Author's Note:

You may have missed four updates before this.


Man

"Hurry up, maggot!" The leader hissed.

"I am hurrying as fast as I can." The younger man snarled. The leader bared yellowing teeth and bounded up the ruined hall. The younger one followed, trying to keep up. They were both scruffy and dirty from the ruins.

Legend said that the city was once called Minas Tirith, or the City of Kings. It was magnificent even in ruins. The white marble walls were mostly standing. The ground was cracked in most places. They stood in a hall that once used to be the throne room. The two thrones of the monarchs as well as the throne of the steward were broken and covered with moss. Starlight shone from the gaping hole in the ceiling above them. The younger thief felt the unpleasant prickling sensation as he passed the statues arming the throne room on either side. They were covered with climbing vines. A bird nested on top of a king's head, his name long forgotten. Most of their eyes were gouged out by the weather, but it felt as if they were alive and watching his every move.

"Move it, whelp!" He heard a snarl echo deeper within. He jumped before realising it was his companion. "I will slit your throat if you take any longer!" He grumbled but he obeyed nevertheless.

He reunited with the older thief at two doors shut tightly and barred.

"Here we are." The leader sounded pleased. He looked nervously at the doors.

"What if there's a trap?" He asked, fearful. Wind blew through the silent halls, hauntingly beautiful and eerie at the same time.

"Them Men of Gondor were soft-hearted fools, if history is to be believed. Trust me. There is nothing waiting on the other side except riches." The wood of the two doors were covered with moss and mould. The leader pressed his hands on doors and pushed. He did the same. The doors broke through and they nearly fell flat on their faces. The leader looked up and gave a joyous laugh.

The room was built in the form of a circle, with a vaulted ceiling and a balcony on the far side. He went to the balcony and looked down. There was a sheer drop below. He looked at the middle of the room at their main goal.

A tomb lay right in the centre of the room. A statue was curved from the lid, of a sleeping king with a crown on his head and his sword underneath his folded hands. His companion was already struggling to push the lid free.

"Come, help me, maggot!"

He hastened to his side and together they pushed until at last the lid gave way. It fell on the ground and it shattered into numerous pieces. The king's face was no longer recognisable.

He looked down at the corpse inhabiting the tomb and felt a chill of fear. The king was still dressed in tatters of regal clothing of a style long dead. His body was only made of bones and tufts of white hair still clung to his skull. A crown adorned his head. His hands clasped a sword's hilt on his chest.

"Ha!" The leader explained happily and dove for the sword with greedy fingers. He pulled it free, heedless as how the corpse's arms flopped to the sides. He held it up. "This is here we are for, boy! The famed Andúril. It will fetch us a pretty price!"

The sheath for Andúril was beautiful. When his companion pulled the hilt, the blade appeared before his eyes, shining bright. He touched it reverently and gasped when it sliced open his finger.

"Still sharp," he answered gruffly. The leader nodded eagerly.

"Them mystic Elves forged the sword again, you know. They say the blade can never be broken or dulled." He returned it to its sheath and hoisted the sword on his back and secured it with a piece of rope. "Grab everything else that you can find and hurry!"

They scoured the halls until they filled their sacks with as much gold and jewels as they could carry. At last they left behind the tomb and city behind.

They did not even bother to cover the corpse.


Author's Note:

I am utterly shameless.