Hair of Flame
By Regal One by the Stream
The Dark King of Mordor completes a spell in the Forgotten Tongue, delivering the fire-haired God of Death to him as what was supposed to be his right hand servant. It never occurred to him to learn what the words of the spell actually meant. And so the tactic he used against the human kings was used on Sauron himself as he fell victim to pride in the Siege of Barad-dûr, and continued to haunt him throughout the ages until his day of rebirth.
Anyways, this time my object of immersion is Lord of the Rings, which will from now on be referred to as LotR. Lord of the Rings is way too long, even if it is a badass name. Good job on that, J.R.R. Tolkien. I don't claim to own Bleach, rights and privileges go to Tite Kubo, ditto with Lord of the Rings (I lied about the acronym). All rights belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I seriously don't own either work and don't claim otherwise. I don't even particularly want to: too much responsibility for me, and I'm too young to be all responsible and stuff. Or so I like to think. My parents will plead otherwise.
Okay, okay.
Enjoy the first chapter!
(Written 11/17/16. Edited 11/17/16,)
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It was the final battle in the War of the Last Alliance, and the swords of man, elf, and orc alike were feeding their insatiable bloodlust.
Sauron, the bastard, had finally decided he'd had enough of this seven-year siege of his fortress, Barad-dûr, and had taken up his mace to fight. This was not a good omen. The battle had been all but won until his arrival, for once the orcs rallied under their lord, they were a dark, formidable, unspeakable force. But now the demon was wading through the battlefield, his mace batting soldiers away like he was swatting aside flies. It was in such a manner that the High Elven King faced the Dark Lord, and it was in such a manner that he was slain, mercilessly and dishonorably.
The elves, seeing their King Gil-Galad slain in such an unspeakable anner, had reared and attacked with a new vigilance, a fresh clarity, vicious as if their king had been their bride. Their swords were unfaltering as they ran through their enemies with furious, deadly precision, eager to please the lost spirit of their lord and to allow him to walk to the next realm in assurance that all the loose ends were tied in his past life. Elrond himself had not fought with such purpose in a long while. He supposed it was only fair that he fight with all his soul on the line, as these elvish and human warriors did; as the High King of the Elves had. His weapon swept cleanly through the neck of another orc, the glistening sword expelling the dirty blood instantaneously from its blade as soon as the deed was done and glowing with a soft light, like its twin, as elvish blades did when near orcs. Taking his fighting up a notch, he delved into the tightest knot of enemies, straightening it, his two blades flashing as he fought like pinwheels of light. Finally, he paused among cheers of soldiers when the heads rolled upon the ground. And then he led the men forth upon the orcs, silver and iron swinging freely as the two sides clashed like a merciless ocean convulsing upon itself.
The fair elvish soldier to Elrond's right took a black arrow to his shoulder and faltered. One mistake was all it took. He immediately fell, clutching the blade in his clavicle so that his killer might not tear it out again and so should become an easy kill. A warrior through and through. Elrond took that responsibility upon himself, furiously striking down the orc that had killed his comrade with that tainted blade, and then precisely threw one of his swords at the orc who had shot him, cleanly impaling him through his throat. In the dance of the blade that he had been honed in since he was but an elfling, he fought his way through the tide and ripped his sword out of the orc's shoulder, turning to regard the rest of the battlefield before he sprang into action again. The men and elves, beyond their natures, were beginning to work together in their attacks, ferociously fighting. He began to make his way to the men's own high king, Elendil, to aid him.
And before Elrond's fair eyes, the High King of Minas Tirith was slain, his body torn and thrown upon a broken building's wall by the mace of darkness which Sauron the Deceiver wielded.
