Title: Peace and the General
Summary: The tale of Aragorn, under the name of Thorongil, during the great battle of Ithildin while he was serving as a general under the Gondorian army.
Disclaimer: Don't own LotR, or "The General", by Dispatch.
Author's Note: This might be a rather lengthy note, so all of you who aren't interested, which is probably everyone, can go ahead and skip it. I just felt that I should explain the inspiration that brought about this story. After too many movies and experiences and even fanfics, as beautifully written as they are, about violence and bloodshed, I was beginning to be put off. I mean, that's pretty much what the entire American entertainment industry is based on; and to give them credit, it does entertain. Even "The Two Towers" movie, so so so good, was all about war. I mean, one of the great things about Lord of the Rings and fantasy in general is the clear distinction between good and evil. So yeah, it was killing of the evil. But, man! Where is all the peace and love?
Anyway, instead of sinking into despair about the foulness of it all ; ) , and after becoming inspired by a beautiful, beautiful song about peace during war, I decided to write this. The song is 'The General' by Dispatch. But, I'm a little reluctant to make this into a song-fic. I've read maybe two really good ones of those and I usually tend to skip over the lyrics because they are corny or uninteresting or whatever. And, the lyrics to this song just don't look as good as they sound, and I want to do justice to this song! But, because of its relevance to the theme of this piece of fiction, and its inspiration, I've decided to show the chorus. Maybe I'll end up showing more..whatever. I'll just play it by ear, if yaknowhatimean.
So, enjoy, and please oh please review!!!
Peace, mbali.
Prologue:
It is the year 2979. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, has risen in the ranks of the Gondorian army, led by the young Steward Denethor. A skillful warrior and well liked among his men, he is much in the favor of the Steward, having proved himself many times in battle. Known to all as Thorongil, so as to keep his true lineage veiled, he is a sergeant, leading his troops beside the Steward in the great wars against the pirates and black Numenoreans of the north, known as the Umbar. He is a servant to the kingdom to which he will someday be King.
Metal clashing. Aragorn leaned down on his steed's neck, wind blowing hair into his face which he ignored. His left hand gripped the reins, maneuvering the horse with speed and confidence, and his right held his sword, flashing in the sunlight. With power and accuracy, he slashed and stabbed, making his way through the bloody battlefield. He was desperate.
Sweat, blood and mud. He blinked it all out of his eyes while he scanned the mass of bodies, alive, dead and dying. Where was he? Gràdh, his best friend, he loved him like a brother. Ever since his arrival in Gondor, they had been inseparable. But now they were separated, in the heat of battle.
A hard impact to his chest nearly knocked him off the horse. He managed to recover himself, and saw an arrow sticking out of his armor. It had barely penetrating the chain mail, merely grazing his skin. He ripped it out without further though as he continued in this desperate battle.
The army of the White Tree was surrounded, out numbered and out maneuvered. The Steward had made a great mistake, and Aragorn knew they were paying for it dearly. His horse stumbled as it was struck by an arrow in the flank, and then another in the shoulder. It swayed alarmingly, but Aragorn hurried it on. He needed it to go on.
The enemies became denser, crowding around him. Although he was on horseback and higher above them with a great advantage, they were numerous. He fought like mad, and cried out when a blade found it mark, slashing through his shin and ankle. The horse collapsed with a sword thrust in its throat, and Aragorn fell to the ground, landing on his injured ankle. For a moment, he was crushed beneath the weight of his horse and a confused mess of bodies.
Forcing his way up, he moved his sword with the grace and agility of one trained by elves. He sank the blade into the gut of one, slicing the neck of another. Blinking the sweat out of his eyes, he twirled on his uninjured ankle and moved his sword in an arc, striking down another pirate. It too, fell to the ground, dying; but with one last movement, one last flick of the wrist, it struck, catching Aragorn off guard. The blade sliced deep the skin on his upper lip, leaving a jagged scar. But Aragorn paid little heed, for he had spotted Gràdh.
