Clarity of Vision, Chapter 29
Jul. 10th, 2015 10:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mithenTitle: Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 29
Chapter Summary: The final battle of the Third Age is joined at the gates of Mordor--and on the slopes of Mount Doom, Thorin and Bilbo struggle on.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo, Arwen, Aragorn, Denethor, Theoden, Gimli, Dis, Legolas
Fandom: Hobbit/Lord of the Rings. Begins in 2968, twenty-six years after the events of "Clarity of Vision" and fifty years before the canonical events of "Lord of the Rings." Thus, characters' ages and the geopolitical situation will be different than LoTR canon!
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2400
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins have been parted for many years now, despite the love they bear each other. Now Thorin's research has uncovered a dire threat to Middle Earth--the Ring he carried a little while and then gave to Bilbo. Together with a group of companions composed of the different Free Peoples of Middle Earth, they must attempt to destroy the artifact before its Dark Lord can re-capture it.
Mount Doom was behind the armies of Nurn and the Fellowship now, and the baleful light of Barad-dûr flickered over the plain, painting everything with scarlet as they struck on. Before them lay Udún, a valley ringed with bleak crags. Set into the far end of the valley was the Black Gate, a towering monstrosity of spikes and spires that the various scattered comrades could see even from this distance. And between them and the Black Gate…
“Well,” said Théoden, gazing at the rank upon rank of orc-warriors. “This day shall one of my sister-sons become heir of Rohan, it seems.” His face was almost cheerful, a berserker calm settling over him. “Yet we shall show them what it means to face men of the West, shall we not?”
Denethor bared his teeth at the hordes in front of them in a fierce smile. “On the far side of that gate lie the armies of our fathers, and any orcs we slay this day will have no chance to slay our peoples.”
“Yet will the people of Nurn bear a hard burden,” said Daon grimly. Sauron’s army was already changing formation, preparing themselves for the meagre assault on their rear ranks. “If the Black Gate were opened, then we could at least attack from two sides at once. I fear today the last hope of Nurn will be extinguished.”
A shrill cry above them made Denethor look up; a falcon was winging its way over the armies gathered on the plain. A few orc-arrows sang past it, but it gave another derisive shriek and sailed away over the Black Gate.
“Do not lose hope,” said Denethor, but his voice was so low it was unclear whether he was speaking to his companions or to himself.
“Do you remember the first time we fought side by side, that day when we met by chance on the borders of our lands?” said Théoden suddenly. “How young I was, how eager for glory!” He took a breath. “And how unwilling to admit that I was but a boy before a warrior already hardened in battle.”
Denethor looked at him, and the grim lines of his face eased almost imperceptibly. “I do remember, Prince Théoden. I remember a young man who spoke without thinking the truth about the stallion I rode, and that in my hurt pride I spoke harsh words to him.”
Théoden threw back his head and laughed. “You spoke the truth as well. It was not a good first meeting, was it?”
Denethor shook his head. “Yet also I remember a young warrior who saved my life that day, and bore himself well and bravely. Him I would fight side by side with again.”
Théoden clasped his hand. “And I am honored to face this day with you, my brother.”
“My brother,” echoed Denethor, and there was wonder in his voice.
On the western side of the Black Gate, the assembled armies of Gondor and Rohan stood waiting. King Thengel and Steward Ecthelion stood in front of them, staring at the gate. Beyond the creaking of armor and the snapping of banners in the wind, a strange silence was upon the field.
And then a low rumble reached the ears of the people there, and the silence became filled with fear and consternation as over a rise came into view a new army: row on row of Easterlings in bronze armor, their spears bright in the morning sun. At their head was a figure cloaked in gray, riding a white horse, and the sound of their shields clashing seemed a death-knell to the peoples of the West.
“Stand fast!” cried Thengel as they drew closer and his men rustled and shifted. “Today we stand for our homelands and none shall rout us!”
They faced each other, these two forces, and the wind itself seemed to fall silent, waiting. Far above them, a falcon screamed out once into the hush, as if in defiance.
“It is time,” said Legolas. “Time to join the battle in earnest, while the main body of Sauron’s armies are focused on the vanguard and yet unaware of us.”
