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Crusade IV
They ringed the mountainsides, using trails and vantage points that only the Lord of the Valley would know. Elrond stood beside his king, their weapons drawn and watched the archers take their places. Beyond, on the road, the orcs came, prepared to encamp on the rain soaked remains of a once gracious outpost of civility in wild lands, the home of Elrond, Master of the Valley. He swallowed hard, the memories of the terrible moment he set his home ablaze with his own hand streaming back to him. Quashing them all ruthlessly, watching as his sons took the lead in the slow descent to the blackened remains, he glanced at his king. "Let us go, Elrond," Gil-galad whispered, looking through the trees. "I want to be there if there are any creatures desecrating your home." Elrond nodded and the two crept forward, weapons in hand and lieutenants following. The ease with which they made their way was belied by the mud that clung to their boots but when they reached the blackened fire pits, they were surprised to find them empty of enemy. Gil-galad smiled, turning to his lover. "We arrived first. I think we should arrange for them to be welcomed, do you not agree?" Elrond glanced from the remains of his chambers to the king, nodding silently. "As you wish." Gil-galad reached out and squeezed his arm. "They will pay for this outrage. I promise." Elrond nodded and gathered his wits. "We must turn our eyes to the east, then. They will come that way." Gil-galad nodded and turned, shouting orders to soldiers, who in turned scurried to obey them. Walking forward, staring at the waterfalls that coursed through the charred remains of his home, Elrond of Rivendell struggled not to weep.
At the cavern... They came back, two wounded rebels to be cared for by healers. They were surrounded when they came, questioned thoroughly and when they were finished morale was enormously enhanced. Frodo stood beside Sam, feeling better at that moment than any since losing the Ring. He sighed and felt tears come to his eyes, such was his joy and he turned, leaning against Sam, who had placed his arm around Frodo's shoulders. "There, there, Mr. Frodo," he said, smiling himself. "It will all work out in the end. You'll see. Just don't worry yourself about it anymore. Things are out of our hands." Frodo nodded, not trusting his voice and turned, embracing Sam tightly. Sam, surprised, embraced him back, hugging him against his chest. "You're just tired, Mr. Frodo. That's all. You're just worn down by the burden of this whole thing. Pretty soon it will be over and we'll be back home in the Shire and all will be forgotten. You'll see." Frodo smiled, comforted by Sam's touch and old feelings resurrected themselves before he repressed them once more. Sam was his friend and his brother. He was the only one besides his uncle that Frodo had allowed to truly reach him. His parentsdeath had left him emotionally bereft and it had taken a long time for him to reach out again. But Sam was special, warm and engaging. He was generous and loyal and loving. Frodo found a respite in Sam that existed no place else in the world. There was no one else that came close. He sighed deeply, warmed by the contact and again the sensation of need arose. He quashed it, ashamed of his feelings for he knew that Sam was his friend and nothing more. They stood together, hugging each other and when the soldiers rose to eat, they broke their embrace. Sam smiled and shook his head, turning cheerfully to begin dinner. Frodo watched him, unsettled and needy and then slowly walked to the fire to help him with his chores.
That night... They had returned, telling of their adventures. Watchers had been reinforced before they had left. They had reached the cavern that night before sundown and the morale was enormously high among the men. Aragorn had eaten with his comrades and taken news, then retired to his alcove to sit and reflect. He sat on the cot that no longer felt welcoming and thought about the one who he most needed to talk to. Closing his eyes, Faramir came to him, laughing and talking, giving him comfort. He could see his face filled with passion and doubt and sorrow. He could hear him whispering during their most intimate moments. He could feel the sensations of Faramir's body, the muscular and lanky form of his lover against his own. He ached to hold him, to touch him, to talk to him but it was futile, he knew, even as he wished for it with a painful intensity. He sighed and opened his eyes, startled to see another, a very beautiful youth sitting on a box across from him. He sat up and stared, comforted by the vision. "Gandalf." The youth smiled. "That was my name. One of many, I dare say." "You came," Aragorn said, his eyes burning with tears. "You came back to us." "I did," he replied with a chuckle. "I am here to comfort you, to give you hope." Aragorn swallowed around the lump in his throat, shaking his head sadly. "What comfort is there for me now? What hope is there?" "You will be set free. A great host from the Land of the Valar has begun to cast the Shadow back. "I am glad for that." He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees. "I had no hope without you and your kind." "It took the intercession of the Elves to make it so," Olorin admitted with a smile. "Lord Elrond is very persuasive." Aragorn glanced at him and nodded. "He is." "And what of you, my son?" Olorin asked quietly. "You are bereft." "I...I lost someone close to me. We don't have the benefit of immortality. What is lost is lost forever for my kind." Olorin nodded. "Little is the gift of Man appreciated by those who must bear the grief of death. Your loss is very hard, I know." "My loss is small compared to others. Boromir has no father and brother. Éomer mourns his sister, his uncle and the Kingdom of his ancestors. What have I lost? What is there for me to mourn?" "A lover, most beloved," Olorin replied, sighing softly. "You are so fragile, you of the Second Born. I love you most dearly. Long have I walked the earth, many generations of Men and still I sorrow for you and your sad contemplations. Hope is all you must cling to, my son. It is there, waiting for you to come to it. It will lighten your heart." "What is there to hope for? You are here and the world will not die. That is good, I will concede. But what do I do now?" Aragorn asked, rubbing his arm. "I am weary." "You will become King of the Reunited Kingdom. The great lords of this world will call you their king. All will prosper because of your wisdom." "And I will be alone," Aragorn replied, bitter tears in his voice. "It does not have to be so." Aragorn looked at him and leaned back against the wall, too weary to debate. "There are those among the Powers that feel the sundering of Elves and Men something less desirable now than it was when first considered. There are those who would have it otherwise. All that is needed is a token to make the case for rapprochement." "What sort of token?" Aragorn asked, sighing. "You were in love once with a beautiful Elf maiden. She believes that it is still so." "She is over the sea." "That is not insurmountable," Olorin replied gently. "All it would take is the gesture by you to her to make the world as it once was in the days of your fathers. The world of the Eldar and the Numenoreans would be once more reality on the plains of your fathers." Aragorn sat quietly, staring at the beauty of the figure he felt as a father to himself. He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. "I must make a sacrifice." "It is the way of Kings. Sacrifice is what you do for your people and the Peace of Arda, Elessar of Gondor. The world will change and you can make it a peaceful transition. All you have to do is make a sacrifice for the people that turn to you for shelter." Aragorn sighed, staring at the dirt floor, memories of another in his mind. "If I wed Arwen...then the call for the Elves would no longer be their first duty, because our peoples would be joined." Olorin nodded. "There are some who say that the world would be a sadder place without their wisdom." "It is in my hands." Olorin nodded. "Sometimes it only takes a single decision by a single person to change the world." Aragorn sat back, his face filled with anguish. "It is a bitter thing that you ask." Olorin sighed, a sad expression forming on his ever youthful face. "You make it sound like a prison sentence rather than an opportunity to remember a love that you once held deeply." "That was then, this is now," Aragorn said, tugging the necklace from his tunic. He stared at it, jerking the chain until it broke and he could hold it free of encumbrance. "I have other feelings. Things have changed. I wear this to remember to hate, not love." "Then you must learn to love again," Olorin said kindly. "No," Aragorn said, shaking his head sadly. "I cannot allow that kind of pain again." It was silent a moment, Olorin rising. "I will ask for peace for you tonight." Aragorn looked up at him, tears in his eyes. "I missed you." Olorin smiled, reaching down and touching Aragorn's cheek, wiping away a tear that slipped from his eyes. "I missed you as well. I will never be far, Elessar." With that, he faded away and Aragorn was alone. He sat for a long time holding the jewel and then he turned and stuffed it into his pack. Reaching up, he pulled the small diary from his pocket and opened to treasured passages that usage had worn. For a while he comforted himself with Faramir's words and then he stretched out, closing his eyes. Beyond the sight of his vision, a beautiful lady appeared, Nienna herself, and she knelt beside him, searching his face. She touched his cheek, her soothing attentions relaxing Aragorn as he slept. She absorbed his sorrow, his loneliness and misery and when she rose, resolved to help his soul. She stood and stared a moment and then vanished, leaving behind small comfort for the future king of the re-emerging world.
Near to Isengard... They passed the remains of Orthanc, marveling as they did for the complete destruction of the invincible tower. Ingwe and Fionwe led them, their forces bound for Rohan and the White City of Gondor in the south. Gil-galad and his people would come from the north, liberating Imladris, the Woodland Realm and the Lorien Wood. They would meet on the fields of Rohan, driving the enemy before them and when they reached Minas Tirith, they would turn to Mordor. They were moving fast, passing rivers and mountains, moving with speed to their ultimate objective. They had more maneuvering room and the enemy was fleeing, bedazzled by the glittering army that appeared out of nowhere. They panicked and fled, very few of them fighting and by the time they reached the flat lands of the Horse Lords, the orcs were in a rout.
In a cavern... They stood out that morning, going into the mountains, heading northward to find the enemy. By the time they reached the pass that went west towards Imladris, they were picking up signs of enemy everywhere. They gathered on the edge of the tree line, scanning the road as it wound through the mountains. Orcs were clearly passing through the narrow straits. Aragorn and Éomer, with Legolas following, slipped up the trail with several Rangers of Ithilien. They moved with stealth, following the deep ruts cut by heavy-laden wains. After several miles they paused, hearing ahead of them cries of chaos. Melting back into the rocks, they waited for a half hour before the sound of running feet greeted them. Down the road, orcs were fleeing some unknown pursuer and they watched as the numbers grew. Some were wounded and some were maddened by fear, running without weapons in their hands. Aragorn stood and began to fire down into them, his men joining as the orcs went by. They fell and died, blocking the road and orcs stumbled and screamed, falling themselves. Behind them, chasing them without remorse, forces of the Eldar army pursued, meeting after an hour in the middle of the pass. They paused and withdrew, each side falling silent. Then Legolas called out, his voice echoing in the silence until another called back, hesitantly stepping into view, bow and arrow at the ready. Aragorn rose and climbed down through the rocks, stepping over orcs to reach the Elf. The others joined them and they gladly greeted each other, the Captain, Galdor of Gondolin briefing them of their progress. Aragorn nodded and then followed Galdor along with his men as they hurried back through the pass to the main force beyond. When they descended through the gap, the forests of Rivendell lay ahead and with practiced steps, he hurried toward home.
