Post by Admin on Jan 3, 2021 0:14:44 GMT
Author: Wanderer of Realms
Aragorn sat on the stone steps, weary. He gazed out over the Pelennor Fields to see dead bodies, piled and still smoking from the pyres. He smoothed his worn and weathered travelling cloak over the stone steps before the Great Hall of Minas Tirith. He had been offered a room, of course, but he refused. He was used to sleeping under the trees, with the stars as his blanket and stones as a pillow under his head. But there were no stars today. The sky was smothered with the black fumes of Mordor.
“Strider?”
Aragorn turned to see little Pippin. “What is it?”
“You are needed inside in the Houses of Healing. Gandalf asked me to come find you!” Pippin fidgeted, obviously unrestful.
Aragorn sprang up, all weariness forgotten as he and Pippin sprinted to the healing wing.
Aragorn came to a skidding halt at the door, his stomach dropping as he beheld the three figures in the cold, white sheets. Faramir was closest to the door. He could see the handsome face grey and ashen as it was laid still against the white linen. Eowyn’s golden hair was limp and askew. Aragorn swallowed. Merry took up less than half of the bed, his hobbit toes reaching just to the middle. He looked so small and vulnerable.
Aragorn sighed. “If only Elrond were here. I can only use the skills and powers that has been given to me.”
He paused for a while, thinking. He then turned and called to Ioreth, the healer, “Do you have store of athelas in this House? This herb may release the three from ill dreams and visions.”
“I do not know,” she replied. “I must ask the herb-master. Only he knows the ancient names of the healing herbs.”
“It is also called kingsfoil,” Aragorn said.
“Oh, that!” Ioreth exclaimed. “Why, we have none of that. We here in Gondor have heard naught of its virtue but its sweet smell when bruised. If I were a king, I would have plants that grow more brightly in my yard. Roses and lilacs, perhaps,” she mused.
“Ioreth,” Gandalf said sharply from the corner, where he had been silently watching. “If only your feet would run as quickly as your tongue. Run quickly, and see if there is any leaf in this City.”
“Oh, right. Kingsfoil,” she muttered, before dashing off.
Faramir dreamt that he was in his father’s gardens. The White Tree stood tall but withered and dying.
“Have you returned to Gondor now, boy?”
It was Denethor, sitting on a stony bench, watching Faramir.
“I have returned, father,” he answered, casting his eyes downwards and away.
“And yet you bring me nothing. No prize worthy of Gondor. You set off with a company of 500, and yet you are the only one who has returned. You coward,” Denethor spat.
“I am sorry, father.”
“Sorry? What use is that? Boromir would have brought his father a worthy prize. But you! You can barely escape with your own hide.”
Faramir stayed silent, the words hitting him like a rain of knives.
Denethor suddenly stood, a shadow passing over him. He was now engulfed in flames, dressed in black robes. He roared at Faramir, the heat singing his face.
“Father!” Faramir cried.
Then a sweet smell entered his nose and the wraith shrank back, cowed. It sank to its knees, coughing and spluttering, holding its neck as if it couldn’t breathe. Faramir turned back around to see pale flowers blooming on the Tree.
Faramir opened his eyes. He was in the healing wing, surrounded by Gandalf, Ioreth, Imrahil and Pippin. But his eyes went only to Aragorn.
“What would you command of me, my King?” he asked.
Aragorn smiled. “Rest now for a while, friend. Breathe the wholesome air.”
Ioreth chattered on as Aragorn turned his attention to Eowyn. “King, did you hear that? King!”
Eowyn was walking in a desolate land. Her feet were bare; she could feel the grass underneath her feet and the morning chill about her. She glanced up. All around her was a grey fog.
“Hello?” she called out.
There was no sound. Eowyn walked about, putting her hands around her bare arms to preserve warmth. Where was she? Why was there no one in this place? She was more wary now, every small sound making her jump.
Then, out of the fog, she saw a silhouette of a man, walking slowly towards her.
“Who are you?” she cried aloud.
The figure of the man became clear now. He extended his arms towards her, as if he were about to embrace his niece.
“Uncle!” Eowyn ran forward, so glad to see anyone here in this desolate land.
