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

Chapter Thirty Six

Cóleirien turned to her mother and grinned, her long golden hair slipping between Amaruil’s fingers and falling on her back and Amaruil thought with a smile that she had never been happier. It seemed like all of Middle Earth had conspired to reward her for staying true to her choices and she was hard pressed to imagine a future beyond these halcyon days, days where she was surrounded by family, where friends lived only days’ travel away and visited frequently, where she saw the world heal and begin to grow again. Nearly ten years had passed since the hobbits had left by the Grey Havens and, although none of them had ever believed that it would, the war was becoming a distant memory for them even though the changes which had taken place and the things that they had seen and had been through still fought to keep their marks on them.

Amaruil was utterly content as she raised her children, spoiled and indulged those of her friends and ruled the elves of Ithilien alongside Legolas; sometimes she would wake up expecting to see the sloping roofs of Rivendell and hear the constant murmur of the waterfalls and the distant chatter of her family as they readied themselves for the day ahead and more often than not that would disconcert her and strike her with a wave of longing for something that she could no longer have but those days were rare and she quickly found bright points which lightened the darkness of her sacrifice.

“Come on then,” she whispered to Cóleirien as she bent down, her braiding finished. “Let’s go and meet Faramir and Eowyn before they reach the woods.”

Cóleirien grinned and nodded eagerly saying, “Tancave! They’ve been in Rohan for so long! It will be so good to see them once more!”

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Legolas and Amaruil willed the golden years of the Fourth Age to stretch on forever but before enough – or so they deemed – had passed their sharp eyes could see them taking their toll on their friends. Faramir, Aragorn, Eowyn… all of their once youthful faces were beginning to be lined and weighed down by age, their features shifting slightly as the years passed, despite their friends remaining as fair as they were in the past. Although Arwen was barely touched by Time and she stayed much the same on the surface Amaruil could sense that her soul was beginning to weigh her down and that the years were starting to take the nigh unnoticeable but all too real toll on her friend.

It was so painful for them to watch Faramir and Eowyn age and to know that one day they would be gone, no matter how happy and exuberant they might be now and one day came which frightened Amaruil terribly.

“Good evening,” Eowyn sang as she entered the hall of the Prince of Ithilien. “I am so sorry that we’ve been away so long only Éomer begged us to stay with him in Rohan.”

“How is he?” Legolas asked as he sat down and took the wine which Faramir poured him, not noticing the darkening of Eowyn’s eyes.

“Not well I’m afraid,” she said with a sigh as she ran a finger absentmindedly around the rim of her goblet. “He always was older than I and managing Rohan took many of his years. It has, in any case, been nigh on forty years since you first met. None of us are young any longer,” she continued, with a wry look at her two guests before smiling sadly at Faramir, whose brown hair was now streaked with grey – Eowyn’s was too but the silver hairs were far harder to find in her blonde hair than in that of her husband, “at least, none of us Men,” she chuckled.

“Is he-?” Legolas asked tentatively.

“No,” Faramir interrupted with a fleeting smile at Eowyn who backed him up saying, “No but it might not be long.”

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As they stood around the tomb where Éomer’s body lay Amaruil was struck by how much older Eowyn looked than she had before; with a start she realised that forty years had passed since they had met in Minas Tirith and she shivered unconsciously as she realised that that was a long time for humans. Legolas’ hand tightened around hers as he held onto her – he had not let go all day and as she looked over at Faramir and Eowyn, at Aragorn and Arwen who, although they looked much the same, still bore the signs of the wear of time and over at Gimli, whose beard too was streaked with grey she realised that this would happen again and again and she felt a tear slide down her cheek. It was so cruel that these people, these friends who were so full of light and warmth and life, would one day be as cold as the stone under which lay the body of Éomer. The thought of their lives being snuffed out like a candle in a breeze made Amaruil want to weep and the knowledge that she would have to continue without them, that she would continue without them, filled her with a terrible dread. Even Merry and Pippin stood on the other side of the path, small as children but with eyes which told of all that they had seen and one day even they would be gone, those two small hobbits who were all that remained of the bravest hobbit of all, the two hobbits who still refused to give up adventure and settle down properly like Sam had. She supposed though that there were two types of people: the ones who, after seeing all the world has to offer, find that the only thing they want is to be back by their fireside and never to move from it again and those who find that after seeing all the world has to offer home seems to be too small, however hard you try to love it like you once did; as she thought this Amaruil also realised that it’s rather hard to tell which one someone will be until the end and that what you thought one person would be is, more often than not, the exact opposite of how they turn out.