Minas Tirith... He slept on his own bed, the room cleared of the chaos of orc occupation. He had been starved, beaten and wearied beyond the recall of any other similar moment. But Denethor was alive and slowly coming to his senses. No one seemed to be around but he could feel the presence of others, those who did not answer directly, but touched him merely with their loving thoughts. He could hear others freed from captivity and the vile future of torture for the pleasure of the Beast. Many was the familiar face and voice that he heard as he slipped in and out of stupor lying on his bed. They were recovering the house and parts of the town, people returning to their business as they awaited the army beyond. Most of the people who weren't killed or captured had fled to the west and the south. They would have to be rounded up and brought back, fed and taken care of. Their wounds would have to be tended and healed. There was so much to do, he could hardly grasp it. But he couldn't help, so weary was he from captivity that all he could do was lie in restless sleep. Beyond the window of his rooms, the river flowed onward, heading to sea. The Kingdom of Dol Amroth had held out to the last and was less broken in damages than Minas Tirith. Boats would float up the river once more, sailing toward the gracious and lovely capital city. People would live in homes and hamlets, tilling their fields and raising their children. This would happen, or so soft voices whispered to him. All he had to do was rest and get better. He didn't know how to do that, so greatly was he troubled by visions of the death of his sons. He slept as best he could as around him in tiny incremental steps, the rebuilding of Gondor had only just begun.
Mirkwood... The first messengers groveled before him, giving their craven stories to the dark lord, their eyes unable to meet his. He listened in silence, considering their words carefully and then the magnitude of his situation hit him hard. They were coming for him, the Lords of the West and he was faced with the probability of standing alone. Melkor couldn't do it, having given much of his essence to Arda during the formation of the world, but he was stronger, having kept himself intact and so he had given in to his arrogance, considering himself invincible. He had not consolidated his power or smote his enemies into dust, nor had he done what he should have when scanning his new domains. They had come without his notice and now he was trapped, facing them all alone. He rose and stared around, considering how close they were and decided that he needed more information. Turning, staring at his slaves, he signaled for Wormtongue to be brought before him. He was, kneeling in abject submission and listened hard to what Sauron told him. The shackles were released and he was sent on his way, scurrying toward Rivendell and the coming menace. When Wormtongue had left, he looked around his domicile, feeling discretion was the better part of valor. For a moment he was himself and then he wasn't, transforming before his terrified minions into one of his favorite forms. He spread his wings and took to the air, a vampiric force of evil fleeing toward Mordor. They watched him go, disappearing into the night and then turned to each other for a moment. They knew then that there was nothing more to do than to flee as well. Gathering what they could carry, they hurried away, moving themselves with haste toward the east. Part 20 The camp was huge, an army of Eldar filling out the hillsides but he could see men among them as well as they hurried along. The burned out shell of his childhood home haunted Aragorn as he followed Galdor to the leadership of the forces all around him. Water still thundered over the cliff sides of the Bruinen, green trees still sheltered the grounds of the house, but the stately and graceful beauty that was once a haven was gone, charred beams and ashes all that remained. He had heard that Elrond had lit the fires with his own hand, the same as Celeborn in Lothlorien. That one was even more painful, the most revered spot of all to him, that city of the Elves his most personally treasured locale. By the time they reached the pavilion that housed the lords of the Eldar, he had straightened his tunic and his clothes as best he could. He paused, Galdor turning, peering into the shelter and after a moment, he was allowed inside. Legolas followed, as did Éomer, Boromir and Gimli, the rest waiting in tense but happy silence as they watched the bustle around them. Inside the tent, Elrond turned and smiled, embracing Aragorn as a long lost son. Celeborn embraced him as well, and Legolas, the two stepping aside to talk together. Aragorn was introduced, turning to catch Legolascry out his joy as Celeborn told him that his family was safe. Oropher and Thranduil, true to their natures, had taken the southern route with Fionwe and Ingwe on the way to Gondor. Aragorn felt something lift from his heart at the smiles of Legolas and the pleased expression on Éomer's face. "My lord, I never believed that I would see you again," Aragorn replied as Elladan and Elrohir entered the pavilion, smiles on their faces at the sight of him standing there. "We are here, Aragorn, to assist in the business of ending the Shadow's grip on Middle-earth," Elrond said. "My Lord and King, Gil-galad is in charge of the army. I am once more his herald." Aragorn bowed and took Gil-galad's hand. "I am honored, my Lord." "You are related," Gil-galad replied. "The Peredhel is my kin and therefore, you are his. That makes us related in some twisted and convoluted way only Elves can conceive of. I cannot rest in peaceful bliss in the lands of my fathers while kin of mine own family is in harms way." Aragorn smiled, the big man's open and robust style warming and enveloping him in a confidence he had forgotten he possessed. "I am in your debt and honored to renew ties of kinship with you and yours." "Good," Gil-galad replied with a grin. "This is like talking to Elendil, Elrond. Do you not agree?" Elrond smiled, shaking his head. "I am but a lowly herald, my lord. I live to serve your every command." "Indeed," Gil-galad replied, smiling. "There are more kin to meet but that will come later. Right now, tell us all that you know in your remarkable fight against the enemy thus far." Aragorn nodded and for an hour they poured over maps and discussed strategy and by the time they were finished, runners were heading south to bring the forces of the rebel resistance up to the pass where they could march eastward together. They talked and talked and then broke for food, sitting together in the gathering dusk. By then, horsemen arrived, more relatives to introduce and Aragorn of Gondor had the strange and privileged opportunity to meet some of the earliest ancestors of his family line. Thingol of Doriath and Turgon and Dior of Gondolin were only three that he met that night. They came to the pavilion and shared wine together, planning to take the fight to the east the next day. Celeborn smiled and drew Aragorn to one side, asking him to take a walk with him. It was his custom, everyone knew, to walk in the evening and so they stepped away to wander alone. "You seem grieved of some heavy burden," Celeborn asked, glancing at Aragorn, whom he had always loved. "This whole business...it is very unreal to me. Meeting all of my family, even those so remote...it makes me feel light-headed." "It makes us all light-headed," Celeborn chuckled. "What say you of the notion being spun that sundering our kindreds is not a good thing after all?" "I would see the world poorer for the passing of your people." "And I would be hard pressed to leave," Celeborn said. "My wife has found her friends once more, most notably your ancestor, Melian. They give her great comfort, as does our daughter." "The Lady Celebrian? Is she well?" Aragorn asked. "Very much so," Celeborn replied. "I am overcome with pleasure to see her again. She is mine only child and a father has great hopes and dreams for them, especially when the world is so murky and deep." Aragorn nodded, sighing. "She is a goodly woman." "She is," Celeborn replied. He looked at Aragorn sideways a moment. "So is Arwen." Aragorn nodded. "She is that." "I am aware of your affections for my granddaughter. I know that you were hoping to wed some day. I am not apposed to such an union transpiring, should it become reality for our two kindreds to co-exist." Aragorn nodded but he didn't comment, following silently along the path with his friend. Celeborn sighed. "You are curiously silent on this matter," he replied. "I am weary, my lord, and not especially good company. There have been many losses and they weigh heavily upon me." "So I would guess," Celeborn said, pausing beside the cliff side to stare into the abyss below in which the river flowed swiftly. "This whole business, it was inevitable. I was told rather bluntly that we were all living on borrowed time and I knew that. But like anyone else who loves their home, I preferred not to consider that." "None of us want things to end, the people and places that we love," Aragorn agreed, Faramir coming unbidden to his mind. "There is someone in your heart that you mourn. I would wish that it was my granddaughter but I am sure it is not," Celeborn began hesitantly. Aragorn stared into the darkness, willing the river to take him away. "I am sorry. It has been long and hard and things change." "It is the curse of my daughters, that they should love men who cannot love them back the way they desire." "My lord?" Aragorn asked, surprised. "My daughter is in love with a man who loves her but not as much as he loves another." Aragorn glanced at Celeborn, at the sadness on his face and felt badly. He stood listening, knowing instinctively that it was all he had to offer. "Celebrian is my jewel, the one creature above all for whom I would surrender my life willingly and without regret. I love her to the distraction of my better sense. I married her to the only man who could keep her safe and treat her with the respect and affection I wanted for her. I did so knowing that her future husband was in the deepest mourning possible for the only true love of his life." "The King," Aragorn murmured. Celeborn nodded. "The King," he said sadly. "I never held it against him. He is a good son, Elrond. He loved the king and the king loved him but he was over there and we were here and I am a father with a daughter that I love. It seemed a way to save two lives." "At the time, it probably did," Aragorn offered. "It would seem like wisdom. Then." Celeborn sighed. "Now I am faced with the resurrection of the King and the possible heart break of my daughter. I am also mournful of the plight confronting Elrond." "He made a sacrifice and was rewarded with a good wife and children he loves," Aragorn mused, sighing softly. "A good exchange for a life of loneliness I would think." "Is it?" Celeborn asked, glancing at Aragorn. "What about you, Elessar? I am not immune to the speculations of my peers." Aragorn stood silently before turning grave eyes to his foster grandfather. "I would die before I would harm you or your family, such is my love for you. Your home, the city in the trees, it was and will ever be the home I hold dearest in my heart." "You are being asked to sacrifice for something bigger than any one person. That it involves my granddaughter is a sorrow that will be mine, own private hell. What concerns me now is your answer. And...what the life my granddaughter will live should you do what you must in light of your station." Aragorn sighed and stared at the figure beside him, the heroic almost mythical person who had been part of his life since his earliest memories. It was in that cocoon that he had lived his life, sheltered in the strength, wisdom and joy of such people. Now he was faced with a decision that reached out to more than just himself and Arwen. Now, in this darkling time, he had to consider another hard choice, one that could haunt them all. He sighed deeply. "I will do what is asked of me, for the good of us all." He turned and faced Celeborn, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "I cannot tell you that I will be all that you want me to be but I will be all that I can. I swear it." Celeborn nodded, smiling slightly. "You have the same sensibilities as Elrond, my son. He swore that to me and ever he has kept his promise. I will not talk to you about this again." Aragorn nodded and the two turned, walking together along the cliff side. The water flowed ever onward and the sea beckoned, the blinding barrier between heaven and the earth.