But as soon as her foot hit the damp ground, he disappeared. Just like that, his very figure was gone.
“Uncle!” she screamed this time.
She turned to see her brother.
“Eomer!” Then she frowned. Eomer didn’t have green eyes. But this man….
He disappeared.
Gandalf stood at her right, but was gone by the time she turned.
Eowyn let out a scream as she fell to the ground. The ground was pulling at her knees, at her legs like shards of glass. The pale skin was now cut with jagged red blood, watering the ground. Somewhere above her, a Nazgul shrieked.
It was the end. She would die at the hands of the servants of Sauron, alone in a desolate land. Eowyn covered her ears as she screamed.
Out of nowhere, she smelled something sweet. It was not the metallic smell of blood, but the lovely smell of flowers in the summer breeze high in the plains of her home. She raised her head as the fog unrolled, countless faces screaming at her as they retreated with the mist.
She stood, the blood clearing itself off, leaving no scars. The ground became a meadow, the petals of lilacs and roses a carpet for her aching feet.
Someone was calling her name, but she took no heed of that yet. Ahead of her was a fountain and a beautiful white Tree. She walked carefully closer. There were small blossoms of pale pinks and whites on the Tree. Understanding flooded her as she realized: The King has returned.
Eowyn opened her eyes. She saw Eomer, thankfully this time with normal eyes. “What of the Lord of the Mark?” she asked. “Tell me not, I know it was not a dream.”
“He is dead,” Eomer answered softly, stroking her hair. “But let that not disturb you from your rest. He lies now in great honor.”
She turned her gaze to Aragorn. “Thank you, my Lord. Words cannot measure up to my gratitude for bringing me out of sickness. Please, attend to Merry. He has been a valiant Halfling and I would not stand to see him fall to the Darkness.”
Aragorn smiled. “As you wish, my Lady. May songs and tales be ever told of your courage.”
Merry was strolling along the little hills of the Shire, whistling as he went. His hands were in his pockets (full of little snacks for his walk, of course) and the sky was bright and lovely. All was well.
A shadow passed over him, and he looked up to see about the disturbance. On the horizon was a rapidly approaching black cloud. It choked the sky, the birds, the trees, the plants. Red flashes of lightning and thunder struck the ground.
Merry turned and ran as fast as he could, his heart pounding. But the cloud was too fast, it reached out like a hand to grab him. He felt like a rabbit that was about to be eaten by a wolf; completely and utterly defenseless of what was to come. Merry looked behind him, trying to gauge the amount of time he had before all was lost.
The ground opened up at his feet, and he plunged downwards into a black pool of water. Merry tried to take a hasty gulp of air before he was engulfed in cold, icy water.
He fought his way to the top, his fingers brushing past slime-covered webs and who knows what else. But something wrapped around his ankle and dragged him down to the bottom, no matter how hard he fought.
The light in his eyes was fading and he was about to give up when the water was hit by a brilliant beam. The creatures fled, screaming in the face of the brightness above. Merry lay limp on the bottom, weary. He closed his eyes, trying to picture the Shire before it was defiled and marred. Green trees, cherry blossoms and strawberries with cream…. That was the image we wanted before he died.
But strong arms gripped him as he was pulled out of the water. He choked and spluttered the water out of his lungs. He was on the shores of the lake, his clothes dry and clean. He stood, shaky as he beheld his surroundings.
Sunlight streamed above from the leaves, patterning the ground. The air was sweet. Merry took a deep breath, smiling. The memories of the lake were fading, becoming just a distant nightmare.
Merry soon came to a clearing in the woods. There was a white Tree in the center, blooming with lovely flowers. A kingly crown lay on a pillow of crushed velvet with a sword laid next to it.
“Aragorn?”
“And so he crushed the leaves in between his fingers and set them in a bowl of water,” Ioreth was saying conspiratorially to her cousins. “And they woke! All three of them! I’ll tell you, this Elfstone from the North is the King.”
The news was all about in the City.
“The King has returned!” everybody was saying at every tavern, at every shop, at every corner, by every garden. One baker spoke his neighbors, his neighbors told their relatives, their relatives spread the news to their friends in Lossarnach, and in a while, the entire continent was saying: “The King has returned!”
