It's an Odd Coincidence

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize.

i: You're welcome. :)

Miss: I'm glad you liked it.

Jak'idiot: When is it a good time to get a block? I could never kill Logan. He'd never let me. ;)

Partypony: I guess you should know that I like my cliffhangers by now. :P Wraiths are much trickier than most things Logan has ever encountered before.

Thanks to all my reviewers!

Chapter 54: A New Dawn

Boromir was wary. He kept his eyes focused on the Nazgûl, knowing that any mistake on his part could mean the deaths of many, including Pippin's and his own. The hobbit's courage and resolution was admirable, but Boromir did not know how he could possibly help. Then again, hobbits were very surprising creatures. However, what could a man and a hobbit do against an enraged Ringwraith? Lady Éowyn had succeeded in slaying the Witch King of Angmar because there had been a prophecy about his demise. Maybe there was a prophecy about this wraith too, but it did not seem to be intent on sharing any life-threatening secrets.

The only thing the man could do was distract the Nazgûl so that it would not turn its attention to the other men. In other words, he was using himself as bait. If he did try to engage the wraith in genuine combat, he doubted that he would last for very long. It wasn't that he did not have confidence in his abilities. He simply did not have that much confidence. Just being in the wraith's presence made him want to shiver, but he suppressed the urge. He had to focus. He had to hold out for as long as he possibly could if this idea of his was to work. This was for Gondor, and for his fallen friend. He owed it to Logan to continue what the clawed man had started, even if he could not possibly finish it.

The wraith suddenly lunged with unearthly speed that belied its size. The heavy weapon it wielded did not impede it at all. Boromir barely managed to parry the blow. The sheer force of the blow made him stumble backwards and sent vibrations shooting through his arm, but he regained his balance in an instant. Cunning, not brute strength, would be the key to winning this fight, or at least maintaining the current stalemate. He sidestepped as the Nazgûl thrust its blade forward, intent on impaling him. His old weapons master had taught him that in order to best a larger opponent, he had to make the other swing and miss continuously. It was a lesson that he had learned well as a gangly youngster. Of course, there was the slight problem of the fact that the Ringwraith showed no signs of tiring, or that it would ever tire. Despite all his efforts, he was merely delaying the inevitable, for he had no idea how he would go about killing something that was already dead.

Blow upon blow came down upon him and at such a speed that he was finding it difficult to keep up. If he continued to merely parry and defend himself, the wraith would soon overpower him. He needed to bring more than conventional swordplay too this fight just to make things slightly fairer.

"Hey!" shouted Pippin, just as the Nazgûl had been about to lunge at Boromir again. The wraith turned. That slight distraction was all Boromir needed. He suddenly dropped and kicked the Nazgûl's legs out from underneath it. That was not a trick he had learned from his weapons master, but from an old mercenary from Khand who, despite his small stature, had been the reigning wrestling champion before he had retired. His opponent screamed in fury as it went down in a flurry of black fabric. Wasting no time, the Gondorian lunged for the wraith's weapon while the Nazgûl was preoccupied and kicked it out of the gauntleted hand. Before the Nazgûl could reclaim it, Boromir had reached it. The Gondorian hefted the huge weapon with a cry, and as he did so, the blade disintegrated and turned into dust, leaving only the hilt behind.

"Well, that's the end of that," he said through gritted teeth, completely aware of the fact that he sounded a little like Logan just then. The clawed man had had a great impact on his life; more than he'd realized. He threw the hilt aside. It landed with a dull clang amidst all the others fallen weapons. Now the wraith was beyond furious. The air around him seemed to grow cold with the Nazgûl's wrath. A morbidly curious part of hm truly wanted to know what it would do to him for such an offence, whilst the rational part of him was screaming at him about how foolish it was to even think that. He probably wouldn't like the wraith's revenge. However, the morbid part would have to continue wondering for the rest of eternity.