In Barad-dur... He walked through the halls, minions scattering as they made way for their lord and master. His return was a surprise and they shuddered away, shrinking from the horrible dread and terror that he dispensed like spoor. He moved onward until he reached his palantir and then uncovering it from its shroud, he began to look into the world. Images of armies, vast and golden, greeted him and he felt fear. It gripped his heart and his mind began to formulate plans to save himself from the gathering might ever surging toward them. Even as he stood thinking, he could feel them surrounding him, the unearthly powers from before the birth of the world. He scanned the heavens, searching for enemies and found a ship sailing free of its normal path. Earendil was searching for him, Manwe by his side and he felt his heart clutching at the sight of the two together. They could find him easily, his options being few and so he turned his eyes westward to the valleys and forests. Grima he saw, making his way to the Gap of Rohan, making his way to the lords opposing him. He would be taken, it was his great hope, taken and then ingratiate himself as a refugee who could help. It would not give him much but it might accidentally give him something. He would have eyes and ears in the heart of the enemy and the palantir that surely they had would be reached. Grima was as slimy and difficult as they came. He turned and paced, considering the dispatches that he had afore times disregarded. He would gather his armies and dispatch them to places to wait for his command. Then he would do what he always did when things got tough. He would try and talk his way out of the box he was in. Turning back to his palantir, he tried to gauge the enemy arrayed before him, struggling as he did to pierce the shroud of obscurity that they had placed over themselves to hide from his ever-roving and all-seeing eyes.
The next day... They mounted up and made their way forward, a three-pronged force heading toward Mirkwood. Part of them, led by Dior, would attack the mountain fastness of the Woodland Realm. The second prong, led by Thingol, would attack the spiders in Lorien. They had moved up from the south, from Dol Guldor and environs, finding fresh land to promulgate themselves. Gil-galad and Elrond, with Turgon by their side, would continue southward, moving toward Edoras and then southward toward Osgiliath and Minas Tirith. Not at this time would they make for Mordor and the Black Tower of the Beast until they all met up again. Aragorn and his Rangers, his archers and his swordsmen, his cavalry and his Rohirrim would travel with Elrond. They would be his eyes and ears, ranging ahead of the army, dispatching to the main body the lay of the land. Éomer paced all night, waiting for the dawn to come, desperate with his countrymen to return to his homeland. Legolas watched at dawn as he saddled his horse, fretting quietly with the stirrups and belly band. He walked to his lover, stilling him with a touch, his anxious blue eyes searching Éomer's face. "You must not hope for much," Legolas said quietly. "I have learned that to do so brings on much heartache." Éomer paused, looking at Legolas with pained eyes and then pulled him into an embrace. They held each other tightly and then Éomer let him go, turning back to the saddle of his horse. He paused, looking at Legolas with dark and pain-filled eyes. "I have no hopes, Legolas, about my family or my country but I know now that I am the King of Rohan. I have to go and take stock of what's left. Hopefully, the Valar will deliver me the chance for revenge." "I will go with you, no matter what comes," Legolas said quietly. Éomer slipped an arm around his lover and pulled him in for a passionate kiss. Legolas kissed him back, staring at Éomer with impassioned eyes as they quietly stepped back from each other. Legolas turned and mounted his horse, waiting for Éomer to do the same. Together, they sat, side-by-side, waiting for the orders to go. Aragorn left the pavilion, walking to his men, nodding for them to mount up. They would be heading out first, going to the junction where the roads diverged and the army would pivot. The rain had stopped falling, the sky clearing slowly as they turned and began to ride through the camp. They were an impressive sight, grim-faced men of many lands and Aragorn nodded when Elladan and Elrohir joined them, hunters all. Gil-galad watched them disappear from sight in the trees and congestion of the camp. Turning, he glanced into the tent, watching as Elrond rolled up their maps. They would set out in a half hour, letting the scouts get some distance and then it would be nonstop for the next few days. If things went well and the opposition was fleeing as fast as watchers have said, then the march to Mordor wouldn't take long. With a sigh, he turned and entered the pavilion once more.
Minas Tirith... Denethor stood at a window, staring out at the desiccated plain below. What had once been rolling plains, homes and farms was now a charnel field of trenches, destruction and the stench of rotting flesh. The orcs had not cleaned up their mess, leaving it where it was and the sight of it turned his stomach. He turned and hobbled on his swollen feet, sitting once more in a chair. The city was being refortified, men coming out of hiding and the south lands once more. They came in numbers, telling odd tales about dreams that told them the city was free. He wondered about the Valar, about the dreams he himself had had, but nothing could persuade him of hope any longer. His sons were gone, no one knowing of their whereabouts and he had no faith that he wasn't completely bereft of family. Imrahil had come, the Prince of Dol Amroth, coming out of the hills to regroup in the city. They were making repairs on the gate which had been destroyed in the fighting, hoping to make a stand again should the enemy come. But they didn't, the enemy, and it was most perplexing. Scouts said they were fleeing to the dark lands to the east. Many had died taking the city and those that had stayed had been sent in part elsewhere. More were coming, or so it was said, the Dark Lord growing them out of the ground. He himself had no truck with strange tales of magic, even if the evidence lay in pieces all around his feet. His dreams kept coming, memories of his son, Boromir, and the youngest whom he had never treated well. Faramir was different, a wholly different nature and he had held the youngster at arms length the whole of his life. Boromir was his heir, his champion, his partner in the job of running the Kingdom. He, himself, was faltering he knew, his own ambitions for his son in conflict with the duties of his station. Denethor was the Steward, but never the king and his beloved son, Boromir, would never be either. What would it take for a man to become king? How many battles, how many times holding off the enemy would it take to become acclaimed? Then the dream came and the dreaded premonition that their own days in power were numbered. The sword that was broken. The one who would wield it. Those things stuck daggers into his heart. His beloved son, Boromir, deserved to be king but in his heart and his mind, Denethor knew he never would. Rankled is a small word for what he felt sometimes. Rankled is what he felt for privilege. Gandalf had bothered him, meddling with his business and winning the affection and respect of Faramir. Jealous is a word he would not say openly but it was a word that described his heart. He held Faramir to a different standard. He held him at arms length to punish him for turning to another when he had his own father. That he didn't acknowledge that he was guilty of pushing Faramir to seek others for comfort was something he would never, ever admit out loud. Dreams had been coming to him, dreams of his sons. Boromir was hearty and walked in the sunlight. Faramir was shrouded in shadow, always just out of reach when he called to him. He would wake up in a sweat, his heart pounding, sure that something terrible had happened to his boys. Then he would lie awake, unable to sleep until the light of the day came once more. He would go to the window and stare to the east, where the blood red sky would pulse and churn. Beyond the mountains, over the horizon, the Beast was working for some terrible ends. He would stand and watch the sky, the barometer of the world and dread would suffuse him at the thought Sauron would return. Boromir, he would think. Boromir, come home.
The junction... There was sign of orcs and they led to the north, entering into the trees of the Wooded Realm. The road would take a third of the forces to the seat of Thranduil's power and battles would be enjoined in the forest about. They would fight room-to-room in the mountain fastness until the last corpse was dragged out after two bitter days. They would post a garrison and then turn to the southeast, traveling to aid the army in Lorien. That force would fight with a tenacity unparalleled, killing the spiders that had crept into the void. At their side, slaying with abandon, Tulkas and Orome would assist them all. For two more days they would battle their enemy until the last orc was dead and Dol Guldor in ruins. Aragorn sat his horse, waiting for the word to withdraw, images of his heart home filling his mind. It was a shambles now, the big trees denuded of the homes and the beauty that once graced them. But it was also denuded of the beastly monsters and evil creatures that had called it their new home. A trumpet sounded and he turned his horse, leading his men to the front of the marching order. They were going southward, across the Brown Lands to the Mark of Rohan and Edoras. They made their way to the open lands, breaking into their wide riding scouting formation. Legolas and Éomer rode together, the big Rohirrim's eyes bent toward his homeland.
