AUTHOR'S NOTE: I apologize for the long update periods. I'm working two jobs now and it's hard for me to find time to sit and write, which I hate because I'm enjoying writing these stories for you, my dear readers. (I've got at least another 2 LOTR fan fiction ideas brewing in my mind after I finish this one) Also, I don't get a lot of computer time since I am back home with my family (college graduate here), but with both jobs, I'm hoping to buy a laptop, but we'll see on that. As always, I am not the great genius of J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just a fan taking his characters out for a spin. So, without further ado, to celebrate The Return of The King's 11 Oscars wins lat night (and the A that I got on my senior honor's thesis), I give you a new chapter!
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When the hateful morning came, Aragorn, Gimli, and myself took to our horses and made our somber way back out to my estate. We rode in utter silence, none of us willing to speak first and break the sheltered quiet of the world. Instead, we left that task to the birds, who sang merrily in the trees, unaware of the pain and heartache I suffered from. We rode this way until we reached the main gate of my estate, where we dismounted and tethered our horses, so that they might graze upon the fading grasses. Here I breathed a great sigh and began to recount all that I had done the previous day, taking care to point out exactly where I had stood and what I had touched. The broken door still lay upon the dewy earth and the darkness of the rooms beyond where it had once stood yawned in the early hours, dark and foreboding. But, for the time being, Aragorn ignored it. Instead, he began to scout the ground for clues, stooping low to the ground and examining every bent blade of grass that looked as if it might shed some light on this mystery. In this fashion, he scouted the entire lawn, the yard in which I had once played with my children.
"There are prints here," he said at last, puncturing the heavy silence. "When was it last that any man came to your estate?"
"The most recent visitor was your messenger the other day," I replied, eying the tracks, "but he came in by way of the front."
We were to the left of the house by the low wooden fence that surrounded my property. Faramir and Eowyn had helped me to put it into place long before, when I had first learnt that Anoron was on her way. It was a way that I could protect my baby, keeping her confined in the yard so that I could keep an eye on her. Now we followed the prints around the corner of my house, for they seemed to make for the front door, though we could not say that with certainty, as the prints left the coverage of the overhanging tree limbs and had been largely lost to the rain the night before.
"Who ever it was hopped the fence and crept around for fear of your servants," Gimli said, as Aragorn stood.
"Gimli is right. Where were your attendants that night?"
"I had given them the week off to be with their families, for this is a celebratory week for us, a holiday if you will. We have had an exceptional harvest this year, and so it is a week of festivals in every home. It is a time when families gather to be thankful. Elen and I had decided that we could not, in good faith, keep any attendant from being with his or her family. We never have, but have always given everyone the week off. We never thought anything about it. But this year, it seems my judgment failed me, and in turn, I failed my family," I said, the tears beginning to well up in my eyes once again.
"No, my friend, you did not fail in any way. There was no way that you could have known," Aragorn replied, trying to reassure me. "This is not your fault."
I nodded outwardly, but inwardly, I could not believe his words, though I knew them to be true. Instead, I turned my thoughts to other things, for I dared not voice my opinions to my friends. They would not understand the guilt that I felt. And so I kept quiet for the moment.
"Who do you think made the tracks?" Gimli asked.
"Judging from the size of them, I would say that they were not adults, but perhaps boys of maybe fifteen or sixteen years of age," said Aragorn. As he spoke, he took up a few wayward sticks and broke off the ends until they were the same length as the prints. "There were two of them, from the looks of it. Last night's rain washed away any distinguishing marks though. I dearly wish they were fresher." He spoke now in a low voice, as if he were addressing only himself. In truth, I sometimes wondered myself when he spoke thusly while on a trail.
Now we ventured to the main door of the house, which Aragorn examined with great care, for unlike the footprints, the clues left behind were still fresh and could not be washed away by the rain. He fingered the splintered wood carefully, turning his head this way and that to examine the gashes upon the wood.
"Who ever it was used knives of some sort to pry the door open, away from the hinges. Look here, you can see the scratches in the wood. They are small in places, which leads me to believe that daggers were used, perhaps the same that you think were used on your family," he said, turning to me. "Come, Gimli, let us gather such clues as we can inside. Legolas, I will not force you to accompany us if you feel you cannot."
"No," I replied, shaking my head, "I will come. I must be strong for my family's sake, so that their murderers may be brought to justice."
Gimli nodded his understanding and Aragorn squeezed my shoulder in a reassuring manner. Then we turned and entered the house. But we had not gotten far inside when Aragorn dropped to his knees once more, for the remnants of dirt tracks could be seen on the floor. In my panicked state on the previous day, I had neglected to pay them any mind, but now I looked at them with renewed interest.
