Old heroes never die by vidicon
Old heroes never die
Gimli Son of Gloin was feeling his age. Ageing was slowed in the Immortal West, by a great deal, but he had still grown older. And even though the medicines provided by Lady Estë were incredible, almost completely removing the aches in his joints and the pulling of old scars, he was still almost a century older than Dain Ironfoot had been at the time of his death. He was probably the oldest dwarf ever. But some things could not be borne.
“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do, lad!” he growled at Legolas.
“I’m just suggesting that your skill as an engineer might be more appreciated than your ability, however amazing, as a warrior,” the blond elf replied as he tended the wound on his friend’s arm.
“Don’t be ridiculous! I can fight and-” Gimli began; only to be interrupted by another elf, this one with a bandage around his arm another around his head and a third around his leg.
“I would be honoured if you would assist me in creating some defences for these good people, friend Gimli,” the elf looked ruefully at his various wounds. “As my own prowess in battle seems unequal to this task.”
The Dwarf sighed. “I suppose I could give you a hand Celebrimbor. Together we may divine the true use of these strange machines of the Men of this world.”
Companies of mounted Noldor and Vanyarin knights, accompanied by Teleri and Sindar bowmen and infantry, and even some Avari who had heeded the Second Call, radiated out from the central force, where High King Ingwë commanded about half the total forces, laid in a ring around the former Joyce Summers School. The Lady Galadriel was accompanying her husband, their combined force of five thousand or so Noldor and Sindarin elves marching towards a place called Rally Base Refuge. Reinforcement was needed there, and Elven horses in a hurry could cover far greater distances than those humans used. There was a power there that her Ladyship did not agree with. Not at all. There was a Balance to things, and it was being disturbed far more than was needed, even at this time.
King Aragorn the XVII was looking at the missive on the screen built into the huge conference table with raised eyebrows. “And you are seriously suggesting that this is a message from the so-called Valar?” He asked sceptically of the Prime Minister.
Boromir Sackville-Baggins kicked his greying, hairy feet, a nervous gesture that not even five decades at the centre of power had weaned him of. “Well, of course not. But we don’t know who did. That’s the problem. We received that odd message about something called Code Raganarok. And then several hours ago this one. It arrived on all airwaves, over every channel and appeared on every computer at the same time. The Temples are full of worshipers. People seem to believe that it is true at any rate.”
Aragorn frowned. “And what exactly am I doing here? I seem to recall we’re a Constitutional Monarchy, with a good emphasis on Constitutional. Have been for seven hundred years or so.”
Boromir coughed. “Yes. But many people still consider your lineage to be, well, at the least semi-divine. Ummm… We were rather hoping you would address them, soothe their fears until we can figure out what is truly going on.”
Aragorn rubbed his face. “The Constitution is quite clear on the fact that the Kingship is not Divine and that all power rests with the People. I seem to recall we fought a civil war over that. I’m not going to do it.”
“Sire?” Boromir sounded stunned.
“I’m not going to fall for your political tricks, Prime Minister. I know you’ve been aching to get rid off the Royal Family and the Monarchy for years. It’s part of the platform of your party. I’m not handing you the tools to do so. If you want a speech, you can give it yourself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got ribbons to cut,” Aragorn rose and walked out of the room.
Boromir swore. “Manwë’s balls! What is he playing at?”
Defence Minister Dernhelm Smith shrugged. “You have tried to undermine the Royal Family at every turn, Prime Minister. And he doesn’t believe you have his, or the nation’s best interest at heart.”
The door flew open. The King marched back in, looking pale. “I’ll give a speech. And I’m taking command.”
Sackville-Baggins’ eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. “What? What lunacy is this?”
“As my descendant was uncertain as to what was happening, I decided to come and give him some advice. And as the armies of the dead will be riding to the defence of Gondor and the world, and they are sworn to the reigning king, he is in command,” the speaker, a tall, powerful and bearded man with grey hair hanging to his shoulder and wearing a thin circlet around his brow smiled grimly. “And in case you were wondering, my name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You may have heard of me.”
Éomer Eomundson woke in his barrow. He could hear childish voices, and one older voice speaking. He strained to listen. “Of course the so-called Ring War was as struggle for power within Gondor and Rohan, between the Monarchists, led in Rohan by the young usurper Éomer, who murdered his uncle Théoden and Rohan’s primary republican, Grima son of Galmód, and the Republicans, that the monarchists won. Only in the Civil War was the balance redressed and was it proven conclusively that races such as Dwarves and Elves did not exist, probably being based upon interactions with the Halflings. Two Halfling corpses were found in Rath Dînen, so it is quite likely that Halflings did fight on the side of the Monarchy then. However-”
Éomer had heard quite enough. With a raging bellow he emerged from the flower covered hill and stood before the very surprised school class and their terrified teacher. “WHAT? YOU DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT!” seeing that the children were about to cry, if they hand’t started already, Éomer softened his voice. A little. “I am Éomer Éomundson, king of the Riddermark! I ride in defence of this world and all the others, for the King of Gondor has called me! TO ME, RIDERS OF ROHAN!”
Gaping in shock the teacher reared back from the blond man in chain and leather armour before him and the ravaged barrow. Éomer grinned at him. “We shall have words later, Son of Wormtongue. Words spoken by the blade of my sword. But first I shall go and fight.” End note: I am regretfully withdrawing from Ragnarok. If anyone wishes to use the interventions I have staged, please do so. I do not own the Lord of the Rings or Buffy the Vampire Slayer.