A/N: So many ideas, and so little time, energy, and motivation to do them. I've been sitting on this chapter practically forever and finally found the time to just go for it. Honestly I've been hard at work, so this will probably be the last chapter in awhile. I had a cool idea for a Harry Potter/ Game of thrones crossover where Harry is reborn as a direwolf, but quite frankly, I have enough on my plate. So I'll post it as a challenge on tumblr and name it Wynter. Anyway back to the show. –Xinn
"Brave or foolish, I am alive."-Takeda Mortal Kombat X
Musical Inspiration for this chapter: Ain't No Grave by Johnny Cash, Holy Ghost by Helicopter Showdown & Sluggo Remix, and Blow Me Away by Breaking Benjamin.
When-You're-Evil – glad that I got your interest and I'm looking forward to keeping it, I promise more plot twist than a lawyer with a six figure salary.
Jason123456- Don't worry all of Desmond's ancestors will make an appearance one way or another in this story.
Guest- Sorry I didn't mean to confuse anybody. The simple explanation to your question is that the rangers didn't attack Desmond; two of them ran into him in the middle of a skirmish. And the rangers aren't mad at him, they're suspicious. Put simply they're racial profiling. A man who looks like their' enemy, with no known history is toting around currency that hasn't been in circulation for hundreds of years.
Mystic Archer Horse- Trust me I'm not going to let this one slip through my fingers, it's too good of an interesting concept for me to completely put down.
Vairë the weaver perched primly before the loom of ages, a craft of her own making. Once upon a time she sought to be the greatest amongst her sisters, by obtaining the greatest wealth of knowledge. Forcibly the ethereal beauty kept a steady even grip upon the threats of "all that is". Many a millennia may have passed, but Melkor's folly, and eventual fall was still a fresh wound infected with malice upon her psyche. (Great fear haunts thy thoughts, beloved.) The pale Ainu relaxed into the crushing weight of her husband's presence.
Only discipline honed through an eternity's worth of practice prevented her nimble fingers from faltering in pushing the shuttle filled with delicate whispers of remembrance, and possibility into the pattern she had been working on for what was approaching an age, as Vairë embrace her spouse's power with her own. (Great change has come,) Multifaceted eyes caressed the latest addition to her ever expanding tapestry. 2 score and 3 feet away from the journey of Bilbo Baggins, the battle of five armies, and ultimately the death Thorin Oakenshield king under the mountain, A female, as fair as any of Ainur under the light of the one, floats above six stars upon the cliffs of Annuminas. (That which is unknown to us now joins in our song, to what purpose I fear? It is just as unknown.)
Cold comfort vibrates through her being, as Namo stares through her eyes at the image under and to the right of the spirit she had depicted. A man now stood behind 6 children, six star spangled banners, in a curiously red and white scheme lined their' way from the fallen Minas Anor to the white tree on fields of black banners in Minas Tirith. And the question which was whispered in her mind, echoed through the weaver's being. (Who are they, and why would the matters of men concern us?)
Vairë sent playful pricks of disapproval along their' intermingling essences. How many times had Namo rebuked Manwë himself, in far harsher a manner than she was now, for disregarding the very real dangers the sky-lord would rather pretend didn't exist? How many times had the Valar as a whole not see the threat before it was far too late, and the measures taken to correct said mistake, drove them away from the world which they had created. (The shifting of a pebble could herald and avalanche.)
(And the sky's could be as dark as charcoal, and it would not rain one drop,) was the stern yet oh so tender retort. From his raised dais in the hall of judgment, the lord of Mandos's gazed fixated upon the fëa whose name he didn't bother to divine, even as he waited for the soul to fully coalesce before him. This creature was but another of the precious few in existence to be on the cusp of shedding their' finite form to seek a place amongst the eternal rest of Valinor, only to be relegated here. The destructive potential of each who passed Namo's gaze was too great to risk. So it fell to him keep them from the glory of their' "home", even as his soul filled with something like pity for what they each endured, mixed with the awe that they lived at all.
Vairë could just as easily see from his eyes, as he could from hers, and now he urged her to look, and to see as he saw. (Tis an easy thing to forget, that for all their' frailty, that the younger children of Ilúvatarstill hold so much power within them?) And just like that, his good wife's fëa slid against his skin with all the nuanced patterning of her most lovingly crafted silks, looking through his eyes. (But we cannot forget,) more of the weaver's power filled him, and a thousand things that had already passed, and had yet to be played behind his open eyes.
The man from Vairë's tapestry moved through hoards of Sauron's foulest, as smoothly as one of his own wife's works, cutting a wide bloody ribbon through their' ranks, and leaving towers of orc flesh in the wake of the priestly white he wore on his way to the crumbling Ost Elendil. The same man now stood with the ring of Sauron in one hand, and a drawn blade in the other. Faster and faster the visions streamed into his perception, until he couldn't keep track of the endless couldbe's and already was's. (Enough, sweet wife,) he finally called the visions to an end, (I will know the truth of it for myself.) Namo stood. He would seek his answers in mastered visions of his closest brother Irmo, and then perhaps Manwë would heed Vairë's council as he did. From her throne, Vairë smiles.