He faltered, just ever so slightly. The wound in his side burned, as much as he did not want to admit it. The bleeding had slowed somewhat, but he knew he had already lost a lot of blood. Considering the way things were going, it was unlikely that the bleeding would stop before it was too late. Every movement aggravated the injury. Legolas ignored it. There had never been any hope for survival, and he was never one to harbour frivolous dreams. Just because he was looking imminent death in the eye now did not mean that he was going to back down. Legolas Thranduilion never backed down without a very good reason and dying simply wasn't enough.

The elf bent over backwards as an orc lunged at him, dodging a swing that would have otherwise slit his throat. As the foul creature went through with the swing, he straightened himself and plunged the blade of one of his white knives into the creature's neck.

Pain burst in his shoulder, making him release his knife involuntarily. The weapon remained in the orc's body as it toppled backwards. Hot liquid ran down Legolas' arm to drip from his fingertips. An arrow protruded from the back of his shoulder, with its head embedded deeply in the muscle. Gimli would never stop reminding him of his lack of judgement when he had eschewed the bulky armour offered to him by the men in favour of ease of movement. That was, if he ever lived to speak to the dwarf again.

With one arm useless, he knew that he was an easy target for the orcs, not that he would ever stop trying to make things difficult for them. He ducked as another arrow flew overhead and then slashed out with his remaining knife. An orc screeched in pain as if tell onto its knees with the tendons in its legs cut, but its cries were quickly silenced when the elf slashed open its neck. Black blood sprayed in time to the dying orc's heartbeat as it fell. Legolas did not stop to watch it. He buried the knife up to the hilt in the chest of another orc who had been about to cleave his head open from behind, and then whirled around just in time to cut the arm of an axe-wielder, causing the creature to drop its weapon as it clutched at its wound.

A wooden snap sounded as the arrow in his shoulder was snapped. Agony shot down his arm and he couldn't help but cry out. There must have been something else on that arrowhead too, because he was beginning to feel lightheaded, and he knew it wasn't the pain. Shadows were creeping in from the edges of his vision.

When he felt the ground shudder beneath his feet, he thought it was just a figment of his fevered imagination.


The ground suddenly shook, or rather, convulsed, for lack of a better word. The wraith turned away, completely forgetting Boromir. The Gondorian warrior could see exactly why. Something had happened in Mordor. Something significant enough to distract all its legions from the battle that they were currently winning. Huge clouds of smoke and ash were spewing out from the top of Mount Doom. They veiled the sky, making it seem as if it were the darkest hour of night. The darkest hour came just before the dawn.

Liquid fire shot into the sky from Orodruin like a flaming fountain. As the thousands of men and orcs and everything else sentient watched on in shock, there was a loud resounding crack. Barad-dûr itself was collapsing. Its foundations had given away due to some unseen and unknown force. The Great Eye seemed to have imploded, sending out waves of invisible energy that pulsed in the air, sending everything in their path flying. Men were overbalanced. Boromir's eyes were almost completely closed as he tried to shield them from the sandstorm that ensued. The Nazgûl in the air and on the ground let out a terrible untied scream as green light started leaking out of them. The Gondorian took a step back, unsure of what was happening. The robes of the wraith standing before him began to crumble until there was nothing left but a pile of dust that soon got blown away by the unnatural winds assailing them. It wasn't until the wind died down and the grey flecks of ash started falling that he realized what had happened.

Somehow, against all the odds, Frodo had succeeded. That little hobbit had reached Mount Doom with no one but his loyal and stalwart gardener to help him and he had thrown Isildur's Bane into that fiery chasm.

