Disclaimer: I know nothing, sand, in the word of Manuel the most famous of bellboys I acknowledge that, LoTR is none of my fault, just blame Tolkien. Fullmore, Luthor and Co. are, sadly mine own.

Notes: This may eventually be a bit of a spoiler, this chapters pretty clean, R rated so it could all get a bit bloody, depending on my mood.

Set in Gondor towards the end of the second book, just as things near Mordor get a bit heated, and well, you'll see the rest.

Chapter 3

the aide began in as grandiose a voice as the small, diminutive bespecled man could muster, his high pitched voice barely audible above the distant sounds of battle. The man continued, his voice cracking as it struggled to reach the appropriate level. But he continued, raisin his chin and puffing out his chest, a man clearly enjoying the levity of the job with which he had been entrusted and determined to make the most of the occasion.

"The southern wall is breached, we must act fast, re-deploy our reserves or all is lost"

Silence had once again fallen over the assembled party, that is, all but the table's central character, for whom it appeared, nothing came before food.

"And that is signed, Sir Gwigwyn, sir," continued the now hoarse aide.

The party remained silent as the general finished his mouthful and washed it down with a swill of blood red wine. He dabbed his lips daintily with a corner of his napkin before folding his arms over his ample stomach and seemingly sinking deep into thought. The air was still with the staying power of suspense as all ears remained ready to hear some great words of wisdom and strategy, Fullmore too, heart beating strongly, and a prickly heat spreading across his tired, sweat filmed skin, as he was drawn by invisible strings towards the great oracle at the tables centre.

Then, just as the air was becoming too heavy to breathe, the showman, in absence of any of his former joviality and with a ruthless frown on his brow, asked, "Who is this, Sir Gwigwyn?" he said these words with evident disdain, as if their stench sickened him to the point of convulsion, "I know not his name!"

At this bidding, a second aide spoke up, "I believe he refers to Sir Gwigwyn, son of Gwigwill, of the house of Gwullghar, and I believe, third cousin of Lord Denthor, through the maternal lineage, it's a very interesting family actually…..

"I am no hobbit sir!" Shouted the now red-faced and angry general, making Fullmore jump visibly, only held on his feet by the supportive hand of the stranger who had aided his less than graceful equine acrobatics of a few minutes earlier.

"What is his command?" continued the furious princip.

"I believe he commands the 1st Battalion, City Guard Sir." Replied a third aide, keen not to fail where his two predecessors had.

"A bloody toy soldier, weekend warriors should not presume to command this armies generals, dictate for me some one!"

Several of the flamboyantly dressed aides leapt for their parchment scraps and quill-pens, Fullmore counting at least five men writing as the general began to speak.

"Sir Gwigill…."

"..err, Gwigwyn Sir," said a junior officer whose bravery obviously matched his bank balance, his golden plate armour emblazoned with the Tree of Minas Tirith, sparkling brightly in the setting winter sun.

The general continued, his annoyance at the young upstart made clear, "Of course, of course, now, Sir Gwi…, whatever he's called. It is with much displeasure that I received your , 'request!' The forces are far overstretched as it is, none can be spared, it is vital that we maintain our lines of retreat and that we maintain the security of the headquarters. That, my 'friend' will keep this army safe, I will do my job, you do yours. You are the city Guard so see to it!"

As the impassioned man finished his fusillade there was still more stunned silence, the many officers barely believing their ears, but equally unwilling to speak their minds. In these men Fullmore recognised the traits of a thousand frontline officers who, his short experience of war, have unquestioningly thrown the lives of their men away for little more than respect of the chain of command. And any chain that leads to the imbecilic, pompous, porcine figure, in Fullmore's mind could never be anything but a failure.

"And I suppose I should let the man know who his superior is, no pleasantries I feel. Just, Lord General Luthor!"

Luthor held out his for the note and one of the five was handed to him, he took off his signet ring, heated the wax in the nearest candle, and with the flourish of a seasoned paper pusher he stamped his seal, a crowned tree, onto the tie cord. It was then passed, via an aide, to the still more dumbstruck Fullmore.

"Well, be off with you boy," said Luthor, any sign of pleasantry now gone. At length Fullmore stowed the order in his tatty haversack and turned away to mount his horse. The entourage, once again surrounded the high table excluding the lowborn son of a farrier, the man who had seen more death and misery in his short lifetime than they in their whole existence.

He had with a little difficulty he swung himself into Raynin's high saddle, and coaxed the horse into motion when a figure, obscured by a long grey hooded cloak, which hid his face in shadow, grasped the bridle. From within the cowl, a soft, almost effeminate voice arose,

"I would have word with you young rider."

The voice held an accent the un travelled Fullmore was unfamiliar with, but it was a calming waif like voice with an authority born not out of wealth, but knowledge, and above any surprise in lieu of the preceding events, Fullmore was willing to accept any authority other than that of Luthor. As he was lead away Fullmore vowed never to forget that name.

Sorry it's a bit late, got exams at the moment!

Mr V