On the trail... They paused, eating cold food, resting their horses. Behind them the army of the Eldar was marching. Night was coming but they were determined to press onward, encountering as they went so very little of their foe. Boromir sat and stared at the sky, missing the bright star of the heavens. He glanced around and noticed Aragorn sitting the ground, leaning against a rock as he smoked his pipe. In his hand, he held Faramir's book and a sad expression graced his face. Boromir felt pain suffuse him and he glanced away. They had not talked since Faramir's death, that ragged pain something he tried to avoid. Faramir had died saving the both of them, sacrificing himself for them. It seared him, the loss of his brother, the younger child he had helped to raise. Aragorn had loved him, this he could see. Faramir had found peace in his company. He owned Aragorn a great debt, even as he knew he could never articulate it to the quiet and solitary figure of his king. Aragorn was his king, the liberator of their people and Boromir made a vow to serve him as best he could. They were comrades riding to battle and they fought side-by-side, two men with a common tie, the quiet eyes of a dead and much loved man. Faramir lay on a hillside in a forgotten mountain meadow. Boromir made a vow to bring him home when this war was done. He hated that he had to leave him, the last place they had been together, and leave him to lie in the cold, cold ground. "Are you all right?" Boromir looked up, meeting Éomer's concerned eyes. He nodded and moved slightly as the big man settled beside him. "I wish I could say the same," Éomer replied nervously. "I am afraid to hazard what my kingdom is like now." "And I, too," Boromir answered. "We are both the remnants of great traditions. It had to fall upon us, this end time." "But for the Elves," Éomer said, glancing at and resting his eyes on Legolas. "But for the Elves," Boromir replied, watching as Aragorn turned the pages of Faramir's book. Part 21 The city stood on the great outcrop of stone, a monument to the ages of man's determination to live well in difficult circumstances. Villages and farms dotted the area, all burned to the ground. Sign of the enemy was everywhere but they were missing in action. Footprints and other signs led to Mordor. They were fleeing, usually in great haste, as if the hounds of death were on their trail. Aragorn led his men, riding across the plains and when they topped a nearby hill, they pulled up short. Meduseld still stood, tall and unscathed but the city was half burned, the other half still standing. For a few moments they sat, scanning the city and then Éomer spurred his horse, galloping like the wind. Other Rohirrim racing with him made for the city gate with abandon. Aragorn hurried after them, sword pulled free and when they reached the open gate, they paused. Nothing was moving, banners of the Eye flapping in the gathering breeze, but the city was as still as a graveyard. They entered cautiously, unwilling to move hastily as they rode through the winding streets to the palace at the top. Some houses were gutted and others desecrated, evidence of boorish occupation everywhere. The horse lots were empty, all things of value taken or scattered, weeds choking the lanes and gardens of the houses. Meduseld stood before them, intact but neglected and Éomer leapt down and entered the building. His sword at the ready, his rage boundless, he helped search the building from top to bottom. It was empty, deserted and when they gathered again, it was with no news of his uncle, cousin or sister. Legolas stood beside Éomer as he digested his disappointment along with his rage over the destruction of his home. Turning, he looked at those gathered with him. "I need to know of the King and Prince Theodred. I ..." he paused and gathered his dread and his despair. "I need to know of my sister." They nodded and turned, beginning again but when it was over there was no more evidence than before. They stood on the steps, watching the horizon as the skyline began to fill with a great army. They marched in formation, moving toward the palace, an army bound for the city in the south.
That night... "There has not been much resistance," Gil-galad replied, sipping his wine as he sat in a chair in the Hall of the King. They had camped around the mountain, watchers posted and waited for the dawn to come. Éomer had sat quietly, now defacto King of Rohan and when dinner was finished, excused himself. Legolas watched him go and rose, leaving the table, following Éomer to a room in the back. It had been ransacked, very little left but heavy furniture but it had been his sister's room and to here he came for comfort and to despair in private. Legolas hesitated at the door, watching as Éomer searched for some small thing that was hers. He turned, his eyes wild and paused when he saw Legolas. "Do you want me to go?" "No," Éomer said, his voice breaking. "Please." Legolas nodded and crossed the floor, enveloping his lover in his arms. For the next two hours they would sit on the floor while Éomer wept for his sister and told of her life.
Dawn... They gathered together, once more setting out, the first part of the army that Thingol led reaching the river beyond. They were coming to join him for the engagement ahead on the plains of Pelennor in the shadow of Minas Tirith. The others coming from the south would be nearing the rendezvous point where they would meet up. Aragorn turned and with his men, rode off, moving ahead of the army to scout the way. Éomer rode near to him, sitting his horse with a stony expression as they left his country behind them. The only thing besides the task at hand and Legolas that meant anything to him was the burning and overpowering thirst for revenge. It began on the floor of Eowyn's room and would end in the courtyard of Barad-dur. All he had to do was endure.
On the trail from the south... They moved onward, making excellent time. The expected battle at Isengard had never materialized. They moved onward, expecting conflict but it never came. Bodies they passed, orcs and others, one of them a pasty-faced man with black stringy hair. He had been caught in the open, his throat slit, a victim of the random chaos of war. As they rode past his body, lying where it fell, none of the lords or soldiers knew him. No one short of Éomer would be able to tell them that the dead body was formerly known as Grima Wormtongue.
In the heavens... He watched with growing agitation, the abominations happening below. The world was in agony and it was all one person's fault. The armies of his beloved Eldalie were advancing upon his sanctuary but he could feel with the Ring the difficulties ahead. It might take years and many would die, so he considered something he had never asked before. Manwe of Arda slipped from his shape and spirited away from the deck of Vingilot. He slipped away into the continuum of existence, seeking the perfect thought of the One.
Near Osgiliath... Aragorn stared southward, toward the bend of the great river and the tortured city of Osgiliath. It had been Faramir's charge to save the city and they had talked about that failure together from time-to-time. They had talked of everything and anything, Faramir was a good listener and he found himself yearning for that quiet gaze and humorous re-joiner. He was lonely, more lonely than he could have imagined but he pushed it away, concentrating on the task at hand. They were close to Faramir's city, the home of his birth. It would be harder and harder on him the closer they got. Boromir was a help, his strong and hardy support welcomed, but it wasn't the same. It never would be, he knew. Sighing, he tapped his horse's sides and continued onward, moving ever closer to the land he would rule.
On the trail... The wind was growing, blowing against their backs, almost as if the elements were conspiring to help them cross the plains. Battles in the south had been spare to non-existent, the enemy merely fleeing eastward. In the north, in Mirkwood, there was vicious fighting as fell beasts and spiders resisted them. They were overcome and the depths of Dol Guldor cleansed before those forces marched post haste to the lands of Rohan. They were converging together, each of them keeping their part of the bargain, making for the plains of the Pelennor Fields. By the time Aragorn reached Osgiliath, it was a rain-soaked ruin, the bones of the dead laying scattered in the street. Boromir's face was ashen as they crept through that graveyard, heading for the bridge that would take them across. Bridges built by orcs littered the river, affording the armies coming an easy crossing. They waited in the shelter of a shattered building, as in the gathering darkness torches could be seen. The first stages of the army were coming and soon they would be camping in the wreckage of the city streets. Boromir was speechless, his expression telling his feelings as he stood alone near a dripping eave. Aragorn walked toward him, gingerly standing beside him, waiting for him to say anything he needed to say. "This place was once beautiful," he whispered, glancing at Aragorn. "This was my brother's station. He was to defend this city. He did, mostly, as much as could be had." Aragorn nodded, sorrow piercing him. "It was all too much." Boromir nodded. "We had no hope. I remember winning back the city once but here we are, standing in the ruins. All around us, nothing but death and ruins. It didn't matter, did it. It didn't matter that Faramir tried so hard. It couldn't be held. My father ..." He paused, grimacing slightly. "My father is dead." Aragorn sighed and squeezed Boromir's arm. The big man turned, a fleeting look of gratitude on his face. "I guess that is the least I can say. Who among us hasn't lost someone in this war?" Aragorn nodded, a gentle look of compassion on his face. "Then we make them pay." Boromir nodded, turning to look out into the gloom of the darkening sky. "Yes, we will."
At the river... They crossed the Entwash, skirting Edoras, the White Mountains shimmering in the distance. They were blood red as the sun began to set, shadowing them with colors unnatural. Thranduil rode beside his father, an impressive sight in his cold faced rage. Fionwe and the others rode before them, each of them in their position of rank in the marching order. This was the land that his son had crossed on the way to his death in the lands of the south. Legolas, his beloved son, died in agony at the hands of the Beast. He would never rest, he would never have peace until they were all destroyed off the face of the earth. His father rode beside him, a copy of his agony and together they would ride into battle again. The wind was brisk against their back as they rode and eagles circled high in the air. The elements were with them, he considered as he glanced upward at the clearing sky. The clouds were leaving and the sun's warmth was welcome as they made their way to the rendezvous at Osgiliath. It couldn't come too soon.
In the twilight of Osgiliath... He sat on a rock, unable to sleep, fatigue covering him like a shroud. "You should be sleeping." Aragorn looked up, smiling slightly to Gimli, the Dwarf moving to sit next to him. "It is hard to do." "That it is," Gimli agreed. "I, myself, can sleep standing up." Aragorn smiled. "I guess you can." "You seem not quite yourself." Gimli shifted, uneasy with private discussions. "I know we have had a hard time but I'm just a little bit worried about you, that's all." Aragorn sighed and looked down at the Dwarf, smiling slightly. "I'll be all right." "Probably," Gimli replied, staring straight ahead. He shifted again. "I just figured that you were nervous about the future, that's all. After all, the talk is that you will be the next King of Gondor. That would make any man nervous." Aragorn nodded, smiling. "I suppose it would." Gimli smiled and rose, turning and pausing for a moment. He turned and looked at Aragorn with affection. "You do know, don't you, laddie, that you have many friends and they are with you come what may." Aragorn nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "I do, Gimli." Gimli nodded and hesitated, then he turned and walked to the place where he would sleep. Aragorn watched him go, loving him at that moment like the brother that he was. Then he turned to the night, his hand touching the book that he kept in his pocket, as he waited for the morning's light to come.
