Board Thread:Fan Fiction/@comment-26295802-20170419165122

Things used to be exciting.

Back during The War, or The War of The Ring as they call it these days. A single streak of black on the otherwise peaceful and glorious history of Dol Amroth. I'm the Prince of Dol Amroth, Imrahil. Don't you start with all that Imrahil the Magnificent rot, I get enough of that at the feasts. That's all we ever do these days, really, we nobles of Gondor. Feast after feast, festival after festival. We get fat and lazy on the peace our glorious king Elessar has carved in his endless wisdom.

Sometimes I think back and remember the raids during the war. The feeling of a solid warhorse under me, the air flying by my ears as I led a charge of knights. I remember the thrill that ran through my arm as my lance embedded itself in the chest of a Haradrim raider. I remember the metallic smell of blood, the sounds of screaming and battlecries. Sometimes I remember The War.

Sometimes I miss it.

I was born into an age of great turmoil and unrest. Umbarians constantly raided the coasts, even launching invasions from time to time. The mighty armies of Dol Amroth would march out of her white gate, and down the sea-ward road. Rank after rank, column after orderly column of perfect soldiers in the silver mail and blue sercoats. Banner of swan in one hand, sword in the other, I would make inspiring speeches about homelands and traditions, and I would lift the banner high as the men cheered. I wasn't just born into war - I was born *for* war.

But things are boring now. Endless dinner parties, monotonous cycles of courtly visits and travels. Instead of ordering masterful flanking maneuvers and charges, I read about tax rates and the latest farming technology. I have to take up taxes, and help farms, and do all the mundane things a good ruler is supposed to excel at. All the things a good leader is *supposed* to prefer over the wet sound a sword makes as you plunge it into a Umbarian's stomach. I guess I'm not a good leader.

When veterans have dreams about the battlefield, they aren't supposed to wake up smiling, or swear at their squire for waking them up. They aren't supposed to play with their breakfast all morning, trying to recapture the details and emotion of the dream.

I do. Because the war was where I belonged. It gave me an identity, where before I was just some two-bit noble with a cocky attitude and shiny armor. It gave me hope where all else seemed dark and lost. Most of all, it gave me a purpose, something to do with my life, something to work for. I built my life around The War, never dreaming that it would ever be over, much less that I would actually be on the winning side. Glorious death in combat was something I was prepared for. A life of peace and prosperity was a little harder.

I'm supposed to be glad the war's over. I'm supposed to celebrate. Today's the fifth anniversary of when Frodo Nine-Fingered destroyed the ring, and there's festivals and feasts and all kinds of celebration across Gondor. By Manwe, I think Eredan's even throwing one in Tirith Aear despite my explicit instructions. The only people who aren't dancing in the streets are those who lost loved ones, those would rather mourn.

I'm supposed to mourn the years Gondor wasted in endless warfare. I'm supposed to mourn the loss of so many young lives to Haradrim scimitars and Umbarian pikes. I'm supposed to mourn the loss of the coastal cities that were pillaged by corsairs, of the farms and fields that were set aflame, of the Rohirrim warriors that gave their lives to try and protect my country.

But when I remember the thrill of Pelennor Fields, the excitement of leading a salient of Swan Knights like a knife into enemy lines... I find myself raising a glass of whiskey to salute The War of the Ring. I mourn the end of the bloodiest, most horrifying war mankind had ever waged

Don't get me wrong, I like Gondor. I like to see children playing in the streets, not shipped off inland so that they won't be captured and enslaved in a corsair raid. I like how people seem a little less grim these days, a little quicker to buy you a drink, a little less quick to finish their own. I like our glorious king, and how wise and understanding he is, and how just talking with him can make people glow with happiness.

And in the end, if I was given the option I'd take this world over The War every time. For them.

But as for me, I'll always be out of place. A warrior-prince without a war to fight, a mighty general in a time of infinite peace. I'll always long for the sheer thrill of dueling a Umbarian champion, feeling my heart race with the each sound of metal-on-metal. My private dream will always be a dark tent, standing over a battlefield map, giving orders to stoic generals and finding new and more ingenious ways to outwit my enemies.

And it's gone forever now. The War, my lifeblood, my reason for living. We're at peace. Terrible, horrible, infinite peace. And to me, endless peace is far a worse hell then Angband and Utumno combined.

But I should be going now. King Elessar is holding a jousting match in honor of the anniversary. I love jousting. Getting into my old armor, feeling a solid lance in my hands. And for a few precious seconds, if I just close my eyes, it all fades away, and I'm back on Pelennor Fields. I can hear the metallic clash of armies, the shouting of soldiers, the whinnying of war horses; I can smell the coppery scent of fresh blood.

And perhaps I should be horrified how it brings a smile to my face.  