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

Chapter Twenty Two

“I have not seen you in many a lonely day,” Arwen said with a smile as she saw Amaruil approaching.

“And for that you must forgive me,” Amaruil said as Arwen embraced her happily, “but I have not been as happy as I once was. My spirit grows heavy and I begin to worry.”

“About what?” Arwen asked, leaning back and gazing into her friend’s eyes.

“I know not. Everything,” Amaruil said with a tiny laugh.

“Then do not, for there is much that we cannot change.”

“And it is mostly that which worries me. Anyway, we will not speak of such things,” she said decidedly.

“Has your family left?” Arwen asked, concern etched on her face as Amaruil nodded silently. “I am so sorry Amaruil,” she said as she wrapped her arms around her friend, holding her close, “I can only imagine how you must feel at this moment for when I lost my mother my father and brothers still remained. I am sorry Amaruil but know that I will be here and will do all in my power to alleviate the pain.”

“You truly are a good friend Arwen,” Amaruil whispered as she clutched Arwen’s back, feeling the warmth of her friend’s hands seep into her soul. “I do not know what I would do without you.”

“And you do not need to for I will always be here,” she said as they moved to sit down on one of the stone benches which stood at the side of the path they had met on, their eyes shining as they exchanged tales and stories of all that they had seen.

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Amaruil was lost in thought, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rough surface of the weathered bench she was sitting on when she heard a quiet shuffling; craning her head to either side she searched for the source of the sound before a tiny man came into view, stopped over slightly under the weight of his great age, his steps slow and halting. Amaruil’s heart jolted when he looked up and she recognised the face of her friend Bilbo under the lines which began to cross his face like scars, creasing his skin and writing his age clearly on it; he had aged in the months since Frodo had left with the Ring and, having not seen him for those months, the contrast between the fairly vigorous hobbit she had used to know and the one before her now struck her like a dagger to the heart, twisting it with sadness. “Bilbo!” she called out, her voice filled with false merriness.

“Amaruil?” he cried, walking over to her with painfully slow steps and leaning heavily on a staff in his crooked hand. “Is that you?”

“Yes Bilbo, it’s me,” she said with a smile. “How are you?”

“As well as an old hobbit like me could be,” he said dismissively. “And you?”

“I too am well Bilbo,” she said, fighting to hold back tears for some unknown reason, “though a great many things have happened to me since last we met.”

“Have you been helping Frodo with that old ring I gave him? Yes, Gandalf told me Frodo was looking after it,” he said quietly.

“I’m sure he’s doing a fine job Bilbo.”

“Yes, he always was a fine hobbit. A fine young boy I raised, if I may say so myself,” he said with a smile. They say in silence for a while, as only people who understand each other can, each reflecting on different things before Amaruil spoke again.

“Have you finished your books yet Bilbo?”

“Yes, yes I have,” he replied proudly. “There is some room for another story but I’m not sure how to fill it. I’m not sure what to do with them either.”