White City II

They were losing. Ed didn't care what anyone said about buying time for this Frodo person to throw a magic ring into an evil volcano. The men of Minas Tirith and Rohan were losing, and if they all got killed, then what the hell good did a diversionary tactic do?

He had tried to hold back during the battle, tried to reserve his strength for the task of staying alive, but as hope faded in the eyes of the men around him, Ed found it difficult to resist the urge to use alchemy. He could buy them so much time with just one transmutation--one massive transmutation. A wall across the battlefield, or a chasm ... a fire, maybe, if he felt like stealing from Colonel Mustang's bag of tricks. Ed knew he could do it, but at what cost?

At worst, he reflected as he drove his automail blade into an orc's gut, he would be noticed and taken by Sauron. At best, he might wake up after a long nap to discover the battle was done and the Dark Lord defeated. The middle ground, and the most likely outcome, was that he would be killed, the energy needed for the transmutation drawn out of him like fast-burning gasoline until there was nothing left to make his heart beat, his lungs expand.

In two of those three scenarios, he would never make it home to Al.

The alchemist ducked a swipe from a mountain troll and grimaced. He would never make it home to Al if his head got taken off by the enemy, either. A sinkhole suddenly opened beneath the troll's feet, just inches from where Ed had slammed his palms flat against the ground. Sweat ran into his eyes as he shook off the lightheadedness caused by his most recent transmutation. If he intended to do something drastic, he had better do it soon, before the small efforts chipped away too much of his energy.

Ed drove his automail blade through the troll's thick neck, doing his best to ignore the blood and the choked sounds the creature made as it died.

Wall, chasm, conflagration? The boy had trouble deciding. If he screwed this up, the rest of the army would have a hard time rectifying his mistake.

He supposed it wouldn't hurt to blow up a few of the orcs still crowding through that massive gate set in the mountains. There was no telling how much force he could muster, but he might be able to whittle the odds down, something more like a hundred to one than a thousand. Ed spent only a moment working out the mechanics of his plan before he struck a spark with his automail and called on alchemy to give it greater life. It really was wonderful how rearranging just a few tiny particles made things go boom.

Mustang's going to be furious if he ever hears about how I just upstaged him, Ed thought wryly as he collapsed, darkness already blanketing his consciousness. A few hundred orcs and part of the Black Gate fell with him.

[To be continued.]

[My apologies for taking so long to get the rest of my puppets' endings up. They are still works in progress, and I hope at least a few of you are around to read and hopefully enjoy.]

( He did not quite remember the path he had taken to get here; nor how quickly he had gotten used to the stink. His allies did not matter as much as his enemies did. Men. Filthy, unworthy Men.Collapse )

[To be continued.]

[Note: Takes place the day Aragorn's forces leave for Mordor.]

The poor apprentice who had been assigned to check on Edward that morning hurried from the room, calling for Ioreth. Behind the door, the alchemist shook his head and pulled on his customary black tank top. The motion pulled uncomfortably at the wound in his shoulder, but he was long used to pain and largely ignored it.

( Dealing with Ed was turning out to be a lot like dealing with Glorfindel... well, dealing with Glorfindel minus the flirting and sexual tension.Collapse )

( Read more...Collapse )

( Read more...Collapse )

((Takes place after Aragorn has entered the city and done the whole 'healing hands of the king' bit. You will all please note Jen's restraint in not exchanging hands for any other part of the body in the above phrase, ye, not even in strikeouts. because Ioreth would smite me))

( Fear the cute! In particular, fear the name Bruieth has chosen for her future, no doubt very loud, offspring.Collapse )

For all of the long, hard battle the two of them had remained back to back. They had not escaped unwounded. Anduinel was bruised and gashed, Findekano was nursing a broken arm and battered ribs. It could have been so much worse, however.
They had stayed wordlessly side by side as the healers tended them, then Anduinel had lead his shaken and pale companion out to the gardens and the warmth of the sun. They were in each other's arms now, resting on the grass.

"You did well," Anduinel finally managed.

( Read more...Collapse )

( Backdated to the day of battle.Collapse )

Sometimes you just want to forget.

Perched on a stone wall in the city like a much younger man, Christopher recalled the elf in the garden. Another death, another tragedy. They were victorious, but death marked all of them. Orc stragglers were hunted, like those Axis transport planes whose bellies had spilled into the Mediterranean.

Yet even with Gondor glutted on victory, he thought, they must be sober at the thought of further desperate war. But they had to fight, of course. Even elves became warriors, at the last. He'd watched one.

( A lost Mahtan chatCollapse )

Glorfindel had finally gotten some rest after seeing to Mahtan's last rites (he almost snorted at the term, for very few things ever truly ended when elves were concerned), and now that he felt somewhat more alert, he made himself useful amongst the patients. He paused at Ed's bedside to check on the boy, and when he found nothing changed, moved on to another patient in need of clean bandages and soothing tea.

There was an undercurrent of gossip running through the Houses, which Ioreth was happily both encouraging and contributing to; she'd been there, after all, and she hadn't had a rumour she was this eager to spread for a good twenty years.

( You did not tell me that I had already -met- Aragorn, quite some time ago.Collapse )