#when will the gaffers come back from the war? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

beansbeware · 3 years

Text

Beans’ Bagginshield Recs

Here it is! My first rec list eight years since I first started shipping Bagginshield. When this lockdown started (and ended and started again) I found myself re-reading OG/classics and discovering new ones. Sifting through my AO3 history I realized I have read and already forgotten so much fic over the years. For a while, I though the ship had run its course but as we can see now, Bagginshield lives! Check back for updates as I discover (and remember) more fics. Pay attention to the tags and trigger warnings!

I Sang In My Chains Like The Sea by orphan_account for lincesque, IronPanda

In which Bilbo is a Jaeger pilot candidate, and Middle Earth stands on the brink of destruction. (Pacific Rim AU) [Wasn’t sure how this one worked but man it did]

At the Turn of the Year by northerntrash

They say that strange things live in the woods, fair folk and things more spirit than man; don't step between the old oaks, parents mutter to their children, or they might find you, and eat you. Thorin never believed that, but now winter is settling into his bones, the shadows are growing longer through the hoar frost, and he is lost among the trees.

And it was there that Thorin met him, that strange, laughing creature, walking barefoot through the bracken.

Canon-ish

Homeward Bound by perkynurples for 61Below

His life slips away from him on an elven boat carrying him overseas, and there is one last journey Bilbo Baggins must take if he truly means to arrive home.

Sansûkh by determamfidd

The battle was over, and Thorin Oakenshield awoke, naked and shivering, in the Halls of his Ancestors.

The novelty of being dead fades quickly, and watching over his companions soon fills him with grief and guilt. Oddly, a faint flicker of hope arises in the form of his youngest kinsman, a Dwarf of Durin's line with bright red hair.

(Follows the story of the War of the Ring).

The Great Shire Conspiracy by Avelera for Emsiecat

Ten years later, Bilbo can't even go to the Green Dragon without a dwarven tourist buying him a beer and sobbing over Bilbo's great tragic love affair with Thorin Oakenshield. Which would all be quite touching and heartbreaking, if not for one little thing...

Dark (generally not a fan but this one made the cut)

Pain-Bearer by lilithiumwords (unfinished)

In an alternate reality, Erebor was never taken by Smaug, and the War of Dwarves and Orcs never happened. The Orcs invaded the Shire, slaughtering hundreds and taking countless more as slaves. Bilbo is slave to Azog, the Dwarf King's mortal enemy... until the Dwarf King rescues him.

Dwarves! in the Shire

Selling to Hobbits by HildyJ

Exiled from his kingdom and living on the mercy of others, Thorin is determined to make his own way in the world for him and his family. And the annual Summer Fair in Hobbiton sounds like the best place to sell enough of his crafted goods to do just that.

Oak and Mistletoe by HildyJ (series)

After a life dominated by a strange form of sickness, Thorin is sent to the Shire to seek a cure only Bilbo Baggins can offer.

Erebor - Nope, Never Fell

A Most Sensible Idea by HildyJ

Bilbo Baggins isn't sure about this. Not one bit.

Frodo is definitely too young to enter into an arranged marriage with a dwarven king called Thorin Oakenshield. It's a good thing that Bilbo is there to chaperone him through their courtship.

After all, there's no chance that a fussy hobbit bachelor would ever catch the eye of a king.

Signs and Meanings by HildyJ

It shouldn't matter to Thorin that the visiting hobbit cook doesn't speak his language. But it does.

Per Aspera by northerntrash

Deep in the dungeons of the Kingdom of Erebor, in an old, unused storeroom, lived a Hobbit.

In which Bilbo Baggins, a strangely successful thief, makes a mistake, and meets a Prince.

Erebor - Rebuilding

Mother-Tongue by northerntrash for HildyJ

Forget-me-not: a small flower, with four petals, which are normally found in shades of blue with a pink or white centre. These are traditional flowers of intent in the Shire, used to express true love, and remembrance.

In which Bilbo plans to leave Erebor, and Thorin tries to understand why.

Previous Engagements by Lunarflare14

After the Battle of Five Armies Thorin and Company have a new task: rebuilding their reclaimed home. Suddenly Bilbo finds himself up to his ears in responsibility and he surprises himself with how well he can navigate negotiations with elf dignitaries, farmers in Dale, and a dwarf king who has patience for neither.

But as Spring approaches a caravan from the Blue mountains brings something everyone had nearly forgotten: the dwarf woman Thorin promised his hand to many years ago.

Which is fine. It's all fine. It wasn't like Bilbo was falling in love with the king or anything.

That would be tragic.

And I'm Your Lionheart by Lee_Whimsy

Bilbo lingers in Erebor while Thorin recovers from his wounds, and soon finds himself caught up in politics, romance, and the occasional kidnapping. Ensemble cast. AU. Eventually Thorin/Bilbo.

Fix-Its (Gawd we need them)

An Expected Journey by MarieJacquelyn

For years Bilbo has written about his adventures and told stories about his dealings with dwarves and dragons. To most it seemed like fanciful nonsense but to Bilbo it was all very real. A weight followed him home from his travels, one called regret. Now in his final moments Bilbo has a choice to make – go quietly into death’s embrace or go back again and face all the fear and pain for the chance to make things right?

Of course, change is a fickle thing and not everything can be done again as Bilbo is about to find out. In the end, it may not only be salvation that he’s fighting for.

though the stars walk backward by baggvinshield, killaidanturner

Bilbo wakes, always in Erebor, with dark shadows to one side and the first light of a terrible dawn to the other.

An Expected Journey by MarieJacquelyn

Of course, change is a fickle thing and not everything can be done again as Bilbo is about to find out. In the end, it may not only be salvation that he’s fighting for.

Over Your Shoulder by northerntrash

The battle is over, and the lost have been counted. There is too much death, too much blood, and in the middle of it sits one small Hobbit, left quite alone but for a body on the ground and the memory of what might have been. But he is a tenacious creature, and if there is one thing that he has learnt, it is not to give up hope.

In which Bilbo Baggins goes on one last journey, and doesn't come back alone.

Historical Setting

The Ghost And Mr Baggins by perkynurples

They say that everything can be cured by saltwater - sweat, tears or the sea. Bilbo Baggins chooses the last option, taking his recently orphaned nephew and moving to the charming Oak Cottage, overlooking England’s grislier shores. The house charms him instantly, and though he knows nothing at all about the sea, or about making ends meet on his own so far from everything he’s known his whole life for that matter, he’s quite determined to stay, and see his nephew get better, odd sounds in the night be damned. He’s living in a modern world, after all, and the nonsense he’s been hearing about the house being haunted by its former owner, the mysterious Captain Durin, is just silly superstition… isn’t it?

Hobbit! Thorin

I've Grown a Hedge Around My Heart by pibroch (littleblackdog)

Thorin Brandybuck, just recently come of age, still lives in his family’s smial in Buckland, with his parents and two younger siblings. Thorin is an odd duck amongst his relations and neighbours-- unsociable, grumpy, shy, and awkward. And beyond that, he looks rather strange even for a Bucklander, strongly favouring the thick, dark haired build of his Stoorish blood.

It defies all sense and reason why Bilbo Baggins, an exemplar of all the respectable traits Thorin lacked, would ever desire a friendship with him.

Bilbo, as Thorin discovers, is not always as sensible as he appears.

Marriage (or something like it)

An Unexpected Proposal by Eareniel

As Bilbo sat smoking in his empty hobbit hole, he couldn’t help but wonder – when did his life become so boring? Or better yet – when did his old life stop being enough?

He suspected the answer to that question lay somewhere around the time when he had refused Thorin Oakenshield’s offer of marriage.

Something Blue by Lapin

Thorin marries Bilbo after the Battle of Five Armies, a marriage of convenience, not love. Slowly, they must come to make the best of it, Bilbo resolves. After all, he's a Hobbit. They make the best of things.

Magical/Super Powers

On Adventures and Other Forms of Conduct Unbecoming of a Wizard by manic_intent for beingevil

For as long as even the old Gaffer could remember there had been a wizard living in the hill at Bag End, overlooking the Shire. As wizards went, this one wasn't the wandering sort, always out to lure gentle folk out onto nasty adventures, or even the powerful kind, the sort that lived in high towers, reaching out into the ways of the world.

Modern Setting

Old Stone, New Fires by northerntrash

Bilbo was not sure what he had expected when he had agreed to supervise the restoration of Erebor House, on the lonely tidal island in the North sea, but it was not this. The winters up here are cold and harsh, and there is a strange feeling on the air, thick with the brine of the sea and secrets to which he is not privy; there is some part of the long and troubled history of the place that has not been spoken of, a shadow between the broken family gravestones and the caves beneath the cliffs, dark and dangerous.

Perhaps it is all in Bilbo’s mind, but as the nights grow longer, he starts to doubt it, and as Thorin sinks ever deeper into black and incalculable moods, he will have to find what has been lost, before it takes them all.

For This by northerntrash

Thorin Durin had lived in his new flat for approximately eighty four minutes when things started to go terribly, terribly wrong. The wrongness came in the form of a package, delivered to his door, wrapped in brown paper and string, with a small tag wishing him a very sincere welcome to the building.

Nothing Gold Can Stay by perkynurples

Bilbo Baggins led a rather peaceful life, thank you very much, until an old acquaintance decided to turn it upside down, and he found himself agreeing to take a job that’s… let’s say not exactly up his alley, and might eventually cost him a little more than his treasured cozy lifestyle. Who would have thought tutoring a slightly menacing monarch’s more than slightly overbearing nephew could prove to be such an adventure?

Love-In-Idleness by perkynurples

Taking Bilbo Baggins, a successful movie actor who is only just getting used to the perks and intricacies of becoming A Face People Want To See, and putting him together with Thorin Oakenshield, with his very traditional (read: slightly backwards) ideas about what constitutes Real Art and Real Talent, might very well be viewed as just some clothead’s idea of a joke. But there are jokes, and then there are carefully calculated risks the size of controversial reproductions of classic Shakespearean plays - for Bilbo, it is the chance of a lifetime to prove himself to all those who have ever deemed him too one-dimensional to even attempt stage, while Thorin has the opportunity to get out of the rut that’s been hindering his career for so long now, and shine in a role worthy of his talent once again. That is if the two learn how to share the same space for more than ten minutes without wanting to tear each other’s hair out. The course of true love never did run smooth, after all…

If There Were Water by stickman

Bilbo Baggins might be in over his head. He’s purchased an old stone house atop a hill overlooking a city he doesn’t know, and plans to live quietly, largely ignoring the rest of the world. But it’s early April, the rainy season, and the roof leaks, and there's something strange about Bywater House that he can't quite figure out.

Thorin Oakenshield is in his fourth month of trying to reconcile his own grief with his failures at anything remotely resembling a competent single parent, living out of a shoebox flat with Fíli (seven, sullen, and stubborn as hell) and Kíli (five, resilient but cracking), working crap jobs and hating everything including himself.

Under the cover of rainy afternoons and sleepless nights, roof repairs and building restoration, Bilbo and Thorin try to figure out how one navigates isolation, and how one breaks out of it. Every step they manage to take forward finds them dragged back again; every question asked has too many answers, or too few. This is a story about living in a world where everyone is on their own, always, and how things go on.

How the West Was Won and Where It Got Us by stickman

Bilbo is a harried 1st year British literature Ph.D. (early 20th century fiction) who happens to have an interest in spatial narrative structures, a lack of time-management skills, and a tiny apartment with a lot of books and very little furniture. He’s stressed, always, and doesn't quite know where he belongs. He tells himself that really, this is, in fact, what he wants to be doing. But sometimes, as much as he loves books, he gets an urge to do something with his hands.

Thorin is a disgruntled M.Arch. 1 in his last year who can’t be arsed to shave and frightens his students, and, frankly, his profs, but his work is top-notch so no one can really say much. They can, however, bully him into running a hands-on design workshop on Saturday mornings, which is complete crap, because he’s used to drinking his Friday nights into oblivion so showing up at Milstein at 7:45 the next morning and trying to teach in a room of wall-to-wall windows as the sun rises is not at the top of his list. Besides, no one ever shows up.

Except one morning, someone does.

The Boy You Met (At The Coin Laundry) by Lee_Whimsy

Bilbo accidentally spends a summer in Ireland. One rainy day, Thorin appears in the hotel laundry room, naked and dripping wet and about to propose. (But not, unfortunately, to Bilbo.)

Gandalf, Thranduil, and a handful of Spanish footballers all guest-star.

Hooked On You by Chamelaucium

Thorin should have learnt not to trust his brother and sister by now.

Come with us on holiday, they’d said. It’ll be fun, they’d said. A nice break from work.

Yeah right. All this holiday had brought him was being knocked around the head, acute hay-fever, and the biggest, most ridiculous crush ever on the cute, golden-haired fishing instructor.

One-Sided Conversations by northerntrash

"Thank you for listening," Thorin said, getting to his feet. "I hope to be able to return the favour, one day."

The man on the bed didn't respond, but since he'd been in a coma for longer than Thorin had known him, that wasn't entirely surprising.

“One”/Soulmates

you lick your lips (you taste like years of being alone) by perkynurples for stopchasingflowers

Thorin Oakenshield was born without the longing, and has spent his whole life merely observing others as they pursued a feeling unknown to him until they finally found their One. He has made his peace with the prospect of being alone, and has been faring well enough, but little does he know the fates have a different story in store for him.

Things We Grow Together by serenbach

Dwarves are born with a bone-deep knowledge of their One, but Thorin stops feeling the pull of his after the dragon attacks Erebor. Needless to say, he is surprised, and not initially pleased, to find his One living behind a round green door decades later.

Hobbits find a seed that represents their innermost self and can offer it to someone else to plant. This creates a bond as strong as deep roots in the earth between them. It is just like Bilbo, after years of thinking that no one would want his, to offer his soul-seed to a dwarf that does not understand gardening metaphors.

But just because they have found each other does not make the quest to reclaim Erebor any easier, and in the end a sacrifice is still made.

Thorin has to trust in the strength of the bond between himself and his One, because otherwise he will never believe that the sacrifice was worth it.

Colour-struck by northerntrash

Soul mates are like adventures, Bilbo had often consoled himself. Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things that made you late for dinner. It was no great hardship that he had never met his, even if he couldn't tell which of his petunias were blue and which were purple.

Quest-ions

Discovering Mr Baggins by Eareniel

The story of a Hobbit, told through the eyes of the dwarves.

Thorin Oakenshield's Majestic Diary by Fruitsie

Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain and Totally Majestic Badass of Middle Earth, does not have a raging hard-on for Bilbo Baggins.

No, seriously.

Just read his diary.

Call You Home by northerntrash

In which the Company are entirely too nosy about matters that are supposed to be a secret, and Bilbo learns that being concerned about propriety is overrated when you could be making friends instead.

Time Travel (because walking Middle Earth is not enough)

Of an Arcane Binding by Salvia_G

An inexplicable magic ties Bilbo Baggins, hobbit of the Shire, to Thorin, dwarven prince of Erebor

#bagginshield #thorin x bilbo #the hobbit #fic rec #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield

92 notes · View notes

omgkatsudonplease · 3 years

Text

[ficlet, bagginshield] call me thorin (bridgerton au)

The next morning, Bilbo wakes to the sound of an insistent knocking at his front door. Rushing through the halls, he makes it into the foyer just as his valet Holman answers the door for him.

“Delivery for Mr Baggins,” chirps Hamson Gamgee of Gaffer’s Flowers from the other side. Still only half awake, Bilbo toddles over to his valet’s side and peers out, and then promptly does a double-take at the veritable parade of flowers on his front step.

“What,” says Bilbo intelligently.

“It’s from the Dwarf-king,” says Hamson cheerily. “He bought out Papa’s entire stock.”

Shocked, both Bilbo and Holman stand aside to let the flower parade through. Hamson and his siblings array the flowers all over the foyer and the parlours, and when they’re done, Bilbo can hardly move without running into flowers.

It rather feels like he’s trapped in a hothouse, or the botanical gardens at Rivendell. His stomach is swooping with all sorts of strange and contradictory feelings.

“That Dwarf-king must really be serious,” remarks Holman when the Gamgees finally leave. Bilbo doesn’t have the heart to tell him that all of these flowers are a lie.

Bilbo has only ever run into one or two Dwarves before in his past, and he’s certainly never courted (or fake-courted) one before, so he has no idea if this incredible fastidiousness to the terms of the agreement is a Dwarvish thing or a Thorin thing. Either way, it works like a charm. News of the Dwarf-king buying out the entire stock of Gaffer’s Flowers for Mr Baggins quickly gets out, and all of his usual dissembling callers seem to vanish in an instant.

Well, almost all.

“Mr Gladden is here to see you,” says Holman halfway through second breakfast. Bilbo puts down the seed-cake he had been eating in the kitchen with a sigh, shrugs off his dressing-gown for his morning coat instead, and heads into the parlour. An array of cakes and finger sandwiches have been laid out for potential visitors this morning, as well as a pitcher of lemonade, but no one has shown up until now. Bilbo swipes one of the cakes as he sits down in his favourite armchair, and waves for Holman to escort his caller in.

Mr Gladden slinks in with a hunched-over little bow. Bilbo knows he ought to be charitable, but he can’t help but think that there’s something rather unsettling in Mr Gladden’s leer, not to mention his phlegmy coughing.

“Precious has so many flowers today,” remarks Mr Gladden as he takes a seat on the settee opposite Bilbo.

Bilbo bites down the frankly quite rude urge to tell the fellow that he’s not his precious. “How are you doing this morning, Mr Gladden?”

“Very well, very well.” Mr Gladden barely manages to say those words before he starts coughing again. “I came for our riddles, as always. Precious has such nice riddles.”

Bilbo doesn’t feel the smile on his face. It’s been five seasons of riddles, and he still hasn’t summoned the courage to be rude to Mr Gladden’s face. As far as the rest of the Shire is concerned, he’s practically Nienna herself for indulging this fellow in his love for riddles.

He’s about to start on one when Holman shows up at the parlour threshold again. “His Majesty King Thorin of Erebor for Mr Baggins,” he announces.

Mr Gladden’s brows furrow. “I thought I was the only one with Precious,” he says.

“I’ve been in high demand for seven seasons, Mr Gladden,” replies Bilbo neutrally.

“But Precious always has time for me.” Mr Gladden pouts. “Besides, it’s my birthday. I ought to have a riddle for my birthday.”

Bilbo sends a despairing look at Holman, who quickly leaves and returns with Thorin. Bilbo’s breath hitches at the sight of the Dwarf-king in his navy morning coat, whose long dark hair is, as ever, pulled back in a neat low ponytail and braids.

“Good morning, Thorin,” Bilbo manages, a little more breathless than he’d like. Or perhaps the right amount, given the company they’re in.

“I see that my flowers have not sent a strong enough message,” remarks Thorin with a withering glare at Mr Gladden.

“Mr Gladden visits me out of force of habit,” demurs Bilbo, sending Thorin a ‘save me’ look. The Dwarf-king nods, brisk but understanding, and walks over to loom over Mr Gladden. The other Hobbit seems to wilt at that, before slinking out from under Thorin’s glare and heading for the door.

“Nasty Dwarveses,” he mutters, before breaking down in a bout of coughing as Holman escorts him out of Bag End.

Bilbo exhales as soon as the door to Bag End closes. “He’s been like that for five seasons,” he explains as Thorin now takes Mr Gladden’s vacated seat, helping himself to a little cup of flummery. “When we met I was still fairly inexperienced with the season’s social expectations, so I thought I had to give him the time of day. Now he’s like a limpet.”

“I find it astounding that you have not put your foot down and chased him out yourself,” replies Thorin, stabbing idly at the flummery.

“I pity the fellow,” replies Bilbo. “His country manners have not made him many friends. But, over the years, he has grown more and more possessive.”

