Other Handq - Stories to fill in the gaps left by Tolkien

[Eledhwen]

Write them here; the stories, poems and songs that Tolkien never wrote in full, but merely sketched in the background, so that other hands may fill in the gaps in the mythology.

Or maybe you've written something related to, or sprung out of events in Middle-earth, that were not strictly part of Tolkien's sketches, but that fits.

Please use the thread 'Filling in the Gaps' for comments on anything posted here.

El.

[Halasían]

Year 121 of the Forth Age of Middle Earth

"I am Gilrénna, daughter if Halcwyn, daughter of Halasían and sister of Hanasían. I have now in my keeping much of the writings of Hanasían, and some of the collected writings of many who lived before his time. I wish now to share some of these writings with people who will never delve into the great halls of knowledge in Annúminas and Minas Tirith. May they learn and know of the events that led up the the great War of the Ring, and to victory and peace in our days.

This account was written by Hanasían, son of Halasían of the House Halvarís, Dúnedain Rangers of the North. It is dated 23 Súlimë 3019 of the Third Age of Middle Earth. The script used was Tengwar, written in his unique and flowing hand. The conditions in which he wrote was not well suited for ink and parchment, for there are the heavy stain and stretched weakness of the script in many parts. Also signs of his fatigue were plain, an obvious reflection of all of which he had seen and experienced."
_________________________________________________


Battle of the Pelennor - The Aftermath...

Smoke still rose from the white city, but its fires had for the most part been contained and were fading. But the black smoke stains tarnished its white stone façade… where the stone was not damaged. And the air… death was in it. Every breath you smelled it. So many people were out in the fields in search of their loved ones. There were wives and mothers looking for their husbands and sons. Wounded soldiers looked for their missing comrades, and some of the Rohirrim grieving for their fallen horses. Yes, the smell of death... the crying of those who found whom they searched for, and the moans of those not yet dead from their wounds filled the air.

I am Hanasían, a Dúnedain Ranger from the northern lands of Eriador. I am weary from the days past, where the last decent sleep I, and my brethren had was in Dunharrow nearly a fortnight ago. Yet I sleep not, for I write now for the dead... those fallen in this great battle outside Minas Tirith be they man or woman of Gondor, Arnor, or the Rohirrim. We had defeated Sauron’s armies on this field. But the cost was high and this war is not yet over. For he hides now behind his great iron gates of Mordor, gathering his remaining strength, while we ourselves attempt to regain ours.

It seem a lifetime ago when I, along with well over two-dozen of my brethren answered a summons by our Captain Halbarad. He said we needed to ride in haste to come to aid our Chieftain Aragorn away south in the land of Rohan. We, along with the Sons of Elrond did ride south with speed, meeting Lord Aragorn and the escort of King Theoden of Rohan not long after crossing the River Isen. As the Rohirrim mustered for war, the foresight of Aragorn led us to take the Paths of the Dead. Of that part of the journey I have much to say, for Aragorn proclaimed himself to the Dead... he proclaimed himself Isildur's Heir! And they were called to the Stone of Erech to fulfill their oath. But here now I write for the new dead, those who lay about me here, those who will not return to their homes and families.

To the mouth of the Anduin we came in haste, and there with the aid of the dead and some local men (of whom I also have much to say, but again, another day) we fought and defeated the Corsairs of Umbar, the ancient brethren who had fallen into darkness and become enemies of Gondor. With their oath of old to Isildur fulfilled, Aragorn gave the dead their leave, and we took the corsair ships up the river. To Minas Tirith we came, arriving with the city engulfed in smoke and flame. Battle raged in and around the city walls, and elsewhere inside the Rammas Echor.

Swords rang, bows twanged, and engines thundered their deadly projectiles as the ships came ashore. The worst fighting I saw were where it was men fighting men…. Easterlings battled Gondorians near the bropken gates of the city; Variags fought we Dunedain; Southrons and their mumakil against the Rohirrim and their horses. The beasts of Harad rampaging and the horses of the Rohirrim storming in terror.... So much death... We engaged the enemy almost immediatly, but not before our suprise was complete.

A wound I had taken near my left eye, a lasting memory of the Variags of Khand. He came at me from behind in a ravenous yell, leaping down from the body of a slain mumakil. I had just turned an axe of his brethren and I turned, but I could not react in time. Pain I felt as I fell backward, the warmth of my blood rushing down my face. His knife would have claimed me but for the sure sword of Halbarad taking off his arm. But still we fought, for he tried to take my sword with his remaining hand. We wrestled and fell to the ground, and I killed him with a knife I found. It was his knife, still in the grip of his severed limb. He was dead but there was no time to think, for another came at me. As soon as one was dispatched another would jump at you, or you would stop another from the blind side of your brethren. Their attacks were fierce, but our defense was even more so. As a group we pressed on from the shores of the river toward the city. But chaos of a stampeding oliphaunt caused many of us to scatter. It was then I saw Halladan go down with a blow from a screaming Southron falling from the beast, but I could not tend him. Easterlings, ruthless in their attacks, came upon us. My blade rang and my foe's axe shattered, blood flew everywhere when darkness closed around me....