Covered in Than's blood, Belecthir and Niluana tiredly left Eched Garthadir's makeshift healers quarters. Anymore interference from them would merely hinder Alegan's endeavors to make sure his charge survived. Belecthir's thick brows wrinkled uncomfortably close to the pulsing vein between his eyes. He could feel a monster of a headache building there. The senior warden was certain that if the boy did survive, Eched Garthadir would be losing yet another able bodied ranger. The damage Than sustained to his right trapezius and sternocostal head muscles were extensive. He would never wield a sword properly again.
"Belecthir," the doe eyed ranger abruptly shoved myriad of dark emotions into the deepest corner of his mind. His brothers-in-arms needed him to hold it together. The archer raised his hand in greeting to his fellow senior ranger, Caler whom approached with an agitated grimace twisting his block jaw, and barely controlled violence in his long stride. Caler, whom was Belecthir's senior by twenty years, took it especially hard when the younger rangers were harmed, now gazed upon him with ancient pained eyes. "Clorhir is a disaster zone; it's a wonder that most of it isn't completely burned to the ground."
Hot rage wanted to boil over and spill into accusations that Belecthir knew he had no right in voicing. Instead he turned his attention to Alan, and Arden, Caler's star apprentices and the best trackers Eched Garthadir had ever produced. They had gone with their' teacher along with others to rescue their' missing scout. He assumed that they were still looking, whilst Arden, Alan, and Caler were informing him of their' findings. "Any sign of Nilal?" Deliberately the heavily scared warrior left out any mention of Whitehood.
"Weak signs at best, captain. And what little evidence of Than and Nilal's presence were even in Clorhir in the first place, it was either scorched by Atalantë fire, washed away in the rain, or trodden over by Orcs." Fox faced Arden informed him grimly, his flint-like gaze cutting across Belecthir to stare at their' company's standard hanging over the healer's entrance, where Alegan was most assuredly fighting for Than's life. "Has Than given you any clue as to where Nilal was taken?"
The un-asked question of their' ranger-kin's yet precarious wellbeing weighed heavily between them. And Belecthir once again found himself fighting back the tidal wave of emotions dragging his much needed good sense. "Alegan is still working on him." He finally gritted out, uncomfortably clearing his throat of tears he'd swallowed back ever since Than had somehow dragged himself back to them. "Where are the others?"
Rangers of Echad Garthadir descended upon Tirband like flies on a rotted corpse, ravenous for the advantage over their' disoriented enemies, pushing into the chaos that now consumed the agents of Sauron's camp. Lean led the charge, a foolhardy resource gatherer, whom had been too long away from his family, and now saw an opportunity to make this place that much safer for his daughters. Thoan, sister son to Than, picked off targets from whatever perch he could bulldoze up to, vengeance fresh upon his young mind.
They were followed by others, just as blind with desperate greedy rage and intent upon winning back a long thought lost part of their' heritage. If not for the calculative Alen, the dozens of rangers who abandoned the investigation in Clothier would've become victims of the very chaos they were attempting to take advantage of. Cool-headed, yet dedicated Alen served as a voice of reason, when the state of the choke point between their' enemy camps. It was he, who proposed to send Alan, Arden, and Caler back to Eched Garthadir.
It was he, who now coordinated their' movements, even as the greater numbers, and might of Sauron fell under the persistence and better organization of the invading Dunedain. And it was he, who ordered them away from the fleeing few survivors, to concentrate their' efforts on quickly establishing a strong perimeter, searching for Nilal, and sending for back up to cement Eched Garthadir dominance in Tirband. Just a fraction of the dozens he took command of were lost, but as far as Alen was concerned, it was a few too many. "Thoan, Berhet, Nirat, return to camp, and get as many healers and supplies as the captains can spare." His dulcet shout cut through any cheers of victory his kin could call out.
The muddy wet mess that was Than's closest of kin in camp jumped over the crumpled wall he had used a leveler for his shots. In a word, Thoan was livid, "you will not tear me from this." He proclaimed, marching right passed, or at least attempted to march right passed the senior ranger.
Alen caught the archer's arm in an iron vice of his unoccupied hand, shoulder checking the enraged youth harshly, to make Thoan meet the blue slate of his own gaze. "Than does not require your vengeance. Save it for the day if ever he should fall to enemy hands. But hear me now; I will take vengeance, for every life and limb that could've been saved if not for your childishness. Am I understood?" Alen gripped Thoan's arm in emphasis.
"Clearly," the young hunter snarled, ripped himself away from Alen. But regardless of his mood, Thoan followed Berhet, and Nirat, who were already headed back with all haste. Alen didn't give them a second thought, and turned to bark out more orders, even as he moved to help his fellow rangers to establish a defendable position before resources, and supplies could come.