“Country manners?” echoes Thorin.

“His family is not from the Shire,” replies Bilbo. “They are staying in Buckland for the season, but they originally hail from the edge of Greenwood. But... since most of Shire society does not hold Mr Gladden in high regard, I do rather pity him.”

“Ah.” Thorin nods, leaning back. “So he’s not your true love.”

“Mandos, no.” Bilbo shakes his head vehemently.

“But if he unsettles you, you should let him know of it,” replies Thorin.

“And run the risk of being strangled?” wonders Bilbo. At Thorin’s raised eyebrow, he explains, “there is a rumour in Buckland that one of his ancestors in Greenwood murdered his cousin in a jealous rage because his cousin was leaving to get married. I suspect the very same spirit lurks in Mr Gladden’s eyes. I don’t have the lack of self-preservation to test that theory, though.”

Thorin hums. “Any other persistent callers I should be aware of?”

“Besides Mr Gladden? Miss Bracegirdle, probably,” replies Bilbo. “Neither of them will take no for an answer, it seems, but at least Miss Bracegirdle knows the concept of respectability.” Perhaps a bit too much, but that’s neither here nor there.

For a moment, they sit together, Bilbo idly pouring them both tea while Thorin spoons bite-sized scoops of flummery into his mouth. Bilbo very determinedly does not stare at the way the Dwarf-king’s tongue licks his mother’s delicate silverware.

“We should discuss the exact number of events to attend together, and what to do at them,” he says. Thorin hums in agreement, so Bilbo continues. “Tomorrow is the Brandywine River Promenade, which I hope you’ll attend.”

“I may bring my valet and advisor,” warns Thorin.

“That’s fine,” says Bilbo. “I also recommend packing a picnic basket.”

Thorin nods. “Are there other balls to attend?” he asks.

“Several,” replies Bilbo. “Eight, perhaps.”

“Eight!” The word comes out of Thorin like a winded surprise. “Surely that is overdoing things.”

“And this isn’t?” wonders Bilbo, with a pointed nod towards the flower avalanche surrounding them. Thorin’s cheeks flush pink.

“I did not know which flowers you liked,” he protests.

“Violets,” says Bilbo quickly. “Or daisies. But I wouldn’t say no to roses.”

“See, that sort of indecision leads to results like this.” Thorin’s eyes twinkle in amusement, damn him. Bilbo laughs off his nerves in reply.

“If you can buy out a flower shop, you can attend eight balls,” he declares.

“Three,” insists Thorin. “After all, I am to call on you or promenade with you at other times. But do you not think all of this will be taken too seriously? It rather closes off your schedule to other potential suitors.”

Bilbo chuckles. “In this war we wage against the rest of Shire society, our best weapon is our appearance,” he replies. “Thus, it must be made apparent to everyone what your intentions for me are.”

“The very precipice of marriage,” muses Thorin. Bilbo nods. If the next Stormcrow does not remark on the sudden whirlwind romance they’ve been concocting, he’ll eat his hat.

Thorin sighs. “Six balls,” he offers as a compromise. “After all, I am still king and have duties, even on tour.”

Bilbo concedes. “Six balls, and you bring the drinks to our luncheon tomorrow at the Brandywine,” he replies.

“Deal,” says Thorin. “Would you like it in writing?”

Bilbo chuckles. “That would find its way to Stormcrow eventually,” he points out. “Let’s just make it a promise. Six balls, and drinks to tomorrow’s promenade.”

“Agreed.” Thorin sighs, before looking around him at the state of Bag End’s front rooms. He grins. “Do you need any more flowers?”

Bilbo resists the urge to throw a rose at him.

#the hobbit #bagginshield #lily's dabbles #tolkien #bridgerton au

19 notes · View notes

jerryb2 · 4 years

Photo

In my ongoing quest to create the ultimate Expanded Universe® Grand Master® Luke Skywalker® Lightsaber® (shut up, that’s totally my latest quest 👀), here we have some side-by-side pics of the ROTJ Luke V2 & V3 sabers, as well as the MK1 for scale and reference.

I’ve just recently added the blade plug to the V3, as well as replacing the original D-Ring on the pommel with one that has a more rounded shape, which I personally think looks better. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. 😎

Breaking character for a moment though; ever since I learned about the different versions of Luke’s Lightsaber I’ve been sort of mulling over a metanarrative that I’d like to share (this’ll take a while, so strap in):

For those that might not know, Luke’s lightsaber from Return of the Jedi has a complicated history, to say the least; there are actually multiple screen-used lightsaber props for Luke in ROTJ. If nothing else, this simple fact serves as a testament to the sheer disorganization of the early Star Wars films. In general, movie scenes are rarely shot in sequential order - in fact, they’re shot in an order that’s the most cost-effective. Pressed for time, and shooting the climactic throne room duel with Darth Vader early in the production, the prop department was forced to re-purpose several "stunt sabers" and turn them into on-camera props. These were originally FX/stunt sabers for Ben Kenobi (the MK1) in ANH, and that had since been repurposed so that the actors could practice with them. There’s some really neat footage out there of Mark Hamill and Bob Anderson (Vader’s stunt double) practicing the fight from ESB where Mark is actually using the V2. This led to the V2, V3, Yuma and later, the Hero versions of the same (technically) lightsaber. This also goes a long way to explain why Luke & Ben’s sabers have such a similar profile. How did no one notice this for literally decades? Well, when you take into account that there was no such thing as a high-definition picture, as well as the fact that most kids watched the OT on VHS tapes in the late 80′s and early 90′s, you can start to see why the filmmakers weren’t too worried about smaller details like that.

It was a different time - and in that way - worse.

If we look at the V2 (that is, the one with the gaffer tape around the neck and the overall aesthetic of ‘let’s just get this over with’) we see something that fits the part it played in ROTJ; a weapon made by a burgeoning Jedi Knight, who was probably just glad that it didn’t blow up in his face when he hit the activation plate. For my money though, I’d say that this is Luke’s saber for only a few days to a week, at most.

For anyone who hasn’t read Shadows of the Empire, here’s a brief aside; Luke built his lightsaber using plans he found in Ben Kenobi’s Hut on Tatooine, hence an in-universe reason why the sabers look so similar. After losing to Vader on Cloud City, Luke and his allies spent the next several months recuperating and making plans to rescue Han from Jabba the Hutt. During this time, Luke was able to scrounge the parts necessary to build his new lightsaber; a high-energy reflector cup, diatium power cell and a focusing lens, etc. The only thing he needed to complete his blade was the main crystal. Due to a lack of resources (thanks to Old Palpy himself), Luke was forced to use a synthetic crystal. After a solid month of work, he finally completed his saber and it’s here where we more-or-less meet the narrative of the film. There are dozens of pictures that depict Luke fighting on the sail barge, on Endor and on the Second Death Star - and in the vast majority of them, he’s holding the V2.

So where does the V3 come in, within the context of this story?

Well, after the conclusion of ROTJ and the events of the next several days as depicted in The Truce at Bakura, I would imagine that Luke took some time to reevaluate his saber. Maybe it had begun to malfunction? Maybe the insulation wasn’t properly protecting the power source from the superconductor after all? Or maybe he was just slightly embarrassed that his (not-so) shiny new Jedi weapon had a strip of tape holding it together? The point is, I would imagine that he probably made a trip or two down to the ol’ hangar bay and had a chat with one of the chief mechanics, who was then able to procure some slightly higher-quality components.

The gaff tape is outta there; it doesn’t provide proper insulation and it just doesn’t befit the only Jedi Knight left in the whole galaxy. After the insulator was properly (re)installed, it’s conceivable that Luke took the neck to a milling machine and polished it to expose the metal underneath, revealing its copper-brass color. For that matter, Luke probably gave the whole thing a good once over with some steel wool. Now at least it doesn’t look like a Bantha shat it out after an evening meal. And as it turns out, with proper dimetris circuitry, he doesn’t need the nipple on top of the emitter to stabilize the blade, so he just removed it.

That’s the way it probably stayed for several years; it looked more polished and was properly functional. It would still have the long clamp lever and the unique circuit card over the activation plate, as well as the cone knob and mystery chunk, but we’re already starting to look more like the V3. Then we get to the Thrawn Campaign and shortly after, Operation Shadow Hand with the reborn Emperor. After these threats had passed, we do know (via The Jedi Academy Trilogy) that Luke spent some time contemplating his place/role in the galaxy - it was shortly after this that he decided to establish the Jedi Praxeum on Yavin IV, after all.

By now the clamp lever is getting a bit sad; probably more trouble that it’s worth to replace just the clamp lever, so why not replace the whole thing? And that clamp card is pretty grotty, so it’s time to fix that. And I would imagine that he would be a bit tired of having the cone knob & mystery chunk cutting into his hand (I can relate, fam) so let’s just rework that booster. What we come away with is something that looks almost bang-on like the stock Rudy Pando V3; no emitter nipple, copper wind vane, new activation card and clamp, and no extra greeblies.

From then on his saber stays pretty much the same for a couple of decades....until he recovers it from UnuThul/Lomi Plo after The Dark Nest crisis.

Now, because we know that Luke did build a replacement after UnuThul confiscated his first saber (one which apparently looked almost identical to his OG saber - sure, okay, Troy Denning), I think this is where the Hero saber enters the narrative. Most likely only a short time after he claimed the title of Grand Master of the Order (around the time when the Jedi were preparing to launch an all-out attack on the Dark Nest and thus the newly minted GM would need a functioning saber), I’d like to think that Luke let his natural mechanical ability and technical knowhow run a bit wild - he builds a very close facsimile of his saber, but this time with a proper control box and indicator lights, better basic construction, etc. Once he recovered his original saber, I don’t think it would be out of the question for him to carry over a few design tweaks he had just made with the Hero. Notably, he added back the nipple on the emitter - in the long run, it’s just better to have it since it prevents power bleed-off (or something - lads, I’m literally pulling all of this out of me arse) and more than anything, because it improves the overall profile. And on top of that, it looks like he added some mesh coverings to some of the heat venting ports(?), probably to prevent grime or dirt from building up over time. Smart man, that Luke Skywalker.

And at last, we have arrived at the construction we see in the pictures above; this is (for me) Luke’s saber as he carries it in his duels with both Darth Cadeus & Lumiya, when he goes into (more-or-less) self-imposed exile and through to when he confronts Abeloth and eventually becomes one with the Force.

This has been my TED Talk. Thank you for coming. 😅

Oh, and because I suspect that some of the more eagle-eyed readers out there will be wondering - where does the Yuma fit into all this? Well hey, this is my metanarrative. Go make your own. 😉

#star wars #Luke Skywalker #lightsaber #hero #v2 #v3 #rudy pando #meta #ted talks #dear lord that was longer than i thought it would be #i am so sorry

68 notes · View notes

ill-skillsgard · 3 years

Text

Bred For Blood - Part 17 - The White Flag

Title: Bred For Blood

Warning: 18+ - sex/mature language & themes/gun violence/substance abuse etc. *mentions of blood/injuries/death/weapons/coma/unconsciousness in this part*

Characters: AU Axel Cluney, AU Ivar Lothbrok, AU Valter x OC

Description: A bright, young survivor meets an acid-gun slinging headhunter with a knack for melting faces and connections to a prodigal Utopia embedded in the heart of a deadly forest. Violence and passion incite a battle of fealty while betrayal nips at Zed’s heels.

Note: This one’s for Team Cluney. I really hope you guys enjoy reading! This part was very exciting for me to write for many reasons. Please reblog/like/comment if you like my work and want to give me a virtual pat on the head. I would really appreciate it, please and thank you!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16

The doctor stomped over the rocky terrain, muttering and snickering to himself as the sun cast blistering rays on their backs. The heat never bothered him, only tanned his skin to a deep brown shine. It was the walking that made his knees burn. He'd long since shed his white coat to cover the bulk of the man draped over Rudie's wiry-haired hump, trudging along at leisure. The unconscious hunter he'd found needed all the protection available from the vicious star reaching its highest point in the sky.

The doctor halted his gangly steed every hour to force a measure of water down the burnt man's ululating throat. He often succeeded, and the hunter swallowed without issue, but sometimes, the water came back up as white foam, trickling down the sides of his face and down his neck. The onset of heatstroke turned his skin apple-red, and the doctor sprayed him down with water and gusts of hot air produced by a tattered paper fan he carried with him to ward off flies. Rudie attracted the pests who made a chariot out of the man on the camel's back. They fled their caravan whenever the doctor stopped to check on his patient and settled back in for the ride after he threw the stained coat back over the hunter's burnt shoulders. This went on until nightfall when the dry land showed signs of mercy, and water and shale gave way to the soil.

Rudie let out a guttural complaint when they reached a crop of tall, spindly trees. The diamond-shaped leaves provided shade. The doctor tethered the bleating animal, pressing his finger to his lips for a silence that would not come. Upon unsaddling the groaning man, Rudie threw his hump and sent Axel slumping to the ground, his deadweight at odds with a lengthy fall. His head cracked on a root, and a dusting of earth dried his palette, clinging to everything pink in his mouth. The camel clopped away from the whining mass who'd hitched a ride on his back, and in his wobbling dance, mashed the smallest of Axel's fingers into the soil.

"Rudie! You bumbling old idiot! You gaffer! Shoo!"

The beast side-stepped, snorting and sputtering, indifferent to the further damage done to the man. He shook his proud head, throwing ropes of spit that webbed his lashes. The doctor punished the creature by re-wrapping Axel's hand after a stern disinfecting, withholding the proverbial oats until the animal wandered away to dine on low-hanging leaves. Rudie chuffed whenever the doctor came to retrieve supplies from the riding satchel.

"That wasn't very nice, Rude. This man is our patient! We don't trample the patients. You've no idea the level of harm you caused! He'll be lucky if we don't have to amputate, and you don't have thumbs, so you're even more useless!"

Rudie wrapped his leathery lips around a clutch of grass and ripped it free, chewing and turning away from his master and the unconscious fellow. The camel minded his business and relieved himself on a nearby rock, huffing and chomping any strand of green he sniffed.

Axel vomited throughout the night. The doctor gave up his rest to make sure the man lying comatic didn't swallow his tongue. Then came the shivering and sickly shade of purple flaking his lips. Flaps of the doctor's paper fan spread droplets over his inflamed skin, another courtesy at the behest of his sore arm. Still, Axel moaned and scratched at the earth beneath him in bloody heat and delirium.

"If you can hang on until tomorrow, son, perhaps we'll find some proper shade and build a hut. Hm? How's that sound? Shade and water. For now, just rest, and don't die on me."

When the sun came up, the doctor cleaned Axel using the rest of the clean water from his reserve and stitched the open flesh splitting his eyebrow in two.

"That'll leave a nasty scar. Not that you need any more ruggedness in your act. You're just a lost soldier, sonny. But maybe one day you'll make a brilliant assistant. Better than Rudie, I hope. He hasn't even apologized for breaking your finger. Lookit him over there, shitting all over the camp, the scoundrel. But I'm the one with the oats; therefore, I make the rules!"

"M-muh... muuuh."

"Ah, in the worst of times, we still call our mothers."

"Mmph. Muh—"

"I wonder what's on the other side of those trees," the doctor said, shading his eyes with his hand, peering to the West. "You look well-travelled, sonny. Any ideas? Hate to run into any of those yawners, not knowing when your last shot was. But I suppose I shouldn't expect any valuable input from a man who can't look me in the eye."

After patching him up, the man hauled Axel to a stand and hoisted him onto the camel's back using a tree for leverage and a series of ropes to fasten him down. Once secured to Rudie's hump, the doctor took a few minutes to catch his breath. "Dunno how many more times I can get you up there, son. You must learn how to walk soon. Or I'll build you a sleigh. But that might take some time."

Far off above the foggy treeline, a sheet of ashy cloud broke to reveal bright blue sky. The doctor liked the look of cerulean and the absence of sand, so the begrimed trio lumbering through thick bush where dew still clung to the undersides of the leaves. The doctor went ahead, collecting globules before they evaporated. Rudie answered the doctor's constant rhetoric with wild groans that muffled Axel's whimpering, and they led their procession over uncertain ground.

"I reckon there's nothing but more trees over that ridge, Mr. Soldier. Maybe some mountains we can find a crevice to hide out in. Just until you get your strength back. The only thing I worry about is those damn yawners. Rudie and I will be safe, but you... I'll scout ahead to make sure it's clear. It'll rack up daylight, but you'll thank me when you're not a bubbling pile of soldier juice. Don't worry, sonny. They didn't immunize me for no reason! I count myself among the elites, but that doesn't mean I fancy myself better than you or more deserving of life. We're all in this, you see. Brights and Uns... We're still together, despite it all. They may have tried to kill you, but look at you now! Alive and well. Isn't that a slap in the face? They send you out to war and hope you never come back. They don't even have the decency to immunize you. What a world we live in."

Rudie let out a gaseous bellow. The doctor whipped around and pointed his walking stick at the quadruped. "Don't interrupt, you vile sow. Nobody needs a camel's opinion."

"Ma... Ma."

"We'll look for your mama after we get you looking presentable. Hang on tight, we're going uphill!"

As the ridge climbed, the trees grew denser. The doctor had to guide his camel through a maze of mossy trunks. Thin, whip-like branches prodded at Axel's tender skin. What leafy arms brushed Rudie's head bent back and snapped against the hunter's raw shoulders. Axel didn't notice, lost in the chimeric slurry of recent injuries. They maneuvered over stones and wove between crumbling stumps, avoiding the deadfalls. The steepled ground sloped upward like a great brown ramp of torn earth. Through the thickness, they muttered, minding their footwork, up and up, stopping here and there so the doctor could take in a few wheezing breaths. The camel—finally wary of obstacles—blew wind and groaned, hesitant on the incline.

"Boy, there had better be some more forgiving land over this ledge. I don't think it's workable to keep climbing. We might have to turn back, depending on what I see at the top. Fingers crossed for a lake. A bath would do me good," said the doctor, fanning his underarms and thighs with the paper fan.

"What do you say, Mr. Soldier? Should we keep going? See if there's anything worthwhile over that lip?"

"Muh."

"That's what I thought. You may not be the finest soldier I've ever met, but you're persistent, and that's key. Come on, fellas. Let's pray for water, and up we go! Can't be worse than the blasted desert."

~*~

Ivar's mood reflected his recent successes in bed. When Trinity brought his meal, he thanked her, even asking about her morning and if she was sleeping all right and eating properly. Trinity laughed nervously, sensing a test, and answered with a practiced air of casualty. Did he know of the plan they'd executed to get Zed in to see him? Was his toothy smile a front? Despite her unease, she humoured the leader and left when he dug into his stew and fresh bread. Trinity also noted Zed's absence, and with the King in lively spirits, assumed everything had gone well with the plan.

Ivar inhaled his late breakfast and dressed for comfort to walk the courtyard. With a bounce in his step, he traversed the throat of the Chrysalis, emerging on the other side to a nest bereft of activity. The morning stalls had cleared out, their occupants and merchants returned to their hovels. Even the young ones—usually at play in the courtyard by now—were nowhere in sight.

Ivar passed by the last remaining group gathered around a low podium, whispering over their berry reductions and leafy salads. Like a cluster of threatened barnacles, each mouth clamped as Ivar strode past. He held his head forward, flexing his palette to clear his airways. None of them made a sound until he was far enough away. Their chattering was undiscernible as distant chirping birds. He stopped at the incline of a foothill, spinning to catch them staring at the back of his head. They snatched their eyes away and made like they weren't gawking.

That wasn't the only peculiar thing that happened to Ivar that morning. Since his prolonged absence, the people seemed to have grown used to keeping to themselves. There was no merriment in the air, only sterile drafts pouring in from the filtration system. Ivar shivered from the brisk air, stopping to consider paying Zed a visit at her apartment. A morbid urge pulled him along, and he continued his walk. Ivar waited until somebody approached him—whether it a man or child—to greet him with customary courtesy. Still, nobody shuffled forward to ask him about his day or to offer him a portion of their recent gardening.

