Project #1: The Lord of the Rings

My first project was on The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Here's the writing section. It is a short story that takes place after the events of The Lord of the Rings:

The Black Wights of Rhûn

Inthir stared at the black canyon walls as he trudged over the stony ground. Three days ago every able-bodied man in Rhûn was called to a great battle with the Western Peoples of Gondor and Rohan. Igrimba had responded to the call reluctantly, as he was a rather fat merchant who would have happily spent his life counting his money and eating. Therefore, Inthir was the one leading the horse as his master sat on its back.

Unfortunately, the ground upon which he was currently walking was rather hard on the feet. The floor of the Screaming Rift was covered with jagged stones and hidden holes. That, coupled with the sourceless wails that echoed between the towering walls, served to make this stretch the most unpleasant part of our journey. Why these screams reverberated in the dark chasm was a mystery, but Captain Uzmahd and his soldiers attributed it to wind between rocks. There are darker superstitions, though. Some of the men murmured the story of the ancient kingdom that disappeared mysteriously from the Rift years before. They said that the spirits of the lost people were the source of the unearthly wails.

As was inevitable, Inthir caught his foot on a stray pebble and fell to the ground. He lay there, exhausted, as Igrimba shouted at him to get up. It wasn’t long before he felt the cold sting of the lash on his bare back. He slowly began to rise, and as he glanced to the side he saw a cold shadow flit between two rocks. When he looked back, there were only more black stones. They marched on.

By nightfall the company came to a wide clearing. They set up tents and tried their best to sleep despite the agonized screams rending the night. Inthir eventually ducked into his tent, which he shared with two other slaves of his master. Their names were Karm and Umar, and they had worked for Igrimba as long as he had. Karm was Igrimba’s most trusted servant and organized the master’s household. Umar was the cook and, on this journey, responsible for Igrimba’s possessions.

Luckily, the ghastly shrieks abated somewhat as the night wore on, and most of the company finally managed to sleep. At about midnight, Inthir was the only one awake. When he was sure the other slaves were asleep, he drew an old wooden sword hilt from his belt. It was slender and long, with a hole in the pommel and the remains of gold and mithril coating. Inthir didn’t remember who had given it to him, but he had had it as long as he could remember.

Suddenly footsteps sounded in the darkness outside. Inthir started and hid his treasure, then slowly made his way to the tent flap. Outside, a black form was grasping Igrimba’s wrist with a clawed hand. The creature had a stooped, shadowy body with no visible legs and a bleached skull for a face. It was staring at Igrimba with ghostly glowing eyes, cold as frost.

Inthir burst out with a cry, but never had a chance to draw the small hunting knife he carried in his belt. Turning from the fat merchant, the shadow swooped down on Inthir, catching his arm with a viselike grip. As those icy orbs stared into the slave’s eyes, he felt all hope drain from him, leaving him an empty, hollow shell. He found that he could do nothing but wait for the creature to command him.

Standing, slumped, he remembered the ancient tales of the barrow wights, dark spirits from ancient tombs who fed on the wills of others. Undoubtedly, these were the same. As he realized this, a cold shiver ran down his spine. For he remembered what the stories told of what the wights did with their captives. They were said to chain them with golden chains to a slab of marble, wrapping them in the stolen jewelry of fallen monarchs. It wasn’t long before the victim joined his captors as a skulking shade.

Dimly, Inthir registered the other slaves coming out to investigate his shouts. Straining to warn them, he could do nothing but look on as they were set upon by the black wight. Soon everyone in the camp was standing, entranced, near one of the black stone cliffs. Only one member wasn’t present.

Uzmahd stood a ways off, eyes squeezed shut and swinging a halberd blindly at two barrow wights stalking him. Each holding a long black knife, the shadows patiently waited for the captain to tire. When an opening presented itself, one of the two lashed out and plunged its knife into Uzmahd’s side. The Easterling party’s leader paled, then fell to the ground. The wights paid him no more mind.

Soon the three began to search their captives for anything that pleased them. When they came to me, they found nothing of worth, lingering for a short while with his sword hilt, but eventually dismissing it as useless. The same went for most of the other soldiers and slaves present.

However, once they arrived at Igrimba, two of the wights began to argue over a golden chain the merchant wore around his neck. The first monster, who went by the name of Xumhnogg, tried to snatch away the trinket before his brother, Xaxanogg. Glimpsing the necklace before it disappeared, Xaxanogg reached down and snatched it away. Soon they were rolling on the ground, swinging their black daggers at each other’s throats. Umar wasn’t able to get out of the way in time to avoid procuring a nasty scratch from Xaxanogg’s blade. As the fight escalated to a dangerous level, Ghashvagg, the third wight and apparently the leader, took the chain and hid it within his own shadowy cloak.

