A/N: Ok firstly I am sooooo sorry it has taken this long to get this one up and ready to go, but to be fair, it took a lot of work, and I have been very busy. I hope it's length makes up for it. This is a really important chapter in terms of the scale of the story and where it's going to go. But hey, you really don't want to sit around reading this, and it's a miracle if you're reading it at all. So you can stop reading this now and start reading the story. Now. Right now. Really, I'm done. Completely. I have nothing more to say. At all. Really.
Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah, you know the drill, I'm not Tolkien, I don't own his works, stuff like that.
Darkness Within the Light
No place in Middle Earth was guarded more securely than the White City of Minas Tirith.
There was one way in, one way out. No secret passages or gates that could be discovered, no crack or crevice that could be infiltrated. The guards would not be bribed, no matter the price. The main gate was manned by no less than thirty Gondorian sentries, all perfectly disciplined and regularly rotated. Every individual was searched going both in and out along with any cargo. Identities were checked and rechecked, random house inspections were carried out frequently. As well as the sentries guarding the gate, there were a further set of watchers on the floor above, watching every coming and going. Every detail of the day was delivered to the next man on guard duty, so that two seemingly separate occurrences wouldn't be missed. The only usual comings and goings in the city were traders from Gondorian provinces, and any merchants carrying anything slightly suspicious was sent away immediately. Anything more than slightly suspicious and they were arrested. Needless to say the White City was free of the black market.
Beggars were not admitted into the city. Caution is more important than mercy, was the statement all guards used when one tried to enter. They gave them enough food and clothing to get them to a nearby province, but they were never allowed inside the city walls.
Gondor was prepared even for the worst, even if they didn't fully believe in it any more. Gondorian mages were stationed at the gates to detect any sign of contact with the dark powers. What little knowledge the elves had passed to the men of the west of the powers in the world had been treasured and guarded jealously, passed down through the noble families of the Numenorians even after the fall of their great kingdom. They were by no means highly powerful, and most of the powers they did have specialized in healing, but they did have enough talent to detect the evils and magics of Sauron. The mages were cleverly disguised. Dressed just like any other sentry, they silently observed, using their extra senses to fish out any signs of Power. And this, Coros knew well, was his biggest obstacle.
He watched the city, standing alone on the fields of Pelennor, invisible to the eyes of mortals, mage or otherwise. He watched the guard change, watched them go about their daily routine, memorizing their system. No security setup was perfect, Coros knew. As he gazed across the grassy plains towards the towering structure, he formulated his method of entry, and, even more importantly, exit.
He turned away, satisfied. He would have to wait, of course. A day or so perhaps, before another large trading group came through.
Coros passed down the small hill leading up to the Fields, not quite walking, not quite gliding, more slithering among the long grasses. He reached a small area of bushland just east from the fields. From here he would sense any newcomers nearing the city.
He huddled himself under a low tree, immersing himself in a dreamlike state, not sleeping, but drifting into a deep meditation, lost in his own consciousness.
Wrapped in a twilight element, asleep to the world but with wide awake senses, the mind of the insightful Nazgul drifted. In these moments, these silent hours of solitude where nothing disturbed, his conscience was troubled to no end by the whisperings in his own head. He was plagued with confused mutterings and blurry visions, disconnected images and distant sounds. Memories, he wondered? Or the ghost of a long-dead mind?
As much as they unsettled him however, they also intrigued him. It was almost as though they called to him, trying to take him somewhere he could not go. The ghost of his past perhaps? That was what Coros believed. He had no memories of his past before the ring, and yet he still remembered things. That was the way he always thought about it, on the few occasions upon which he had the time. There was a fine line to it. He remembered facts, but that was all. He remembered where he had lived, who his parents had been, the extent of his kingdom and the number of lords in his council. But it was all blank. He thought of them as he would just another set of facts, like that he knew there was a dying piece of grass near his feet. He thought of the facts with no emotion, no opinion. He didn't have the capacity to do so. The world to him was black and white in principle, but with shades of grey wavering in the background, that confused him but didn't hold his attention long enough to gain a proper interest or curiosity in them. These times of shadows and darkness were the best and worse parts of the Nazgul's existence. Unbearable yet beautiful, and yet just as he thought that, the idea was whisked away like a leaf blown away in a gust of wind.