“People of Nurn!” cried Gimli, raising his axe. “Today we strike a blow for freedom together! And as you have cast in your lot with mine, I swear that if I survive this day I shall cast in my lot with yours, and stay to help build roads and cities that would make any Westerner weep with envy!”
“And if I survive this day,” said Legolas, I pledge to help reclaim this barren waste and turn it to fertile ground once more. Trees shall flourish on the Plateau of Gorgoroth, and the free people of Nurn will plant gardens in the ruins of Barad-dûr!”
A ragged cheer went up, and the people of Nurn surged forward without any further urging, streaming down into the valley of Udún to fall upon the armies of Sauron. Ugly trumpets brayed an alarm, and the orcs swiveled to meet this threat.
And so the last battle of the Third Age was joined, in the most desperate of circumstances, with the Black Gate between the starving people of Nurn and any hope of succor.
On the other side of that gate, the armies of Gondor and Rohan stared at the army of the Easterlings, its shields glinting in the sun. The mounted figure at its head rode forward, and the soldiers of Gondor saw Steward Ecthelion grasp his sword’s hilt, saw King Thengel ready his spear.
And then the figure stood up in the stirrups and threw aside his grey cloak, and cried out “Folk of the West! Today the armies of the East stand with you against this great evil!” And a cheer of joy went up as the people on the plain recognized Mithrandir, clad all in white, riding toward them, and realized that they had gained new allies rather than new enemies.
Pallando swung his great gnarled staff and sent three orcs crumbling to the ground. “Thorongil!” he yelled. “‘Your left!”
Estel dodged a black blade, whirled to skewer an orc. “Forward!” he called to the armies of Nurn, and they surged on.
There was a cry above them, fierce and full of joy, and Pallando’s falcon plummeted from the skies to claw the face of an orc trying to strike its master. Flying to his shoulder, it shrieked again in defiance and glee, and Pallando’s face lit up.
“Oh, this is glad tidings and hope unforeseen!” he cried. “My friends! Mithrandir lives and has returned at the head of an army of Easterlings! The free peoples of the West have received aid!”
Estel’s face blazed with joy through the black blood stippling it. “Glad tidings indeed!” he breathed. Then new determination squared his jaw. “The Black Gate must be opened, and the people of Nurn saved!”
Pallando smoothed the feathers on his falcon’s head. “Sweetling, you must find Arwen and Legolas, and tell them so. Do you hear me? Seek out the elves, for they will understand your speech. Tell them the news and urge them to the Gate!”
The falcon launched itself into the air and soared west over the desperate armies.
On the western flank of the army of Nurn, Dís parried a blow, then turned to cave in the ribs of an orc with her hammer. “Fifteen!” she called breathlessly to Arwen. “And I shall race you to that five-point lieutenant!”
“My arrows will reach him faster than you can!” said Arwen, notching one and preparing the shot.
There was a shriek above her, and she looked up, then threw her arm in the air. A falcon arrowed down and landed on her outstretched forearm, talons closing around her arm. She stood unmoving and unmoved as blood stained the sleeve of her jerkin, listening intently as the falcon bobbed its head and made a series of calls. Then with a fierce cry of elation, she threw up her hand and the falcon sprang into the air and away.
“Sister!” she cried to Dís. “We must make for the Black Gate, for beyond it wait the armies of the West--and Mithrandir, returned to us this day!”
None of the sounds of battle reached the slopes of Mount Doom: not the twisted trumpets, not the clash of shields, not the cries of the dying. It was oddly still there, and the only sound was the low, constant rumbling of the molten rock within the mountain, deep beneath them.
Bilbo’s throat was parched and his tongue dry, for there were only a few precious mouthfuls of water left in their canteens. Step by painful step they made their way up the treacherous slopes that trembled beneath their feet, and sometimes Thorin leaned on Bilbo and sometimes Bilbo leaned on Thorin.
“I can see them,” Bilbo murmured to Thorin once through dry lips. “Your father and Gollum, following us.”
Thorin looked back: indeed, far behind them he could see two specks clambering over the rocks. There seemed to be some sort of chain or leash between them, as if his father was using Gollum like a hunting hound. His heart sank at the sight: Will I never be free of you, Father?
