Title: Doom of Men
Author: Leiasky
Synopsis: Aragorn is badly wounded in the battle of the Palennor Fields.
This is an AU story that does not follow the book. Angst-filled story. Not necessarily a happy ending.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: No.
Pairing: Not really. Aragorn / Arwen possibly.
Disclaimer: I'm not Tolkien. I don't own these characters. (darn!) I make no money. Done for fun.
Additional Info: Movie-verse.
Archive: If you like, just tell me where.
The stench was overwhelming. Death was everywhere. Bodies, cleaved in two, littered the ground. Blood, black as night, soaked the grass-covered fields and mingled with the red of the fallen Men.
The Men of Rohan and Gondor fought bravely in the defense of the White City, determined, to their last breath, to take as many of the enemy into the dark lands of death as was possible.
The arrival of the black ships, bearing the noble standard of the king of Gondor, had come none to soon.
Eomer surveyed the bloodied field as the un-crowned king of Gondor settled into
the saddle beside the king of Rohan.
“We shall ride into battle together. If this be our last stand, we will
make it here, on this field, before the very gates of the White City.”
Eomer nodded, his eyes widening at the flash of steel that glittered before his eyes. The sword that was broken had been re-forged and was wielded now, possibly into its last battle, by the rightful heir to the kingdom of Gondor.
Eomer raised his own blade and glared at the enemy that relentlessly pounded their lines. “If this be our last,” Eomer said, “Rohan and Gondor will end it together!”
The walls of defense were strengthened by the arrival of Aragorn and his men, but they were not enough to withstand the relentless pounding of the Orc armies. They continued to file out of the woods and onto the field of battle like moths to a flame. Hill trolls and dark men led strikes against the weakest links of the line and one by one the defenders of Gondor fell to the relentless onslaught.
The armies of Gondor and Rohan backed against the crumbled city gates, making their stand with their backs to the wall of the White City. People hid in their homes or fled to the inner circle of the city as fireballs crushed the outer structures. Fires burned the outer circle of the city and were spreading quickly. Women, and children not old enough to raise a blade, dumped buckets of water over the flames, hoping to douse them before they could spread.
Aragorn stood beside Gandalf, cutting down Orc after Orc as they attempted to cut a path through the barely holding line of Men. Aragorn panted with exhaustion, his arms heavy, his body weak with loss of blood from various wounds he had received during the battle.
As all hope waned, a light shown atop a small hill toward the west, thunderous steps could be heard in the distance and Aragorn’s heart plummeted into his stomach.
More Orcs. Reinforcements had arrived to replace the fatigued, battle-worn enemy of Mordor. Aragorn breathed deeply, whispering an elvish goodbye into the wind. He looked to Gandalf then to the stars that had not shined favorably on them this night. The line of Isildur had failed once again and Middle-Earth would be thrown into permanent darkness. Aragorn shuddered at the thought, at once grateful that he would not live to see the times that were to come.
Heralds of Gondor cried out as the hosts of horseman crested the hill and descended from the western road. Foot soldiers, armed with tall shields and even taller scythe’s, followed at a run behind the mounded men. Standards were bared for those far away on the field to see. Standards not of Orc, or Uruk, Hill Man or Troll, but of a once great and numerous nation - One who had once before come to the aid of the Men of Gondor and its White City.
Eyes widened as the evening moon reflected on the golden armor of the elven army. Orcs trembled in fear but were pressed on by their Uruk overseers, determined to break through the last crumbling line of Men and charge into the unprotected City and to victory for the Eye.
A resounding cheer echoed across the fields as the men of Gondor and Rohan found renewed strength at the sight of the elven army. Even at a distance, the army numbered more than was left of the combined forces of Gondor and Rohan.
“Please get here in time,” Aragorn breathed just as an Uruk blade came crashing down on his arm, nearly knocking Anduril from his grasp. Mail screeched and broke beneath the blade, and Aragorn fell to his knees.
Off came the offending creatures head as Gandalf swung Glamdring in an arc that took out his opponent and the one that threatened to cleave Aragorn in two.
Gandalf shoved a hand beneath Aragorn’s arm and yanked him to his feet before the would-be King could be seen on his knees. The mail had taken the worst of the blow, but blood still flowed down Aragorn’s arm where the blade had impacted with flesh.
“Thank you, my friend,” Aragorn breathed. He sidestepped another misshapen blade aimed for his heart and thrust Anduril into the neck of the oversized Orc. Busy as he was with the battle before him, Aragorn didn’t notice the figures who waited atop the hill as the elven army advanced on the White City.
Elrond sat atop his neighing steed, Galadriel and Celeborn on either side,
Arwen behind, watching the battle take place on the sprawling fields
below. Elrond searched for his sons,
and finding them alive, his eyes moved to Aragorn. He shouted a few commands to
the group that had stayed behind as escort to the elven Lord. Half the number
rushed toward Aragorn to ensure the protection of Isildur’s remaining heir, the
others remained as guards surrounding Elrond and his family.
Arwen’s heart leapt into
her throat as a hideous winged creature dove onto the field , clutching at men
with its claws and rending the flesh from their bodies. It dropped to the
ground and it’s rider dismounted, clutching its long, deadly blade in
armor-covered hands. All who came up against the creature in black fell to
horrible deaths to its superior strength and skill.
It passed where Merry and Eowyn lay, the only two who had ever dealt a death blow to a Nazgul. Its disgusted hiss toward the fallen warriors would have sent shivers up the spines of the strongest man.
The un-dead creature
sliced a path through the elves, through the men of both Gondor and Rohan
until, at last, it came upon its intended prey.
Aragorn stood before him, dirty and bloodied, wearing the leathers of the kingdom of Gondor and its legendary white tree, on his chest.
The creature hissed as it raised its blade, “The line of Isildur will be broken this day.” The deadly Morgul blade came crashing down toward Aragorn’s head and the man barely had enough time to bring Anduril up to block the fierce blow.
Tremors reverberated down his arms from the contact and Aragorn ducked beneath the next swing, rendered off balance by the last hard blow.
Soldiers battled around them leaving no man able to free himself long enough to come to Aragorn’s aid. He was left to battle this great Nazgul alone, to destroy the vile creature or be destroyed himself.
Aragorn blocked each swing aimed at his head, his chest, his arms, his legs. But with each refusal, his repost would slow, giving him no chance to break through the defenses of his opponent. He was exhausted and injured, and the Nazgul was fresh off his mount.
Elrond, seeing the battle below, ordered those who remained as guard, to ride to Aragorn’s aid. The captain of the guard refused. “We will not leave you unguarded, My Lord.”
Elrond’s eyes flashed in anger and he took up his stallion's reins. “Then I will aid Estel myself!”
