"Take me to him," the orc growled, its voice rough and hoarse, like gravel scraping against cold iron. "I need to speak with the King."
Bloodied and bound, the prisoner crouched in its cell, a mere shadow of the menace it once had been. Each breath was shallow and strained, a painful reminder of the excruciating torment it had endured. The ropes that dug into its wrists did not provoke a flicker of resistance—the orc had long since accepted the futility of trying to break free. Its face was carved with the scars from years spent in the servitude of darkness, yet in its eyes, there was something else - a fleeting recognition, a knowing.
The orc's gaze met that of the captain of the guards, who stood cautiously at the threshold.
"You know who I am," the prisoner insisted, its voice raw but resolute. "And I carry a message for your commander."
The guards exchanged uncertain glances, their fingers instinctively tightening around the hilts of their weapons. They had encountered orcs before—wild, savage beasts consumed by hatred and bent on destruction. But this one was different. Despite its bloodied and broken form, there was an urgency in its voice, a weight behind its words that commanded attention. This was no mindless creature spitting curses and threats. There was purpose in its tone, something deeper than mere malice.
The simplest solution would be to follow protocol: drag the orc to the executioner's block, end its life with a swift stroke. Yet the captain in command hesitated. This orc wasn't the same as others—it wasn't just a creature driven by blind hate - this one was deliberate.
"This is no ordinary orc," captain muttered to himself, weighing down his decision. "If there's a message for the King, he needs to hear it."
As the last light of day faded behind the peaks, shadows stretched long over Minas Tirith. The air was thick with the scent of dust and sweat as the guards moved through the narrow, torch-lit halls of the Citadel. Their prisoner shuffled between them, bound, eyes projecting animosity, yet there was exhaustion in them as well.
"Move," one of the guards snapped, prodding the orc with his spear.
The heavy oak doors creaked open.
Ten years had passed since Aragorn took the throne, and the weight of leadership had left its mark on him. What had been a man of bold action and fiery resolve was now tempered by the burdens of responsibility, his face a little older, his eyes a little heavier. Minas Tirith, once a city shaking with the sounds of battle, these days hummed with the slow, demanding work of rebuilding—of trying to piece together something whole from the broken remnants of war.
The days of glory were already slipping into the past, fading like smoke on the wind. The cheers and the banners had long since been put away, and in their place, there was left the careful, deliberate work of restoring a kingdom. The scars of war were still fresh on the land, visible in the cracked stone of the city walls, the quiet mourning in the eyes of the people. The peace Aragorn had fought for was still fragile and its foundations precarious.
Though the wars had ended, the divisions between the people were harder to heal. Old wounds didn't fade overnight, and trust didn't come easily. There were still factions—some subtle, some more open—who refused to accept the new order, who resisted the fragile peace Aragorn had fought so hard to bring. The old rivalries ran deep, threaded through centuries of bloodshed and betrayal, and for some, the idea of unity was a distant and impossible dream. They couldn't see beyond their own histories, and the world Aragorn was trying to create felt too uncertain, too new to feel real.
In some ways, the hardest battle was the one fought in the silence between the people, in the quiet refusal to truly move forward. The walls of Minas Tirith were still haunted by the past, and Aragorn—though a king in title—felt the weight of that past pressing down on him, always.
But he bore it all with a resolve and no arrogance, no grand gestures. He had accepted the burden of the crown a long time ago.
Yet another truth that appeared harder to escape, no matter how much he tried to bury it, was the slow, inevitable fading of his love for Arwen. The union of man and elf was a promise to unite two peoples that had been distant for so long, but it was never just about love, at least not the kind he had once pictured for himself.
In those early years, their connection had felt like a duty—one he was proud to bear. Together, they represented something the hope for a unified Middle-Earth, where men and elves could stand side by side. They had chosen each other not just because they loved, but because they had to—because the future of their people demanded it. And in that necessity, there was a deep, unspoken strength.
But now, as the years passed, that bond had begun to feel more like a chain than a union. The love that had once been a symbol of hope had transformed into a quiet ache, like a scar that had faded with time, but still throbbed in moments of stillness. Arwen was no longer the bright flame in his heart, but a distant presence—part of the past, not the future.