The orcs were in complete disarray. They had not the slightest inkling of what was going on. They did not understand any of it. For them, the Great Eye had ever been a constant presence. They had relied on Sauron's might to inspire fear in their enemies. Now that their master was gone, they were behaving like snakes with their heads cut off, writhing and struggling wildly with no sense of direction at all. In the grips of their panic, they fled, despite the fact that they still greatly outnumbered the men. However, most of them did not get very far. The land itself seemed to be conspiring against them. Great chasms and rifts opened in the earth as they ran, swallowing many legions of those foul creatures. The cracks had spread from none other than Orodruin itself. Great flaming rivers flowed down the slopes of the mountain to fill these cracks, burning the survivors within. As for the men, most of those who still remained standing were too shocked to speak, including Boromir himself. All their lives, they had fought against this dark power in the east. They had never imagined that it could be destroyed. And yet, here they were, standing in the dawn of a new age, one that was born of fire and blood and that would not be tainted by the darkness of Sauron. They were all in shock. However, Boromir was not shocked enough to forget what this moment had cost. Nobody was.

As if they were all waking from a dream at the same time, the men suddenly began shouting, calling out for lost comrades in the hopes that they might still be alive to share the impossible victory. Boromir clambered over the mountains of broken bodies to where his friend lay, pale and still. Pippin was already there by Logan's side, frantically calling his name.

"Come on, Logan," whispered Boromir as he sank to his knees beside the prone form of the Wolverine. He pulled off one of his gloves and placed two fingers against the side of the other man's neck. "Please, my friend. You cannot leave now! Not you!" Curse it, this was the man who had looked death in the eye multiple times and lived to tell the tale. Knowing Logan, he'd probably shown death the middle claw because, apparently, that was rude. He almost gave a cry of joy when he felt a faint but steady pulse. Thank the Valar! Pippin must have noticed and correctly interpreted the change in his expression, because the hobbit's expression brightened. It was at that moment that Logan opened his eyes.

"Did I miss anything?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. For a moment, they were dumbfounded. That was not what they had expected him to say. Then again, this was Logan and he never conformed to expectations. Boromir chuckled and shook his head.

"You are incorrigible, my friend," he said.

"So I've been told," said Logan, wincing as he tried to sit up.

"You missed everything," said Pippin. "And you really shouldn't be moving."

"I'm fine," said the Wolverine through gritted teeth.

"You are not," said the hobbit just as stubbornly.

"I'm the Wolverine, dammit! I'm never not fine!"

"You didn't look so fine just then when you were lying so still that we thought you were dead," said the hobbit, glaring at Logan.

"Now that's just insulting," muttered the man.

"I think Pippin is right," said Boromir. "You should not move too much for fear of aggravating your injuries."

"Listen up, you two," said Logan, giving them his best scowl. "I've known me for almost two centuries and I know better than anyone else if I'm fine or not."

"I thought you lost your memory," Pippin pointed out.

"Not enough to forget that all I need in this situation are thirty double cheeseburgers," argued the Wolverine. "Now are you gonna help me or what?"


This was not supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was like a terrible dream that he could not wake from. Gimli ran. In all his life, he had never been so terrified, and that had included that time when he had seen Durin's Bane in Moria. He knelt beside the pale prone form of the elven prince. There seemed to be no sign of life, and the dwarf was afraid to touch him in case it confirmed his worst fears. Still, it had to be done. Denial had never helped anyone. With a shaking hand, Gimli felt for a pulse. At first, there was nothing. Dread seeped into his bones and despair entwined itself ever more tightly around his heart. He could not imagine how bleak life would be without his friend there to share it with him. They were supposed to have gone down side by side, if any of them had had to go down at all! He had never thought, in all these months that he'd known him, that Legolas would be the one to fall. He had always seemed so pristine and perfect, almost completely without weakness. It unnerved Gimli to see how helpless his friend was right now. And then, he felt a pulse, faint and unsteady, but it was there nonetheless. The dwarf breathed a sigh of relief. Legolas yet lived, although he was in dire need of help; help that Gimli could not give him. He called out for help using all the strength he had within him. Someone must have heard him, surely.

"Gimli!" came Elladan's voice, or it could have been Elrohir. He still couldn't tell them apart. He saw the elf racing towards him. "What...dear Valar!" Elrond's son sank down on one knee beside Legolas and felt for his pulse. The dwarf had heard of how Elrond could determine a patient's illness simply by feeling the pulse. Perhaps his sons had learned that from him. The son of Elrond stayed like that for a while, deep in thought.

