It's an Odd Coincidence
Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize.
Miss: When can Logan ever keep his mouth shut? Certainly not at sensitive moments. :P
Partypony: What can I say? Miracles do happen. Logan might wake up one day and be a rational person. It was actually Denethor who saved Logan from the warg. ;)
Chapter 53: Of Midgets and Mutants
The battle surged around him. He felt as if he was in the middle of a storm at sea. The orcs came at him, retreated when he put up too much of a fight for their liking, and then went for him again when they got their courage back — or just more back-up. His claws, his hands, his face —every bit of him was stained with the blood of his enemies. The Texan Chainsaw Massacre could not have been bloodier. Then again, this was way more righteous, so it wasn't really right to compare it to people chopping up other people with chainsaws.
There was no end to the number of enemies. For each one he killed, two more seemed to replace them. Still, he refused to be discouraged. He only had two choices, after all; die fighting or die running. He had already chosen a long time ago.
Of course, dying presented a huge problem. He'd promised Merry that he'd keep two eyes on Pippin, and he couldn't do that if he was dead, could he? Speaking of which, where was Pippin? Logan looked about him frantically. He could see loads of orcs —more than enough to move entire mountain ranges, he suspected— and the occasional flashes of grimy silver armour, oh, and Legolas, who stuck out like a sore thumb, to use a cliché. However, no Pippin.
He shouted the hobbit's name, struggling to be heard above the din. As loud as he was, he was no match for the combined shouting and screaming of what seemed like the entire population of Mordor and more. Of course, the idea that Mordor actually had a living population boggled his mind. This place looked like that it ought to be one of those dead zones. And here he was, getting off topic with his thoughts again. He was cut off in mid-shout when he was forced to concentrate on mincing orcs that were wielding short broad blades and spiked hammers. Multi-tasking had never been the beast's strength, and the beast wasn't particularly good at talking either. It preferred to growl or snarl or do something that did not require the careful enunciation of consonants and vowels.
Bits of metal and meat flew everywhere as Logan threw himself into his work. It was cut out for him, so to speak. His claws were nothing but silver blurs as he methodically slaughtered those who got in his path. The beast was exulting in the gory glory of this bloodbath. For once, the man did not feel so disgusted. Sparks flew as adamantium grated against iron. Blood, as black —and as foul— as crude oil, splashed into his eyes, blinding him momentarily. As he tried to wipe the liquid out of his eyes, he heard the whistle of an arrow cutting through the air and tired to dodge, but he was not quick enough.
Moments later, there was an explosion of pain, and he knew that he had an arrow in his chest, and it was embedded quite deeply too. He tasted the coppery blood at the back of his throat. That stupid thing had punctured his lung. Not that that had ever stopped him before. He yanked out the thick projectile, completely aware that it did more damage coming out than it had done going in. He grunted with the pain. The Wolverine did not scream in the face of such trivial injuries. Then again, it might not be so trivial. There was something sticky and medicinal-smelling on the shaft. That coward of a bowman had poisoned it. Damn, that was going to slow down his metabolism, if only just a little.
He blinked to clear his vision. There, about twenty feet in front of him, was the Mouth, sitting astride his mummified black steed and holding a crossbow. He was looking very smug; too smug for Logan's liking, and what Logan didn't like, he always changed, one way or another. Usually that involved some violent action on his part. Still, he couldn't act right now. He needed to be in tip-top shape if he was going to go for Ron's spokesperson with all these orcs in the vicinity.
The foul things had crowded around the wounded Wolverine as he stood with his head bowed and his shoulders heaving, but none of them dared to touch him, not just because of his claws, but because the Mouth had claimed him as his kill. It suited Logan just fine. Usually, he didn't like being toyed with like a cat's captive mouse at the best of times, but right now, he could use the lull.
"You said you were going to...what was it? Rip me a new mouth with your bare hands," the Mouth said, taunting him. The beast was snarling, but Logan did not rise to the bait. The man had slightly better judgement. Just slightly. "Now look at you, beast-man. What can you do against the might of the Lord of Mordor? You were fool to ever think that you could be a threat to me."