A pain I felt in my head, wondering if it was still upon my shoulders. I remember thinking that I should move my hand, and the feeling that came over me was pain. My eyes cleared the foggy grey that crept into the dark, and blurry figures moved about before me. Somehow I stood, my sword still in my hand. I shook my head in a shudder to either shake off the webs that filled it, or see if it would fall to the ground. And just as suddenly, an Easterling jumped before me swinging his axe. My arm moved and deflected his blow, and the Variag knife I still gripped in my other hand buried into his neck. I now fought, I was not thinking or seeing. Rage drove me on, slaying and swinging. I nearly had the head of a fair armored Gondorian soldier, his helm long missing and his face dark with dirt and blood. He too moved against me, and our swords coming together rang out a song that awakened us both from our blindness. Looking around, pockets of battle still raged, but the west was having the day. Without thought, I, and the young Gondorian stood back-to-back, taking down those orcs who still pressed their masters will. But soon fatigue had taken us, and we sat and leaned against each other, fatigue claiming us.

In the aftermath people searched, With Halladan finding me sitting against a smashed siege tower. I was surprised to see him, for I had seen him fall. He was missing a part of his scalp, but was in good cheer to find me. I looked around for the young Gondorian soldier I had fought with, for I wished to know him. But there was no sign of his presence, and I would never know who he was. Halladan walked me towards the gates of the city where tents were being used to treat the wounded.

In ones and twos and threes we Dunedain brethren of the north came again together. Most, like me, had minor wounds of one sort or another, and as we gathered outside the smashed gates of the city, we looked about. Who had we lost? Aragorn himself came to us. He looked each in the face, the strain of battle on us all He seemed evermore relieved as his eyes met each of ours in turn. We all had lived with some of us having wounds to show. His look of relief suddenly become strained as he looked swiftly back over us, and he asked solemnly… where was Halbarad?

His hand was needed, for inside the city the house of healing was filled and overflowing with soldier and citizen alike. Those who could not be brought inside were laid in the streets, tended as best as could be. Out in the fields the tents of the wounded filled likewise, and the remaining were laid nearby where there was room. I had some healing experience, and so once my eye was tended and I could see straight, I did what I could for those wounded still in the field. All the while I looked for Halbarad, and my heart would tighten with each man I tended that I knew by their wound they would be dead by days end. What do you say to them? It is hard... so many dead and dying. A man of the Rohirrim, a young man he was. He was I would guess we just saw his twentieth winter. He talked in his native Rohirric tongue to his comrade next to him. He asked me to see to his friend, in good Westron like all was well. He knew he would die soon, but his concern was for his comrade who sat next to him. His friend didn't seem wounded but for a drying stream of blood that had run down his temple. But his mind was gone and he would stare only at a clover he pulled from the grass. The dying man told me he had taken a hard blow from the ground when his horse was slain in full gallop and fell from under him. The dying man told me his name, and only wanted me to promise his friend would get home ok, even while the last of his blood flowed out of him and he faded to death. I held his hand for a moment before his fried took it from me. I nodded and moved on.

The day was darkening, and I helped my brethren Kayan to our camp. His leg was badly mangled, and though he would live, he would suffer a severe limp. As we made our way, a halfling, dressed in the soiled and bloodied attire of the Palace Guard, wandered forlornly about, looking at the dead and dying. Others from the city searched still too, but most were now grieving while others prepared funeral pyres. As the night closed about us, the sons of Elrond joined us. We were for the most part together again, but still Aragorn's question remained....

Where was Halbarad?

[Ghorim]

Sundin surveyed the situation. The Chamber of Mazarbul was deathly silent, save for the sound of Ori's quill scratching feverishly away on the parchment. Ori was the lone representative of Thorin's Company left. By that distinction alone, he should have been their leader now. But he had caved in under the pressure. He spoke not to the others. For him, there was only his book of records, his diary to no one, into which he poured all of his grief and despair.

The others had no such outlet. Most of them were illiterate. Sundin glanced across the dank chamber and saw in the dim light the forms of Khal and Darak. The former held his head in his hands, his helmet laying upturned at his side. He was shaking. The latter simply glared off into empty space, seeing nothing but his rage and frustration. Then there was Gorn, whose slumped form lay against the tomb of Khazad-dum's dead Lord. Perhaps he was asleep, or perhaps he had simply given up what little life he had left.

Doom. The word rang hollowly in their heads, the echo of the Orcish war drums, the sole remainder of their dreams for the Second Colony. Aye, this motley group was all that remained. The realization hit Sundin like a blow to the skull as he realized how many troops they had lost. Ori, himself, Gorn, Khal and Darak... then Dovin, Ghali and Barum. Eight. Sundin lowered his eyes.

