Author's note: I own nothing.

Chapter One. Into the Darkness


Within a white tower atop a white city sat a white wizard.

He was an odd combination of qualities. His robes were fine and brilliantly bright but he wore them casually. He had a face that could if schooled be stern, or even terrible, but as it was his mouth leaned ever to smiles and his voice to quiet mirth. His face was old, but his being was ageless. His eyes were friendly but distant, looking past the present, beyond the past. He seemed one foot in this world with the other beyond the sea, well into the west. And he seemed uncomfortable with this straddling of worlds, as though such this was a recent development and not an old habit. But there was nothing uncomfortable or unpracticed about the way he held his pipe in the corner of his jaw. Nothing off in the way he blew smoke rings through prior smoke rings.

Tonight he felt more the outsider then was his norm. A king had been crowned, a man who he'd known nearly all his short life was at last in his own. But in some odd way they were strangers once more, in some odd way they had not known each other all this time. One of them had died to get this far, and the other... he had been forced to watch that death. It lay between them now, unspoken but unquestionably present. Even the joy of his return had not completely eclipsed the pain of his passing. And the rebirth itself had left the wizard changed. He was not the grey any longer, he was, and yet was not, Gandalf. And this night in the midst of a kingdoms rejoicing he found himself troubled. The wind whispered, the stars murmured and he could almost see... something, something yet to come. Something that had not yet been but would be, might be, could be. Something terrible.

(A creeping shadow... midwinter chill seeping into summer, twisted, cruel... and yet... )

Slowly Gandalf opened his eyes, glancing about to see if anyone had noticed his silence. He was alone. He closed his eyes once more, bidding the vision to return. What had that been, a premonition or distant recollection of an unvoiced regret? He had all manner of tools at his disposal but not all behaved or came when he called. Those things he knew were not always clear. The chill brought to mine the nine black riders, twisted servants of Sauron who should have fallen with their master. Their doom was unimaginable to the wizard, what befell a mortal so bent from the mold after death? Even the fate of uncorrupted men remained unknown. It was their fate to pass beyond the circles of the world and none save He who had created all could say what befell them there.

But nothing save the nine felt the way his vision had felt. (So why then... that chill of midwinter, so unmistakably their aura..?) why was he thinking of them on a night such as this when nothing should bring them to mind? And why the feeling of encroaching dread, so much like a warning... (My mind has been on the King much of today, Aragorn's coronation festivities and Arwen's joy. Faramir's efforts to ease this transition back to a kingship while ever dotting upon the lady Eowyn...) With that thought the vision seemed somehow clearer, the dark aura more familiar. Could it be that one of the Nine survived? Or worse still... (It cannot be possible.)

A soft creak from the doorway pulled his attention back to the present. Legolas bent his head slightly, "Mithrandir, might I speak with you? I would not disturb you but.." He paused, looked around the room, "I have seen little of you at the feast. You have been all but a stranger since nightfall. What bids you keep such meager company as this? I would know what troubles you."

Gandalf smiled, "I am troubled?"

The archer prince nodded."You are troubled, and should you wish to speak of it I will listen."

The wizard sighed, put his pipe to the side. "Come, sit." He turned his eyes to the fire dancing on the logs, heard the other draw up a chair. "Many things have in their time troubled me, some linger still. But you need not be concerned. You should not have the time for such ravings when your comrades would rejoice with you." He paused, looked to Legolas. "But I imagine you feel the same way for me. Have I been a poor guest this night?"

The elf smiled, gave a soft shake of dismissal. "I did not mean that you were slighting us. It is only that you should be with us, the celebrating would do you good. As for myself..." He laughed. "I will not be missed I think! I was passing the night with Gimli but he is at odds with me. I will not have a drinking contest with him and he's become irate. The hobbits are dancing but I imagine I may look out of place among them. Aragorn has his heart and his hands full this night, even at his own celebration he must play the king. There are many, many grateful subjects he must receive well wishes from. The others are enjoying each other's company well enough." His smile dimmed. "Though Frodo is distant from us..."

Gandalf placed his hand on Legolas's shoulder, squeezed gently. "He has born a burden few have had to bear. He, I fear, may never be the same after it. Had there been another way..." That thought sat between them a moment, the fire cracked and hissed. "...but there was none. It does no good to regret such things in happy times."

Legolas nodded, looked to him. "You are still yet to tell me what troubles you. I remain concerned despite your fine words."

Gandalf took a breath to give some answer but the door behind them burst open abruptly. Gimli entered, unabashed by their surprised faces and tense shoulders.

"Why are you both in the shadows? A misdeed you do us, to consider our company so poor on a night such as this! Why," He made a gesture of raising his cup high. "The moon is bright, and the victory is as good on the mind as the ale is in the stomach! There's also dancing if you have a like for that nonsense. Knowing you Elf…"

Legolas laughed somewhat nervously. "I know your true aim and am not deceived. You only wish us to join the rest so we can have a drinking contest! I've refused for your own good Gimli, the last one didn't end favorably for you."

Gimli sputtered; "That was a fluke! I am due a rematch and you've no reason to be so cocky! Save that you fear to lose in a fair bout, is that it elf? Are you learning proper fear for a Dwarf?"

Legolas opened his mouth, closed it. Considered this all for a moment. "...Yes Gimli, that's it exactly. You are my friend, and I fear for you greatly. This time you might die in your sleep."

Gandalf laughed.


