Flight to the East [ Lord of the Rings x Silmarillion ]

1 | To Do Without Hope

1 | TO DO WITHOUT HOPE

Year 51 Fourth Age

His brown hair stuck to his face as he stood, panting, in the rising sunlight. The fire in his heart overwhelmed his entire body. With a harsh cough, he allowed the break that both of the new Red Company recruits so desperately needed.

Aderthon didn't want to admit that he felt as exhausted as they appeared, staggering to half lean against the citadel wall in the training grounds he'd officially taken over for the most elite of the Reunited Kingdom's soldiers. They could seek that, but he wouldn't. He didn't lean, didn't seek out any aid except the water skin that lay cast aside on a wooden table. As he lifted the black leather waterskin to his lips, the morning light caught the glint of metal around his finger.

He paused. Staring at it for a moment mere inches from his face, Aderthon felt the weight of an hour of predawn training crash onto him all at once, mingling with the months of despair and loneliness that had followed what the scholars now called the Second Battle of the Pelennor. He had no interest in abandoning the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, not while Eldarion lived at the least. But this ring, this cursed artifact that no matter how purified by Lady Lúthien, kept him straddling the lines of life and death, and severed him from his parents.

Ironic. Fate, doom, seemed to truly love to damn Fëanor's line to atonement for an oath ill-sworn. He had Lady Lúthien's blood as well. Was her part in Sauron's downfall catching up with her descendants through his ring?

Movement beyond the Ring of Berúthiel tore his thoughts away. The two young men, both singled out of their training with the Citadel Guard as prime candidates for the Red Company had stood back up tall. Aderthon couldn't help flashing them a small smirk. He took a quick drink.

Moving back over to their large, packed dirt circle, he twisted his wrist, Galmegil glinting golden red in the dawn. He didn't train his recruits with blunt swords. Neither his, nor theirs. The Red Company took only the best. It would always take only the best. Either they controlled themselves enough to neither harm nor be harmed, or they did not belong.

Perhaps the Doom of Mandos hung over them. Perhaps they had no hope of finding a way to destroy this accursed ring. But as the recruits, Berenor and Malrin, stood ready to oppose him without hesitation, Aderthon just nodded.

They would just have to do without hope, then.

Aderthon faked left. Neither fell for the tease. As Berenor, brought his steel blade up to block the following strike, his grip never wavered. Blue-grey eyes stared back at Aderthon, unfazed, beneath matted, golden hair. His brown furrowed as Aderthon placed more weight. He gritted his teeth, grunting in pain.