“We have to go faster,” he said to Bilbo.
“I…” The breath wheezed between Bilbo’s teeth. “I don’t know if I can, Thorin.”
Thorin wrenched the ugly orc helmet from Bilbo’s head, nearly sobbing in relief at the sight of the dear, familiar face exposed once more. He threw the helmet down the hill with a clatter. “We don’t need this anymore,” he said, and bent to pull the gnarled breastplate from Bilbo’s body, leaving him in just his linen shift and the mithril coat, which sparkled gaily even in the sullen light of Mount Doom.
“Stupid orc boots,” muttered Bilbo, and bent to pull them off as well.
“The stones,” protested Thorin, “They’ll burn your feet.”
Bilbo shook his head, sighed in relief as his bare feet touched the ground. “You underestimate hobbit feet, as usual,” he said with a wan smile. He stood up once more. “Let me face this as a true hobbit, with my feet on the earth,” he said.
They staggered forward together, their pursuers still gaining on them, but more slowly. The air grew thick with malice and heat, scorching their bodies and souls. After what seemed like years of torment Bilbo pointed. “A door,” he whispered, and Thorin could see a tiny black spot above them, set below the summit.
They made for it.
Finally they stood before the door carved into the mountain. Within was darkness lit by streaks of red and gold. “Sammath Naur,” said Thorin, “The forge in which Sauron created the One Ring.” Bilbo winced and touched his chest, and Thorin bit his lip. “Forgive me.”
“It’s no matter,” Bilbo said. “I can just...feel Him. Everywhere.” He shuddered and clasped Thorin’s hand. “We must hurry.”
And yet he paused one last time on the threshold, looking to the west, where far below Thorin could see the armies surging like ants on the battlefield, and beyond them the grim Black Gate, sealing Mordor off. “I hope they’re all right,” Bilbo whispered. “All of our friends.”
Then he squared his shoulders, and together they walked into the heart of Mount Doom.
At that moment, beyond the Black Gate, Gandalf was riding toward the leaders of the armies of the West, staff held high.
“Mithrandir,” said Ecthelion as the wizard drew close, “Glad tidings you bring to us today! How came you here to this place, leading an army of our ancient foes?”
“My Lord,” said Mithrandir,“My travels have been far, and strange, and to recount them would take much time that we do not have. But I come with aid against the armies of Sauron, and with the blessings of Queen Samur of the Saynshar, who would put aside for now the old enmity between your peoples and offer their help.”
“You will forgive me if I do not leap to embrace the descendents of those who have attacked and enslaved my people,” said Ecthelion with a wary look at the field of bronze shields. “But if they prove themselves this day, perhaps then we can look to a different future. But tell me, wizard,” he said suddenly, and his eyes were keen with worry, “What news of my son? I received a dire message from him to prepare for war, and he said you were with him. Is he safe? For if these Easterlings have done him harm, there shall be no peace between us.”
Mithrandir smiled. “Your son, and the son of King Thengel, were well the last I saw them. If all has gone according to plan--” He pointed at the Black Gate, “--They await you on the other side of that gate.”
King Thengel of Rohan laughed. “Well then,” he cried, “Why do we still wait here?” And he raised his voice and called toward the Black Gate, “Open up, you churls, you cowards! Stop cowering behind your walls and prepare to meet the Free Peoples of the West!”
The armies behind him moved restlessly, as if they would surge against the Black Gate and shatter it with the very force of their will. “For Denethor!” cried one man, and “For Théoden!” cried another, and the calls were picked up and cried out until they crashed against the Black Gate. There was exultation in their voices, and hope in their hearts.
And then all hope died as a huge dark shadow fell across them like a miasma of fear, and a grating scream caused the blood to rush from their faces. A fell beast, covered with scales and with wings as wide as a house, landed on the Black Gate--but the true terror emanated from its rider, a dark shape crowned with an iron circlet, with only shadows beneath it.
The Witch-King of Angmar, most powerful of the Nazgûl, stood atop the Black Gate and looked out at the armies of the Free Peoples, and they felt their hearts quail beneath his blank and pitiless gaze, and the sun itself seemed to pale.