“Wait,” Galadriel’s calm voice echoed in his ears as she reached forward and held fast the reins of Elrond’s steed. “Gandalf will aid him.”
They looked on as Gandalf cut his way toward Aragorn, leaving no Orc or Uruk standing in his path.
Once more a strong blow knocked Aragorn off his feet, his tired arms finally giving way to the increased pressure from the Nazgul blade. Gandalf was there to block the steel as it sailed toward Aragorn’s head and the elven company watching from the far away hilltop breathed a collective sigh of relief.
“Mithrandir,” the Nazgul hissed. “Since when do Istari interfere with the affairs of Men?” Their blades clashed, steel on steel, the Nazgul still the stronger of the two.
Aragorn gained his feet quickly, drawing on whatever strength left within his arms to wield the re-forged blade of kings to victory over the creature in black.
Indur drove Gandalf into a crowed of oncoming Orcs, hissing its pleasure as they surrounded and attacked with animalistic ferocity. Gandalf, now occupied with the fresh wave of Orc soldiers, was unable to aid Aragorn as the Nazgul slowly turned its attention to the advancing would-be-King.
Their blades clashed once more, Aragorn gritting his teeth against the pain of his injuries. He swung with all his remaining strength, pushing the Nazgul back, hoping to trip him on the black cloak that fell in waves around its body. The Nazgul hissed its laughter at the man so valiantly struggling with exhaustion. "Give up, heir of Isildur. You cannot win."
--------------------------------
"Father" Arwen steered her stallion beside her father. Her eyes darkened as she watched the sight far below.
Elrond ignored her, choosing, instead to focus on his twins who were being pushed back by a fresh wave of Uruk. Elrond muttered to the stars, willing his armies to reach the battle in time. Before those that he loved were killed, or worse, enslaved.
"Father," Arwen's eyes widened as she watched her beloved furiously battle the black Nazgul.
Galadriel turned her attention to Aragorn and gasped. "Elrond! Ride, ride quickly!"
Arwen turned wide-eyes on her grandmother and nodded, "Estel needs help. He hasn't the strength..." They watched helplessly as Aragorn tripped, Anduril flying from his grasp.
Without waiting for her father, Arwen dug her heals into Asfaloth's sides and slapped his reins. Drawing her blade, she cried, "Noro lim! Noro Lim!"
"Arwen!" Galadriel, Elrond and Celeborn cried in unison.
Elrond and Celeborn raised their elven blades and charged down the hill after Arwen, their stallion's leaping gracefully over the fallen bodies that littered the field.
-----------------------------------
Aragorn rolled away from the sharp steel as its point sailed toward his chest. The tip sliced through the leather tunic and bounced harmlessly off the chain mail the man wore beneath the leather. The Nazgul hissed and whirled around to impale a Gondorian soldier as he rushed to assist Aragorn. This gave Aragorn time to regain his feet and reclaim Anduril. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arwen on Asfaloth, galloping toward him. Elrond and Celeborn were on her heals but his heart sunk into his stomach at seeing his beloved riding willingly into the heart of the battle.
"No!" Aragorn yelled toward her, motioning her back with his raised blade.
"Aragorn!" Gandalf cried as the Nazgul turned his attention back toward Aragorn and lunged at the man’s unguarded back.
'Behind you!" Arwen cried, eyes wide.
Aragorn moved to dodge the Nazgul but his forearm was caught in the creature's iron grip and roughly twisted. Anduril fell from his grasp as the creature snapped his wrist like a twig. Pain blocked his vision as he fought from crying out in pain. Another armor-clad hand fell heavily to Aragorn's shoulder, fingers digging into the skin to hold the would-be-king from whirling out of the Nazgul's grasp.
Legolas' keen eyes were the first to see Aragorn locked in the Nazgul's tight embrace. He called to Gimli, whose eyes went wide with fear at the sight. Imrahil sliced through his opponent and rushed toward the king but was stopped by a fresh wave of Orcs. His immediate support was halted and he called to his kinsmen for help.
Legolas wove through the combatants in an effort to reach his friend but the distance was too great. Gandalf fought his way through the Orcs but had been thrown too far to be able to reach Aragorn in time.
"And so falls the last heir of Isildur!" Indur
hissed loudly. He released Aragorn's useless wrist and thrust his blade into
Aragorn’s back.
Chapter 2
His attention was torn. Arwen was riding toward him, a look of horror on her face. His wrist was becoming numb, he knew it was broken, and the pain was crawling its way up his arm. But it in no way prepared him for the piercing pain that came next.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Aragorn heard a horrified scream.
Searing pain tore through his chest as the Nazgul thrust his blade into Aragorn's back. The would-be-king could feel the steel bend and snap as it came into contact with the chain mail but the Nazgul kept the momentum of the thrust. The mail twisted and bent, finally breaking from the pressure.
Aragorn coughed as he felt the broken steel pierce once-protected flesh. Blood immediately welled in his throat and began to drip from one corner of his mouth, halting any cry of pain that might have escaped his lips.
Time slowed and Aragorn could see the shocked looks on the faces of those that surrounded him.
Legolas screamed a long string of elvish curses as he re-doubled his efforts to reach his friend. He violently cut through each foe, fear clouding his normally clear gaze. Several times he halted his elven blades inches from a friendly throat as anger blinded him to all but his urgent effort to reach Aragorn.
Gimli had reached Gandalf and the two were merely steps away. They fought through their foes as refreshed elven warriors appeared around them. They dropped the Orcs where they stood and cleared the path for the Dwarf and Wizard.
Arwen swung wildly at any Orc or uruk in her way, slicing them cleanly in two with her elven blade. Her eyes were wet with tears, her hair in disarray as the wind and her stallion's rapid gait mussed the long, dark locks.
"Your time for rebellion is at an end!" The Nazgul hissed. He pushed Aragorn toward Asfaloth and drew the broken blade from his opponent's back with a splendid flourish.
Aragorn coughed and blood, bright red, dripped from the corner of his mouth. He could feel darkness approaching his mind and he prayed to Elbereth that death would be swift. The poison that was the morgul blade had begun its work and small shards from the broken blade had already embedded themselves deep into his back. Aragorn could feel the instant fever spreading through his body. Fear enveloped his mind as the realization struck that the Nazgul wouldn't let him die easily.
Then he was falling, unable to feel his limbs, unable to slow his descent toward the ground. He watched Arwen leap from Asfaloth, screaming a vitrolic string of elven curses that would have made any man, be he elf or dwarf, stop in their tracks. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Their eyes met for one brief second before he lost sight of her and hit the ground. Eyes squeezed shut in nearly unbearable pain as Arwen rushed the Nazgul with the speed and fierceness of five Gondorian soldiers.
