[Chapter 49. The Nameless King of Ruins.]
Last Time on Chapter 048 of [From Shadows To The Spotlight] —
Peter chuckled as he replied, "I'll make sure he does." But then he stopped laughing and sincerely said, "Hollywood can't afford to lose a man like you, Masters."
Alex's eyes widened at the praise, it felt good to be acknowledged. Those words filled a part of that gaping hole of fears and insecurities that he carried in his heart. It had been slowly filling up over the years, but still rendered him mute in the genuine praise and admiration.
'Thank you.' He gratefully mouthed back, as his voice failed him once again.
Now Continuing —
Alex exhaled slowly as prepared to do something that should've been left to the professionals, his character was even wearing a helm so it wasn't like a stunt double would be spotted if they were to replace him.
But he had already sweated and bled for the role, so he thought might as well blow himself up for it.
Alex back in his position, the young set coordinator was aligning him back right where he was before he was about to strike his spear against the rocks to ignite the fuse of the bomb that was strapped to the fake Uruk commander.
His mind sharpened, as he was handed a prop spear, this one lighter with an igniter attached to its blade that would spark the fuse.
He raised his spear exactly like he had done before the scene was cut and held his position waiting for Peter to call out. "Action!"
This was it. A final blaze, his last glorious act, fulfilling his character's purpose.
He shifted his grip on the spear, his fingers tightening around the familiar, worn shaft.
His weapon—his only companion in this fight—was slick with blood and rain, but it would serve him one last time.
The Uruk-hai had barely noticed their fallen commander's payload. They were still focused on their perceived victory, reveling in Alex's mortal wound.
They thought he was finished, and would fall over any moment now just like their commander.
They were wrong.
With the last of his strength, Alex raised his spear high, adjusting his stance. He angled the tip, lining it up with the metal casing on the bomb.
It had been soaked with oil—an intentional design choice for the scene, ensuring that the explosion would look spectacular on camera.
He could feel the tension on set as everyone watched, waiting for this climactic moment.
He inhaled.
But then before he struck the spear, an idea came to his mind, something that would deepen the lore of his character and leave behind a clever easter egg for the fans to find.
He shouted, "For Gondor!"
Then, with a final burst of defiance, he struck.
The spear tip scraped against the steel casing, producing a shower of sparks.
The Uruks eye's widened as they realized their folly and quickly rushed over to put out the fuse but it was too late.
In their panic and hurry, they instead tripped and fell over the bomb covering it with their bodies right was it exploded in Alex's face.
Alex could've allowed the bomb to explode in his character's face and showed him not be torn to pieces and die with dignity.. with his body intact.
But he didn't want to break the audience's suspension of disbelief, because while it was a fantasy epic story he didn't want to break the audience's immersion if he could help it.
So after a lot of sleepless nights thinking of a solution, the answer came to him when he was watching Tom & Jerry with his little sister around Christmas eve. She had always loved the show, and wanted to view it on Cartoon Network, on his channel.
So he had bought off Turner Broadcasting company and acquired their assets, it was a pleasant surprise to see that they didn't just have Tom and Jerry but also classics such as Scooby Doo and even James Bond—007.
He was watching an old episode where Tom had enough of Jerry's antics and in a bout of desperation.
The cat ignited a bomb to take out Jerry's home, but somehow ended up slipping on a banana peel and falling down on the bomb itself and covering it with his body as it exploded.
If it were reality then that would have been the of Tom, but anything goes in cartoons, so Tom survived with egregious injuries that healed themselves when the scene ended.
But Alex's mind churned another scene in his mind, in his mind he was thinking about the Uruks falling on the bomb and in turn saving the Nameless Knights character's body from being torn to pieces.
BOOM.
A blinding inferno erupted in an instant, swallowing the bridge in flame and chaos. The force of the explosion ripped through the stonework, shattering the already-weakened structure.
The Uruk-hais that had piled onto the boob, had ropes attached to their backs and were flung into the air from the blast, their bodies silhouetted against the roaring fire before they disappeared into the darkness below.
Both him and the stuntsmen involved had been doused in a thin layer of non-flammable gel that would prevent them from burning up. Though there still be some redness to the skin because of the exposure to the heat.
And while some people might have thought of it as a flaw he looked at it as a feature because it created for a more authentic look on the actors face.
The wooden reinforcements splintered, cracking apart like kindling.
And at the very center of it all—
Alex fell.
The cameras captured every second of his descent.
