It's an Odd Coincidence
Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. It all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Marvel and 20th Century Fox.
Note: In the previous chapter, I took some liberties with Gondorian army organization. Tolkien never mentioned any Easterlings or Southrons fighting for the West (not that I noticed, anyway), but I never liked the idea of certain races being evil or the idea that people's loyalties are bound solely by race. Thus, I borrowed ideas from the Crusades and based the 'eastern contingent' on the Turcopoles.
Party pony: I loathe writer's block. Unfortunately, I seem to get it most when I have time for writing. Haha, Logan isn't all that fond of rules, as we've probably all realized by now. ;)
Miss: Yeah, the previous chapter definitely needs more work. I'm waiting until it's less fresh in my mind so I can go over it with a more critical eye. Does Logan ever clean his claws?
Thanks to all my reviewers!
Chapter 52: The Last Stand...Or Not
His horse shifted nervously beneath him. Logan kept a tight hold on the reins in case the animal decided to bolt. He could not help feeling a little nervous himself. The gates were even larger up close. Who needed such big gates? Had Ron been a giant before he'd become a giant fiery eyeball. He he'd seen the eye in the distance, suspended between two prongs at the top of a black tower that rose far above the tops of the walls.
Unnatural light flashed. Coldness crept over his skin as if someone had poured ice cold water over him even though the desert winds were warm. He listened carefully. High above them was the sound of beating wings. The black riders were watching.
"Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth!" Aragorn called. His voice bounced off the heavy metal gates and echoed in the vast emptiness. There was no response except for the cackles of a few orcs. The gates remained firmly closed. "Let him come forth and answer for all that he has done!"
They waited, and waited. Still, there was no response. Logan was beginning to lose his patience, if he hadn't already lost all of it during the long ride here. They'd come for a fight, and he wanted it over and done with while they still had the strength to put up a struggle. This place leeched men of their strength and courage. It was as if there was something in the air that sucked the very life out of them. He'd never felt this way ever before in his life. So much fear, so much despair. Yes, he had been afraid and he had despaired before, but not like this. There was something going on. Perhaps Ron wanted to wait until they were all too depressed to fight. Actually, that was not an unreasonable line of thought, only it just didn't appeal to him very much.
Stuff it. Aragorn just wasn't loud enough or rude enough. Since they didn't have loudspeakers here, they were going to have to improvise. The Wolverine could be very loud if he wanted to be. He opened his mouth, but then hesitated. It probably wasn't right to steal the spotlight from the king in front of everyone. Besides, he'd done way too much attention stealing in the past few months. Still, if Ron and his armies of millions didn't come out soon, they were going to be demoralized and Frodo was not likely to reach the volcano.
Wait...if he invited everyone to shout along with him, not only would it be louder, but they'd also feel better and Aragorn could not possibly blame everyone for stealing his limelight, could he? And it really wouldn't matter because being outshouted by one's army was not the same as being outshouted by one's clawed friend. Logan risked letting go of the reins to cup his hands around his mouth. "Come on, you bastard!" he roared. Had to keep it clean for the noblemen present, especially all of those who didn't know him very well. Otherwise, he would have used something a lot stronger than 'bastard'. They were awfully prudish when it came to language usage. His voice bounced off the gates and the walls of rock. Everyone turned to look at him. He shrugged. Not waiting for the echoes to fade, he waved madly at the men behind him, trying to get them to join in. Luckily, some of them were smart enough to understand, or maybe some hand signals were universal, because a few of them did start to call out, and the rest followed.
Soon there was a unanimous din, with the underlying percussion of swords and spears being beaten against shields. If one was to judge the size of the army by listening to them, one might have mistaken them for being an army of seventy thousand instead of seven thousand. Logan hoped that the orcs couldn't count. Despite his kingly demeanor, Aragorn was grinning in a most un-royal way. "You are incorrigible," he said to Logan.
The Wolverine returned the grin. "That's why you love me, innit?" he said.
There was a grating sound of metal rubbing against rock. The shouts of the men died down as the giant gates opened just ever so slightly — enough to let one rider pass through.
He rode upon a steed so black that one had to wonder if its coat had been dyed. The beast was frothing at the mouth. Its nostrils flared as it caught the men's scent, and it tossed its head as it pranced on metal-shod hooves. Logan wondered what breed of horse it was, or whether it was actually a zombie of a horse, because the creature was so skeletal that it looked as if it had died sometime during the Late Cretaceous. The rider yanked on the reins, causing the horse to rise up on its hind legs ever so slightly before falling back onto all fours, raising a cloud of dust.