Coros shook his head. Such things were beyond him. He shouldn't allow himself to have these thoughts now at any rate. Thinking like that was tiresome, and he needed completely alert senses for the next few days. He wouldn't think, he told himself. He would just listen, and let it all brush over him. Bowing his head, Coros let go of the barriers of his mind and succumbed to the voices once more.
Coros opened his eyes. It was late afternoon, he saw, probably one day since he had been inspecting the city. What had woken him was a group of consciousnesses nearby approaching the city. He looked around to inspect the group. Oh they were merchants alright, and lots of them. This group, Coros thought, would be ideal for what he had in mind. He moved quickly towards them still unseen to men, his eyes scanning over each man, weighing them up and choosing his target. He spotted a middle aged man with a slightly uneven beard, walking with a hunch, carrying a sack of goods. Coros almost laughed. The man was shifty enough on his own.
Moving so he was almost directly behind the man, he started muttering morgul spells under his breath. The man tensed for a moment, but otherwise made no outward sign that he had been taken over. Coros continued his muttering, casting spell after spell on the man.
He had already cast easily enough enchantments in moments to have him do what was necessary, but still Coros kept going. It was essential that he would be such a beacon of magic that the mage would recognise it instantly. As they neared the gates however, Coros ceased. He could not use magic this near to the mage for fear of being spotted.
The gates creaked open and as they entered they were surrounded by soldiers. The traders seemed to know the procedure, and obediently stepped into the lines, allowing the sentries to check their bags. Then Coros's merchant stepped forward.
Coros saw the mage's eyes widen and he knew it had worked.
"SEIZE HIM!" the mage shrieked, pointing at the man dramatically.
No less than fifteen sentries converged on one man, spear butts beating down upon him. All was chaos. The traders and merchants started screaming and broke their line. The remaining soldiers struggled to hold back the oncoming panicking crowd as the others subdued their target. The merchant put up a fight, hitting out at the men and screaming intelligible words. Then the metal flat of a sword hit him directly on the forehead and he slumped forward, concussed and unconscious.
The mage stood over him, staring into the man. He had never seen so much power in his life. The man must be either possessed or simply extremely powerful. And yet why had he not used his power? The mage was confused, but he decided to save it for later. They needed to lock this man up and drug him. He turned to the guards.
"This one's for the cells. All you need to know is that he is very dangerous. I intend to deliver a report to the king himself. Now take him away."
The men obeyed, as they were trained to do. The mage's eyes swept the street one last time. There were no more magical signs. He turned away to finish the inspection of the group. Gondorian soldiers never walked out on a job half done.
Coros had moved the moment the mage's eyes had locked onto the man. He was already clear of the guards when they converged, pulling off a spectacular roll between two sentries. He had bargained on the mage's attention being distracted long enough for him to make it through the ring of guards unseen. After that it was just a matter of leaving the area and moving deeper into the city. He had slipped into an empty house and found some dark robes in order to walk like a citizen in the city. Now that he was inside, he was much safer, and the guards would be less suspicious. Still, he moved with purpose but casually, blending into the normal crowds. He wasn't the only one wearing a hood, as many scholars and even some peasants dressed that way. Night was falling, he observed. After dark would be the best moment to move, he believed, when the general public was in bed and not wandering. The libraries would be clear. The libraries were his destination.
He didn't know his way around the city, having never been inside before, but there was more than one way to navigate an unfamiliar area. The scholars would be heading to libraries frequently, so Coros simply mingled with them and followed their crowd.
It was well after dark when Coros first entered the libraries of Minas Tirith.
The halls were huge. Shelves upon shelves stuffed to the brim with scrolls and writings about the history of Middle Earth and the people of Numenor.
Would the scrolls he needed be easily accessible? Somehow Coros doubted it. The histories of the Last Alliance had to be locked up. So it was just a matter of hoodwinking the Keeper. Coros approached the old man behind the desk.
"I wish to view several classified writings," he said quietly, softening his voice, making it agreeable to the human ear.
"On which subject?" asked the man absently, not looking up.
"The Reign and Fall of Sauron," replied Coros, a slight hiss entering his voice.
Now the man looked up, jerking sharply.
"And what authority may I ask do you have to view these documents?" he wheezed.
Coros was grateful for the ever present rule of quiet in places of study, or this man may have drawn a lot of attention to him.