Ivar reached the frosted glass doors to the lab and stood still, thick hands hovering next to his narrow hips. Frozen in place, Ivar bit the tip of his tongue. Something told him Zed was inside the lab, and if he wished to see her, he had to set foot beyond the parameters of his expertise. The lab always put him in a bitter mood. It was the only place in the village that wasn't for him. Though he could visit any corner of Kinderfeld he wanted, he'd never felt welcome in the laboratory. The floors and surfaces' sterility made him cower from touching anything, and the lifeless stares he received from the few staff only reminded him of the responsibilities he'd shunned in favour of hedonism. None of them ever begrudged him his appetites, but he was confident they whispered of his ineptitude behind his back.

He wondered if Zed ever talked about him or if she'd ever vocalized displeasures regarding his leadership. Her request from the day before echoed in the corners of his mind, festering and swelling each hour they were apart. There was a bitter drop of ulterior motive in Zed's visit, and he let it slide down the back of his throat when she asked him to open the gate. But they'd made love, and that was more than Ivar expected. In his heart of hearts, he'd feared Zed would demand more; to let her fly the nest in search of Axel, but she'd taken his refusal graciously and kissed him all the same. Still, a nagging suspicion remained. Something was circulating in the air, whipping about the courts and apartments, squeezing under doorways and filling the citizens with doubts.

A stranger on his own land, Ivar lowered his eyes to the ground and turned away from the lab before he recognized any more scrutinizing glances. He powered along, ignoring the guards, their dutiful nods, cutting over the knolls as fast as his muscular thighs could take him without breaking into a run. The loneliness chased him back to his palace, and even its mouth gaped in question.

Ivar noticed Sheraya nearby, spreading dark red petals, a gained cigar of smoking sage held between her fingers. He craved nicotine the moment the fumes peppered his nostrils. Tears coursed down her round cheeks, though she made no sobs, no whimpers. There was only gentle muttering under her breath and more tears. The king stood waiting for her to acknowledge him and then realized she had no intention of breaking her prayer mantra.

Shunned, Ivar turned away, retreating to his house of lush fabric and solitude where he should never have left.

~*~

Vee insisted Zed stay put while he fetched them dinner. Their setting was the top floor of the greenhouse where he'd played cards and got drunk with his brother some nights. Nobody ever bothered them up there. Zed sat in waiting, enjoying the greenery, the twisting vines and canary yellow zucchini blooms. She stretched an arm out to pluck a flower and nibble its petals. Her stomach gurgled for heavier fare, so she ate another. Vee didn't keep her waiting long after, showing up with a basket of seed-crusted bread and a bowl of sliced potatoes slathered in basil paste and cooked to a crisp. For dessert, he brought dried fruit and freshly harvested cashews.

Moonlight vaulted through the trees, defusing over the glass and casting milky shadows on the greenhouse floor. The air was moist with freshly irrigated soil. Baked in the dimness, Zed couldn't take her eyes off the man sitting in front of her. He'd brought with him the game from their youth, but neither of them suggested opening the box. They smiled as they ate, breathing in the deep aromas and savouring their food together. And in the balmy atmosphere decked in silver light, Zed swore Vee was his brother's twin. Her heart shuddered in remembrance. It was what brought them together; the shared sense of guilt and the strengthening suspicion they'd both lost someone, both failed and scorned by the people who'd invested too much faith in their competence. Zed felt at peace beside him.

The scientist was still a welcome member of the village, hence his aptitude for finding rarer delicacies like wine and ripe figs. They split the skins and scooped out the sweet innards, indulging their tongues on the fruit as if it was the richest of luxuries.

"You know what I would absolutely love to eat again?" Zed asked, sucking seeds from between her teeth.

"Popsicles," Vee answered.

"Close, but no. Chocolate ice cream. I'd kill for some chocolate ice cream right now. "

Vee shook his head. "No way. Strawberry all the way."

"A hot fudge sundae with peanuts and a big maraschino cherry."

"Peanut butter sauce."

"Oh, my God. Don't say that," Zed groaned.

"It's so good. I can't remember the last time I had ice cream. Remember when you could walk a couple blocks in the Summer and buy an ice cream cone?"

Zed smiled, but the thought pricked her memory. "The last time I got ice cream was with my Dad. I got the biggest chocolate sundae, with peanut butter cups and chocolate sprinkles. He told me there was a full day-and-a-half's worth of calories in it, but I didn't care. It was after a soccer game. I didn't like soccer, but if I went to practice every week and scored at least one goal, he'd take me out for ice cream. Two goals meant I got ice cream and five dollars."

Zed sighed, continuing, "I hate thinking about the last times. Like at one point, you did something for the very last time. The last trip for ice cream. The last time you told someone you loved them."

"If you hate thinking about last times, then why are you doing it right now?" Vee asked, eyes blank as discs.

She grimaced, reaching out to touch the toe of her shoe to his, then softening her face. "I can't help it sometimes. Don't tell me you've never thought about how it used to be. You don't have to look at everything so logically."

"I don't," Vee said. "I just rather not think about those times."

"I'm sorry. Is it?—Never mind."

"My fiancé and my kid? Yes. It's always them."

Zed set her dish aside and scooted beside Vee, pressing her back against the wooden barrier of the melon patch, mirroring his position, her mouth just as dead grim as his.

"You seem to handle it well enough. But I understand. I think everyone lost something important to them," Zed offered.

Vee sighed, turning his face to the floor, cutting off the glistening whites of his eyes from view. "Found out she was pregnant the night before I left to work for the army."

"The army?"

"Yes. I had a knack for inventing. You've seen the ammunition I designed for Axel. And it takes a special gun to fire something that lethal without complication. They wanted that kind of technology and offered me a nauseating amount of money to oversee mass production. The only smart thing I ever did was refuse to sell myself. It cost me my family, but I can say with certainty Axel is the only person besides me who's fired one of them. Could you imagine what the world would be like if those had gotten into the wrong hands?"

Zed bottled talk of acid and bloodshed with a shiver and a firm hand on Vee's wrist. "Enough of that. Please. Tell me about her—your fiancé. Let's just... Remember them fondly. I don't want to think about the bullshit out there."

"You'd rather stay inside these bubbles, ignoring a second societal collapse in the making?"

"Yes. I'd rather enjoy my time here with you, listening to nicer stories. This is all that's left. I don't want to think about where we went wrong or right. Let's just talk about what made us happy."

Vee nudged her shoulder. "Why can't we talk about what makes us happy now?"

She giggled and rested her temple on his shoulder. Vee curled his wrist around her knee, and their fingers intertwined. He leaned his head on hers like they had in his apartment before Lora caught them, this time with his heart pumping in double-time.

"What makes you happy now?" Zed asked him.

"Not talking about dead relatives."

"Okay, true. Let's not. So... What are you content with?"

"You," Vee blurted.

Zed's chest tightened. Vee let go of her hand and angled his torso toward her. "I'm sorry. It's difficult for me not to... Stick to you. If I'm honest... You look like her, Lea. I really hate how much you remind me of her. And I don't want to use you to fill the void. It's wrong, but I can't help it. Everywhere I look, I'm reminded of how much I lost. And you're so understanding. You don't have all these expectations."

"Vee—"

"I don't want you to think I'm coming onto you. You don't owe me anything. All I'm saying is, I'd be happy to stick together."

"We will! I want to stick with you, too."

Vee combed his blond hair back, pinching his brows together. "Lea... I want you to tell me no, right now."

"No? What do you mean?" Zed asked.

"Tell me there's no chance in Hell we'll ever get together. If I have it planted in my mind, then that's that. But if you don't, and we continue hanging out like this, getting closer... I might... Think there's a way."

"Valter..."

"Axe knew what he was doing when he brought you here...when he introduced us. Yes, he wanted protection for you, but he also wanted you and me to hit it off. I could tell. He'd never admit it, but I know him. You're perfect for me, but I've seen how others treat you, and I refuse to do the same. I don't want to perform tricks to impress you into sleeping with me like Ivar, but I don't want to stifle my feelings like... Axel. So you need to shut me down, right now. If there's a firm barrier, my mind will reroute, avoiding any possibility—"

"Stop," Zed said. "Please, just stop."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought any of that up."

"No, it's good to speak your mind. I appreciate the honesty, even if it took months to hear."

"It would have been inappropriate if I brought it up. When we had research and pressing issues, it was easy to ignore how familiar you seemed. Now I'm at a stalemate, and you're still here, and Axel's gone. I can't pretend like I don't want to spend my time with you. But I'll stay off your heels, I swear. Just friends."

"I'm not telling you no," Zed murmured. "Maybe at some point, I wanted to fall in love, but now I know that's foolish. Love can't exist in this world anymore. Not without great suffering, and I don't want to suffer anymore. Truthfully, I don't even want to get close to you, Valter, because I'm afraid someone or something will take it away."

"Nothing will take me away."

Zed shook her head, knocking a tear loose. "Don't say that. You can't make that promise. I don't want any more broken promises."

The scientist nodded while a cloud of vapour seethed from the sprinkler heads above the raised garden beds, thickening the air and clinging to their skin. A long silence pervaded, and Zed held her breath until Vee shuffled away to retrieve Wayfare of Austea. He dropped the box before her feet and grinned widely.

"Come on then, let's play. No more doom and gloom for a while."

~*~

Ivar spent the same evening pacing in his room. He went to the private alcove he assigned to the woman on his mind. Zed was fickle, and he didn't want to dash his chances with her by smothering, but something in his stomach wouldn't settle. He'd even dismissed his guard, encouraging another visit, yet she hadn't shown. Ivar buckled under the suspicion that she was angry with him, and her absence was his punishment.

Never the man to deny himself, he made for the Hives. If Zed was alone, surely she'd welcome his company. She'd said it herself: she wasn't one to sleep with just anyone, and he was far from just anyone. He was King, and this was his realm.

Despite his self-reassurance, Ivar carried doubts that manifested on his face. He passed a few citizens, drawing eyes with his acidic mug and ignored them all the way to Zed's door.

She didn't answer the door after he knocked. He reasoned she might be asleep, though it was shy of nine o'clock—early for most but not an unusual time to sleep. Before he turned away, he twisted the handle and cracked the door open an inch, letting out the dark.

"Lea? Are you in here?"

Stagnant silence answered, and he shut the door before anyone saw him. Ivar went to the door on the left and found that one locked. He grimaced, turned from the apartments and left for the lab.

On his way through the courtyard, Ivar saw Nalani and Trinity walking arm-in-arm, engaged in private discussion. Their frantic doe-eyes widened to see him.

"Have you seen Lea?" Ivar asked.

"She should be home, I think," said Trinity.

Nalani shrugged her bare shoulders, still clutching her friend's hand. "I thought she'd be with you, Ivar."

He sneered at the women. "No curtsy? No formality? Has everyone forgotten who's in charge around here?"

The two pressed their arms together, quietly apologizing and stepping aside for Ivar. He stalked toward the lab, holding his breath while throwing open the doors and turning the corner to find the rooms gutted of materials. The refrigerator hummed, and the overhead light flickered, barren and reeking of sterilization.

Ivar examined the dustless surfaces, curious but not enough to go digging through desk drawers. He went down the hall and stopped in front of Vee's door, clearing his airways again to sharpen his ears. There were no voices. Ivar knocked and went unanswered.

He turned in time to see the first door in the hall open and Lora's head poking out. She wore the same displeasure on her face, adjusting her reading glasses while her body caught up with her neck.

"If you're looking for Vee, he's hiding away with that woman everyone is up in arms about," Lora said.

"Hiding away? With Lea?"

"Yeah, whatever her name is. They haven't been here since I caught them getting up close and personal in Vee's room."

Ivar's stomach flipped, his head buzzed. Lora took great pleasure in the snagging of his mouth. She had been fuming by herself, finding specks of dust to brush away to keep her mind off her superior who'd run away with the girl she'd grown to distrust. Lora was a woman of insecurity, easily threatened by others but quick to bite back when given a chance. After she'd found Vee shoulder-to-shoulder with Zed in his apartment, Lora waited for any opportunity to drive a wedge between her beloved head scientist and the newcomer from the desert. Now was the perfect opportunity to damage Zed.

"What do you mean?" Ivar asked.

"You know what I mean, sir. They were practically on top of each other."

Ivar had no reason to discount Lora's claim. She'd proven herself a trusted and valuable member of the village long ago and never caused a ripple of dispute. The folding of her face and iron-clad seriousness was all the King needed to believe what she told him.

"Where are they?"

"I assume—if they're smart—hiding in one of the greenhouses. I wouldn't be surprised if you caught them naked in the strawberry bushes."

Ivar scoffed and rushed away. Lora watched until he disappeared, then went back inside the incubation room and put on a pair of gloves. There was an electric cooler housing blood samples, one from each member of the village. Lora selected a sample from the bottom tray and shuffled to the sink, turning on the tap while reading the label. Popping the top off the vial, she upended the sample and drained the blood away.

Ivar did better than storming the greenhouses in search of Zed. There were slinkier things on his mind. If he caught her in the act with the scientist, only then would he justify blowing up. For now, he snuck through the grounds with his focus tuned and his breath steady.

"What's next for me? I've tried to convince him to let someone go, but he refuses. Do we just exist here now, with no way to move forward? Forever trapped in this moon unit."

"He'll come to his senses," Vee said with meagre hopefulness. "Ivar's full of himself, but he's not stupid."

"Well, let's count on those senses coming soon," Zed snorted.

"Speaking of Ivar... Do you think he's wondering where you are? You did just... You know. If that happened to me, I'd be thinking about it for a while. Wondering after you. Well, not you—'cause we never... Heh. Ah, shit. You get my meaning, right?"

"Mr. Cluney, are you flustered? I don't think I've ever heard you fumble your words before."

"I don't mean to be coarse."

"Don't worry. We'll get through this. Ivar has to see reason… We need to tell him about the ones who died."

"I'll tell him. It should be me," Vee said, stacking the playing cards back in the plastic tray lining of the frayed box.

Zed helped by gathering pieces, separating them into their individual quadrants next to the cards. She set her eyes dead on the floor after they finished packing the game away, sighing in contemplation.

"Who will go?"

Vee frowned. They shared a strained minute of silence interrupted by another burst of spray in the air. Their shirts stuck to their backs, legs aching from crossing and uncrossing. Zed handed the box to Vee.

"Maybe it should be me," she said.

"Absolutely not. You can't leave. It's too dangerous out there, and you don't have to put your life on the line. There's only two people who should go. Me or Ivar."

"You're too important to lose, Vee. That's what Axel wants. I know if he had a dying wish for me, it would be to look out for you. For us to do everything we can to survive."

"Within capability. I'm not a killer, Zed. I'm not like Axel."

Zed smirked, the merciless flames dancing in her belly again, the same ones she'd felt when she screamed at Lora. She'd harboured the noxious warmth before. It was a friend to her.

"But I am...I'm a killer."

Vee set his jaw firmly, scoffing, unable to disagree. "Listen, Rambo. Even armed to the teeth, you're still not going out there alone."

"And neither are you if you go."

"You think Ivar will leave his precious cocoon? I don't think so. He'll probably send one of his guys out to never come back."

Zed shook her head, tired of the speculation. "This is ridiculous. Anyone should be able to come and go as they please. It's tyranny to tell them they can't leave if they want to. I thought this was a place of free will? What happened to the promised land?"

"Same thing that always happens when one person is left in charge."

"On that, we agree."

They left the greenhouse with much to think about, hugged goodbye in the courtyard and separated—Zed toward the Hives and Vee following the path to his room.

The next morning Zed awoke to guards butting on all the doors, yelling for everyone to get to the courtyard. The racket came after a long night of tossing and turning. Her eyes were tight with unrest, her head throbbing, but she put on jeans and a plain white t-shirt with a single breast pocket, similar to the ones Ivar wore.

The citizens filed from the Hives, murmuring and looking around worriedly. Guards stood by to direct the traffic to the medical tent-turned-backdrop. The booth topped the steepest hill in the plaza, out of use for the past few weeks. They pooled around the base of the hill in collective confusion, looking up as Ivar took advantage of the blank vinyl behind him.

Ivar cast a proud smile over the congregation. He summoned everyone from their hiding spots without having to lift a finger and brought them into the light spilling through the checkered dome on high. He waited until he spotted Zed and Vee coming in from their separate tubes, relaxing a bare inch when they didn't arrive together. They cut their ways to the front of the throng and noticed each other right away. Ivar saw the troubled looks they exchanged and sneered.

"Is this everyone?" Ivar called to the head of his guard.

An armed man standing off to the East with a few others gave Ivar a thumbs up. The King nodded, then proceeded, his expression toward his people fresh with tenacity.

"Ladies and gentlemen of Kinderfeld. I've asked you all here to bring you some news. It has taken me a long time to come to this decision, and for my delay, I apologize. I don't take this lightly... We've lost members of our family, and my heart is broken. I've spent too long trying to think of a way to bring trade back to our village. We need supplies, yes, and medics. I understand these things because I've survived before. All of us must exist as a unit, each one pledged to the survival of our crew."

The people looked on with widening eyes. Hearts that once sang for Ivar's monologues found their tune. All of them but Azalea and the other Cluney brother. Ivar burned them with ocular venom, hoisting his smile into a morbid curve. Zed let shoulders and legs swallow her back into the crowd, but not deep enough to block her view of the head scientist glaring back at the leader.

"I forbid travel for your protection. There are dangers outside of our walls. People whose only purpose is to hunt and kill. I don't have to remind you of the horrors we've suffered or the love we've cultivated here in our home. You were all there. Some of you longer than others. They built these walls to protect us—the ones who choose love instead of hate."

Ivar clasped his hands behind his back and took splinted steps back and forth on his makeshift stage. He fashioned himself contemplative, but his eyes shone with intent.

"With that being said... We cannot wait for luck to come to us. This planet is evolving each day. Nature is reclaiming the land, and it will swallow us in its majesty. We will be lost if we don't take action."

"What do we do?" Someone called from the center of the gathering. The fiery-haired father who'd earned his keep cooking and training his son stood out as the shouter. Ivar didn't smile at him so much as he cast his grace upon the redheaded man clutching the freckled boy by the shoulders.

"I'm glad you asked, sir... We are a unity. A tribe of people who want to live in harmony, am I wrong?"

Several shook their heads, others muttered together, a dull drone of tired voices.

"Then we should vote. Does anyone care to nominate themselves or another?"

The apprehension pivoted and picked up with a few gasps. Heads swivelled in search of somebody bold enough to champion themselves for exploration. Vee continued glaring at Ivar. The king returned the glower.

"I'll go!"

Zed gasped after the words left Vee's mouth. He stepped forth, unbreaking under Ivar's challenging eyes.

"So we have one volunteer. Our beloved head of research and weapons development. A very noble gesture! Does anyone else wish to nominate themselves?" Ivar asked. He opened his arms, beseeching a reply with postured hope.

"Nobody should go alone!" Zed shouted.

"Yeah, we need a team!"

Ivar motioned for the crowd to quiet down. Once they simmered, looking on with palpable anticipation, he inhaled deeply for the next addressing.

"We're running low on men to keep our hold. The brunt of the firepower needs to remain here in case of attack," Ivar reasoned.

"I'll go alone. I don't care. We can't stand around any longer!" Vee said, his chest puffed, much to the surprise of the people who knew him.

Ivar barked a few dry laughs, disguising his pleasure to everyone but Zed and the man who'd volunteered to brave the elements. "I suppose if nobody has any objections...Vee will be the one to go. As badly as it tears me to say so... You are the perfect man for the job. Brother, I wish you all the luck."

