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Tiny Tales  by shirebound

Written for the Livejournal Lotr_Community challenge “The March of Power”.
Prompt: From the Tale of Years, March 25: The Host is surrounded on the Slag-hills.
Word Count: 241


"For this is the Ring of Fire, and with it you may rekindle hearts in a world that grows chill."
Appendix B, The Return of the King

The Eagles are come, and the Dark Lord trembles in fear. Surely one of the hobbits yet lives; does he at this moment stand at the Crack of Doom, the destiny of all free peoples clutched in a small, desperate hand? ‘On the one hand lies darkness, and on the other only hope,’ so Gimli told me the Lady spoke. And so even yet I hope. But the hearts of men are easily bowed by such a darkness as this. Do I not feel it, even I? How much greater must it be for them? I must do what I can. There may be no other chance.

“We are either to be victorious or undone,” Gandalf murmured. “Should the One be destroyed, the Three may fail, so it has been foretold. This may be our last deed together, great one.” He bowed his head, reaching out with thought and vision and great need. He felt the pulse of energy upon his finger leap and quicken, building in intensity. Those standing closest to the wizard felt the air about them suddenly crackle with suppressed energy.

Gandalf thrust his hand out before him, crying out a single word in an ancient tongue. The Ring of Fire blazed fiercely, then the air shuddered as a great wave pulsed outward, a force of incandescent hope unleashed, guided by the wizard’s mind to pierce each heart of the Company of the West.

Then all the Captains of the West cried aloud, for their hearts were filled with a new hope in the midst of darkness.
‘The Field of Cormallen’, The Return of the King

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