Dumbledore's death in the style of Tolkien

Dumbledore's Demise: Saga of the Burning Pentangle

He came to the door, the pain excruciating now, and reached for the handle. Dust and rust breached from the long unused hinges as he wrenched it open to an overture of sharp creaks. Using the sword as a cane he inched inside the wooden booth, a sudden sharp spasm in his abdomen causing a sharp intake of breath. After sealing himself inside, his mind turned to thoughts of recumbency as he maneuvered in the small space wedging his sword against the door to secure his isolation.

Dumbledore considered his cloak, his old friend, which had been shredded by the pursuant hounds, and furled it closely to his body before removing it and hanging it against the door. He could feel his issue approaching and urgently unbuttoned his britches letting them and his undergarments slip to the cobwebbed floor with a simultaneous hunkering down. Relief would soon be at hand - relief from the throbbing torment and misery extant by his own voracity. With tongue clenched between teeth like some nag's bit, he strove to be free from his self-inflicted torture. Time after time he assayed against the impasse but it resisted breach. His wiry frame was bathed in sweat with rivulets awash his brow and a torrent down his back like some salty cataract.

Without prompting a small voice in his throat arose.

"Arrrrrrrrrgggghh," he uttered.

The voice increased to a tumultuous roar as the vile accretion departed his weakened body. The moment of egress was accompanied by an instant of pain exquisite in its intensity and Dumbledore's consciousness retreated into the darkness where Aberforth and a charming goat frolick with his vanquished enemy, Grindelwald. He dreams on as the sands of time are washed away safe in the knowledge that the sword of Gryffindor will protect his solitude for all eternity.

Jonathan P Hill

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