Zed broke away from the gather and hammered her legs up the incline toward Vee and Ivar, pumping her fists until she reached them.

"Ivar, you can't do this! We can't send people out alone. At least let me go with him!"

"No!" Ivar and Vee shouted at once.

"What are you going to do to stop me? After your decree about peace and harmony, what will you do to keep me from leaving Kinderfeld?"

Ivar adopted her heated expression. "Azalea, stay out of this."

"No. I won't! Not after what happened to Axel. We have to assemble a team! Don't tell me to stay out when neither of you has seen the carnage!"

"Of course you want to go, Lea. All you care about is finding Axel. You used me and hoped I wouldn't figure out you're trying to leave. You never cared about me. You try to act like you're so innocent and respectful, but you're just like everyone else."

"Because I don't want people to die? Ivar, I understand you're trying to protect everyone, but sending men out for slaughter won't help our cause. Please," Zed whimpered. "Set aside our personal issues and try to see the bigger picture."

Ivar cooled suddenly. He patronized Zed with a frantic nod and a forced grin. "All right, Azalea. Consider our personal issues permanently set aside. You got your way. One of the guards will go with Vee. Now, go. I have heard your voice."

The guards gathered around Ivar and Vee, their conversation clipped and sheltered from the citizens by a lineup of broad-shouldered men carrying weapons of varying levels of brutality. Zed stepped away, cowering under the firm looks she received from Ivar's men. Though she bowed out of the political bubble, she stayed close by, watching Vee's sour face muttering umbrage at the King. The other citizens broke off into smaller clusters, chosen families and cliques gathering to discuss the ruling.

A hand slid over Zed's shoulder, and she whirled to find Sheraya bowing her head. "You've done what you can."

"No, I haven't!" Zed nipped. "I should go with him. I'm not afraid of the outside anymore."

"You don't have to be the hero, Azalea. You must survive."

"I have survived. I'm good at it."

"You're needed here. The young ones have to learn from the women."

"Sheraya... I can't let Vee go. I can't."

The elder took hold of Zed's clammy palm, pressing the lines with her thumb. Zed buckled as tears sprung from the corners of her eyes. "He's all I have, Sheraya."

"The only one you ever truly have is yourself. Think about that before you take your heart's path and not your brain's. Look hard into the future."

"I'm trying," Zed sobbed.

"Azalea, I mean it. Your future is important."

Sheraya left her with a warm peck on the cheek and a growing sense of bewilderment. Zed looked around at the people, the hills and the courtyard beyond, the flatland where they set up their booths and entertained each other. Envisioning life beyond the safety of their walls overcame Zed with grief. She'd won, but the conditions were too heavy for her to bear. Now her last friend prepared for expulsion.

Vee took his charge seriously. Zed saw his raw determination as they hashed out a plan. Several times, she stopped herself from storming their parley, anchoring herself to the ground with locked knees and her arms folded over her breasts.

For a long time, the conversation went on, and most of the villagers went about their morning routines, gathering to cook and gossip of the turbulent state of politics. Zed stayed close enough to catch Vee when they finally broke for action, but the men showed no signs of agreement. Ivar had to hush some more uproarious guards, leashing them down with an assuring hand on the shoulder to stop them from infecting the others with their rancour.

Zed spotted a guard sprinting from the warehouse limits. The desperate look on his face alerted her, and she stepped out of sight around the corner of the medical tent, still close enough to listen.

The man approached, panting and calling for Ivar's attention. Zed snuck a peek and saw the group retire from their conference, distracted by their comrade.

"Jackson, what's the matter?"

"It's Zee. It's him! One of the guys found some doctor dragging him through the forest."

"A doctor?" Ivar repeated. "How do you know?"

"He says so. Says his name is Simpson... Or was it Samson?"

"Samson!" Zed yelled, running from her cover toward the reporting guard. "Did you say the doctor's name is Samson?"

"Yeah, Samson," the man huffed, stunned by the woman's sudden appearance.

"Bring him in! Right now. Go get them and bring him to me!" Zed demanded.

"Now, wait a minute," Ivar said. "How do we know we can trust this guy?"

"If it's the Samson I know, we can trust him. Ivar, please. I'll vouch for him if it's who I think it is."

"Who gives a shit, he's got my brother!"

Zed vaulted after Vee, tailed by the guards and Ivar. The march heralded interest from the citizens, and soon, onlookers roved toward the warehouse. Vee turned to the guard who'd brought the news and slapped him on the shoulder. "Go tell them to let Axel and the doctor inside."

"Sir," the guard nodded, jogging ahead to the entrance where two other men stood, baffled and conflicted without orders.

"Let them in!" Zed cried out.

They waited with bursting lungs. It seemed an hour crawled by before a shadowed heap of arms appeared at the mouth of the entrance. Flanked by two guards holding him upright, they carried Axel inside, his head of matted brown hair dangling lifelessly between his shoulders, limp tattooed arms slung around their necks. Zed ran to him and propped his chin up in her hand, heart palpitating, head rushing.

"Axel! Oh my God. You're alive!"

"Now, now, miss. Don't waste too much breath speaking to him. He can't understand you."

Zed turned toward the familiar voice. Samson hobbled in next to a guard who'd taken on his load—a heavy satchel, a duffel bag and two tweed suitcases. Filth and the briny stink of body odour and piss wafted through the tunnel with them. Most recoiled from the stench.

"Doctor Samson, do you remember me? From the bloodbank."

"Ah, yes, of course, I remember you, Zed! You used to zip around on your motorbike, looking for scrap metal and something to eat."

"Yes, yes! I didn't think I'd see you again."

"The chances of us meeting were rather slim, I agree, and I have to say it's lovely to find you in this magnificent bubble here. You can see this splendid little valley from the North. We were hoping for water, but this is much better. Um, speaking of water, where might I find some? Mr. Soldier and I are rather parched. Oh, and I left my camel parked outside. Do you validate?" Samson said with a jolt of wild laughter.

Zed didn't mean to be rude, but turning away from Samson was far too easy when Axel hung before her like a damp towel on a clothesline. She wanted to hold him, to join in as support to get him a surface to lie upon, but she resisted.

Ivar butt in and directed the escort to take Axel to the laboratory, then turned to Zed, scorning the tears in her eyes.

"Looks like you got your wish, Lea. Axel's back. Your life can go back to normal," Ivar said as the rest of them rushed away with the hunter and the doctor in tow.

It was only them, facing off on the hill. Zed quelled the wildfire in her belly with a painful swallow. A debate with Ivar served no purpose, so she turned from him, solemn and absolute.

"You've given me a lot, Ivar. I thank you for that. Hopefully soon, you and I will see eye to eye again, and we can live peacefully, as you said."

She angled down the hill, hurrying toward the laboratory.

Nobody stopped her from entering the stand-in hospital room. Vee had been worrying over his brother, grimacing at his crudely wrapped hand, violet dark and lame at his side. They'd already stripped him naked and laid a blanket over his lower extremities, so the bruises spraying his ribs screamed in the whiteness. His skin was bright red and glossy, shoulders scabbed with burns. With all his muscles slackened, Axel spilled over the bed, deadweight and loose-jawed.

"What happened?" Zed asked, turning to the doctor propped up in a gurney, sipping from a jug of water.

"I can't say for sure," said Samson. "He was comatose when I found him baking in the desert. That's one lucky man, right there. Lucky he crawled his sorry ass to where he did. Otherwise, I might have missed him by a mile."

"What should we do, Samson? How do I make him come out of it?"

"Oh, we can never be sure. It could be a few days, weeks... Months. My suggestion is to regulate his body temperature, treat his wounds and burns, and hope for the best."

Zed turned back to the unconscious man. She spotted the clumps of dirt in his hair, the scrapes on his elbows and mud-caked fingernails and her panic increased.

"Somebody bring me washcloths, soap and water right now!"

"I'd be mighty careful cleaning those burns, Zed. He's got some good blisters forming. And mind his hand."

"I will, I will," Zed nodded. "Just tell me what to do."

"Can I bother someone for a snack?" Asked Samson.

The guards who'd toted them into the lab stuck around until no longer needed. Zed refused help from anyone except Vee after Trinity brought them a bucket of warmed water, and Lora provided antiseptic. They started cleaning Axel gently, beginning with the grime under his nails. Samson ate from a bowl of mixed fruits, humming in delight from the nectar sliding down his throat.

Zed moved Axel's injured arm with great care and washed away the smears of dirt marring his tattoos, applying disinfectant to the cuts. Vee worked on the opposite side of the bed, combing out the chunks in his hair. Once in awhile, Zed met Vee's eyes, and he'd nod or give her a forced grin.

Axel's unconsciousness only registered later in the night after they'd cleaned him and swapped a few words of astonishment. Zed stayed nearby, wishing his eyes open, but every hopeful breath gave way to disappointment. Lost in the blankness of his mind, Axel floated.

Even Lora surrendered to the sobering tension, making herself available to Vee only. Zed didn't concern herself with the woman. Her mind was awash with relief and worry for the friend who'd found his miraculous way back home. Nothing else mattered but the battered man lying in slumber on the hospital bed.

Samson fell asleep, and Vee left after long, touching Zed's shoulder before excusing himself. He promised to come back as soon as he'd had some rest. Zed nodded, squeezing his hand for a lingering moment, then releasing him. Sleep had no chance of overtaking her, so she stayed next to Axel, balling herself up in one of the office chairs, listening to his wheezing and sticking her fingers under his scruffy jaw to check his pulse every time he went silent.

When it was only her, Axel, and Samson sleeping in the room, she leaned over the bed and brushed her palm over Axel's scaly forehead. She avoided his singed nose, the curving laceration above his left eye and the peeling skin on the crests of his cheeks, touching his jaw and stroking his hair a few times.

"Don't worry, everything's okay now. You're back where you're safe."

The woman slumped into the chair, propping her heavy head on her elbow. She watched his chest rise and fall for a few minutes, plates of seared skin stretching tight over his ribcage, and fought off the urge to doze alongside him.

"Mmph-uh... Muh."

Zed's eyes snapped open. "Axel? Did you speak?"

"Hmm," he thrummed.

"Can you hear me, Axel? It's me, Zed. Azalea. Do you recognize my voice?"

Axel's throat went quiet, the enfeebled notes fading back to obscurity. Zed tried to get him mumbling again, but the hunter remained still.

"It's okay. I promise, I'll make you better. You're home now, and I'm not going anywhere until you’re better, okay, Axel? Don’t worry. You’re at home with me."

Like what I do? Tip me on Ko-Fi (if you want :D)

@dreamtherapy @reinamysterio @skarswhat @mightbelindsey @sexual-rendezvous-blog @billskarsgardx @michaeliskindahot @tigers-pat @rainbowmoosie @tinygayfungi @pancake-blonde @bskarsgardlove92 @sarah2057 @ohcaptains @loveforbillskasgard @vikingsmania @billdreamy69 @lordeofther1ngs @theredheadsbookcorner @1-800-imagines @readsalot73 @nicolehoran-maybe @weirdlilwitch @enchantedreadersworld @allkundsofwrong @loey-bae @bill-istvan @army-crawl-andersen @sunshineandskarsgards @beyond-the-ashes @whoplansthese @evaolii-blog @frappylou @alylanaeblack @billullabies @bohemianfortunes @moondustmemories @terry2227 @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @alltimesamantha @amelia-in-w0nderland @thestonerosas @skrsgvrd @sorryimviolet @tweakersqueaker @inforapound @eff1ngqueen @skrsgrd-my-boi @rekdreams-fandom @b-afterhours @anastasiaskarsgard @ainatirb-j @voodoo-queen @quiche-pocket @awkward-haux @thorins-queen-of-erebor @originalclodmakergarden @skrsgardspam @tumblingdwntherabbithole @xbuckxnastyx @skadithegoddess @whiskeyxinxaxteacup @calumculia0 @bethskarsgard @ohhoneyaaaaaaa @ziamhathrisen @tgrrose @didiintheblog @bitchwelcometoparadise @maggiescarborough @anacerta @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @spitch0 @grandpa-sweaters @mamaloser1 @mycrimsonsparrow @scxrsgxrd

(If you would like to be tagged or have your tag removed, please let me know!)

#axel cluney fanfiction #bill skarsgard fanfiction #ivar the boneless fanfiction #valter skarsgård fanfiction #AU fanfiction #Bill Skarsgård #alex høgh andersen #valter skarsgard

41 notes · View notes

avery-foxglove · 4 years

Text

FrodoSam Moments in The Lord of the Rings (Books): The Return of the King

Sam shuddered and tried to force himself to move. There was plainly some devilry going on. Perhaps in spite of all orders the cruelty of the orcs had mastered them, and they were tormenting Frodo, or even savagely hacking him to pieces. He listened; and as he did a gleam of hope came to him. There could not be much doubt: there was fighting in the tower, the orcs must be at war among themselves, Shagrat and Gorbag had come to blows. Faint as was the hope that his guess brought him, it was enough to rouse him. There might be just a chance. His love for Frodo rose above all other thoughts, and forgetting his peril he cried aloud: ‘I’m coming, Mr. Frodo!’

He ran up again, and sweat began to trickle down his face. He felt that even minutes were precious, but one by one they escaped; and he could do nothing. He cared no longer for Shagrat or Snaga or any other orc that was ever spawned. He longed only for his master, for one sight of his face or one touch of his hand.

With a cry Sam leapt across the floor, Sting in hand. The orc wheeled round, but before it could make a move Sam slashed its whip-hand from its arm. Howling with pain and fear but desperate the orc charged head-down at him. Sam’s next blow went wide, and thrown off his balance he fell backwards, clutching at the orc as it stumbled over him. Before he could scramble up he heard a cry and a thud. The orc in its wild haste had tripped on the ladder-head and fallen through the open trap-door. Sam gave no more thought to it. He ran to the figure huddled on the floor. It was Frodo.

He was naked, lying as if in a swoon on a heap of filthy rags: his arm was flung up, shielding his head, and across his side there ran an ugly whip-weal.

`Frodo! Mr. Frodo, my dear!’ cried Sam, tears almost blinding him. `It’s Sam, I’ve come!’ He half lifted his master and hugged him to his breast. Frodo opened his eyes.

`Am I still dreaming?’ he muttered. `But the other dreams were horrible.’

`You’re not dreaming at all, Master,’ said Sam. `It’s real. It’s me. I’ve come.’

`I can hardly believe it,’ said Frodo, clutching him. `There was an orc with a whip, and then it turns into Sam! Then I wasn’t dreaming after all when I heard that singing down below, and I tried to answer? Was it you?’

‘It was indeed, Mr. Frodo. I’d given up hope, almost. I couldn’t find you.

‘Well, you have now, Sam, dear Sam,’ said Frodo, and he lay back in Sam’s gentle arms, closing his eyes, like a child at rest when night-fears are driven away by some loved voice or hand.

Sam felt that he could sit like that in endless happiness; but it was not allowed. It was not enough for him to find his master, he had still to try and save him. He kissed Frodo’s forehead. `Come! Wake up Mr. Frodo!’ he said, trying to sound as cheerful as he had when he drew back the curtains at Bag End on a summer’s morning.

He crawled back into the brambles and laid himself by Frodo’s side, and putting away all fear he cast himself into a deep untroubled sleep.

They woke together, hand in hand.

Sam began to wonder if a second darkness had begun and no day would ever reappear. At last he groped for Frodo’s hand. It was cold and trembling. His master was shivering.

‘I didn’t ought to have left my blanket behind,’ muttered Sam; and lying down he tried to comfort Frodo with his arms and body. Then sleep took him, and the dim light of the last day of their quest found them side by side. The wind had fallen the day before as it shifted from the West, and now it came from the North and began to rise; and slowly the light of the unseen Sun filtered down into the shadows where the hobbits lay.

‘Now for it! Now for the last gasp!’ said Sam as he struggled to his feet. He bent over Frodo, rousing him gently. Frodo groaned; but with a great effort of will he staggered up; and then he fell upon his knees again. He raised his eyes with difficulty to the dark slopes of Mount Doom towering above him, and then pitifully he began to crawl forward on his hands.

Sam looked at him and wept in his heart, but no tears came to his dry and stinging eyes. ‘I said I’d carry him, if it broke my back,’ he muttered, ‘and I will!’

‘Come, Mr. Frodo!’ he cried. ‘I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you and it as well. So up you get! Come on, Mr. Frodo dear! Sam will give you a ride. Just tell him where to go, and he’ll go.’

Sam knelt by him. Faint, almost inaudibly, he heard Frodo whispering: ‘Help me, Sam! Help me, Sam! Hold my hand! I can’t stop it.’ Sam took his master’s hands and laid them together, palm to palm, and kissed them; and then he held them gently between his own. The thought came suddenly to him: ‘He’s spotted us! It’s all up, or it soon will be. Now, Sam Gamgee, this is the end of ends.’

‘Well, this is the end, Sam Gamgee,’ said a voice by his side. And there was Frodo, pale and worn, and yet himself again; and in his eyes there was peace now, neither strain of will, nor madness, nor any fear. His burden was taken away. There was the dear master of the sweet days in the Shire.

‘Master!’ cried Sam. and fell upon his knees. In all that ruin of the world for the moment he felt only joy, great joy. The burden was gone. His master had been saved; he was himself again, he was free. And then Sam caught sight of the maimed and bleeding hand.

‘Your poor hand!’ he said. ‘And I have nothing to bind it with, or comfort it. I would have spared him a whole hand of mine rather. But he’s gone now beyond recall, gone forever.’

‘I am glad that you are here with me,’ said Frodo. ‘Here at the end of all things, Sam.’

‘Yes, I am with you, Master,’ said Sam, laying Frodo’s wounded hand gently to his breast. ‘And you’re with me. And the journey’s finished. But after coming all that way I don’t want to give up yet. It’s not like me, somehow, if you understand.’

‘Maybe not, Sam,’ said Frodo; ‘but it’s like things are in the world. Hopes fail. An end comes. We have only a little time to wait now. We are lost in ruin and downfall, and there is no escape.’

‘Well, Master, we could at least go further from this dangerous place here, from this Crack of Doom, if that’s its name. Now couldn’t we? Come, Mr. Frodo, let’s go down the path at any rate!’

‘Very well, Sam. If you wish to go, I’ll come,’ said Frodo; and they rose and went slowly down the winding road; and even as they passed towards the Mountain’s quaking feet, a great smoke and steam belched from the Sammath Naur, and the side of the cone was riven open, and a huge fiery vomit rolled in slow thunderous cascade down the eastern mountain-side.

Frodo and Sam could go no further. Their last strength of mind and body was swiftly ebbing. They had reached a low ashen hill piled at the Mountain’s foot; but from it there was no more escape. It was an island now, not long to endure, amid the torment of Orodruin. All about it the earth gaped, and from deep rifts and pits smoke and fumes leaped up. Behind them the Mountain was convulsed. Great rents opened in its side. Slow rivers of fire came down the long slopes towards them. Soon they would be engulfed. A rain of hot ash was falling.

They stood now; and Sam still holding his master’s hand caressed it. He sighed. ‘What a tale we have been in, Mr. Frodo, haven’t we?’ he said. ‘I wish I could hear it told! Do you think they’ll say: Now comes the story of Nine-fingered Frodo and the Ring of Doom? And then everyone will hush, like we did, when in Rivendell they told us the tale of Beren One-hand and the Great Jewel. I wish I could hear it! And I wonder how it will go on after our part.’

note: This is the second time that Tolkien calls into attention that he’s paralleling Frodo and Sam’s story with the tale of Beren and Lúthien (his favorite romatic power couple.)

