Disclaimer: I don't own LotR
Note: This is the prologue of the revised version of Rebound. I have noticed while writing this story how stilted and stale it has become over time. Therefore I am in the process of rewriting Rebound. Names will be changed, settings changed around, but it will still be essentially Rebound. I'm trying to make this version much better than the other.
Prologue
Swords crashed together. Aragorn son of Arathorn led the diversionary attack against the reeking bowels of Mordor, trying to give Frodo time.
The heat beat down upon the necks of foe and friend alike, the sun glaring down through blood red clouds of volcanic ash and dust. The air was thick with the foul stench of Orcs and Nazgûl.
Aragorn slashed with his sword, Andúril, parrying and thrusting the sharp blade into the bodies of Orcs.
A troll, heavy, hulking, skin the color of lumpy pea soup watched the future King of Gondor with beady black eyes. Saliva dribbled down from a mouth filled with yellow, sharp teeth. Teeth that were flecked with the crimson blood of Man.
In its brick hard hand it carried a large cudgel, and, seeing an opening, it stalked toward the Gondorean.
The Lord would be pleased with Gûlgog once He received word that Gûlgog had defeated the seemingly invincible ranger. Then He would have reward it, either by giving it the carcasses of the fallen men and women in Minas Tirith and the Pelennor Fields, or by giving it lots of wealth and prestige.
Gûlgog leered at Aragorn, then charged toward him, swinging the cudgel with eagerness to spill warm, delicious blood.
Legolas watched the troll bearing down upon his friend. He could only watch, horror penetrating an Immortal heart. He knew he couldn't come to Aragorn's assistance; his bow was singing in the stale air, arrows meeting the hearts of many Orcs. He was being slowly surrounded.
Merry and Pippin tried as best as they could to defeat as many Orcs as possible, but their parrying thrusts, blocks, and stabs with their swords soon became meaningless. They were only hobbits from the Shire, and there were thousands of Orcs swarming them, after all.
The black, choking shroud of despair wrapped around the hearts of the Captains of Gondor. Nazgûl fell like rain of death upon the Rohirrim, the black claws of the fellbeasts seizing men and hurling them violently away. Occasionally the fellbeast dipped black, hideous beak down to rip and eat the flesh of soldiers, the victim screaming in agony as he was being devoured alive.
The Dark Lord, Sauron, watched the Westerners as they attempted to assault Barad-dûr. He knew their quest was hopeless, thanks to his own cunning. Since that hobbit he had spoken with through the palantír had the Ring (he was very sure of it), he knew victory was very near. What was a small hobbit against the might of Mordor?
There had been a few victories by the Gondoreans. The loss of the Captain of the Ringwraiths had been an infuriating one. Since receiving word of his untimely death, he was all the more determined to rid the world of Man. After achieving victory, he would begin to systematically root out and terminate the insubordinate orcs and trolls.
He would like to exterminate all the orcs, but they had their uses, no matter how chaotic and disorderly they were. Mordor was heavy laden with oppressive laws to keep them under his yoke, yet even with such laws many were still rebellious to him and hated him.
The orcs might have made useful tools of Morgoth, but Sauron was beginning to see the illogic behind using them. The fear he, Morgoth, had instilled at them from the beginning was one of the things Sauron had planned to wipe away. He fed on fear and terror, but this type of fear was becoming a stumbling block in his leadership. It was best to instill admiration, reverence, respect, and a healthy amount of fear.
This thick fear that surrounding the small minds of revolting orcs was the cause of insubordination, of rebels.
Sauron broke out of his thoughts, knowing something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
His eerie, glowing blood-red eyes darted to the palantir on the pedestal beside him on his throne. He stared through it, willing it to show him Orodruin, into the gateway he had built into its depths.
He saw two hobbits and the slimy, eel-like figure of Gollum.
Horror penetrated his heart like a thick, steel blade.
The Ring was dangling over the precipice of doom. There was no way Sauron could take it in time. Suddenly all he wanted to achieve and all he had achieved were drowned out by this one incident.
He howled like a wounded beast, hurling his mind full force into the Nazgûl so that they streaked rapidly across the sky to rescue the Ring.
Once the Ring was safe he would gladly have that hobbit tortured slowly over a long period of time as punishment.
As the Nazgûl raced toward their goal, Sauron could only watch helplessly as Gollum and the halfling fought precariously over his Ring. They danced over the edge, the halfing was defeated, and then Gollum fell too close to the edge and fell, Ring clutched in his hand.
Sauron felt his life drain away from him, rapidly losing his very soul.
The black Maw of the Void stretched above him over Barad-dûr, invisible to the eyes of the Captains of the West, but so frighteningly clear to the eyes of the doomed Dark Lord.
He lost his form, becoming a thick cloud of churning darkness, and he floated upwards to meet the nothingness.
Lightning flashed out from him, and he summoned up his last bit of strength to form the shadowy shape of a long, clawed hand stretching out to the Gondoreans, still desiring to instill terror in the hearts of the enemy.
Ilúvatar watched from his throne on high, having subtly led the men of the West against Sauron, yet he felt his heart filled with mercy and pity toward the Dark Lord. He would gladly give he who was once known as Artanor another chance.
He closed the Gate of the Void and brought Artanor's spirit to Aman, the realm of the Valar, in secret. There he wove around the oblivious Maia the raiment of the flesh of man, and breathed strength and life into him once more. Then he thrust Artanor ahead in time, where he would be far from the familiar world of Arda.
At the same time Ilúvatar also took from Sauron his powers, so that he wouldn't be able to use his sorceries and enchantments to sway mankind in this future world.
I-I-I-I-I-I
Sauron felt nothingness for a brief moment. Then cool air slammed against his skin, stopping his breath. Joy filled him as he realized he wasn't in the Void. He was on land, it was raining, and wet, icy—and his sense of feeling and vision had been retained.
He had a form. Solid. Real. He was no longer a cloud of heavy darkness.
Then he swallowed back his dark happiness. Wherever he was at, he couldn't recognize it. He was in a forest of wet coniferous trees, looking across a curving hard road of smooth, black stones laden with deadly ice.
Sauron tried to walk cautiously across on it, knowing the peculiar road led to a village or town. Led to men. But the ice was so thick that he was soon losing his footing and sliding everywhere. It was too slippery to cross well without falling, so he mustered up his strength to continue walking.
He knew he wasn't about to be run over. Most riders wouldn't be on this road anyway. It would be suicide.
The growl of some beast on the road made panic slam into his heart.
Here, Sauron knew he was vulnerable and rebuked himself over his foolishness. He would be easy prey to any foul creature and if any Elf stumbled upon him he would be killed easily—he had no powers.
Out of the corner of his eyes he saw the horrific image of a hulking, shadowy beast stalking him with huge bright eyes.
Then it whirled around as though to avoid him and then the back end slammed against his body violently.
Sauron screamed in agony as seering hot pain filled him, lying still on that hard ground. His last conscious thought was how foolish he had been to lose his freedom and life so quickly after surviving the loss of the Ring.