Morning, near to the dawn... They stood in the pavilion, going over all possible access points to the city beyond. The scouts had been sent out and were due back soon. Elrond and Gil-galad considered the myriad pitfalls of crossing unexplored territory. Boromir and Aragorn filled them in on the details of the first battle, when the tide had gone against them and the city fell. It had been a charnel house and they had little new news beyond the first reports of Fionwe's approach. The weather had cleared off but the wind was relentless, the restless ruminations of Manwe ever present. The sun was shining, the shadows pushed back, the leaching of color quelled. It had been disturbing the first time he had seen it and Boromir was relieved to see a more normal cast to the world again. It gave him heart, now when he really needed it and he listened to the plan as it was described. "We could explore what is happening," he suggested in a lull in the conversation. All eyes turned to him and he rose. "Few know the city the way I do. Let us go and see what is amiss there. It is too quiet by half if the orcs are still here. If the city is open, we can save ourselves battle and time." Aragorn nodded and Gil-galad as well. "Go to the city. Scout it. Tell us what you will," Gil-galad said, watching as the two men rose and turned to go. "Come back alive." They nodded and left, Gimli, Éomer and Legolas rising from where they waited outside the house that was headquarters for the army command. They mounted up and turned, riding out of camp, Halbarad joining them. By the time they reached the edge of the city, Elladan and Elrohir had silently joined them. They crossed the river and rode toward the city, passing over much destruction and skirting skeletons of indeterminate creatures. The city rose before them, a glorious monument to man's ingenuity and tenacity, seven levels of occupation bearing the scars of war. They paused on the rammas, then crossed it, riding with swords and bows drawn, meeting no resistance as they cautiously approached. There were trenches that reeked of horrible smells, bodies of the dead and weapons scattered everywhere. The road was blocked and they made their way carefully, searching in all directions for any sign of danger. But they didn't find it, so completely vacated was the enemy camps and when they came within sight of the guard on the gates, they could see men on the ramparts. They hailed the guards and they were hailed back, the gate parting slightly and a man rode out, galloping his horse and careening to a stop before their group. "Hail!" he called out, almost impossibly happy. "Who are you and where—" He paused, staring with astonishment at Boromir. "Lord Boromir!" Boromir spurred his horse forward, turning and gazing back at the river beyond. "Is the city free?" "Yes, my lord," the man replied, dazed in amazement. "It is free." "And the surrounding area? What happened to the enemy?" Aragorn asked. "They have fled. Prince Imrahil and his knights have returned and brought others. We are fortifying the city as best we can against the idea that they will be coming back." Aragorn nodded and turned to Halbarad. "Go to the King. Tell him the news. Minas Tirith is in the hands of men." Halbarad nodded and turned, riding as fast as he could back toward Osgiliath. Aragorn turned and looked at the guard. "We are coming into the city." "Good," the guard replied, smiling at Boromir. "Your father will be pleased to see you." Boromir started and looked at the guard in disbelief. "My father? He's alive?" "Yes, Lord, he is," the guard replied with a smile. Boromir looked around him, astonished surprise on his face. Then he spurred his horse and galloped for the gate. The rest followed, the guard behind them and they entered quickly, beginning the trek upward. Through each level they rode swiftly, through each gate they entered unhindered as through the city word spread. Boromir had returned, they cried, heartened beyond words that the hero of Osgiliath had returned alive. When they reached the Citadel, they dismounted and hurried in, pausing in the ante way as Boromir took his bearings. He turned to a guard, Beregond of the city and grabbed his arm. "My father? Where is he?" "In his chamber," the astonished man replied. Turning, Boromir hurried up the hallway, turning corners and climbing stairs until he reached the chamber of his father. Opening the door, he stepped inside, searching the room for him. A man by a window turned, staring at Boromir with disbelieving eyes and then, with tears in his eyes, Boromir rushed to his father and embraced him tightly.
Far away... They came to the entrance, a ragged group of people, gathered together in the fall of the city. He was the defacto leader, the default leader since the wounding of his father in the melee of escape. Theodred peered out, watching the blue sky. Something felt different than it was before. The caverns had sheltered them, those known only to the Rohirrim, a fall back refuge in times of war. They had come here, gathering, his father in his arms and they had nursed their wounds as they rested. A scout had told him of a valiant army passing nearby and he had sent him to scout for more word. Riding across the plains, several more with them, Theodred saw his rider return. He watched as they came near to him and slowed their horses, a man and three Elves in full battle armor. He walked to them, addressing Ellan of Mirkwood and gave them his story and the tale of his need. They nodded and one rode back, organizing relief, preparing to take the soldiers among them with them to the fight. The civilians would remain, given stores and provisions and they would be rescued when the fighting was over. Theodred helped them, making a vow to his father that he would avenge their people with the last ounce of his blood. Then with seventy-five Rohirrim, he mounted his horse and rode with the Elves to the army beyond. He would ride for his father and his country and his people and he would avenge all of them for the murder of their country. But most of all, he would avenge his cousins, Éomer and Eowyn, lost from their knowledge since the siege of their city. Part 22 In the White City... Aragorn stood upon the ramparts, staring out to the plains beyond, considering the vast area that had been laid waste. Nothing that was living existed between himself and the walls beyond, the silver slip of the river a demarcation line between the living and the dead. The army would be coming, settling in to set up their base as beyond the walls of the city, in the east, Mordor would come to bear their wrath. Turning, he looked upward at the standard flying in the breeze, the symbol of the Stewards who had guarded his legacy all the years of their long winter. Boromir was with his father, telling him of the fall of Faramir and the conditions of the world as it stood now. He wondered if he would be mentioned for any of the myriad reasons and he pushed it out of his mind as he considered the future. It was strange to think there was to be one, so deadly had the past year been to hope but it was there, a small flicker of light on the horizon of his hitherto for darkened life. He had made agreement to make the peace, using his own body and mind to garner the outcome, agreeing to wed Arwen in principle. His soul was his own and he had given it to another, someone he would never see again. This was Faramir's city, the place of his raising and Aragorn was surrounded with echoes of his all- to-short life. The Wise of the World wanted to change the rules, to make it possible for each kindred to co-exist with the other and he was the page upon which the deal would be written. Arwen and Aragorn, sacrifices for the many, giving up the only life he, himself ever would have to make it so. She would linger on when he died, all things being equal and whatever children they might have would pick up his scepter and carry on. The line of kings would be unbroken and the joining of both peoples reconstituted At least it was consolation that she would be able to go west after his doom. He, himself would eventually fall into the void or wherever men went when the world for them ended. He didn't care, so resigned was he to his fate that even that last adventure held no fear for him now. Grim-faced and silent, he stood at the ramparts, staring out into the gathering gloom. Nearby, watching quietly, Boromir stood, debating with himself whether to speak with Aragorn, so unwilling was he to disturb his silence. Then he sighed and stepped forward, pausing by the walls, leaning his elbows on the stonework. "How is your father?" Aragorn asked. "He is recovering from many months in prison," Boromir replied, relief in his expression and his voice. "I am beyond words with my own surprise and delight." Aragorn nodded, turning his gaze outward once more. "That is good." "My father knows of you and who you are. I told him that I would not become Steward. He is not completely at peace with that prospect yet. He wanted to see that our line continued with me." "And you, Boromir? Did you want it to continue? Did you ever want to be king?" Aragorn asked. "Truly?" he asked, regarding Aragorn evenly. Aragorn nodded. "Truthfully." "Yes," Boromir replied. "I wanted to be king. I wanted it and Faramir knew it too. He never did, my brother. He was a gentle person, given to books and other pursuits. I think he was the best man I ever knew." Aragorn looked away, emotion welling in his heart. He nodded. "I think so too." "He saved my life, my brother." He paused, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "I never got to tell him goodbye. He spoke but I never caught the words he said." "He said, 'Sacrifice,'" Aragorn replied. He stared into the darkness, unwilling and unable to meet Boromir's gaze. Boromir nodded. "He sacrificed himself for you and me. I feel a debt that sometimes is so heavy I feel crushed from the weight of it." He sighed, his eyes burning with unshed tears. "I never told you that I was surprised that he was with you...in that way." Aragorn stared at his hands, unwilling to meet Boromir's eyes. "I am glad though that he was. He seemed happy when he was with you. That makes it easier to bear, that he had happiness for a while. I don't think that he had a lot of that growing up. Our father was...he wasn't fair." "Nothing is fair, is it?" Aragorn asked. "If it were fair, he would be alive and none of this would have happened." "But then you would never had met him or known him. That wouldn't be something you would seek, would it?" "No," Aragorn whispered, sighing sadly. "I wouldn't have wanted that." "I know," Boromir said, his voice filled with tears. "I miss him, my brother. I helped raise him. We were close. He was my ..." Boromir paused and swallowed hard. "He was my truest friend." Aragorn turned and embraced Boromir, holding him as he himself was held. High in a tower, standing by the window, a grief-stricken father watched alone.
That night... They came and camped, clearing away debris and other hindrances, making the ground fit once more for habitation. The officers and captains of the great army met in the Citadel of the great city. Dinner was simple but the company was elegant and much conversation lay about the next phase of their plan. Fionwe and his army was sighted by outriders and the news was that they would arrive in a day and a half. That would be a good thing because it would allow the armies to gear up and rest, while scouts checked out the access points to the Demon's own land.
Late that night... They shared a room, given their rank, in the Citadel itself. It had a bed and they lay together, resting from strenuous excursions into love and lust. Legolas sighed, Éomer shifted and the moon outside the window was large and round. "We will be going against the Beast in days," Legolas said. "I am hoping that the Valar come with us." "I think they must already be there," Éomer said, his head resting on Legolasstomach. "The enemy runs like scared children. Something is hunting them besides us." "My father and grandfather, most likely," Legolas said, smiling in spite of himself. "My father is a formidable man." "I am glad for you, Legolas. No matter my own sorrows, just know that." Legolas stroked Éomer's soft golden hair. "I grieve for you, gwador . Every day I grieve for you." "It cannot be undone," Éomer said, moving to lie alongside the lanky form of his lover. He slipped a leg over Legolasbody, his arm around, his waist, tightening his grip. Moving closer, he nuzzled Legolaschin, kissing his mouth when he turned his head. "All there is for me and you is now." "Such are the thoughts of mortals," Legolas whispered, turning to face his lover. He ran his hand down Éomer's muscular thigh, grown strong and smooth with muscles from years of riding every day. "I am sorry for your grief." "And I, you when you were suffering," Éomer replied with a sigh. He leaned forward and kissed Legolas' mouth, savoring his lips, slipping his arms around his lover's strong masculine body. He rolled over, pressing Legolas into the soft mattress, the worn sheets as if satin to his overheated skin. "More," Legolas whispered, wrapping his strong lean legs around Éomer's broad body as strong fingers threaded through his long golden hair. "I need more." Strong hands gripped him, pulling him ever closer to his own body as Éomer complied. He devoured Legolas' lips, his hand pulling the Elf's face closer to him. He couldn't get enough of the sweetness of his mouth and he sighed, pausing as he stared into blue eyes smoky with desire. "I never believed that folk like you existed outside of children's tales. To hold you close to me makes a lot of my heartaches fade." Legolas gently pushed him over, straddling him and pressing his hands down onto the bed. He leaned forward and kissed Éomer, sitting over him like an pale and beautiful apparition from a dream. The moonlight haloed his head, his golden hair soft and silken in the dim light. "I am here. I am not going anywhere. Do not fear, Éomer, that I will leave you." Éomer swallowed hard, his eyes stinging with tears. He nodded and Legolas leaned down, settling against his body once more. Éomer rolled over, lying alongside his partner, giving to him all the emotion and love he could find in his soul. For a while, the shadows faded and the world wasn't in ruins around them. For a while, there was only the two of them, alone.