Sam stayed at first at the Cottons’ with Frodo; but when the New Row was ready he went with the Gaffer. In addition to all his other labours he was busy directing the cleaning up and restoring of Bag End; but he was often away in the Shire on his forestry work. So he was not at home in early March and did not know that Frodo had been ill. On the thirteenth of that month Farmer Cotton found Frodo lying on his bed; he was clutching a white gem that hung on a chain about his neck and he seemed half in a dream.

‘It is gone forever,’ he said, ‘and now all is dark and empty.’

But the fit passed, and when Sam got back on the twenty-fifth, Frodo had recovered, and he said nothing about himself. In the meanwhile Bag End had been set in order, and Merry and Pippin came over from Crickhollow bringing back all the old furniture and gear, so that the old hole soon looked very much as it always had done.

When all was at last ready Frodo said: ‘When are you going to move in and join me, Sam?’

Sam looked a bit awkward.

‘There is no need to come yet, if you don’t want to,’ said Frodo. ‘But you know the Gaffer is close at hand, and he will be very well looked after by Widow Rumble.’

‘It’s not that, Mr. Frodo,’ said Sam, and he went very red.

‘Well, what is it?’

‘It’s Rosie, Rose Cotton,’ said Sam. ‘It seems she didn’t like my going abroad at all, poor lass; but as I hadn’t spoken, she couldn’t say so. And I didn’t speak, because I had a job to do first. But now I have spoken, and she says: “Well, you’ve wasted a year, so why wait longer?” “Wasted?” I says. “I wouldn’t call it that.” Still I see what she means. I feel torn in two, as you might say.’

‘I see,’ said Frodo: ‘you want to get married, and yet you want to live with me in Bag End too? But my dear Sam, how easy! Get married as soon as you can, and then move in with Rosie. There’s room enough in Bag End for as big a family as you could wish for.’

10.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Frodo. ‘I want you to see Rose and find out if she can spare you, so that you and I can go off together. You can’t go far or for a long time now, of course,’ he said a little wistfully.

‘Well, not very well, Mr. Frodo.’

‘Of course not. But never mind. You can see me on my way. Tell Rose that you won’t be away very long, not more than a fortnight; and you’ll come back quite safe.’

‘I wish I could go all the way with you to Rivendell, Mr. Frodo, and see Mr. Bilbo,’ said Sam. ‘And yet the only place I really want to be in is here. I am that torn in two.’

‘Poor Sam! It will feel like that, I am afraid,’ said Frodo. ‘But you will be healed. You were meant to be solid and whole, and you will be.’

11.

‘Where are you going, Master?’ cried Sam, though at last he understood what was happening.

‘To the Havens, Sam,’ said Frodo.

‘And I can’t come.’

‘No, Sam. Not yet anyway, not further than the Havens. Though you too were a Ring-bearer, if only for a little while. Your time may come. Do not be too sad, Sam. You cannot be always torn in two. You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be, and to do.

12.

Then Frodo kissed Merry and Pippin, and last of all Sam, and went aboard; and the sails were drawn up, and the wind blew, and slowly the ship slipped away down the long grey firth; and the light of the glass of Galadriel that Frodo bore glimmered and was lost. And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed on into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.

But to Sam the evening deepened to darkness as he stood at the Haven; and as he looked at the grey sea he saw only a shadow on the waters that was soon lost in the West. There still he stood far into the night, hearing only the sigh and murmur of the waves on the shores of Middle-earth, and the sound of them sank deep into his heart.

13.

Bonus from Tolkien’s Unpublished Epilogue, found in Sauron Defeated:

Elanor was silent for some time before she spoke again. 'I did not understand at first what Celeborn meant when he said goodbye to the King,' she said. 'But I think I do now. He knew that Lady Arwen would stay, but that Galadriel would leave him. * I think it was very sad for him. And for you, dear Sam-dad.' Her hand felt for his, and his brown hand clasped her slender fingers. 'For your treasure went too. I am glad Frodo of the Ring saw me, but I wish I could remember seeing him.'

'It was sad, Elanorelle,' said Sam, kissing her hair. 'It was, but It isn't now. For why? Well, for one thing, Mr. Frodo has gone where the elven-light isn't fading; and he deserved his reward. But I have had mine, too. I have had lots of treasures. I am a very rich hobbit. And there is one other reason, which I shall whisper to you, a secret I have never told before to no one, nor put in the Book yet. Before he went Mr. Frodo said that my time maybe would come. I can wait. I think maybe we haven't said farewell for good. But I can wait. I have learned that much from the Elves at any rate. They are not so troubled about time. And so I think Celeborn is still happy among his trees, in an Elvish way. His time hasn't come, and he isn't tired of his land yet. When he is tired he can go.'

'And when you're tired, you will go, Sam-dad. You will go to the Havens with the Elves. Then I shall go with you. I shall not part with you, like Arwen did with Elrond.’

'Maybe, maybe,’ said Sam, kissing her gently. 'And maybe not. The choice of Luthien and Arwen comes to may, Elanorelle, or something like it; and it isn’t wise to choose before the time.’

Note: This is referring to a segment in The Return of the King where Celeborn says this to Aragorn (in reference to Galadriel leaving without Celeborn): ‘Kinsman, farewell! May your doom be other than mine, and your treasure remain with you to the end!’

14.

The Return of the King’s Appendices B:

Death of Mistress Rose, wife of Master Samwise, on Mid-year's Day. On September 22 Master Sam-wise rides out from Bag End. He comes to the Tower Hills, and is last seen by Elanor, to whom he gives the Red Book afterwards kept by the Fairbairns. Among them the tradition is handed down from Elanor that Samwise passed the Towers, and went to the Grey Havens, and passed over Sea, last of the Ring-bearers.

#tolkien #the lord of the rings #lotr #sam gamgee #samwise gamgee #frodo #frodo baggins #books #book quotes #frodosam #frosam #frosam 3 #lord of the rings #ships #f/s #frodo baggins/sam gamgee #frodo baggins/samwise gamgee #sauron defeated #the return of the king

39 notes · View notes

bleuskais · 2 years

Text

Our Flag Means Death 1x05 The Best Revenge Is Dressing Well

Me: there is no heterosexual explanation for this

#our flag means death #stede bonnet #blackbeard #rhys darby #taika waititi #¤#how do you vid?#something something intricate rituals #i don't know how to brighten videos #girl help #when will the gaffers come back from the war?#i'm gonna try to gif it to help with the color but ymmv

1K notes · View notes

firestorm717 · 5 years

Text

An Introduction to Callan

Allow me to introduce you to a new fandom of mine - Callan, a British TV series from 1967-72 starring Edward Woodward (The Equalizer, The Wicker Man) in the title role. Callan is a Cold War spy drama in the tradition of Len Deighton's The Ipcress File and John le Carré's The Spy Who Came in From the Cold. Its world is dark and bleak, its characters morally ambiguous, and its stories often end on a downbeat turn. (The first episode of the series is called "The Good Ones Are All Dead"). James Bond this is not; in fact, Callan was conceived as the antithesis to Bond-style escapism. It depicts the seedy side of espionage with its criminal associates and cynical bureaucracy, beneath which agents toil like pawns on a chessboard, as likely to be killed by friend as foe.

So why do I recommend this series? Well, if you're like me, you're partial to darkness and angst ;) But even if that's not your usual cup of tea, I suggest you check out Callan on the strength of its acting alone. Woodward does a masterful job of portraying the morally conflicted assassin, David Callan, both frightening in his anger and heartbreakingly vulnerable in his grief. He is joined by Anthony Valentine (Colditz, Raffles) with whom he shares crackling on-screen chemistry, and Russell Hunter (The Gaffer), a skilled character actor who practically inhabits his role. This top-notch talent is supported by a top-notch script. The plots are complex and clever, featuring lies, subterfuge, and misdirection - all the classic spy storylines - that demand close attention from the audience. Sharp dialogue takes the place of action in most parts, shining the spotlight on character interaction. Many scenes read as if they'd come from a superb stage play.

Finally, for the slash fans, there's a ton of wonderful subtext surrounding the two handsome leads, Callan and Meres, as well as several canonically gay/bisexual side characters.

In conclusion, you'll enjoy Callan if

You relish historically-based spy dramas with complex plots.

You like morally ambiguous and conflicted main characters.

You are a sucker for tragedy, angst, and every deathfic trope.

You appreciate good-looking men in three-piece suits.

On the other hand, this series may not be for you if

You prefer slick "James Bond" action, adventure, and romance.

You need a protagonist that you can always root for.

You want modern cinematography and video quality.

You are bothered by some degree of sexism and wish to see a diverse cast.

In the following sections, I provide a detailed description of the setting and characters. Interested readers may watch the entire show on my Youtube playlist, or just check out the recommended episodes below. (Due to the age of the series, some episodes from seasons 1-2 are missing from the BBC archives. I have posted all that are commercially available).

The Section

Eliminating people. Framing. Extortion. Death. All the jobs that are too dirty for Her Majesty's security forces to touch. The Section is a top secret branch of British intelligence that specializes in dirty jobs no other branch will touch - kidnapping, extortion, blackmail, and quite often execution of persons deemed a threat to the government. Its targets are usually spies or assets belonging to the Eastern bloc, although it is not above eliminating innocent citizens should they threaten its goals as well. Its secrecy is paramount. All agents, including the Section head, are known only by code name, and the department itself is housed in a drab building under cover of a scrap metal business owned by "Charlie Hunter". The offices are cramped, the furniture spartan; except for a shooting range in the basement, there is no hint as to its true purpose... which is just as well, for any unauthorized person who learns of its purpose is likely to wind up in a red file - most urgently marked for death by the Section's assassins.

Hunter

You're always asking for reasons. That's what makes you weak. Schneider's in a red file, that's reason enough. The code name for the current head of Section is Hunter. Hunter delegates the missions and directs the movements of agents in the field. He himself rarely steps foot outside the office, instead delivering orders from behind his imposing oak desk - orders which he expects to be obeyed unquestioned. His main method of communication (aside from in-person meetings) is the red telephone on his desk. Typically, an agent phones in with a report to "Charlie", and Hunter answers with an assessment of the situation followed by a new order. He is ultimately responsible for the success or failure of a mission. As Section head, Hunter also has political obligations. He must meet with senior government officials such as the Foreign Secretary, navigate diplomatic waters for defectors and allies, and forestall interdepartmental rivalry with agencies like Special Branch. Thus, the qualifications for Hunter are far more administrative than they are physical, which is reflected by the aging staff officers who typically fill the role. The first Hunter we meet is Colonel Leslie, known colloquially as the Colonel among his agents. (In keeping with military protocol, subordinates are expected to address the Section head to his face as "Hunter" or "sir"). It is the Colonel who introduces a color-coded filing system for the Section's extensive list of targets. David Callan, a top field operative, describes the system thusly in the pilot - "If a bloke joined the wrong party, he got a blue file. If he was under surveillance, he got a yellow one. And if he was dangerous, I mean really dangerous, he got a red one. He usually got killed as well." Later, a white file is added for individuals whom the Section wants to put in prison, divorce courts, bankruptcy, or mental homes, a slightly less permanent destination than death. As the series progresses, various men don the mantle of Hunter, some more rigid, others marginally more forgiving. But that filing system always remains the same.

David Callan

You sacked me, remember? You said I was too soft. Well, I'm still soft, Hunter. I still worry about the people I've killed. David Callan is only good at two things - killing people and collecting model soldiers. The son of a working-class family, his parents were killed by a V2 rocket when he was only 13, and he left school shortly thereafter to apprentice at a locksmiths firm. Eventually, he found his way into the army and impressed his superiors with his shooting, unarmed combat, and survival skills, earning him a promotion to corporal. That promotion was short-lived, however, as his insolence toward an officer saw him reduced back to private. This would be a recurring theme in Callan's career. After serving as a commando in Malaya, he returned to work at the locksmiths firm. He soon became involved in the attempted theft of a jeweler's safe, but was caught and sentenced to 2 years in Wormwood Scrubs. It was upon Callan's early release that the Section recruited him. He trained under Colonel Leslie and carried out numerous missions, including assassinations, with great success. The Colonel rated him very highly, and he in turn held the Colonel in considerable regard. By the age of 29, Callan had risen to second-in-command and was on the shortlist of candidates for next head of Section. Then, everything changed. In the spring of 1965, the Colonel ordered Callan to kill a KGB agent named Zhverkov, whom Callan knew and liked very much. After immense pressure, he finally carried out the killing, but from then on became overly involved with his targets, insisting on making his own value judgments rather than following orders blindly. His relationship with the Colonel deteriorated until the Section deactivated him a year later. At the start of the series, Callan is a 36-year-old bookkeeper working a dead-end job, his suit shabby and wrinkled, his flat spartan and cheap, the only joy in his life his collection of model soldiers. No one would guess that he was once the Section's most prolific assassin. Callan's defining characteristic is his conscience - he needs to know why a job must be done before he will do it. Even then, he is liable to disobey orders he feels are unjust or endanger innocent people. His tendency to sympathize with his targets brings him in direct conflict with Hunter, as well as his fellow agents, who have no qualms about killing. This conflict is exacerbated by Callan's class consciousness; he carries a chip on his shoulder regarding authority, especially wielded by officers and the social elite... two circles that comprise most of his superiors. Indeed, season 1 sees Callan at odds with his allies more often than his enemies, saved from placement in a red file only by his usefulness to the Section. The thought that his usefulness may one day run out forms the underlying tension in the series. In the end, Callan is a man trapped by his own success - an assassin who kills because he is good at nothing else.

Lonely

I do have baths, Mr. Callan. The way I smell is psychosomatic. Lonely lives up to his name. A small-time burglar with terrible body odor, he first met Callan during the latter's stint in Wormwood Scrubs. His criminal skills proved useful, and Callan began to employ him on a case-by-case basis as a lookout, tail, thief/safecracker, driver, and weapons supplier for Section work, although Lonely himself knows nothing about the Section. In fact, Lonely has never pulled a trigger in his life. He frequently must be bullied or bribed into helping Callan on a job, and then only reluctantly for fear of being caught in the violence. Their relationship can most succinctly be described as codependent. Lonely needs Callan's cash and protection (though that protection is often from Callan's own colleagues), and Callan needs Lonely's eyes and ears, for the petty crook's very insignificance makes him an excellent spy. They are the closest each has to a friend. That friendship is tested again and again by Hunter. Since Lonely is not part of the Section, he represents a security risk to its operations, and more than one Hunter has threatened to eliminate Lonely for good. They usually back down, however, after seeing Callan's reaction. Because as much as Callan exploits and abuses Lonely, he is also fiercely protective of the little man, exacting vicious revenge on anyone (including fellow agents) who dare lay hands on the burglar. This is because Lonely is the only person Callan can trust - an outsider to the spy game, not bright enough or important enough to warrant attention, and very much dependent on him. His smell is the smell of Callan's own id, a dank pit of criminality driven more by fear than loyalty to any particular cause.

Toby Meres

It's frightfully bad taste to welcome you like this, I agree, but we do need a spot of information from you rather urgently - just filling in, you know, code names and so on. If Lonely is the id, then Meres is Callan's foil. Born the son of a Lord, Meres was educated at the prestigious Eton College before receiving a commission as an officer in the Coldstream Guards. His career ended abruptly when a private guardsman died in an "accident" that he arranged. Although the case never made it to court martial, Meres was forced to resign and eventually found employment as an agent in the Section. The work suited his real talents. At the beginning of the series, he is a youthful 27 and already Hunter's right-hand man. Only Callan stands between him and the top. On the surface, Meres is droll and charming, the portrait of a public schoolboy from the upper classes. But that is only a mask for his sadistic streak. He has none of Callan's reservations about killing and will carry out orders ruthlessly and efficiently, even delighting in the opportunity to interrogate prisoners. His attitude toward colleagues is typified by emotional indifference with a touch of condescension. At the death of one, Meres simply observes that it's "par for the course" in their line of work. He largely leaves trainees to sink or swim and is not especially bothered when they sink. The only person who stirs some feeling in him is Callan. From the beginning, Meres recognizes Callan's talent and extols it to allies and superiors. He claims to detest Callan - indeed, the two start off as antagonists - yet lobbies for the latter to rejoin the Section in "Red Knight, White Knight". After that point, their relationship slowly develops from a rivalry to a partnership based on mutual respect for each other's skills. Meres enjoys teasing Callan (sometimes to a dangerous degree, as he is prone to breaking into Callan's flat unannounced), and Callan grows to trust Meres despite their very different moral systems. It is telling that the most distraught Meres ever gets is during a scene with Callan in "Death of a Hunter". Perhaps this is because Meres, at heart, does have some semblance of a conscience. He subtly protests orders from Hunter that he deems ill-advised or unnecessarily harsh. It's simply that his bar for harshness sits a lot higher than Callan's, and when push comes to shove, Meres will usually cave to authority because authority is what he learned to obey in the Guard.

James Cross

You ever played Russian roulette? It's better than horses. You play for your life. Cross is a newcomer to the Section, promoted during a period when both Callan and Meres were unavailable. A young man in his 20's with flip hair and a taste for stylish clothes, he has the swagger of an agent with twice the experience, despite logging a mediocre record in the field. He fancies himself Callan's successor and is none too pleased when the latter returns to the Section. Brash and callous, Cross has little regard for the collateral damage from his actions, putting him at immediate odds with Callan. His recalcitrance leads to at least one disaster, which Callan is forced to clean up. As a result, the two share a mutual dislike for each other - Cross believes Callan is over the hill, Callan perceives Cross as an arrogant upstart - and initially only work together on Hunter's orders. In many ways, Cross resembles a young Meres. They both exude smug confidence, harbor a sadistic streak, and have their eye on Callan's position as top agent. However, while Meres's ambition is tempered by genuine respect, Cross bestows that respect grudgingly. He and Callan never develop the sort of camaraderie that Callan has with Meres.

Elizabeth (Liz) March

That girl's a walking memory bank. She's been in a red file since the day she took the job. Liz is Hunter's secretary and handles all the communications, transportation, and files on allies and enemies. She fulfills this duty from the first episode to the last, making her one of the most knowledgeable people in the Section, moreso than many agents like Cross. It's thus a pity that her role in the series is largely limited to answering phones. (I couldn't even find a decent quote by her). However, she does get an opportunity to shine in "A Village Called 'G'", which provides a glimpse into her backstory and motivations.

Dr. Snell

I put him on tranquilizers for a bit, and he quite liked that. And then some of the hallucinogens... Oh, and I managed to make him lose track of time too. Then, I put him on pentothal. He prattles like a child. At first glance, Snell doesn't seem to belong in the Section. He's a soft-spoken, bespectacled man of about 50 with silver hair and the dispassionate air of an Ivory Tower academic. We first meet him at his office on Harley Street, where he runs a private medical practice. Hunter asks him to conduct a benign memory test on a biologist suspected of East German sympathies. However, it soon becomes clear that Snell's role extends far beyond that of a simple outside adviser. He is arguably one of the most important people involved in the Section and, in effect, outranks the field agents themselves. For Snell is a psychiatrist, who employs his skills in two ways - interrogating enemy operatives and evaluating the medical fitness of the Section's own employees. In the first task, he is uniquely brutal because his instruments of torture are drugs (pentothal, LSD, and other psychotropics) that wreak havoc on his victim's mind. And Snell goes about this work with scientific indifference, only betraying a hint of pleasure when his injections give rise to an interesting effect. What's more, his victims usually don't remember what they've said to him... if they retain their sanity at all. Snell's interrogation techniques already cast him as a sinister figure, but what makes him disliked even among his allies is his second task - psychologically profiling the Section's own agents. You see, espionage is a highly stressful job. If an agent snaps, the consequences for national security could be dire. Thus, it is Snell's job to determine whether an agent is about to snap before he snaps and report it to higher authority. At best, a bad report from Snell means getting pulled from the field. At worst, it gets one's name placed in a red file. Either way, his word is usually final.