Lord Balin's death had sent things on a downward spiral. The orcs seemed to have sensed that they had struck a blow. They pressed on every front. Balin and the rest had underestimated their numbers. Now casualties racked up. Frar, Loni, Nali... the names and faces were conjured before Sundin's tired eyes. Those three were their backbone. Frar's anecdotes... Loni's good humor... Nali's passion for battle and his ability to muster morale in even the most bleak of situations... all three and their talents were lost.

But even then they had still had Oin. Unlike Ori, he kept his head. He devised a plan. They could escape through the Westgate! The way there was a hard journey, fraught with skirmishes. Many soldiers fell. But all the while they kept their hope. Escape lay ahead! Finally they reached the gate. Oin himself flung it open, and raced out into the open. But something was amiss... Sundin witnessed it all.

Immediately from the still waters shot a tentacle, then a second, then three more. They shot for Oin, grabbed him, and began to suck him under. Sundin was among several who ran to rescue their leader. More tentacles surfaced. Oin's cries disappeared beneath the water. They were driven back. Two more were grabbed and lost. The Watcher took three, and Sundin grudged it for each one. It was hopeless. They fell back, and stumbled back to Mazarbul. Now they were eight.

"We cannot get out, we cannot get out," Ori's mutters could be heard just over the sound of his quill.

Khal's form shook harder. Darak's body seemed to tense.

"We cannot get out!" now Ori practically shouted it, perhaps not even realizing that he was doing so.

Darak sprung up. "Shut up! Shut up!"

Even these impassioned words seemed to glance off of the cold walls of the records chamber harmlessly, without cause or meaning. A complete silence now enveloped the room. Ori put his quill down. Darak slumped back to the floor. He spoke, his voice wracked by suffering.

"Why? Why must the Valar always forsake our folk?"

"Mahal has left us for good," rasped Ghali from the far corner of the room.

"The Valar never existed," spoke Dovin, the youngest left. "It was all a myth."

"Do not say such things!" snapped Gorn, suddenly roused from his stupor.

"What do you expect him to believe, eh?" Darak growled. "They've left us to die here! Either that or they seem to take great pleasure in our suffering."

"It matters not. All is lost," said Barum quietly.

"Aye," Ghali nodded. "All of this debate is pointless."

"This whole expedition was pointless!" shouted Darak. "Every bit of it was all for naught! Each laugh we had, when we set off from Erebor, when we entered the mines, when we discovered mithril... they were all wasted breaths! Every step was false! Every promise of Balin's was a lie! We might as well should have flung ourselves off of the Lonely Mountain and gotten things over with!" His voice cracked. Silence.

Darak spoke again, weeping, managing but one sentence. "We've thrown our lives away."

"We can only pray now," said Gorn mournfully.

Now Sundin had listened for long enough. He stood quickly, almost losing his balance from fatigue, but regained his posture and spoke.

"What matter of talk is this from so proud a folk? Pray? We have never been ones for such nonsense! Whether or not the Valar are with us... whether or not they exist, even... it doesn't matter! We cannot rely on invisible spirits! We do things for ourselves! Our fate rests solely in our hands."

"And what should we do with it?" Sundin turned to Darak now, whose jaw was clenched. "Give it up for wasted? Throw it away? We are yet alive, brothers! Blood courses through us. Our hearts beat, our tongues speak, our hands can yet bear arms! These foes that besiege us are but scum! And who are we? We are Mahal's children, mighty before any adversary! Though they surround us on all sides, we have not yet lost!"

Sundin began to continue with his speech when the drums sounded from somewhere deep within the mines. All eight dwarves tensed.

"Drums in the deep! The end comes!" cried Ori, unconsciously writing the words down as he said them, so connected was his writing with his thoughts.

"To arms!" roared Sundin. "We have but one last chance to show the rabble outside these doors our might! Let it count, then! Let us take two score each with us! Let us be remembered by these foul folk! Let them tremble with every mentioning of the Second Colony's last stand!"

Sundin knew not how the others would react to all of his words. He had not had time to gauge their reaction to his first speech when the drums began, and now they had two speeches to digest. He worried that they might still be content to sit and wait for their dooms, but to Sundin's delight, they stood, one at a time, taking up axes and helms. All save Ori, who seemed to still be lost in thought.

The enthusiasm among the others began to build.

"Aye, Sundin! I spoke as a fool," said Darak. "If this is our end, then let it be grand."

"True warriors' deaths!" added Dovin.

"The Greenskins' blood shall coat the walls!" contributed Ghali.

Even Khal, the same Khal who could but weep before from the pain of loss, was on his feet with a determined glare. But Ori remained still. As the others prepared, Sundin approached the seated dwarf.

"Come, Ori. Lead us."

Ori glanced up at Sundin. He was uncertain.

"Do not forget, Ori. Durin's blood is in your veins. You were a member of the greatest group of adventurers that our folk has ever known. Prove yourself worthy! Your axe is still sharp. Put it to use!"

A smile began to appear beneath Ori's beard.

Sundin only encouraged it by placing a steady hand on his shoulder. "I have full faith in you, as do the others."

