Chapter 8: With More Luck Than Sense

In the tenebrous circles of Minas Tirith

Gandalf and an increasingly disgruntled Pippin were staring darkly into the gloom, or gloomily into the darkness, whichever the esteemed reader may prefer.

"Do I understand you correctly," said Pippin, "that Sauron cannot actually switch off the sun or even cause an eclipse, but that he merely makes it really, really overcast?"

"Yes, my dear Pippin, his arm has grown long indeed!"

"But, Gandalf, if the enemy just sends clouds to cover the land with darkness, couldn't you do something about it, perhaps summon a wind from the sea to blow them black?"

"Bless your cotton socks, my dear Pippin," replied Gandalf. "Your trust in my powers is very flattering. However, my strength lies more in forward planning and strategic decision making."

"Ah. Can't say I'd noticed."

"What I can do, though, is this."

He pointed his staff at the plain and shot a dazzling light beam at a chaotic scene unfolding outside the city gates. Orcs, trolls and Ringwraiths on fell beasts scattered, allowing a bedraggled group of Gondorian soldiers to reach the safety of the citadel.

"You know what would be a really good idea?" said Pippin, with slightly less enthusiasm than previously. "Installing some very strong lights on the ramparts of the city, so we can see what's going on out there. Something like that could also be used in peacetimes, perhaps to illuminate sporting events after dark or –"

"Oh, Pippin, Pippin!" Gandalf shook his head in exasperation. "Where do you get these ideas? Crafting strong light sources is a feat completely unheard of in all the history of Arda."

"If you say so," said Pippin with a glance at Gandalf's staff. "Well, at least this magic light of yours will come in handy when we go into battle with the hosts of Mordor, considering how easily that nazgûl was scared off by it."

"Who says I'll be going into battle with you? No, no, my most cherished little hobbit, I plan on hanging around in the Houses of Healing and offer my invaluable assistance."

"But, Gandalf, what purpose could you serve there?"

Gandalf, however, was already striding towards the aforementioned infirmary with an air of determination and smug self-importance that Pippin found more disturbing than he cared to admit.

"I was going to say, we have the White Wizard on our side," he muttered to himself. "Not sure that's going to count for much, though."

oOoOoOo

Somewhere in the enemy camp.

The Witch King stood with a clip board, ticking off names on a list.

"Khamûl?"

"Here."

"Jasûn?"

"Here."

"Jordûn?"

"Here."

"Rûmeo?"

…

"Rûmeo?"

…

"Rûmeo?"

…

"Rûmeo?"

"Um, he's sick," offered Kevûn. "My fell beast's groom's sister-in-law's cat's dentist heard from this orc about this troll who saw Rûmeo puking in the bushes after our failed sortie at the city gates. Apparently he is a bit squeamish about blood."

The Witch King dropped his pencil in disbelief. Hastily, Lûrri picked it up and proffered it to his boss with an appeasing gesture, but was kicked in the shin anyway. While he hopped about groaning softly, the Witch King made an emphatic cross on his register.

"I shall need an absence note from him," he grumbled. "Now, brothers, to business. This is our plan: We will attack the city, break down the gate and kill everyone inside. Sounds good?"

A choir of Ringwraith voices replied in varying shades of approval. The Witch King nodded with grim satisfaction.

"Well, that's that sorted then. But make sure to watch your back, what with all those ancient blades that we've seen of late. I, of course, cannot be killed."

oOoOoOo

Meanwhile in the Houses of Healing

Three main characters and a large number of extras were struggling with the after effects of the Black Breath and general nazgûlness. Aragorn, having just given a lecture on comparative linguistics, told Ioreth that there was no time for speeches.

"What do you mean, speeches?" said Ioreth. "I am trying to make sure that we both have the same herb in mind. Given that it's somewhat important in healing to get the correct medicine…"

"Oh, shut up and make haste," barked Gandalf 'The Procrastinator' White. "You are just a minor character; leave the rambling to us. And we don't need to hear from you either, Herb Master. We are quite capable of droning on about ancient lore ourselves, thank you very much."

Ioreth and the Herb Master left the chamber and made their way to the herb stores, where they spent a few minutes venting about the abominable rudeness of those intruders. However, being professionals and capable of multi-tasking, they simultaneously located the required herbs, wrapped them up in a cloth and made a note in the record book.

Some time later, having pulled Faramir back from the brink of death, Aragorn and Gandalf sat by the bedside of a grievously wounded Éowyn and enjoyed a lengthy chat about the woman's life story and her virtues of character and person. After half an hour or so, they were interrupted by Éomer coughing pointedly.

"I am ever so sorry to disturb your fascinating discourse, gentlemen, and I do of course agree heartily with you about the merits of my sister, but wasn't there something about making haste?"

Gandalf frowned, but at least Aragorn had the decency to look embarrassed and speedily began to crumble the athelas into the water basin.

"Oh, rats," he said. "It's gone cold. Get someone to bring us new hot water."