Chapter Summary: The final battle of the Third Age is joined at the gates of Mordor--and on the slopes of Mount Doom, Thorin and Bilbo struggle on.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo, Arwen, Aragorn, Denethor, Theoden, Gimli, Dis, Legolas
Fandom: Hobbit/Lord of the Rings. Begins in 2968, twenty-six years after the events of "Clarity of Vision" and fifty years before the canonical events of "Lord of the Rings." Thus, characters' ages and the geopolitical situation will be different than LoTR canon!
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2400
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins have been parted for many years now, despite the love they bear each other. Now Thorin's research has uncovered a dire threat to Middle Earth--the Ring he carried a little while and then gave to Bilbo. Together with a group of companions composed of the different Free Peoples of Middle Earth, they must attempt to destroy the artifact before its Dark Lord can re-capture it.
Mount Doom was behind the armies of Nurn and the Fellowship now, and the baleful light of Barad-dûr flickered over the plain, painting everything with scarlet as they struck on. Before them lay Udún, a valley ringed with bleak crags. Set into the far end of the valley was the Black Gate, a towering monstrosity of spikes and spires that the various scattered comrades could see even from this distance. And between them and the Black Gate…
“Well,” said Théoden, gazing at the rank upon rank of orc-warriors. “This day shall one of my sister-sons become heir of Rohan, it seems.” His face was almost cheerful, a berserker calm settling over him. “Yet we shall show them what it means to face men of the West, shall we not?”
Denethor bared his teeth at the hordes in front of them in a fierce smile. “On the far side of that gate lie the armies of our fathers, and any orcs we slay this day will have no chance to slay our peoples.”
“Yet will the people of Nurn bear a hard burden,” said Daon grimly. Sauron’s army was already changing formation, preparing themselves for the meagre assault on their rear ranks. “If the Black Gate were opened, then we could at least attack from two sides at once. I fear today the last hope of Nurn will be extinguished.”
A shrill cry above them made Denethor look up; a falcon was winging its way over the armies gathered on the plain. A few orc-arrows sang past it, but it gave another derisive shriek and sailed away over the Black Gate.
“Do not lose hope,” said Denethor, but his voice was so low it was unclear whether he was speaking to his companions or to himself.
“Do you remember the first time we fought side by side, that day when we met by chance on the borders of our lands?” said Théoden suddenly. “How young I was, how eager for glory!” He took a breath. “And how unwilling to admit that I was but a boy before a warrior already hardened in battle.”
Denethor looked at him, and the grim lines of his face eased almost imperceptibly. “I do remember, Prince Théoden. I remember a young man who spoke without thinking the truth about the stallion I rode, and that in my hurt pride I spoke harsh words to him.”
Théoden threw back his head and laughed. “You spoke the truth as well. It was not a good first meeting, was it?”
Denethor shook his head. “Yet also I remember a young warrior who saved my life that day, and bore himself well and bravely. Him I would fight side by side with again.”
Théoden clasped his hand. “And I am honored to face this day with you, my brother.”
“My brother,” echoed Denethor, and there was wonder in his voice.
On the western side of the Black Gate, the assembled armies of Gondor and Rohan stood waiting. King Thengel and Steward Ecthelion stood in front of them, staring at the gate. Beyond the creaking of armor and the snapping of banners in the wind, a strange silence was upon the field.
And then a low rumble reached the ears of the people there, and the silence became filled with fear and consternation as over a rise came into view a new army: row on row of Easterlings in bronze armor, their spears bright in the morning sun. At their head was a figure cloaked in gray, riding a white horse, and the sound of their shields clashing seemed a death-knell to the peoples of the West.
“Stand fast!” cried Thengel as they drew closer and his men rustled and shifted. “Today we stand for our homelands and none shall rout us!”
They faced each other, these two forces, and the wind itself seemed to fall silent, waiting. Far above them, a falcon screamed out once into the hush, as if in defiance.
“It is time,” said Legolas. “Time to join the battle in earnest, while the main body of Sauron’s armies are focused on the vanguard and yet unaware of us.”