Ori nodded now. "Let me write but one more thing."

"Of course," Sundin nodded, waiting for Ori to finish the entry. The old dwarf wrote a few more words, put his quill down, and slammed the records book shut, placing it by Balin's tomb.

Ori then stood, taking up his axe, the one that he had claimed in his share of Smaug's horde. The Battle of the Five Armies flashed before his eyes. He remembered Thorin, and Fili, and Kili... their bravery. Those memories inspired him as he marched ahead.

They formed up near the entrance to the chamber. They could hear the orcs approaching now, nearing the door. One pound on the portal. Two pounds. They would enter soon.

Sundin gripped his axe tightly, and glanced to Ori. The leader nodded. A cry rose in his throat.

"Baruk Khazad!"

"Khazad ai-menu!" Responded the others in unison.

Never were the words so passionately uttered as at that time, deep within the cursed Mines of Moria. The orcs outside the door shuddered in horror. But still they mustered the motivation to ram into the portal once more, crashing into the records chamber.

Then, indeed, the axes of the dwarves were truly upon them.

[Ghorim]

The Second Colony's Last Stand was never recorded in any sort of historical volume. The eight dwarves all fell in time, and the orcs themselves had no historical records to speak of. Besides, those that survived the event refused to speak of it, even though they bore witness to only the conflict's conclusion. Yet they always would remember the piles of orcish bodies before the entrance, the remnants of the first wave that the eight dwarves obliterated with heavy axe blows.

The second and the third units were repulsed as well, as the dwarves staunchly defended their last bit of territory within the Mines. Even when they slew Gorn, the first of the dwarves to perish, the others seemed to increase in strength, making up for their lost comrade. The bearded warriors seemed to be everywhere at once. Confusion and fear broke out in the orcish ranks, but still they pressed on.

One by one the remaining dwarves fell. Young Dovin, moving to protect Ori from an orcish mace, took the blow intended for his leader and crumpled to the floor. Darak took a pike through his throat. Noble Sundin, who stayed at the front of the line the entire battle, was knocked to the ground and trampled and stabbed. And Ori, now the leader that he had never before managed to be, kept his troops steady at their positions until he himself was cut down.

With Ori's death finally came a breakthrough for the Greenskins. The three remaining dwarves fell back, still protecting Balin's tomb from all comers. Down went Khal, down went Ghali. Barum stood alone against the far wall. Barum, a simple infantryman who had done little to distinguish himself in his many years of service to Erebor's army. But now came Barum's finest moment.

The orcs smelled victory, and moved in on the lone remaining dwarf. But to their shock and horror, he did not yield, did not so much as tremble, only stood with his axe at the ready, inviting them to approach. One orc lost his nerve, and leapt at the dwarf. The axe flashed in the darkness, and the orc's head fell several feet behind its body. More came. Barum's axe shot out again, and they were dead. The Greenskins finally plunged into an all-out attack. Barum slashed madly at all who dared near him. The same dwarf who had but a short time ago declared all to be lost now fought with unbridled passion. He fought for all of the Second Colony, a bright gleam shining in his eyes. Blood and limbs flew all about him, dying shrieks echoed throughout the chamber. Finally, an orc managed to penetrate the storm of the dwarf's axe. He speared the dwarf in the gut, but not before his throat was sliced open. Down Barum went, and the orcs converged upon him.

No one else was there to witness this last heroic stand, however. Not another soul saw how a group of eight could destroy unit after unit of orcs by their collective ironclad will alone. Ori's writings in the book of records only convey a sense of the horror that came in those days and hours leading up to the final battle. All of his entries, that is, save his final sentence, the one that he wrote just before joining Sundin and the rest at the entrance to the chamber:

"They are coming."

Often it is misinterpreted as a final statement of dread, a sentence written with a trembling hand and a fearful heart. However, Ori wrote these words with no such feelings. He recorded them with a smile upon his face, with a newfound sense of confidence and purpose.

Ori knew that the orcs were coming, and he was prepared to face them.

[Valandil]

Write them here; the stories, poems and songs that Tolkien never wrote in full, but merely sketched in the background, so that other hands may fill in the gaps in the mythology.

Or maybe you've written something related to, or sprung out of events in Middle-earth, that were not strictly part of Tolkien's sketches, but that fits...

My first contribution already posted (12-volume series of letters)... clicky on the linky in my siggy! ;)

[Halasían]

I edited to my later draft.
Had to keep it at the 10,000 character limit so I cleaned it up some.

[Eledhwen]

That's a good discipline, Silvanis. The other alternative is to split your story over a couple of posts.

Here's one (http://www.thetolkienforum.com/showthread.php?p=369447#post369447) for the tea break.

[Hammersmith]

I was very impressed with Silvanis' story. I felt sad for the unknown Gondorian soldier, perhaps annoyed slightly that in a story revealing the untold, we are ourselves creating new mystery. With your permission, Silvanis, here is that last testament of the Gondorian that Hanasían encountered, discovered upon a parchment in the libraries of Minas Tirith.

