Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. They belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I just like to write about them. I make no money off of them.
Echoes of the Past
A bright flash of light penetrated the closed lids of the sleeping Ring-bearer, his eyes darting from side to side in dream state. A slight murmur erupted from parted lips as the sound of metal boots struck old stone, the little one's heart pounding to the rhythm of the vibration as the shadowy figure advanced with it's glowing white blade drawn held securely within its clawlike hand. The hobbit backed up, frightened as he realized he was the only one left standing in the mist and fog. Tripping over a stone, Frodo lay helpless as the Ringwraith stopped in front him with its blade poised above the faceless head for just a second before coming down fast, penetrating flesh.
"Argh!" Frodo yelled out in pain, sitting up in bed as the thunderstorm climaxed, lightning illuminating the room as the shape of a Ringwraith floating at the foot of the bed took form. Gasping for breath, his mouth opened to form words, but none of his pleas for help were heard. He scanned the room for an escape, but waited until he felt sure the direction the Wraith would be moving to be opposite of his. When the Wraith attempted no advance, his blue eyes had time to adjust to the candle lit room, the billowing figure disappearing into guazy curtains as the wind blew them inwards. The hobbit swallowed back the lump caught in his throat, the threat of attack slowly crumbling away. Realizing that his fingers still clutched at his aching shoulder, Frodo rubbed the old scar, taking deep breaths to calm his racing heart.
The darkened storm clouds that Sam had seen on the horizon earlier had finally blown their way to the city as Frodo caught the fresh smell of rain in the air. He lay back on the overstuffed pillow, covering his body with the comforter. Just when he thought he was comfortable, lightning flashed again, thunder cracking just above his head, as an eerily familiar scream hung in the air. Frodo grimaced as the pain in his shoulder intensified, panting for breath until it faded. He remembered speaking to Sam that evening, the shoulder a dull throb at that time as they both watched nature's fireworks light the cluster of clouds in the distance. It was at that time that he had decided to retire early, suddenly becoming fatigued.
"I think I will go to bed now, Sam. Please do not miss the festivities because of me," the master of Bag End ordered.
"I oughtn't leave you if you're feelin' ill, beg me pardon. You just don't look so well now, Mr. Frodo," the gardener noticed the fair complexion of his master turning a slight yellowish green in just the few minutes they stood on the balcony watching the approaching storm.
"I order you to have a good time, Sam," he said observing caring bright eyes darken to suspicion. "I will be all right. Please, go, be with our friends," Frodo voiced calmly, trying to hide the uncomfortable feeling of pressure building up in his shoulder.
Sam did not want to disobey, but he did not feel comfortable leaving his master, when obviously he was hiding that he was in pain. The gardener had spent years by Frodo's side and knew that the master of Bag End was not good at concealing his feelings, even when he meant to spare the stout hobbit's feelings. "I'll make my appearances and apologies for you, sir, but I shall return shortly."
"Have fun then, and please do not worry. Besides it will be raining soon and you know how much I like to hear it, as well as the fresh smell it leaves behind," Frodo smiled, his hand lingering on Sam's shoulder for a moment longer.
"Aye, that I do," Sam resounded, remembering the Shire's first spring storm, how its refreshing spray danced upon his face as he would take in the new aroma, gathering all that was good of the green tilled earth and letting it rejuvenate his spirit as it had lay dormant until Winter's end.
The storm increased its intensity, frequent lightning and thunder boomed over the stone city. If all had not known that Saruman and Sauron had perished, it would seem that Minas Tirith was under attack by one of their spells.
All were safe under the protection of the King's Grand Hall where the festivities continued despite the foul weather. Minstrals played lays and then timed tunes of strings and flutes which were relaxing to one's ears. Soft murmurs of Aragorn's healing hands revealed to the women of the Houses of Healing, excited relays of the battles with Trolls and the beauty of King Elessar's Elven wife rounded out the topics of conversations. Among these groups of celebrating citizens were the Lady of Rohan, Captain Faramir and the new King of Rohan, Eomer.
Eowyn and Captain Faramir had shared many a night since their meeting in the Houses of Healing where their friendship blossomed to much more. Just recently they had announced their engagement after the King's coronation. Eomer was happy for his sister as he knew secretly that she had been pining for the former Lord Aragorn. Since finding that he was betrothed to another, Eomer witnessed his sister's mood swing from lust to sorrow to rightous as she had set her sites on a new cause. She would die fighting for her people, for her land, for her King. It was not so long ago when Eomer found Eowyn's motionless body laying beside their Uncle's, the former King of Rohan when he thought she dead. No one knew at that time that she had defeated the WitchKing of Angmar, the leader of the Ringwraiths. The one that said no man could kill. Eomer did not have to worry over his sister because her happiness radiated through her smile each time she looked into Captain Faramir's eyes.
They were sharing a toast with her brother, Eomer, when the Lady of Rohan face went white as pain seared through her sword arm. Gasping for breath, Eomer was the first to catch her as she swayed, her grip laxing on the goblet, dropping it to the stone floor.
The partying atmosphere ceased as the clanging rang throughout the hall bringing attention to the trio in the center of the room. Aragorn, whom had finally sat at the Throne meant for him, sprang up, to observe what the commotion was. Spying Lady Eowyn on the ground surrounded by onlookers, the King leapt off the step, striding quickly to the center of the room.
"What has happened?" Aragorn asked Eowyn's betrothed.
Before Faramir could answer, another set of lungs screamed out, "Merry!"
tbc... please read and review, for all depends if I continue.