The Tundra of Arda (Chapters 27-28)
The Phantom 


Chapter Twenty-Seven

~

Even as Aragorn thought he looked upon the world for the last time, as the 
barrel of the gun became everything and anything he could see, his vision unable 
to venture past that gleaming rod of steel as though it had hypnotized him… 

Even as Elrond lay gasping on the ground, his blood pooling around him and his 
eyes glazing over, straining to rise, wishing to rise, but unable to get to his 
feet to aide his companion… 

Even as Arwen lurched forward, desperate to do anything to intervene, anything 
to prevent the Great Hunter from claiming her love and her father in the same 
brutal and vicious blow…

Gollum plummeted off the bridge.

The earth shook beneath their feet. Aragorn pressed his ears against his head 
and flinched, but decided to stand and face death with courage. He waited for 
the moment, the moment when the bullet would go right between his eyes, the 
moment when darkness would claim him for all eternity. 

The moment never came. 

Sauron’s finger closed on the trigger to no avail. A hollow clicking sound was 
the only sign he had even done anything. Orodruin had been stalled, the factory 
had ceased to produce energy, and all around the battlefield, guns sang with an 
ever-decreasing hum as the power drained from their systems. 

For all machinery employed by the Great Hunter and his minions were powered by 
that one awesome machine, Orodruin, the thousand of gears pumping and whirring 
and pulsing out energy in inexplicable waves. This was a fatal tactical error on 
Sauron’s part – all his power in one source? – but perhaps forgivable; who could 
have foreseen the amazing events of recent days?

Either way, the thunder of the final bullet never fired. 

It took Aragorn a long moment to realize this. When he remained conscious, when 
he did not feel any lead slamming into his skull, he used up an instant of 
precious reaction time thanking anyone who was listening for whatever had just 
happened. 

Then he sprang. 

Up into the air, launched like a rocket by sheer adrenaline and need to finish 
the conflict, his whole muscular form came completely off the ground. Black fur 
shining with the blood of battle, emerging through the smoke of earlier gunfire, 
teeth and claws itching to imbed into the flesh of an enemy…

And this weapon of flaming determination was soaring right at Sauron’s heart. 

For his part, the Great Hunter proved an admirable combatant to the end. 
Flipping his rifle around in his hands, he now held the barrel and swung the 
handle around as a club, smashing right into Aragorn’s side. The wolf was 
knocked from his flight, but pivoted swiftly on his paws the moment they touched 
the earth, launching back up again and giving Sauron no time to pull back for 
another swing. 

What Aragorn hadn’t counted on was a knife flashing from Sauron’s belt. 

The blade ripped across his face, just missing his left eye and instead carving 
a mark just above it. Blood flowed down across his vision, blinding him 
physically, while the pain blinded his senses. He staggered backwards. 

Mind over matter, Legolas had apparently forgotten his leg injury when he 
bounded and pounced, lifting up into the air and landing squarely on Sauron’s 
back, sending him sprawling to the ground. Straddling the Hunter, Legolas threw 
his weight down, too busy avoiding the knife to maneuver a killing blow, instead 
striking uselessly at Sauron’s body armor. 

The few moments Legolas bought with his reckless attack gave Aragorn the 
sufficient time to recover well enough, and he shook his head violently, sending 
the blood splattering but clearing his vision. 

Lunging forward, he sank his teeth into Sauron’s neck, jaws crushing down with 
more power than any wolf before him had ever exhibited, punching right through 
the armor of the neck and pressing relentlessly on the windpipe. 

With life ebbing away, Sauron fought like the devil himself. It took the 
combined weight of Aragorn and Legolas to hold him down, until at last all air 
had been used up and his body could struggle no more. It was not until he had 
lain still for many minutes did the wolves stalk away from the corpse in 
disgust. 

Sauron the Great Hunter was slain. 

There was long moment as the wolves studied the remaining hunters, a long, 
suspended period of time in which the world of Man and the world of the Wild was 
almost touching, holding each other in a bizarre sort of respect. The tense 
silence was broken by a single, united yell that rose from the humans, as they 
turned and fled for the remains of their factories. 

