed enough. He sighed. He moved as if he were to say something, but then decided against it. The sacredness of the moment was to sweet to be ruined by common speech.
Down below in the city, the last few lights had gone out. This time it was Arwen who sighed, one tinged with sadness. She loved her people as much as Aragorn, and as they suffered, so she felt for them a kindred suffering. She turned to her husband.
"They understand, they know that no king can command the skies. You should not be so hard on yourself." Then gracefully, she turned and entered the bedroom. After a few moments Aragorn followed. And so the night slowly passed.
While the night may have seemed to pass slowly in Gondor, in Mirkwood it had passed seemingly in the blink of an eye. It seemed only a moment from when Legolas had lain down to rest, when he was rising again to greet the harsh sun.
For indeed, the sun was deemed harsh in his eyes. The lack of rain had dried Mirkwood thoroughly. The trees were crying for water, which greatly distressed the elves in the kingdom. The trees were an essential part of their being, never was such a plant loved more dearly. And so the elves labored for them, filling bucketfuls of water from their rivers and quenching each tree's thirst as it arose. Unfortunately there were far more thirsty trees then elves. It was a losing battle. Trees who had been given a bucketful the previous day became thirsty again quite soon, but there were countless trees that had yet to receive even a drop of water. The elven folk had set for themselves an impossible task. And yet they labored under it night and day.
Which is why the night passed so quickly for Legolas. All day previously he had filled and carried water to the crying sources. Although the work was not especially difficult, it was especially tiresome. And after a while one's back does become sore from bending repetitiously.
Legolas rose from his bed and dressed. His golden hair was braided back from his face, and then left to hang down past his shoulders. He had bathed the previous night so as to wash away his sweat. His skin gleamed. After lacing his boots tightly, he went downstairs, snatched a bite of Lembas from the kitchen, and then entered into the forest.
The crying of the trees assaulted his delicately pointed ears. They also pierced his heart.
Without resentment or any sign of laziness he choose a bucket from one of the piles located throughout the kingdom, and started another day's labor. His keen, blue eyes only too sharply noticed the dryness and brittleness of the branches that passed over his head. He knew in his mind that the elves were failing in their self appointed task, and in his heart worry festered.
Across Middle Earth, the third companion of the trio, Gimli, was also laboring to carry water. Except that he did not go to every individual person in Gondor and Rohan who was thirsty and give them a drink, but rather, it was his job to oversea the barreling of the water from the rivers, and then to send that precious water on it's way to the regions. Mirkwood's rivers were still flowing, from the influence of the elves, and so they had not written for assistance yet.
Gimli's days consisted of walking down to the newly erected barreling center, and to inspect the jobs that his fellow dwarves were performing. Barrels were filled completely to the brim, and hauled out of the river. A dwarf would seal the barrel's top, and roll it over to another dwarf who stood waiting to roll it into dark caves, so that the water would remain cool. Yet another dwarf would roll the barrel to the surface when the time came to load the wagons. After spending an hour or two, or three down by the filling area, he would hasten up to the surface to meet to riders arriving that day. He would oversea the loading of the barrels into the wagons, offering refreshments to the riders while this was taking place, and then would see the riders on their way, often with a note to the ruler of the destined country.
On the morning of one such day, he told his high general that he wished to set out for Gondor, to see Aragorn, and to see how the lands were getting on. He accompanied the next group of riders back to Gondor. To the dwarf who had been living in the cool caves for the entire drought, the drastic changes that had been produced in the land were shocking to him as he traveled.
Aragorn was in his throne room, the day they arrived. This next shipment of water was to go to the north side of the city. The city had been divided into four sections, North, South, East and West. Each in their turn received a month's supply of water, to be carefully rationed out to people. By the time when the section's water supply was almost out, it was planned so that their turn would be next for the new water shipment.
When the group arrived, riding up to the palace, Aragorn entered into the courtyard to greet the contingent. He in turn was greeted with an unexpected surprise of the son of Gloin scrambling down from a small horse.
"Gimli! It is good to see you my friend." The two friends clapped shoulders and began walking towards the palace. Long ago the distribution of water to the districts had become routine, requiring little of the king's supervision.
"Ah, I decided that I needed to see the effects of the drought myself. I have to admit, it is much cooler in the caves."
"Something which better not ever reach the ears of my people, or I fear I shall be left with naught but a deserted city."
"And I with housing problems. Ah, my lady!" If this last statement seems a tad confusing, allow your mind to be at ease by knowing that this was uttered as the Lady Arwen entered the courtyard. She was gowned in robes of white, providing rich contrast to her shadow black hair. Gimli knelt respectively, and she smiled at him. He rose, and the three friends strolled out to the edge of the courtyard to gaze across the landscape of Gondor. Suddenly Aragorn's spirits were raised. He pointed widely to his wife and friend.
"Look! Dark clouds gather! Perhaps the end of this horrific drought finally approaches!" His eyes were filled with hope, as well as Arwen's.
"Well," grumbled Gimli, "it is better that the winter rains come late, in the spring, then never at all."
All that day the three found themselves drawn to the outdoors, or to windows, to watch the progress of the rapidly moving clouds. By evening the entire sky was dark, the clouds stretched to the horizon. Wind stirred through the air, but Gimli seemed downcast.
Aragorn turned to him, "What is wrong my friend?"
The dwarf sighed, "Aragorn, there is no smell of rain in these clouds." Indeed, there was not even a hint of moisture in the air. The clouds, Aragorn realized, actually seemed full of a dangerous energy, and a dreadful tenseness was felt throughout the city. Everyone seemed poised on a moment of time stretch indefinitely, waiting for the moment, when the tension would snap.
It finally did. At last, far out on the plains, when one shielded their eyes with their hands and looked hard, they could see the storm that the clouds carried in them. Great bolts of light crashed against the earth, thunder rumbled like the evil drums from the old battles. Long into the night, and into the next day, and the next the lightning and thunder continued. Speech was constantly interrupted and jarred by thunderous crashes. Yet the lighting did not reach Minis Tirith, it was traveling in the other direction. For this, Aragorn was glad, he would not have to worry about the effects this strange storm might have on his city. How very wrong he was.
On the forth day of this far distant storm, an effect of it froze Aragorn's heart with icy fear. There was heavy smoke on the horizon.
I hope this has entertained someone. I'm working on chapter two, a review of the beginning would be very appreciative however! Thanks for reading this far.