The Nazgul rolled a coin across the table, which the old scholar caught up. It was a Numenorian coin, probably one of the last of its type. Coros could see the eyes of the man light up. Scholarly pay was most likely not high compared to the military, most likely one of the reasons soldiers and philosophers in Gondor didn't get on very well. Coros knew the thought process of the learned one. Once he took the bribe, there would be no going back. He could never tell the guards he had taken it for fear of being locked up, or even executed. And yet he feared to rebuff this stranger. There was something unnatural about him. But did that mean that he was up to no good?
Coros rolled another coin onto the table, perfectly calm.
The Keeper made his decision.
"Follow me," he muttered.
Gandalf leaned on his staff, standing in the middle of the bridge leading to the city of Osgiliath. Their journey had been long, but at last they had reached the Gondorian capital. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered why he and his companions had been put in Middle Earth in the shape of old, frail mortals. It was a good disguise, he conceded, but it took a toll on your body after a day of hiking. He expected he would find some sort of spell to counter these irritating side effects, but right now the most important thing was tracking down both the ring and the Enemy himself.
Now he stared ahead towards the sea of white stone that was Ozgiliath. From his vantage position he could see the towers and domes that poked out above the walls, glimmering faintly in the hot summer sun that beat down upon the Plains of Pelenor. Gandalf could just glimpse in the distance the great Dome of Ozgiliath, with the banner of the White Tree waving lightly in the small breeze.
Saruman stepped up beside him, his dark eyes scanning the towers and domes of the great white river city. He frowned.
"This is not what I was lead to expect."
Gandalf nodded, agreeing. The city certainly lacked the grandeur they had heard tell of, nor, or so it appeared from the lack of noise, the bulging population they had presumed would reside in the capital of the greatest city of Men in Middle Earth.
The five Istari stood now in a line, gazing toward the white structures that stretched for miles.
"Well," said Radagast, breaking the silence, "shall we enter?"
The five crossed the bridge and ventured towards the city gate. The watches on the tower looked at them strangely, some laying their hands lightly on their weapons, but the Istari walked forward purposefully, unperturbed by the suspicious eyes of the guards.
Then the gates were opening and a dozen men at arms stepped out, blocking the path of the travellers.
"Halt," said one. "State your purpose in Ozgiliath."
The Istari glanced at each other and simultaneously made their decision.
Saruman stepped forward, arms out wide.
"Fear not, noble Men of Gondor. We mean no harm to you. We are messengers from the West, in the Lands Beyond the Sea. We wish an audience with your King, and to reside here perhaps for a few days. Grant us entry or fetch another to do so if you have not the authority, but do so swiftly, for the darkness moves constantly and we wish not to be hindered in our mission."
The Maia spoke with courtesy and without aggression, but power seemed to reverberate with every word. The guards stood still, struck with awe. The speaker nodded jerkily and stumbled back through the gate. After several minutes he re-emerged, followed by a man with greying hair and a large build, his forearms rippling with muscles that spoke of years of wielding a broadsword. He had a kindly face and greyish-blue eyes, and he walked in long strides and with a steady gait.
"Peace to you, messengers of the West," he began. "My name is Lord Urmandil, and I am the Keeper of Ozgiliath. My King is not in Ozgiliath, but resides in the White City of Minas Tirith for the summer, as had been the custom of Gondor in recent years. I gladly offer you any hospitality you desire, but if you seek immediate audience with His Majesty then I suggest you go west to Minas Tirith, which is barely an hour's ride from here."
Saruman bowed. "Thankyou Lord Urmandil, but we will continue to Minas Tirith. Our work is what is most important. Perhaps we will one day venture again this way again, but until then, farewell."
Urmandil smiled.
"My lords, I confess originally I doubted your story, but the power and grace of your words let me see the truth. Peace be upon you and may your journey be fruitful."
Saruman bowed low.
"Thankyou again. May the blessings of the Valar go with you."
With that, the five Istari turned and headed West to continue their quest.
Akorahil huddled himself against a nearby tree, watching from a distance the gates of Ozgiliath. He had been following the five Maia messengers since Eriador, keeping obscure enough to remain undetected, but close enough to pick up any important conversation. He had discovered little more than their destination, and had resolved not to follow them into Ozgiliath, knowing the King would not be there.