“People of Nurn!” cried Gimli, raising his axe. “Today we strike a blow for freedom together! And as you have cast in your lot with mine, I swear that if I survive this day I shall cast in my lot with yours, and stay to help build roads and cities that would make any Westerner weep with envy!”
“And if I survive this day,” said Legolas, I pledge to help reclaim this barren waste and turn it to fertile ground once more. Trees shall flourish on the Plateau of Gorgoroth, and the free people of Nurn will plant gardens in the ruins of Barad-dûr!”
A ragged cheer went up, and the people of Nurn surged forward without any further urging, streaming down into the valley of Udún to fall upon the armies of Sauron. Ugly trumpets brayed an alarm, and the orcs swiveled to meet this threat.
And so the last battle of the Third Age was joined, in the most desperate of circumstances, with the Black Gate between the starving people of Nurn and any hope of succor.
On the other side of that gate, the armies of Gondor and Rohan stared at the army of the Easterlings, its shields glinting in the sun. The mounted figure at its head rode forward, and the soldiers of Gondor saw Steward Ecthelion grasp his sword’s hilt, saw King Thengel ready his spear.
And then the figure stood up in the stirrups and threw aside his grey cloak, and cried out “Folk of the West! Today the armies of the East stand with you against this great evil!” And a cheer of joy went up as the people on the plain recognized Mithrandir, clad all in white, riding toward them, and realized that they had gained new allies rather than new enemies.
Pallando swung his great gnarled staff and sent three orcs crumbling to the ground. “Thorongil!” he yelled. “‘Your left!”
Estel dodged a black blade, whirled to skewer an orc. “Forward!” he called to the armies of Nurn, and they surged on.
There was a cry above them, fierce and full of joy, and Pallando’s falcon plummeted from the skies to claw the face of an orc trying to strike its master. Flying to his shoulder, it shrieked again in defiance and glee, and Pallando’s face lit up.
“Oh, this is glad tidings and hope unforeseen!” he cried. “My friends! Mithrandir lives and has returned at the head of an army of Easterlings! The free peoples of the West have received aid!”
Estel’s face blazed with joy through the black blood stippling it. “Glad tidings indeed!” he breathed. Then new determination squared his jaw. “The Black Gate must be opened, and the people of Nurn saved!”
Pallando smoothed the feathers on his falcon’s head. “Sweetling, you must find Arwen and Legolas, and tell them so. Do you hear me? Seek out the elves, for they will understand your speech. Tell them the news and urge them to the Gate!”
The falcon launched itself into the air and soared west over the desperate armies.
On the western flank of the army of Nurn, Dís parried a blow, then turned to cave in the ribs of an orc with her hammer. “Fifteen!” she called breathlessly to Arwen. “And I shall race you to that five-point lieutenant!”
“My arrows will reach him faster than you can!” said Arwen, notching one and preparing the shot.
There was a shriek above her, and she looked up, then threw her arm in the air. A falcon arrowed down and landed on her outstretched forearm, talons closing around her arm. She stood unmoving and unmoved as blood stained the sleeve of her jerkin, listening intently as the falcon bobbed its head and made a series of calls. Then with a fierce cry of elation, she threw up her hand and the falcon sprang into the air and away.
“Sister!” she cried to Dís. “We must make for the Black Gate, for beyond it wait the armies of the West--and Mithrandir, returned to us this day!”
None of the sounds of battle reached the slopes of Mount Doom: not the twisted trumpets, not the clash of shields, not the cries of the dying. It was oddly still there, and the only sound was the low, constant rumbling of the molten rock within the mountain, deep beneath them.
Bilbo’s throat was parched and his tongue dry, for there were only a few precious mouthfuls of water left in their canteens. Step by painful step they made their way up the treacherous slopes that trembled beneath their feet, and sometimes Thorin leaned on Bilbo and sometimes Bilbo leaned on Thorin.
“I can see them,” Bilbo murmured to Thorin once through dry lips. “Your father and Gollum, following us.”
Thorin looked back: indeed, far behind them he could see two specks clambering over the rocks. There seemed to be some sort of chain or leash between them, as if his father was using Gollum like a hunting hound. His heart sank at the sight: Will I never be free of you, Father?
