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Aragorn’s andurilblade sliced yet another Orc throat,
it’s tempered Numenorite edge cut through dirty orc
sinew like a laser through lather. Again he thanked
his lucky stars that he was descended from a technologically
advanced breed of supermen. But still the Orcers kept
coming, as he readied himself his mind went back to
the wise words of his Father Arathorn, the previous
commander of the Dunedain Academy.
“Son the Orc, he ain’t like you or me, he don’t appreciate
the beauty of the trees, the glory of the sunset or
the freedom to pay your own way. All he wants is filth,
blackness, orders and handouts of gruel from a nebulous
higher authority. Remember son, Orcers aint folks, we
are.
An earsplitting note rang out over the battlefield,
it was Boromir’s sonic siren and it meant he was in
deep trouble.
Meanwhile Gandalf rose upwards, ever upwards out of
the dark, into a grey fuzziness. Could it be over he
thought, done in by a blackhearted balrog after all
these years of serving the light?
He thought of all the sweet things he had known in life.
The craggy mountains of middle earth, the beautiful
trees, the two rounded hills of Galadriels bosom rising
and falling as she dropped her robe to the floor – not
bad for 6000 years old he smiled, the sweet touch of
Arwen’s lips on his body, what was it that made you
so irresistible to Elfwomen as you got older he wondered,
it must be that same charisma and gravitas that accrues
to elderly and infirm writers.
As he entered the light, the realisation dawned “can
I come back he asked? Will my colour be different? This
time can I be a woma….