Title: The messenger's burden – A Might-Have-Been
Author: Sheela
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Would be lovely – either as a review or mail to Bright.Phoenixgmx.de
Disclaimer: Come on, do I look like I own these guys? To anybody who replies with "yes" – get your head checked out, and no I don't own them.
Summary: A short (very short) and maybe a bit dark movie-verse might-have-been/kind-of-but-not-quite-AU starting in TTT after the scene where Aragorn fell in battle with the wargs. Elf POV.
Author's Notes: Be warned, this is far from being my best work and I know it. Real life hasn't been too generous with free time lately and I don't have much time or inspiration for the kind of writing I want to do. I have another fanfic in the works, but it's coming only slowly since some of the scenes are pretty intense. So I wrote this story here as an exercise to get me back into writing – and to prove to myself that I can actually finish a story in under six months. This story was not betaed; I didn't have the energy to put too much heart into it.
To those who still want to continue after these AN, hope you enjoy anyway. I would appreciate any form of feedback on it.
"Get the wounded on horses. Leave the dead." – Theoden, King of Rohan; The Two Towers
Coming over a small hill, I stop my horse for a moment. My journey is almost over: Before me lies the last homely house – Rivendell. Snuggled deep into the valley it is named for, its rooftops are gleaming in the slowly fading sunlight of the late afternoon. Surrounding Elrond's sanctuary is a wall of different shades of green; the ancient trees adding to the sense of protection and peace. They have greeted many visitors in their time, from every land and every race. The Bruinen runs swiftly past the separate buildings underneath a number of small bridges, the water unkempt as it has always been. An eternal flow unaffected by the events of the world outside this dale. The river's dull roar echoing from the surrounding mountain walls reaches my ears. It is a familiar, comforting sound, even if I've been here only a few times before. For a moment I allow myself to enjoy the sight that greets me, the feeling of calm and wholeness. There is nothing evil here, but an assured safety that invites all visitors to come and partake in it.
There is peace here and my journey is almost over – I should be glad. Yet my heart is heavy and the burden I bear forbids me to be at ease.
My burden. I have carried it for a long way and for a long time now. And even though I will give it away soon, I fear I shall never be free of it. I am but a messenger, yet the message that I bear shall shatter a life – much as it has shattered mine.
Putting my hand into my small chest pocket, I pull it out to have one final look at it. My burden.
"It is a strange fate we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing… such a little thing." So said Boromir, son of Gondor when we were on our quest to destroy the One Ring.
A strange fate indeed, that always it seem to be the little things that are so hard to bear. I stare at the small, glinting item in my hand. Made of mithril, by the hands of skilled elven crafters, it weighs next to nothing. And yet, as it lies here in my hand, it is the heaviest load that I ever had to carry. The Evenstar. Arwen Undómiel's amulet which she gave to Strider to pledge her love – and her life – to him. I come to return it to her now and to tell her of the fate of her beloved.
Aragorn, son of Arathorn and heir to the throne of Gondor has fallen. Fallen in battle against the wolves of Isengard, in a war for the survival of his kin. I still cannot believe that this was to be his destiny, that the line of kings should end thus – so abruptly, so senselessly, so unnoticed.
There was no body for us to bury – only the small silver chain to remember him by, taken from the filthy hands of a dying Uruk-hai. Aragorn was only one man in the grand number of victims of the battle that followed, yet I am convinced that he could have made a difference. As it was we only had Theoden, the aged King of Rohan, to lead us into battle – and his prime was long gone. Not much was left of the strong leader and warrior that he may have been once before he fell under Saruman's influence. The soldiers that fought in that fateful night at Helm's Deep were mostly either old men or young boys, no real warriors. Not even the elven army that Elrond and Galadriel sent to aid us could turn the tide.
The forces of Isengard stormed Helm's Deep all too soon. We could not hold the walls for long. A new devilry of Saruman took down ancient stone by fire. And once the outer wall was breached, the black flood could not be stopped. Theoden fell, trying to brace the doors along with many of his men. The end for all of us was near, close enough to see it and to touch it in the leering faces of the Uruk-hai.
