Cold Dusk

"Are you warm enough?"

A young healer leads a tall Ranger from the Fortification, making sure to remain close enough for support but not so close as to mollycoddle him. The woman is Zaira Ephalkhir, the man... Her betrothed, the Lord Endaerion Cuthalion.

 

"I have weathered far worse." the Ranger replies. 

These first steps are hesitant, however. Not for any injury to the man's legs, but for the great pain still present throughout his upper torso. Even now it is bandaged tightly. He walks slowly, each step only covering inches. "It is difficult, but not impossible. I feel I could travel by foot, though I would not yet subject it to the roughness under horse's foot."

Zaira smiles faintly, still keeping close by. "You do well, my lord," she encourages softly. "And nay. You are not yet ready for travel of any kind. But soon, when you regain your strength and the wounds begin to feel old." Looking up, the young Ephalkhir makes a study of the man's face, checking for signs, perhaps, of a pain not disclosed.

 

"Very well." As more steps are taken, confidence is rebuilt and they come easier. Not yet at a full gait, nevertheless he is able to walk around with relative comfort. "Let us see for ourselves what progress the reconstruction efforts have made. What say you?" No longer steadying himself upon her, the Ranger actually offers her his arm.

The young woman smiles a little, a tight-lipped smile of private amusement that curls her mouth into a little bow. But she takes Endaerion's arm nonetheless, guiding him towards the reconstruction effort. "I would be pleased to do so, my Lord," she offers mildly.

 

As the two stroll, they observe the efforts of the guildsmen at work, bringing the art of their ancient lore to bear upon the derelict ruins. Though there is little hope of restoring the city to its prior state, elements of it can be restored and made to serve a purpose in the going war effort: store houses, barracks, and fortifications being among them. 

"One wonders what a sight it must have been to behold, in days long forgotten. The greatness of the kingdom, stretching through here from the tower of the Sun to the tower of the Moon. Were we ever to see such days again." Endaerion laments.

"We are."

Zaira's voice is full of a calm surity as she speaks these words. "There is much work to be done, but Gondor will regain her glory. I am certain of it." She looks up at her betrothed again, that private little smile setting her eyes to twinkling. "And you will do your part, my Lord." It might be a statement. It might be an expectation. Who can say what secret thoughts are in a woman's mind when she looks upon her man?

"Perhaps," replies Endaerion ominously, "or perhaps we will all be cast into the sea. It is not yet written to my eyes."

"But as always we shall persevere, and perhaps endure for a time. Ours is not to last, as it is with the first born, but rather to burn bright but brief and perhaps win immortality through renown. And so I shall rebuild this broken house of mine, and perhaps if the great wave yet comes, it will be my likeness etched in stone beside so many of my fathers. And one day others will walk before it, and wonder aloud as we do now whether such greatness will ever be achieved again within the memory of man." The man's face has grown serious, yet with a tinge of sadness. Perhaps because she is betrothed to him and such is the custom between a man and a woman of that state, or perhaps it is merely the hand of one mortal longing to anchor his existence with the rest of the chain, but there under the ruined city, Endaerion takes Zaira's hand into his and the two pass silently into the cold dusk.