Mr. Bishop

All you need to know is that in the pecking order of the security game, we get first peck. "Big men have to snivel sometimes, Hunter," Snell says, and the man Hunter snivels to is Bishop. A senior official in the SIS, Bishop is Hunter's superior and oversees a wide variety of foreign intelligence operations. He has the authority to assign new missions, disburse funds for equipment, order prisoner exchanges, and hire and fire Section heads. However, while his powers are broad, Bishop never steps foot in the field - his role is purely strategic, and his concern lies with the sociopolitical impact of a job rather than the individuals involved. He is the picture of the calculating, condescending bureaucrat, giving orders from his cushy seat in the rear while his subordinates risk their lives. It thus comes as a surprise that Bishop acts as Callan's ally in the beginning. He sees potential in Callan beyond that of a mere trigger-puller and bolsters the latter's career within the Section. Naturally, Bishop's reasons are self-serving - Callan is just a particularly useful cog in the espionage machine, after all - but they manage to forge a fragile working relationship... until circumstances intervene.

Richmond

For people like you and me, safety can only be found among our enemies. It's our friends who will kill us. While Richmond appears in only a few episodes, his impact on Callan is profound enough to warrant a spot on this list. Richmond is a colonel in the KGB and one of their best, most experienced agents. Intelligent and erudite, he uses his substantial knowledge about Callan's background to try and manipulate the latter into betraying the Section, launching a dangerous cat-and-mouse game in the "The Richmond File" series finale.

Recommended Episodes

The Good Ones Are All Dead (S01E01) - Under threat of being placed in a red file, Callan is coerced into helping the Section hand over an ex-SS officer, Strauss, to the Israelis. Introduces the main cast and sets up the hostile dynamic between Callan and Colonel Leslie. An emotional performance by Edward Woodward at the end.

The Most Promising Girl of Her Year (S02E02) - Callan must prove that a young biochemist is not giving information to the East. Introduces Snell and his interrogation methods. Also features an intelligent and sympathetic female character, whose ethical principles make her the true heroine of the story.

Let's Kill Everybody (S02E05) - A freelance German mercenary organisation that specialises in eliminating foreign security agencies has its sights set on the Section. An aptly named episode, so I won't spoil anything except to say that no one is who they seem...

Heir Apparent (S02E06) - Callan and Meres must fetch the new Hunter from East Germany. This might as well be a Callan/Meres fanfic with the amount of slash in it. Our two agents "go on a hols" together, sharing a sleeping car, drinking on the town, and navigating a minefield right on the edge of the Iron Curtain.

Death of a Hunter (S02E15) - A hunter dies, but which one? Is it the hard-bitten Callan, the laconic Meres, the enigmatic Hunter or someone else? I debated including a synopsis because the title already gives too much away. One of Edward Woodward's finest performances, loaded with pain and anguish, and a definitive Callan/Meres story.

Where Else Could I Go? (S03E01) - After five months in the hospital recuperating from near-fatal gunshot wounds, Callan returns to the Section to find the upstart Cross after his position. Under the doubting eye of his superior, the agent must prove that he still has the will to kill. Introduces Cross and William Squire's Hunter, probably the most iconic Hunter of the series. Also contains fodder for Callan/Lonely in the way of a very protective Callan.

A Village Called 'G' (S03E04) - The entire Section goes on red alert when Liz, Hunter's ever-punctual secretary, fails to show up for work. Trying to trace her, Callan begins to suspect that Liz's disappearance involves not an enemy from the present, but a ghost from her past. Liz finally gets a turn in the limelight, and we're treated to some background on her childhood.

Breakout (S03E08) - By surrendering to the police, wily KGB operative Nikolai Lubin seeks safety in a British prison, out of reach of Hunter and the Section's interrogators. Hunter, however, has other plans - engineering Lubin's "escape" under the guise of a KGB operation. A rare episode in which Callan and Cross display some teamwork.

Call Me Sir! (S04E02) - Upon Callan's return, dire circumstances force him to accept a new position within the Section - one that affords an entirely different perspective on his work, particularly regarding his relationship with Lonely. Callan receives a promotion he never asked for. More I cannot say without spoiling the plot.

If He Can, So Could I (S04E05) - Cross's behavior on his previous assignment calls into question his fitness for service. Nevertheless, Callan assigns his former rival the perilous task of protecting a dissident Russian poet. Snell puts Cross through the wringer in this one, and the way Cross cracks reflects Callan's own insecurities. The ending scene between Callan/Lonely is absolutely phenomenal - one of the few times Callan goes to pieces emotionally, revealing the enormous strain he and his fellow agents are under. Edward Woodward won a BAFTA for this performance.

I Never Wanted the Job (S04E08) - After witnessing a gangster's execution, Lonely runs afoul of the killers and the police, jeopardizing both his cover and Callan's life. The closest this series gets to fluff. Some cute Callan/Meres/Hunter interaction plus an offhand comment by a character about how Callan must be "queer" for Lonely make this a very shippy episode.

The Richmond File: Call Me Enemy (S04E11) - Alone at a remote safe house, Callan debriefs a high-ranking prospective defector - a man known as Richmond, who promises to reveal a traitor within the Section. This is it. This is what spy dramas are about. Not fast car chases or gunfights, but two people on opposite sides trying to manipulate each other with deception and lies. Edward Woodward and T.P. McKenna give career-defining performances in this battle of wits between veteran agents who have more in common with each other than their respective employers... or do they? The episode is like a stage play and provides a rare bit of history on Callan and Meres.

External Links

YouTube Playlist - The entire series ripped and uploaded by yours truly.

Video Downloads - High quality video encodes of the entire series, again done by yours truly, as well as scripts for all episodes (including the missing ones) and other goodies.

Big Finish - New audio adaptations of the Callan short stories.

Digital Tapestries Fan Site - An old fan site with creator interviews, character profiles, and synopses of all the episodes in seasons 1-2.

Michael J. Bird's Fan Site - Another fan site that includes scans of the Callan short stories and links to a few missing episode scripts.

It's So Last Century - Reviews of most commercial Callan releases along with some newspaper article scans.

#callan #tv shows #edward woodward #anthony valentine #russell hunter #patrick mower #david callan #toby meres #hunter

70 notes · View notes

padfootagain · 5 years

Text

Guardians Of Middle-Earth (I)

Chapter 1 : The Council

This is the first chapter for the fanfiction 'Guardians of Middle-Earth'!! This is my first Tolkien fanfic, and you can't imagine how nervous I am...

So, this fanfiction contains OCs and is set after the Lord of the Rings. I will try to be accurate concerning Middle-earth, although I will have to invent things along the way.

I will need some time before releasing the next chapter, but as you will soon find out, the chapters are very long, so I hope it makes up for it.

I hope you all like it. This fic makes me nervous, so please, tell me what you think about it. I'm open to suggestions and remarks and everything you might think of this will be useful, so let me know.

Also, as two different timelines are followed here, I've used these ---- to separate paragraphs for two different timelines, and these **** to separate two paragraphs of the same timeline, so it would be clearer and easier for you all to read.

The very beautiful aesthetic here was made by the wonderful @marvelcapsicle

Word Count : 9500

"Eldarion, Son of Aragorn..."

The young man looked up at the Kings before him, remaining perfectly still, a calm expression on his face.

"...The charges that are held against you are critical. Aldir, Son of Golmas, Prince of the Easterlings, is accusing you of the murder of his uncle, Gryas the Golden."

Eldarion didn't flinch, and merely kept staring at Faramir.

"Prince Aldir has assured us that he could bring forth several witnesses to testify of your crime," Faramir went on. "In the name of Gondor, I would like to reassure all people gathered here today that this trial shall be led fairly, but with extreme severity. There is no man here who desires to threaten the newly found peace between Free Folks and Easterlings. But before hearing any witness, or study any proof Prince Aldir could present before the judges, we wish to hear the accused, who shall speak his own version of the events first."

There was a short silence, and all in the Great Hall of Minas Tirith stared at Eldarion, standing motionless before the Kings and Princes around him. Since he had been brought there, he had not moved a muscle. Around his wrists, the chains were becoming painful, and he was sure they would leave marks on his skin. But he didn't really care.

Eldarion had longed for years to see again the tall columns that surrounded him now, to lay his eyes on the old stones his feet were resting upon once more. He had never imagined he would stand in the large hall with chains around his wrists though.

"As you are the son of our King, he will not sit in the great throne for your trial," Faramir told the young man standing still before him. "King Elessar shall remain only a member of the jury, made of the Kings, Princes and Lords gathered here. The King has appointed me to conduct this trial in his stead."

Eldarion could feel his father's intense stare fixed upon him, but the young man didn't look at the King, and merely kept staring at Faramir.

"The circumstances being extraordinary," the Prince of Ithilien went on again, "we will not lead this trial as it is usually organized. Many things must be learned before we can judge if you are guilty or not. Since you were back here in the White City, you have always fled all the questions that were asked concerning your long travel through Middle-Earth. These facts cannot remain wrapped in mist any longer, and must be brought to light now."

Eldarion clenched his jaw, but didn't interrupt Faramir. He didn't have a choice. He couldn't flee before questions anymore, and though he would have gladly been buried with the secret of his journey, he knew he would have to confess everything that had happened these past five years before this trial was over. He listened again to Faramir as the man was resuming his speech.

"You shall answer our questions, and tell us everything that has happened whilst you were gone. Only when your story is fully told shall your trial begin. You will not be allowed to present any proof for your defence, nor any witness, before you have answered all our questions concerning your past."

Faramir paused for a brief moment, letting his words sink in.

"Even if you are accused of murder, you are still the son of our King. If you give us your word that you will not try to flee, nor leave the City for any reason that may be, you shall be allowed to go back to your personal chambers instead of the dungeons, and your trial from now on shall happen without chains. Do you swear that you will remain in the White City until your trial is ended, and the sentence, whatever it may be, has been imposed?"

Eldarion nodded slowly.

"I swear," he answered. "I shall remain in the White City as long as the members of this trial shall see fit."

Faramir nodded towards the two guards of the Citadel that were standing next to Eldarion, and they released him from his heavy chains. The young prince massaged his painful wrists, still staring at Faramir.

"Unless anyone has one last word to speak, the trial will begin now," Faramir told the crowd gathered in the Hall of stone.

There was a heavy silence, as no one had anything to add. Faramir turned towards Eldarion again.

"Eldarion, Son of Aragorn," Faramir spoke loudly, his stern voice echoing between the tall pillars of stone, "do you swear on your sacred honour, that you shall speak no lies in those halls, and that all that you may say before these judges is only the truth, and nothing but the truth?"

"I swear, on my sacred honour," the young man answered in a clear and calm voice.

"The trial has thus begun."

All in the Hall sat down, and a wooden stool was brought to Eldarion so that he could sit as well.

"Let's start with the beginning," Faramir proposed, and all the judges around him nodded in approbation. "Tell us how your journey began."

Eldarion cleared his throat, feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden. There were so many things he wanted to keep for himself... But he didn't have a choice. He had to tell his story, or he would be found guilty before his trial had even begun. And death was the sentence required for murder in his Kingdom.

"It was five years ago," Eldarion began, his voice slow and steady, clear and loud so that everyone in the Hall could hear his words. "There had been unrest in the East, Orcs had been seen near our lands, and in the lands of many other Kings and Lords. And so the Council began..."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Five years earlier

Minas Tirith

Darkness was creeping back into the world again. The Dark Lord Sauron had been defeated 35 years before, and yet evil was still looming in the shadows, invisible threat over a reborn land. Peace had spread through every corner of Middle-earth under the reign of King Elessar and, leaderless, the Orcs and Goblins and other dark creatures had fled, hiding in the deepest holes and the most secret tunnels. But a whisper had been heard in Middle-earth, coming from the East, ghost of a new war. Villages burnt, crops destroyed, roads suffering of raids, pillages, thefts... the list was long and the Kings and Lords of the Free Folks of Middle-earth grew worried again, for many of them had fought against the Enemy, and none could forget the desolation of war. But in front of this new threat, nothing could be done without the agreement of all, and so the Council began. To this great gathering came all the Lords of the free lands from the Dwarf Lords of the Iron Hills to the Wooden Elves of Mirkwood, and the King Elessar of Gondor. They all met in the Great Halls of Minas Tirith, where they spoke for a long time of what they had heard in their homelands.

"Orcs have been seen at night at the borders of the Brown Lands, near South Undeep," said King Eomer of Rohan, "the Rohirrims have destroyed them before they could flee eastward. But I doubt it is the only pack of Orcs we will see near our lands in those darkening days..."

"And yet, with only a few Goblins or Orcs, we can hardly speak of an invasion," said Thorin III Stonehelm, "especially when they are seen unorganized and wandering."

"We are not talking about an invasion yet," answered calmly the King of Gondor, "but we must not act as if nothing had happened either. Something is stirring in the distance, and we must be ready for it when it comes and shows itself in its true form. For now, only glimpses can be distinguished from afar, it is true. And yet, in my heart, I feel a great fear of what could come to us if our enemies were more than 'unorganized and wandering' Orcs and Goblins."

"I am not advising that we should remain idle. I am only saying that we must not overreact."

"Clearly it is not your farms that have been burnt, King Dwarf," replied bitterly Eomer.

"We have met Goblins too, Horse Master. Do not think we are not concerned," snapped the King Under the Mountain, suddenly straightening in his chair.

"Then you may stop acting as if this council was only an 'overreaction'," warned Eomer.

"My Lords, please," Elessar calmed the two Kings.

They glowered at each other, but spoke no more of it. Peregrin Took cleared his voice.

"I may not be aware of all the details," said the Hobbit, "but it seems to me that our biggest problem is that we do not know what we are up against."

"Pippin's right," added Master Samwise Gamgee, "we should take first measures to discover what exactly is going on in the East, that ought to be a good start. Like my old Gaffer used to say 'you can't step in water before you know the depth of it, or you might drown in a swamp'."

The Lords couldn't help but laugh.

"Hobbits always have funny words and images for everything," joked Faramir, Prince of Ithilien. "But none can ever deny their wisdom."

"The Hobbits are right," said the Master of Lake-Town. "We cannot fight an enemy we do not know."

"Perhaps we could organize expeditions in the East," proposed the Lord Gilrael, his elven voice melodious and warm.

"With whose troops? And who would lead them?" asked Thorin III.

"We cannot send heavy troops far in the East anyway," said Eomer. "The Men of RhÃ»n live there, and I doubt they will grant us safe passage through their lands."

"They could take it as a gesture of war," added Faramir, nodding slowly as he was lost in thought.

"It can only be something we do in secret," said Elessar. "If it is indeed more than just a few Orcs, if they are gathering in a clear purpose, they must not learn that we are getting organized as well. The less our enemies will know of our plan, the better."

"We should send some kind of Fellowship," proposed Meriadoc Brandybuck. "Like we did to destroy the One Ring."

"Unless this time I don't volunteer, that's for sure," said Pippin. "I'm way too old for this kind of thing!"

Laughs echoed in the great Hall of stone.

"Again the Hobbits show more wisdom than many chiefs of Men," laughed Legolas Greenleaf. "A Fellowship seems to be the best option to me."

All nodded, and Gimli the Dwarf patted affectionately Merry's shoulder, blowing out a cloud of blue smoke.

"All should be represented," said the Dwarf, still releasing fumes from his lungs, "Men, Dwarves and Elves alike."

"A Wizard would be of great help too," said Samwise. "Gandalf saved us all many times!"

"But the White Wizard has left these shores," replied sadly Legolas.

"Many Wizards and Witches have remained though," said Gilrael.

"But most are now idle, living like hermits," protested Bard II.

"There are some who are still fighting for Middle-earth."

"I have called to this meeting Ana the Green," said the King of Gondor. "She is very important in the circle of Wizards, and is very wise and powerful despite her relatively young age. She had accepted the invitation, but could not arrive today, for she was deep in the Misty Mountains and could not delay her dealings there. She should arrive here in the White City in two days. I shall speak of this matter with her then."

Silence filled up the room. Outside the night had already fallen, covering the sky with strong lights shining like memories of a long forgotten past, whilst the streets were now alit with many fires, and the whisper of life flowing through the stone walls of Minas Tirith could be heard from afar. In the hearth, the fire was dying.

"It is quite late my friends," said Aragorn. "I am sure you will all agree that we need rest more than words now. Let's eat first, and then spend a good night of sleep. Tomorrow, we shall decide what we ought to do."

************************

He swung again his sword through the air. For hours he had been training, repeating again and again the same movements until it would come to him naturally. His father always said that a good warrior could fight without thinking about the movements of his weapon, it was the only way of being fast enough to survive. Out of breath, his arm aching, the young man put down his sword and chased away his dark hair from his eyes. He drank up some water, and swept the sweat away from his forehead. He turned around as the door was being opened behind him.

"You are training again, my son? Is it not a bit late for sword-fighting?"

Eldarion smiled at the sight of his father's lips curving up mischievously.

"I could not sleep," he answered.

The King sat down in an old chair near the fire, extending his long legs before the warm hearth.

"It is a good way of getting tired, of course," he said, smiling frankly now.

"That is precisely what I thought," his son answered.

"I am sure you are not training to try to beat your old father again..."

Eldarion let out a laugh, taking a seat by the fire too.

"First of all, you are not old yet, for proof your way of fighting..."

"I have already strode upon this earth longer than a man should."

"But you are from NÃºmenor, blessed with long life. And for our people, you are not old."

Aragorn let out a small laugh. Silence filled up the space between them, only broken by the shy whisper of the cracking wood burning into red blazes.

"Why could you not sleep, my son?" Elessar asked bluntly.

"I don't know. I was simply not tired."

The King smiled tenderly at his son.

"You are an awful liar Eldarion, just like your mother."

The young prince looked into his father's grey eyes.

"I was worried about the Council," he answered, earnestly this time. "I was worried about what you could decide, and what news the other Kings and Lords could bring from their own lands. I was afraid it might be a greater threat for our people than we had expected."

"We already knew what has been brought to us from afar," Aragorn reassured his son. "And we have not decided anything yet. We have simply talked, but nothing is settled for now."

"I would like to come with you..."

But his father interrupted him with a gesture of his strong hand.

"It is not your place yet. You are still young, and unwise. Besides," he added, rising from his chair, "you know I always tell you everything, or almost everything."

He put a hand on his son's shoulder, who had stood up as well. They were so much alike, and one could think they were only images of the same man in a mirror, only coming from two different periods of time. Eldarion had inherited his father's tall and strong stature, his face both proud and gentle, his gaze burning with a hidden fire, keen and wild, and yet full of mercy and kindness. Although Eldarion's eyes did not have the shade of dark clouds like his father's, they wore a dark brown shade, that turned almost black with the fading lights. He had the noble posture of the people of the North, from long defeated and forgotten, and yet from whose knowledge had passed from a generation to another, and was used in those days to heal the wounds of the world. But some traces of his Elfish mother could also be seen in his graceful silhouette, his smooth form of face, his dark hair... If he had like his father the stern power of the elder people in his charisma, he also had the grace of the Elves in his movements. The balance between his heritage from both his parents made the most wonderful melting possible. He smiled at his father, their eyes meeting in laughter.

"It is late, and I am tired," Aragorn said. "Let's go to sleep."

Eldarion nodded, and closed the door behind them, leaving his sword upon the floor as the fire was dying, letting darkness spread through the room.

*******************************

The rain was biting into her face like cold arrows flung through the wind. She hurried through the Courtyard, and followed the soldier who was leading her inside the Halls of the White City. In the distance, down the Hall, was sitting the King in his high throne of stone. He was talking with several of his Captains, who were nodding and listening closely to their King's commands. She advanced quickly, shaking away the raindrops on her robes and sweeping the cold water away from her eyes. When he saw her approaching, the King dismissed kindly his Captains, and welcomed the witch warmly.