It was Gandalf, together with Éomer and his riders who saved those of us who lived long enough to see the dawn. They drove back Saruman's army, sending them back to Isengard, only to be crushed by the army of Ents unleashed by two small hobbits.
The number of dead was too great to count. Both men and elves equally slain by the dark foe. The number of wounded was almost as high as that of the dead. And many of the wounded were destined to follow the paths of their comrades to the Halls of Mandos or wherever it is that humans go after leaving this realm. Éomer, now newly made King of Rohan, will reign over a generation of widows and orphans.
Gimli and I went with Gandalf to Isengard, to find the former white wizard trapped in his own tower, the ruins of his 'industry' guarded by the Ents – and the two hobbits. We left Saruman there, in memory of his former wisdom. I do not know what became of him, nor do I care.
Our little group turned towards Gondor next. But what difference could we make? Rohan did not have the strength left to send an army with us – though I could see in the Lady Éowyn's eyes that she wished nothing more than to fight with us. It was not destined to be.
We found Gondor in open war against Mordor, the forces clashing on the wide fields before Minas Tirith. With the arrival of the Witch King it took no gift of foresight to know that Gondor would fall. Gimli, son of Gloin – Valar bless his brave heart – went into battle against the Wraith with the courage, the strength and the axes of the dwarves. He fell. And still I grieve for him, for he was the best friend an elf could ever find or even wish for in a dwarf.
The end was drawing close when we were gifted with a miracle: the Witch King, the power of Mordor and the Dark Lord were defeated; not by us but from within. The One Ring was destroyed, thrown back into the fires of Mount Doom. Gandalf went into Mordor with Gwahir the Lord of the eagles to fetch the hobbits and get them to safety. Frodo was permanently maimed, and I don't mean his hand alone. His entire being was damaged by the quest – beyond any chance of healing I fear. So was Sam, his cheerful and hardy character changed and scarred deeply. I doubt I shall ever see them again.
I left Gondor then, turning my horse north – back the way we once came as a fellowship. The fighting still goes on in Gondor; even without the Dark Lord to lead them, the remaining armies of the orcs, Uruks and Easterlings are still strong.
I don't think there'll ever be true peace in Gondor now. With or without the fighting, there is no king to take over the realm and none shall come forth again.
But it is not my concern anymore. My kind is leaving this world behind, seeking the Western shores and I shall go with them soon. The sea does not call to me yet, but neither is there reason for me to stay in Middle Earth, nothing to bind me to this world.
Before I go I have only one more duty to fulfill, one message to bear. Then I shall be free, only to find that my freedom never will be complete.
I have reached my goal now. I stand before her, Arwen Undómiel. Still her beauty is unsurpassed in this world – yet her eyes are lifeless, nothing of her serenity left.
Of course she knows of her betrothed fate; she knew the moment he fell. My coming is only the last proof to her, the undisguised harshness of reality. I feel that she will not go to the Havens, not now, never. The Evenstar of the the elves is fading before my eyes and I can do or say nothing to prevent it. I see her storm grey eyes fill with tears that will not fall as I put the tiny pendant into her hand. My final act as a member of the fellowship. The tiny-giant burden I carried is gone and yet it will not ease. It never will.
I turn to go. But the world around me turns to mist, shifting. When my vision clears again I see him coming towards me. Dirty, exhausted, bloody and in a hurry he does not se me until I stand right in front of him. He stops abruptly and stares at me. There is so much wish to tell him, how glad I am and what I have seen, this one possible future. But I cannot.
"Le ab-dollen." (You are late) is all I say and for a moment he is confused. Looking him over I add "You look terrible."
He smiles then, giving a short chuckle and puts his arm on my shoulder in greeting.
I bring forth the mithril pendant from my pocket and press it into his hand carefully. After a moment recognition dawns in his eyes and he stares at me, speechless. I an only smile.
"Hannon le." (Thank you) he whispers and finally – oh finally – I feel the burden lift from me.
The End