Post by darkaus on Jan 26, 2008 21:49:53 GMT -8
Author's note: About everything that will follow this point. I feel oddly compelled to explain why I'm doing this. Here's why I think.
I started writing and posting my writing online four years ago, and it was for two very specific reasons. The causes were that the LOTR movies had come into existence, and I found myself inspired beyond what I had ever been before by the sweeping story and characters. (I have since read the books, so I am not just a movie fan. I did read them! I swear!)
For some reason I was compelled to express my admiration in the fall-back fanfiction method. My creativity was, unfortunately, commanded completely by an Ork muse named Irksome. And so I started writing.
This lead to 5 pieces of fanfiction. These 5 pieces of fanfiction are the only pieces of anything that I have felt nostalgic about when I re-read them, or modify them. And they are the only pieces that I feel depressed after I've read them again. In a highly poetic phrasing, It's like revisiting good, old friends.
To sum this up, I felt like sharing them, modified and relatively spelling error free, and that's why this is happening.
That's it really. I just felt the urge to share it here, (damn nostalga...)
And with no further adieu, I will commence to print.
[glow=red,2,300]Prologue:[/glow]
The Nazgul stood mounted at the ready, their chargers hot breath rising in the evening mists. Mist had no place in these lands, chill had never threatened these stones and dusts. It was quiet now… quiet and still. The eight were armed to do battle with an enemy no longer there.
The Eye of Sauron had fallen, the ruins of the tower where it had ruled were all that remained as a testament to the horror that had been Mordor. In the silence one dismounted, boots making a terrible clank as they hit the ground, he moved forward from the rest. Rusty gauntlets pushed aside rock and ancient wall to reach the cracked doorway. He turned to faced the rest, his breath frosting the stone.
“...There is… nothing left worth saving.” One by one his fellows dismounted and came to his side. “... We have no choice... we must move on.”
The hoods of the eight lowered in a parody of grief. Lost was that feeling, lost was all feeling. “We cannot ... it is pointless... we must fade...” Without the Dark Lord to guide their thoughts an emptiness had penetrated their tattered minds. Thought they were no longer capable of emotion, something at the core was able to sense its absence. “We are no longer complete... ... we are... only eight now...”
It seized them in turn, heads rose, eyes burned, gauntlets clenched… the riders turned away from the ruins, moving back to their mounts. None looked back, there was no point to it. “Something calls... Something outside these mountains. It feels..."
One hissed, another jerked the head of his horse prompting the steed to snort and jerk back. "We must find the Witch King, stand as nine again, then... ...”
Shrieks rang out as they rode forth onto Gondor. Hooves echoed thunder into the night, filling the air with sound and dust. Midnight crawled in their wake, laying its shroud over the stones…
A lone Fell beast croaked after them before leaping into the sky and swallowing the moon in its wings.
[glow=red,2,300]Chapter One. Into the Darkness[/glow]
(This chill... colder than the bite of midwinter and yet, soft...)
Slowly Gandalf opened his eyes, glancing about to see if anyone had noticed his silence. He was alone. The room he occupied had emptied some time ago as the festivities had reached their peak. He closed his eyes once more, bidding the vision to return.
Nothing... not even a hint that it had ever been. Seeing without the aid of a palantir was a delicate business, and often a wasted effort. If that had not been so it would still have made little difference. Saurumon had been the seer with skill among the wizards, and that was not one of the many names he responded to. The remnants left by the vision in his memory troubled him. The Nine black riders should have fallen with their master and departed this plane to wherever a creature such as they would be sent.
(So why then... that chill of midwinter, so unmistakably their aura...) why was it advancing from Mordor? Could it be that eight of the Nine could have survived? Or worse still... (It cannot be possible.)
A creak from the doorway pulled his attention from troubled thoughts. Legolas looked around the room and was turning to leave when he spotted Gandalf's form beside the fire. "I had a feeling you were present here, with the way you come and go one never knows. What troubles you?" The elf drew a chair from the wall and sat beside him.
