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The sky above the mountains of Gondor was slowly darkening. Golden evening sunlight painted the peaks a bright orange. Minas Tirith's formerly white walls were red with the blood of many and black from the fire. But it wasn't just orc blood that stained the pristine walls. Many men had died fighting Sauron's army, too many proud men and women, children of Gondor and children of Rohan, children of Middle Earth.
Anthony's hands were just as red as the walls of the city. The soldier that he'd tried to save hadn't made it. Too severe had been his injuries. He knelt in a partly destroyed alley, next to the slowly cooling body, clenching his trembling hands. After he’d taken a deep breath, he could reach out and gently close the man's empty eyes. Anthony didn't know his name, but every fallen soldier deserved to be treated with the respect and honor they earned as they had given their life to protect the innocent.
A day had passed since their brave soldiers had defeated the enemy. An eerie silence had settled over the city. In the streets Anthony could still hear the echoes of the screams of war. To his left the school's walls were torn down, and to his right the stairs that led to a little alcove were scorched. All around him was destruction as far as the eye could reach. The castle of Minas Tirith was filled with people, wounded and homeless men, women and children, poor souls who had lost their homes, their families and their limbs. Every hour survivors found their way back to the city, injured and traumatized. But at least they were alive.
Anthony was lucky.
He was the son of an old and wealthy family, his house was mostly intact, his servants had survived the siege, and now he had opened his gates to grant shelter to those who did not have anything left. His house was full, but there was one soul that he was missing. He clutched his scarred chest when hot pain shot through him. Counting to ten, he breathed through it, forcing himself to not lose his composure.
"Bruce!" He called when he'd recollected his thoughts.
The healer turned around to look at him where he was taking care of a young girl who had broken her arm. Anthony stood up slowly and limped over to them, leaning onto his walking stick.
"Are you okay, Anthony?" His friend stood up and grasped his shoulders worriedly.
Anthony smiled at his friend. He aimed for genuine but failed spectacularly. "You know the answer…Neither are you, Bruce, am I right?”
The healer with the glasses mirrored his expression. They’d known each other long enough to know that they couldn’t fool the other.
Bruce evaded answering directly to his question and instead nodded at the body behind Anthony. “He didn’t make it?”
“No.” Anthony shook his head sadly. “I wish I could’ve helped him.”
“You’re a blacksmith, Anthony, not a healer. And yet you’re still doing your best to help everyone who needs aid. This, his death, it is not your fault, Anthony, and I need you to understand and accept this,” said Bruce and gripped his shoulders a little tighter for a moment. "You are not the one who killed him, do you get me?"
Anthony heard the words as if in a trance. He was thankful for his friend’s loyalty, and yet every soldier and every victim that they couldn’t save hurt. He nodded nevertheless, not wanting to worry the healer more than he already did.
“Go home, my friend,” said Bruce and let go of him. “Go home and rest. You’ve been awake for two days straight. You need to sleep.”
“How can I sleep, Bruce? Every time I close my eyes the fear that I will never see him again nearly overpowers me,” whispered Anthony. He sought Bruce’s face for something, a sliver of hope maybe, but only found the same darkness there as in his own mind. Fear, cold and piercing, was seizing hold of Anthony’s weakened heart.
The healer sighed. “I cannot answer that, my friend. I wish I could, but that’s beyond my power. We need to trust the heavens. Only the Valar know what will be. But I want to believe that he will return to your side. His heart is strong and his love for you will lead him home.”
Anthony blinked away his tears. There was a knot in his stomach that grew with every hour that he didn’t know if he had survived. To cover up his show of weakness, he chuckled at his friend’s outdated beliefs in the Valar. But he didn’t start another discussion about the ancient spirits.
“I will come back first thing tomorrow,” he said instead and started to walk down the street that would lead him to his home. “Don’t ignore your own advice and take a break, my friend.”
Bruce didn’t reply and Anthony didn’t look back. He continued towards his home. Deep in thought he tried not to imagine what the fields of Pelennor must look like. The lowlands had been the showplace of the war when Rohan’s cavalry had come to Minas Tirith’s rescue.
Anthony reached the gates of his home after a while. His family’s mansion was beautiful, complete with a huge garden where more and more tents were being erected so the suddenly homeless found a place to rest their head and tend to their wounds. His private healers hurried around helping where they were needed, and his cooks and servants were just as busy.
A small figure ran up to him. The boy flung his arms around Anthony’s waist and hugged him tightly. The adult just rubbed over the child’s back in a soothing manner, having already heard what had happened to his aunt and uncle. The young orphan had always had a special place in his heart, though now, Anthony mused, he’d be the one to replace the kid’s parents.
To their right, Anthony saw a group of soldiers. His heart throbbed in his chest when he recognized the familiar faces of Thor and Natasha and Clinton. They were roughed up but looked otherwise unharmed, except for the latter. The archer had a bandage around his head and looked quite shaken. He was lying on a gurney. The little group noticed Anthony and waved him over. He complied easily, taking Peter with him, not wanting to leave the boy alone.
“My friends,” he greeted them and hugged each one tightly. “I feared I’d never see you again.”
“It was a gruesome battle, Anthony, but our combined forces were able to defeat Sauron’s army. Rohan's daughter killed the witch-king of Angmar and their forces have retreated to Mordor. For now we have won. But the war isn't over yet,” said Thor solemnly. The huge bear of a man had a heart of gold. Anthony always wondered if he had some elf blood in his veins. “It’s only thanks to the heavens that we made it out alive.”