'Well I got my wish,' a certain assassin thought with just a touch of bitterness. The ranger that Desmond had rescued lay across his back passed out, adding dead weight to the dark eyed wanderer's ever growing list of problems. Not surprisingly, slogging through Ost Elendil was harder than Desmond anticipated. The heavens had opened up; finally too full to contain the sea of salty pay load the clouds had been carrying all day. Desmond's already troublesome walk became that much more difficult, when the earth beneath his feet took on the consistency of pudding. And he lamented yet another set of clothing wouldn't survive trekking through nearly knee deep Annuminas mud, and icy daggers of sea water soaked through already blood incrusted clothing.
The assassin didn't bother fighting of shivers. The knowledge that as much discomfort as he was in now, the fact that he was uncomfortable meant that he was less likely to die. Desmond used every trick he could drag from his ancestors' memories for walking in stuff that felt like wet cement slowly solidifying around his ankles. Balancing on the balls of his feet, the animus trained assassin propelled himself forward, ignoring the pained moaning of his "passenger". The sooner they were inside the dilapidated walls of his "home", the sooner they could both rest.
Vesta "watched" her charge's progress through the satellite array orbiting at 15,000 miles above the Abies's current location. The assassin's progress was below his average speed, and in this inclement weather the likelihood of Desmond falling ill increased dramatically. The most immediately logical course of action would be to leave the man who he rescued. But there were a number of exonerating circumstances which effected Vesta's decision to "hold her peace." But the most concerning to Vesta right now, was the invasive examination being conducted on the Abies hull.
Vesta focused more of the Abies processing power unto the Malware trying to infect her system. "Intruder, identify yourself." The judge of the dead didn't withdraw from the presence his wife swore up and down was as fair as any Ainur. And now listening to the melody of "her" existence, Namo couldn't help but agree. This being's song was deeper than the bed rock it was buried on, thrumming and concussive. The lord of Mandos recognized the steady rhythm in his bones all the way from his halls. "Intruder, identify yourself, or expulsatory measures will be activated."
Spires of silver narrowed, and Namo's power automatically surged forth in response to the blatant threat. The Vala as a whole may have withdrawn from middle earth, himself included, but the very essence of this place remembered them. The wash of the Ainur's power filled the lightless space like a violent high tide, overpoweringly all-consuming. (Who are you to order the doomsman of the Valar?) His "voice" never rose above a thread above a whisper, but the command laced magic rolled unpromisingly through the air.
"My designation is Abies Avatar Vesta Alma Mater type 20 class Omicron." Blank eyes stared unerringly to where Namo gazed from the reflective pool, safe within his brother's gardens. The creature seemed wholly unmoved by the doomsman's show of dominance, and regarded his sudden presence within her ability to perceive, as one might regard a substance-less phenomena, curious yet un-invested. "For what purposed are you scanning my vessel?" "She" queried with the same emptiness as before.
And despite himself, the dark Ainur was intrigued as well as confused. The metallic resonance in the chord progression denoted little besides its arrival in middle earth. A fallen star missed by everyone under Ilúvatar's creation, Melkor included, because simply put the first age of Arda was a busy time. And yet the cadence in the rhythm spoke of something far older than Namo was able to comprehend. He cast his bewildered gaze to his brother, and master of dreams. Irmo stood over Namo's shoulder as the doomsman kneeled before one of his garden's many pools, equally as intrigued, yet nowhere near as disturbed by his wedded siblings' were by this discovery. (What is "scanning"? I do not understand this word) the lord of Lúrin enquired.
Again the being's song remained un-reacting. Neither of them could've known the thousands of algorithms Vesta was running in order to completely block these unknown threats from assaulting her systems firewalls. "Scanning, present progressive verb. To look at something carefully, usually in order to find someone or something." The avatar stalled. For all her ability to generate thousands of scenarios and their' outcomes, Vesta didn't calculate this.
Ainur- The Holy Ones encompassed both The Valar and The Maiar. They were the first and mightiest beings created by Eru Ilúvatar in the depths of time before the beginning of the World.
Irmo- Master of Dreams and lord of Lórien or Lúrin in Valinor, was responsible for the making of dreams. He was also the husband of Estë and brother to Mandos and Nienna.
Ilúvatar- is the supreme deity of Arda. He was the single creator, above the Valar, but has delegated most direct action within Eä to the Ainur, including the shaping of the Earth (Arda) itself.
Manwë- is the greatest of the Ainur, one of the Aratar, King of the Valar, husband of Varda, brother of Melkor, and King of Arda.
Melkor- later called Morgoth is the first Dark Lord of middle earth and master of Sauron.
Minas Tirith- the capital of Gondor in the Third Age and the Fourth Age of Middle-earth.
Namo/ Mandos- called Mandos for the same halls he ruled, he presided over the elves that were slain, and he was responsible for the judgment of the dead.
Vairë- is an Ainu and Vala who was responsible for the weaving of the story of Arda.
Valinor- meaning Land of the Valar was the realm of the Valar in Aman, the place to which they moved after being driven from Almaren by Melkor.