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Date Posted: 23:07:37 05/08/03 Thu
He had left the cares and the noise of the soldiers behind anxious to speak with Arwen alone. He should be feeling happy, either that or he should be feeling worried about her reaction to the choice he had made a lifetime ago, but he wasn't. As Ringbearer climbed the last hill towards Rivendell Aragorn tried to pinpoint exactly what he was feeling.
A great sense of forboding; something was not right.
The choking scent of smoke reached his nostrils.
No. It can't be...
Ringbearer had also caught that scent and tried to turn away from the top of the hill. Impatient Aragorn dug his spurs into the frightened animal's side harder than he had intended but the horse refused to move further than the summet.
Rivendell burned fiercely.
He sat atop a midnight steed, dragging on the reins he turned his horse away from the sight of Imaldris as it became engulfed by the flames that licked at its walls. A cold smirk settled over his lips; the golden band around his index finger glinted.
A barely remembered dream flickered back and he glanced uneasily down to his hands. They remained unadorned. That part of the memory was fantasy then but the destruction of his childhood home was very real.
Arwen might still be in there!
He tried once more to push Ringbearer into some kind of forward progress but the horse remained firmly where it was, eyes wide with terror. Desparate he leapt from the saddle and ran the last part of his journey.
As he neared the burning ruin of Imladris the heat became gradually more and more unbearable until he was forced to stop about ten yards from its carcass. The fire spat spitefully at him, knowing he would not brave its burning depths.
He cast around for something, anything to destroy its hunger. The Ford lay close of course, Arwen or Elrond could've called a wave to flood the halls of Rivendell but Elrond was gone and Arwen had possibly taken her last breath. There was no elven mage to summon the water this time.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself and use the tools you already possess.
The strange voice was gone as quickly as it had arrived leaving no more clues. Its identity no more confusing than the message it had offered. The tools he already possessed?
His hands ran lightly over his sword, various daggers and food sacks. Was it possible the voice wanted him to use one of them to quench the fire? No, that was just rediculous.
His fingers continued to search through disused pockets and eventually touched on the carved wooden surface of a thin rod. Tentativly he drew it out. The wind rod gleamed in his hand, its shiny surface reflecting the fire's glow.
This was stupid. He didn't know how to work this thing. He didn't even know if it worked at all.
Trying not to think about how foolish he looked the king of Gondor waved the pole in the direction of the Ford. The wind rushed to attention. Leaves swirled around him eagerly as the eddies in air tore towards the water. Rigidly he jerked the rod back up and to his immense surprise and delight the wind now carried with it masses of water droplets.
The pole swung towards the burning remains of the last homely house and the unsceduled rain showever fell gleefully over the blackened building.
Breathing heavily he managed to put the rod back away in his jacket. The fire was out.
He broke into a run, calling her name though he knew she would never hear it.
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