"Who dares to call upon the Master of Mordor?" The rider spoke slowly, enunciating every word with careful deliberation. His face was covered by a metal mask so that only his mouth could be seen, although that was too much, in Logan's opinion. Hadn't these people heard of toothpaste before? Even orcs had whiter teeth than this rider, whatever he might be. He had a distinct feeling that this was not one of those nasty ghouls because he didn't feel like running away from him, although the sound of the rider's voice did make the hairs on his arms rise —only metaphorically, of course.
The rider seemed to have two voices and they were both speaking at once. One sounded like fingernails on a blackboard whilst the other was like the low growl of a lion before it went in for the kill. "I am the Mouth of Sauron," he said. The mouth only? Was Ron the dismembered Dark Lord or something? "Is there any in this rabble with the authority to delegate with me, or even the wit to understand me?" He sneered as he spoke the last part of his sentence, turning to look Aragorn directly in the eye. The man stiffened and lifted his head just a little higher as if to remind himself of who and what he was, but he kept his gaze fixed steadily on his opponent. "Oh, not you. It takes more than some elven trinket to make a king."
Well, Logan was definitely ready to rip the Mouth a new mouth. He growled and popped his claws. They came out with a metallic ring. Whoops. He hadn't really meant to distract everyone, especially not at such a delicate point in time.
"This is no rabble," said the Mouth. He laughed. "This is a menagerie!"
If Legolas hadn't reached out to grip his arm and remind him of what was at stake here, Logan would have leapt and slashed that man-thing into a couple of pieces, diplomatic situation or not. No one called him an animal and got away with it. Absolutely no one. The elf had only delayed the inevitable. The Wolverine was going to get revenge, no matter what it took.
"We have not come to delegate with Sauron," said Gandalf, "but to issue a warning. Unless he has found some new wisdom, then he, along with all his servants, will be in great peril." He urged Shadowfax forward. White against black, just like in chess, except this was the deadliest chess game Logan had ever watched.
"Ah, old greybeard, so you have made yourself the spokesman of this..." said the rider, trailing off as he waved his hand at the delegation before him as if he could not find a word lowly enough to describe them. Then he held up a finger as if he'd suddenly remembered something. "I have something here that might interest you."
From within his the folds of his robes, he pulled out a bundle of rags and held them up in front of the delegation. At first, there seemed to be nothing very special about them, but then they glimpsed the glint of metal —rather too shiny to be iron or steel— and Logan caught a familiar scent coming from those rags, hidden beneath the layers of smells left by the orcs and whatever else had come into contact with them. The quick intakes of breath that he heard from various members of the Fellowship indicated that they, too, had realized the significance of those rags. Those were the remains of Frodo's clothes, and if Frodo's clothing had fallen into the hands of the Mouth of Ron...
'Deep breaths, Logan,' he told himself. 'There'll be plenty of time to lose it later.' Analytical; he had to think analytically. If they were all on a one-way roadtrip to hell, then he'll save it all for later when the fighting really began. Although, if Legolas would only let go of his arm, then he'd quite happily start early on Ron's Mouth. He stared at the rags and the 'me-thrill' shirt. Something didn't seem quite right. It was just his instincts clamouring, but his instincts were usually correct.
Frodo's clothes were here, and he'd never take off that mail shirt if he hadn't been forced to, so that indicated that the orcs probably had gotten him. But Frodo also carried that stupid ring, and wasn't Ron supposed to be really really powerful if he got his hands —cornea, iris, whatever— on the Ring? If so, then why was he sending this pathetic excuse of an ambassador to toy with their minds? It wasn't as if they had a hope in hell that they could survive if Ron actually had his ring back. But they were talking. Talking. Something was definitely off, which was probably a good thing for them.
Pippin, however, was not thinking so analytically, and for once, neither was anybody else, judging from the way Legolas' face had drained of blood whilst Gimli's had grown red from fury and grief. Gandalf just sat there upon his steed, staring at the bundle and looking as if he was preparing for the worst. The young hobbit almost leapt out of the saddle, and probably would have done so if his cry of grief had not alerted the wizard as to what he was about to do. Gandalf retrained him. "Silence!" he barked. His voice sounded strangely thick and harsh.