“We have to go faster,” he said to Bilbo.
“I…” The breath wheezed between Bilbo’s teeth. “I don’t know if I can, Thorin.”
Thorin wrenched the ugly orc helmet from Bilbo’s head, nearly sobbing in relief at the sight of the dear, familiar face exposed once more. He threw the helmet down the hill with a clatter. “We don’t need this anymore,” he said, and bent to pull the gnarled breastplate from Bilbo’s body, leaving him in just his linen shift and the mithril coat, which sparkled gaily even in the sullen light of Mount Doom.
“Stupid orc boots,” muttered Bilbo, and bent to pull them off as well.
“The stones,” protested Thorin, “They’ll burn your feet.”
Bilbo shook his head, sighed in relief as his bare feet touched the ground. “You underestimate hobbit feet, as usual,” he said with a wan smile. He stood up once more. “Let me face this as a true hobbit, with my feet on the earth,” he said.
They staggered forward together, their pursuers still gaining on them, but more slowly. The air grew thick with malice and heat, scorching their bodies and souls. After what seemed like years of torment Bilbo pointed. “A door,” he whispered, and Thorin could see a tiny black spot above them, set below the summit.
They made for it.
Finally they stood before the door carved into the mountain. Within was darkness lit by streaks of red and gold. “Sammath Naur,” said Thorin, “The forge in which Sauron created the One Ring.” Bilbo winced and touched his chest, and Thorin bit his lip. “Forgive me.”
“It’s no matter,” Bilbo said. “I can just...feel Him. Everywhere.” He shuddered and clasped Thorin’s hand. “We must hurry.”
And yet he paused one last time on the threshold, looking to the west, where far below Thorin could see the armies surging like ants on the battlefield, and beyond them the grim Black Gate, sealing Mordor off. “I hope they’re all right,” Bilbo whispered. “All of our friends.”
Then he squared his shoulders, and together they walked into the heart of Mount Doom.
At that moment, beyond the Black Gate, Gandalf was riding toward the leaders of the armies of the West, staff held high.
“Mithrandir,” said Ecthelion as the wizard drew close, “Glad tidings you bring to us today! How came you here to this place, leading an army of our ancient foes?”
“My Lord,” said Mithrandir,“My travels have been far, and strange, and to recount them would take much time that we do not have. But I come with aid against the armies of Sauron, and with the blessings of Queen Samur of the Saynshar, who would put aside for now the old enmity between your peoples and offer their help.”
“You will forgive me if I do not leap to embrace the descendents of those who have attacked and enslaved my people,” said Ecthelion with a wary look at the field of bronze shields. “But if they prove themselves this day, perhaps then we can look to a different future. But tell me, wizard,” he said suddenly, and his eyes were keen with worry, “What news of my son? I received a dire message from him to prepare for war, and he said you were with him. Is he safe? For if these Easterlings have done him harm, there shall be no peace between us.”
Mithrandir smiled. “Your son, and the son of King Thengel, were well the last I saw them. If all has gone according to plan--” He pointed at the Black Gate, “--They await you on the other side of that gate.”
King Thengel of Rohan laughed. “Well then,” he cried, “Why do we still wait here?” And he raised his voice and called toward the Black Gate, “Open up, you churls, you cowards! Stop cowering behind your walls and prepare to meet the Free Peoples of the West!”
The armies behind him moved restlessly, as if they would surge against the Black Gate and shatter it with the very force of their will. “For Denethor!” cried one man, and “For Théoden!” cried another, and the calls were picked up and cried out until they crashed against the Black Gate. There was exultation in their voices, and hope in their hearts.
And then all hope died as a huge dark shadow fell across them like a miasma of fear, and a grating scream caused the blood to rush from their faces. A fell beast, covered with scales and with wings as wide as a house, landed on the Black Gate--but the true terror emanated from its rider, a dark shape crowned with an iron circlet, with only shadows beneath it.
The Witch-King of Angmar, most powerful of the Nazgûl, stood atop the Black Gate and looked out at the armies of the Free Peoples, and they felt their hearts quail beneath his blank and pitiless gaze, and the sun itself seemed to pale.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-07-14 06:19 am (UTC)“My brother,” echoed Denethor, and there was wonder in his voice.