I bring this letter as the last words of a dying man, testament to his fall and witness to his bold spirit. His final words were a treaty for me to bear this script to his wife; Ellen her name was, a woman of the Golden Branch tavern that lay nearly within the gates of The Tower Of The Guard. Alas, when dutifully I ran the errand I found her to be slain, and with her the others who dwelt in that place: for it had been crushed and burned early in the attack, and though I did not tarry in my task the ashes of that building were cold when I found them. Therefore do I bring this letter to my lord Faramir, should he live. I have given over my charge to one of his squires and begged him to keep it safe. I go now east with those of my company who have survived, though to what end only the Vala know. Here follow the words of my fallen companion, like me a guard of the City, and no man more valiant fell in that greatest and most terrible of battles.



I know now that I have not long to live, and I pray you, Ellen, fear not. It was a good fight, and I shall go to my fathers with cheer knowing that you and our child are safe in the White City. None of my company were with me when I fell, nor am I with knowledge of their fate, and it grieves me that such tidings go back to waiting family. Poor Greveile heavy with child shall surely weep; I saw Hargond fall stricken early in the day. Elayne old before her time; will it befall you to tell her how her second son lay hewn on the field? But I was left alone when the day was darkest, though I pray you do not blame those of my brothers who may still draw breath. They had no choice, and those who stayed were cut down, for the Easterling barbarians pressed in thick.

Surely I tell you the truth when I say that I would have died without struggle had not the foulness of the enemy formation been burst asunder by what seemed at the time to be the very sword of Tulkas. It seemed so assuredly to the vile foe also, for they screamed and withdrew, and I was spared to behold my saviours. There cannot have been overmany of them, but such as there were seemed like a phalanx, appeared to be a thousand shining warriors. They were the rangers of the north. My dearest Ellen, so often we have wondered at such myths, have me and my brothers questioned their tales of valour. So far, so magical did these men seem that we doubted their truth. I can tell you now, my love, these men deserve all and more of the honour lavished upon them. Like princes of the Eldar they were, like Turin of old scattering the foe before their wrath. In truth the Easterlings and their depraved orcish allies must have outnumbered the rangers by more than three times, but still they fled. I would swear to it that behind the glorious leader of that charge there were elven princes in the flesh, come to bear the weight of Valinor against these terrible enemies.

Alas! For this charge brought nought but a breathing space. I thought that my heart would break when I beheld the first of those heavenly warriors defeated. My love, not all of the spears in Mordor could level the noble leader who bore on high a standard bright and wondrous, nor bring down the shining elves who followed. It is with hesitation that I describe the first ranger to fall as a lesser man than his fellows; I excuse it by saying only that he was twice the soldier and man than any I have served with, and sore did it pain me to see his blood spilt upon that field. As though a spell were broken the Easterlings turned as one upon that sign, falling with shortened spear and renewed shout upon the bold company of rangers. The maelstrom of a combat is a terrible thing, my dear Ellen, and I pray that you never see aught of it. But in fighting one must allow the tools in one’s hand to seek out the flesh of the enemy. A formation is hard to keep, even for those hardened veterans, and the vicious sons of Mordor who afflicted them were no weaklings. Even as they dispersed amidst the press the most vile and fell of Mordor’s captains sought them out, hurrying across the field to meet the rangers and captains of the north in combat.

At this point, the bold soldier's wounds seemed to pain him, and I feared that he would speak no more. Indeed, his death drew closer and his skin took on a cadaverous palour. His words that followed were broken and hushed, and it was only with great pains that I interpreted and recorded his final halting words.

At whiles I found myself near to one of the rangers, a great and sturdy fellow with golden hair like one of the Rohirrim. My lady love, I know you disdain our northern allies, calling them wild and uncouth, but if this ranger was sired from their lords, I can find no fault with that people. He fought like a madman, yet with poise and control. As I approached him he turned with fire in his eyes and would have taken my head, but his fury cleared when he saw the ensign upon my breast, and he smiled – smiled, in the midst of that carnage, my love! That brave knight and I fought like old comrades, like blood brothers, and my pride will confess that my unknown friend took more than his share of the foe, his blade licking around to shore up my own defence. When the press had subsided, he followed in the path of his company, seeking out perhaps their familiarity.

It is a shame to me and a dying regret that I could not follow him. Lady, think not less of your husband if I tell you that I was weakened by the fight. But I swear this to you! I did not sink senseless to the bloodied turf. Nigh all to me lay only the dead, and the enemy. These last were few in number, and none sought to offer me battle. I made for the shelter promised by the walls of the city, while on the Osgiliath road the fighting rose and fell still. It was then that I was accosted, struck down by an orc. A murderous beast it was, and in my foolish valour I tried to stop the beastly creature from feasting on the flesh of the dying. The wretched fiend of evil cried out when I struck it with my sword, and more of its kind drew near. It is my final honour to say that I fell victorious, with the foe routed yet with my blade broken and the cursed poison of their dire knives and spikes coursing through my veins. Chance had it that one of our own, a knight of the Tower like myself, saw my plight and stopped by me. He says that he will wait with me until I am at rest with my fathers, but I cannot move even now; the poison has run to my heart and my blood stains the field, like that of so many else. Rest sweet, my darling Ellen, and think not ill of me.