Now he watched the five Maia turn away and head back over the bridge. Most likely they were heading towards Minas Tirith. They passed by his hiding place without a glance. Akorahil quickly assessed the situation. Entering the White City would be the most difficult part, and a task he would certainly have to be invisible to mortals for. He shrugged off his dark cloak, along with his long sword and various daggers. He would retrieve these items later if necessary, but that was not important. Only the objective was important. Locking his eyes onto his quarry, he moved out of the shade of the tangled trees into open ground, his frame invisible to any observer.
Coros sat at the polished oak desk, his hands that only he could see running over the old yellow parchment. He sat in silence, contemplating what he had just read. The candles around him flickered, casting light over his hunched form. In front of him lay the writings of Isildur regarding the siege of Barad-dur and the records of the events that followed. It was strange reading it here, now history, a thousand years after being there himself. Seeing things from the point of view of his enemies was not something Coros was used to doing, and it unsettled him slightly. But he was wandering. The important things were the facts. Isildur had kept the Ring; that much was clear. He had been seduced by it also, Coros could tell by his writing. He would never have given it up willingly, not for the whole world. So he had taken it with him then? To Arnor? And that, Coros realised, was the question. The records distinctly indicated that when the war was over, he had left Gondor, and then that was it. No confirmation as to whether or not he arrived at his fathers kingdom, no date of death, nothing. A complete dead end. Coros was stumped. Isildur had a few months ago become the most important and famed leader of the West, and then he apparently suddenly disappeared of the face of the earth. There wasn't even a mention of his name after that. Why? For all Coros's excellent deductive skills, he couldn't fathom it. It was like there was a page missing, and yet Coros was sure that wasn't the case. The Gondorians kept all their records in this library. He had tried looking under different subjects, different names, and yet every time, not a trace.
Coros roused himself. He had been here too long. He had to move. He stood and made for the doorway leading back to the main antechamber of the libraries, stopping only to scoop up the various scrolls he had been reading. He needed to gather his thoughts, work out what was miss–
Coros stopped dead. He sensed something. Another powerful presence within his immediate area. Coros slipped instinctively into nearest shadow, concealing himself from general view. His eyes scanned the rows of shelves carefully, and then with a jolt, he found his target.
Who was staring straight back at him.
It was Akorahil.
Coros knew to keep calm. There could be a hundred possibilities explaining his fellow's presence. If something was seriously wrong, Coros's senses would've already told him so. The most important thing was to not draw attention to themselves.
After a few moments, Akorahil motioned towards an isle. The slightest of movements. Coros slowly but casually followed the former deeper into the dark forest of writings. Akorahil stopped and placed himself at a nearby table. Coros sat opposite.
They stared at each other, both assessing the situation. Then Coros spoke.
"Greetings, Akorahil. What brings you into the mouth of the beast?"
Akorahil held his gaze.
"They're here," he whispered.
Coros understood immediately.
"The Maia?" he queried. "All of them?"
"They seek council with the King," was the reply. "I intended to listen in on their conversation, but security on the top level puts the gate to shame. I found no possible way up. Instead I chose to wait here until I sensed their return. Doubtless they will wish to enter the libraries for writings on Isildur."
"For that, they are too late," stated Coros. "I have the writings with me now, having spent many hours studying them myself."
Coros saw the other look up slightly.
"Then we may yet repair this situation, if your dealings in the city are done," he said quickly. "Coros, they intend to enter Mordor next. We cannot allow that. Our master is weak and we have no defence. We must find a way to divert their course, distract them from their current past, or all the work we have done in these months will be lost."
Coros nodded slowly, taking it all in. It was indeed, grievous news. If the Maia entered Mordor it would all be over. Their shroud of mystery would be gone, and their master in grave peril. Sauron, in his current frail form, would stand no chance against five powerful Maia in their prime. A few Nazgul in their prime however, given the right circumstances, might…
"I may have an answer to our situation," Coros began, "however it may require many of us to put our current missions on hold. As you suggested, we require a distraction. This I believe, must be ourselves. One of us will lead the five away from Mordor, perhaps north or south or west. We must show ourselves, so that we become the imminent threat and the first priority. We draw them then to a fighting ground of our choice, and with the help of our fellows, we may be able to subdue them."
Beneath his hood, Coros knew Akorahil was smiling.
"Once again Coros, you show your shrewdness. Your plan is perfect. I think the best option is to lead them north, towards our friends Khamul and Dakian. With their help, we may be able to defeat them."
