The Unexpected | LotR Fanfiction

Chapter 67

*insert screaming here*

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The land was desolate, free from anything green. The only things green were more a brown, rusted color, the hardened plants struggling to get the nutrition they need. It was the same for all living things upon the dark land. Struggling for something they all desperately needed.

The armies of Gondor, Mirkwood, and Rohan marched forth, three kings at their head. The land seeped its hopelessness into them, filling them with dread. Feet shuffled, swords were sheathed, horses whinnied uncertainly, and spears and bows were held too tightly, all while each one of them tried getting a look through the ranks toward the black gate, or at least catch a glimpse of their leaders standing strong.

"Where are those devils?" Gimli asked from where he sat behind Legolas. He had a firm grip on his ax, as if he were going to chop down the gate just ahead.

Legolas only tried searching the land beyond to no avail. Thranduil sat tall on his elk, inspecting the battle landscape before him, searching for places to be and to stay away from.

Eomer gripped the pommel of his sword, hoping beyond hope he'd survive to see his sister well recovered in the Healing Halls. Her hand had been blackened, severely injured from killing the Witch King on Pelennor Fields. His sister... killed a Nazgul. Sometimes he still couldn't believe it. Yet he was unbelievably proud of her.

A gust of stale wind moved across the plain, fluttering the brilliant robes of Gandalf. He shared a glance with Aragorn, knowing that Sauron had his forces already alert, just behind that gate. With no doubt in his mind, he knew Lumornel was behind the barricade, perhaps not even herself anymore.

Aragorn turned towards Gimli, giving him a glance, then kicked his horse into motion. The rest of the small vanguard followed, as did a flag-bearer. And then they were in the shadow of the black gate. The only thing separating them from Mordor's heartland.

"Come forth!" Aragorn cried. "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! Justice shall be done upon him. For wrongfully he has made war upon Gondor and wrested its lands. Therefore, the King of Gondor demands that he should atone for his evils, and depart then forever. Come forth!"

There was a long silence following his words, each man, elf, and single dwarf holding their breaths. Anticipation fluttered their hearts, stilled their movements, as did fear—

A loud, shuddering roll of what could be the drums of thunder shattered through the air. Then, horns, louder than an avalanche, pierced ears and made the soldiers wince. And then the black gate opened with the sound of a mountain yawning, just wide enough for a single rider to come through.

It was a creature that was maybe once of the race of man. Dressed in black armor and cloak, the helm was like a bear-trap, enclosed around its prey while only leaving the mouth free. That skin around the mouth... it had been stretched and marred, the lips cracked and scarred.

"My master Sauron the Great bids thee welcome." With his words, the marred fleshed stretched gruesomely. His moving lips had shown brown, cracked teeth, rotten with time.

The vanguard looked on aghast, noses wrinkled.

"Is there any in this rout with authority to treat with me?" The Mouth spoke with a voice that was almost hoarse, mutated into something inhuman. It crackled like a flame, deep in tone.

Mithrandir sat a little taller. "We do not come to treat with Sauron, faithless and accursed. Tell your master this. The armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart these lands, never to return."

The Mouth whipped his head to Mithrandir unnaturally and gave a half-laugh. It sounded like a haunting echo in a depthless cave. "Old Greybeard!" He smiled gruesomely again. "I have a token I was bidden to show thee."