Gandalf smiled, "I am troubled?" the elf prince nodded, his eyes wise beyond his seeming years.
"You are troubled, and should you wish to speak of it, I will listen."
The wizard sighed, watching the fire dance on the logs. "Many things have in their time troubled me, some linger still. You would not have the time for such ravings when your comrades in arms would rejoice with you."
Legolas laughed, eyes bright with his mirth. "I will not be missed. Aragorn has his heart and his hands full this night, and the others are enjoying each other’s company well enough. If not, there is a crowd gathered in which to find amusement the likes of which Minas Tirith has never seen before." His smile dimmed. "Though Frodo is distant from us..."
A hand clasped his shoulder, "He has born a burden few have had to bare, he, I fear, may never be the same after it. Had there been another way...” Gandalf’s tone waned distant. “…No, there was none. It does no good to regret such things in happy times."
Legolas nodded, "You are yet to tell me what troubles you."
The door behind them burst open and Gimli entered, unabashed by their surprised faces and tense shoulders. "Why are you both in the shadows? A misdeed you do us, to consider our company so poor on a night such as this! Why," He made a gesture of raising his cup high. “The moon is bright, and the victory is as good on the mind as the ale is in the stomach! There’s also dancing, if you have a like for that nonsense. Knowing you Elf…”
Legolas laughed, “I know your true aim, you only wish us to join the rest so we can have a drinking contest.” He looked over at Gandalf and smiled good naturedly. “It is the only contest between us in which he has been victor.”
Gimli sputtered, and Gandalf laughed.
…
Aragorn watched the others, a smile gracing his lips. To think, their great adventure was over, and yet his own labors were just begun... (No rest for the weary indeed.)
The hobbits, Merry and Pippin, had drawn the crowd's attention with one of their famous bar songs. Truth to be told, none can sing those songs quite as a hobbit can. Spirits were high, cares were free, Arwen was beautiful… And this stupid smile refused to leave his face. Her fingers brushed his, speaking without sound. He answered her turning his face to hers, letting her see this ridiculous expression. She had a grace not to laugh, but the widening of her smile left little room for imagination.
“I would find Gandalf.” His tone was low, not wanting to draw attention. “I have seen little of him this night.”
“Bring him when you find him.” Her hand released his. “I have words for him as well.” Her lips brushed his cheek before she moved away into the throng.
As Aragorn turned towards the steps he spotted Samwise piling food upon two plates, seemingly struggling to decide what to sample. Of Frodo there was no sign but, if there was a second plate, he was nearby. Spotting him through the crowd the hobbit waved merrily, Aragorn returned the wave. Perhaps he would speak with Samwise before seeking… … …
A chill breeze blew then through Gondor.
The moon shivered, covered her face behind the clouds. The hairs on the back of the new king's neck rose. Something… something was not as it should be. Surprisingly unnoticed for a monarch, he strode to the end of the rising and looked down upon the fields stretched before the great city.
Obscured in the dark they seemed to stretch forever into deeper and deeper shadows. This night their vast expanse held no warmth, they were muted and cold, and even eerie... (And something is still wrong, something is unnatural. I’ve never mistaken this feel of unease. Something is down there that should not be here, I should send out a patrol…)
A new sound rose on the wind, a wail that's strength faded even before it was begun. Weak it was, inaudible to ears that had not heard it many times and clearly. …Nazgul. Aragorn’s hands clenched, his face was disbelieving. There, barely visible on the field, a great beast stirred.
Rising to its haunches as if only sleeping it stood, head arched back, wings unfurling in the night air. It gave no cry but lowered its head once more, and waited... (What is this... A Fell-beast alive in the fields? What does this mean?) Spurred by dread he hurried from the festivities, forgetting the patrol, descending and never noticing that none seemed to see him pass. He had no thought of others as he mounted an unsaddled horse, spurring it down the circles of the city, through the streets, and to the front gate. No watchman minded the door, lit brightly with torches and festivly flowered for the celebrations.
