A/N: Hey folks! First story in a while! This is also my first attempt at writing an LoTR fic. I've deliberately stayed away from Tolkien until now as the complexity and richness of his work was too daunting. Decided to bite the bullet now! All errors in Middle-Earth history/geography etc are entirely my own.

Note this fic is based more on the books than the movies, though there are elements of both within it, a bit of mix and match if you will. This fic takes place about 25 years after the War of the Ring and is a sort of AU as I have lifted some people/events from the Appendices and adapted others. It will also feature some references to events in the Silmarillion. Main characters will be the children of those in LotR, though most of them will also feature at some point as well.

The Shadow Begins

It lay within a shadowed valley, seeming to grow out of the very backbone of the Ephel Duath, its many towers and steep walls as dark as the earth that surrounded it. Once it had been a vale of light and beauty, the city a shining bastion of illumination for the weary hearts and souls of travellers. More recently it had been a beacon of horror, sending waves of terror through anyone unfortunate enough to glimpse it within its corrupt valley of death. The luminous glow it once had was now extinguished, but despite the city's emptiness, the sense of watchfulness had not abated. Though the foul stream that once had led there was now dry, the bridge shattered and the fields surrounded it reduced to ashes, evil still lurked there.

Minas Morgul, once Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Moon, was abandoned, bereft of all foul things that had made it their home in the years of darkness. Men of Gondor had no wish to resettle here; the land too tainted for anyone to thrive save the lowliest beasts, nor would they even if the land were fertile, for still the memory of this evil place lingered and none would dare set foot here. Even the decrees of King Elessar, swift and relentless in the early years of his reign in ordering the immediate destruction of the city had not resulted in much success. The outer wall had been demolished quickly, but when the workers of Gondor started to fall prey to a malign sickness that quickly rooted itself in their very bones, they soon abandoned the endeavour, trusting to the valley's reputation to deter outside infiltrators.

A mistake they soon shall regret.

The shadowy figure surveyed the valley, a glimmer of hope in his eye, his upper lip curling. The legends then were true. Nothing could live here long, nothing could bear it. Good then that he was not counted among the living.

The fall of Sauron over one score years ago had not killed off the darkness in Middle-Earth. Indeed, his removal had caused much of it to thrive, free now to spread and multiply in a way once impossible with his powerful presence in the world. The shadowy figure smiled. He had not felt this powerful in many an age. Finally, he was free from the eternal imprisonment to which he had been confined. First Morgoth, then Sauron had prevented him from gaining back the power he had been denied. But now both of them were gone beyond the circles of the world. Slowly he had been building his strength and now at last he could come out into the open once more to fulfil the task he had been set countless years before.

Doom lay upon this task as it had from the very beginning. He had suffered under that doom, as had his people, but this ancient grievance could not be laid aside so easily. It must be accomplished. Family honour demanded it. He could never have rested until it was complete.

The figure turned his head as another shadowy form appeared at his shoulder. An Orc. Foul as the rest of its kin, yet more so, for this Orc was also not of the living, and if possible, more detestable than any Man would ever think possible of an Orc. The shadowy figure turned away slightly, disgusted by the other's presence, yet knew it was necessary. Sometimes we must do the unthinkable to achieve the impossible.

"We take the city then?" the Orc grunted, leering at the sight before him.

"Indeed."

The Orc spat on the ground. "It's a Man-city. With an Elvish name. It's not our way."

"It is a ready-made fortress," the shadowy figure replied, eyes fixed on the city. "Evil dwelt here many centuries and made it strong. Elves and Men will not dare tread here. It suits our purpose precisely."

The Orc looked unimpressed. "And look what happened to them. Morgoth's little pet was destroyed by half-grown Men. How strong could they have been?"

The shadowy figure smiled. "This shall be our city," he said, ignoring his companion. "This shall be the place that shadow will flourish and grow strong once more. Realms shall fall. Mountains shall fall. Even the evil that dwelt there before could not have stood in our way."

The Orc grinned an ugly leering grin, revealing a maw of fangs and stench of decay on his breath. He turned and issued a bellowing cry to the darkness behind him, a cry that echoed across the detestable valley making the very stones tremble.

Slowly, out of the darkness, shapes appeared. Orcs. Shadowed Orcs, neither living nor dead. They glowed with a luminosity that was not natural, a light not wholesome but cold and glowering. A part of the shadow they seemed, like lights in the night sky, only these lights promised naught but death and despair. Like a colony of ants they fell upon the city in droves, more and more emerging from the blackness to occupy this once fair city with evil once more.

The shadowy figure stood and watched from his perch upon the ridge at the mouth of the valley as the unearthly gleam of Minas Morgul was slowly restored. Cold and deathly was the light, more malevolent, more sinister than it had looked at its height under Sauron the Abhorrent.