Logan suddenly looked up. He hawked up a wad of bloody hlegm and then spat to the side. "And you're an idiot, bub, for ever thinking that I couldn't," he growled. There was a great deal of satisfaction in seeing that sneer fade so quickly from the Mouth's face. That humanoid thing had obviously thought that the Wolverine was going to fall to one measly poisoned arrow. Unfortunately for him, he had a lot to learn about mutant biology.
Before anyone could react, Logan propelled himself into the air, heading straight for the Mouth with his claws extended before him. The Mouth of Ron had a sharp tongue, Logan had to admit, but the Wolverine's claws were sharper, and longer too. The lengths of metal pierced the breastplate of steel and the chainmail beneath it. The two of them toppled to the ground, one with the tips of shiny claws emerging from his back. "One last piece of advice," said Logan as he yanked his claws out of the dying humanoid, "I recommend Colgate. It tastes pretty nice for toothpaste."
The Mouth did not reply. He could not. The humanoid simply lay there with blood pouring out of his mouth and staining his teeth even further. Logan paid him no more attention. As far as he was concerned, he'd fulfilled his promise to the thing and ripped him a new one. He was about to straighten himself and move onto his next project, whatever that happened to be, but a shadow looming over him made him change his mind. If he got up now, his head would be in the direct path of a lucky troll's swinging mace. He was pretty sure his head was harder than that mace, but he didn't want to risk another headache.
He dived for the ground and then rolled, getting back onto his feet right beside the creature's giant foot, reaching for the sword strapped to his back just at that moment. Still in a kneeling position, with one knee on the ground, he unsheathed the sword and with one fluid movement, cut into the back of the troll's leg, just at the point where the calf met the foot. If his judgement was right, then troll anatomy was not so different from human anatomy, and he would have, in effect, cut through the Achilles tendon. He was beginning to understand why Biology class was important.
The troll roared as it collapsed onto one knee, still not knowing what had struck him. Size was not always an advantage, especially not when there was a quick-thinking hunter about. Its mace sent orcs and men alike flying. Logan, however, was safely out of the way and preparing himself for another attack. Very few people could take on a troll, in his opinion, and he was one of those. No, no one had ever said that he was humble. He certainly hadn't.
He placed his trust in the beast within him. It certainly felt as if it knew what it was doing. He leapt with a roar, aiming for the troll's head, or rather, where the head met the neck. He had to get this right on the first try; there was too much at stake for him to fail. Instead of striking the cartilage between the vertebrae as he had intended, the blade hit bone and was stuck. Logan let go immediately, not wanting to hang from the back of the troll's neck like some macabre living ornament. He landed on all fours and then rolled away just in time to avoid being crushed by a heavy fist. Oh well, the troll was down; it wasn't as if it could run around chasing people anymore. If they all stayed away, then they'd be safe. Meanwhile, there were more pressing troubles to worry about, such as the eight dragons diving through the air and closing in on the kill.
Pippin ducked as an orc took a swipe at him, thinking that small prey was easy prey. At the moment, the hobbit felt inclined to agree with the orc. While most orcs ignored him in favour of larger and more important warriors some of those small hunchbacked ones had taken too much interest in him for his liking. He had tried his best to stay close to Gandalf, but after the wizard had abandoned his horse to fight on foot, it had been difficult to keep up with someone who was so tall and who had such long legs. 'Have some courage, Peregrin Took,' he told himself as he darted at his enemy and scored a shallow blow on the orc's leg. He'd already killed a few of these things, but there seemed to be a lot of them. Merry was so much better at all of this battle business. Wait...he wasn't going to let a Brandybuck outdo him, was he? Merry would never let him hear the end of it. If his cousin could kill —no, help kill only— the Witch King of Angmar, then why couldn't Peregrin Took deal with a few orcs? Right, so there was more than just a few. There seemed to be an entire legion surrounding him , or at least it felt that way.
