He stood silently beside Merry as the hobbit gazed miserably out across the plains of Rohan, watching as the last of his kindred companions, his dearest friend Pippin, was carried away from him to the south, drawing ever closer to the land of shadow that held the fate of the whole of Middle Earth to ransom within its dark domain.
He was about to say something, anything, just to break the silence when Merry turned to face him, tears running freely down his cheeks.
"He will be alright won't he Aragorn?"
Aragorn dearly wished he could tell him that his cousin would of course be safe, but he knew he wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he offered his friend false hope in times of such darkness. Death stalked the land like a gruesome shadow, waiting to hold those that fell behind in its eternal embrace. He knew first hand the cost of war. They had all felt the loss of their companion Boromir, but for Aragorn he was just the latest in a long line of many.
The first was his father when he was just two years of age. He had only broken memories of his death, being so small at the time. He could remember the screaming, could remember screaming himself, remembered seeing the blood and feeling the fear that hung in the air like an intoxicating cloud, enveloping everyone around him. Much of it was a blur after that; he barely remembered the turbulent journey his mother had undertaken to get them to the safety of Imladris.
It had taken months for him to truly settle there; for the first few nights he would wake alone in the darkness, screaming as he saw again and again the battle that had claimed his father. His mother would come running to him, hold him in her arms and rock him gently back to sleep, only to be woken by further screaming as the nightmares came back to claim him once more. It was soon decided that he would therefore have to sleep in the company of others; his foster brothers Elladan and Elrohir seemed like an ideal choice. They would sit either side of him, sing to him and tell him stories, hold him safely in their arms when he finally fell back to sleep. For a time the system worked; that was until they had to leave a couple of months later to join those that patrolled the borders. Little Aragorn, known now as Estel, had screamed, cried, shouted, anything to keep them there. He was terrified they would leave him like his father and never return to him. It had taken his Ada Elrond's almost constant company for the time they were away to even begin to quell his fears, as well as countless distractions from the other elves of the house. They came back two weeks later, covered in mud and blood, but nonetheless alive. The next time they left it was easier, but he would always harbour the fear and doubt each and every time they left, and made sure they knew how pleased he was each time they returned.
He made his first kill when he was just seventeen years of age, out on a patrol of the borders of Imladris. It was something that would stay with him forever; to know that he alone had held the fate of a man's life in his hands and he had chosen to take it was not something that sat easy on his conscience. It had taken his brothers a long time to convince him that what he had done was justified; those men had been attacking isolated villages on the borders, pillaging, burning and killing innocents. There was no other way to stop them other than to engage them in battle. It was a long while before he decided to join them on patrol again; a lust for blood was not yet something he felt he needed to satisfy.
Everything changed when he was told of his true heritage at the age of twenty by his foster father. He took on his role as the sixteenth chieftain of the Dunedain and spent many years out in the wild, fighting against the evil forces trying to lay claim to the land, away from the place he had previously called home. He became hardened to battle but he never became accustomed to the death of a companion. Each time a death occurred he would withdraw in to himself for a time, determined not to let his façade of strength crumble, for at times like that, that was all it was; just a façade. Had he been a lesser man grief would have consumed him long ago, but as it was he would always find a way back from the black shadows that threatened his soul to take charge once more.
Now was another one of those times that he would have to master himself in order to support others. He looked at Merry once more and wondered whether it was possible that he was ready to face the truth of war. One so innocent should not have to feel such pain. He gently squeezed Merry's shoulder and walked away.
War and death were painful matters, but to watch his friend's heart break as false hopes were shattered was something he knew he could never live with.
A/N: This is a story I wasn't really sure if I should post because I wasn't sure if people would see the point in it. Fair enough, it doesn't have a grand plot to it, but I hope you will appreciate it for what it is, a reflection on the effect of death and war. I haven't read the books yet, but I am slowly working my way through, so this is based on the films and also some research on my part, please by all means point out any serious inaccuracies I may have but bear that in mind also! I'm more than happy to know what you think of this, and if you have any constructive criticism to make then by all means do so, but please do not flame! I'm testing the water so to speak and if this doesn't work then I shall just return to writing about the hobbits!
Hope you enjoy, please feel free to feedback.
Until next time……….
Smileyhalo