Though he was about thirty years younger than Gràdh, they looked the same age, at the waning end of their twenties, at the prime of a mortal man's life. Spitting blood from his mouth, Aragorn tried vainly to fight his way though the crowd, keeping an eye on his friend. He could see that he had taken a blow to the shoulder of his sword arm. Crimson blood seeped from the wound, overflowing on his own plated armor. With desperation, Gràdh had shifted his sword to his left hand, struggling to keep the attackers at bay. But Aragorn could see that Gràdh was losing the fight.
He charged, ignoring the blades that ripped through his raiment and scarred his skin, and rushed to his friends side, aiding him. But amongst all this violence and bloodshed, he was a moment too late.
Failing one last attempt to defend himself with his weaker arm, Gràdh screamed as one of the evil men drove his blade into his chest, then twisted it violently. Aragorn saw what had happened, saw his friend fell heavily to the ground. With his own shout, a shout of rage and pain and blind hatred to this pirate, this foul Numenorean, he dug his sword into the evil creature's heart, for to Aragorn he seemed less than human; then chopped off his head in one fierce movement.
"Gràdh!" He shouted, dropping to his dying friend's side, ignoring the battle waging on around him. "Gràdh," he said again, softly, tears welling up in his eyes. His friend was spluttering blood from his mouth.
"Thorongil," he said softly.
"Gràdh, hold on. Ah, Iluvatar!" he cursed. He gripped the sword, preparing to draw it out in a hopeless attempt to save his companions life.
"Thorongil," he said again, and started to say something else. "I.", but he choked, and Aragorn saw his eyes had glassed over, unseeing into the heavens.
"Oh the Valar!" he cursed again, tears stinging his eyes, and he cried. His shoulders trembled. His hands, soaked in his friends blood, went to Gràdh's eyes, and he closed them, gently, with the touch of a friend.
And with renewed energy and with a vengeful hate, he turned to finish this battle.
~*~*~
TBC
Summary: The tale of Aragorn, under the name of Thorongil, during the great battle of Ithildin while he was serving as a general under the Gondorian army.
Disclaimer: Don't own LotR, or "The General", by Dispatch.
Author's Note: This might be a rather lengthy note, so all of you who aren't interested, which is probably everyone, can go ahead and skip it. I just felt that I should explain the inspiration that brought about this story. After too many movies and experiences and even fanfics, as beautifully written as they are, about violence and bloodshed, I was beginning to be put off. I mean, that's pretty much what the entire American entertainment industry is based on; and to give them credit, it does entertain. Even "The Two Towers" movie, so so so good, was all about war. I mean, one of the great things about Lord of the Rings and fantasy in general is the clear distinction between good and evil. So yeah, it was killing of the evil. But, man! Where is all the peace and love?
Anyway, instead of sinking into despair about the foulness of it all ; ) , and after becoming inspired by a beautiful, beautiful song about peace during war, I decided to write this. The song is 'The General' by Dispatch. But, I'm a little reluctant to make this into a song-fic. I've read maybe two really good ones of those and I usually tend to skip over the lyrics because they are corny or uninteresting or whatever. And, the lyrics to this song just don't look as good as they sound, and I want to do justice to this song! But, because of its relevance to the theme of this piece of fiction, and its inspiration, I've decided to show the chorus. Maybe I'll end up showing more..whatever. I'll just play it by ear, if yaknowhatimean.
So, enjoy, and please oh please review!!!
Peace, mbali.
Prologue:
It is the year 2979. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, has risen in the ranks of the Gondorian army, led by the young Steward Denethor. A skillful warrior and well liked among his men, he is much in the favor of the Steward, having proved himself many times in battle. Known to all as Thorongil, so as to keep his true lineage veiled, he is a sergeant, leading his troops beside the Steward in the great wars against the pirates and black Numenoreans of the north, known as the Umbar. He is a servant to the kingdom to which he will someday be King.