"You will have to eliminate the entire race of elves and men before you will take this City and its King!" Arwen spat, driving her blade fiercely toward the Nazgul. With each swing she came a step closer to cleaving his un-dead flesh. Its broken blade parried each of her thrusts, though with increasing difficulty.
The creature hissed in response. "She-elf. You will die as swiftly as Isildur's heir!"
Arwen trembled with fury. She didn't need to turn to see her father and Celeborn dismounting their steeds and rushing to Aragorn's side. She didn't need to see the rage in her father's eyes as he left Aragorn in Celeborn's capable hands and raced after his daughter.
Arwen's blade moved faster than the eye could see, catching pieces of the Nazgul's cloak and shredding it to pieces. She would not give her father the pleasure of destroying this creature.
The Nazgul made one small mistake, and Arwen caught the sword arm at the elbow and tore apart the undead flesh. It hissed in pain as elven steel sliced through tendon and bone. The long, thin blade broke as it met with the poisoned flesh. The Nazgul screeched and flailed, hissing a long string of inaudible words in its ancient tongue. Arwen raised her broken blade and whirled away from the Nazgul as it reached for her with an iron-covered hand.
As she thrust the broken blade into the creature's side, it's hands clawed wildly at her. She stumbled backwards, the hand only catching the fabric draped along her arm, tearing it.
"Your king will take my place!" It hissed before falling into a heap, its black blood searing and burning everything it touched.
Arwen exhaled a deep breath just as Elrond skidded to a halt behind her. He wrapped long arms around his daughter’s shoulders, embracing her tightly. Relief flooded his embrace and he exhaled a long, deep breath, grateful to Elbereth that Arwen had come out of the confrontation intact. When she attempted to turn, to make her way back to where Aragorn lay, Elrond held fast.
"No, father. You cannot…" her protest was firm, her voice unwavering.
Elrond remained silent.
Arwen wrenched herself from Elrond's grasp, eyes piercing his heart with their determination.
"Arwen, don't…" His words fell on deaf ears as his stubborn child rushed away. So determined was she in reaching her love, she didn't notice the men and elves alike part like the sea and close once again after she had passed.
Gimli and Gandalf backed away as Arwen knelt at Aragorn's side. She clutched his un-broken hand in a grip so tight the fingers turned white. She exchanged a worried glance with Celeborn, who simply shook his head and lowered his gaze. Her heart plummeted into her stomach and her eyes widened with fear. When she reached down to press a trembling hand to the side of his face, his eyes turned to her, clouded with pain.
When he tried to speak, she simply pressed a finger to his lips. "Save your strength, my love."
With effort, he shook his head and pressed a weak kiss to the finger that rested against his lips.
His eyes held a pain so deep that it broke her heart. Tears slid down her dirty cheeks, marring a very visible path down the smooth skin.
Arwen lifted his head into her lap as she struggled to hold back a sob. Trembling hands smoothed sweat-slicked hair and she could see clouded eyes struggle to focus on her face. After several tries, words croaked from between parched and bloodied lips. "Will not - become…" His body trembled and he took a deep, shuddering breath. "…. one of - them. Must - die. You - must…"
"No!" She leaned toward him and captured his lips in a determined, silencing kiss. When they parted, his blood covered her clothing, her lips, and tears fell in large drops down her cheeks. "You can't," She sobbed, "ask this of me."
Legolas fell to his knees beside Arwen, his head tilted, his eyes wet. For one who lived so long, death was as alien to him as grief. But the Mirkwood Prince was faced with both, now manifested in the fading life of a dear friend. Legolas could do nothing to stop the pain that tore at his heart.
Gandalf and Gimli stood behind a kneeling Celeborn. The elves hands were covered in blood as he attempted to diagnose Aragorn’s injuries. It was clear that the elf had stopped without a thorough examination, realizing the inevitable outcome.
“Father is the best healer Middle-Earth has known,” Arwen’s voice cracked as her eyes pleaded with her beloved to fight. “You too, have the power of a healer, Estel.”
Aragorn’s eyes fluttered and Arwen shook his shoulders to keep him from falling into the death sleep would bring.
“You are the King. You have the hands of a healer.” Arwen sobbed, slapping his face to make sure she received some acknowledgement of understanding.
Aragorn coughed as Elrond knelt beside his daughter. Pain was clearly visible in the Elven Lord’s eyes as Arwen looked to her father for help.
“It is…”
“Do not speak unless you offer something I want to hear.” Arwen snapped, her fingers brushed away a few stray strands of hair that had fallen across her beloved’s face.
“He can be healed. Try father!” Arwen pleaded, her breath coming in gasps as she could no longer hold back the sobs. “I will not watch my betrothed die in my arms!”
Elrond closed his eyes, resolving to use every skill he possessed to save his foster-son, and began to shout orders in his native tongue as the warriors of Gondor and Rohan looked on in disbelief. Celeborn called to his stallion and mounted immediately, riding off toward the black forests that surrounded the bloodied fields. “Celeborn will gather the necessary herbs.” Elrond said calmly to his trembling daughter. “We must move him into the City. We cannot linger here.”
Eomer, followed by high-ranking Gondorian captains, appeared beside the injured heir. Elrond’s sons unfolded the King’s banner and draped it over two outstretched lances. The jeweled banner was secured tightly before Aragorn was lifted onto the make-shift litter. Arwen watched in stunned silence as they laid the nearly unconscious man onto the banner she had made for him to carry into proudly Gondor – as proof that he was the rightful heir to the throne. Instead, it was carrying him. It was almost too much for her to bear as they carried him across the battlefield and into the city.
People gathered along the edge of the street, poked their heads out of windows and doors, to see their uncrowned King being carried by his people. Elves and Warriors of Gondor and Rohan walked together, the battle won but their faces solemn masks of sadness.
Arwen held tight Aragorn's hand and whispered to him in the ancient language of the elves. He was barely conscious but Arwen kept his attention by dropping pleasant kisses to his cheeks, lips and by gently blotting away the blood that dripped relentlessly from his mouth.
“To the house of healing!” one of the captains cried.
“No, to the White Tower,” Eomer said softly.
Arwen caught his sad eyes and she nodded in understanding and approval.
At the confused look of the surrounding guard, he added, “Though he may be uncrowned, he is still the King. If his end must come, it will come in the place where his ancestors once dwelled.”
Elrond, Legolas, Gimli and Gandalf followed the host of litter-bearers through large double doors, up the spiraling marble steps, and into the Kings chambers; a room that had gone unused for generations; a room that had been kept clean and fresh until the expected arrival of their rightful King. Little did they expect, that their King would arrive on his deathbed.