When the wights had taken all they wanted, the Easterlings were marched through dark passes into a black cave. Turning countless corners, they soon left the dim light of the moon behind, and around them was only shadow. As they walked, nameless things brushed past them in the dark, and sounds not heard by men who still live echoed across the endless blackness. Freezing gusts of wind rushed throughout the cavern, which Inthir realized were more wights. It was a thought as chilling as the breeze in the shadows.

It seemed like an age passed before they stopped walking. Standing in the darkness, Inthir heard a voice from the darkest pits of the earth speak. “It has been so long since my children have fed,” it whispered. But it was also shouting at the same time, in a voice both high and low. “Now we will feast on the bloody dreams of warriors,” it said with glee. “But first, let light reveal what is before them, so that their dreams may be all the darker.” A sourceless grey light permeated the cavern, allowing the soldiers to see the speaker.

It was a black form, draped in a cloak woven from shadow. Sitting on a throne at the far side of the large chamber, it was as large as the balrogs of legend, its face masked by a fanged skull the size of a man. As it spoke, a light that pierced like daggers of ice shone from its eyes and illuminated vast heaps of gold and jewels scattered throughout the huge room. “I am Xanzhagha, stalker of nightmares,” the colossal wight hissed. “and Noirilûn is my kingdom.”

Suddenly, Ghashvagg swooped down on a soldier at the end of the line. The man was dragged across of the room, unable to utter a sound, and disappeared into a shadowy opening. The men waited in the dim light, each fearing that he would be next. Just when they thought that they would be standing before Xanzhagha until the world ended, Ghashvagg glided out of the opening and fell upon the next man in line.

For hours they stood there, watching as, one by one, men they had known were swallowed up by darkness, never to return. Igrimba was taken along with the rest, and then only the three slaves were left. Swiftly, Ghashvagg bore down on Umar, but stopped when he saw the black scratch where Xaxanogg had nicked him. Speaking in a black tongue, he reported this to his king. The king responded in kind. Umar was pulled to a dark corner of the room, chained by both wrists to the wall. Finally it was Inthir’s turn.

He saw the shadow bearing down on him and braced himself for the end. As he closed his eyes a burst of white light shone in the dark space. Opening his eyes, he found Ghashvagg lying on the floor before him, a glowing white arrow protruding from his body. He and Karm spun around to find a tall warrior, an elf dressed in a shining white cloak, standing at the entrance to the throne room. He dropped his bow and quickly drew two silver daggers.

Xumhnogg and Xaxanogg, who had been waiting in the shadows, shrieked and began to circle the elf. Xanzhagha gave a piercing cry, and a host of wights descended on the cavern. Watching the black cloud descend on him, Inthir found that he could once again control his body. He reached down to grab his knife, but when he drew his hand out of his tunic, it was grasping the ancient hilt. As the first wight reached out to snare him once again, light shone in the cavern again, and a shining white blade had appeared on the hilt, carved with the word “Andúril”.

Without thinking, Inthir slashed at the incoming barrow wights with the white sword. Each one it touched exploded in a puff of smoke instantly. Turning to where the slave stood, the dagger-wielding elf saw the glowing blade and tossed one of the daggers into the body of Xumhnogg. The black wight fell, Xaxanogg wailing in lament. Swiftly the elf dashed towards Inthir.

However, he was not the only one who had noticed. Xanzhagha gave a roar when he glimpsed Andúril and pounced off of his throne. He rushed towards Inthir, shadows swirling around his body. Reaching out, he attempted to snag Inthir with a claw the size of one of his children. Instantly, the elf’s other dagger flew through the air and plunged into the barrow king’s hand. As he reeled back in pain, Inthir stabbed with Andúril and he shrieked, then dissipated until there was nothing but shadow in the room.

“Is he dead?” Inthir turned and found Karm standing behind him, quivering. In fear he 

had cowered in a corner during the battle. Looking past him, Inthir found the elf freeing Umar from his chains. “Who are you?” I asked. As he turned to face me, I saw that he had eyes like gold fire. “I am Celebaur,” he replied. “And you shall come with me.” So we left the throne room and entered the twisting maze of darkness ahead of us.

My creative section was a map of Middle Earth with important scenes from The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, and The Silmarillion, all by Tolkien:

My memorization section was part of a poem by Tolkein, The Sea Bell.