Aragorn sat on the stone steps, weary. He gazed out over the Pelennor Fields to see dead bodies, piled and still smoking from the pyres. He smoothed his worn and weathered travelling cloak over the stone steps before the Great Hall of Minas Tirith. He had been offered a room, of course, but he refused. He was used to sleeping under the trees, with the stars as his blanket and stones as a pillow under his head. But there were no stars today. The sky was smothered with the black fumes of Mordor.
“Strider?”
Aragorn turned to see little Pippin. “What is it?”
“You are needed inside in the Houses of Healing. Gandalf asked me to come find you!” Pippin fidgeted, obviously unrestful.
Aragorn sprang up, all weariness forgotten as he and Pippin sprinted to the healing wing.
Aragorn came to a skidding halt at the door, his stomach dropping as he beheld the three figures in the cold, white sheets. Faramir was closest to the door. He could see the handsome face grey and ashen as it was laid still against the white linen. Eowyn’s golden hair was limp and askew. Aragorn swallowed. Merry took up less than half of the bed, his hobbit toes reaching just to the middle. He looked so small and vulnerable.
Aragorn sighed. “If only Elrond were here. I can only use the skills and powers that has been given to me.”
He paused for a while, thinking. He then turned and called to Ioreth, the healer, “Do you have store of athelas in this House? This herb may release the three from ill dreams and visions.”
“I do not know,” she replied. “I must ask the herb-master. Only he knows the ancient names of the healing herbs.”
“It is also called kingsfoil,” Aragorn said.
“Oh, that!” Ioreth exclaimed. “Why, we have none of that. We here in Gondor have heard naught of its virtue but its sweet smell when bruised. If I were a king, I would have plants that grow more brightly in my yard. Roses and lilacs, perhaps,” she mused.
“Ioreth,” Gandalf said sharply from the corner, where he had been silently watching. “If only your feet would run as quickly as your tongue. Run quickly, and see if there is any leaf in this City.”
“Oh, right. Kingsfoil,” she muttered, before dashing off.
Faramir dreamt that he was in his father’s gardens. The White Tree stood tall but withered and dying.
“Have you returned to Gondor now, boy?”
It was Denethor, sitting on a stony bench, watching Faramir.
“I have returned, father,” he answered, casting his eyes downwards and away.
“And yet you bring me nothing. No prize worthy of Gondor. You set off with a company of 500, and yet you are the only one who has returned. You coward,” Denethor spat.
“I am sorry, father.”
“Sorry? What use is that? Boromir would have brought his father a worthy prize. But you! You can barely escape with your own hide.”
Faramir stayed silent, the words hitting him like a rain of knives.
Denethor suddenly stood, a shadow passing over him. He was now engulfed in flames, dressed in black robes. He roared at Faramir, the heat singing his face.
“Father!” Faramir cried.
Then a sweet smell entered his nose and the wraith shrank back, cowed. It sank to its knees, coughing and spluttering, holding its neck as if it couldn’t breathe. Faramir turned back around to see pale flowers blooming on the Tree.
Faramir opened his eyes. He was in the healing wing, surrounded by Gandalf, Ioreth, Imrahil and Pippin. But his eyes went only to Aragorn.
“What would you command of me, my King?” he asked.
Aragorn smiled. “Rest now for a while, friend. Breathe the wholesome air.”
Ioreth chattered on as Aragorn turned his attention to Eowyn. “King, did you hear that? King!”
Eowyn was walking in a desolate land. Her feet were bare; she could feel the grass underneath her feet and the morning chill about her. She glanced up. All around her was a grey fog.
“Hello?” she called out.
There was no sound. Eowyn walked about, putting her hands around her bare arms to preserve warmth. Where was she? Why was there no one in this place? She was more wary now, every small sound making her jump.
Then, out of the fog, she saw a silhouette of a man, walking slowly towards her.
“Who are you?” she cried aloud.
The figure of the man became clear now. He extended his arms towards her, as if he were about to embrace his niece.
“Uncle!” Eowyn ran forward, so glad to see anyone here in this desolate land.
But as soon as her foot hit the damp ground, he disappeared. Just like that, his very figure was gone.