Tapestries of gold and burgundy decorated the walls. Banners of old were suspended from the ceiling. Curtains of the softest silk hung over the windows and above the bed on which the men reverently laid their uncrowned King.
Arwen was beside him in an instant, hand gripping her beloved’s in fear, fingers trembling and tears falling like rain down her cheeks.
Elrond sat at Aragorn’s side, working as quickly as he could, treating Aragorn’s wounds with skilled hands. He struggled to hide the fear that he would not have the ability, this time, to pull from the fires of death another who had been stung by a Morgul blade.
Elrond tore at Aragorn's leather tunic, taking a small knife hidden in his cloak and ripping the material, when shaking fingers wouldn't work fast enough. He winced when the fabric parted revealing the blood-stained mail beneath. The Elven Lord quickly divested the wounded man of the heavy metal and cringed when Aragorn's back made contact once again with the bed.
Elrond rolled Aragorn carefully onto his side, flinching when his eyes met the angry-looking wound that pierced the man’s back. The wound was badly torn, the skin jagged as if cut with a serrated blade. Thanks to the brute force with which the Nazgul had thrust its sword through the protective mail that covered his torso, there was no clean entry wound. The poisoned blade had also broken when it impacted with the mail, causing a much more damaging injury.
Aragorn coughed, eyes rolling into the back of his head before squeezing shut in pain so unbearable he could give it no voice. Fever raged through his blood. Already pale skin burned but was cold and clammy to the touch. His life was fading and there was little Elrond could do to stop it. Dark hair clung to his sweat-soaked face and what little strength remained, flowed as quickly from his body as the crimson blood from between his parched lips.
"Where is Celeborn!" Arwen cried through her sobs. "You sent him to get herbs. If he returns in time…"
"Arwen." Elrond turned a sad gaze toward his whimpering daughter. His eyes flicked to his twin sons, who had just rushed loudly through the door.
"Oh no." Elladan's eyes fell to the blood stained bed-covers and to his father's hands, covered in their brother's blood.
"No. No." Elrohir's words echoed those of his brother's as he stepped beside his sister and rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. He shook his head in denial of the scene spread so graphically before his eyes. Arwen barely acknowledged his touch.
"What can we do?" Elladan began to move toward his father but was pinned in place by the hopelessly sad look in Elrond's eyes.
"I have done all I can. You could do no better."
"No, there must be - "Elladan continued, eyes narrowing and fists clenching in anger.
Imrahil and Legolas returned with basins filled with water and set them down on a nearby table. Arwen immediately took a cloth and dipped it into the liquid. Squeezing the excess water from the cloth, she carefully placed it across Aragorn's forehead, in a desperate attempt to bring down his fever.
"It is not so simple." Elrond's said sadly. "There are shards embedded in his skin. They must be removed." Arwen's eyes shot toward her father. "They are buried deep. If I try to remove them, I may kill him in the process."
"He will die if you do not try." She whispered, sliding a hand along Aragorn's face to cup a whiskered cheek.
Celeborn arrived with Galadriel, their faces etched with worry and concern. Celeborn removed a myriad of herbs from the pouch he carried and set them onto a nearby table, within Elrond’s reach.
Elrond worked carefully, using his skill as a Master healer to remove the shards embedded too close to Aragorn’s heart for comfort. Aragorn whimpered at each slight movement, too tired and weak to cry out in pain.
Elrond crumbled athelas into a boiling basin of water in an attempt to draw the lingering stench of death from the room. The fresh fragrant smell of the plant did much to lift the spirits of those who stood in silence, watching the Elven Lord of Rivendell work frantically to save the life of his foster-son. But, it did little to help the man for whom it was crushed and swirled into the basin of steaming water.
Gandalf stood beside Galadriel, his face an unreadable mask. Inside, his heart was tearing, breaking in two as the elves struggled to save the life of a dear friend. His spells were of no use for he had tried every one he knew.
Legolas and Gimli stood to the back of the room, out of the way, watching silently, their faces a mask of concern and fear. Imrahil had dismissed the guards who had carried Aragorn into the chamber, positioning them outside the doors to turn away all who came to see the fallen King. The three knew there was nothing they could do that was not already being done, so instead simply stood in silence, praying to whatever goddess they knew, to save the injured man lying near death on the bed before them.
Arwen’s brothers exchanged a silent look with their father before they both stepped closer to their sister. They had never seen their father look so grim, Galadriel and Celeborn stare so blankly, Gandalf appear so speechless. They had never seen their sister reduced to such violent tears.
They knew their father’s work was folly. They knew, that even with Elrond's great knowledge, this doom that had fallen had already taken its planned course. Arwen would need them in the hours and days to come. She would need their strength. Even as that strength waned with the dying breath of their friend and brother.
Arwen absently brushed at Aragorn’s face, delicate hand cupping his cheek. His eyes were clouded and he stared blankly at her. Once in a while he would wince as the pain from her father’s ministrations registered in his numbed body. He was pale, his skin sallow and clammy. Death had come to take him away, but would not grant him a peaceful exit from this world.
“I won’t let you go without a fight, Estel,” Arwen cried, her voice a mere whisper.
The tortured sound broke the hearts of her brothers, and they each rubbed her back in a gesture that had once comforted her as a child. It gave her no respite now. They could not bear to look at the man they considered a brother, could not look at the tremendous pain reflected in his eyes as he looked, with love and adoration, on their sister.
“What can I do!” She looked at everyone in the room, one by one, her fiery tear-filled gaze pinning each person where they stood. “I won’t stand by and do nothing. I won’t stand by and watch him die before my eyes.”
“There is little else that we can do,” Elrond said softly, looking up at his daughter from across the bed. His hands were covered in blood and for the first time, Arwen noticed that they were shaking. Her lip trembled as shock at seeing her father so helpless slowly registered in her mind.
Arwen turned tear-filled eyes on Galadriel, who stood behind her father, watching silently. Galadriel was not looking at her, was not looking at Elrond, or Aragorn. Her eyes were open and unmoving, unseeing, unfocused. When Arwen moved to speak, a strangled cry came from Aragorn’s parched lips, drawing her attention.
In fevered delirium, he shook his head, eyes crossing as they lost their focus. Every breath was drawn with great effort, each one more hoarse than the last. His face was drenched with sweat, his hair plastered to his head and neck. Arwen could see the suffering in his eyes, could see the pain that he, in his stubbornness, would never admit to feeling.
Arwen shook her head furiously, “Don’t give up! Don’t give in. Please! Estel, be strong!”
He couldn’t speak. Words hurt too much to voice. He could hear her cries but could not answer them. The pain was deep, biting, eating away at his body and his spirit. Chills wracked his body as his fever worsened. He fought to stay conscious but with each passing minute could feel his life slipping away. He knew what Arwen refused to admit. He was dying. He could choose to let his life slip away or fight through the painful haze only to be stopped short as the poison from the Morgul blade made him into one of Sauron’s slaves. He couldn’t, wouldn’t allow that to happen.