Coros inclined his head. "It is settled then. Now all that is left is to spring the trap. You must find some way of attracting the attention of the five without being captured. The more disturbance, the better. Steal a horse and then exit the city. If luck holds, they will swallow the bait and follow you. As soon as they're gone, I will exit the city quietly, and send messages north to Khamul, Dakian, and perhaps Ji Indur alerting them of the situation. I will follow in due course."
Akorahil nodded. "It shall be done. I will strike at dusk tonight. Enough time to plan and prepare. And Coros, do not allow anyone to be aware of your presence. If you intend to keep the documents you have to find what you are looking for, then everyone must believe that I, and I alone was here."
"Of course," replied Coros, "Now go, fulfil the will of Sauron."
Akorahil stood, nodded slightly and departed.
Coros remained seated, considering the exchange. Akorahil was right, the most important thing was to divert the Maia from Mordor at all costs. He ruefully realised that this applied to him also; the hunt for the ring would have to wait. He glanced down at the documents poking out of the pocket of his robes. It would be best, he decided, to keep them. The path ahead might be shadowed for the present, but those ancient writings might hold crucial pieces of information that would connect the dots when he knew more. He expected that records like these were rarely dug up; it might be years before anyone realised they were gone. Even more importantly, by taking them he would keep them from any of the Istari that escaped their grasp and returned to this city in their own search for the lost weapon of his master. Confident in his decision, Coros rose and headed towards the exit. He guessed it would be better to be far away when Akorahil made his move. Slipping quietly through the doorway, Coros stepped out into the midday sunlight and began to mingle with the crowds…
The Istari walked through the streets of Minas Tirith, deep in muttered discussion.
"We need to head straight to Mordor," insisted Radagast. "My senses tell me all the evils that are besieging the Free Peoples is coming from there."
"What evidence do you have support that?" Saruman argued, glancing around to make sure he was not being overheard. "The evil is coming from the Easterlings and Southrons, we have to go to them first. Maybe their wrath is being channelled by Sauron, but we can't go charging into Mordor without being absolutely sure!"
"And how long might that be?" hissed Gandalf. "The longer we wait, the greater the danger becomes, we cannot afford to be indescis–
The five were almost knocked flat by a horse pelting at full speed along the cobbled pathway. Gandalf scrambled to his feet and looked up.
A nightmarish vision stood before him, a towering robed figure on a black horse, a jagged blade naked in his hand. The figure spoke, and its voice was like the sound of metal grinding against metal.
"There is more to the World than you understand, messengers of the West. This world is older than you, and holds dark and evil secrets that you could not comprehend. There is more than one evil power in Middle Earth. Did you think you could just enter a land you do not know of and take control? You have no idea what you have walked into, feeble Maiar! You will come to regret the day you entered this land…"
As Gandalf stared up at the horrific creature, he felt something he had never felt before in his long years: fear. How it ailed him. It gripped him like icy daggers, piercing his stomach, ripping his insides apart. He felt it close in on his mind, a shroud of darkness falling over his eyes…
And then suddenly it was gone. Gandalf felt weak. His legs shook and he slumped against a section of white wall that surrounded him. After a few moments he looked around, seeing his companions in a similar state. Saruman was first to his feet.
"I think," he began shakily, "we have a new destination. One by one the others slowly nodded. The five made their way back up the hill, intending to tell the king of the encounter, and their decision to follow the strange creature. Gandalf slowly began to pull his thoughts together. They would have to pick up the tracks of the beast and continue until they caught up with it. Whatever the thing was, it had to be a threat. And yet, Gandalf couldn't help but feel that there was more to this. That they had overlooked some crucial detail. But then, that's what the figure had been saying, hadn't it? Yes, this was the right thing to do. Many years later, Gandalf would come to regret this decision.
Within several minutes, the five had told their story to the King, who agreed that the first priority was to follow this demon, and that all else, including the visit to the libraries to gain information about the whereabouts of the ring, would have to wait. Within the hour, the Istari had left the city.
Half an hour later, Coros quietly slipped outside the walls himself during another merchant arrival, having drugged the meal of the mage. He stole a horse from a neighbouring Gondorian province, and set out after the Maiar.
Suddenly, the hunters had become the hunted.
A/N: Hope you all liked it. I will try to get some more going soon, but I can't make too many promises, you know how life is eh? Thanks, and please review!