Chapter 2

A billowing wind disturbed the uncanny stillness of the air around the Citadel of Minas Tirith. The courtyard was void of life and it was only the fading flames of the White Tree that wavered beneath the dark wings that carried a darker master. The Dark King of Minas Morgul whipped the reigns of his terrible mount, commanding it with silent words to cast its burden upon the stone beneath. The limp forms hit the ground with a pitiful thud, causing the larger of two bound figures to stop squirming. The fell beast of Mordor perched upon the furthest stone of the mount. The Witch-King of Angmar slipped from the beast's back, falling upon the stone with a lightness unnatural for a man of such size and so armed. From beneath his crown of nails, he took in the spectacle of the wake of his master's wrath.

Not only were there burning shards of the cursed tree and broken chunks of ancient masonry strewn about, but viscera and corpses defiled by the Dark Lord's power also decorated the once porcelain white citadel. In a sick twist of irony, the alliance of men, elves, and dwarf against Sauron had seemingly ended in catastrophic failure. While none but the Dark Lord himself could tell the tale of this battle in all its glory, it was easy for the well-trained eye of the battle tested Nazgul to infer what happened to the various resisters. He saw the remains of a Dwarf splattered against and smearing down the wall of the citadel. An Elf, was torn in two burned pieces and was, or rather were, thrown away as if he were waste. A man, one of the Dunédain, lay pinned to the ground by the blade of Sauron's greatsword, an injustice he found quite fulfilling, as that man's people had torn apart his reborn nation in the north long ago. Another Elf, of Rivendell by the remains of his armor, seemed to have exploded from the inside. The sight was mesmerizing, but he dare not linger upon the carnage lest he loose the chance to gain the favor of Sauron. Taking up the limp forms in his armored hands, he drug them into the house of kings.

"I come bearing gifts, my master!" The Witch-King of Angmar tossed the bodies into the long hall of shining marble with unnatural strength. The larger of the bodies, clad in the arms of a Rohiric rider, returned to the waking world and uttered terrible cry at the sight of her companion. She clung to the limp body, far smaller than she, and sobbed as she stroked his blood-soaked hair. Ignoring the woman, the Nazgul stalked towards the white throne, occupied by a tall figure clothed in similar black robes.

"Zagathor," the Witch-King hissed, "how do you come to claim this throne?"

"Were you not informed?" The Nazgul of Numenor settled into the seat with a contemptible smile across his invisible face, "Sauron promised me my birthright if the city were captured. Minas Tirith, constructed by my father as a gift to his first-born, has come under the rein of its rightful lord."

Ignoring the insult to his pride, the Witch-King casually placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I know thine claim, Son of the Sword, but never forget who won this battle, lest ye lose thine city to him."

"Ever the poet, Arvedul, are you not?" Zagathor felt a poisonous glee in his soul as he felt his fellow's wrath at the mention of his name, "To answer your question, the Master has returned to Barad-Dur with his prize. He has called for a meeting of the Dark Council, but it is not set to commence for another fortnight. I doubt he would appreciate an unexpected visit."

"Then he will suffer my presence long enough for his prize to be delivered to him." Arvedul turned towards the doorway, taking the woman up by the hair. He ignored the sounds of her pain and her desperate attempt to reclaim the halfling's body as he dragged her away.

"Oh, Arvedul," called Zagathor from his seat, "I forgot to mention, the Master already has three men of strong will. He took one, a ranger claiming to be Isildur's heir. Our brothers found the others, the last surviving general of Rohan and the youngest son of our crazed friend, Denethor. I doubt this sniveling woman will replace any of those mighty men for the Master's plan."

"I would not make such a hasty conclusion if I were in thine place. Her will is that of steel and her strength is beyond expectation. I think that she will more than suffice."

The Witch-King of Angmar strode into the courtyard. He tossed the woman that had nearly succeeded in slaying him on to the ground. With a dramatic sweep of his robes, he mounted the fell beast that awaited him. He whipped its reigns and commanded it to take up the woman in its dark talons.

She will serve him well, very well indeed

Rivendell, 2 days after the Reclamation of the One Ring

Elrond, elven master of Rivendell, fell with exhaustion into his favorite chair, wiping his still red eyes with a shining linen. His heart, already burdened with the guilt of sending a doomed fellowship on a doomed quest, broke under the weight of the news he had just imparted. Bilbo Baggins, his friend and uncle of Frodo, had come to him, asking why all Rivendell, home of joyful and wise elves, had gone dark with gloom. Elrond suspected that the old Hobbit already had the entire situation figured out but he had come to his confidant in the vain hope that he might be wrong. Elrond had seen much sorrow in his long life, but Bilbo's sobs seemed to be the culmination off all his failings. And so, Elrond had wept with his friend.

Bilbo eventually found some comfort in a book and was joined by the librarian of the house. Needing solitude, Elrond found himself in his private study, far removed from the world beyond. He forced his sorrow to retreat, finding himself alone with his hopeless thoughts. His mind was consumed by futile plans of retreat and resistance. He had called for a meeting of the remaining lords of the free people, but, before he could approach them, he needed some sort of hope, some plan to save the last good of the world, but none came to him. Was he not the master of plans? Or was it Gandalf who had truly been the puppet master all these years? He glanced down at the ring upon his desk. It's shining sapphire stared into his soul, calling for him to bear it once more, just once more. No.