"I see you have brought another one of those imps with you," the ambassador of Mordor continued to sneer. "I cannot tell what use you see in them, and to send one against the Lord of Barad-dur is beyond even your usual folly, but I am grateful that you brought this one. At least now you cannot deny that you know these garments. Did you really think that you could prevail against the Lord of Mordor with a witless Halfling and some bedraggled ranger waving a broken sword around? There was never any hope for your cause. Surrender now, and some of you may be suffered to live."
"You're so full of shit," he snarled before he could stop himself, not that he actually wanted to. Someone had to say it, and who would if he didn't?
"Quiet, cur!" hissed the Mouth. Obviously, the use of expletives, or maybe the fact that Logan actually spoke and was smart enough to see through his tricks offended him.
"Well, would you rather I said 'excrement', bub?" said Logan. If he was right, then he might just wound Mordor's ego just a little, and if not, well, the most harm he would have done was made a fool of himself. He'd done that enough times to cease caring. They were all looking at him. He urged his horse forward, aware that he was deliberately stealing the spotlight this time, and that it was probably against some unwritten law to steal the spotlight from the key negotiator during negotiations. But he was the Wolverine and beyond any code except his own. His friends were much too shocked to stop him. Not in time, at any rate. Never before had he deliberately done something so outrageous. He'd done similar things accidentally, of course, but he usually shut up quickly. The beast was straining against the leash that Logan had put about its neck, its claws and teeth flashing as it tried to surface. Logan pushed it back down. Now wasn't the time. "You think you can come out here, flash your bad teeth and throw bad logic in our faces and make us fear you? Well, think again, bub, coz I'm smarter than that, and if you really think we're that stupid then you ain't got a chance in the world."
Bad logic. Logan, of all people, was talking about logic? That in itself sounded slightly illogical although Boromir had to be impressed with how his friend was handling this servant of Sauron's. This was certainly a different approach. He supposed that if they were going to lose and die, then they might as well do so with some flair. Everyone, including the Dark Lord's ambassador, looked so perplexed that someone like Logan would even dare to speak in a situation like this, much less in this manner. But now that the Wolverine had mentioned flawed logic, there was something highly suspicious about this whole business. If Sauron had the Ring, then why was he wasting time in trying to make them feel inferior?
"What is this?" demanded the Mouth. "You would let this baying beast speak?
Boromir wondered if he should step in before Logan killed someone, but since no one was making any move to stop him, not even Gandalf, he decided to wait a little longer. The Wolverine seemed to have control of the situation. As much as he looked like he wanted to attack, the claws did not appear, although the vein in his temple was throbbing. In fact, he was so deadly calm --by his standards-- that he deserved congratulations.
"You listen to me carefully, bub," he whispered. Everyone heard it, for the only sounds contending with him were the hot desert winds bringing the scent of death towards them. "I'll only say it once. We're gonna fight, and you're gonna die. It's that simple. And before this day is over, I'll rip you a new mouth with my own bare hands."
Maybe he'd stepped over the boundaries, but it sure as hell didn't feel like it. No one was telling him off or even just chiding him as they rode back to where the main army was. The Mouth had gone back within, probably to report to his master, but the lull would not last for long. Or, at least, he hoped not. Then again, why would Ron wait? His greatest enemy was here for the taking. If he smashed this army, he'd mostly likely smash all resistance in Middle Earth, since every military leader of importance was here.
Tension was thick. The men stared at the closed gates, no doubt imagining what would emerge once they opened. Such nervousness was not to be tolerated. Something would have to be done, most likely a speech. These noblemen seemed to be fond of their speeches.
Aragorn wheeled his horse around to face the men. Above him, his standard flew. Whatever Arwen had used to embroider the emblem, it caught the light of the sun and made the emblem look as if it was being burned into the black fabric. It flew proudly in the wind; a symbol of defiance, of righteousness, of freedom. Well, it was a monarchy, so there had to be limits on freedom, but Logan supposed that life under Aragorn would be much freer than life under Ron. The Wolverine sat up straighter in his saddle and tried to ignore how uncomfortable he was. It wasn't that he wasn't honoured to be chosen to ride with all the important people, but he just really didn't enjoy horse riding and would have much rather have walked all the way to Mordor.
"My brothers of Gondor and Rohan!" called Aragorn. He lifted his sword high, letting the blade reflect the sun's weak rays. "Now is the hour when our fate is to be decided, but today, our fate shall not be in the hands of our enemies. No! We shall carve our fate with steel and write our futures in blood! Our enemies shall hear the ring of our swords and feel the bite of our blades and they will know what we can do! Ride with me, brothers in arms! Ride with me, Men of the West!"
