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Gil-Estel  by Mirach

September 26th, 2986 T. A.

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As I did not want to sail yesterday, today I could not find rest in my haven. I had to think of him. While I dwelled in the Blessed realms of Aman, he struggled for his life in the cruel mountains. While I was at the side of my beautiful Elwing, he was alone, with nobody to soothe the burning pain, lying on the hard stones while I had the softest bed. While I was drinking the sweet wine of Tirion, he had nothing besides his own blood to moisten his parched lips.

When I sailed above Middle-earth yesterday, I saw no clouds, nothing that would shield him from the rays of Arien. It is late summer already, almost fall, but in these days she guides her ship above the realms of Arda as if she wanted to steal the last days for herself. How cruel must her rays feel to an injured man without water… I don’t want to think about that, how much blood he had lost, and how his time runs out faster with every hot day. Hot days and cold night… as if the elements themselves were against him.

I was eager to sail today, as if I could do something. I wanted to shout at Arien to dull her rays, and then wanted to laugh at myself for such foolishness – if not for the thought of him, lying thirsty, in fever, under the merciless rays. And foolishness it would be – to argue with Arien. She is proud and terrible in her splendor. Her rays are hot, and yet she is cold like ice: she does not care for the fates of the mortals. Even the love of Tilion the Hunter does not soften her heart. She is devoted to her task – the guardian of the last fruit of Laurelin, the Maiden of Sun. The life and suffering of one mortal has no meaning to her.

And so I waited until her ship reaches the West, and first then I set my sails, as was my duty, and as will ever be. My hands trembled when I neared the place. The uncertainty… anything could happen while I sat idle in my haven.

This time I look carefully, so as to not miss the figure among the stones, and I wonder how far he managed to get until his strength gave up. I see him… Almost two miles away from the place of his fall. Such a short distance… and yet so far… so far, when every inch forwards means terrible pain. And at the end, it will not suffice… Rivendell is much farther…

And yet he struggles and suffers, now, in this very moment. His strength still lasts. How long yet? He reaches for the stones as an anchor to pull his weakening body forwards, moaning quietly with every movement of the broken leg.

Oh Valar, why have you condemned me to this fate? Why did you give me the sight that can discern the lines of pain on his face, when you forbid me to set foot on the Eastern shores ever again? I can see his parched lips, and the feverish glint in his eyes, but I cannot give him even a drop of water. I must watch his struggle for every step, and I cannot lift him, and carry him to safety. Cruel, cruel fate…

***

Ai! No! Crueler even… The orcs return! They have discovered that their prey had avoided them somewhere on the path. They return to their own tracks, sniffing. How bold they are, to pursue a Ranger so close to Imladris! Over the years they have grown larger and more numerous, the paths in the Misty Mountains that once were safe now swarm with danger: orcs and trolls and wargs… the darkness is growing. Its shadowy fingers are creeping over the stony hills and deep valleys, closer to him. Closer to Aragorn… Soon they will touch him…

They have found the place where he left the path… gathered on the edge of the path… an argument – there is no body below. They do not see him! Mercifully, he managed to get far enough to be out of their sight. One part of the orcs probably thinks that he is dead, buried beneath the stones, but the others think that he has survived – and want to see him dead… Shouts, fists – the argument upgrades. Then a spray of blood – the biggest orc beheaded one of the loudest arguing. The matter is decided, it seems. Which side has won? I wish it would be the one that wanted to return to their lair, and never pursue innocent creatures anymore… but I doubt that there was such a side…

They turn again, to return from where they came, to the mountains back to the east. I still don’t know if they saw him, and how did they decide. I just hope that they won’t return again.

However, Arien will return to the sky with the morning… Maybe I should hope that the orcs return soon, and grant him a quick death, if such a thing is possible with them… Yet I can’t wish for that in my heart, even when the voice of reason speaks otherwise. I can’t – it is my flesh, my blood – the last descendant of Elros. The last. The last… while he lives, while he draws breath, a part of my son lives… If only days are left… is it selfish to wish for the prolonging of the suffering? Why seems the time so important to me? For thousands of years the line of Elros has lived. Now, every moment matters to me… as if the very presence of that line would be like a light in the growing darkness, and with its death the hope would leave these lands… The last…





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