In a room nearby... Aragorn left his family at last, that is, the collection of names from the ancient books of his schooling made real. They were flesh and blood, filled with tales and ready to tell them as they celebrated so far their progress into the east. Thingol and the rest would be here in the morning and then Legolas would have his father once more. He stood by his window, staring up at the moon, the silver jewel in his hands once more. She had given it to him, a gift from her heart and he had worn it next to his for a very long time. But things had changed. The world had changed and he wasn't the same person that he was once before. She expected his love and he would try to give it, or whatever was left from the death of his heart. Faramir ... He couldn't release the memory and it haunted him here in the house where he had been raised. He imagined Faramir as a child and youth, running here and there in the Citadel and it tore at him, his sadness almost overwhelming as he stood and waited for the push eastward. He stared at the jewel and remembered the night she gave it to him and the kiss he had given in return. It was a heavy burden to know that she loved him and that perhaps, at last, he couldn't return it. It was as if there was a line dividing his old life from his new one and there was no way to scale the walls again. It hurt, this difference, but he knew it was permanent and there was nothing he could do about it even if he wanted. That he didn't want to do more or to do better about it was the indication that he himself was irretrievably changed. He considered Elrond and his own situation. He loved another but was married to his wife. The Eldar didn't take their vows lightly, divorce so extremely rare as to defy recollection. Even remarriage was tricky with the death of a spouse, the Valar holding vows of marriage sacred. It was an unbreakable bond, taking debate on rare occasions amongst themselves to set a surviving spouse free. But he wasn't married, except perhaps in his heart and there was nothing to debate. He was the King. Hard tasks come to hard men and he would do his duty, carrying off the wishes of the Wise. If he had melancholy moments as an outcome of the decision, then he would have to make the best of his life. Turning and staring at the moon, he considered the future. It was not a given that he would survive this fight. The demon would not go easily and even with divine intervention, it was going to be a battle that they might not win. He sighed and turned, walking up the stone stairway to the room that he had that was his alone. He would spend the night sleeping fitfully and after a light breakfast at dawn, he would help to welcome the army of Fionwe son of Manwe and Elbereth the Beautiful.
In the middle of the second day... They came toward the city, their banners flying, a great army moving swiftly eastward. Horns greeted them and horns returned their trumpets as the army of the Eldar made their way to the camps. Fionwe led them, with his captains and his heralds, among them Thranduil and Oropher of the Wooded Realm. Lords of the First Age and eons before that sat straight in the saddle as they passed into view. People from the city and the surrounding villages, more and more streaming in every day, watched them go in an eerie silence, as if witnessing a dream that could disappear like smoke. At the gate of the city, waiting in borrowed armor, Denethor and Boromir of Gondor stood. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and his stately knights were guards of honor to the greatness that came forward. Fionwe and his herald, the kings of many generations, all paused before the city as a token of respect. Gil-galad and Elrond, Turgon, Thingol and Glorfindel stood beside Denethor as they welcomed their guests. It was silent with respect and awe as Fionwe descended his horse, walking with a smile on his face toward the Steward. Behind him, watching with intense quietude, Gimli, Aragorn, Legolas and Éomer stood gazing upon the incredible spectacle of Manwe's own son. They greeted each other, Denethor and Boromir gracious, and turning, they welcomed their visitors inside. Walking together, they began the long traverse to the Citadel that was seven levels above. For seven hundred feet, they would ascend upward until at last they reached their destination and a dinner in their honor. Legolas stood watching, his keen eyes searching until at last he saw the one he wanted to see. Thranduil walked beside his father and when he glanced to his left, froze in his tracks at the sight of his son alive. Emotions passed over his face, vivid and dreadful and then he moved to embrace the son he thought he'd lost. Aragorn watched them, deeply gratified by the sight as beside him, Éomer stood with a smile. He glanced at Aragorn and then turned to walk back up when a voice called to him, a voice filled with joy. He turned and saw a warrior standing near to the gate, Gamling of Edoras, his uncle's strong right hand. He smiled and walked toward him, embracing him with joy and listened with disbelief as Gamling told of the retreat from Edoras. He learned that his cousin, Theodred was alive and that his uncle, Théoden, was as well. Tears nearly fell when they said they last track of Eowyn in the battle with Nazgul that confounded them at the end. Aragorn turned and followed the leadership, moving up the winding streets, feeling as lonely as he ever had before. No one was waiting for him, no one that he any longer wanted and there would be no happy reunions for him this time. Only duty awaited, duty and obligation and so he bottled his sorrows and continued upward, bound by an ancient oath to serve his people with all the strength he possessed. The sun was warm on the battlements by evening when the conversation and planning finally gave way. People left and others gathered together as the evening began to end. Legolas excused himself, going with his father and grandfather, staying with them overnight in their camp. Éomer and Gimli sat together playing chess from a set that had been salvaged from a pile of cast off belongings. Everyone had someone and so he walked to the verandah, staring out at the forest of flickering lights that covered the plains before the city above. Hundreds of campfires, thousands of torches, they shed a shimmering spectacle for those above. He stared at the lights, unaware that someone watched him until he noticed another standing by his side. He turned and nodded, Elrond beside him and they stared together for a moment in silence. "I despaired of ever seeing you again, Estel." "And I, you, my lord," Aragorn replied. Elrond smiled and sighed deeply. "It is a world overturned from the possible to the impossible. I am at the head of an army led by a Valarindi, the son of Manwe and Elbereth to be precise. I am still in shock over that possibility." "And I too, my lord," Aragorn replied, smiling slightly. "I am sorrow-filled to hear of the house, that you had to light it with your own hand." "It was necessary. I had no wish for my home to be invaded by beasts," Elrond said. "I was pleased to get my daughter oversea before things became too terrible." "I too am glad that she went to her kinfolk," Aragorn replied, nodding. "They have discussed with me a change of thought," Elrond hesitantly began. "They speak of rapprochement between our two worlds. They speak of rapprochement between our two peoples. I am not sure you have heard." "I have," Aragorn said, staring up at the moon. "My daughter is filled with love for you. To have her choose between a mortal and immortal life was more than I could bear. I had nothing but affection and trust for you, but I did not want her to linger in the world when the last chance for her to live and remember faded from her grasp." He sighed. "Now it would seem that this would not have to be if the sundering sea allowed us to remain or go, returning and leaving as we see fit." "That would make me happy, my lord. The world would be poorer indeed if your kind faded from it," Aragorn replied, his emotion heartfelt. "I have always thought so. I regretted so deeply that my brother had to make a choice such as he did. I despair of his absence from my life even after all these long, lonely years." He looked at Aragorn. "You remind me of him, his strength and moral clarity." Aragorn glanced at him, then looked at the sky. "Moral clarity. Does that exist anymore?" "It does, my son," Elrond sighed. "My king feels the heat of it himself even as he struggles with his own demons. He would wish the option for his people, the option of remaining here and coming and going from Aman. It is his duty to work for the good of his people to the exclusion of his own private joys." "It is the burden of kingship," Aragorn agreed. "You will be king, of that I am convinced. You will wear the crown and rule the reunited kingdom. Peace shall prevail among the people and between us there will be a world as it was meant to be. This time, in this place, we get another chance." "And I? What do I get?" Aragorn asked, probing Elrond a small bit. Elrond sighed, nodding. "You will get my beloved daughter." Aragorn silently sighed and looked out at the ocean of lights flicking in the light evening breeze. "I will get Arwen and the world will get what it needs. We are the altar upon which the sacrifice for peace is made." Elrond nodded, his expression sad. "It is the lot of my family to be torn asunder in matters of the heart." "The king," Aragorn whispered half to himself. Elrond turned and looked at the lights, nodding slightly. "I am impaled on a conundrum myself, torn apart by my heart and my duty." "Celeborn said that his daughters were sad to him, women that loved men who could not give them love back." Elrond smiled a bitter smile. "He is correct. It is their sorrow and our shame. I do not know what will become of me, but I beg you to give my daughter what you can." He stopped, his face a mask of pain and then it vanished. "It can be done and maybe you will remember what you felt. She deserves to be loved, Estel." Aragorn nodded and sighed. "I will be as true as I can be, my lord, and I give you my promise to do so all my life." "Then that is good enough for me because I know that is all that can be asked," Elrond said, glancing up at the sky. "I met my father and mother for the first time since I was a child." Aragorn nodded and looked at the sky, the star missing still in the firmament. "I was filled with love for them, a sense of abandonment disappearing," Elrond mused. "I told them of my brother as best I could." Aragorn nodded, sighing softly. "I am glad, my lord, that you have your family again." "It would have been better if Elros had been there." Aragorn squeezed Elrond's hand and they stood together, talking about family and the days to come. They would never discuss Arwen and Aragorn's duty again.
In the camp at the same time... It took Éomer two hours to find Theodred and the encampment of the Rohirrim that formed part of the bivouac. He gripped Theodred so tightly that he groaned. They sat and talked for several hours, catching up on what had happened. The Rohirrim in the City and the Household Guard had gathered and pulled the family and everyone else they could out of the fighting that had engulfed Edoras. They had fled, running away from the obvious hideaway of Helms Deep and finding sanctuary in a little known but well provisioned series of caves and caverns that was kept for long term sojourns for their people when in the southwest of their country. They had holed up, caring for their wounded, including Théoden. He had been injured and carried away, nursed back to middling health in the safety of the tunnels. Theodred was defacto king and had governed their recovery, going out with teams in the night to round up and bring to safety all of their people that they could find. That is how they found the army marching toward Gondor and the fight with Mordor. He was himself well and spoiling for a fight. He had seen Eowyn facing a Nazgul, the smoke and carnage obscuring his view. But when the fighting permitted, he had made his way toward where he had seen her last and found a Nazgul and his steed lying dead on the ground. It was the Witch King, killed by other than the hand of "man". He knew Eowyn had done the deed but he couldn't find her, falling back to take his father and the others away. They were going to be riding to battle with the others, adding their ferocity to the overall impact. Nothing burned in him more than the thought of revenge. "Meduseld still stands." Relief flooded Theodred's handsome face. "Thank the Valar." "Thank them indeed," Éomer replied. "They are here with us. The army is led by the son of Manwe." "How can we fail?" Theodred replied. Éomer nodded grimly. How indeed could they?