"His heartbeat is erratic," the dark haired elf said at last. "I fear he may have been poisoned."

"Poisoned?" whispered Gimli. Ai, this was worse than he had thought! "Can he be helped?"

"Not here," the elf replied. "I have not the proper materials needed. Come, help me get him onto my back. Gwaihir has taken Gandalf to Orodruin to search for the Ringbearer and Samwise, but the Wind Lord's kin have remained behind to assist us with transporting the worst of our wounded. I say that this warrants a quick flight to Minas Tirith."

"You are going to make him ride an eagle when he is in this state?" asked the dwarf incredulously. He had always known that elves were mad; this only further proved his belief.

"It is his only chance," said the son of Elrond. "The poison is spreading through his body at a rapid pace, and he is burning with fever. Please, Master Dwarf, trust that I know what I am doing. My mother is the daughter of the Lady of the Golden Wood, after all, and my father raised no fools."

Gimli had the distinct feeling that the elf was using his esteem for Galadriel and respect for Elrond against him, but he had to admit that he made quite a bit of sense. Speed was always of utmost importance in situations such as these.

The three of them made their way towards the waiting eagles at a painfully slow pace, or at least it seemed that way to Gimli. The elf spoke to one of the magnificent golden creatures in a soft reverent tone. There was no need to know the language in order to understand what he was saying. The eagle inclined its head in consent and allowed the son of Elrond to climb onto its back.

"Tell Estel and Elrohir where I have gone, in case they think that I have fallen into one of these pits or chasms," said the elf from Rivendell as Gimli helped him to secure Legolas to his back strips of fabric which they had tied into makeshift ropes.

"Don't drop him," the dwarf warned. "If you do, I'll have your head on a platter."

"If I do, I shall offer you my head on a platter," said Elladan. With that, the eagle took off, beating its wings slowly as it ascended into the air, then simply spreading them as it found air currents strong enough to support it. The three of them glided towards the White City, leaving Gimli standing on the ground amongst the dead and the wounded.


Boromir turned when he heard his uncle's voice. There was a sense of urgency that he had never heard from Imrahil before, but it didn't take him long to see why. The world seemed to fade away until he could only hear the rapid beating of his own heart. Fear lent him strength and speed that he did not knew he had until now. His vision was narrowed down to only what stood before him. Never in his life had he imagined that he would be in such a situation.

He barely noticed the obstacles in his path as he raced towards his uncle and his wounded father. His uncle seemed to be limping, and Denethor looked as if he was already halfway to the afterlife. Boromir caught his father before the older man fell. The lump in his throat seemed to block his voice, and even if he could speak, he didn't know what to say. His father was dying. The rational side of him told him that this was no great surprise, but he still could not help but feel a numb sense of shock.

"My son," Denethor whispered, reaching up with a shaking hand to touch Boromir's face. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

"Father, no," said Boromir. His voice sounded thick and hoarse and alien to him. "Please, no. Do not go..."

"Do not be childish," Denethor scolded, but he was cut off quickly as he began coughing painfully, spraying bloody spittle with each spasm. "You know I have to go sooner or later."

"But..."

"Gondor is safe and in good hands," said Denethor. "This new age has no need of an old man like me. I am proud of you, my son. Of both of you. I am content to leave you here while I go to meet with your mother."

Boromir felt hot tears blur his vision and run down his face. He blinked rapidly to try and clear his eyes and swallowed. His father brushed the tears away, the way he had done when Boromir had been a small child who had grazed his knee. "Now, men do not weep," said the dying Steward. "How many more times do I have to tell you this?"

"Gondor still needs you, Father," said the younger man in a broken whisper. "I still need you. I am not ready."

"But you are," said his father. "Gondor does not need me when she has you, and the king. I know you and your brother will make me proud." Denethor's hand fell by his side, and his open eyes became glassy as his chest stilled. Boromir felt his father's body grew limp in his arms as the Steward's spirit left this broken mortal shell to once again be with the one he loved most, and this time, to stay with her for eternity. He knew he ought to be glad that his father was happy and at peace now, but the sense of loss was too keen. He held the broken body of his father close, and openly wept for his passing.