Duck. Feint. Cut. Block. He tried not to think about how terrified he was of dying. He'd known that there would be a huge chance that none of them would survive the battle and he was willing to give up his life if it meant giving Frodo the time he needed to complete his quest, but to be very honest, Pippin wasn't altogether that fond of the notion of dying. He'd rather live to eat more blueberry pies with whipped cream and powdered sugar, thank you very much.
One of the orcs was too quick for him. Time seemed to slow down for the hobbit as the orc's sword came down. He couldn't move, and the only thing he could think of was how much it would hurt when that dull-looking and very dirty blade chopped his head open like a watermelon. The others were going to be furious if they found out that he'd gotten himself killed. The sword never reached him. A flying roaring blur knocked the orc to the ground and crushed it quite effectively.
"You're not dyin' without tastin' cheese fondue first, bub," said Logan.
"I was thinking of berry pies," was all Pippin could say.
That little hobbit was a lot tougher than he looked. Well, he actually looked terrified and a little bit frail, but Logan recognized the way Pippin set his jaw. The two of them were going to show dear Ronnie just what midgets and wolverines were made of. And he didn't mean DNA.
Loud high-pitched screams soon put an end to that line of thought. Actually, they put an end to all thoughts in Logan's head, with the exception of how much he hated this. He clapped his hands over his ears, but it was no use. He could feel the vibrations in his bones as if he was being shaken to pieces. Shadows passed overhead. Huge shadows. He was vaguely aware of Pippin shouting his name and pulling fatuously at his arm. If the best could whimper, it would.
Then the screeching suddenly stopped. For a moment, Logan stood there, dazed, and then he recalled that they were surrounded by legion upon legion of orcs. They might not have attacked him and Pippin yet, probably due to the fact that he had claws, but if he didn't act quickly, they would be swarming over them like fire ants on a corpse. A clear call rang out, followed by the dull flapping of giant wings. Giant feathered wings. Indeed, the difference between feathered wings and membranous ones were phenomenal, at least where Logan and evolution were concerned. Feathers trumped skin membranes any day.
Huge eagles with wicked hooked beaks and talons designed to kill had engaged the black riders' winged steeds in battle. It was a clash of the airborne titans. The birds ripped great tears in the dragons' wing membranes, causing them to lose balance. The great scaly beasts plummeted to the ground, exploding in a mess of blood, meat and intestines and crushing men and orcs alike. That would have worked out great if the nasty ghouls were capable of dying from bad falls, but alas, they proved to be extremely hard to kill.
A large figure, cloaked in black, rose from the cloud of dust, deadlier and more furious than ever. He let out a terrible scream of rage and then unsheathed his irrationally long sword. The metal glinted dully in the unnatural light of Mordor. His black robes billowed around him, making him seem even larger. A remote part of Logan's mind noted that it had the same effect as raised hackles of a dog or a chicken's fluffed up feathers. Unfortunately, the black rider wasn't as benign as an enraged parrot.
There was nothing for it. If someone didn't do something soon, that ghoul could probably massacre them all. If they were all on a one-way roadtrip to Hell, then Logan was going to make sure that he dragged one of those black riders down with him. "Change of plans, Pippin," he murmured, briefly glancing back at the hobbit who was standing stalwartly at his side and brandishing his short blade in front of him in a defensive stance. "Sorry, bub, but I guess I'll see you on the other side."
"I hope they have cheese 'fond dew' there, whatever that is," said Pippin. He gave Logan a small smile. They both knew that this was probably going to be the end.
"If they don't, no big deal," said Logan. "I heard that the barbecues are spectacular." With that, he threw himself at the black rider with a roar, aiming for the head. That was where Éowyn had stabbed that other one. It was his best bet. He didn't know if it was going to work, because apparently, there had been some prophecy about that other one's demise, but he had to give it a try. This was the beast's last charge, and this was his last battle, probably the most significant and meaningful one out of all the great battles he'd ever fought. If his actions meant that more men would live to fight on, then this would all be worth it. After all, wasn't this the reason he had been sent here? It couldn't just have been an odd coincidence.