He didn't plummet in a graceless heap—no. Suspended by the carefully rigged wire system, his fall was controlled, deliberate, almost majestic.
His body twisted slightly in midair, the tattered remains of his cloak billowing behind him, his spear still gripped loosely in one hand.
The fake rubble of the shattered bridge rushed toward him, but beneath the jagged edges, the hidden cushions awaited, placed there to break his fall safely.
And as he landed, he slumped onto the uneven stones in a seated position—his back resting against the broken rock, his legs splayed slightly apart, his head tilted downward.
A throne of ruin.
A king of the fallen.
For a moment, there was silence. Even on set, no one dared to break the spell woven by the image before them.
Then—
The sun broke through the horizon as dawn had arrived.
The golden light streamed down, catching on the twisted, battered form of Alex's nameless soldier. His dented helm gleamed, the rays enshrouding him in an ethereal glow.
His face, dirtied with sweat and blood, was serene in death, his expression one of quiet acceptance.
A lone gust of wind stirred the dust around him.
The knights on the fortress walls, who had moments ago watched in despair, now gazed down at him in stunned reverence. The bridge was gone. The enemy's advance had been stopped. The nameless warrior had ensured their survival.
A sacrifice that would not be forgotten.
The scene held for several beats. The camera lingered, capturing every detail—the burnt edges of Alex's armor, the stillness of his chest, as he subtly controlled his breathing for the long shot, the way the spear rested across his lap like a scepter.
Having to fake being dead for such a long time wasn't an easy task but he somehow managed as his breath control thanks was pretty decent, thanks to the meditation he often practiced.
From a mere Nameless Soldier.
He had become a legend.
The light framed him perfectly, illuminating him as though the heavens themselves mourned his passing.
The set remained utterly silent until, at last—
"CUT!"
The word rang out like a thunderclap, breaking the spell.
A collective exhale swept across the crew. Applause erupted almost immediately, a roaring wave of appreciation for the performance, the stunt coordination, the sheer artistry of the moment.
Alex let out a breath, relaxing into the fake rocks that were actually firm cushions, the wire system gently lowered him fully onto the padded setup disguised as rocks.
From behind the monitors, Peter Jackson's voice came through, thick with emotion. "That… was perfect."
And just like that, another unforgettable moment in cinema history had been born.
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Joanne Rowling sat in the dim glow of the projection room, her eyes still wide and heart thrumming in her chest, as the final notes of Alex's rallying cry and sacrifice echoed into silence.
The scene had just ended—a masterful performance that left not only the characters on screen, but everyone watching, trembling with raw emotions that couldn't be expressed with words.
She felt chills down her spine as she kept replaying that moment in her mind: Alex's defiant stand, his bloodied spear raised as if challenging destiny itself, and that rallying call—"Warriors of Rohan! Fight—or be forgotten!"—which reverberated through the cavernous set like a promise of hope.
For a long moment, she just sat there in silence, absorbing every detail—the flicker of the torches that lent an almost ghostly shimmer to the ruined bridge, the deliberate interplay of shadows and pale, almost spectral moonlight, and, above all, the passion in every frame.
The dedication of Alex and his crew was palpable, a tangible force that transcended the limitations of a simple film set.
It was clear that every person there, from the extras to the master craftsmen behind the cameras, had poured not just skill, but heart into the creation of this battle—a scene that seemed as real as life, even if all the blood and sparks were artfully faked.
Joanne couldn't help but wonder about the nameless soldier on screen, lying on the rubble like a Nameless King—a character she'd never encountered in the texts.
She leaned over to Daniel, who had been quietly watching the playback on the monitor, his face still alight with the adrenaline of the creative process.
"Daniel," she began softly, "this nameless soldier... I haven't read anything about him in the books. How did he come to be?"
Daniel's eyes crinkled in amusement as he shifted his attention to her. "Ah, Ms. Rowling," he said, his voice low and conversational, "that character is an original creation. Alex wrote him in along with another writer."
"He felt that the story needed an embodiment of the indomitable human spirit—a figure who would stand defiant even when all hope seemed lost."
She frowned thoughtfully, absorbing his words as the echoes of the rallying cry still reverberated in her ears. "But why would he take such a risk? Did he have permission to alter the story so significantly? The text is sacred to many. Myself included."
Daniel smiled kindly, his tone reassuring. "We did more than that. We actually introduced another original character as well—a character named Fol—and even Sir Tolkien's son, Christopher."