"These boot tracks are odd," Aragorn commented. "Not many would have treads in such a pattern."
"Aye," agreed Gimli. "I will say that they are odd. See here. Here is the dwarven rune for D and here is that of B." He traced the runes with his finger just inches from the dry mud.
"That must be Darius the Boot maker," I said. "I know him well. He takes such pride in his craftsmanship that he leaves his mark upon every pair of shoes or boots that he produces. But why dwarven runes, I wonder. He is no dwarf but a man of Gondor."
"I think you may be right, Legolas. Darius does tend to leave a distinguishing mark on his footwear. But as for your question, I think I may know the answer. Darius is a man skilled in the letters of many a language, but primarily the dwarven runes. His father is one of the city's record keepers and therefore knows all of Middle Earth's main tongues. Darius himself would have been taught by his father, but in speaking to him on several occasions, it seems that Darius was best able to grasp the letters of the dwarves," agreed Gimli.
Aragorn nodded. "Gimli is right. But see here too, we are in luck. These tracks were made by new boots, for the runes are sharp and easily read. We shall question Darius about his latest sales upon our return to Minas Tirith. Now, let us see your family."
I nodded. "This way. I found them in the play room."
I lead them down the hall and to the blood splattered room where I had found the remains of Elen, Anoron, and Aragorn on the previous day. Here I stopped, and let Aragorn and Gimli through first, for I was in no great hurry to relive the horrors I had seen. But still, once they were in, I forced myself to come up behind them in the room. Here they gasped and I felt the same sickness rise in me that had washed over me the first time.
"By the Valar!" Aragorn exclaimed as he looked upon the carnage.
"I'm gonna kill whoever it was that did this!" Gimli exclaimed angrily.
"Legolas, I…" Aragorn stared to say, though it was obvious that he was at a loss for words.
I waved my hand and shook my head. "I know."
Aragorn nodded and took a moment before he knelt down next to Elen and began to inspect her wounds. The blood upon her body had dried and caked, but he wiped it away with the edge of a blanket that was lying nearby. With gentle hands he checked every wound, as though she were merely sleeping and not dead, and my grief-filled heart filled with love for the old ranger for his loving nature.
Now he inspected the wounds that my children bore. I could see him shake his head every now and again in disbelief. At length, he turned to me with a soft sigh.
"Your thoughts were right, Legolas. Whoever did this stabbed them first before slitting their throats, though the stab wounds look rather rashly dealt. It seems to me that the boys that are responsible for this were not experienced in using weapons. See here, there were plenty of opportunities to subdue them more effectively. But these wounds, they are out of place. Other than to cause pain, these wounds would have done very little. An experienced person would have been much more careful."
"Can you track the daggers?" I asked.
"I'm afraid not. But there are few in Gondor who produce weapons outside of the royal armory. It should not take us long before we are able to track down the recent purchases."
I nodded and cleared a lump from my throat. "I must bury them first."
"Of course," Aragorn replied.
"There is a hilltop not far from here," I said. "Elen loved it there. She thought it offered the most beautiful view of our kingdom. I will bury them there. I think she would have liked that."
I could see the others nod. I turned on my heel, away from the bloody room, and made my way back out towards the entrance. Once outside, I forced myself to walk towards the garden, where I took up a shovel before mounting Arod for the brief journey to the burial site. Behind me, my friends followed silently, mournfully, but I shook my head.
"Go to Targone," I said. "Tell him I will need three of his finest coffins and a stone to mark the burial site. Bid him to come quickly to the graves. He will be paid well for his haste." With that I left them to seek Targone the Elf, a master woodworker, who also could work splendor into stone.
It was not long before I reached the spot where my family would rest. Here I dug three graves all in a line at the top of the hill and beneath the strong, protective boughs of an evergreen tree. By the end, I was tired and dirty, but I cared not for my appearance and I headed for him such as I was. When I arrived, Targone and several of his workers were just arriving with my requests. To them I gave directions to where they should make their delivery before heading inside to prepare for their funeral.
I stripped off my dirt caked clothing and put on fresh garments before doing the same for my family, dressing them in clean clothing and throwing the blood stained ones into a fire that I built in the main hearth. Then, one by one, I took them with me upon Arod and brought them to the hilltop, tears never drying on my cheeks. Here I buried them, committing each to the wooden caskets in turn and then raising a burial mound above them. The golden sunlight began to falter by then, the shadows lengthening. It was nearly night when I at last drove the headstone into the ground and said my final farewells, with only Gimli and Aragorn by my side.