He accepted another hug from the gentle giant. Anthony felt the corners of his mouth tick upwards in the first genuine smile since before the beacons had been lit. The relief of seeing his friends was immeasurable. But…
“Is he with you?” he whispered. Hope and desperation were mixing in his chest, rising and nearly taking his breath away.
His friends’ faces fell. Natasha was the one to shake her head sadly. “I’m sorry, Anthony. He’s not here. We haven’t seen him since Rohan’s cavalry arrived. His battalion was overrun. We fear the worst.”
Anthony’s heart ached. “I understand,” he pressed out, trying hard so his voice wouldn’t break in front of his friends. Breathing became very hard all of a sudden. “Thank you for telling me, my friends. I think- I…I need to go, please excuse me, I need to-need to-”
“Anthony…” Thor said in a low voice, but the blacksmith only shook his head at his friend.
His eyes were filled with unshed tears. Anthony trembled. Peter was still holding onto him, so he kissed the boy’s head in reassurance and passed the child over to Natasha who was quite fond of the boy despite her cool demeanor. She enveloped him in a hug and let Anthony go. The three had known Anthony for almost as long as Bruce had and knew when he wanted to be left alone.
Anthony limped over to the hidden backyard on the other side of the mansion, where no tents were and a little alcove was immured into the garden’s stone wall. He didn’t look back, and he didn’t slow down, no matter how much his injured leg hurt. Then he collapsed onto the bench there. His walking stick fell to the ground with a clang. Anthony sobbed. The almost dried blood on his hands left stains on his face when he brought them up to press his knuckles into his eye sockets as he cried and mourned the loss of his love.
Anthony’s heart broke in his chest.
Cold heat coursed through his veins, a venomous mixture of anger, hurt, and grief. He cried until he had no tears left to shed, until the moon and the stars rose above the still smoking ruins of Minas Tirith, until the cloak of darkness had painted everything in black.
Oh, how he’d wished for him to come back. Oh, how he’d hoped for him to return to his side. Oh, how he’d feared for his wellbeing.
Steven was gone.
Steven, the light of Anthony’s life, his love, his everything…he’d lost him.
The night aged, and so did Anthony. The loss of the one man he’d loved more than anything and anyone else in this world drained him. He felt empty, forlorn, alone. Steven’s smiles had been his sun. His breath had been the wind in Tony’s hair. The steady heartbeat that he’d loved to listen to in the intimacy of their shared nights had been the reason why he’d lived.
That night Anthony didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw him, saw his face, felt his touch, heard his voice, and a new wave of sadness would crash into him like the tides on a night of the full moon.
When the morning came closer and the bells of the city rang for the umpteenth time, the night had reached its darkest point. The sun would rise soon.
Rattled, he lay there on the bench and tried not to think, when he heard a rustling sound. Anthony didn’t bother standing up and checking. The wind had picked up during the night. He pulled the linen coat he was wearing a little tighter around his shoulders and closed his eyes, inhaling the scents of the garden around him.
A hand on his shoulder pulled him from the depths of his mind. Anthony jerked. A figure was standing before him. The moon behind the person cloaked their face in shadows. He tried to sit up, but the person’s hands found the sides of his face and pulled him forward.
“Let go! Who-” Anthony choked on his words when he blinked into the darkness. Without protesting he let the person pull him into their embrace. This couldn’t be!
“Tony…” A voice so beloved and familiar that it hurt almost physically reached his ears. A nickname, spoken with so much tenderness and care.
Anthony sat there on the little stone bench in his backyard, the crescent moon above him and the scents of Middle Earth in his nose. His trembling arms came up, touching and mapping out, trying to understand. Anthony’s heart had stopped in his chest for a moment and he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or awake.
He pulled back slightly and the figure allowed it. His hands found the man’s face and with the pads of his thumbs he brushed over the cheekbones that he knew, the lips that he’d kissed more often than he could count, the long lashes that he loved to feel on his skin.
“Steve…” he breathed and it sounded like a prayer. He couldn’t grasp what was happening around him, couldn’t understand, couldn’t realize.
“Tony,” Steve repeated. He knelt down before Tony. The parts of his armor that he was still wearing rattled quietly in the night. His stained longsword reflected the moonlight where it was laying in the grass next to Steven.
“Tony, I am back. I’m back. For you. I’m back for you, Tony,” he whispered. Anthony could hear the fear in his voice, the anxiety, but also the relief, the happiness.
Tears ran down Anthony’s cheeks and all words left him. His head was filled with white noise as he touched his forehead to Steven’s and cried. He kissed his beloved. It was messy and uncoordinated, but it was real, because Steven was real. He was real, and he was alive, and he was back in Anthony’s arms.
Strong hands pulled him forward into a bone crushing embrace. Anthony broke apart in Steven’s arms, and Steven broke apart in his. The soldier buried his face in Anthony’s neck, inhaling his scent, trying to convince both of them that this was really happening.
They laid in each other’s arms for the rest of the night. None of them spoke. They couldn’t. They didn’t need to. They didn’t have to. All they wanted was to feel the other’s heartbeat. And feel it they did.
When the sun of Middle Earth rose again, the golden light fell upon two men. Their bodies, hearts and minds entangled, they didn’t care about the mountains or the sun. All they cared about was the love in their arms.
The soldier had returned. The war in Anthony’s heart was over.