(Notes: Ok this is going to be a bit of a passion project of mine. I have always had a major desire to do a Lord of the Rings fanfiction. I am sure I will get crap wrong; I am sure I will get someone in the comment section trying to point it out to me. I am just doing this one for fun. I am not giving up the other fic of mine The Last Dragon, I almost have chapter Seven of it done. I will try to keep some of this as real as possible. My character Blake will not have infinite ammo or anything of the sort, eventually he will have to switch it up. He will not be making a move for one of the female gals like Eowyn or Arwen...I actually hate it when people do that, so I made an OC female character to go along with him. Look No one has to like this, if you do Cool, I will appreciate you forever, if you don't cool...sorry it wasn't for you...anyway hope you guys enjoy))
Chapter One: Falling From Grace
The hum of the C-130's engines filled the dim, crimson-lit cargo hold. Shadows danced over steel walls as the eight men checked and re-checked their gear, each movement practiced, deliberate, and unhurried. The plane's belly rumbled, the wind howling beyond the ramp like a beast trying to claw its way in. Blake Takahashi sat among them, the only Air Force Pararescueman in a circle of SEALs, his M4 propped between his knees. The tension in the air was a living thing, coiled tight and electric, though no one gave voice to it.
"Alright, listen up," said Viper, the team leader, his voice low but commanding. He stood in the center of the group, his helmet tilted forward like a hooded hawk. "Target's seventy klicks inland. Abandoned compound. Five packages—aid workers—confirmed alive as of four hours ago. One wounded. Secondary objective: clear the site of anything hostile. Extraction via Black Hawk, zero-four-hundred. We hit fast, we hit clean."
Blake shifted slightly as Viper's gaze landed on him. "Takahashi," Viper said, "that wounded package is your priority. We're not leaving any of them behind. You tracking me?"
Blake nodded once. "Loud and clear."
"Good," Viper said. "You're the reason we're bringing this team medic instead of a second trigger-puller. Don't make me regret it."
"Yeah," muttered Razor, a broad-shouldered SEAL with a voice like gravel, as he tightened his sling. "Let's hope Superman here doesn't choke when the shooting starts."
Blake didn't react, but Viper turned on Razor with a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "You know what a PJ does, Razor? They jump into Hell with nothing but a med kit, save people while getting shot at, and leave the enemy wondering who the real monster was. Takahashi's gonna patch your sorry ass up when you take a bullet. So shut up and focus."
The others chuckled under their breath as Razor muttered, "Roger that." Blake kept his expression neutral, though he could feel Tank, the biggest of the SEALs, smirking beside him.
"Ten minutes to drop!" the loadmaster called, his voice cutting through the noise.
Viper gave a single nod. "Gear check, ladies. I want nothing loose, nothing forgotten. Once we're down, it's a ghost op."
Blake tightened his oxygen mask and checked his altimeter, his fingers moving automatically. Beside him, Ghost leaned in, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the engine. "Don't let Razor get to you. He's just pissed you're better looking than him."
Blake smirked faintly. "Yeah, that's probably it."
The ramp began to lower, revealing a sky of endless black, sharp stars burning above a jagged horizon. The howl of the wind tore through the hold, and the team stood, their figures outlined in red light. One by one, they shuffled toward the edge, parachutes secured, weapons clutched tight.
"Let's move," Viper commanded.
Ghost went first, disappearing into the abyss without hesitation. Then Razor. Then Tank. The others followed, vanishing one by one into the void. Blake was the last to go, his boots at the edge of the ramp. He took a single breath and stepped off into the night.
The wind hit him like a wall, roaring in his ears as he plummeted toward the earth. The world was a blur of stars and shadow, the landscape below a patchwork of muted greys. His altimeter glowed faintly, its numbers ticking down like the countdown to a storm. At five thousand feet, he pulled the cord, and the parachute bloomed above him with a sharp snap, jerking him violently upward.
The team regrouped on the ground like wraiths, their movements soundless beneath the pale light of the moon. They advanced toward the compound, a crumbling relic of concrete and rusted vehicles half-swallowed by the dry, desolate plains. Two sentries loitered near the entrance, their rifles slung carelessly over their shoulders.
Razor and Ghost broke off, slipping through the shadows like wolves on the hunt. Two suppressed shots whispered through the air, and the guards crumpled to the ground.
The team pressed forward, slipping through the compound's darkened halls. Room by room, they cleared it with precision, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the cracked stone. Blake's heart pounded in his chest, but his breathing stayed steady, his focus unbroken.
They found the hostages huddled together in a damp, windowless room near the back of the compound. Five civilians, pale and hollow-eyed, stared up at them in a mix of relief and terror.
"Takahashi," Viper called, motioning to a woman clutching her leg.
Blake knelt beside her, pulling out his med kit. The wound was bad—deep and messy—but not fatal. "You're going to be alright," he murmured, his voice steady as he worked. His hands moved quickly, bandaging the wound with practiced efficiency.
The sound of rotor blades filled the air above them, the helicopter descending like a great shadow. The team moved swiftly, guiding the hostages out into the night. But the silence was short-lived.
Gunfire erupted from the treeline, muzzle flashes lighting the dark like distant lightning.