Metal clashing. Aragorn leaned down on his steed's neck, wind blowing hair into his face which he ignored. His left hand gripped the reins, maneuvering the horse with speed and confidence, and his right held his sword, flashing in the sunlight. With power and accuracy, he slashed and stabbed, making his way through the bloody battlefield. He was desperate.
Sweat, blood and mud. He blinked it all out of his eyes while he scanned the mass of bodies, alive, dead and dying. Where was he? Gràdh, his best friend, he loved him like a brother. Ever since his arrival in Gondor, they had been inseparable. But now they were separated, in the heat of battle.
A hard impact to his chest nearly knocked him off the horse. He managed to recover himself, and saw an arrow sticking out of his armor. It had barely penetrating the chain mail, merely grazing his skin. He ripped it out without further though as he continued in this desperate battle.
The army of the White Tree was surrounded, out numbered and out maneuvered. The Steward had made a great mistake, and Aragorn knew they were paying for it dearly. His horse stumbled as it was struck by an arrow in the flank, and then another in the shoulder. It swayed alarmingly, but Aragorn hurried it on. He needed it to go on.
The enemies became denser, crowding around him. Although he was on horseback and higher above them with a great advantage, they were numerous. He fought like mad, and cried out when a blade found it mark, slashing through his shin and ankle. The horse collapsed with a sword thrust in its throat, and Aragorn fell to the ground, landing on his injured ankle. For a moment, he was crushed beneath the weight of his horse and a confused mess of bodies.
Forcing his way up, he moved his sword with the grace and agility of one trained by elves. He sank the blade into the gut of one, slicing the neck of another. Blinking the sweat out of his eyes, he twirled on his uninjured ankle and moved his sword in an arc, striking down another pirate. It too, fell to the ground, dying; but with one last movement, one last flick of the wrist, it struck, catching Aragorn off guard. The blade sliced deep the skin on his upper lip, leaving a jagged scar. But Aragorn paid little heed, for he had spotted Gràdh.
Though he was about thirty years younger than Gràdh, they looked the same age, at the waning end of their twenties, at the prime of a mortal man's life. Spitting blood from his mouth, Aragorn tried vainly to fight his way though the crowd, keeping an eye on his friend. He could see that he had taken a blow to the shoulder of his sword arm. Crimson blood seeped from the wound, overflowing on his own plated armor. With desperation, Gràdh had shifted his sword to his left hand, struggling to keep the attackers at bay. But Aragorn could see that Gràdh was losing the fight.
He charged, ignoring the blades that ripped through his raiment and scarred his skin, and rushed to his friends side, aiding him. But amongst all this violence and bloodshed, he was a moment too late.
Failing one last attempt to defend himself with his weaker arm, Gràdh screamed as one of the evil men drove his blade into his chest, then twisted it violently. Aragorn saw what had happened, saw his friend fell heavily to the ground. With his own shout, a shout of rage and pain and blind hatred to this pirate, this foul Numenorean, he dug his sword into the evil creature's heart, for to Aragorn he seemed less than human; then chopped off his head in one fierce movement.
"Gràdh!" He shouted, dropping to his dying friend's side, ignoring the battle waging on around him. "Gràdh," he said again, softly, tears welling up in his eyes. His friend was spluttering blood from his mouth.
"Thorongil," he said softly.
"Gràdh, hold on. Ah, Iluvatar!" he cursed. He gripped the sword, preparing to draw it out in a hopeless attempt to save his companions life.
"Thorongil," he said again, and started to say something else. "I.", but he choked, and Aragorn saw his eyes had glassed over, unseeing into the heavens.
"Oh the Valar!" he cursed again, tears stinging his eyes, and he cried. His shoulders trembled. His hands, soaked in his friends blood, went to Gràdh's eyes, and he closed them, gently, with the touch of a friend.
And with renewed energy and with a vengeful hate, he turned to finish this battle.
~*~*~
TBC