"Yes, the very same Christopher, an editor and writer who has edited 24 volumes based on his father's posthumously published works, including The Silmarillion and the monumental 12-volume series The History of Middle-Earth."
"It took him 45 years to bring that project to life, and he even drew the original maps for The Lord of the Rings."
She couldn't help but feel a shiver of awe. "You're saying he was involved in the creative process?"
Daniel didn't nod but instead. "Not exactly, but he was present for the filming of the previous original character's scenes."
"After witnessing the magic we created on set, that old man—so dedicated to his father's legacy—placed his full confidence in Alex and Studio MONARCH.
"He believed that by embracing these new characters, we were deepening the world rather than diluting it."
Her mind raced with possibilities. The sheer audacity and brilliance of weaving in new characters into such a hallowed narrative was both thrilling and nerve-wracking.
"Is Christopher here for the siege?" She asked, curious to know if that venerable editor had witnessed the very battle that had her so enraptured at the moment.
Daniel shook his head with a soft chuckle. "Alex told me that Christopher read the scene's script beforehand. He said he'd wait to see it in the theaters."
"Alex even invited him to the press screenings and the theatrical release, but he chose to stay out of the day-to-day madness of filming. His trust in Alex is profound—he believes in the artistic vision enough to let the magic unfold on its own."
She exhaled slowly, still feeling the residue of that electric moment when Alex's performance and final sacrifice had transcended mere acting. The scene was more than just a beautifully choreographed sequence—it was a living, breathing tribute to the very essence of storytelling.
The sacrifices on set, the painstaking care in every shot, the late nights huddled around bonfires discussing ideas to enhance each scene—it all resonated with her deeply.
She remembered her own struggles, the countless nights spent refining words and trying to cut down on the ideas to create a cohesive story, and now here was a man who had thrown his soul and betted his reputation into bringing a story to life.
Joanne leaned back in her chair, gazing at the darkened screen that still flickered with the final frames of the scene—a close-up of Alex's face, lit by a single, celestial ray of light, his expression a mixture of triumph and serene resignation.
She could almost see the echoes of every writer and creator who had ever dared to dream, their spirits whispering through the cracks of the ancient fortress.
"Daniel," she said, her voice hushed with reverence, "what you all are doing here... it's extraordinary. Watching Alex, hearing that cry—it's as if the very soul of the story has been reborn in this moment. I've always believed that the power of a tale lies in its heart. Today, I've seen that heart beat fiercely."
Daniel's smile was gentle, full of the quiet satisfaction of someone who'd witnessed true artistry. "We're honored that you feel it that way, Ms. Rowling."
"At MONARCH, we believe that every frame, every line of dialogue, is a chance to honor the stories that have shaped us. And sometimes, that means taking bold steps to explore what's possible."
She nodded slowly, absorbing every word as if it were a precious secret. "I suppose that's what sets apart those who merely tell stories from those who truly live them."
She mused aloud. "The passion. The willingness to risk everything for a moment of movie magic."
Daniel's eyes sparkled in the low light. "Exactly. And if this new character—this nameless soldier—can embody even a fraction of that magic, then we've might just succeed in doing our job."
In that moment, the dedication of Alex and his entire crew became more than just an impressive display of filmmaking.
It was a testament to the spirit of creation, a reaffirmation that no matter how sacred the source material, there was always room for innovation, for reinterpretation.
She felt a surge of hope for her own work—a reminder that true art evolves, that it dares to defy expectations and, in doing so, touches the souls of those who dare to listen.
She sat back, letting the silence settle, each beat of her heart echoing the powerful message of that battle.
The legacy of Middle-earth was vast and storied, but tonight, on that humble screening room, she had witnessed something even more profound—a new chapter in the eternal dialogue between creator and creation.
And as the room slowly filled with murmurs of admiration and soft applause from the crew emerging from the set as Alex was slowly lifted up by the wires, she knew that this was only the beginning.
– To be Continued...
{2516 words}
{TRL: This is the new Hollywood story that has been bouncing around in my head. I really need to get this out, so here's another chapter.
Also would you like to read ahead? You can do so for free up to 3 chapters ahead of the public release on my Patreon page as Free Member.
Yes, free. If you're interested you'll find the link in the Author's thoughts section or just google TheRamenLord and Patreon.
If you like my work and would like to support me then by becoming a paid member you read from 10 to 15 chapters ahead of the public release depending on tier you purchase.}