[Halasían]

I tend to create mystery when I write because it flows.

That was pretty good I say! The only issues I could think of is whats the deal with elves? And when did he get time to write to his wife?

The fact it was writtien without spacing gave it a hastily penned feel.

[Hammersmith]

I'm not a fan of huge chunky spaces...I suppose I could reformat it for the sake of everyone else though. :D And to clarify he referred to the sons of Elrond...they were with the rangers, were they not? Also the chap who found him and added the comment at the beginning was the scribe of his final moments. I guess it may have been a bit complex, but it was late when I wrote it lol.

[e.Blackstar]

See Grey Ships and Silver Thread

[Halasían]

Duh me .. Elladan and Elrohir! My apologies!

I would like to thank you for using what I wrote as a catalyst!

I guess he would have time to have a letter scribed. Which brings us to the 'lack of spacing' vs 'huge chunky spaces' ... I never thought of a paragraph line space as "huge" :p . Granted though when someone pens something themselves in harsh circumstance, the lack of structure would be understandable. but if he was having something written by a scribe, then paragraphs would have been used i'd think.

Since we are here and now and on computers, The lack of spacing is for many a deterrent to reading the piece. Hence I'm a proponent of mostly proper grammer and structure.

Oh yes by all means go read e.Blackstar's Grey Ships and Silver Thread (http://www.thetolkienforum.com/showthread.php?t=17111) thread.

[Hammersmith]

Fair enough :D

Paragraphs and a bit of clarification. Voila! I give you the edited second draft. And yes, I advise any who have not read eBlackstar's Grey Ships And Silver Thread thread thread to do so. It's marvellous stuff. Then again, I have yet to see evidence of poor writing on this site.

[e.Blackstar]

*giggles, feels special* Thanks Hammersmith and Silvanis! :)

Just so you know, the title of the story is Grey Ships and Silver Thread. The word 'thread' is actually part of the title of the story. yeah...anyway

[Halasían]

I thought as much. I originally wrote Grey Ships and Silver Thread thread but it didn't sound right, and then I erased both threads....

[Hammersmith]

*Edits post* :p

[Halasían]

Where was Halbarad? We all asked ourselves this as we rested into the night. No sign of him had been seen since our moment of scattering. Kaldil had seen him last, standing upon the body of a slain mumakil, hewing the Southrons that had not the fear and sense to leave him be. But another stormed by and the dust was raised, and afterward, those who looked saw him there not. We searched the place and found many a corpse, but not a sign of Halbarad.

The darkness of night claimed the lands as we rested and wept. Those of us who were able, readied themselves for the day to come, and those whose wounds were ill were set to rest and heal. Word had been carried from the city that the King had indeed come, but here where we encamped, our Chieftain joined us. It was not yet time.

Aragorn's face showed weariness that I had not seen before, and the edges of his hair and beard seemed to have a silvery aura to them. The firelight detailed the lines of care that shrouded him, but I saw not the tired Ranger Chieftain that fought hard a day’s battle, but a man wizened. Wizened by the depth of his burden, and the knowing gut feeling that our friend and lieutenant would not see the light of another day. It was what we all felt inside really, though nobody spoke of it. Instead we spoke of the days to come, and what they held. Words of days in the north when our burden was to watch over the lands of the Shire we shared. Of times good and the weddings aplenty, of sons and daughters born in the quiet of the homes and the Midsummer’s eve celebrations past. A feeling of cheer and laughter came out amongst some of us, pushing aside this day but for a time. But this too passed, and with a final chuckle of a memory long gone, silence again overtook the Rangers.

The fire crackled and the flicker of its light made the shadows dance. Around the fields there were other fires. The Rohirrim staked a large camp out farther from the city gate, and there kept their horses in check. Aragorn looked up and the stood, and all of us who could stand did so to look at the shadowy horse approaching.

'Hail Dúnedain! Is this the camp of the Rangers?'

'It is.' Aragorn said as he stepped forward to have his back to the firelight. I too stepped forward at his left, and Kaldil did so at his right. The rider dismounted his horse and stood for a second. Our eyes seeing now in the darkness, we could tell he was of the Rohirrim. His helm was gone and the side of his face was covered in dried blood. We could see also that the horse was still burdened. The rider approached and spoke,

'I am Brytta of Dunharrow, and I bring bad tidings...'

Kaldil and I did not wait for Brytta's words, but went to the horse who stirred slightly from our approach. Aragorn's brow was crinkled as he cut the man's speech off..

'You bring us Halbarad.'

