Fear No More The Heat O' Th' Sun - Nor The Furious Winters' Rages

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R Tolkien, Peter Jackson, New Line Cinema and their associates. I am making no money from this; it is just a wonderful way for me to write for an audience with room for me to improve upon my skills/technique through their comments and criticisms.

Cymbeline was written by William Shakespeare (c. 1609) and belongs to he, not me.

Rating: Most likely R, although some may argue it PG-13.

~~*~~ For my author's note please see the bottom of this post. ~~*~~


Fear No More the Heat O' Th' Sun


II. Nor the Furious Winters' Rages


The Vase shattered against the stone wall of the room, its fine porcelain reduced to shards and dust. It was of Elvish make and bore the intricate artwork of Elvish hands- a gift to Gondor from the High Elves of Rivendell. Elven beauty broken by such a simple act.

Aragorn regretted throwing the gift from his beloved's homeland the moment his uncontrollable rage had passed. Yet still his blood ran hot. Heat radiated from his face. How dare this happen. How dare anyone do this to his friend, his brother... and to him. He wished he had the shadow of a being before him right now. Death was too good for the filth. He should have no reprieve from the knowledge of what he'd single-handedly destroyed.

His comrade, his blood brother, his family- a greater part of him than he had ever before realized was now slipping through his fingers, soon to become but a distant pleasant memory of the golden days of myth. Such a beautiful and noble creature made to bow low and pass form this world because of one sinister sneer-bearer.

Such waste.

Aragorn could feel his anger boiling up once more- this time he released it in a scream of agony as he unconsciously fell to his knees- a king in terrible grief.


Humble guard and loyal warrior, a dear friend of his was at the door. After a moment he locked eyes with the hesitant man and blue met brown. Aragorn waited for him to speak. The warrior shifted his weight uneasily. "Is there not something I can help you with, Milord?"

His king showed no signs of having heard him.


Oh yes, Aragorn thought. There is much that you could do for me. Bring me this... this... the split second of mental hesitation Aragorn filled with a hundred words. Monster. Horror. Freakish fiend. Spawn of Sauron. Yet no name could properly match nor describe the ill the stranger had caused. He had not only wronged his victim and loved ones but deprived the world of one who truly knew how to live; knowledge that was quickly slipping from the consciousness of the people even as Elessar ruled.

Aragorn gave him a sideways look before slowly turning his full attention to the bearded man. The ignorant guard lived blissfully unaware of the cause of shadow that had fallen and was only concerned for his obviously ailing king. Aragorn blinked slowly, his comely face and his wise eyes relaxing. His words made his own body suddenly feel the cold of the stone room after night had fallen.

"The world is about to mourn."


Author's Note: For any of you who care, I've tried to load this story with symbolism and metaphors, LOL. I hope you enjoy them! P



Please Review!


Ancalima: Thanks so much for your continued support, my dear! It is greatly appreciated. You are always such a joy! )

Tarawiel: Thank you so much for your comments! And don't worry- my hand is better now. ) I really appreciate that you took the time to read and comment upon my story- thank you so much! I hope you enjoy this chapter, mellon! )

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