Das Wegkreuz bei Kaundorf
In der Nähe von Kaundorf, hart an der Straße, welche von Esch nach Kaundorf führt, stand vor kurzem noch ein steinernes Kreuz, das aber jetzt zerbrochen am Boden liegt und die Jahreszahl 1730 trägt. Die Stelle, wo das Kreuz stand, wurde früher von den Reisenden, welche an derselben während der Nacht vorbei mussten, gemieden, weil stets unter dem Kreuze ein altes, hässliches Weib kauerte, das den Reisenden unheimlich anblickte.
Français: La croix de chemin près de Kaundorf
Près de Kaundorf, au bord de la route qui mène d'Esch à Kaundorf, se trouvait encore récemment une croix en pierre, qui gît aujourd'hui brisée sur le sol et porte la date de 1730. L'endroit où se trouvait la croix était autrefois évité par les voyageurs qui devaient passer devant pendant la nuit, car une vieille femme laide était toujours accroupie sous la croix et regardait les voyageurs d'un air sinistre.
English: The Wayside Cross near Kaundorf
Near Kaundorf, right next to the road leading from Esch to Kaundorf, there used to be a stone cross, but it now lies broken on the ground and bears the date 1730. The spot where the cross stood was formerly avoided by travellers who had to pass by during the night because an old, ugly woman always crouched under the cross and stared eerily at the travellers.
The Cross of Shadows
A Tale from the North Kingdom
The road from Fornost to Annúminas twisted through quiet hills and old woods. Once well-traveled, it had grown silent, forgotten by most save for wandering Dúnedain and messengers bound for Rivendell. The stonework of ancient Arnor still lingered in the moss, half-swallowed by time. Among the ruins lay a broken cross of grey stone, carved with faded runes and bearing a date that no lore-master had claimed. Beneath it, it was said, a woman once wept—forever.
They called it “The Weeping Stone.” And still, some claimed she lingered.
I. A Shadow in the North
The Ranger Aragorn, cloaked in twilight, knelt by the shattered cross. He brushed aside the moss with a gloved hand. Beneath the grime, letters gleamed faintly in the dying light.
„Dagnûr-thôn,“ he read. “Doom of the flesh.”
The words stirred unease in his blood. He had heard tales of this place in Elrond’s house—whispered warnings of a cursed soul left unburied, bound to a relic of the Witch-king’s long-vanished empire.
That evening, in a hollow among the hills, Aragorn lit a fire and spoke in low tones with Gimli and Legolas. The dwarf had heard of cursed stones before, and the elf had walked under darker moons.
„Old griefs lie buried in Arnor,“ Legolas said, scanning the woods. „But not all rest easy.“
„Aye,“ Gimli muttered, stroking his beard. „You’d think the dead would have the courtesy to stay in their barrows.“
II. Council in the Glade
The next morning brought a visitor—Gandalf, stepping from the mists like a memory.
“This place,” he said, staring at the cross, “was a place of judgment. The stone is not merely a memorial, but a seal—meant to bind a soul in penance.”
„Whose soul?“ Aragorn asked.
“A woman of Arnor who betrayed her kin to Angmar. She traded lives for promises and watched them perish. Her punishment was to remain—until her guilt was cleansed or mercy found her.”
Before the sun had set, more gathered. Éowyn, who had left Rohan seeking solitude, now rode among them. She spoke of dreams filled with fire and stone, of a woman weeping beneath a withered tree.
That night, Arwen rode into their camp, starlight on her brow, bearing scrolls from Rivendell. She unrolled the parchment by firelight.
„Her name was Morilwen,“ she said. „A healer turned traitor. The curse speaks of a Watcher—neither dead nor living—who awaits the blood of her kin to replace her.“
III. The Judgment Stone
On the third night, they came to the stone as one.
Frodo and Sam, lingering in the North on their way home, had joined them, drawn by stories of the weeping stone. Boromir too—alive in this thread of the world—had come, driven by dreams of a cursed relic linked to Númenor’s legacy.
Fog gathered like breath upon the land.
Then she came.
Not in silence, but in a sound like wind through hollow bones. Her form was that of a bent old woman, her face drawn and sorrowful, her eyes black wells of time and grief. She crouched beneath the cross and looked at them.
„You have come,“ she rasped. Her voice carried centuries.
Gandalf stepped forward. „Morilwen, your time ends. The curse may lift if you choose release.“
But she did not answer.
„I must see the fire lit,“ she said. „As it was for me. As it shall be for her.“
„Her?“ Aragorn asked.
„The child of my line,“ she whispered. „She must take my place. Only her blood can bear the weight.“
Her words chilled the air.
IV. The Choice
They waited for an heir who never came.
But Éowyn, tall and proud, stepped forward. „You seek release through vengeance. It will never come. Let go.“
Morilwen hissed. „You know nothing. I betrayed for love, and he betrayed me for glory. I was cast aside. Burned. Cursed. Why should I forgive what was never forgiven me?“
„You chose darkness,“ Gandalf said. „But you were not the only one who suffered. Let it end.“
She reached toward Éowyn, and the earth trembled. But Aragorn raised his voice and spoke in Quenya, ancient and powerful:
„Á reni elenya. Nai elen siluva lyenna.“
„Your path ends in starlight. May a star shine upon you.“
Light surged from the words, wrapping the stone, the ghost, the night.
Morilwen’s form stilled. Her face softened, young for a moment, and her tears—real, at last—fell to the earth.
„Tell them... I am sorry,“ she whispered. And she was gone.
V. After
The dawn came golden and silent. The stone cross had crumbled, leaving only dust and silence.
„What was her name again?“ Sam asked.
„Forgotten,“ Gandalf said, „but forgiven.“
The travelers left the road behind. And where the stone had stood, a single white flower bloomed—the first to do so in many long years.
The Weeping Stone wept no more.
The End
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