the raging storm of a foreign war, and a face i'd seen before by arafinweanappreciation  

“Tell me…” the exhausted king said, looking directly into the commander’s eyes. He was covered in grime, soot and dirt, ash and blood, mud and sweat. His eyes were haunted. The War took its toll, after all, the very ground itself turning against them. The ruby light of the flames only served to reveal their hollowness. “The forces here. The orcs. Never before have I ridden against a host who parts and flees at the very sight of me. Why do they do so now?”

The king was sharp of mind and quick to understand. He knew that a legend of his prowess or brutality would not put them off, nor travel so quickly, besides. The commander only shook her head, and gestured for him to follow.

They hauled themselves to their weary feet and made for the river.

When they reached the banks, far enough back that they could be sure that they would not fall into its poison currents, the commander pointed.

There was an island there, untouched by the corruption around it, green and flourishing despite all else. It was marked by fallen stones. Ruins.

“That,” the commander explained, “Is Tol Sirion. Or Taur-In-Gaurhoth, depending on who you ask. It was your son’s stronghold first, then your grandson’s; then, it was overrun by Sauron.”

“This is where…” the king trailed off, staring at the ruins. The commander carefully did not notice the tears in his eyes.

“Yes. It cleansed the isle, and protects it now.”

The king swallowed thickly before he could speak. “And what does this mean?”

“I met him. More than once. You look nearly identical.”

“So I have been told.”

“They believe you to be the Werewolf-Slayer, returned for his revenge.”

He laughed, harshly. “No, no. The Werewolf-Slayer lies safe in the halls of Tirion, waiting for the birth of his first child. He seeks no revenge,” he hesitated, just for a moment, and his voice came back, quiet and mild, “But perhaps I will seek to avenge him.”

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