Elrond secured what bandages he could to the wound and rolled the man onto his back. With eyes that bespoke the grief in his heart, Elrond took Aragorn's free hand and sat beside him on the bed. He knew what Aragorn wanted him to do, could see it in the dying man's eyes. Elrond looked at his daughter with eyes wet with unshed tears. "Arwen. His wounds are too severe for even my hand. We must take comfort that the poison of the Nazgul will not reach his heart before his life ends."
Arwen shook her head violently. She refused to hear any more of her father's words, refused to accept that this was how their tortured love story would end. They had waited too long, endured too much loneliness and separation, to be parted now. Fate could not take him from her. It could not be so cruel.
"Arwen, I will follow him to the grave if my blade is needed to end his life." Elrond's voice faltered and for the first time, a single, solitary tear slipped down his cheek. "I will not let the Nazgul poison take him. You must let him go. The longer you delay, the stronger the chance the poison will reach his heart and pull him into the shadow world."
Suddenly, the ground rocked the foundations of the White Tower, throwing everyone off their feet. Imrahil hit the floor with an annoyed grunt and Gimli was thrown into the wall with a loud crash. Gandalf steadied himself with a few whispered spells and the elves, always light on their feet, were rendered off balance but remained standing.
“Mordor,” Gandalf moved quickly to the window and stared at the fiery mountain as it exploded into tiny fragments of hardened magma and rock. For the first time in years, light penetrated the shadow lands and illuminated them with a freedom that had been long forgotten. “They’ve done it. They’ve destroyed the ring.”
Excited cheers erupted from the battlefield below as every eye in the city and outside of it turned to watch the spectacular display before their very eyes. Within the White Tower, eyes closed in relief as one weight was lifted off very tired shoulders.
When Arwen looked down at her love, she could see a small smile of recognition register on his features. With great effort, he raised his hand and cupped her cheek. She burrowed into the simple gesture, memorizing the feel of his touch, the trembling of his hand as his strength wavered. She covered his fingers with her own and squeezed tightly.
With a deep, struggled breath, he whispered, “It is over.”
It took a few seconds for her to register that the meaning of his words had been two-fold. The War of the Ring was over and with that valiant struggle went his life.
His hand went limp in her grasp and his eyes slowly closed. From parched lips fell his last words, whispered for her ears only, “Amin mela lle.”
“No!” Arwen cried. Tears fell from her eyes in huge drops and she threw herself across his chest, sobbing into his neck.
Elrond took a deep, shaky breath, his eyes wet with tears that slipped unhindered now down his cheeks. Galadriel bowed her head in an effort to keep sadness from overtaking her normally strong and stoic form. If she looked at the elven tears that fell so painfully for her fallen kin, she would be unable to contain her own. When Celeborn draped a comforting arm across her shoulders, she turned and slowly leaned her forehead against his chest, sobbing quietly, a lone tear escaping from tightly closed eyelids.
Gandalf pursed his lips angrily, unwilling to believe all they had fought for was over, everything that had been won, had truly been lost. They’d nurtured and protected the last of Isildur’s heirs and now, in the hour of Sauron’s unforeseen defeat, so died such a noble and honorable line.
Arwen’s brothers stood unmoving behind their sobbing sister, unable to believe their eyes. This couldn't have happened. He couldn't be dead. Aragorn had grown up with the twins, and they loved him as much as their sister. He’d had fallen in love with Arwen before their very eyes. He’d grown into a noble and honorable man, fit for leadership among his people. They had never cried in all of their long years, save when their mother crossed over the Sea, until now. They fell to their knees and bowed their heads, tears dripping freely from their eyes.
Legolas clutched Gimli’s shoulder and the Dwarf knew better than to utter a word to his friend. He dared not look at the elf's face, for surely he would see the tears marring a bright path down pale cheeks.
In all the histories, Gimli had never heard of the passing of one life bringing tears to the eyes of so many elves.
Imrahil leaned against the nearest wall, sighing heavily. He hadn't known Aragorn for long, but the man knew he must have been great, to bring so many of the Wise One's to tears.
Arwen pressed trembling lips to Aragorn’s cheek. Her heartbreaking plea's sent tremors of grief through all that bore witness to the words. Arwen laced her fingers through the lifeless ones of her betrothed and clung to them as if they were her lifeline. She didn't see her father slide to his knees beside the bed, the grief too much for the Elven Lord to bear.
Silence hung in the air for minutes uncounted. The only sound came from Arwen as she wept into Aragorn’s chest, shoulders trembling with the powerful sobs that wracked her body.
When she finally spoke, the determination, fear, and heartbreak in her voice sent chills down the spines of everyone present. "I will not live in this world, or another, without
him by my side."
Legolas gasped sharply, drawing the concerned gaze of Imrahil and Gimli. They stared at him in confusion before turning their attention to the horrified look on Galadriel’s face. She stepped forward quickly before Celeborn’s shaking hand on her shoulder prevented any further movement.
Gandalf simply stood in silence, his head bowed in understanding and despair. The twins remained unmoving also, knowing that this choice their sister made could not be reversed. The grief and despair was almost more than they could bear.
Elrond gained his feet in an instant, his eyes widened in a horror the twins had never before seen.
Arwen drew her legs onto the bed and lay down next to her betrothed, her head resting heavily on his chest. She laced her fingers even tighter through Aragorn’s and squeezed the cold fingers. When she closed her eyes, she exhaled a deep and final breath, her shoulders melting into the cushions and her body into the lifeless embrace of the only man she ever truly loved. With a final, whispered goodbye, she made the last decision of her long life.
Elrond's horrified, gut-wrenching scream echoed off the marble walls, sending chills of fear down the spines of every man, dwarf and elf.
Chapter 4
"Lord Imrahil!" The Captain of the Guard pounded frantically on the door.
Imrahil shook his head to clear his gaze and blinked back the tears that welled in his eyes. He turned and pulled open the door, greeting the Captain with a blank stare. "What is it?"
The Captain forgot his words at the sight of the man before him and stopped short. He couldn't help but look over Imrahil's shoulder and into the room behind. What he saw there frightened him. From the grieving looks of the faces of the people within, he knew that the man who they'd carried into the long unused King's chambers had died. Aragorn's name was whispered on the lips of the people that still remained in the city. 'Our King has returned in our hour of darkest need', they said. On their heels followed the frantic whispers that he had been injured in battle.
Imrahil saw the unvoiced question sitting on the Captain's lips and nodded slowly. "He did not survive his wounds."