Elrond howled and, his closest warriors following his lead, cleared his way furiously towards the Dark Lord. The king had fallen, but his son must not. Gil-Galad had been heirless, save that boy. Without the son, Isuldur, the men would falter, and it would only be Elrond and the elves fighting, which could not happen; the prince named Isildur must survive…
He watched in a horrid sort of slow motion as the prince grasped his father's holy sword, only to have it broken under the great, armored foot of the Dark Lord. Sauron planted his foot in the middle of the man's abdomen and let out a high laugh, startling every soldier and orc alike in a near hundred meter radius into pausing their fight and looking his way as he chanted a spell in a tongue no man could understand, "…Ningen no shi, chūkū no kemono no shi, hi no kaminoke to tamashī no kirisaki no shi no kami, watashi no mae ni orite, watashi no tatakai o shite, tenshi no seigi o chikau! Shinigami! Uchi ni oide! Anata no masutā no tame ni kono hito o korosu!" (1)
A shining light exploded from the heavens and beamed down to the earth at the base of Mount Doom. All eyes sprang to that light, and then Elrond gasped. For from the gap in the blackened clouds fell a manlike being, sheathed in black robes like none other he had seen before, his skin glowing with a holy sheen from the godlight and his hair, cut in spikes to his ears, an exuberant orange that warped and crackled as he plunged to the earth, the slave of gravity, locks snapping like the angry flames that ate at wood in a fireplace.
The Necromancer roared loudly in triumph as the heavenly creature plummeted. Awakened by the terrifying note, the being righted itself and stopped falling altogether, no longer held back by gravitational forces, standing in midair and observing the writhing battlefield.
And from his back he drew and held out from his sides two majestic cleavers, one the size of his own body and the other maybe that of his arm. For a split second, he stood under the golden light, the angel of death incarnate, beautiful, terrifying, regal, omnipotent. Then the godlight receded, all traces of it choked by the weeds of black clouds, and the being dropped like a stone, diving headfirst into the fray. With a sweep of his sword a black swell of energy swept out from him, the epicenter, sending elves and orcs alike flying from the brute force of it. Elrond held up and arm for balance and withstood it, then looked down at the dents in his armor in shock. The surge was blunted. He didn't want to know what would have happened if the wave had the ability to pierce armor. Elrond was one of the lucky ones at a distance who was able to receive slight dents and abrasions at the least from it. His head snapping up, Elrond fixed an eye solidly on the being. What was it…and who would it side with?
Then, faster than any beast that Elrond had ever seen, the man tirelessly swept through the commotion he had caused, smashing elves and orcs aside with the flat of his blades. The being flashed past Elrond, glancing at him with a face that scowled fiercely but with eyes full of life and emotion, calculating and bright, and Elrond found himself drawn to those eyes in that moment, those eyes devoid of fear and instead filled with a sort of confusion, brown eyes that spoke with the depths of emotion that was lacking in many men of this age. Elrond almost didn't mind that the being then smacked the flat of his sword down upon him with all the power of a running horse. But as he progressed past him and the Lord of Rivendell brought his arm back down from the block, his arm that was surely broken in more than four places, he fought the sting of tears beyond his eyelids and the scream of agony and revolt of his body against this newfound suffering and instead trained his eyes again on the being that swept to the side of the Dark Lord in a nanosecond.
And then he realized the purpose of the incantation that Sauron had uttered and felt a weakness pervade his knees. If that creature allied itself with Sauron, it was all over. The war, finished without a doubt. The lives given for the resistance, wasted. Arda would fall under the foot of Sauron with this one puppeteered by the Dark Lord, for his skill was above even Elrond, and he was one of the greatest fighters of Middle Earth.
Sauron said something harshly to the individual, who stood motionlessly, his reaction hidden. There was a long silence as Sauron waited for the being's response. And when it finally did, he grasped the armor of the foot still thrust upon Isildur's midsection and shoved it away, causing the Dark Lord, Sauron the Abhorred, to fall flat on his ass.
The Dark Lord stared at the being in shock and fury as he turned away casually to probe the prince's abdomen, scrutinizing it carefully before patting Isildur's shoulder and turning back to the Dark Lord. His blade flashed, and with a clang that resounded across the entire battlefield, the being became the first to block a strike from Sauron the Black Hand. A shockwave passed over the surrounding area which ruffled the fiery hair again into blazing tongues, sent Isildur tumbling backwards, and drew a hush that made it seem as if the entire world had drawn in its breath at that moment.
Elrond could only watch in amazement as the being, who seemed but a human man in his early twenty years of life, thrust away the bedamned mace and pushed back the Dark Lord with a strength like that of a god.