Maybe it was just a coincidence, or maybe there was something truly magical about that sword and that bloodline, because at that moment, the clouds above Aragorn suddenly parted and a beam of sun, bright and pure, pierced through the gloom to shine down upon the man, dispersing the impending sense of doom for one brief moment. Then the fumes of Mordor prevailed again and the shaft of light was cut off, but it was enough. During that glancing moment in time, the men seemed to realize that they could only go forward. There was no other choice. If they tried to run, death would surely overtake them. If they fought, then at least they would die the deaths of warriors, and perhaps their names would live on in the tales.
The thundering cheer that followed Aragorn's speech —as cheesy as it sounded to Logan— almost deafened the Wolverine. Not that he cared. He raised his voice to join in with the cheering. This was the last stand. This was what he was born for; battles against impossible odds, protecting the world from being overrun by tyrants and psychopaths. The beast inside was roaring, thrashing, struggling to get out. He held it back, just for a few moments longer. It would get its rampage soon enough. It might even be its last rampage and if so, then this was the last chance for him to be human.
The Black Gates opened, fully this time, and a seething black horde poured out. The arrangement was simple, but then, the enemy hardly needed complicated arrangements to overpower them. Small stooped orcs were situated at the very front. Their shields bore the design of a crudely painted red eye. Behind them were archers with their wicked short curved bows. They didn't have a very long range, but when it came to close combat, that hardly mattered. And it was going to be very close combat indeed.
"It was an honour to have known you, my brothers," said Aragorn. These were private words, not from a king to fellow kings and subjects, but as one man to his friends. He looked as if he might have made some sappy touching speech worthy of Hollywood, but a horn blast from the orcs distracted him. Not that he needed to say anything more. They knew what he meant, and Logan, for one, was slightly relieved that he wasn't going to have to match up to the sappiness. He wasn't sure if he could handle it.
The two armies stood facing each other, for neither was willing to make the first move. The men did not like the odds and the orcs...well, what were the orcs waiting for? Maybe they were just wimps. It seemed like a rational and scientific explanation. He glanced at the rest of his companions, waiting for the signal. There was silence. Then the orcs began to snarl. Not willing to let that pass, Logan snarled back. He was getting sick of waiting. If they were all going to die, then he'd rather they get on with it instead of standing here and thinking about what would happen if they did charge, because that really couldn't be a pretty scene.
Either Aragorn read his thoughts, or he was thinking along similar lines, for he let out a wordless battle cry. It was soon followed by the trumpeting of every horn they had and the clashing of shields. Aragorn spurred his horse forwards, and the rest of them forwards. Logan didn't even have to try and control his horse as he was swept along by the wave of men and horses, which was just as well, because he was clinging onto the pommel for dear life. If he was really meant to die, then he'd rather he didn't end up being trampled by large herbivores. He'd never hear the end of it otherwise.
The light cavalry closed in on the enemy's flanks, distracting the orcs and making them lose formation, thus causing the centre to thin out before they realized what was going on. It was too late. The heavy cavalry smashed into the weakened centre, cutting through the orc's ranks like a spearhead and thus separating them. Of course, this situation could not possibly be maintained for long, but at least the orcs were confused. That gave them some advantage.
Seething bodies surged against the horses as the riders waded through the ranks of orcs. Blades fell, and the air was filled with the metallic scent of blood, orc, equine and human. Logan gave up even trying to control his horse. The poor beast was terrified, as it had every right to be. The only thing the Wolverine wanted was not to be carried off by the bolting beast.
Shield met shield, blade met blade. Sharp pikes pierced the breasts of charging horses. Others were bowled over by lunging wargs and met untimely ends in their slavering jaws. It was an absolute mess —kinda like one very ugly omelette that had been flipped out of the frying pan before it had solidified.
Thus it began, their last stand against evil and tyranny — their last chance for freedom. Well, it would only be a last stand if they lost. If they won, they'd probably have to do this kind of thing over and over again. There was no end to evil or the lust for power. The Wolverine knew that better than most. This did not mean that he was about ti give up, of course, as depressing as it sounded. Giving up was not in his vocabulary.