We lifted the bloodied body from the horse and carried him near the fire where Kallam prepared a place for him in Aragorn's tent. Aragorn looked at the wounds and his eyes grew wet with tears. Halbarad still breathed, but it was labored and slow, the sounds ill. His last strength lifted his hand to Aragorn's, and we knelt beside as Brytta stepped away to allow us a last moment with our comrade. Short burst of whispered, gurgling speech came forth from Halbarad as his eyes opened.

'My... my king! Your hour has come! But ere its passing I will join my fathers...'

'Quiet my friend and rest, for my hands will heal ...'

'Nay my lord. Not even the hands of a king can repair these wounds of arrow, sword, and knife. See now! Varda opens her cloak of twilight to light your way, and to carry me home. Speak well of me to my son and daughter...'

It was beyond Aragorn to say he would heal, but while he breathed there still was hope. Each of us came and sat for a time with Halbarad, mostly in silence as he rested. I could not speak, for I could not feel his strength. With a squeeze of his hand, I departed. Aragorn soon re-joined him, and he closed the tent to rest with Halbarad. Aragorn lay beside him, their hands bound together as a rough sleep overcame him.

We too took rest in tent or outside. Brytta stayed with us for a time, telling of the deeds of Halbarad that he saw. Apparently he had jumped from the dead beast where we had last seen him, and battled there the remaining Southrons that still stood. The thunder of the mumakil had scattered many of the Rohirrim, and Brytta rode headlong toward a wayward band of orcs that sought to slay the dour-handed Ranger standing alone. Brytta slew a couple while Halbarad slew more, and then he was pulled atop the horse and they turned about. The retreat was chaos as Easterling, Southron and orc ran this way and that, and the fight was drained from most. Halbarad was bleeding from a knife wound that was poisoned, and turned swords had cut his arms and legs. But the death knell of Halbarad was when a band of orc bowmen fired upon then in unison. Brytta's horse reared, taking an arrow and spilling he and Halbarad to the ground. Brytta split his head on rock debris, while Halbarad quickly regained his footing. The orcs were slinging arrows and fired as Brytta, stood dazed. Halbarad jumped to push him out of the way of the volley, but one late arrow caught him in the side, piercing his lung.

I noted this account in detail, and Brytta finished this telling and excused himself after his head was cleaned and bandaged. We rested as best we could, sleeping from exhaustion of nothing else, but were soon awake with the coming of daylight. The westward winds pushed back the darkness of Mordor, and the skies cleared with light clouds. Halbarad was lying in state in a field of honor of the fallen. King Theoden was there as well as many captain and soldier, of great renown or unknown, for many had fallen that day. Yes, Halbarad, the sullen Ranger and our friend had passed to his fathers in the night. His son and daughter will only have memory of him from before he rode south. His wife widowed at her prime. So it is with war, and now Aragorn gathered in council with Mithrander, Éomer, Prince Imrahil, and Elrond's sons Elladan and Elrohir.

[Alatar]

I am not that good a writer, but here is something i did.
Iantain stood his ground.
For four months the siege had lasted, Rivendell was besieged, Lindon was under attack, and Cardolan, his homeland was ravelled. It had been two weeks since the sortie, when the plantir was saved. Now all they had was the tower.
Upon Amon sul the last defence stood, all they had were 300 men, but such was the design of the tower that that was enough to hold off the assault so that the retreat could be organised.
Iantain climbed to the top chamber, it had been made before this age had begun. Now it would fall.
He looked out though the window; he could see the host, 10,000 at the base of the tower. With a shy he looked west and saw the sunset.
And knew he would never see it again.
He was 60, now at the height of his career, though only a captain before the war begun, now he was the commander of the tower, he had to decide what to do with his men.
The causeway to the gate was such that it was under the tower battlements, so any that approached the gate were under constant arrow fire. It had been a day since Paladuil, the chief archer, loosed the last arrow. The rest were gone.
He called together his friends, Paladuil the archer and Margleb the axeman, each had 100 under them, the archers were reduced to using there short knives, and there were also 100 sorwdsmen under him.
Margeleb was pacing round the room in rage, he wanted to fight axe to axe with the hillmen, but could not for the orcs, tough under the causeway for a day had still not broke the doors, soon though they would.

[Alatar]

Iantain knew that he needed his men to get out, if any could reach Fornost they would be able to help in later days rather than die here.
If he could distract the orcs long enough then the men could escape round the back of the hills.
The causeway was only wide enough to swing a sword.
Margeleb walked to the door, leaning out he bellowed “ Go back to the shadows! The revenge of the house of Elendil will find you!” the entire orc host were silent fearing what this tall man would do. “ You do not know what yea have done!” Margeleb was the prince of cardorlan his daughter had married the Prince of arteldein, and he wanted to know that someday the blood of their people would be avenged so he stood up and sang “Et Earello Endorenna utulien. Sinome maruvan ar hildinyar tenn ambar-metta!” and such was the rage in his voice that the orcs fell back.
“ I see you are as charming as ever” said iantain.
“ You know me, always loved the neighbor.” He jested, though tears ran down his face.
“ Margeleb, I need you help, I want you to lead the men, I will distract them for you.”
It seemed to him that Margeleb understood what he would do, “How long will it give us?” he asked grimly.
“ Enough time”
So it was that when the gates broke and the orc’s yelled in triumphed that Iantain stood upon the battlements, ready to spring over the fall and onto his enemies, perhaps slaying many before he fell.
Margeleb was beside him.
“ Iantain,” he said, “ farewell”.
Iantain nodded silently.
He looked to his side, Margeleb had leapt from the battlement landing on his feet he took out his great axe, and swung it, into the Orc’s.