The news of the victory spread like a fire in a dry field during summer. It was all anyone could talk about, this miracle. The names of the soon to be king and his companions were on everyone's lips. Of course, there were some who were quite unaware of the ruckus, even if they were at the centre of it all.

Sequestered in the Houses of Healing, Logan was treated like some 'royal brat', to put it in his own words. The healers fussed over him, scolded him when he so much as dared to ask for a smoke or maybe something fried, and attempted to feed him the most tasteless broth and foul medicines when all he really wanted, and needed, were fries and hamburgers. Well, a barbecue with proper steaks wouldn't hurt either. Merry turned out to be his saviour. With everyone so busy with the upcoming funerals and coronation, no one had much time to visit Logan. Legolas was still bedridden, despite the elf's insistence that he was 'fine'. Logan could sympathize with him somewhat, especially since the quality of hospital food in Middle Earth seemed to be of the same calibre as that of Xavier's private hospital. The healers seemed to be under the misconception that fried food was bad.

Merry was the one who kept on smuggling pies and cheese and everything else into Logan's room. Pippin would occasionally join them for their secret feasts, but the Took was a guard of the Citadel now, and he often had duties to attend to. Most of the time, the Wolverine was simply left to his own devices, although whenever he tried to discharge himself, he found that some know-it-all king-to-be, namely Aragorn, had given specific orders that he was not to be let out until the king himself gave him permission. Alas, with everything going on, Aragorn seemed to have forgotten about him.

Thus, Logan spent most of his time with Legolas and mused about elaborate escape plans which involved jumping out the window and running for it. Occasionally, Frodo and Sam would join them, but the two hobbits had become rather quiet since their ordeal. Their experiences made certain that they always seemed a little isolated from the rest of the world, no matter how hard the others tried to understand what they had been through. Logan wasn't surprised that they were unsuccessful. How could someone who hadn't been in hell know what it felt like to be surrounded by fire and brimstone?

Logan's love life was also something that was oft discussed, much to his annoyance. Legolas seemed to find it rather amusing that he could get so flustered about it. No matter how he tried to steer the conversation in other directions, that cunning elf always managed to get back on topic, and it annoyed Logan immensely. It wasn't as if he needed someone to tell him what he needed to do. He'd already decided.


She heard the news from her uncle, who had heard the news from Lord Erestor himself. The enemy in the east had been vanquished. A new age had dawned, and the Lady Undomiel was due to wed King Elessar of Gondor and Arnor. It had been a quiet evening until her uncle, a scribe who worked under Lord Erestor, had burst into the room, bearing these wondrous tidings. She had never seen him so excited before, for he was usually a dour and serious scholar who preferred to speak in long words and used many extended metaphors. At first, they did not know what he was saying, for he was speaking so quickly. However, when the news finally sank in, she found that she could not speak.

The only thing on Sidhien's mind was Logan. How had he fared? Was he still alive? She dared not ask, for fear of rousing her family's suspicions. She had yet to tell anyone except her mother and her brother. Even her father did not know. But she needed answers, and who could she ask?

Fortunately, Berenon seemed to know what she was thinking. "Are there any tidings of those who fought?" he asked. "I have some acquaintances in Gondor, and I am anxious to know how they fare."

"Well, I do not know if your acquaintances were mentioned in Lord Elladan's letter to his father," said the older elf. "He did mention Lord Aragorn—King Elessar, of course, and the members of the company sent out by Lord Elrond, which included Mithrandir, Prince Legolas of Greenwood, and four Halflings. The prince sustained some wounds, but it is said that he is recovering at a rapid pace. There was also a curious mention of that odd man who accompanied Lord Aragorn and the Halflings when they first arrived in Imladris. I do not think you will know him, but he made quite an impression on everyone here."