The wolves danced lightly after them, speeding over the carcasses of Orcs and 
Wargs, flying into the air, lifted on the wings of victory, slamming into their 
opponents and snuffing them out with all the brutal efficiency the men had used 
themselves in their murder of the wolves. The hunter became the hunted. 

Within minutes, the war was over. 

All was silent. 

~

At the moment when the first shot from Sauron was fired, Gandalf the great eagle 
was already far, far away. He ripped through the sky at a breakneck speed, 
splitting apart the clouds in his haste. A blur of white he became, screaming 
through the air until at last Orodruin came into view. 

He saw the factory shaking, heard the death howls of Gollum as the gears sucked 
him to his death. A catastrophe was imminent; the entirety of Orodruin was 
shuddering under unimaginable strain. 

Sam came rocketing out of the door, Frodo’s scruff clenched defiantly in his 
teeth, the pup lifted proudly in front of him even though he obviously knew the 
end was near. Gandalf’s heart leapt into his throat at the sight of the two 
Hobbit wolves, alive, victorious, and he gave a cry of joy. 

Head snapping up wildly, Sam’s eyes met Gandalf’s. He could have wept with 
relief. And though the world was about to go out, he was glad to be with Frodo 
at the end of all things. 

He hardly felt Gandalf’s talons lifting him by the scruff, was hardly aware of 
the sensation of flying as they soared into the air. He only knew one thing; 
hold on. His grip on Frodo’s scruff was merciless and unstoppable, and so he 
carried the pup with him as he rose into the sky. 

Orodruin erupted beneath them, blasting into a thousand pieces in an explosion 
he hadn’t seen since the destruction of the Balrog in the ravine. Masonry 
hurtled into the air, blown like cannonballs by the force of the rupturing 
generators. 

Then for Sam, everything went black, as unconsciousness claimed him at last. 

But he did not let go of his alpha.

~

Rain had begun to fall. 

Aragorn staggered through the carnage, stumbling on the bodies, reeling from 
shock and the absolute draining of adrenaline and energy from his body. He saw 
what he was seeking, he raced to it… 

He and Arwen met, their bodies pressed side by side, heads resting on the 
others’ back, breath heaving in their chests and sighing out in relief. The rain 
matted their fur, washing the blood from their coats and leaving them a glorious 
shade of ebony, black as night. 

Gimli exploded through the battlefield, scrambling for footing and at last 
tumbling to a stop next to where Legolas had collapsed, exhausted, his wound 
troubling him double-time after the exertion. The fox nuzzled his large 
companion gently, reassuringly, and the golden tail thumped on the ground in 
joy. 

Celeborn sprang into the air, lifting into flight as if on wings, barreling into 
Galadriel with practically a scream of thankfulness at finding her alive and 
unscathed, the regal pair falling end over end with the force of his leap, her 
face soon covered with sloppy kisses of adoration. 

Pippin trotted numbly through all of the death and suffering, his head hung low 
and his eyes strangely glassy, not feeling anything at all. He missed Merry, 
wished his older friend could be there to help him cope, to explain everything 
to him. But Merry was miles away. 

Glorfindel was broken. His eyes could not tear away from Elladan’s body, riddled 
with bullets, or Elrohir’s lifeless form, slashed at the throat. He stood there 
trembling, a once-great alpha reduced to a bleeding wreck. His coat of golden 
fire had dulled to a flat yellow, his fur was matted and clumped. But worst of 
all, the flame in his eyes had gone out. 

He was the sole surviving member of the Imladris pack. 

A little head rested against his foreleg, and he glanced down to see Pippin 
rubbing his face against it, sighing deeply in loneliness and despair. Bending 
down, Glorfindel gave the Hobbit wolf a rough lick over the top of the head, the 
gesture of a father to his pup. 

And all turned as one to where Elrond had fallen. 

Aragorn was the first to reach him, dropping his head to touch noses with the 
Half-breed, urging a reaction from him, desperate for him to move, to breathe, 
to reassure them all that it was nothing serious. 