The Captain sighed and bowed his head in reverence to the fallen king.
"What news have you?" Imrahil asked quietly after several moments of silence.
The Captain suddenly remembered what had brought him so quickly to the door and replied urgently, "Faramir has been injured, My Lord. And the lady Eowyn of Rohan and one of the Halflings from the North."
Imrahil's eyes widened and he shook his head dejectedly. "Not Faramir too. Will this terrible day never end?"
The twins heads lifted as they overheard Imrahil's wail of despair. They immediately looked to their father for a reaction. When Elrond raised his head, the twins cringed at the grief they saw reflected in their his eyes, etched into his wizened features.
Too overwhelmed with grief, Elrond waved his hand in a dismissive gesture toward his sons. "Save him. He is the last of the Stewards of Gondor. He must not die. Gondor must have a King."
"Your skill in the healing arts is unmatched, Elrond," Gandalf said slowly. The wizard settled his hand on the Elven Lord's shoulder. "Your skills will be needed to save his life."
Elrond motioned for the Captain to enter and asked, "From where came his wound?"
The Captain took one step into the room and froze. The grief and pain etched into the faces of everyone present sent chills down his spine. He wanted to do nothing more than run screaming from the room never to return. Instead, he stared unblinking at the wet cheeks of the Lord of Rivendell. "A- a Black Rider's dart pierced his chest, My Lord."
Elrond sighed and bowed his head. "More deadly poison." The Elven lord stared down at hands unmarred by the passing of time. His gaze flicked over the motionless forms lying on the bed and he choked back a sob. "My hands have not healed today." Moments of silence passed before he continued. "I fear that ability is now lost to me."
"You can save the life of this man so that there is a noble line left to rule Gondor." Galadriel spoke slowly from behind her son. "His life is in your hands."
Elrond's hands shook and his indecision was etched plainly into a face hardly touched by his six thousand years of existence. Silently, Celeborn stepped forward and rested a firm hand on Elrond's shoulder, offering wordless support with the simple gesture. Elrond slowly exhaled a long breath and closed his eyes. His decision reached, he took one last look at the couple lying on the bed and strode determinedly out the door.
---------------------------------
Galadriel lost the strength to remain upright and slid to the floor. She reached out to touch the motionless couple and choked back a sob. Celeborn, concerned for his wife, knelt at her side, wrapping comforting arms around her shoulders and lending her his strength.
"It cannot end this way." Galadriel whispered, crystal tears sliding down her cheeks. "The mirror did not show this future."
"You cannot see all things, my love." Celeborn said sadly. Strong hands rubbed her shoulders but the grief in his eyes could not be concealed.
"We've won," Gandalf whispered to no one in particular. He cast a sad look toward the bed, then to the kneeling Galadriel and Celeborn. "But I fear the price for such a victory was far too high."
"I would rather fight for the rest of my days the evil of Sauron, than to see Aragorn forfeit his life." Legolas declared. He paced angrily around the room, hands balling into fists. "And Arwen." he took a deep breath rather than expel a huge sob. "Never would I have wished to witness the death of one so fair due to grief."
Elladan and Elrohir sat beside their sister on the bed, each independently reaching out to touch her. They needed that final contact, to say, silently, that final goodbye. Tears welled in their eyes for their family that had been torn in two. They knew more pain waited in the wings. It didn't take elvish senses to feel it, for they knew their father would not last through the deaths of two of his children.
“Can you do nothing?” Legolas stepped into Gandalf’s view, eyes narrowed and lips contorted into an angry frown. Gimli blinked back the shock at the range of emotion that crossed his friend’s features. The elf’s eyes flicked to Galadriel and then back to Gandalf. “You are Ring-bearers. You hold the power of water and fire in your hands. Can you not call upon the Valar to aid us?”
“It is forbidden, young one.” Galadriel said sadly. “We cannot call upon….”
“Offer them a life in exchange. I will go.” Legolas stepped further into the light, revealing the steady flow of tears that fell down his cheeks. “I will give my life for him. If they would but accept the offer.”
Galadriel exchanged a knowing look with Gandalf before turning to her husband. A slim hand raised to her forehead, then to her lips, and toward his face in a gesture of farewell. Celeborn’s eyes slid shut with the knowledge of what his wife was about to attempt.
“It could fail, and you would all be lost.” Came his weak protest.
“It is a risk,” Galadriel stared at Gandalf, who nodded in affirmation, “we are willing to take.”
"I won't lose you," Celeborn's eyes were wide with a fear no one had ever before seen.
Galadriel turned to her husband and regarded him with a thoughtful smile. "Our time has come to an end." She turned sadly to the couple lying on the bed. "Their time had just begun. It is not their future to fall today. I will not allow it to happen if there is a shred of power in my hands to stop it." She turned to Gandalf and nodded.
Celeborn closed his eyes and resigned himself to watch in silence the task his wife was about to perform.
Gandalf raised his ring, Narya, and cried, in a voice that both frightened and excited those that stood in awe of the power displayed before their eyes. “Olorin calls on you, Nienna, queen of Mourning. Take this ring of fire and bend it to your will. I use it and its power one last time in exchange for the life of the true King of Men. Raise him! Let your tears bring healing and your lesson to the lesser beings one of pity, hope, & the endurance of the spirit. Your greatest pupil calls upon you! I beg of you to hear his call!”
Galadriel raised Nenya, invoking the power of her elven ring. She called to the Chief of the Valar: Manwe. Legends told that he was both compassionate and wise and she raised her voice in song hoping that he would hear her plea and come to their aid. "You saved Beren when he fell into shadow. You gave Luthien a new life, with her beloved. I beg you now to give Arwen and Aragorn that chance."
Thunder began to echo above them and lightening lit the sky in cracks that made them shudder in fear. A light, brighter and whiter than the sun blindingly filled the room.
“Who dare's call upon the power of the Valar?” The booming voice reverberated through their bones.
“I, Galadriel of Lorien, High Queen of the Elves, bearer of the ring of power known as Nenya.”
“I, Gandalf the Grey, Mithrindir of the Istari, bearer of the ring of power known as Narya.”
A form slowly materialized before their eyes, blurry, ever changing in a shimmer of light and silk. The image was difficult to see, appearing only as a wisp of flickering mist.
“We call upon you one last time, before we journey over the Sea, to save the life of the last remaining heir to the line of Isildur.”
The voice laughed, the sound at once chilling and comforting. “You call upon me for something so trivial?"
“Is it not important, when the elves journey across the Sea, that there be one of strong blood to lead the people of Middle-Earth?” Gandalf asked, his voice raised as the power of the ring took hold.
“Have we not safely protected the heir’s of Isildur only to see our struggle fail with the death of this man?”