Aragorn ducked into an alcove and all but held his breath, watched tensely as another well to do couple passed by him without noting his hide away. He sagged with relief once they'd gone. (How can this many people fit into this building?) He sighed, leaned against the wall behind him. (Nay, be honest with yourself... How will I ever manage to manage all of them? There is a city more of them out there, and more further out besides. It will not be like the directing of forces, how can any mere man rule such a place as this?) It had started off well, so well! The actual crowning had been easily enough accomplished. Much of his time outside the preparation for that event had been well managed as well. He'd spoken to healers for the wounded, masons for the repairs and reinforcing, soldiers and their captains for hunting down and digging out the orks remaining. He had been fine, perfectly confident and fine, until tonight.

It had begun to sink home that, this time, he was not assisting a leader and then taking his leave. This time he was not leaving at all. He was the leader now, and who would he turn to, to seek assistance from? (It takes more than a sword to make a king, and more than bloodlines for blood fails. It takes more even than destiny and prophesy. Those have lead me here...) He took hold of the crown on his brow, felt the etchings in the precious metals as he removed its unfamiliar weight. This was not the hood of a ranger, the symbol of a wanderer... It rested in his hands like a sword balanced across his palms. (...but now it comes to me alone. I must rule them, i must be fair, and patient, and brave...) He sighed again, bit the inside of his cheek to cut off the sound. (Much braver than I feel this night.)

And that meant returning to his party, Valar have mercy on him.

He placed the crown back onto his head, hoping it had centered itself properly. Setting the goal that he would find his wife within the hour he stepped out from his hiding spot and took the hallway back towards the courtyard. It was an uphill battle. Many, many well wishes accepted/names poorly remembered/short conversations politely ended later he emerged into the open air and the noise of the crowd.

Braziers and torches danced in the night breeze casting their warm glow over the active festivities. Faramir he caught a glimpse of passing by the banquet table with a flock of well dressed and important looking individuals. Aragorn smiled, amused despite himself that the steward was stuck in the same position as the cities new king. Merry and Pippen were also easy to spot given both hobbits were standing atop one of the tables. The people around them were laughing and clapping in time, it sounded like the two were in the middle of a crowd pleasing shire song. Faintly over the many conversations he could hear something like;

"-better than any ever seen!
Not small or thin or leafy green-
that pumpkin was a shock to see
caught in the branches of her tree-oooh!

The farmer tried to get it down!
out of the branches tall and sprawlin-
only knocked down yellow leaves
and caterpillars fat and crawlin- oooh!

The pumpkin in the farmer's tree-
was such a sight for all to see-
that folks still go to get their fill..!
For perfect pumpkins grow there still!"

Samwise Gangee was piling high a plate with baked goods and stewed sweet meats. He'd made his way to Eowyn's place at the table and the three were keeping friendly company. Of Frodo he saw no sign, but odds were against Samwise getting all that food for his own sake. Aragorn decided in this crowd he might have a better chance at spotting Arwen by holding still. His best odds would be to climb the white tree but he would refrain. Odds were even better of her finding him first. He took a seat away from the heart of the party and watched the others celebrate. A content smile graced his lips. To think their adventures were over and had ended with a night such as this.

(We will each go our own ways soon, far too soon. It will be long before I can travel again. Frodo and Samwise, Pippen, Merry, they will turn back to the shire as Bilbo did before them. And Gimli speaks of little else than the caves he saw at the Hornburg. Many elves have left us for the west, and the lands beyond it... how long will Legolas remain?) He shut his eyes against that thought, willing it to vanish with all that tied to it. His Arwen had almost sailed herself and still may wish she had one day. (Gandalf will not remain beside me overlong, wizards are made to walk. But then so are rangers.) A chuckle, despite himself. (There is the rub again, I have much I must grow accustomed to... wait, something is?)

A chill breeze blew through Minas Tirith; the moon covered her face behind ghostly gray clouds. The night drew closer in, gutting the flames in the braziers and setting the cities glow beneath a shroud. All cheer vanished in the wake of something old and foul, and familiar. (Something is wrong...) Aragorn felt a slow rising dread, steady and swift as a winter thaw. Instincts sharp from years in the wilds set his hairs on end. (Something of Mordor is here.) Rising from his seat surprisingly unnoticed for a new king he strode to the end of the overlook and looked down upon the fields.

In the darkness of the moons absence the fields of Pelennor became an ocean of shadows, broken here and there only by the remnants of Mordor's abandoned siege weapons. They stretched out, seemingly endless, grasses undulating like waves in the abrupt chilled wind. Aragorn held himself still and let his gaze dart back and forth across the all but impenetrable blackness. He couldn't be sure in this light and from this distance but something... something looked to be moving against the wind.
A sound arose outside the city, a wail outside of the world. Weak, inaudible to ears that had not heard it many times and clearly but unmistakable; the faded cry of the Nazgul. Aragorn's hands clenched, his expression turned disbelieving. (It cannot be...) In the darkness of the field a great beast emerged

The monster landed and towered above the grass, balancing high on its haunches. A fell beast of Mordor. He recognized it instantly. Massive wings arched and folded, a serpentine head with dead black eyes arched skyward and for a moment, a bizarre jarring moment, Aragorn imagined the beast was looking back at him.

Some of the cloud cover passed away from the moon, shedding pale distorted light on the creature and its placement. In that spot it remained, tail thrashing restlessly as though waiting.

(...What is it waiting for?) He watched the fell beast settle itself on the ground. (What does this mean?)

Spurred by dread he hurried from the festivities, never noticing that none seemed to see him pass. He ran through the city streets, using alleys and jumping fences despite the thickness of his kingly garb. He did not notice how the descending gates were unmanned, he did not think to call for aid, he did not think to order a guard and send them out. He did not think even to call a warning. He was a king, but he had been a ranger far longer. He passed through the front gate lit brightly with torches and un-patrolled for the celebrations with not a soul aware he'd gone.