He let the beast take over. The roar of battle was making it impossible to control his wild animalistic self. The sheer amount of adrenaline in his bloodstream was making his head feel light. He felt strength flow through his limbs, smelled the fear of his enemies and heard the rapid beating of their hearts and their harsh breathing. The scent of blood was keen, and it only made him want more. He was filled with a type of ecstasy that he had never known. It was as if he had finally found his place in life. Not a particularly nice place, his human self reflected, but at least he belonged as he never would in the normal world. Maybe that was why he had participated in all the major wars in the past few centuries. On the battlefield, no one cared that he was rude or that he had claws. He was just another man fighting for a cause —or maybe some cold hard cash.
His claws sliced through armour and flesh. The unlucky orc tried to scream, but it choked on its own blood and only managed a soft liquid gurgle. Logan shoved the dying creature off his claws with a booted foot before whipping around to plunge those lethal lengths of indestructible metal into an orcish shield, right where the red painted pupil was. Let Ron know what the Wolverine thought of him and his scare tactics!
The orc holding the shield screeched and tried to hack at Logan's arm, but the mutant was quicker. He wrenched the shield away from the orc, snapping the leather straps. The force of the movement caused the orc to fall forwards and directly onto the claws of his other hand. The Wolverine roared in jubilation as he pulled his claws out of the corpse and then flung the shield at yet another one of those dark creatures, striking it in the head and causing it to fall backwards.
Man and beast had become one; Logan no longer kept himself distanced as the animal inside him took over. He was using the beast's strength and ferocity, but it was the man who was fighting. He knew exactly what he was doing. In fact, he'd never been more conscious of his actions. It was as if he'd somehow morphed into Victor, both a calculating human being and a ruthless predator. Perhaps his brother was with him right now, not that he believed that there was such a thing as an afterlife, unless one was a telepath and Victor certainly hadn't been a mind reader.
A guttural snarl made him turn around. A warg, larger than any other warg he had ever seen, was closing in on him. Its yellowed fangs were bared and glistening threads of saliva hung from them. Not waiting for the animal to attack, Logan took a running leap, propelling himself through the air and heading straight for the giant predator. However, he wasn't looking to kill. No, he had other ideas.
For as long as he could remember, which, admittedly, wasn't very long at all, he had been the type of man who could not accept failure. He'd simply keep trying until he succeeded, and given the nature of his existence, he was bound to succeed one day. Therefore, he was not content toe accept the fact that he could not become a warg rider just like his brother.
He landed on the creature's back —facing the wrong way, but that could easily be remedied, or so he thought. The impact almost broke the warg's spine, since Logan was not a particularly small or light man. However, wargs were tough creatures and this one was tougher than most. It recovered almost at once and whirled around so quickly that Logan nearly got thrown off —and that would have definitely happened if he hadn't been clutching onto handfuls of the thick, coarse fur. For a moment, he felt like one of those fools who got tied to horses or donkeys backwards as a form of punishment, like that idiot king from that crusade movie. Then he realized that it was a ridiculous line of thought. No one cared about how stupid he looked right now. Survival was a tiny little bit more important than appearances. Just a little.
The warg's bucking would put a rodeo horse to shame and Logan was pretty sure that he was better than any cowboy in the world. However, he was having hard time just hanging on and staying out of the way of those snapping jaws that looked as if they could crush a rock, let alone trying to turn around so that he was not looking at the warg's...hindquarters. The thing suddenly sat down and Logan, not expecting this, was flung off its back, still clutching the handfuls of fur. He sailed through the air like a torpedo, all the while hoping that he would not land on his friends or their allies.
At least that wish was granted when he landed on the hard ground some twenty feet away, in the midst of what seemed like a contingent of orc archers. They had scattered and now made no move to attack Logan, probably because the warg was charging at full speed towards the man who had dared to think that he could tame it. Logan didn't like the way things looked. He was surrounded by orcs, the nearest Gondorian standard —he couldn't exactly see people very clearly— was something like one hundred feet away and there was a mad warg coming straight for him. In fact, it looked downright nasty. And then the warg fell in mid charge, a sword sticking from its neck. It snarled and snapped and tried to get up, scrabbling desperately at the sandy ground, but the weapon had obviously damaged its nervous system. Logan looked up to see the last person he had expected to come to his rescue.
Now there was no mystery as to who Boromir had inherited his warrior's genes from.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I'm not sure how I managed to write so much about that moment in front of the Black Gates, but maybe that's how I roll. ;)