The rider blocked the claws with his blade. The metal clang when it struck the adamantium, but instead of slicing cleanly through the blade, which was what Logan had expected to happen, his claws only made dents on the edge. He struck out with a foot, hoping to hit something solid beneath the billowing fabric. There had to be some substance under there, right? How else could the ghoul have a human shape? However, he only felt fabric. Apparently, the only thing solid about the ghoul was its armour.
Logan lurched and stumbled backwards as the wraith struck him across the face with a gauntleted hand. The spikes on the gauntlet scored deep gashes across his face. Blood ran into his eyes, blinding him. He blinked rapidly and then wiped it away. He needed all his senses. This was the toughest opponent he'd ever faced, not that he didn't enjoy a challenge. He made a false lunge, and then feinted when the wraith made to defend, only to strike out and plunge his claws into what ought to have been the thing's heart. It had no effect whatsoever on the wraith except make it even angrier. It also made Logan's arm feel cold. Just wonderful.
He circled the ghoul warily. It had to have some weakness, right? Everything had to have a weakness. That was the rule of nature. Nothing was invincible, not even quick healing mutants with claws and adamantium covered skeletons. Of course, if the only way to kill this black rider was by starving it, then he was in big trouble.
Logan made another false lunge, aiming for the head again. The wraith made to parry and at that moment, the Wolverine dropped to the ground and went for the wraith's legs. The thing fell in a mess of tangled black fabric, just as he had intended. Before it could climb to its feet, Logan drove his claws into the emptiness where the face ought to have been. It was like shaking Bobby 'Iceman' Drake's hand, except worse. Instead of ice, he got liquid nitrogen.
The wraith's scream paralyzed him with pain. Not only did his eardrums feel as if they would burst, but his head too. He could almost feel the pressure accumulating inside his skull, even if he knew that it was scientifically impossible. Perhaps this was what being sucked into a black hole felt like. He yanked his claws out with a roar and fell back, feeling as if all the bones in his body had turned into rubber. Pippin was shouting his name over the din. He wanted to answer, but he seemed to have lost his voice as well as his strength. This was a situation he had done everything in the past to avoid, but here he was, helpless.
The black rider rose and loomed above him, a menacing and intimidating sight. If it had a face, Logan was pretty sure that it would be sneering right now. Cold fire lanced through him as the wraith plunged its sword into his chest. He felt the blade graze his ribs. He swallowed as blood bubbled into his mouth. It hurt to breathe. The tip of the sword emerged from his back. He heard the black rider's hollow hissing laugh even as his vision began to grow blurry.
Then there was silence. Peaceful silence.
They were all going to die. This was the end. Perhaps, after all these years of fighting, death would be a relief. He had never known a day when the darkness of Mordor had not weighed down on everyone he knew. It had claimed his mother's life and driven his father to madness. At least he could now say that he died because he had believed that there could be a new dawn for Middle Earth. And he still believed it. It wasn't such a bad reason, really, to die because one had faith in the strength of men united by a common cause. Great warriors had died for less.
It was like drowning, being in this battle. Try as he might, he knew he was never going to b able to cut his way through the ranks of his enemies. The eagles might have prevented the Nazgûl from doing more damage from the air, but in the end, it had been all for nothing. They were still going to lose this battle unless a miracle took place, and soon. Otherwise, even a miracle would not be able to save them.
Boromir slammed his shield against his opponent, causing the orc to stumble backwards. The creature snarled and lunged again, but its anger had clouded its judgement. The Gondorian warrior was ready for it. The orc's sword glanced off his shield and as the creature stumbled to the side, he sliced down on the back of its neck. Blood spurted from the stump like a thick black fountain. The head bounced once as it hit the ground. He didn't pay attention to what happened to it after that, because he was thoroughly distracted by a sight that turned his blood to ice.
