Into the West (A Lord of the Rings Fan Fic)

Chapter Thirty Seven

Amaruil's fingers shook as she read the missive from Arwen, her breath refusing to come as she swore she felt her very heart slow down and freeze.

"What is it?" Legolas asked curiously, biting into a juicy fruit as he peered at her, worry etched onto his features as he took in her expression. "What? Tell me," he continued concernedly.

Her hands were cold as she handed the letter to him, shutting her eyes as he read it as if she could stop it from happening if she just couldn't see him do it. It still happened though, powerless as she was over the will of the world and all immoveable forces like Time, and she heard his tortured gasp of disbelieving horror as the few words on the parchment settled into his mind. "How is that possible?" he asked, his voice already betraying how wounded he was.

"I don't-" Amaruil's words faded into the heavy silence, sinking to the floor like stones to the bottom of the sea and drowning her with them. "I-"

Neither of them said anything for a long time, just sat in their seats, frozen where they had been sitting before like the statues which decorated the tombs of kings.

***************************************************************************

Minas Tirith looked as beautiful as it had every other time they had visited the city, its gleaming spires towering over the plains which stretched out in front of it. As she walked through the gates, Amaruil felt a shadow pass over her, sending a shiver down her spine and causing her hair to prickle.

The entire city seemed shrouded in silence and the shadows which clung to the buildings appeared to dress the streets in mourning clothes - everything seemed darker than it had for a long time. Outside the palace they were greeted by Arwen and Eldarion who embraced them before taking them to the rooms they occupied whenever they stayed there. The palace seemed far quieter than before, even their footsteps muted and muffled by the empty corridors and the wan sun which penetrated the clinical rooms provided no shred of comforting warmth to them.

The next morning they pushed their way through the crowded streets and headed to the Sixth Level; below them the inhabitants of Minas Tirith spread out, the splashes of their hair the only colour amongst the black of their clothes; the entire city had been turned into wraiths and they seemed to be shadows lining the streets, swallowing the white of the buildings. Amaruil looked out over the soundless vigil and sighed before heading through the Closed Door and onto Rath Dínen; as the door was shut behind them the silence thickened and settled over them, weighing down heavily on every member of the procession and causing Amaruil to instinctively reach for Legolas' hand.

The room was cold despite the chilling breeze being shut out by the solid wooden doors; amongst the people who stood around the tomb were scattered the few remaining survivors of the War of the Ring, the friends who had fought together, killed together, and yet could not die together. Beside Amaruil stood Legolas and on her other side Cóleirien bent her golden head sadly while next to Legolas leaned Gimli on his axe, extremely old and bent nearly double with age, his beard and hair completely grey. Graceful and ageless, Arwen stood beside the tomb, tears trickling down her sad face while Eldarion clutched at her hand, his handsome head bent and brown hair obscuring his face. Next to him his two sisters, Elessië and Laurëníssë bent their heads together, Elessië's hand wringing the skirts of her dress frantically as Eldarion wrapped his other arm around her.

So many of their friends were missing now that they were outnumbered by strangers and the next generation, the children and grandchildren of the Fourth Age - to many of the people gathered there the story of the War of the Ring, of the Ring itself and of Sauron's fall were just that, and even time had given it its removal in memory. With their friends scattered across Ennorath it seemed to Amaruil that the only time she saw them all in one place was when another had died and this time it was the turn of Aragorn, of the man who had always succeeded in bringing people together and galvanising them as they fought for a common cause; here, as his final act, he had done that one last time and now his oldest friends gathered around his lifeless body and Amaruil tightened her grasp on Legolas' hand - however much of a friend Aragorn had been to her, he had been even more of one to Legolas.