“Uncle!” she screamed this time.
She turned to see her brother.
“Eomer!” Then she frowned. Eomer didn’t have green eyes. But this man….
He disappeared.
Gandalf stood at her right, but was gone by the time she turned.
Eowyn let out a scream as she fell to the ground. The ground was pulling at her knees, at her legs like shards of glass. The pale skin was now cut with jagged red blood, watering the ground. Somewhere above her, a Nazgul shrieked.
It was the end. She would die at the hands of the servants of Sauron, alone in a desolate land. Eowyn covered her ears as she screamed.
Out of nowhere, she smelled something sweet. It was not the metallic smell of blood, but the lovely smell of flowers in the summer breeze high in the plains of her home. She raised her head as the fog unrolled, countless faces screaming at her as they retreated with the mist.
She stood, the blood clearing itself off, leaving no scars. The ground became a meadow, the petals of lilacs and roses a carpet for her aching feet.
Someone was calling her name, but she took no heed of that yet. Ahead of her was a fountain and a beautiful white Tree. She walked carefully closer. There were small blossoms of pale pinks and whites on the Tree. Understanding flooded her as she realized: The King has returned.
Eowyn opened her eyes. She saw Eomer, thankfully this time with normal eyes. “What of the Lord of the Mark?” she asked. “Tell me not, I know it was not a dream.”
“He is dead,” Eomer answered softly, stroking her hair. “But let that not disturb you from your rest. He lies now in great honor.”
She turned her gaze to Aragorn. “Thank you, my Lord. Words cannot measure up to my gratitude for bringing me out of sickness. Please, attend to Merry. He has been a valiant Halfling and I would not stand to see him fall to the Darkness.”
Aragorn smiled. “As you wish, my Lady. May songs and tales be ever told of your courage.”
Merry was strolling along the little hills of the Shire, whistling as he went. His hands were in his pockets (full of little snacks for his walk, of course) and the sky was bright and lovely. All was well.
A shadow passed over him, and he looked up to see about the disturbance. On the horizon was a rapidly approaching black cloud. It choked the sky, the birds, the trees, the plants. Red flashes of lightning and thunder struck the ground.
Merry turned and ran as fast as he could, his heart pounding. But the cloud was too fast, it reached out like a hand to grab him. He felt like a rabbit that was about to be eaten by a wolf; completely and utterly defenseless of what was to come. Merry looked behind him, trying to gauge the amount of time he had before all was lost.
The ground opened up at his feet, and he plunged downwards into a black pool of water. Merry tried to take a hasty gulp of air before he was engulfed in cold, icy water.
He fought his way to the top, his fingers brushing past slime-covered webs and who knows what else. But something wrapped around his ankle and dragged him down to the bottom, no matter how hard he fought.
The light in his eyes was fading and he was about to give up when the water was hit by a brilliant beam. The creatures fled, screaming in the face of the brightness above. Merry lay limp on the bottom, weary. He closed his eyes, trying to picture the Shire before it was defiled and marred. Green trees, cherry blossoms and strawberries with cream…. That was the image we wanted before he died.
But strong arms gripped him as he was pulled out of the water. He choked and spluttered the water out of his lungs. He was on the shores of the lake, his clothes dry and clean. He stood, shaky as he beheld his surroundings.
Sunlight streamed above from the leaves, patterning the ground. The air was sweet. Merry took a deep breath, smiling. The memories of the lake were fading, becoming just a distant nightmare.
Merry soon came to a clearing in the woods. There was a white Tree in the center, blooming with lovely flowers. A kingly crown lay on a pillow of crushed velvet with a sword laid next to it.
“Aragorn?”
“And so he crushed the leaves in between his fingers and set them in a bowl of water,” Ioreth was saying conspiratorially to her cousins. “And they woke! All three of them! I’ll tell you, this Elfstone from the North is the King.”
The news was all about in the City.
“The King has returned!” everybody was saying at every tavern, at every shop, at every corner, by every garden. One baker spoke his neighbors, his neighbors told their relatives, their relatives spread the news to their friends in Lossarnach, and in a while, the entire continent was saying: “The King has returned!”