"Logan!" he shouted, struggling to be heard. No, this could not be happening. They had all marched to Mordor, ready to die, but he hadn't been ready to see this. Out of all the people he held dear, the Wolverine was the one he had least expected to fall. He was supposed to heal from everything, wasn't he? Boromir had seen it with his own eyes. This was wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen.
The ranks of orcs closed again, blocking his fallen friend from his sight. Boromir continued to scream Logan's name, even though he knew that the Wolverine was not going to answer. However, his mind seemed to be having some difficulty accepting that. Everything seemed to become so remote. It was as if he wasn't even in his body, and was merely a spectator watching everything from afar. Maybe that was what Logan had meant when he'd describe the 'beast' taking over his body during battle. His sword became a silver and black blur as he slew anything that dared to get into his path, leaving a trail of death behind him. It wasn't until he was almost by Logan's side that he realized there was a Nazgûl standing above the body of his fallen friend.
"Foolish man," the ringwraith hissed as Boromir advanced upon it. "No one can stand against the power of Mordor!"
"Then what are we doing?" came a voice from behind the wraith. There stood Pippin. The hobbit's face was stained with dirt and the blood of orcs. His voice was hard. This was not the Pippin Boromir had known. Battle had turned the playful hobbit into a warrior. What had his dream said? Ah, yes. The Halfling forth shall stand. Maybe it really should have said 'Halflings'.
He had grown up hearing of the tales of his sire and grandsire's feats. As a child, he had dreamed of being just like them. Perhaps someone ought to have told him to be careful of what he wished for, because right now, he was in more or less the same situation as Oropher and Thranduil had been in all those years ago, except this was even worse. Not that Legolas would ever admit that he was losing hope. He had come all the way here without expecting ever to return to his beloved woods again. This was a price he was willing to pay for his people's freedom. If they succeeded here, and success only depended on whether Frodo completed his quest or not, then all of Middle Earth would have been liberated from Sauron's shadow. If blood was what it cost, then so be it. He was ready.
His quiver had been empty for quite some time. The bone handles of his white knives felt warm in his hands, as if they were alive. He remembered when he had first gotten them as a coming of age gift from his father. How proud Thranduil had been. The elven prince drove one knife into the belly of an orc who had planned to take him from behind, and at the same time, cut the throat of another with his other blade. Speed, grace and accuracy. That was what his teacher had told him when he had been learning to use these knives. He moved away before the orc's blood could even touch him, dancing his deadly dance of death. He could hear Gimli not far away, shouting dwarven curses as he cut down countless enemies with his axes. If he was to die here, then he would not regret it, because it would be an honour to die fighting alongside one such as the dwarf. A few months ago, he would have died laughing if anyone had told him that he would feel that way.
Arrows continued to fly overhead in all directions. There was no order to this battle, no formations. It was an animalistic struggle for survival, no more, no less. Only one side could be the victor. There could be no stalemate. His knives were a blur as he moved through the ranks of orcs. The stench of their blood filled the air. He did not think about what he was doing; he simply did it. There was no time for thinking. He swept out with a leg, tripping up several orcs at once. Another one fell upon him, but the elf was too quick. He plunged his knife into the orc's throat and slammed it into the ground. The creature gurgled feebly as it scrabbled at the gaping hole in its neck, trying to stem the bleeding.
Something left a burning stripe of fire on his side. He cried out, more in fury than in pain. He should have seen that coming. He should have been able to block it. It did not matter that he was more tired that he was willing to admit. No orc should have been able to get past his defences. He ducked as the same orc tried to decapitate him and then drove both knives into its chest so forcefully that he could feel one of the blades go right through the breast bone. No one offended a son of Thranduil like that and lived to tell the tale. Absolutely no one. He pulled out the knives and then hissed as the violent movement made him very aware of the wound. It was deeper than he had first thought. Too bad. He would have to live with it until he either died or received help. The former seemed to be much more likely.
A/N: I got really distracted this week, so that's why the chapter is a bit shorter than usual. Plus I still have my block. :( I hope you were entertained anyway.
