574 words. Saves an awful lot of that questing stuff on the way.
---------------------------------------
His eyes were
streaming, though not from the wind in his face. Every one of his
sneezes carried a curse for the stubborn little so and so that made
this journey necessary. His great admiration and even love for
Gwaihir did nothing to assuage his allergy to anything feathered and
nothing could be considered more feathered than the greatest of the
Eagles.
Two days he had argued,
persuaded, cajoled even threatened but what they lacked in height
your average Hobbit more than made up for in stubborn. They were
impossible to shift once set on a course or task and unfortunately
the task Frodo was set on was entirely concerned with the Shire and
the coming celebrations. One Hobbit obsessing over a party had
thwarted the plan he had nurtured for over a year. It would have
united every race and tribe against Sauron and had been rendered
useless by one insolent Hobbit. No other race would have suited as
the ring bearer. There would have been far too much resentment and
competition between the races of men with none prepared to accept a
subordinate role. Elves wouldn't do it and considered themselves
above such things. Dwarves? Even the thought of letting their
aggression and obduracy loose made him shiver. No only a Hobbit would
have united them, triggering that innate desire in all species to
protect the apparently young.
Avoiding Sauron's
ground forces had been relatively easy, Gandalf's main concern was
the Nazgul and even their attention was directed goundward. Gwaihir
was capable of such height that Gandalf nearly lost conciousness due
to the thinness of the air and they would have passed over them but
for another sneeze at just the wrong moment. Suddenly the Nazgul
became aware that what they sought was above them. A frightening
chase ensued and was still in progress for the rest of the Eagles
that had massed around him. Wheeling and diving, one moment together
like a flock of starlings and then bursting apart like one of
Gandalf's own fireworks. In the confusion Gwaihir had folded his
wings and dropped from the melee like a stone. Gandalf only survived
by locking his arms round the eagles neck and burying himself as
close as possible into the creatures neck, more violent sneezing. The
drop succeeded and Gwaihir managed to disappear from the Nazgul's
sight pulling out at treetop height and putting considerable distance
between them and their pursuers by hugging the contours of the
valley.
Gwaihir soared up the
slope of Mount Doom to a rising, earth shaking roar as Sauron became
aware of his imminent defeat. Gandalf let the ring fall from his
fingers and watched it disappear from sight into the fires below.
The roar turned into a wail and merged with the sound of splitting
rock and explosions of lava as the mountain tore itself apart.
The final act had been
surprisingly easy. Sauron had never expected Gandalf to succeed,
confident that his massed forces would have dealt with the annoying
wizard well before he was anywhere near the end. The few arrows from
confused Orcs on the last approach to the mountain had been no more
annoying than a wasps at a summer picnic.
Picnic. Yes. Now to
return to the Shire and deal severely with a certain young Hobbit.
Even more severely than he originally planned if there was no cake
left.
Gandalf sneezed. And a
handkerchief. The sleeve of his cloak was reverting from white to
grey.
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