Disclaimer: None of the original characters belong to me.  They were created by J.R.R. Tolkien, and brought to life by New Line Productions, Inc., and probably a bunch of other people also. Author's note:  This is a story I began about a year ago.  It remains unfinished, and since my obsession with Lord of the Rings has faded considerably, it would take some major encouragement for me to continue past the several chapters already written.  I'm not sure that it exactly fits the original trilogy, but…fanfiction seems to take special liberties anyway.  :o) Preface

In the days of old it has been said that Saruman the wise, great wizard of Middle Earth, turned suddenly to the evil and torment of Sauron.  Overthrown with the downfall of the One ring, he was killed, so they say, by his own client, Grima Wormtongue.  But we know otherwise.  Saruman's power may have been spent, but his great spirit yet lingered… and this is the tale of which I now speak.

There was yet another existence drifting without shape or form.  Sauron's existence had not ended with the quenching of his power, and as fate would have it, the two evils met.  They merged in spirit, and became a powerful One.  Sauron and Saruman drifted from host to unwilling host, waiting for the day when they would finally avenge for the loss of their ring.

Chapter 1

In the dark of night, King Aragorn rode to the wood at the edge of the field, accompanied by Arwen, beside him.  The trees seemed content in their roots, the hills on their perches, and the vast tent of stars in their heavens; all the earth was at rest this tranquil night.

The two royalties gazed in silence at the shelters of their slumbering people.  In the moonlight, their silhouettes portrayed the contrast between them.  The light of the moon highlighted Queen Arwen's narrow face, and her eyes gleamed in elvish beauty.  Her slender shape and long legs sat daintily upon a glistening, pure white mare.

Arwen cocked her head slightly, and her gaze was focused on the sky.  Her dark hair flowed from its roots fluidly and was lost in the darkness of her shadow.  Upon her head lay a simple silver ring which was embedded with a clear gem, setting off her gown and proclaiming to all her status as queen, though her manner proved more subtle to this statement.  Queen Arwen had earned friendship and respect from the hearts of her people.

To Arwen's right, King Aragorn's face was relaxed and his eyes were unfocused, gazing off into the night.  His posture was Kingly, yet his deep eyes were friendly, and his heart was true.  Aragorn's head donned the crown of old; made of silver and pearl were the bird-like wings that sprouted from the sides.  Embedded in the circlet were seven stones, and at the summit lay a single bright gem.  This shown like a torch, reflecting the light of the moon and contrasting his dark hair, which had been, incidentally, tamed since his crowning.  The horse beneath King Aragorn was a chestnut shade and bore his weight easily.

At long last, Arwen broke the silence of the night, speaking softly, "All of Middle Earth is at rest.  All is contented; none lay in pain.  All is still, all is well.  We may now sleep, and through dreams share the peace that beholds us tonight."

Aragorn's response did not come for a moment.  Finally, he nodded and said quietly, "Yes.  All is well.  We may go."  And they turned and rode easily home.

Aragorn tossed and turned in his bedchambers.  Indeed, his sleep brought him no peace.  Were his dreams memories of his treacherous past, or a foreshadowing of that which was still yet to come?

In his dream, the Dark Lord lived, and was on his way swiftly to Minas Tirith unseen, to the complete surprise of all.  A tremendous, evil roar issued from the midst of the civilians.  Each of the women looked about frantically as the men donned their mail.  They were ready to fight even the invisible enemy.  Trumpets sounded from on high, and men formed themselves into ranks.  They marched to the border, but to no avail: The Evil had entered the city of Minas Tirith.

Aragorn awoke with a yell.  Arwen was also awake now, and maidservants came rushing to his aid.  He had, against his knowledge, been yelling orders to his terrified men, and thrashing in battle against an unseen enemy.

He apologized and sent his servants back to their quarters, but remained for the remainder of the night in an uneasy state of unrest.  He paced the floor of his room, memorizing the patterns of the brick-lain floor.  His had been a dream like no other, and a complete contradiction to his present experiences and knowledge of his city's situation.  Even in his past battles with the goblins and orcs, he had no memory of a hidden enemy entering the city at such ease.

So, then, was this dream a warning?  An advance notice of returning evil?  What aid could this knowledge, if it was such, bring to the King?  Apparently, for this enemy, defense was not a worthwhile precaution.  So what could he do?

Bright rays of dawn presently came bursting through the window, momentarily diverting his train of thought.  The cock let ring his jubilant song of a new morning.  Aragorn sighed and seated himself on a padded chair.  He sank into the lush seat and racked his brain for a plan of action, anything to bar the future from unfolding according to his terrible vision.

The only plausible act that entered the depths of his mind was to leave.  But to flee?  Run from the beautiful land that his people had enhanced by the sweat of their brows?  Leave this city that they had defended through thick and thin, war and peace, all because of a whimsical dream, a stray thought of the king?  To abandon it, if the situation was as he saw, to inevitable destruction by the enemy—would even his most faithful have confidence in his—his dream, his vision?  Would his own wife trust his sanity? 

Oh, the people would follow.  They would go blindly every step of the way, trusting his decision fully.  Aragorn supposed they would, thinking of their reverence and admiration of their King, and above all, remembering their blind enthusiasm for every word that slipped through his lips.  But if the events of his nightmare never came to pass, and they waited in vain for a non-existent enemy, what then?  No, in his heart, he knew they could not leave.

A school bell rang, and its sound was met by the voices of children laughing and yelling, and chattering gaily in the courtyard below until they were ushered into the schoolhouse.  Yet even still, the muffled shrieks of energetic youngsters reached the King's ears.  Minutes later, another small boy came puffing down the path and burst through the wooden doors of the old building with a terrified haste.

At this familiar sight, a smile played upon King Aragorn's lips, the first radiant second in the chamber all night.  But soon the sentiment broke, and he dressed and went down to breakfast in a most troubled mood.

All day, Arwen sensed a change in her husband, and all day she prodded him to tell her of his worries.  But he refused, knowing that, though she loved and trusted him, even the most understanding life; man, elf, or otherwise in Middle Earth would surely take Aragorn's dream plainly for what it was: a dream.

However, Aragorn saw it as more.  He saw deeper into his own vision, as he and no other had experienced it; he and no other could fully understand the meaning behind it.  No, he must carry and interpret this burden, which was given to him and him alone, on his own.

As the days slid by, Aragorn's heart became heavy.  Without knowledge as to whence the attack would begin, his thoughts became radical; anything not aiding his frenzy became a waste of time.  Perhaps, he reasoned, the hour he spent at the banquet table would otherwise be the hour a brilliant and incomparable plan would set in.  Still in his mind he saw villainous orcs when his thoughts turned to battle, which currently was more often than not.

The outside world knew naught of his trouble; the inside world of his mind knew nothing beside.  He was growing desperate; a week he had known of the future's possibilities, and his plan was yet nonexistent.

That very morn, riders were dispersed throughout the city, and, by the King's order, they woke any still in slumber, interrupted the schoolchildren, and halted the workers.  Double shifts were worked at the gates; defense recruits were at an all-time high.  The city that had been peaceful only days before had changed almost overnight, to the bewilderment of the population.  Minas Tirith was ready for war.

Yet Aragorn was still ill at ease.  He had not let it be known how he had retrieved the tidings of war, only that he was certain.  And he was certain.  Turned over in his mind day in and day out, it was clear to him that his peaceful mind could not create such a falsehood of great destruction.

But days passed, and the guards grew weary, and commerce was dropping swiftly with the ill mood.  The townspeople could not go on like this; the morale was sinking fast.  What they needed was something to raise their spirits, but the future looked dark indeed.