Isildur scrambled backward until he struck stone beside his father's body and his hand nudged the stump of blade that was Narsil, his father's sword, the Sword of the One True King. He warred with his fear for a moment. This being could handle the Deceiver, that much was certain, but…what did the being know of the ring on Sauron's finger? How could Sauron be destroyed once and for all if that ring was not cut from his hand, wrested from his body, taken from his cold, dead finger and heated in the magma of Doom until it was naught but molten gold? And how would it be revenge for his father's death if another committed the deed? So he grasped his father's sword and waited for the opportune moment, steeling his resolve with every passing second.
And then it came. In a pause of the clashes of steel upon steel, the Deceiver thrust his hand forward, to grab or to push the being, he did not know. All that Isildur could comprehend was that the hand with the ring was brought forth, defenseless and ready for his sword. Lunging forward with the battle cry of a beast, Isuldur swept the sword across Sauron's fingers, slicing off all but the thumb. The index finger fell, the ring still circling it, and Sauron screeched, his body already disintegrating, and reached for it with his left hand.
The creature with hair of fire ran his blade through the Dark Lord's heart.
A mighty repercussion rumbled across the battlefield once more as Sauron, the enemy of the people of Middle Earth, was defeated.
And as Isildur's hand closed upon the ring, Elrond stumbled forward, shattered arm clutched to his chest and sword lowered in a sign of peace. He walked toIsildur and asked, "Are you alright?"
The prince assured him of his wellbeing, and then the two turned to the other man, who looked between them with curiosity. "My…name is Kurosaki Ichigo," he said, "And, uh…where am I?"
"That shall be answered later. Come, Isildur! Hasten, and follow me!" Elrond called, his fair brow drawn with worry and his dark, matted hair swirling around his stained face.
As Isildur, Elrond, and the Kurosaki trudged up the volcano, Elrond explained what had just happened to the being. He explained the rings, the deceit, the web of lies and battles and alliances that had linked together to come to this climax, this moment, where this ring would be destroyed and the Dark Lord Sauron forever crippled. "Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky, seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone, nine for Mortal Men doomed to die, one for the Dark Lord on his dark throne, in the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie. One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them, in the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie," Elrond had told him, and the Kurosaki murmured this phrase absently as they walked, "One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them. One ring to bring them all and in the darkness, bind them." Isildur turned the Ring over his fingers, staring into its sheen blankly.
Elrond told the Kurosaki to stay outside of the opening, to guard it from any Nazgûl hoping to avenge the demolition of their master, and brought Isildur in. "Hurry, Isuldur," he said, "Destroy it!"
The prince turned the ring over his fingers and gazed at it, the ring that had once been the size of his wrist that had shrunk down to a size which he simply knew would fit him perfectly. Every king wore rings, did they not? And with this, this ring of power, he would be undefeatable. No mortal man would dare to cross Arnor …his people, his pride, his country, all protected. What an easy decision.
"Isildur!"
And yet…why was Elrond so desperate? Why would he want this ring destroyed? Was he withholding some information? Was Elrond lying to him? What if…what if Elrond was trying to take it for himself?
It's mine.
"Destroy it, Isildur!"
It'smineit'smineit'smineit'smineit'smineit's—
Isildur had one chance to destroy evil forever.
No…no…
And that was when the pride of mankind shattered and the strength of men was overpowered by the will of the One Ring.
"No…it is my wergild. I have lost my father and my brothers to the demon who formerly possessed this ring; it would serve as a reminder of their memory as I gaze upon it," Isildur whispered, and then he turned his back on Elrond, turned his back on a bright future, and exited the mountain, ignoring the fire-haired being who stared as him in unanswered inquiry as he left Elrond and the Kurosaki behind. (2)
Fin.
(1) "Death of man and hollow beast, god of death with hair of fire and cleaver of souls, descend before me, be with my fight, and commit your angelic justice! Death God! Come to me! Kill this man for your master!" is the translation I wanted. Google translate isn't exactly the love of my life, but I tried. It's Japanese, btw, which is "ancient language", because I'm to lazy to make up some garbled shit and it works because Ichigo is Japanese anyways. Logic.
(2) Wergild: a kind of compensation gift for a person's death. Usually they are of equal "price" as the person who died.
This is the chapter, I think. Yeah, that's it. I have a second part started but I'm such a lazy ass that it might not come out for longer. Meh.
This is actually my first post and I'm kind of winging the system. Not the sharpest tool in the shed when it comes to this and I'm too proud to ask my friend soooooo...I'm praying.
~RegalOneByTheStream