In the quiet of the nights, Aragorn often wondered if he had ever truly known her—truly felt that love—or if he had only ever known what their love had to be. And now, ten years into his reign, the answer seemed to drift further away with each passing day.
The orc sneered, defiant even in captivity, but Aragorn said nothing. His silence was firm, demanding the creature before him recognize that he was no longer just a warrior of the wilds, but the ruler of a kingdom. And the orc would speak, or it would not.
"You've been brought here, orc," Aragorn began, "not just for punishment but to relay a message. Speak. Tell me why you have come."
The orc hesitated, the sneer faltering; It had lived in the shadows so long it had all but forgotten there was a world beyond them. Yet something about Aragorn's gaze seemed to stir a memory he would rather leave undisturbed, yet the echo of that memory brought him so far already, he had no choice but to face it.
"I've come to aid you, King Elessar," the orc rasped, wincing as he spoke, as though the words themselves caused him great pain. After a moment, he continued, albeit reluctantly. "The elf, the fair-haired archer. Son of Thranduil. He has been reckless—too eager to court death. He's been wandering the wilderness for months, seeking out trouble. And now, at last, he has found it. Or maybe it's better to say that trouble found him."
Aragorn's anger flared, but he forced it down. He knew the orc was taunting him more likely than not, trying to provoke a reaction, but there was very little he could do to control the tumult in heart when Legolas was involved. It had always been that way and would probably always remain so. The bond between them was not an easy one anymore frayed by years of unresolved conflict and distance, yet it remained, and it remained complicated.
"Tell me more."
"The blade that struck him," the orc continued, "Was no ordinary weapon. It carried a dark magic—ancient, foul, designed to destroy the Elvenkind. He has gone to Amon Lhaw, to the North. It's a dark place steeped in shadow, cursed from the days of First Age. But the elfling thought he would find something there—an answer, perhaps—to his unrest. Prince Legolas suffered a wound that will not heal this time, my lord. He has all but weeks left in this realm. Yet I know of a way to undo harm done to him, if you grant me the leave to aid your cause."
Time stood still then, and all that existed beyond the present dissolved into nothingness. At that moment Aragorn knew that the orc spoke the truth.
"Why come to me with this?" he asked. "What do you want, if not to see the elf fall into shadow?"
The orc's features softened, just slightly, eyes growing distant. For a moment, something of his past self—of a life he was long forced to abandon—flickered in his eyes but came to pass just as fast at that flicker. But the sharpness of his features, the slanted eyes, betrayed a history much older than the creature that now stood in front of the King. Aragorn saw it then—an echo of one who had spent his youth beneath the ancient boughs of the great trees, feeling the pull of the stars above, perhaps even now.
"Because." The prisoner answered simply. "This orc was once an elf. I remember, I still do. And I see in you the possibility of redemption maybe - for my kind. You know better than anyone king Elessar what it's like to be forced into darkness that was never your own."
The weight of the orc's words hit Aragorn harder than any battle or council session ever had. The pain in the creature's voice—its longing for something that felt impossible—reminded him all too sharply of his own struggles. He had spent years fighting to heal a broken world, but was it truly possible to redeem those who had lost so much? The orc's admission—its recognition of the darkness inside itself, and the tiny spark of hope it still carried—was a reflection of everything Aragorn had been trying to build in Middle-Earth. It wasn't just about power, or victory; it was about healing, reconciliation, and accepting that even the deepest wounds could be healed, if only given the chance. And though the road ahead was uncertain, and the challenges would be relentless, Aragorn realized then that his reign was about more than just keeping the peace—it was about giving those who had been forgotten or forsaken a chance to find their way back.
"Redemption is the path few can walk, and even fewer can complete." The King contemplated out loud, lost in the weight of the words. "But maybe," he added softly. "None of us are beyond saving. Prove to me that you can help me save Thranduil's son and I will do my best to help your kind."
The orc, a shadow of what it had once been, stood before him not as a symbol of defeat, but of possibility. And in that flash of understanding, Aragorn felt the stirring of hope —fragile, fleeting, but real. Maybe the world was not so broken that it could never be repaired. And maybe, just maybe, they all still had a chance.