[Alatar]

Iantain ran down the steps, in five minutes he and the men were gone.
Margeleb had killed three score when a wave of spear orcs pressed in. He swung his axe at them. It sliced through three, continuing in it’s arc to crash against the wall, yet so great was his swing that the very iron of the axe broke, rather than deter his swing.
So he stood admist a ring of foes when he drew his single trowing knife.
With his back to the wall he waited.
“ Come on you filth, I’ll kill you all if you move”
The orc’s were silent, doubt in their eyes, never before had one they been scared of their victim, he seemed in charge.
“That’s it just stay away”
The orc were reminded of the one called Tulkas, rumour said he could kill a thousand orcs with one blow, could this grim man be one of them? Surely he could-
That was when the knife passed through three orcs, shortly followed by the man.
Using only his fist’s and feet he fought though all the forces till he go to the road, fear had been inspired on his way there, so that none would touch him. So he stood, blood down his face and a stomach would in his gut, he could feel that he was dyeing, and only hatred kept him up.
He saw the orc archers’ load, aim and send a volley. He fell.
Well not that good but i liked writing it.

[Eledhwen]

Alatar, I do not want to hear you saying you are no good at writing. I could see the scene as I was reading it, and that is the sure sign of a storyteller's gift. Keep writing; your imagination clearly dwells in the Perilous Realm.

[Alatar]

Thanks, i just wrote what i thought.
Though ghorim is a great writer, reading his chamger of marzbul was great, i could feel the excitement

[Alatar]

Eagil marched through the forest path, flanking him on either side were the hosts of the Galadrihim and the wood elves, they had both repelled invasions to there lands, and now the tides were turning in their direction. So it was on the first day of April, that a host of Elves marched on the fortress of Sauron.
But still there were numerous sprits of sauron, weak Maia, and unhoused fea, that could put up resistance to the Elevn army.
Some two miles from Dol-Gundor it became apparent that the retreating army of Orc’s, beasts and spiders, had reached the fortress, and whatever spirit of fear that now ruled that place, had sent them back, with five score hill trolls, and mountain trolls.
When this was known to the elves, they began a well-practised formation.
Palandur, the captain of Eagils battalion, yelled something in Elven, and all of the Elves obeyed instantly, knowing that this move required great skill.
Thousands of orcs ran through the path, yelling their hideous war cries, and it seemed that the entire forest grew darker, and the air stiffer, till breathing was hard.
It was as if even the forest was under the control of the enemy.
When, at last the entire orc host was on the road, the Elves came out of their hiding, and if by chance one of the orcs had looked skywards, he would have known the doom that was upon him.
Above the road in the over hanging branches of the tree’s were the Galadrihim. Each one had an arrow fitted.
“Sai!” Palandur cried.
After two minutes of continues firing, the path was clear of foes.
The trolls had fled, crashing through the forest they ran for miles. Till, as all of the creatures of Sauron were doing after his fall, they fell to the floor of the thick forest under growth, lying in the reek of decaying things, till after many years, their bodies were reduced to the stone they came from.

[Alatar]

Palendur dropped nimbly from the tree, around him others were doing the same; not a single elf had been injured; though the entire orc army was destroyed.
Now the land started to climb rapidly, and the trees on either side grew thin, and so they came to the abode of Sauron’s lieutenant, Khamul, the black shadow.
Men or lesser beings would have turn mad with fear from the very sight of that tower. Tall it rose, its black stone shone not, but seemed to suck the light out of the air. It rose still, passing many windows and many eyes stared down upon the elves, could sense the oppressive feeling in the air, a gnawing doubt on their courage.
And at the very summit of the tower, there was a cruel spike, piercing the night sky, and the banner of a single eye.
The host assembled at the gate, and each of them let ring a horn, and so terrible and fair was that music, that the defenders cast them selves upon the ground, and pressed their faces against the ground.
But still there were some defenders that would not cow to Elf horns, nay; they would not cow the horn of Orome or the Ulumuri, for they were older than this world.
There they stood two carved images of stone, each on one end of the gate, grinning at each other across the road that lead into the lair. Eagil strode up to these gates, but at the threshold he stopped, it was as if some iron will had set itself against him, and he could not get passed.
None of the elves could get through, even Palendur who was born in the blessed realm, for they knew that some weak Maia was setting its will against them, and they could not get through.
But then a soft singing came behind them, it was the white lady, she had came.