His long wait was now finally over. His long-forgotten oath would be fulfilled.

Screams rang out through the smoke of the burning village. Black smoke and orange flame was all that was left of the world around them. They were dying.

The Rider of Rohan had sped to the village once he had spied the plume of black on the horizon on his patrols of the East Emnet, his horse close to collapsing under him. The searing heat as he approached had made his heart quail in terror, yet he continued on, hoping against hope he could do some good here. Yet what could he do? One man against such an inferno?

Already he could see blackened corpses amongst the houses and his stomach turned in revulsion. A flash of colour met his eyes, and to his relief he could see a fleeing mass of people emerging from the flames, alive by some wondrous chance. His heart was lifted. The very next moment however his courage almost failed him altogether when he saw what it was they were truly running from.

He had never seen Orcs before. He had been but a child during Théoden's reign, safely ensconced in the caverns at Helm's Deep for the wars that had plagued his homeland. They had all but disappeared from the land after the battle at Pelennor. However even he knew what Orcs were supposed to look like; he had listened to the tales of his elders. Something was different about these Orcs. Were they supposed to be that tall? Why did they glow like that? What evil was this?

He watched helplessly as the lead Orc began to cut down those villagers that lagged behind, a gleam in his eyes that could stop the heart of a lesser man. But a courage had risen in him that he had not known he had possessed. One man alone he may be, but he was a Rider of the Mark, a servant of King Éomer who had decreed long ago that no man, woman or child of the Riddermark would ever be subject to evil again. If die he would, then he would fall in the service of his king, and of the greater good.

He drew his sword and charged his horse forwards. "For Rohan!"

The Orcs did not draw back as he approached. They did not falter, not even seem to acknowledge his presence. Not until he was upon them did the lead Orc turn to face him. A face loomed out of the darkness, a skull-like face with eyes that were as black as night, but home to a swirling abyss of flame and shadow. A cold dread seized him then. The thing that faced him was no Orc. It was a demon of shadow, a fell creature from beyond the grave.

His sword shone with fire as he raised it above his head. He brought it down full force upon the head of the Orc before him. Instead of slicing through flesh and bone, his sword seemed to pass through the air, slowed only by a slight resistance, as though through water. He almost dropped his weapon in shock as instead of the thick black blood he had heard tell of, black shadow seemed to issue from the wound, snaking from the Orc like smoke. The Orc fell, and more of the shadow seeped from it, joining the blackness of the surrounding air. The corpse seemed to shrivel up until it was nothing more than black mark on the earth.

What devilry is this?

The lead Orc, its sword stained with red, now approached him. It spoke in a strange language and laughed, and the surrounding Orcs joined in until he was surrounded by a chorus of baying horrible monsters.

There could be no escape from this.

The Scout from Gondor worried when his counterpart from Rohan did not meet him at the prescribed hour. It was most irregular. Since Elessar and Éomer's reaffirmation of the bonds of old between the kingdoms it had been customary for riders of both lands to patrol the borders with a continuous rotation. Where the two lands converged at the small yet significant Mering stream it was customary for the riders to meet their counterparts and report any observations. The young rider from Rohan whose rotation always coincided with his own had never missed a meeting during his tenure.

The Scout waited at the spot beside the stream all day, straining his eyes across the plains of Rohan for a glimpse of the eager lad who always had such vigour and passion, despite the mundanity of his posting. The much older Scout was satisfied with his lot, patrolling the province of Anórien and meeting the rider from the Eastfold every month. It was not a taxing position; the very thing for one whose bones were beginning to creak, and whose shoulder had never quite recovered from the sack of Osgiliath.

As night began to fall his misgivings intensified. What should he do? Should he attempt to find out what had happened? He doubted whether he should enter into Rohan; the laws on respecting sovereignty were very clear. Yet it did not seem right to him to continue on.

He climbed onto his horse and began to ride away. The next two riders should arrive within the next few days, and he could not stray from his own schedule. If anything had gone ill with the boy the next horseman would discover it, and unlike the Scout would have the authority to act.

His horse stopped in its tracks, and unbidden turned back to the Mering Stream as though some unknown force was compelling it. The Scout hesitated.

The old soldier was awake inside him once more. Something was wrong here and every instinct was telling him to go and find out what. A fire he had not known since his youth in Lord Boromir's platoon surged forth from within.

Without another thought he spurred his horse onwards and splashed through the waters of the stream into the realm of Rohan.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please leave some feedback if you did, or some constructive criticism.

Next chapter we meet two of our main characters: Eldarion, son of Elessar, and Elboron, son of Faramir. Since we know next to nothing about them from Tolkien, I have written them almost as OCs and completely invented their characters and appearance. I have also altered their birth dates so that they are of similar ages in this fic.

Hope you choose to read on! :)