"And is he well?" Sidhien burst out, unable to contain herself any longer. Many pairs of eyes turned to her, and she felt her face growing hot. That was extremely unsubtle, almost to the point of being Logan-like.

"Why the curiosity, daughter?" asked her father. He was frowning, not in disapproval, but in confusion.

Sidhien hesitated. Was now really the best time to tell her entire family that she had fallen in love with a mortal? She felt her mother's hand on her arm. Bronweth glanced at her encouragingly and nodded. The younger woman could almost hear her mother telling her that she had to let them all know sometime. They all loved her, and they would be hurt if she kept this secret from them.

"I..." she began, and then stopped. "This man, Logan Howlett. I know him; I know him well."

"How so?" asked her father.

"I love him," she said simply. How was that for bluntness?


The news did not go down well with his family, but that was to be expected. This was not a fate that anyone wanted for their daughter or their sister. However, he had long decided that it was not his right to judge what his sister ought to do with her life. It was hers to live. He could only be there to offer love and advice. "Are you absolutely certain that you love this mortal?" asked their father.

"I have never been more certain about anything," said Sidhien quietly. "Ada, I know how difficult this must be for you, but the heart does not listen to reason. I do not want to hurt anybody, but I fear that whatever I choose, I will inevitably end up hurting someone."

"Does he even know about your feelings?" asked her aunt. "The edain are very hard to understand, and not particularly perceptive, I believe."

"I am quite certain that he holds Sidhien in high esteem," said Berenon drily. "If I had not been there, I believe he would have kissed her when he left Lothlorien."

"He would not dare!" cried Maethor, leaping to his feet.

"He did not," said Berenon, "which, I believe, says much for how he feels about Sidhien. He learned etiquette for her sake. If you have ever met this man, then you will understand how significant that is."

Sidhien gave him an exasperated look, and the young elven warrior grinned at his sister ruefully. "You cannot deny that he has no idea of etiquette," he said. "He told Prince Legolas to 'shut up'. The fact that he bows to you is quite telling. He is very serious."

"Well, he certainly does not lack courage," said Bronweth, looking from her son to her daughter.

"But have you considered the consequences?" Maethor asked of his daughter. "Such a love cannot have a happy ending. He is mortal. You are of the Eldar."

"As I said, the heart listens not to reason," said Sidhien. "I know I love him, Ada, and my heart tells me that I ought to follow him wherever he may go."

"And what of your family?" asked her father. "What of your mother, you brother, your sisters? What of me? I love you too, daughter, and I want you to be happy. Are you certain that you will be happy with this mortal man?"

"Is it better to have loved and lost, or to have never have loved at all?" asked the young woman. There was silence as they contemplated her question. Berenon gave his sister a reassuring smile. He knew how nervous she was. Sidhien was still so young, perhaps too young to make such a choice. However, considering the situation, she did not have much time to decide. Mortals bloomed and faded so quickly.

"Does your heart truly lie with this man, then?" Maethor finally asked.

"It does," said Sidhien.

Her father sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, as if he was exhausted. "I cannot say that I am entirely happy about this," he began. "But I trust your judgement, my daughter. All I want is for you to find peace and joy. Perhaps my perception of happiness is not the same as yours. This is your life. Go and live it as you want, not as I want."

"So...do you give your consent?"

"For what it is worth, Sidhien, you have my consent and my blessing."

The young elf maiden leapt to her feet and threw her arms around her father, who held her as if he never wanted to let go, for fear that the moment he let her go, he would never see her again. At last, he did release her, and when he did, he seemed to regard his daughter in a new light, or perhaps it was just the unshed tears.

"There is still the matter of getting you to Gondor," said Berenon slowly to his sister.

"I heard that the Lady Arwen is searching for handmaidens who are willing to accompany her to the kingdom of Men," said their aunt. "If this is what you truly want, Sidhien, then now is your time to strive for it."


A/N: And the war is finally over! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. There was a lot of dialogue, mainly because the characters didn't seem to want to do anything except yak. Now it's onto tidying up the loose ends, and then...who knows?