It was to prove a decision he would regret to his dying breath.
I started writing and posting my writing online four years ago, and it was for two very specific reasons. The causes were that the LOTR movies had come into existence, and I found myself inspired beyond what I had ever been before by the sweeping story and characters. (I have since read the books, so I am not just a movie fan. I did read them! I swear!)
For some reason I was compelled to express my admiration in the fall-back fanfiction method. My creativity was, unfortunately, commanded completely by an Ork muse named Irksome. And so I started writing.
This lead to 5 pieces of fanfiction. These 5 pieces of fanfiction are the only pieces of anything that I have felt nostalgic about when I re-read them, or modify them. And they are the only pieces that I feel depressed after I've read them again. In a highly poetic phrasing, It's like revisiting good, old friends.
To sum this up, I felt like sharing them, modified and relatively spelling error free, and that's why this is happening.
That's it really. I just felt the urge to share it here, (damn nostalga...)
And with no further adieu, I will commence to print.
[glow=red,2,300]Prologue:[/glow]
The Nazgul stood mounted at the ready, their chargers hot breath rising in the evening mists. Mist had no place in these lands, chill had never threatened these stones and dusts. It was quiet now… quiet and still. The eight were armed to do battle with an enemy no longer there.
The Eye of Sauron had fallen, the ruins of the tower where it had ruled were all that remained as a testament to the horror that had been Mordor. In the silence one dismounted, boots making a terrible clank as they hit the ground, he moved forward from the rest. Rusty gauntlets pushed aside rock and ancient wall to reach the cracked doorway. He turned to faced the rest, his breath frosting the stone.
“...There is… nothing left worth saving.” One by one his fellows dismounted and came to his side. “... We have no choice... we must move on.”
The hoods of the eight lowered in a parody of grief. Lost was that feeling, lost was all feeling. “We cannot ... it is pointless... we must fade...” Without the Dark Lord to guide their thoughts an emptiness had penetrated their tattered minds. Thought they were no longer capable of emotion, something at the core was able to sense its absence. “We are no longer complete... ... we are... only eight now...”
It seized them in turn, heads rose, eyes burned, gauntlets clenched… the riders turned away from the ruins, moving back to their mounts. None looked back, there was no point to it. “Something calls... Something outside these mountains. It feels..."
One hissed, another jerked the head of his horse prompting the steed to snort and jerk back. "We must find the Witch King, stand as nine again, then... ...”
Shrieks rang out as they rode forth onto Gondor. Hooves echoed thunder into the night, filling the air with sound and dust. Midnight crawled in their wake, laying its shroud over the stones…
A lone Fell beast croaked after them before leaping into the sky and swallowing the moon in its wings.
[glow=red,2,300]Chapter One. Into the Darkness[/glow]
(This chill... colder than the bite of midwinter and yet, soft...)
Slowly Gandalf opened his eyes, glancing about to see if anyone had noticed his silence. He was alone. The room he occupied had emptied some time ago as the festivities had reached their peak. He closed his eyes once more, bidding the vision to return.
Nothing... not even a hint that it had ever been. Seeing without the aid of a palantir was a delicate business, and often a wasted effort. If that had not been so it would still have made little difference. Saurumon had been the seer with skill among the wizards, and that was not one of the many names he responded to. The remnants left by the vision in his memory troubled him. The Nine black riders should have fallen with their master and departed this plane to wherever a creature such as they would be sent.
(So why then... that chill of midwinter, so unmistakably their aura...) why was it advancing from Mordor? Could it be that eight of the Nine could have survived? Or worse still... (It cannot be possible.)
A creak from the doorway pulled his attention from troubled thoughts. Legolas looked around the room and was turning to leave when he spotted Gandalf's form beside the fire. "I had a feeling you were present here, with the way you come and go one never knows. What troubles you?" The elf drew a chair from the wall and sat beside him.
Gandalf smiled, "I am troubled?" the elf prince nodded, his eyes wise beyond his seeming years.
