Legacy of the Dispossessed {DISCONTINUED}

The Last Shreds of Hope

I had held on to some hope that Merry and Pippin would be alive, somehow, beyond all worry.

When we reached the burning pyre, every shred of hope I had was brutally obliterated.

A severed head of an Uruk grimaced at us, impaled on a spear pushed into the ground. Bodies of dead Uruks and orcs alike had been heaped into a pile, along with their weapons, and set to flame. The scent of burning flesh - all too familiar to me - filled the air.

I winced, turning away from the gruesome sight. I don't like fire, or its smell. Especially not burning flesh. It reminded me, all too vividly, of that night thousands of years ago when swan-necked ships were set to flame and elves burned along with them. It reminded me, too, of a bright jewel burning through the flesh of my brothers. Driving them to madness.

Be brave.

Gimli sifted through the pile of burning bodies, looking for anything - any sign of the hobbits. He eventually pulled out a scrap of charred leather, holding it up to us. "It's one of their little belts."

I grimaced, turning away. Even more death? Surely I, an elf who has lived for nearly ten thousand years, would be used to loss. Evidently, I was not.

Legolas bowed his head, muttering an ancient prayer. "Hiro hyn hîdh ab wanath." A simple phrase that held so much weight. It was what kings said after their knights died, and it was what was uttered at the funerals of soldiers. May they find peace in death.

Aragorn's face was twisted in something of fury, pain, and grief. He took a few steps and kicked an Uruk helmet that was lying on the ground, then sank to his knees with a yell. Aragorn knelt on the ground in the rough grass, his head bowed, his gloved hands on his knees.

"We failed them," Gimli said softly.

Then suddenly, Aragorn looked up at the soil in front of him. He brushed the ground with his fingers and rose to his knees.

"What is it?" I asked quietly.

"A hobbit lay here," Aragorn said slowly, feeling a crushed area of grass. "And the other." He looked up, seeing faint tracks. "They crawled." Aragorn followed the tracks, the three of us following him. "Their hands were bound..." He held up a frayed rope. "Their bonds were cut." Aragorn rose to his feet, still walking slightly bent over, looking for clues in the ground. "They ran over here... and were followed."

I looked over at Legolas, who looked a little hopeful. He noticed me looking at me and gave me a small smile. I shook my head - I could not hold hope any longer.

"The tracks lead away from the battle!" Aragorn declared with a little excitement, standing up straight and running the last few yards. Then he stopped, looking into the dark forest. "Into... Fangorn forest..."

Gimli shook his head, stepping forward beside Aragorn. "Fangorn?!" he exclaimed, leaning on his double-bladed axe. "What madness drove them there?"

┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈

The back of my neck prickled as we slowly, cautiously walked through the dense forest. The canopy of the trees was so thick that sunlight barely filtered down to the floor where we were, and it seemed like it was a perpetual dusk under the trees.

"These are strange tracks," Aragorn noted, his eyes on the forest floor. His hand strayed to the hilt of his sword by his side as he walked.

I felt it too. There was something about the forest, something that I couldn't quite place. It felt old, incredibly old - it had the sense of ancientness that only elven realms like Rivendell had. I held Ringil unsheathed by my side just in case any ancient horrors dwelt in this forest. The atmosphere reminded me of Moria, though it was older here. Older, more alive, and less dry.