In response, Elrond opened his eyes, his tail wagging in a weak effort to 
pretend that everything was all right. But the pain punched through his system 
like a sledgehammer, and he groaned, allowing his head to rest on the ground in 
defeat. His eyes, however, remained locked on Aragorn, speaking into his mind 
for undoubtedly the last time. 

-Aragorn… I only wish our time together in victory could have been longer, that 
I might have lived to see you and my daughter run side by side as King and 
Queen… I place her in your care now; you are the only wolf I would trust with 
such a treasure. Take care of her, Aragorn. That is all I ask of you…-

His breathing became rapid and erratic, hitching in his throat, his eyes fogging 
over so that his voice dropped to nothing but a whisper. 

-The tundra is yours… your kingdom now. Rule well, my King. May the sun always 
shine on you, may the wind be at your back, and may you have good hunting for 
the rest of your days…-

And in the rain, surrounded by the family he was pined for all his life, Elrond 
passed on, and his heart stopped beating, his feet striking a rhythm of eternity 
as he raced on to join Boromir in the stars. 

Bitter was his passing that should endure beyond the ends of the world. 

At last, Aragorn threw back his head and wailed in grief, and the others joined 
him also. The song was slow and painful, yet also sadly triumphant, for Elrond 
had lived to see the fall of the Hunter, and to see his daughter mated to the 
King. Yet no amount of singing could bring him back, until at last the requiem 
faded away…

…into silence. 



EPILOGUE

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 



Author’s Notes: This is a thank-you gift. Thank you, all of you who read and 
reviewed this story, all of you who took a chance with something so new and 
unusual. I wish I could thank all of you personally, but this is the best I can 
do. Thanks for sticking with me and waiting patiently for updates. To be honest, 
I’m really sad to see this story end. But it’s been a great ride! This chapter 
is short, sweet, and full of love.



To all my reviewers—

Good hunting. 


~          

The tundra stretches into eternity.

Blue sky is the only thing that clarifies it from the green earth; otherwise the 
horizon seems to merge with the air. Enormous, billowing clouds drift lazily 
overhead, each a brilliant shade of white, puffy and peaceful. 

Caribou rumble across the land, their bodies clumped together so that they are 
simply a mass of antlers and pounding hooves. Their low, mournful voices bellow 
the song of travel, and of spring, and of rebirth. 

Gradually, a great bird can be seen gliding over the herd. Whiter than the 
clouds, wingtips stained black from the Balrog’s fire, the mighty eagle gives a 
cry and lifts higher into the air, out over the open ground. 

Gandalf, the spirit of the tundra. 

An answering cry sounds, the scream of a second eagle. Rising into flight next 
to him, an entity black as the night sky, with eyes a flashing green. 

Elrond, the spirit of the wolves.

As Gandalf was reborn from the flames, so the warrior wolf lives on. A spirit 
too great and a heart too big to be lost from the world forever, so he returns 
to continue his service to the tundra. 

Together, the pair soars across the land, wings barely moving as they coast on 
the warm spring air. 

First they move north. Swooping low, they pass over what was once the territory 
of the Mirkwood pack. Famine has passed, and the earth has become fertile once 
more. And it is no longer barren of life. 

The Naugrim have taken up residence here, leaving behind the brutal living 
conditions of the Paths of the Dead, they now race and hunt in the green, green 
territory. They rush to the hilltops and leap into the air, saluting the eagles 
that fly overhead. 

Continuing their flight in a great arc, the two continue down through the land 
of Lorien. It is all but empty now; the once-great pack seems to have entirely 
died out. 

But racing over the hill comes Celeborn and Galadriel, side by side, and behind 
them runs Haldir. The golden trio shoots across their tundra, preserving the 
legacy of the Elven wolves for years to come. They sing in joy as the eagles 
soar past.

Cutting through Gondor territory, they stumble quite unexpectedly on Legolas and 
Gimli. Too restless to stay in one place, the duo has sworn to spend the rest of 
their days exploring and adventuring across the great, wide land. Although the 
wolf walks with a bit of a limp, the fox’s legs are short enough that their 
paces are evenly matched. 