In the Land of Mordor... He walked through the hordes of beasts lying sleeping or arguing on the ground, unseen and undetected. He was searching for one who was the master of all, spurning the small potatoes for the main course. In the dark tower ahead, the one he sought hid from his relentless pursuit. He would bide his time, waiting for the fatal mistake that inevitably gave him the upper hand and while he waited he would fell as many of the creatures that littered the ground around him as he could. Tulkas smiled as he walked among the creatures, sorting out in his mind what he would do. They had talked together, all the Valar, debating what to do and he had come to Middle-earth to make his own contribution. Waiting now, moving with stealth, it was not the way he usually fought. He was not given to subtleties. But this was different. The creature in the tower was someone he wanted for himself. He would wait, as asked by Manwe, for the honor. In time, he told himself. In time all good things come. With a smile and light step, he walked around the tower of Barad-dur, considering the future ahead. Part 23 The dawn came quietly, the smell of rain in the air. The atmosphere was electric as they walked to their horses. It had the air of explosions, the feeling of a coming thunderstorm hanging over them. The air had been charging all night long, like some force gathering in one confined space. They could all feel it and Fionwe merely smiled, aware that unseen giants were gathering on their side. The mountain in the distance was spewing fumes, red lights flashing as it made its own lightning. It glowed an unworldly color, supported by dark clouds, adding an ominous focus to their task ahead. Aragorn mounted up, the chill in the air reminding him of a cold spring deluge and glanced around at his men. Éomer and Legolas were there, as was Gimli and Theodred and many Rohirrim and his Gray Company as well. Halbarad sat astride his horse, Elladan and Elrohir beside him, while Gamling and Beregond climbed into the saddle. They were the advanced forces, scouts for the army, which was gearing up in the distances around. Men and horses, Elves and their captains all broke their respite and began to get ready. A very great and powerful army was gathering to move, heading toward the rabble of the Beast in the Dark Lands. The Nazgul were not there to haunt them, the orcs had fled. No one knew what the situation was like beyond their borders. Aragorn and his men were going to find out and when Glorfindel joined him, he nodded to go. They rode out, grim-faced and determined, all of them ready to fight to the death. Unaware to their sensibilities, others went with them, Ainur and Maiar unclothed and wrath-filled. Invisible to their senses, they journeyed with their comrades, the First-and-Second Born of the World's beginning, marching and moving with grace and with intentions, to drive great evil from the land one last time. In the air, unseen above them, Manwe stood beside Earendil, the great ship Vingilot sailing in the sky toward the east. Forces were gathering and the wind was increasing as the wrath of the King of the World was felt at last.
On a hillside near the Black Gate... They lay on the hillside, staring down at the gate, which surprisingly was half ajar and unattended. Footprints led inwards or southward, the telltale signs of chaos in the ranks of the enemy. Men of all persuasions had fled the Dark Lord, fearing the wrath of the Valar more than they feared him. Many had stayed but fled into the Dark Lands, moving toward Barad-dur and the one they served. They crept down, moving with great care and found that the gate was unattended. They climbed the great staircases, finding the pulley mechanism that opened it wider. Great trolls had done that labor and they were without a possibility of making it open wider without them. Aragorn dispatched riders to tell the advancing army that the door was at least open to the lands beyond. They took up positions and waited, scanning the area for trouble and found none as they crouched in the hot midday sun.
On the trail... Elrond nodded and took the message, moving toward Gil-galad and the leadership. He told them the news, that the gate was ajar and Fionwe smiled, nodding enigmatically. They rode onward, the greatest host ever assembled behind them and by the time they reached the plain that led to the gate, the ground was covered as far as the eye could see with the banners of Rohan, Lothlorien, Imladris, Gondor, Dol Amroth and the lands of the Valar beyond the sea. They waited for a moment, outriders going too and fro as they surveyed the lands before them. Great dark mountains stretched from the gates on both sides, barriers to their might as they approached en masse. The gate was ajar and they could see their scouts standing on the iron walls, signaling that the area was clear. Fionwe smiled and turned, looking off to his left as if waiting to see something no one else saw. For ten minutes he sat and then they all could see it, an army was approaching from the north of them. Elrond glanced at Gil-galad and the King at him as they waited for the view to improve. At last it did and they all relaxed for an army of Dwarves was approaching. Standing on the wall, the scouts had seen it sooner than the rest of the army on the plain below. Gimli cried out, turning to his companions."They are coming! You see them! They cannot stay from the fight!" Legolas smiled and clapped Gimli on the shoulder, shaking his head with amusement. "This is going to be a glorious day," he said, smiling at Éomer. "This is as in the olden days." "It is," Éomer replied. They watched as the army came down from the mountains, throwing in their lot with the army of Elves. Turning, they paused and then the leadership rode forward, Fionwe at the front. They paused before the gate and Fionwe raised his arms and held them still. The gate groaned and then began to open, moving of its own volition to open fully wide. Aragorn and the others watched as it opened and then hurried down the steps to their horses once more. Beyond them, in the dusky light of the plain, an sea of orcs awaited them. They would be the eyes and ears of the approaching army and so they rode on ahead as the army poured through the gate.
She stood on the beach, staring out at sea, her grandmother beside her. Arwen watched the choppy waves, aware of the discord in the world around her. The Valar were in agreement that the Little Kingdom should be saved and they let their decision bleed into the essence of the earth. "The gods are moving against the Dark One," Galadriel said, turning to her granddaughter. "The Beast will not stand against their great wroth." Arwen nodded, turning to her grandmother, a weak smile on her face. "All that I love are riding against him. I fear that I may be bereaved before the end." "You love him." She nodded. "I have hope, Grandmother. I have hope that there can be a life again, that the good that once was can be preserved." "I hear children's laughter when I think about you," she replied, standing closer to her granddaughter. "I see the delight and smiles of children." "Then he will live?" Arwen asked, a tear trickling down her cheek. "I believe it will be so," Galadriel replied. She slipped her arm around Arwen's waist, holding her closer as they stared out to see. What she didn't tell her was the long silences and sadness that was so large a part of Aragorn's heart now. That she would have to find out on her own, if ever. She would never be able to tell Arwen herself.
Barad-dur... He stared into his palantir, watching as the army of the Powers made their way towards him. Sauron thought long and furiously, considering that there was little he could do to sway them. What he could do was outlast them. His fortress was impregnable, he himself had made sure and they would have to siege him and his terrible black darkness. Orcs stayed out of the sight of his cruel eyes, the sheer terror such looks gave to all who were foolish to meet his gaze was overwhelming. Despair, death and defeat came from his looks and he considered what he would do to even the odds between them. There was little that he could do and he paced in a rage of such deep fury that the aura of it leeched through the walls and seeped out into the surrounding environs. His orcs quailed, his men cried to the heavens and cast around for a way to flee. As ever in the courtyard, a figure stood waiting, impatient to do what he had been promised was his task alone. Tulkas stood, unseen but felt by those that shied away from the spot where he waited, ever ready to take down the demon behind the thick and shining walls of Barad-dur.