"Ana the Green, it is a pleasure to see you. Thank you for coming," Aragorn smiled.

"Thank you for inviting me, your Highness."

"We have known each other for too long for you to call me that way."

He stood up, and guided her in an adjacent room. They sat near the fire, so that the witch could get warmer.

"How was your journey?" Elessar asked her.

"Wet at the end!"

They both laughed. She pushed her long brown hair away from her face.

"How did the Council go?" she asked, diving into the subject.

"Not bad," Aragorn answered. "We have all agreed about the threat we are facing, and we all think measures must be taken. Now, an idea has arisen, that we should send people investigate in the East."

"I could not agree more," nodded the witch. "And who would you like to send?"

"That still remains in question. But we were thinking of a fellowship more than an army..."

Ana looked at him, narrowing her eyes.

"A fellowship?"

"It worked quite well the last time we did."

"It was in a different times though. But I must agree with the fact that you cannot send an army in the East, it would be considered as an act of war."

"And we do not need a war with the Easterlings nor any peoples living in deserted lands."

"I do not think our enemies are hiding very far into their territories though. They must be very near the Edge of Rhovanion."

"Still, we must send some of our best people, and figure out what is happening there. We must know what the Orcs and Goblins are up to, we must know their plans."

"I agree."

"Will you help us then?"

The witch turned her gaze to the fire, and remained deep in thought for a few minutes. When she spoke again, her voice was calm and distant, as if she was talking to herself.

"Only a few people would dare to go so far from their homes."

"And you are one of them," Aragorn told her, leaning closer to her. "We must act now, while there is still time."

She looked at him again, frowning with worry.

"The situation is worse than we thought," she said, her voice quite hoarse. "Goblins and Trolls are back in the Misty Mountains, they have tried to steal Eagles' eggs. That's why I was delayed in the North, and could not come earlier. They are getting further than we thought into our lands."

"What do the Wooden Elves say about it?"

She shook her head.

"All wooden elves are not as clear-minded and trustworthy as the Lord Legolas. His father is a stubborn King, and he cares more about his own boundaries than any of his neighbours'. I have friends there, but many of the Elves have departed long ago. I only know that they have fought some groups of Orcs coming from the East, nothing more."

"We must act Ana."

"I know, and I will help you if I can. But it will not be easy."

"I know, and I thank you for your help. Would you agree to be a part of the Fellowship then?"

She smiled, her eyes shining.

"As long as we do not have to be called 'the fellowship'."

They laughed.

"And how would you have yourself called then?" the King asked her merrily.

She thought for a moment, before smiling at Aragorn.

"We are sent away to keep the boundaries of our Kingdoms safe. What about 'The Guard'?"

Elessar smiled at her.

"It would be perfect."

***************************************

In the afternoon, when the Council resumed, Ana the Green sat near the King of Gondor, and the news of her help in the creation of a group sent away in the East was welcomed enthusiastically.

"Our best soldiers should join you in your journey," said Legolas. "One of each Kingdom shall go with you, and with them the blessing of all the Free Folks."

"There is no need to send a very large group though," the witch replied. "All should be represented, you are right, but I think one of each race is enough to be brought along."

"Shall we send a Hobbit too?" asked Samwise.

"No Sam, there is no need," Elessar answered. "Your people is peaceful, and it is good for us all that they remain that way. I do not wish to send any of your kind away from your homes and peaceful fields again. You have already proved yourselves the last time war was upon us."

"Thank you, it would have been a weight for us all to see any of us go away again," said Merry.

"Now, how will we choose who we are going to send?" asked Thorin III Stonehelm.

"I wish to choose with you," said the witch. "We will have to go through many perils together, and we need to get along."

"Have you already some names in mind?" asked Faramir.

Ana turned towards the King Eomer.

"I thought of Eoden in Rohan. He is a very good man, and a great fighter. He knows perfectly the Lands near the borders of your kingdom, for he has been defending them for a long time now. Both his knowledge and his strength shall prove themselves a great advantage to us."

Eomer thought for a while.

"He is my best Captain, and a man I value very highly."

"We must send our best men Eomer, if it comes that far, they will have to defend themselves against many enemies," said Aragorn to his old friend. "We must send the best we have."

The King of Rohan nodded reluctantly.

"So be it then."

An elf cleared her voice. She was sitting next to Legolas, and had not spoken yet that day.

"I volunteer to represent the Elves in this mission."

Legolas Greenleaf frowned at her.

"Are you certain?"

She nodded, her blond curls brushing her shoulders.

"I am. My knowledge in medicine should be very useful. And more importantly, Ana and I have been friends for many years now," she added, smiling at the witch. "I shall fight by your side my friend."

"Thank you Adhalan," Ana answered, smiling.

"What about the Dwarves?" asked Gimli.

"Urin is a good friend of mine, and a very good smith. I thought he might agree to join us, if I ask him to."

"Goin will never agree to let his brother go without him," Gimli replied, shaking his head.

"Then, I guess he shall come with us too," answered Ana.

"So two Dwarves will go, but only one man?" protested Bard II.

"And only one Elf, and yet we do not ask for more," replied Legolas.

"We can accept another man if it eases your mind," answered Ana.

"It would indeed, thank you."

"Gondor should be represented too," said Pippin. "Someone from the Citadel should go."

The Hobbit turned towards Elessar.

"I know you will choose the right person Strider, and everyone in the Shire will feel better if someone you trust is sent too."

Aragorn nodded.

"I shall choose someone myself to represent my Kingdom then."

"And how are we going to call you? You need a name!" said Master Gamgee.

"Ana thought about 'The Guard'."

Gilrael laughed.

"I recognise you here Ana. It would suit this fellowship quite well I reckon."

All agreed, smiling. The King Elessar stood up, calling the meeting to an end.

"I will choose someone from Gondor. You should send words to the ones we have appointed to this task. They must come here as fast as they can. The sooner the Guard will depart, the better. I only hope it will not be too late."

***********************************************

Aragorn closed his eyes. Against his eyelids, the dying sun was shedding a warmth that was shaking his whole body. He breathed deeply the smell of wet leaves. Without opening his eyes, he recognised the steps of his son approaching behind him.

"Mother told me what happened at the Council. I am glad you have taken a decision."

The King looked at his son, diving into his brown eyes.

"We have indeed.".

Eldarion leaned against the banister, next to his father. In the distance, the Mountains of Mordor were like a dark wall enclosing the horizon. The sky above the black peaks was on fire, as if the flames were coming from the desolated land itself, igniting the cloudless skies with fierce sparks. For a while, nor father nor son spoke a word.

"Have you already chosen someone to represent Gondor?" Eldarion finally asked.

"I have not set my choice upon anyone yet, no. It is a difficult decision to take, and the lives of many will depend on it. Perhaps I should send one of our Captains... Though in my soul I wish I could go myself."

"Have you ever been in Rhun?"

"I have. But it was a long time ago, when the Dark Lord was still a whisper from afar. It was before the War, before I became who I was meant to be, when I was still a Ranger."

"How was it?"

Elessar lost his gaze in the golden shades of the snowy Mountains on his right.

"Desolated, lonely, dry. These are no lands you want to go unless you have to. I wonder if it has changed, now that Sauron is defeated, and that no man in these lands can swear him allegiance anymore. The wars against the Easterlings have been long, I'm afraid our peace with them could be endangered."

Eldarion took a deep breath before speaking again.

"Father, an idea has been in my mind since I learnt about the choice you have to make."

"What is it, my son?"

He looked at his father, whose gaze was still fixed upon the horizon.

"I want to go."

Aragorn turned his attention towards him, frowning.

"I want to go with the Guard," the young man repeated. "I want to be a part of it."

The King shook his head.

"It is too dangerous."

"You always say a good King is a King who has seen enough of the world to know about the perils he must protect his people from. You always say I am not wise enough. I know you are right, I have not enough experience in life yet to take decisions as a King. So let me go in Rhun, let me have a chance to learn."

"You are my heir, the heir to the throne of Gondor and Arnor. We cannot take this risk," the King replied.

"How am I supposed to learn about the world if you shield me from it?"

"There is a difference between showing you the world, and sending you to Rhun."

"Sooner or later, you will have to let me face the world beyond the boundaries of Gondor and Arnor. I must see war too, you said it yourself."

"You are not ready."

"I am never ready with you!"

Eldarion breathed deeply, calming down, trying to control the shakiness in his voice.

"I want to do something, something important for once."

"I will not take the risk to leave our people without an heir," Aragorn coldly answered.

He put a hand on his son's shoulder, looking at him in the eyes.

"I will not take the risk to lose my only son."

"If war comes upon us, will I be more ready to fight? Will I be ready because war is upon my home?"

Aragorn didn't answer, and so Eldarion went on.

"I can fight. You have taught me all there is to know about ancient medicine, Mother has taught me elfish medicine as well. I know how to find the safest path with the sun and the stars. I am as ready as I will ever be. You simply refuse to see it."

But Aragorn shook his head again.

"You are too young..."

"I am a grown man, I am no child anymore!" replied Eldarion, his voice shaking with anger.

Despite his best efforts to remain calm, he had raised his voice.

"A man would accept the commands of his King!" said Aragorn, raising his voice as well. "And you, Child, should learn your place!"

Eldarion clenched his jaw.

"I do accept the commands of my King. But I am not forced to agree with my father. For we both know the one who is refusing me this mission now, is not my King."

It was Aragorn's turn to clench his jaw.

"You are not refusing to send me because I am not ready, or because I am not a good fighter. You know I am the best warrior in this Kingdom. You know I have the skills and knowledge for this mission. You are simply afraid to let me be a man too."

Eldarion turned on his heels and strode out of the balcony and into his father's private office, before walking into the corridor. Aragorn remained standing there for a while, lost in thought. When he moved away from the banister, it was night already, and the dark Mountains of Mordor had disappeared in the shadows.

***************************************

Arwen looked at her husband for a while. He was leaning against the wall near their bed, by the window, staring at the flickering lights that the fireflies were igniting in the shadows. She stood up, and walked by his side and he started when she touched his arm.

"Why are you so worried, Estel?"

He took her in his arms, and held her tightly against him.

"I was merely thinking," he answered, his voice sounding like it came from far away.

"About the soldier you will send with the witch?"

Aragorn sighed.

"Eldarion came to see me this evening. He wants to go."

Arwen looked at him, horrified.

"You cannot send him! You cannot send our son!"

"He is not a child anymore, my love."

"He is still our son! He is my baby, our baby!"

"He is a man, and one day he will be King. He must know about what the world has in store against us."

"There are other ways."

"He is ready."

She narrowed her eyes.

"What words did he speak to convince you?"

"Words of my own."

"He is so young still!"

"He is twenty-six, many who have died in battle were much younger."

"He does not realize what it means, what he will have to face."

"Maybe it is precisely the reason why he must depart for the East."

He took her hands in his. Her long, graceful fingers had turned cold with fear.

"We cannot protect him forever," Aragorn said in a whisper. "He is my son too, and I love him with all my heart. But keeping him here, unspoiled, is not doing him a favour. He must grow, and learn, if we want him to be a good and wise guide for our people."

"Your words sound like wisdom, and yet my heart is breaking in my chest already."

He caressed her soft cheek.

"Mine is breaking as well, but it also tells me to let him live the life he wants for himself. The decision is also his to take."

Arwen nodded slowly, defeated.

"If you think it is what is meant to be done."

He took her in his arms again.

"I am afraid... I do not know what is meant to be done anymore."

************************************************

Eldarion entered his father's office, a lump in his throat. The previous night, he had spoken his heart, but he knew it was not what his father wanted to hear. He found the King standing by the window, looking outside, though Eldarion knew he was seeing nothing of the cloudless morning, he was staring at the world while lost in thought.

"You asked to see me," the young man said softly.

Aragorn turned around slowly.

"I did."

He remained there, standing still, and didn't propose his son to take a seat. Eldarion knew for experience that is was not a good sign. Suddenly, he felt like a young boy who had been caught exploring the castle in the middle of the night again. He forced himself to stand straighter.

"I have thought about who should represent Gondor in the Guard," Elessar spoke slowly.

Eldarion's heart skipped a beat.

"Have you come to a decision then?"

"I have indeed."

Aragorn took several steps towards his son, and looked straight into his eyes.

"You shall depart as soon as the other members have arrived. It should not take very long. Two, maybe three weeks at the most."

Eldarion raised an eyebrow.

"Me?"

"You were right last night," Aragorn answered. "You are ready, and you are probably the best warrior I could send."

He paused briefly, before speaking again, even more slowly.

"You must understand that I did not refuse at first because I doubt you, but because you are my son."

"I understand, I have responsibilities towards our people."

Aragorn smiled sadly.

"I never think about our people when it comes to you, or any of your sisters."

He took his son's face in both his hands.

"You are my son. I would never forgive myself if any harm was coming to you. One day, you will have children of your own, and you will understand how it feels to be ready to do anything to keep them safe. You will understand then, how it feels to value the life of someone above all things, above your own life, even above your kingdom."

He let go of his son, who remained speechless.

"But you are a man now, and it is time for you to choose your own path. And it is time for me to let go. Though, it does not mean I will let you go away from home like this."

Eldarion narrowed his eyes, smiling by now. Elessar reached for something behind his desk. When he faced his son again, he was holding an old, but royal sheath in his hands.

"I want you to have it. It protected me during the War, and allowed me to vanquish many perils. The power within this blade has kept darkness away from our lands for many generations. And since the days of Elendil, it has been the guardian of peace, in our lands and afar. May it protect you from all evil and harm that may come across your path."

Eldarion wrapped his shaking fingers around Anduril, Flame of the West, the sword of the Kings. The young man felt tears blurring his vision.

"I shall do my best to be worthy of such a blade. I will make you proud."

Aragorn smiled, tears also in his eyes. He touched his son's cheek, making him look at him.

"I am already proud of you, son."

***************************************

Words had been sent away to call for the ones who had been chosen to go in the East. Ana was already beginning to prepare their departure, organizing their provisions, their weapons... For now she was in one of the oldest chambers of the White City, where the knowledge of the kingdoms of the West of Middle-earth was safely kept and protected. She was surrounded by all the maps of the Eastern lands she had been able to gather, trying to find the best paths for her and her companions to take. She turned on her chair when she heard footsteps echoing upon the floor of polished stone. She smiled at the sight of the King of Gondor.

"Already getting ready to run away?" he asked, the ghost of a smile curving his lips.

"You know how much I hate politics. I will soon have to run for my life."

A silence fell between them. The torches were enlightening the dark room with a soft shade of red and gold, the fading roar of the blazes breaking the stillness of the old memories that haunted the dusty air. Finally, the witch spoke again, her low voice sounding like a cry in the deep silence.

"Have you taken a decision?" she asked the King.

"I have indeed," he answered slowly.

He looked at a map that had been thrown away on another table, examining the fading lines of black ink that traced the roads and the boundaries of their world. Just a few drops of dark ink, that had led them to so many wars and deaths and desolations in the past, so many sacrifices for a line on a piece of parchment... And now he was sending his son to defend these same lines too. He sighed heavily, letting the map fall back on the table.

"Eldarion shall go with you."

The witch frowned hard.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Eldarion, my son, shall accompany you and your companions to the East."

She could not believe her ears.

"But, if I may..."

"The decision has been taken, and shall not change."

"You cannot send your son."

"Why could I not?"

"Because I cannot assure you that he will come back. Because I need a warrior, not a Prince..."

"Eldarion is an excellent fighter. He is the best Captain I have. And he must go, he must see what is out there."

"He has never killed anyone," she protested. "He has merely arrested a few criminals, that doesn't make a warrior of him. There has not been any fighting in Gondor for years."

"It is precisely why he must depart by your side."

"This mission is everything but an educative expedition."

"I would be grateful if you could watch your tone."

She bit her tongue.

"We have known each other for many years," she said more softly. "We have known each other before the War, when you were only a Ranger in exile, and we have always been friends. You have always trusted me, all those years..."

"And you have always respected my judgement as well."

"I cannot promise he will come back."

"Noted."

"And if he does come back, he will not be the same."

"It is one of the purpose actually, my old friend. He needs to live what he may have to face in his own lands one day. The meeting has shown one thing: many think we are overreacting. If they keep thinking this way, we may have to fight for the protection of our people. Eldarion needs to remember that. He needs to learn from others too, he needs to open his mind to the world."

He leaned towards the witch, looking intensely in her green eyes.

"I trust you, Ana. If there is one person in Middle-earth to show him, and to bring him home safely, it is you."

He stood up, striding through the room.

"I guess there are no words I can say to make you change your mind?" she called.

"None my friend."

"And I guess my point of view does not count at all, and that I should consider this as a command from my King."

On the threshold, Aragorn turned around again. The light of the torches was igniting Ana's eyes, already burning with anger.

"You may do so, if it eases your mind."

He walked away, leaving the witch alone to fight her anger. She regretted so much the days of Strider the Ranger...

*****************************

"So your father accepted after all?"

Eldarion nodded, a bright smile on his face. He looked at his best friend for a while, but didn'tÂ answer. He knew he didn't need to speak for Eren to understand his thoughts. After all, they had been friends since childhood. Eren's father being one of the King's advisers, and a very respected General, Eren had spent most of his childhood in the Halls of stones of the Citadel. Eldarion and him had learned to read, and write, and fight together. They were like brothers.

"When are you leaving?" Eren asked.

"I don't know yet. As soon as they have all arrived I guess," Eldarion answered.

"I'm happy for you. But I have to admit that I shall miss your company."

Eldarion smiled once again, patting his friend's shoulder.

"I won't be gone for such a long time I'm sure."

"I wish I could come with you."

"And how could Minas Tirith survive without one of its best soldier?"

"I am merely a Guard of the Citadel..."

"Your father is a commander in our army, I doubt that you will remain a soldier for long. Who knows... perhaps you shall be a Captain when I come back."

"I hope you will not be gone so long."

Eldarion didn't say a word, and merely set his brown gaze on the city before him. From the tower, they could see the city and the long blade of grass of the Pelennor splayed under the sun.

"I think I will miss this view," the Prince finally whispered.

"I would miss it as well," Eren admitted. "It is home."

Eldarion suddenly turned to his friend, setting his intense brown glance upon him.

"I need you to do me a favour."

"You know you can ask anything from me," Eren earnestly answered.

"Could you look after my sisters while I'm gone?"

Eldarion ran a nervous hand through his jet black hair.

"I mean..." he went on. "I would feel better if I knew that someone in the city was taking care of them. I have always been the one who made sure that they would be safe..."

"You can count on me."

The two men exchanged a smile, before setting their glances back upon the golden fields bathed with the red light of a dying sun.

Both their hearts were heavier than they would admit.

*********************************

During the three days that followed, the witch did her best to avoid Eldarion. She did not like the fact that the decision had been taken without her, and more importantly, she believed the Prince was not the best choice possible. He was known to be skilled with a bow and arrow as well as a blade, but it was not enough for the witch. She was looking for people fully trained, but more importantly, kind hearted. She was going in the East under the will and the blessing of all kingdoms in Middle-Earth because she was leaving in order to investigate on the Orcs' movements, but she was secretly hoping to do some good too along the way. She was known to help populations wherever she was going, and again her will to help the ones in need was the strongest. She was not only travelling in the Eastern Lands to spy, she was going there to help people on the road too. She had chosen people who had the same will of defending the weakest and helping the poorest, except for Eldarion. He was not altogether evil, and she knew it, but still compared to the others, he could destroy everything. All her efforts were going to crumble down if the Prince could not see how important it was to help the people they were meeting as they were progressing eastward. What if he refused and pushed them onwards without a look behind? She did not know him enough to be sure that he was not narrow-minded. And for as long as she was in the Castle, she could not betray herself, and the Prince was a risk she could not take, and so she took great care in remaining as far from him as possible.

