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My Sword Weeps - Book Two - 'My Sword' Series  by Agape4Gondor

Ch. 3 - An Elvish Reunion of Sorts

“My friend,” Mithrandir said quietly, “Boromir is dead. Traitors abducted him and, when Rohan tried to save him, he was murdered.”

Silence filled the room. A tear trickled down Aragorn’s face, followed by another. “Such a little boy.” His throat constricted and he found it difficult to talk. “He was… twelve? Nay, eleven.”

“Boromir is not our concern, now, Aragorn. There is worse.”

“What could be worse than a boy being killed?” he shouted and sprang from his chair. Walking to the window, he slammed his hand down hard upon the nightstand, shattering it. He bowed his head, put his hand over his eyes and wept bitterly. “If I had stayed in Gondor, mayhap this could have been averted. Perhaps I could have saved Denethor.”

He turned towards the wizard. “He was my friend, though we parted in sorrow and misunderstanding, he was my friend. I would have given my life for him.” He looked long out the window. “He sometimes was jealous of the love Boromir had for me, though I am sure the child never remembered me, once I was gone. Such a lovely child, too. Full of spirit. I had hoped he would be my Steward for many a long year. He had the makings of a fine Steward, Mithrandir.”

“I am sure he did, Aragorn. But you must hear me out. You are needed in Gondor. I carry even more fearsome tidings. Faramir, Denethor’s youngest, has fallen into a death sleep. He saw his brother murdered before him. He woke once, after the foul deed, but has since slipped away.”

Aragorn strode forward, wrapped the remnants of their meal in a napkin from the table, hitched his sword to his side, and ran out of the room.

Mithrandir sighed. ‘Still impetuous after all these years. The boy must learn to control his own needs and consider the consequences of what he does. Night will be here within the hour. I do not like him rushing about in the dark.’ Then he smiled. ‘His eyes are the eyes of the men of Númenor; he will have no trouble seeing!’

Nob had been surprised by the sudden appearance of his master’s boarder. When the man shouted for his horse though, Nob flew to the stables. Butterbur himself gathered the requested supplies and threw them into the saddlebags that the man had thrust at him. He was used to his patrons barking orders at him, but never orders said with such anger and force. He almost told the man to quiet down, but the look in the steel grey eyes was daunting.

Aragorn tore the bags from the innkeeper’s hands and raced for the door. He heard the fat man saying something about him turning into a rogue, but he didn’t care what the innkeeper thought of him. He cared for Denethor’s son!

Nob stood before him, holding the reins. Aragorn stopped his headlong rush. Biting his lip, he smiled. “Please excuse my behavior with your master. An urgent need has arisen. My sorrow cannot excuse my manners.” He tipped the lad well, jumped onto his horse, and tore off down the cobbled street. Nob smiled as he tossed the coin in the air. ‘He’s a right kind gentleman, if you ask me,’ he thought. ‘I’d like to see him again.’ He yelled for the gate to be opened and the southern gate swung back. Aragorn threw a coin at the gatekeeper and rode through.

Three nights later, Aragorn found himself at the base of Weathertop. He camped for the night, pulling out the last of his food from the inn. He would have to hunt tomorrow, a prospect he did not look forward to. Time was too short. Tears stung his eyes again as he collected wood. ‘Would that I could have spoken to Denethor one last time. To have assuaged his fears, to have told him of my love for him and for Gondor. He wiped his right eye with his free hand, trying to stop the tears that fell. ‘I cannot go back. I cannot speak with the Steward again,’ he thought, ‘but I can save his son. I must speak with Elrond first, find what herbs I need, and then head east.’

He fell into a fitful sleep. After only two hours, he awoke, threw the blanket back and stood. The fire was still hot. He made a quick cup of coffee, chewed on a piece of bark, and left. The fire had been doused and the campsite could not be found with a cursory glance.

Rain began to fall and he cursed loudly. At least he could travel the Great East Road. None were about at this hour, none knew his mission, and his Rangers guarded the road. At least nine more days, riding as fast as he could. There were no further inns on this road, nowhere to change mounts, so he pulled up and slowed the horse to a walk. He pulled his pipe from his pocket and filled it. Shaking his head, he laughed quietly. ‘I can not light this thing in the rain.’ He put it back in his pocket, pulled his coat up to cover at least part of his neck, and rode onward.

Nine days later to the hour, he came through the road’s tunnel and faced the long mile before the Bruinen. He could barely hold himself in his saddle; fatigue and hunger had taken their toll. As he rode forward, the sky cleared. The moon shone brightly down upon him and he breathed in the fresh, clean air. While he had been in the Marshes, he thought he would never smell clean air again. His horse jerked and Aragorn almost fell off.

Cursing, he tightened his hold upon the reins and looked about. “What has startled you, lady?” he asked aloud. He saw nothing, but he refused to move further. Turning all around him, he still saw no sign of what had disturbed the horse. By now, his steed had calmed and they moved forward again. The muscles in Aragorn’s thighs burned from trying to keep astride his horse. His head nodded. Again, the horse startled, and this time Aragorn did fall off. Quickly grabbing his horse’s reins, he cast looks at the landscape before him, but the wide-open space between him and the ford was empty. The trees to his right and left seemed undisturbed.

“I’ll have none of this, you silly horse,” he muttered darkly. “I could have broken a leg.”

“Or your neck!” a familiar voice said. Laughter filled the road. “I do not think I have ever seen you fall off a horse, at least not since you came of age.”

Aragorn looked up into the face of his brother. Elrohir put his hand on Estel’s shoulder and laughed again. “You look a sight. Where are you bound?”

Cursing his foulest Elvish curses, Aragorn smiled. “Where else but home!”

Elladan rode from the forest to his left. “You were incredibly easy to track, brother. You have forgotten everything we taught you in such a short time.”

Aragorn swatted him, but missed. “It is good to see you too!”

“Do you need to ride with me?” Elrohir teased. “You can be assured I would not let you fall.”

Elladan burst out laughing. “Or perhaps we need make a cart to carry you in.” He smiled at Elrohir. “We would have to place sides on it so he wouldn’t fall off.”

The Elves broke into hearty laughter while Aragorn cursed again. All in Imladris would know of his fall within hours of their arrival.

“Never mind that!” he said gruffly, mounting and turning his horse towards the bank of the river; he started forward.

“We will give you time to settle before we tell your story to the others,” Elrohir said, still smiling. “Your room is waiting for you and,” he held his nose, “a bath!”





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