"You are troubled, and should you wish to speak of it, I will listen."
The wizard sighed, watching the fire dance on the logs. "Many things have in their time troubled me, some linger still. You would not have the time for such ravings when your comrades in arms would rejoice with you."
Legolas laughed, eyes bright with his mirth. "I will not be missed. Aragorn has his heart and his hands full this night, and the others are enjoying each other’s company well enough. If not, there is a crowd gathered in which to find amusement the likes of which Minas Tirith has never seen before." His smile dimmed. "Though Frodo is distant from us..."
A hand clasped his shoulder, "He has born a burden few have had to bare, he, I fear, may never be the same after it. Had there been another way...” Gandalf’s tone waned distant. “…No, there was none. It does no good to regret such things in happy times."
Legolas nodded, "You are yet to tell me what troubles you."
The door behind them burst open and Gimli entered, unabashed by their surprised faces and tense shoulders. "Why are you both in the shadows? A misdeed you do us, to consider our company so poor on a night such as this! Why," He made a gesture of raising his cup high. “The moon is bright, and the victory is as good on the mind as the ale is in the stomach! There’s also dancing, if you have a like for that nonsense. Knowing you Elf…”
Legolas laughed, “I know your true aim, you only wish us to join the rest so we can have a drinking contest.” He looked over at Gandalf and smiled good naturedly. “It is the only contest between us in which he has been victor.”
Gimli sputtered, and Gandalf laughed.
…
Aragorn watched the others, a smile gracing his lips. To think, their great adventure was over, and yet his own labors were just begun... (No rest for the weary indeed.)
The hobbits, Merry and Pippin, had drawn the crowd's attention with one of their famous bar songs. Truth to be told, none can sing those songs quite as a hobbit can. Spirits were high, cares were free, Arwen was beautiful… And this stupid smile refused to leave his face. Her fingers brushed his, speaking without sound. He answered her turning his face to hers, letting her see this ridiculous expression. She had a grace not to laugh, but the widening of her smile left little room for imagination.
“I would find Gandalf.” His tone was low, not wanting to draw attention. “I have seen little of him this night.”
“Bring him when you find him.” Her hand released his. “I have words for him as well.” Her lips brushed his cheek before she moved away into the throng.
As Aragorn turned towards the steps he spotted Samwise piling food upon two plates, seemingly struggling to decide what to sample. Of Frodo there was no sign but, if there was a second plate, he was nearby. Spotting him through the crowd the hobbit waved merrily, Aragorn returned the wave. Perhaps he would speak with Samwise before seeking… … …
A chill breeze blew then through Gondor.
The moon shivered, covered her face behind the clouds. The hairs on the back of the new king's neck rose. Something… something was not as it should be. Surprisingly unnoticed for a monarch, he strode to the end of the rising and looked down upon the fields stretched before the great city.
Obscured in the dark they seemed to stretch forever into deeper and deeper shadows. This night their vast expanse held no warmth, they were muted and cold, and even eerie... (And something is still wrong, something is unnatural. I’ve never mistaken this feel of unease. Something is down there that should not be here, I should send out a patrol…)
A new sound rose on the wind, a wail that's strength faded even before it was begun. Weak it was, inaudible to ears that had not heard it many times and clearly. …Nazgul. Aragorn’s hands clenched, his face was disbelieving. There, barely visible on the field, a great beast stirred.
Rising to its haunches as if only sleeping it stood, head arched back, wings unfurling in the night air. It gave no cry but lowered its head once more, and waited... (What is this... A Fell-beast alive in the fields? What does this mean?) Spurred by dread he hurried from the festivities, forgetting the patrol, descending and never noticing that none seemed to see him pass. He had no thought of others as he mounted an unsaddled horse, spurring it down the circles of the city, through the streets, and to the front gate. No watchman minded the door, lit brightly with torches and festivly flowered for the celebrations.
It was to prove a decision he would regret to his dying breath.