“His fate could not have been changed. It was the will of the –"
“It was the will of the Valar that my daughter should die in the arms of the only man she has ever loved? It was her fate to die not from any wound but of such immense grief as can only destroy an immortal Elf?” Elrond stormed into the room, eyes blazing and fists clenched. He had done what he could for Faramir. His fate now lay in the strength of his will to survive. Elrond wasted no time in returning to his daughter's deathbed.
“Beren and Luthien suffered a similar fate.”
"They lived out their lives together until his life was taken. She followed him, for her grief was too strong to go on living without him," Elrond recounted the story well-known to all elves. "Yet, Mandos was persuaded by Manwe to allow them to return
to Middle-earth for a while longer. You can hardly compare these circumstances.”
The being turned its attention away from the angry father and toward those responsible for calling it to Middle-Earth. “You have crossed a boundary that none before you have dared to traverse.” It favored each with a harsh frown of disapproval. “How you have done this with only two of the three elven rings of power, I cannot see.”
Elrond stared at Galadriel and Gandalf in disbelief. To risk calling upon the Valar in such a way was unthinkable. Elrond shook his head and immediately removed his ring, holding it in his open palm. “And I now add the power of the third, and last of the elven rings of power, Vilya, to their call.”
Standing together, rings resting on open palms, the bands began to glow and a small hum began to sing into the air. The three rings drawn together for the first time in ages, their power called upon not to smite down an enemy, but to raise the lives of the two dearest to the ring-bearers.
“You are foolish to brave the wrath of the Valar for this invocation.” The being’s eyes glowed with a secret fire, so powerful in its intensity the three ring-bearers bowed their heads. “For such impudence, you should be punished."
“Love has driven them to call upon you!” Legolas snapped, eyeing the Valar with contempt. “You would punish them when all that they love lay dead before their eyes?”
The being’s gaze softened at Legolas’ harsh words. The hollow’s that served as its eyes could be seen flickering with sadness." Your shrine to me has been well cared for. You are to be commended.” A moment of silence followed before it added. “My heart grieves for your loss."
Suddenly, the form materialized into the body of the most beautiful woman they had ever seen - more beautiful than the Evenstar herself. The very image of this woman was carved above every elven bed, in respect and admiration for the Valar. Aragorn’s very mother was buried at the foot of a statue carved in her image. The Elves gasped and those that were not already on their knees, fell to the floor in reverence to the High One’s revelation.
"Elbereth." Elrond whispered, daring to look up into the luminous eyes that stared intensely down at him.
"The purity of your request has softened my heart.” Kind, sad eyes turned to the couple lying on the bed as the ring-bearers raised their heads at the Valar’s words.
“I will grant one request.” Elbereth said. “But you must choose. You may have one of the fallen returned to you.”
Imrahil and Gimli swallowed nervously. Legolas and the twins exchanged a look of fear. Elrond couldn't make the choice. He was unsure if any of them could choose between Arwen and Aragorn.
Elrond closed his eyes, his worst fears, upon seeing Elbereth coming to life
before his very eyes, realized.
Gandalf and Galadriel nodded and bowed their heads, unwilling to argue with a God of the Valar.
Long moments of silence passed as they waited for one of the ring-bearers to speak Imrahil and Gimli silently wondered who had the authority to make such a decision. Which one of them would choose who lived and who remained within death's grip?
Slowly, Elrond raised his head, tears once again marring bright paths down his cheeks. “The people of Gondor, indeed, of all Middle-Earth, have more need of a King, than I do a daughter."
Galadriel's eyes flickered with a knowledge that Elrond, in his grief did not see. She had been there when Aragorn had been reunited with Arwen among the trees of Lothlorien. She had watched from afar the two unlikely individuals fall in love under the autumn leaves and the midnight stars. Galadriel turned eyes filled with tears toward Elrond. "One would not wish to live without the other."
The twins inhaled deeply, drawing the attention of their father. They realized with a sharp pang that their grandmother was right. But they were torn between the lack of an heir to rebuild all that Sauron had destroyed and a life filled with misery should Aragorn be raised without Arwen at his side.
But Elrond could only see a terrible future were Gondor to have no King. A future filled with misery and heartache.
With a heavy heart, weighing all of the possibilities for the future that he could see, Elrond said slowly. "Raise the heir of Elendil."
Chapter 5
"A word of warning. Your heir will not return as he was." Elbereth raised her hands over the still form of the un-crowned King.
"What do you mean?" Gandalf asked, afraid he already knew the answer.
"I will heal his body, but his soul will remain touched by the shadow of death."
"His wound?" Elrond whispered. "It was made by a Nazgul blade." His eyes flashed with anger. "You mean to leave the dark stain on his soul?"
Legolas' eyes widened in horror. "You will raise him only to let him succumb to the poison in his blood? You will allow him to become a Nazgul?" The Woodland elf spat, eyes wild with fury, "You cannot let that happen! You must not!"
"You are in no position to make demands, Quendë." The look with which Elbereth favored the Elf weakened his resolve until he fell to his knees in defeat. “The Valar have a reason for everything. We do not make such decisions lightly.”
"Do you wish to break me?" Elrond whispered painfully. His sons moved quickly to their father's side, flanking him, offering wordless support. By the fury in their dark eyes was not to be missed as they stared at the Valar. "I will cut him down before he wakes if you raise him without healing the Nazgul wound. I will not let him suffer during such a transformation, knowing what he will become, knowing that my daughter gave up her life to follow him into the death he will never receive." Elrond was furious, unable to control the trembling of his arms as they hung at his sides.
Elladan reached out to steady his father, wrapping a strong hand around the Elf's forearm. Elrohir followed his brother’s lead, grasping tightly his father's other arm. Together they exchanged a look of desperation that was not lost on Elbereth.
"Choose Elf Lord." Elbereth hissed, her patience with them growing thin. “Your decision will seal the fate of all Middle-Earth.”
"I beg of you, please-" Elrond clasped his hands before him, eyes pleading with the Valar.
Elrohir finally snapped, unable to remain silent in the face of such an overwhelming defeat of everything the elves had struggled, and in many cases, died for.
"How can the Valar permit Melkor, through his servant Sauron, to have the final victory over Middle-Earth?" Elbereth ignored the twin but he continued. "The One Ring has been destroyed, yes, but the death of last heir to the line of Elendil, the line of Elros Tar-Minyatur - can you not see that is too high a price to pay." The Elf's eyes were blazing with fury.
"The future cannot be changed, and the past cannot be undone." Elbereth said sadly. "I cannot - "
"You 'will' not, you mean!" Elladan spat as he took a step toward the Valar.
She raised her hands over the bed and began to chant in low tones in a language that only Galadriel, having been a student of the Maiar, could understand.