Adhalan spent some time with the Prince however, advising him on how he could organize their departure. The Elf had never been in the Eastern Lands either, but she did her best to help him getting prepared. She had a kind nature, and found the young man friendly. They were getting along quite well, and soon her first apprehensions were dissipated. He was an excellent fighter, and seemed strong enough to endure long journeys. She was quite satisfied by the choice of the King by the end of the first week.

The first warrior to arrive was Eoden, Captain of the Rohirrim. He bent gracefully before all Lords and Kings and Ladies and Queens who had gathered to welcome him. His hair was long and blond as corn bathed in the summer sun. His beard covered his strong jaw, and his blue eyes were like two drops of azure sky. He was tall and strong, in his early thirties, and though all his being let transpire strength and let guess his skills in combat, he had a gentle way of talking, and moving, and behaving in general. He looked like the most powerful Rohirrim, feared by his foes, and yet his touch was softer than rain. He felt awkwardly uneasy in official circumstances, and for as long as he was forced to meet important people, his face was tensed.

But at last he arrived at the level of the witch, and a smile curved up his lips.

"Ana! How long it has been my friend!"

He took her in his big arms and crushed her against him, and she laughed, hugging him as well.

"It has been far too long indeed!" she laughed.

Â The King Eomer put a hand on his captain's shoulder.

"We have much to discuss," he said.

Eoden nodded and followed his King to the Council Chamber, and there they all discussed of the mission they were planning. At the end of the meeting, Eldarion guided the Rohirrim to his room.

"This will be your furthest journey from home yet then?" Eoden asked the young man.

"It will be indeed," he answered.

"And why did Ana choose you, if I may ask? After all, it seems to me that you are not friends."

"My father appointed me to represent our Kingdom in this mission."

"Oh, I see..."

Eldarion looked at the warrior.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well... Ana did not seem particularly fond of you, and it was hard for me to see the reason why she had chosen you. But it is clear now."

"I believe she is avoiding me," Eldarion confessed.

Eoden let out a laugh.

"As we are going to spend a lot of time together, let me give you an advice concerning Ana. She is the most generous and the bravest person I know, but it always takes her some time to trust anyone."

They arrived before the door of the Rohirrim's bedroom. Eoden put a hand on the doorknob, but turned towards the prince again.

"Do not judge her by the way she behaves with you for now. She will need some time to decide if she should trust you or not, but once you have earned her friendship, it will be granted to you forever, and you will see that there is no more loyal friend than her."

"Thank you for your advice, I shall remember it."

"One more thing if I may," the man of Rohan added. "I hope you will agree to abandon the titles between us. It shall be quite annoying if we cannot even call each other by our names."

Eldarion smiled at him.

"I hoped you would agree to it myself, Eoden."

"Thank you again for showing me the way."

Eoden closed the door behind him, leaving the Prince alone in the corridor, a satisfied feeling brightening his face. He liked the warrior, and he felt he would be a great ally if the Prince wanted to bring down the witch's defences.

******************************************

Eoden and Eldarion were closer every day. They spent hours fighting, enjoying such a competitor to fight, and they would pass entire afternoons in the old room where Eldarion used to train alone. They would come out in the early evening, sweating, their muscles aching, but laughing all the same. Eoden was an honourable and kind man, and Eldarion liked the simplicity of his being, while the man of Rohan appreciated the merry mood of the Prince and his sharpness of mind. The Rohirrim insisted on Ana getting to know Eldarion better, but despite the fact that he himself was becoming friend with the young man, the witch was still keeping her distance. When she spoke with the Prince, she was courteous, but always distant, a cool tone in her voice. Her green eyes grew worried when he entered the room, and her beautiful and graceful face, full of kindness, was suddenly tensed when she heard his name. But at the arrival of the two Dwarves, she was forced to change her attitude, for the two brothers were merry and wanted the whole group to gather and discuss their journey. They were both stout, with dark hair and long beards decorated with elaborated rings of silver. After he had finished his second beer, Urin finally spoke, his cavernous voice rolling through the gardens in full bloom.

"I believe you have already set up a course for us to follow, my dear Ana."

The witch winked at him.

"Everything is ready. We can go whenever you and your brother are rested enough."

"Just give us a couple of days, and we'll be ready to slain as many Orcs as you can get!" said Goin, laughing loudly.

"That is only if you remain sober enough!" said the She-Elf.

Urin narrowed his eyes, and snorted loudly.

"I could remind you that we Dwarves are excellent drinkers!"

"Good drinkers does not mean you can hold this liquor!" said Eoden, laughing.

"You, Blond-Charmer, should not get involved in that debate!"

"Now that you have called me by this stupid nickname again, I reckon I should, on the contrary."

"Don't mind them," said Goin to the young Prince, leaning towards him. "They're all a bit crazy!"

"You are the craziest of us all!" protested Urin.

"You old maggot, 'course I'm not."

"Yes, you are," agreed Eoden.

The group was laughing, and merry, and Eldarion was glad. He liked the personality of all of

them, and believed that they could all get along fine, and even become great friends. Only Ana remained cold with him. But nonetheless, as the hours were flying away and the afternoon was slowly bringing orange shades to the sky, he could guess another side of her personality. She had laughed, and been merry, and when she smiled it seemed to him that the world was getting brighter, and her eyes were shining with a thousand tickling sparks of joy, that seemed like trembling stars over the treetops of a long forgotten forest. When time came for them to talk about their journey, and their rations, and their weapons, and all the things they had still to plan before their departure to the Eastern Lands, her voice was strong, and command made her tone firm. Her knowledge of the world was great and though her face seemed to belong to a woman in her early twenties, her wisdom betrayed her age and the many lives of men she had already spent travelling and protecting Middle-Earth. Although he had grown quite tired of her distant behaviour towards him, he could hardly help himself from feeling impressed by her. Finally, when the evening was already old and stars were lighting up the infinite sky, the six Guardians finally headed back to their rooms, for everything was now settled and planed. Final preparations would be made the next day, and two days later, they would start their long journey to the East.

************************

"Are you certain that you are taking enough food?"

"Yes, mother, I am."

"And your clothes?"

"Everything is ready."

"Are you sure you have all the herbs your father and I gave you?"

"Yes, mother, in my bag."

"And the maps, what about..."

But Eldarion shushed her, chuckling.

"Mother, I am ready to go. I am not forgetting anything, I am sure."

Arwen took her son in her arms.

"This whole idea is folly!" she said, squeezing him against her.

"Mother..."

He made her look at him.

"I am ready to leave. I have to. I must see by myself all the dangers father and you have taught me to fight, I must see the world as it is beyond the safe walls of our City. I have to go. Do you understand?"

She caressed tenderly his cheek, nodding, her eyes full of tears.

"I do understand. But to me, you are still the baby who used to cry when he could see neither of his parents. To me, you are still my little boy, and you always will be, for it is the doom of parents to worry about their children long after they have stopped needing them."

Eldarion took his mother in his arms again.

"I will always need you, mother," he said softly.

"I love you, Eldarion."

"I love you too."

A knock on the door broke the silence of their embrace, and Aragorn came into the room. Eldarion and Arwen let go of each other.

"It is time," said the King. "Everything is ready. You shall take the path that leads to the Mountains, and nobody will notice your departure, nor know the direction you have taken. Is Anduril by your side?"

Eldarion nodded, holding the pommel of his sword. Elessar got closer to him, resting his hands on his son's shoulders.

"Be careful, my son."

"I will."

Aragorn took his son in his arms, his eyes wet with tears. He knew he had taken the right decision, and yet in his chest his heart was breaking at the sight of his son leaving him.

"Promise me," you whispered in Eldarion's ear, and not even Arwen could hear what Aragorn was telling his son, "promise me to come back safe and sounds. Promise me you will come back to us."

Eldarion tightened his grip on his father, fighting tears.

"I promise," he answered.

A silence endured for a while, before Aragorn spoke again, his voice made shaky by his tears.

"I love you, son."

Eldarion closed his eyes, feeling warm tears flowing down upon his cheeks.

"I love you too, father."

When they looked at each other, both of them were crying.

Â They walked out of Eldarion's room, after all three of them had dried their cheeks, and Eldarion bid farewell to his sisters, holding them close to him one by one. Finally, he was ready to leave, and he joined his companions in the Hall of stone, and before the throne of his father, all the Kings and Lords who had come to the Council were gathered to see their departure. As they were about to leave, after the Kings had blessed them with the good will of all the Free Folks, the Hobbits took a step towards the Witch.

"Here, for the road," Pippin told her, handing her some tobacco leaves.

She breathed deeply the scent of Longbottom Leaf, the best pipe weed of the Shire.

"Thank you Pip," she said, kissing the Hobbit's brow.

They shared their goodbyes, and the Hobbits said farewell to Eldarion too.

"You... be careful on the road," said Merry, who was particularly fond of the man.

"Do not worry about me, Merry, I'll be just fine."

"If you listen to what she says, you will be," Samwise advised him.

"I will, Sam."

He stood up and joined the other Guardians. They walked through forgotten tunnels and paths carved deep in the rocks of the Mountains. When they finally came out, a swift breeze was reddening their cheeks, and the light of the stars were shining brightly. Eldarion turned around, taking one last glance at the White City, its walls bathed in Moonlight. He felt his heart tightening in his chest, a weight suddenly bending slightly his shoulders. He knew he missed his home already. But he shook himself, standing straighter again, turning around, and following the others in the deep shadows of the night.

#eldarion #eldarion imagine #eldarion fanfic #lotr #lotr fanfic #lotr imagine #tolkien #tolkien fanfic #tolkien imagine #aragorn #aragorn imagine #aragorn fanfiction #imagine #fanfic #writing

12 notes · View notes

son-of-drogo · 5 years

Text

Tried my hand at script writing. What do you think of Episode 2 of Mattimeo?

Int. Gatehouse-day

Matthias the Warrior stands South his back to the empty fireplace. Her is a sturdy mouse, about 28-30 seasons old. Although the table is set for breakfast, the food is untouched. Matthias is not relishing facing his wayward son.

A knock is heard, the camera pans to the door.

Matthias (O.S)

Come in, please.

Formole, a greying mole enters, nodding to Matthias and smiling until his beady eyes almost disappear.

Formole

Gudd morn to you'm, Mattwise, yurr. Uz moles diggin a cooker pit t'day. May'aps you'ud loik to 'elp?

Matthias

(Smiles fondly and pats his friend's back)

Thank you for the offer, Foremole. Unfortunately I have other more serious business to attend this morning. (There is a thump in the next room. Matthias's ear twitches) Hmm, that sounds like it in the next room, just getting out of bed. Will you excuse me?

Foremole

(Chuckles and shakes his head)

Hurr hurr, ee be a roight laddo, yurr Mattee. Doant wack 'im too 'ard now. (Exits)

Mattimeo

(Appears looking touseled and apprehensive)

Matthias

(Beckoning to his son)

Come on, Mattimeo.

Mattimeo glances hungrily at the breakfast table, but his attention quickly turns to his father.

Matthias

(Sternly)

Well, what have you got to say for yourself?

Mattimeo

(Mumbled)

M'sorry.

Matthias

(Crosses his arms)

I should hope so.

Mattimeo

(Mumbles a bit louder)

M'very sorry.

Matthias

Foremole says I should wack you. What do you think?

Mattimeo

M'very very sorry. 't won't happen again, Dad.

Matthias

(Shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, but lays a paw on his son's shoulder)

Matti, why do you do these things? You hurt us and got your friends into trouble. Why?

Matti

(Is unsure about what answer his father wants)

Matthias

(Watches his rebellious son for a moment before turning to take down a magnificent sword from above the fireplace. He offers it to his son)

Here Matti, see if you can wield it yet.

Matti

(Takes the sword with trembling paws and shining eyes. He tries to swing it twice, but he stumbles, pulled down to the floor by its weight.)

I can nearly swing it Father.

Matthias takes the sword and begins to perform what almost looks like a dance. Snicking the stalk from an Apple, slicing the bread without touching the table, carelessly flicking the rind off a wedge of cheese. He brought the sword up on a warrior's salute before bringing the blade to rest, point quivering, in the floor.

Mattimeo looks at his father with admiration.

Matthias

One day you will take my place, son. You will grow big and strong, and I will train you to use the sword like a real warrior. But it is only a sword. It will not make you a warrior just because you carry it. Weapons may be carried by those who are evil, dishonest, violent, or lazy. A true warrior is good, gentle, and honest. His bravery comes from within; he learns to conquer his fears and misdeeds. Do you understand?

Matti

(Nods)

Matthias

(Grows stern)

Good, I am glad you do. I will not wack you. I have never laid a paw on you and I don't plan on starting. However, you attacked Vitch and I will not have my son fighting. At first I thought I should not allow you to attend the feast...

Shock and disbelief crosses the young mouse's features.

Matthias

But I have decided that you may go, if you go straight to the kitchens. You must ask Friar Hugo to give you double the tasks he have Vitch. When you have finished, go and help your mother pick flowers until she says you are free. Understood?

Mattimeo it's shocked. He's never before been asked or ordered to perform any tasks.

Matthias watches his son's reaction, testing to see if he will show character or behave like a spoiled brat.

Matti

I will do as you have asked, Dad.

Matthias

(Clapping him on the back)

Good lad! That's the mark of a warrior in training, obedience. Off you go now!

Int. Great Hall- Day

Morning sunlight lances through the high Windows, light falls in soft pink relief to the floor of Great Hall. Mattimeo passes under a beam of light and the camera pans to follow him. As he passes the Tapestry of Martin the Warrior he stops abruptly. He turns, checking to see if someone is following him. There is no one.

CLOSE UP ON THE PICTURE OF MARTIN THE WARRIOR

Matti

(Draws close to the portrait)

I could feel you watching me, Martin. I'm on my way to do penance in the kitchens, you probably know that. I didn't mean to disobey my parents, but I had to fight Vitch because he said things about my dad. I couldn't allow him to insult my family. My dad wouldn't have punished me if he knew, but he's my dad. I can't explain things to him properly. You're different, Martin, you understand.

Martin's expression doesn't change.

Matti

(Shuffles his paws)

Sometimes you're just like Dad. Look, I'm sorry, I'll try to be a better mouse. I promise not to get in trouble anymore.

Mattimeo shuffles sulkily to the kitchens muttering.

Matti

I wish there was another Great War, I'd slow them. Huh! They'd be glad I could fight then. I wouldn't be sent off to scour pots then. They'd probably have to give me a medal or something.

The camera returns to Martin and his smile seems gentler. He seems to be watching the retreating figure of the young mouse.

Int. Kitchens-day

Friar Hugo is the fattest mouse on Redwall Abbey. He wears a white apron over his habit and always carries a dockleaf in his tail, which he used to fan himself, Rub on a scorched paw, or use as a visor to peer down into bubbling pots.

Matti waits for orders.

Hugo

(Checking the lists)

Hmm, let me see, that's six large raspberry seed cakes. We need four more. Brother Sedge, take that pot of cream off before it boils over! Sister Agnes, chop those onions and add the herbs to the woodland stew. Er, what's this? Ten flagons of strawberry cordial? We need twice as many. Nip down to the cellars, young Matti and fill more flagons. Have Ambrose Spike let you in.

Matti Is glad to be out of the hustle and bustle of the kitchens. He salutes the fat friar and runs of, dodging between the kitchen workers.

Int. Cellars-Day

Ambrose Spike is blowing foam from a bowl of October ale when Mattimeo comes up on him.

Matti

'Scuse me, please Friar Hugo sent me t-

The old hedgehog choked and sneezed as he whirled around.

Ambrose

(Rubbing at his snout)

Don't sneak up on me like that, lad. Hold still a moment will you.

(Drains the bowl and smacks his lips)

Harr, wunnerful! Though I do say it meself, no creature brews October ale like the Spike family. Now what can I do for you, mousey?

Matti

Friar says I've got to fill more flagons of strawberry cordial sir.

Ambrose

(Points down the hall)

Oh, right barrels are in the next section. The ones marked pink, flagons are against the wall as y' go in. Don't disturb the elderberry or Blackcurrant wine or they'll go cloudy.

The camera follows Matti. As he is waking info the next section he is hailed.

Tim

Psst, Matt, sssshhh, over here!

The twin churcmice, Tim and Tess, and Sam Squirrel are longing by the barrels of strawberry cordial.

Matti

(Tip toes over)

What are you doing down here?

Tess

(Stifles a giggle)

We slipped past Ambrose while he was dozing. Come and have some cold strawberry cordial, it's scrummy.

They prise a bung from the barrel and use hollow reeds to drink the sparkling juice.

Tess passes Matti a straw and he joins them.

Some time later Ambrose passes by to see the four youngsters filling the flagons.

Ambrose

(To himself)

Hmm. S' funny, there was only one of 'em here before.

Int. Kitchens-Day

The kitchen staff are working flat out now in preparation for the feast.

Hugo

(Fanning himself)

You there, Billum, can you dig me a nice neat tunnel through the middle of that big marrow?

Billum

Hurr, gaffer, oi serpintly can. Pervidin' oi can eat it as oi goes along.

Hugo

Righto, carry on. Oh there you are young Matti. Take your friends along to the larder. I want two small white cheeses flavored with sage, two large red cheeses with beechnut and rosemary, and one of the extra large yellow cheeses with acorn and apple bits. Be very careful how you roll the extra large yellow; don't go knocking anyone down or breaking furniture.

All four together

(Dash off whooping)

Hooray, we're going to roll cheeses!

Abbot Mordalfus, normally a dignified creature, appeared from behind a large cake, his whiskers festooned with cream and candied peel.

Hugo

(Dusting off his friend's face with the dockleaf)

Ha, there you are Alf. Well, how's the special Redwall Abbot's Cake coming along?

Mordalfus

(Chewing on some candied peel thoughtfully)

Very well, thank you Hugo. Though I still suspect it lacks something. What do you think?

Hugo

(Dips his dock leaf in the mixture and tastes it)

Hmm, I see what you mean, Alf. If I were you, I'd put some redcurrant jelly in to make it look more like an Abbot's Cake. Doesn't hurt to cheat a little. After all you're only going by Abbot Saxtus's recipe, and that's a matter of taste. Yes, put more redcurrant in and we'll name it Redcurrantwall Abbot Alf Cake.

Mordalfus

(Dusting flour off his paws, smiling proudly)

What a good idea. Hi there Matthias, where are you off to?

Matthias

(Carries two fishing lines and bait, he dodges a pair of moles pushing a trollyful of streaming muffins, calling across to Mordalfus)

Don't you remember, Abbot, we were supposed to be going fishing in the Abbey pond for our annual centerpiece?

Mordalfus

(Clapping a paw to his brow)

Goodness me, so I have. I'll be right with you Matthias.

Matthias

(Looks around the kitchen)

Friar Hugo, have you seen my son?

Hugo

(Chuckling)

Indeed I have, Matthias. The young feller's been a great help. Haha, I've sent him and his pals to roll cheeses out. That'll keep them busy. Constance is the only one strong enough to deal with the big yellow cheese that I've told them to roll out. Hahaha I'd love to see how they do that.

Matthias

Didn't laugh too soon, Basil Stag Hare had just arrived. I just let him in the main gate. He says he's been on a long patrol and hasn't had a decent meal in three sunrises. Oh, and he said to tell you he's appointed himself official sampler.

Matthias and the Abbot flee the kitchens as Hugo puffs up with indignation.

Hugo

(Outraged)

What? Never! I'm not having that retired regimental glutton feeding his face in my kitchens. Oh no! Why the skinny great windbag, he'll eat us out of store and larder before sunset! Oh my nerves I don't think I'll be able to stand it!

Ext. Abbey grounds

Cornflower and Mrs. Churchmou

#mattimeo #Redwall

3 notes · View notes