Éomer shook his head in despair.

oOoOoOo

In the groundlessly poetically named Land of Shadow

Two emaciated hobbits were trudging on, somehow managing to cover staggering distances on foot with virtually no provisions and nary an idea of which way they were going.

"I was shown a map at Rivendell," said Frodo, "but I can't exactly remember it."

"If you don't mind me saying, Mr Frodo, it would have been better if they'd actually given you that map."

"It was a mural."

"Well, a copy then. A sketch. Anything beyond a mere trust in your memory. Meaning no disrespect to elves, of course."

"Yes, Sam, you'd better not show any disrespect for the elves, who are your betters in every way, and you should know your place like a good little working-class hobbit. Where would we be if gardeners could criticise elves? Think of all the help they have rendered us. Think of Galadriel's phial!"

"It's just a shame that you didn't think of it earlier," muttered Sam.

Frodo shot him a caustic look. "Which bit about know your place do you not understand, Sam Gamdgee?"

Sam suddenly looked downcast and peevish. He shrugged and tried to scratch a random figure into the sand with his foot, but since the ground was mercilessly rocky, he merely succeeded in stubbing his toe. He flinched.

"I'm sorry, Mr Frodo. Shall I give you piggy-back?"

"Not yet."

oOoOoOo

Some time later outside the loathsome city.

Gandalf raised his voice in his most authoritative tone. "Under no circumstances should we draw any attention to the Mogul Vale, because for all we know, Frodo and Sam might still be here somewhere in the vicinity."

The various leaders pondered this and then nodded in agreement.

Gandalf took a draw of his pipe.

"On second thoughts," he said, "Let's just set fire to the place."

oOoOoOo

Somewhere in Barad-dûr

"Your Darklordship," said Mouthy with just a hint of acidity, "I can no longer hide my grave concerns. First, you got the weather forecast wrong. The darkness has lifted too early, allowing our enemies to develop all sorts of motivational feelings that will almost certainly turn out to be to their advantage."

Sauron blinked. The pleasant effect of his recent lavender and rosemary bubble bath was beginning to wear off and he became dimly aware of the annoying voice coming out of his Mouth. He waved a hand at it to swat it away, but the voice droned on.

"Secondly, the nazgûl are turning out to be spectacularly ineffective. I found out only this morning that they only flew about aimlessly, scaring folk a little, instead of actually stopping the hosts of Rohan from reaching Minas Tirith. And now we have evidence here –" He gestured at the mithril shirt, eleven cloak and Numenorean dagger that he had a minute ago placed on a darling little carved rosewood side table. "– that someone has indeed slipped through our nets, as I always feared. May I again draw your attention to the possibility that these rogues are probably planning to reach Mount Doom and destroy the Ring? Has it crossed your mind that the army marching on the Black Gate is nothing more than a diversion? The gate itself is unassailable, so wouldn't it be better to withdraw our troops from that area and have them defend the Cracks of Doom instead?"

"Absolutely not," said Sauron, supressing a yawn. "We can't have any rag-tag army marching up to my front door and making a stink without us showing them who is boss. Prepare our troops to outstink them."

"In that case, your Darklordship," said Mouthy, "I would like to propose a cunning plan that has just occurred to me. If we take these trophies that we have acquired from the enemy's spies, and make them believe that we have –"

"Oh, do whatever you like," snapped Sauron. "I'm past caring. I'm going to turn in early and read a bit more about that wizard kid at the boarding school. Have some lemon tea sent up to my room, will you?"

oOoOoOo

And so, dear readers, we are approaching the end and everything is coming up roses for our useless heroes. Courage may have played a role in their victory, strategic planning certainly didn't. If you ask me, they won through fluke and the author's bias in their favour. The Witch King is too blasé to realise that a woman and a halfling could easily scupper his precious prophecy with just a bit of linguistic hair splitting. A favourable wind drives Aragorn's ships upriver. Sauron's enormous armies are easily beaten and scattered and, apart from Theoden, only the extras die. The orcs in the watch tower all kill each other, making it easy for Sam to rescue Frodo, and the nazgûl fail to find the hobbits time after time (cue Cyndi Lauper…). The Ring is destroyed just in time to save the army of good guys from oblivion at the Black Gate. Eagles conveniently provide taxi services so our dear li'l hobbits don't get roasted, Anakin-Skywalker-style, on a river of lava. And so on and so forth. The villains had to be lucky only once while the heroes had to be lucky every time, and guess what…

oOoOoOo

After some serious partying on the Field of Cormallen

"Shall we go home soon?" asked Merry merrily.

"No rush," replied Gandalf. "We have many loose ends to tie up here still, and we should give Saruman time to stir up trouble in the Shire so that you have another nice little adventure awaiting you on your return."

"Fair enough," said Frodo. "We've not been in a hurry all through this story, so why start now?"

And so they didn't, and the partying went on.

And with this, after only two years, my silly wee story is complete. I'd like to thank the anonymous reviewer (I assume it is always the same person) who delighted me by so enthusiastically quoting my jokes back at me. ;-) Have a safe New Year's Eve, everyone, and may 2021 bring better things!