Elrond dives low and plucks at Legolas’ ears in a teasing motion, only to feel a 
nudge in the side as Gimli attempts to tackle him. The eagle barely remains 
airborne, and circles the pair briefly before flying onward. 

The eagles glide through the Southern territories, calling their greetings to 
the Ents that thunder along below. Treebeard calls a –hoom, hom- to them in 
response. 

Finally, the spirit of the tundra and the spirit of the wolves fly into the 
Shire. The land beneath them is a rich emerald, and the vegetation is lush and 
brightly colored. And at last, the pack comes into view. 

Merry is the first to spot them, and he races under them, keeping pace, their 
shadows falling across his back. Then Pippin, who barks gleefully. A pup when 
the Quest started, Pippin is now a young adult, and next to him stands a pretty 
young she-fox, whom he nuzzles affectionately. 

Bilbo and Gaffer raise sleepy heads and promptly go back to their napping. 

Sam appears on the hill, his pace leisurely and relaxed. Behind him comes Rosie, 
and she stands at his side as the eagles go by. But both Gandalf and Elrond arc 
around for another pass, landing softly in the grass. 

For at Sam’s feet are three little pups, born a few weeks ago in the beginning 
of spring. Little Frodo, Boromir, and Elanor squint their eyes as the two great 
birds bend over to inspect them, though roguish Boromir swipes at them with one 
tufted paw. A warrior already. 

Flapping their huge wings, the eagles take off again, flying for a short while 
before cresting low over a great, green hill. 

Glorfindel raises his tired head, and his tail wags. Napping next to him, Frodo 
wakes and glances about sleepily. The exhaustion is gone from their eyes, 
replaced by a weary sense of relief and contentment. One of Frodo’s ears is a 
mere rag from the mark of Gollum’s teeth, and Glorfindel’s body still bears the 
physical scars of battle. 

But two tortured souls have found peace at last, in the Undying Land of the 
Shire. 

So onward fly the eagles. 

As they speed over the endless tundra, they can see the Great Pack, running full 
tilt to meet them. 

Faramir and Eowyn lope at an easier pace together. He, too, has a slight limp 
from the bullet that hit him so long ago. She runs slowly for an entirely 
different reason, however; her slender form is now heavy with pups. They’re due 
any day now, and her face glows with maternal pride. 

Then comes Arwen, her beautiful black form also swelling with the promise of new 
life. She lifts her voice in a salutation to the eagles, and Elrond alights on 
her back for the most breathless of moments before continuing on. 

For now comes Aragorn. His chest seems broader, his head held higher; truly here 
is the King that the tundra was waiting for. He runs with a proud and powerful 
gait, and when the eagles get close enough, he leaps into the air.

His nose touches Elrond’s with the barest brush of contact. 

Then he takes off at a full speed gallop. Legs pumping rhythmically, the King 
darts across the land like a shooting star. The birds swoop to join him, and 
Elrond flies low over him, so from above it looks as though the black wolf has 
two great ebony wings. 

Suddenly, they come to a sharp drop. No problem for the eagles, but Aragorn has 
to slam on the brakes, causing him to lurch backwards on his hind legs. Gandalf 
gives a warm cry of approval, so Aragorn holds the pose. 

Rearing back, his ruff a cape and his voice a thunderous song of victory, the 
King of the Tundra paws at the air, the eagles circling tight around him. 

And then they are gone, leaving Aragorn to land on all fours, breathless, heart 
swelling with pride and soul flying with them. 

The white eagle and the black one drift higher into the sky, mere silhouettes 
against the vast clouds that seem to take shape into the form of one great wolf, 
racing across the sky and watching his kin. 

Boromir runs on. 

The rhythm of the tundra pulses with birth and death, shame and glory. It holds 
battles and warriors, romance and lovers.

And though wolves will die and new ones shall take their place, the King of the 
Tundra will sit eternally on his throne, in memory and in song. 

The circle of life is complete. 

The voices of the wolves sing as one. 


~ THE END