"I feel the trouble in your heart." The strong yet radiant voice startled Elrond. Standing in the passage to his chamber was Galadriel, queen of Lothlorian and highest of her people. Though her unmatched beauty was unchanged, there was a piece of her glory missing. She still shone with the light of the Eldar, but weariness had come upon her.

"Lady Galadriel," stammered Elrond as he tried to compose himself, "I did not expect you to arrive for another week."

"You know that I have my ways." A sad smile crossed her lips, "I felt the need to come as soon as I could. A matter of some urgency has arisen."

"Come," Elrond said as he gathered his hastily collected his notes. "Let us discuss this in the library with Glorfindel and the rest."

Before he could leave, however, he found himself in Galadriel's embrace.

"Mithrandir is dead."

At the sound of this news, Elrond felt his stomach drop. No word on the survivors of Minas Tirith had reached Rivendell, but the thought that Gandalf could have been amongst the dead had not crossed his darkest dreams. Once more on the cusp of tears, Elrond returned the embrace, drawing all of his strength to ask if his last hope remained.

"What of my sons?"

"Elledain is dead, and I know not of Elrohir."

Elrond nodded, fearing that more words would only lead to more heartbreak. They remained embraced, connected by the bonds of sorrow and loss. Neither had seen the other show such emotion before, as both usually remained stoic even the harshest of times. This moment, however, they joined at the darkest of hours, and wept.

Erebor, Five days after the Reclamation of the One Ring

Thorin III, now King under the Mountain, collapsed against an ornate pillar in the Hall of War. Two nights prior, his father, King Dain Ironfoot, had fallen in battle. He was an old dwarf by that time, but he deserved a more valiant death than that which was granted to him. It had been six days sense the forces of men and dwarves had been pushed from the city of Dale and they and the people of the city had fled into the halls of Erebor. There they had held the gate for six days and six nights, and there the two kings had fallen on the second. Brand II of Dale had been slain by an Easterling arrow, shot from afar, and Dain had gone to protect his body from their adversaries. There, he too fell, cut down by many strokes. Their bodies were taken by the Easterlings, cunning Khagnates of Rhun, who burned the kings as sacrifices to Sauron. Their golden armor shone that night like a thousand embers around the great pyre. Thorin recalled the sickly-sweet aroma of the spices and oils they had poured over the stacks of wood so as to please the senses of their master and God. The next night, news reached the Mountain that Sauron had defeated the armies of Gondor and Rohan. The sounds of feasting and celebration filled the streets of Dale, now occupied by the Easterlings, yet nothing could be heard from Erebor. That night, hope had died.

Bard II, son of Brand, approached Thorin, who had nearly fallen asleep upon the pillar.

"They have sent an envoy," his friend said, optimism tinging his weary voice, "He wishes to meet with us and discuss our term of surrender."

"What surrender?" Snapped Thorin, "There will be no surrender, not for Durin's Folk."

"Thorin, we can only stay here for so long. We will run out of food in two weeks' time if we stay. We will eventually run out of arrows and archers to protect the gate if we stay. This battle is lost."

"We will not lose this Mountain again."

"You might still be able to stay. Why would Sauron send a negotiator if he wanted us dead? I believe that he wants the industry of the dwarves and the trade of Dale to continue. He will demand a tariff, but you may still keep the Mountain."

Thorin mulled over the proposal. "Fine. I'll speak with this filth and bargain for our lives like a beggar."

"I doubt an attitude like that will win you any sympathies with this man."

The two were joined by a host of guards, who led them to the gate. Its shining green marble face cast a soft glow over the foreground, illuminating the host of a thousand warriors with a light that made them resemble an army of mantises. At their head were two men on horseback. One was clad in a scarlet robe and wore a regal suit of golden armor. The other wore a black tunic and a helm of dark steel yet of the Easterling design.

"Lords of Erebor and Dale," shouted the man in scarlet, "come forth so that we may come to terms!"

"Who are ya' to treat with us?" returned Thorin, "By what authority do you and this dark fellow answer to?"

"For me, no authority but my own. My companion answers to the Lord of Mordor. I am Khan Hith-Shagi of Rhudel, Lord of the Golden Horde and Sheykh of the Mount. This is Khamul, Last Khan of the Old Dynasty and Emissary of the Eye of Heaven. Your fathers and I had met in peace many times, and I wish to continue that relationship with their sons."

"Ya' should have thought of that before ya' killed them!"

"Their deaths were unfortunate and unintended. I offered them a chance at a peaceful resolution before any life was taken, but they would not accept. Do you see war in Dorwinnion? Their lord submitted to our terms and he still sits in his palace. Now, you have the same chance that your fathers' had to save your people and keep your lands. Will you not treat with us?"

Bard looked to Thorin who was fuming with rage at the passivity of the Easterling. Thorin turned to Bard, who wore a desperate countenance. The man's expression conveyed his intention clear as day. Bard would not let his people die, even if it cost their freedom. Thorin, begrudgingly, relented to his friend's desire.

"We will talk."