"Move!" Viper barked, his voice cutting through the chaos.
Blake half-carried the wounded woman as the others returned fire, their rifles barking sharp and loud. The helicopter hovered above, its rotors kicking up clouds of dust and debris. One by one, the hostages were clipped into the rescue harness and lifted into the air.
When the last of the hostages was secured, Blake strapped the wounded woman in beside him, his arms burning as he gripped the line. The chopper began to rise, the earth falling away beneath them as bullets hissed through the air.
But then Blake heard it—the sharp, grating sound of nylon beginning to tear.
His heart clenched as he looked up. The line above them was fraying, the strands snapping one by one under the weight.
"Takahashi, hold tight!" Viper's voice barked through his earpiece.
Blake glanced at the woman beside him. Her face was pale, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. He could see the terror in her eyes, the fragile thread of hope that kept her clinging to the line.
Blake made his choice.
Blake couldn't count how many times his life had been hanging by a thread, but as the Black Hawk lifted into the air, he realized this time it might be literal. The ropes above him swayed wildly in the darkness, veiled as they were by the chaos. He could see the damage clearly now—frayed fibers glinting faintly, a mortal wound inflicted by stray fire.
Below, the landing zone had become a battlefield. The militia swarmed from the compound like angry ants, pouring into the open with wild screams and blazing rifles. The Black Hawks roared overhead, their mini-guns unleashing a torrent of firepower, cutting through the night like the wrath of heaven.
Blake felt the gut-dropping sensation of weightlessness as the rope line jerked, pulling him and the injured woman upward. The wind screamed past them, deafening, tugging at their bodies as the Black Hawk gained altitude. He clutched the young woman closer to him, shielding her from the chaos below.
Her name was Miranda. She was pale and shaking, barely more than twenty, her wide, terrified eyes fixed upward on the rope above them. The fraying strands were unmistakable, snapping one by one under the strain.
"It's okay!" Blake shouted, his voice nearly lost in the roar of wind and rotors. "It's okay—you're going to be fine!"
Her gaze shot back to him, her lips trembling as the panic set in. "We're going to fall!" she choked out, her voice rough from dehydration and fear. "We're going to die!"
"No, you're not!" Blake barked, his tone firm and steady despite the chaos. "Don't look at that! Look at me!"
Miranda's tear-filled eyes locked onto his, and he forced a smile, soft but reassuring. "What's your name?" he yelled, trying to pull her focus back.
"Miranda!" she rasped, clutching at his vest.
"Miranda! That's a beautiful name," he said, his voice kind but loud enough to cut through her fear. She was so young, just a kid in his eyes. Barely twenty. Blake was thirty-seven, and his entire adult life had been spent in combat zones. This poor girl hadn't even had the chance to start hers properly.
"I'm going to get you home, Miranda," he said, leaning closer to meet her gaze. "You hear me? You're going to make it home."
Her breathing slowed just a little as his words sank in, but when she glanced upward again, her panic returned. The rope was tearing—fast. Blake's stomach twisted as he saw the last few strands holding on by a thread, a grim reminder that sometimes even the best equipment could fail when the universe decided to be cruel.
"Viper, Viper Lead—this is Takahashi!" Blake yelled into his comms, his voice tight but steady. "The rope's not going to hold! I repeat, the rope is about to fail!"
"Takahashi, do not cut loose!" Viper's voice roared back, sharp and commanding. Blake could hear the desperation in his tone. "We'll get you out—we'll set down if we have to! Don't touch that line, soldier!"
"There's no time!" Blake shot back, his voice rising over the wind. He glanced down at Miranda again, her face pale with terror. "We're still in hostile territory! If this line goes, we're both gone!"
"Don't you dare!" Viper barked, his voice breaking through the comms like a whip. Below, his teammates clung to their own lines, watching helplessly as the scene unfolded. Even Razor was silent now, his usual gruff attitude replaced with stunned disbelief.
Blake exhaled slowly, his heart pounding. He looked down at Miranda, his voice softening. "Miranda… I want you to do something for me." He reached into one of his pouches, pulling out a small, weathered envelope and pressing it into her trembling hands. "When you get back stateside, find my folks. Give them this, okay?"
Her eyes widened, tears spilling down her cheeks. "No! No, don't—please!" she cried, clutching at him.
"It's okay," he said, his voice calm and steady, though the weight of the moment pressed hard on his chest. "This isn't on you, Miranda. This isn't on anyone. Shit happens." He smiled faintly, his eyes soft despite the chaos around them.
"Blake, don't!" Viper's voice roared in his ear, a mix of fury and desperation. "You hear me? Don't you f—"
"So others may live," Blake said, cutting the comms before anyone could argue further.
Miranda sobbed as Blake unbuckled himself from the harness, holding on for just a moment longer. He met her gaze one last time, offering her a soft, reassuring smile.
Then he let go.
The wind roared as he fell, the world spinning into a blur of sound and motion. He could see the helicopters above him, shrinking into the distance, their lights fading as he plummeted toward the dark, unforgiving earth below.
For a moment, there was pain—a sharp, blinding impact that tore through his body. Then there was nothing.
Only silence.