*clutches heart* I am going to die.
“People of Nurn!” cried Gimli, raising his axe. “Today we strike a blow for freedom together! And as you have cast in your lot with mine, I swear that if I survive this day I shall cast in my lot with yours, and stay to help build roads and cities that would make any Westerner weep with envy!”
“And if I survive this day,” said Legolas, I pledge to help reclaim this barren waste and turn it to fertile ground once more. Trees shall flourish on the Plateau of Gorgoroth, and the free people of Nurn will plant gardens in the ruins of Barad-dûr!"
I am going to die.
Mithrandir, clad all in white,
*UNHOLY SHRIEKING*
“Sister!” she cried to Dís.
SHE CALLED HER SISTER I CANNOT HANDLE THIS
“Let me face this as a true hobbit, with my feet on the earth,” he said
*incoherent sobbing*
“For Denethor!” cried one man, and “For Théoden!” cried another
At that point, my actual ghost was reading this because my prediction came true and I did indeed die and I am posting from beyond the feelings grave.
The Witch-King of Angmar
OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE. No really I am stoked for the Arwen+Dis moment of glory (that's my best guess for how that goes down), but there was SO MUCH in this chapter and I cannot handle it...in the absolute best of ways because that's exactly how the end of The Lord of the Rings is.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-07-16 10:02 am (UTC)And awwww, this was kind of overwhelming to write in a good way, so I'm really happy you are enjoying it too! I'm just about to run off and try to write some more (oh boy, parsing this confrontation at the Cracks of Doom might just do me in), so thank you for inspiring me!
(no subject)
Date: 2015-12-28 06:50 pm (UTC)*shivers *
Denethor bared his teeth at the hordes in front of them in a fierce smile.
And what a smile that is! Orcs will cower in apprehension before those teeth!
Théoden clasped his hand. “And I am honored to face this day with you, my brother.”
“My brother,” echoed Denethor, and there was wonder in his voice.
FEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELS. I have them.
At their head was a figure cloaked in gray, riding a white horse
Could it be? GANDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALF!
“Today we strike a blow for freedom together! And as you have cast in your lot with mine, I swear that if I survive this day I shall cast in my lot with yours, and stay to help build roads and cities that would make any Westerner weep with envy!”
“And if I survive this day,” said Legolas, I pledge to help reclaim this barren waste and turn it to fertile ground once more. Trees shall flourish on the Plateau of Gorgoroth, and the free people of Nurn will plant gardens in the ruins of Barad-dûr!”
MOAR FEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELS! And also, EXTRA FEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELS BECAUSE GARDENS HAVE A PARTICULAR MEANING IN THIS FIC AND now I am reminded of Thorin and his mountain garden again and and I can't.
Estel’s face blazed with joy through the black blood stippling it. “Glad tidings indeed!” he breathed. Then new determination squared his jaw. “The Black Gate must be opened, and the people of Nurn saved!”
*squishes him * I am so glad for his sake.
A falcon arrowed down and landed on her outstretched forearm,
Aaaaaand inspiration strikes.
“Stupid orc boots,” muttered Bilbo, and bent to pull them off as well.
Poor Bilbo. Must have been hell, on top of all the other stuff.
And then all hope died as a huge dark shadow fell across them like a miasma of fear,
Oh my, I had completely forgotten about the existence of ringwraiths. Kudos to you, I was so wrapped up in your universe, the thought didn't even appear.
EVIL EVIL cliffhanger.
(no subject)
Date: 2016-01-11 09:24 am (UTC)They will indeed! It's so nice to imagine Denethor out on the field, making evil tremble...
MOAR FEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELS! And also, EXTRA FEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELS BECAUSE GARDENS HAVE A PARTICULAR MEANING IN THIS FIC AND now I am reminded of Thorin and his mountain garden again and and I can't.
So many gardens! Bilbo will see them one day, too!
Oh my, I had completely forgotten about the existence of ringwraiths. Kudos to you, I was so wrapped up in your universe, the thought didn't even appear.
We can't leave that Ringwraith on the loose! Someone has to step up and deal with him! :D