Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment.

Credit: Tuckborough dot net

Not in any way, shape or form a Drabble, Droubble, Trabble, or my signature double-Droubble-and-a-half. Brilliant, eh? Oh, I do love prose …

Chapter One: Rage

The battle of the Morannon was not going well - that was plain for any fool to see.

And Gandalf the White was no more a fool than a raindrop was an ocean.

He stood beside a solemn Aragorn upon one of the great hills of dirt and stone; the banner of the King of Gondor flapping idly behind them as both wizard and man silently surveyed the heaving mass on the mires below. Many hours the battle had raged now, as violent and desperate a fight as the wizard had ever witnessed. So much depended on its outcome, yet, from the very beginning, it had seemed like a fool’s errand. Sauron had unleashed a great army of over sixty thousand foes upon them: Orcs streamed down from the hills on either side of the Black Gate shooting wave after wave of arrows at the armies of the West, unable as they were to traverse the deep mires that separated them; Hill-Trolls from Gorgoroth waded easier through the mud than their smaller counterparts, bellowing as they charged, and delighting in smashing at the front ranks of men with heavy hammers; Southrons marched from the Ash Mountains to attack the left flank with wicked blades and vengeful cries.

All across the Morannon men screamed as glinting blades clashed and stabbed at limb and chest, as black-shafted arrows whizzed true to their marks through neck and heart, and as the earth shook with the tumult of troll step and mighty falling hammers. Nazgûl whirled across the battlefield, spreading a cloak of cold fear upon all that moved beneath their dreaded wings, their fell beasts shrieking as they dove and attacked Swan Knight after Rohirrim after Gondorian.

The sun climbed towards the South, working hard to penetrate the foul mists which surrounded Mordor. It cast a hazy red light across the land, and to the wizard's tired eyes it seemed as if the desolation before him was bathed in a sea of blood.

And perhaps it was; for the Host of the West was outnumbered ten to one, and only a miracle could turn the tide of battle in their favour now.

Gandalf spared a look at his silent companion; Aragorn’s face was grim and stern, yet the light of stars shone in his eyes, and the wizard knew that he was clinging - as they all were - to the hope that Frodo might soon achieve his impossible task.

Frodo. The wizard’s thoughts turned to the secret hope of the West. Was he truly a prisoner in the Great Tower, tormented and tortured as the foul Mouth of Sauron had declared? Was Sam with him, beaten and broken for accompanying his master?

He reflected on the tokens he had claimed from the jeering messenger of Mordor: mithril coat, elven cloak and Sam’s Westernesse blade. It would certainly seem as if Sauron’s servant had spoken truly. Yet if that were the case, then what of the Ring? If the Dark Lord had the hobbits, he would also have finally seized his prize, and ought to be joining the battle soon in shape renewed …

Unless Gollum had caught up with the hobbits and reclaimed it first.

Loud screeches caught his attention and he turned his head to the skies. A brief smile flickered across his face as he spied something which lifted his heart and, raising both hands in the air, he shouted: “The Eagles are coming!”

Many heads below lifted, and many voices echoed his cry as the majestic birds dove to attack the fell beasts and their dreadful Riders.

“The Eagles are coming! The Eagles are coming!”

Their fortuitous arrival gave new heart to the armies of the West; men began to fight back with renewed vigour against their aggressors, stabbing, slashing and lunging at troll, orc and Southron alike. Yet barely had Gwaihir and his majestic kinsfolk joined the battle when another screech sounded, then another, and another. Loud, high-pitched screams echoed across the field, making even Gandalf’s blood freeze in his veins. All at once, the fell beasts flew swiftly from the Morannon over the Black Gate and far out of all sight across the Gorgoroth.

Friend and foe alike stilled for a moment to wonder at their flight - a few of the Gondorians even cheered to see them leave before taking advantage of their enemies confusion and felling them where they stood.

“Frodo!” exclaimed Aragorn, his eyes burning with the light of stars as they settled on the wizard. “The Mouth of Sauron played a farce with us - Frodo lies not trapped within Sauron’s nets! He has reached his goal!”

“And yet the Ring lives still,” murmured Gandalf softly, fearing the worst. There could be only one explanation for their hasty flight: Frodo had succumbed to the Ring’s power in Mordor itself, unveiling himself at last to the Dark Lord. Sauron, aware now of his dreadful peril, had recalled his dark knights to save his treasure …

Tense minutes passed as the bloody battle renewed beneath them; the ringing of swords mingling with the screams of the dying. Gandalf could not take his eyes from the fierce red light which burned malevolently in the distance, and he feared the death of the gentle Frodo above all else, if the hobbit had indeed claimed the One Ring in Sauron’s very lands.

A stone dislodged from the hill on which he stood, brushing past his foot as it tumbled downwards to the fetid lands below. He paid it no heed, so intent on the evil light ahead. Another followed it, then another until, soon, a trickle turned into a torrent. A low rumble rose, sweeping through the Black Gates across the Morannon and over the hills upon which stood wizard, king and other allies. All at once the ground began to shake in earnest and Gandalf stumbled. He was saved from a nasty fall only by the quick, steady arm of Aragorn.

Upon the mire below, confusion reigned as blades and arrows went askew, finding purchase in other targets than their intended. One huge troll lost his footing and crashed to the ground, killing many underneath. Still the ground trembled, hills shook, and Black Gates shuddered.

“The Ring is destroyed!” cried Aragorn, righting Gandalf beside him.

“No! I do not believe it is,” replied the wizard, struggling to maintain his balance on the shivering hill. “We would have …”

His was cut off abruptly as a loud, terrible voice boomed from leagues away in Barad-Dúr and rolled over the wasted plains of Gorgoroth to spill through the Black Gates onto the desolation of the Morannon. Hatred gave it lift as soared across the battlefield, washing the ears of all with the sound of its ire.

"Gamgee! GAMGEE! DEFILER!"

Gandalf and Aragorn froze in astonishment, and the battle below them stilled as man, orc and troll all quivered in fear to hear such terrible ire.

Wizard and ranger looked at each other in dread.

What had the little gardener done to provoke such fury? He could not have destroyed the Ring, for Sauron’s voice bellowed in rage around them, a testament to his continued existence. What defilement had he wrought that incensed the Dark Lord to the extent that he would voice his wrath for all to hear?

“Sam,” said Aragorn, a look of apprehension clouding his fair features, “Eru help you, but if you are able, destroy his prize ere he finds you. For if you do not -”

He did not finish his sentence: he did not have to. Even Gandalf could not begin to guess what Sauron might do to the hobbit if he fell into the hands of his Nazgûl servants …

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Author’s Note: Some text and dialogue taken from The Lord of the Rings, The Return of the King, Book Six Chapters 3 Mount Doom & 4 The Field of Cormallen.

A small chapter to begin, but they will be longer. Updates will be nowhere near as fast as they were with the prequel, sorry folks. Other commitments, you know?

Kara’s Aunty :)