"You cannot raise him," Galadriel's quiet voice silenced everyone. "He would not survive the poison coursing through his blood. He would become a Nazgul and Gondor would fall to the might he would summon from the blackness of Mordor. The might he would summon from the darkness of that land would rival that of Sauron himself."
Elrond simply stared at Galadriel and she continued.
"If he were to survive his wounds, he would be only half the man who fell to the Nazgul blade." The Elven Queen gazed sadly toward the bed. "The other half of his heart lay here in his arms, dead due to her grief at his loss. He would suffer greatly, and bring the Kingdom of Gondor down with him."
“You can raise neither of them.” Elrohir whispered, realizing with a pang that his grandmother was right.
"I foresee only one solution to the lack of a ruling heir to this kingdom." She took a deep breath and then shifted her gaze to Elrond, to the twins and then toward Imrahil. "You will bear witness, for the Gondorian people, to what I say here today."
Imrahil nodded slowly. "I will, Lady."
"Do you know the origins of Arnor, and of its sister city of Gondor?"
"I do."
Elbereth ceased her chants and smiled knowingly at the revelations the Elven Queen of Lothlorien was about to make known. Her decisions had, indeed, not been made lightly, and while those who stood before her now may look upon her with hatred, they would one day see that this was truly the only solution.
The others waited in utter silence, their breathing shallow, listening intently to what the Elven Queen had to say.
"Tell me."
Imrahil blinked, clearly unable to understand why now, of all times, he was to recount the history of the foundation of the two once great cities.
Galadriel, sensing his confusion, raised her hand and assured, "All will be revealed in due time. Tell me."
"It is written that Elendil and his sons sailed across the sea to Middle-Earth and founded the two cities. Elendil fell in the Siege of Barad-dûr during the last Alliance of Elves and Men. His son Isildur succeeded him." Imrahil stared at Galadriel, eyes unblinking. "We have been without a King of Isildur's blood for generations and - "
"From where did Elendil come?"
Imrahil took a deep breath, unable to understand why he was being made to recount this information. "He came from the island kingdom of Numenor."
"The Kings of both Gondor and Arnor were all of Numenorean blood. The rule has never been succeeded by any other than those of that blood, and such lineage as it came from Elendil." Galadriel stated and Imrahil nodded. "The first King of Numenor was?"
Imrahil answered her slowly, warily. "Elros Tar-Minyatur."
"Yes." Galadriel tossed a look at Gandalf, who had known when her questioning began, where it would lead.
"There is another who lives and he bears a much purer strand of Numenorean blood than did Isildur and his father, Elendil. Because of Aragorn's death, he may take up the throne and be crowned as King of both Gondor and Arnor."
Elrond stood and took a step back, whispering, "No. Don't do this."
Elladan and Elrohir gasped, unable to believe that this was what Galadriel had planned. And revealing it to a noble of Gondor, duty-bound to reveal that such another heir lived. What was said could not be unsaid and would bind their father to the Mortal Kingdom in a way he never intended.
"Elrond Peredhil, or Half-Elven in the common tongue, is the brother of Elros Tar-Minyatur."
Imrahil blinked.
"No" Elrond whispered as realization of Galadriel’s questioning slowly dawned over his grief-stricken heart.
"There is no one living who would dare dispute his claim." Galadriel had avoided looking at Elrond, instead choosing to carefully watch and gauge Imrahil's reaction to this news.
"None at all," Imrahil breathed, unable to form any more words than was absolutely necessary. The events of the day, the loss the Kingdom had sustained, was nearly too much for him to bear.
"I claim nothing, Galadriel," Elrond's stared at the Elven Queen. "You dare much to mention this. My people are departing for the Undying Lands and I intend to follow them."
Imrahil blinked, finally remembering that Elrond was an elf. An immortal elf.
“And leave Middle-Earth to its doom? Without a King, these lands will fracture and divide. The evidence that this has already begun, are strewn throughout this city. There will be no peace.”
Elrond was too dumfounded to speak.
Galadriel's gaze shifted to the twins.
"You cannot ask this of my sons. You cannot ask this of me!" Elrond hissed but was silenced by the hands of Elladan coming to rest heavily on his shoulder.
"Aragorn was a brother, in every sense of the word, including blood." Elladan exchanged a sad look with Elrohir before continuing. "If by assuming the rule of Gondor and Arnor will preserve the line from which he came, and the peace of this land, then we will do it."
Elrond's eyes squeezed shut and he began to shake uncontrollably. "I will-not lose all three of my children today." Sobs wracked his body and he nearly collapsed into the arms of his sons as they reached out to steady their father. "I can't."
From Elbereth's lips came a white breath and the sweetest, song-like voice they had ever heard. "The choice has been made." In a flash of blinding light she was gone.
When the light faded, the twins opened their eyes and exhaled deeply.
Elrohir turned to Imrahil, "When the excitement from the destruction of Sauron has subsided, we will address the council of nobles and announce our intentions."
"What - might those be?" Imrahil asked.
"Gondor and Arnor need a King. They need someone to reunite the kingdom of old and raise them to their former glory." Elrohir smiled sadly at where his brother lay motionless on the bed. "Aragorn had many plans for what he would do for the Reunited Kingdom should he ever assume the throne. Elladan and I will see to it those plans are instituted."
Elladan stepped beside his brother and clasped his shoulder. "We will rule in our fallen brother's stead and strive to uphold the ideals with which he governed his life and with the kindness with which he treated all life around him."
Elrond turned to his sons and pleaded. "You cannot do this. This is not your fate-"
"Our fate would have been to remain with Aragorn and Arwen in Middle-Earth when you traveled across the Sea," Elrohir answered softly. "We had not yet revealed our intentions to you regarding this matter."
"Now we can honor Estel's memory and that of our sister by taking up the rule that he was born to assume." Elrohir continued, "We know how deeply you miss our mother. In this way, you will be have no ties to Middle-Earth and can return to the West and to Celebrian's arms."
"And leave my son's behind?" The pain in their father's voice was nearly too much to bear.
"You would have done the same had Estel lived."
“Your mother will kill me.” Elrond whispered sadly.
“She will understand for whom we make this sacrifice.”
“The elves have no place in this land. We are fading! The beauty of our cities will diminish and soon you will be alone.”
“I will remain for as long as I am needed,” Legolas said. “They will never be truly alone.”
“The call to cross over the Sea will become too great for even you to bear, Legolas of Mirkwood.” Elrond rebutted. “You have not been given the choice of the half-elven. You will cross the Sea one day.”
“We have decided, father,” Elrohir ended the protest with a stern rebuke – one that he would not soon forget. “It will be done.”
“For Estel and for Arwen.” Elladan added sadly.
END