In the battle beyond the gate... They engaged the enemy on the plain before the tower, Gorgoroth's pitted and desiccated lands embroiled with war. Orcs, caught between Sauron and the forces of Fionwe fought like demons or ran away. They fled in great numbers toward the southeast, toward the Sea of Nurnen and the empty lands beyond. The mountains ringed them in and they had no place to go, that someone didn't pursue them with sword and bow. In the midst of the battle, along the front of their lines figures appeared with wrath and vigor. Orome and Olorin, others unnamed assisted in the fighting in the hottest contested places. The enemy fell back, terrified of the spectacle of facing unearthly powers over which they could not win. The tide pressed back, the army surged forward and soon the rocky mountains that framed Barad-dur could be seen. Aragorn fought on foot, abandoning his horse, his sword singing as he moved ever forward. Turgon was on his right and Gil-galad and Elrond on his left as they cut a path through to the tower beyond. Legolas and Gimli, ever side-by-side, moved forward with the Rohirrim while armies of Dwarves, their axes swinging in wide arcs made a broad clear path along the length of their line. Not since ages untold had Elf and Dwarf fought in such a way and today it would help them prevail. The wind blew against their backs, eagles soared overhead and everywhere the whispers of unseen beings were heard. Women and men, exhorting them forward with sighs and encouragement were ever whispering in their ears. They moved forward, following the banner of Fionwe, surging to within a league of the tower. The horns blew, trumpets sounded and the cries and shouts of great multitudes rent the air. The ground grew slippery with blood from the dead and the dying and corpses littered the field of battle. Screams seemed surreal, smells almost too powerful to withstand gripped the soldiers and horsemen engaged on the ground. It stretched out, becoming almost slow motion as they pushed forward nearly as one. Then it all stopped, the surging armies and the battlefield became quiet almost all at once. Aragorn stood in the mud, his sword in his hand, his blood rushing loudly in his ears. He was panting with effort and adrenaline, his eyes turned toward the leadership as they paused before the straight path that led to the door. No one seemed to breathe, no one seemed to move. The big organic mass of soldiery paused as if one single living thing. On the pathways ahead, standing as if statues were a number of figures that were larger than life. Aragorn stumbled forward, pausing beside Elrond, himself disheveled and silently watching. The forces at work, the unseen brethren that had accompanied them had begun to show themselves. Aragorn recognized Tulkas and struggled to know the others as one by one they materialized on the path leading to the doorway of the tower before them. It was huge and malevolent but the calmness and humor of the figures gathering gave him a strange sense that something good and final was going to happen before them. Elrond turned to him, his face filled with satisfaction and awe. "Tulkas, I recognize," Aragorn whispered, moving closer to Elrond as the tension began to rise. Overhead, the clouds gathered, black and sullen, gathering together as if expressing their own rage. The air crackled with electrical anticipation as the army of the free peoples watched with growing concern. "That one is Orome," Elrond whispered, nodding to another, brawny and wrathful. Beside him another appeared, Aule the Smith, bringing a murmur of appreciation and respect from Gimli nearby. Others appeared, Maiar spirits, all of them gathering around Tulkas himself. Clouds rolled in the heavens and the sound of thunder broke the stillness as rain began to pour from the sky. Ulmo weighed in, his wrath falling heavily, creating a mire for the enemy to tread. Fionwe stood watching, his eyes rising to the heavens as lightning split the sky. It cast fierce brittle rays of light among the morass and then darkness fell once again. The wind picked up as the rain fell harder and then the clouds rumbled as if alive. Nothing showed itself in the tower, the Beast fearing to come to the windows to watch the world conspire against him. Tulkas grew bright, his countenance almost blinding and then he moved forward slowly, his laughter clearly heard. The orcs that hadn't fled melted away before him, running with searing madness to the east. He reached the door and held out his hand, light emanating from his fingers striking it. It built up and then the door melted away, flowing into the dark soil around the steps. He ran inside, disappearing immediately and others followed as well. Lights burst forth, pouring out of the window like brilliant arms reaching for the sky. Up they went, a record of Tulkasprogress until they reached the top of the incredible fortress. The thunder rolled and the sky roiled, like a snake coiling for a terrible strike. They shrank on the ground, uncertain of what to expect but Fionwe merely stood calmly staring at the sky. Lightning crackled, illuminating the scene and then faded, leaving them in the dark once more. It was unnaturally dusky, unnaturally eerie but no one moved or pulled away. Spirits appeared, white and glowing, some floating in the air and some standing on the ground. They stared at the tower, as if concentrating their thoughts upon it, making their will known to those inside. The ground began to rumble as deep in the earth, oceans of water surged in tumultuous spasms. Ulmo roared beneath their feet and overhead Manwe made his anger felt. Aragorn stood transfixed, his heart in his throat as the outcome of the battle slipped from their hands. More and more Maiar, more shimmering figures appeared and then by his side, Olorin materialized. He smiled at Aragorn, then turned to watch as the ring of bright lights encircled Barad-dur. A wailing sound issued from the tower, a piercing shrieking sound of despair and then Tulkas appeared, his face fey and dangerous as he dragged Sauron from his own tower and flung him onto the ground. Sauron rose and turned, screaming with rage and Orome drew his sword and swung it with precision. It arched, its blade flashing and smote Sauron's hand, severing it from his arm in a single stroke. He shrieked, the sound beyond evil and all around him soldiers shrank back in fear. Fionwe stood his ground, his cloak billowing around him as he looked to the sky once again. The clouds opened and a bright light pierced the darkness, illuminating the two as they struggled together. Sauron grappled with Tulkas, unequal to his power and found himself face down with the Valar's foot on his neck. Orome reached down and picked up Sauron's hand, holding it and the Ring up high. Then the lightning broke the darkness and the spirits began to pulse, fading out one by one into nothingness. Tulkas gripped Sauron's neck and pulled him to his feet. His hideous face was contorted with pain and he cried out to his master, Melkor. This blasphemy shattered the darkness with lightning and great daggers of light pierced the sky. They struck the tower, biting blasts of fire and the building shuddered and began to crack apart. Bolt after bolt, shattering wails of thunder, they cowered before the spectacle of the tower's violent death. Implosions and explosions, flying rock and hissing flames, Barad-dur convulsed in its death throes. Tulkas turned Sauron, making him watch as all around them the debris of the tower fell like rain. Flames sputtered and hissed in the falling rain, the ground shivered with the wrath of Ulmo. Above them all, sailing down swiftly and silently, a white swan ship passed through the sky. Manwe stood on deck, his cape flying behind him and he pointed his staff at the shivering demon. A pure light, white as snow issued from it and struck Sauron, rendering him helpless before the onslaught. He fell to his knees but Tulkas dragged him up and then stepped backward to leave him alone. The lights of the heavens hit Sauron in force and he covered his eyes with his injured hands. He cried out as the lights engulfed his body and he pulsed and shimmered and then faded away. His wailing cry lingered and then faded as well as Sauron was consigned forever into the abyss. Tulkas turned, staring at the army, his laughter an incongruous sound in the shattering fury of elemental raging. Then he faded, as did the others, one-by-one until the lights of the Valar had gone from the field. Aragorn exhaled, unaware that he had held his breath and then turned to see Fionwe change as well. He glowed with a light as soft as the stars and then with a smile and nod, faded away. Gil-galad turned, looking around him as above in the sky, the clouds rolled away. The rain stopped falling and the breeze gentled as the day returned to the field of battle. Nowhere could they see the bodies of their foes. Nowhere could they see any enemy at all. Beyond them in rubble lay the ruins of Barad-dur. It was as if they had come to fight and no one came out to meet them and they stood stunned and amazed as they looked around. What was even more amazing was that in their midst, all that had been killed before were well and intact. No one was lost, no one was killed. The Valar had given back what Sauron had taken. As it became clear to Aragorn, an irrational thought crossed his mind and he scanned around him for Faramir. No matter where he wandered that day and the next, no matter how hard he looked, Faramir was not among the miracles performed. That night as Aragorn wandered the camps looking, the night star shown its silvery hues once more.
Six months later... He stood on the shores of the sundering sea, his crown and robes of kingly attire in place. A white horse stood waiting, his knights and lords of liege around him, waiting for the swan ship to come to the bay. Cirdan had gone for her, bringing Arwen at last and the world of Men and Dwarves was there to greet her. The kingdoms of Elves were in embryonic stages of rebuilding but Gondor and Minas Tirith was farther along. The world needed a spectacle, a reason to hope and so the wedding of two peoples was set to commence. A ship broke the mists, sailing with great stateliness as Arwen of Imladris at last came home. Part 24 Twenty-five years later... He stood on the embankment, staring out at the lake, sunlight like a field of diamonds sparkling upon its flat surface. He came here every late spring, a retreat from the burdens of his great office, seeking peace in the quiet greenery of this secluded place. Around him flowers were budding, leaves were broad and green and the sound of birds could be heard as they hunted prey along the shoreline. It was a rustic spot, his alone, a gift of his station that he approved of without reservation. Few things he had chosen in the course of his life, let alone family and children, though he had both now. Arwen he had wed and between them they begot children, a strapping son and three lovely young daughters. They were like unto her, he had seen, their willowy grace and dark eyes speaking to him of the Firstborn. His son was like unto himself, tall and quiet, with dark eyes and a sense of righteousness that made his father proud. Eldarion was the apple of his grandfatherseyes, Elrond often visiting from his redoubt in the mountains of the Bruinen Valley. His grandparents from Lorien doted on their grandchildren, having them into their Wood for stretches on end. He had family with him, friends from the Shire to Moria, comrades in the City and correspondence galore. But he was alone since her passing, that abrupt and dreadful day when Arwen Evenstar left his life. She had fallen from her horse, the meara stopping abruptly, the horse shying from a rabbit on the trail. She had landed hard and all his skill couldn't save her, Elrond himself arriving too late. She had been alive and vital, his friend and companion and then she was gone, leaving him behind to bear the grief alone. His children were shattered, coming from Lorien with their grandparents, where they had been spending the summer. They greeted their father in tears, himself mute with grief and together they had born her to the shores of the sea. She was taken to Aman, to lie in sacred soil, leaving behind a family bereft of her love. Aragorn had been shattered, unable to eat or sleep, tending to his children and the well-wishes of multitudes. His family from Valinor came to see them, spending time with Elrond and Celeborn as well. Then they had to leave and he was alone again. Éomer and Legolas had visited from the Mark and Gimli from Moria, where he was the King. Condolences arrived from the Shire and from elsewhere but they were poor consolation to the ones left behind. He stared at the lake, memories old and cherished coming into this mind as he absorbed the sun's warmth. "I have a vision." Faramir. He came to him now, as he always did. This was his moment alone with the memory. "I dream of a time when we can be together and the threat is not upon us." "What do you see?" he had asked, holding Faramir in his arms. "A summer's day by a lake some place. A summer's day and you and I together, walking along the shore by ourselves." He came here every year, to be alone with that memory and to restore his equilibrium for the rest of the year. He stepped down from the embankment, his boots crunching on the cinders that made a path along the lakeside shore. He remembered, as he walked, the words he had said in reply, swaying gently as they stood together. "Some day, if the world is not lost, perhaps we can find our way to a lake some place, a lake dappled by the sun." He had, coming here to a cabin that he had built himself, living simply and quietly in the solitude. Arwen had not asked him about it, nor had she come with him, allowing him this respite from the pressures of their life. She had understood him well, he knew, his complexities and his silences and had never intruded upon his need for this place. He paused and closed his eyes, the sun warm upon his face. Birds called across the lake and he heard fish jumping in the water. The breeze was gentle and cool, refreshing and comforting and he stood absorbing the beauty around him. Turning, he continued, coming around a copse of trees when he paused, frowning slightly. His hand instinctively went to his belt, reaching for the sword hilt that wasn't there. He had left it on his bed, walking out unarmed, secure in the privacy of his lakeshore retreat. Someone was standing by the water, a tall and well-made man, his back to Aragorn. He wore simple gray clothing, trousers and tunic, but his feet were bare and he was unarmed. For a moment, Aragorn felt anger and then curiosity. He hesitated and then spoke up. "Who are you? This is a private sanctuary." "Sanctuary," a soft voice spoke. He didn't turn, but stared out, silent and solid and strange. Aragorn considered his actions for a moment and then stepped forward, off the trail. He walked to the stranger and stopped behind him, pausing uncertainly. He was tall and slim, with shoulder-length blond hair, tinged by red and wavy. Aragorn swallowed, willing impossible thoughts away and put his hand on the stranger's shoulder. "Who are you?" he asked, turning the figure around. Warm eyes met his, a soft smile greeted him and Aragorn was rooted to the spot. He stared, unwilling to hope, and then with a shaking hand, touched the cheek of the stranger before him. "Faramir," he whispered with a sigh. The End
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