It's all getting a bit climactic now…

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Aragorn leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table before him. His jaw was tensed; hidden behind one hand that rested against his chin. The news that had just been delivered to him grieved him, angered him, and wounded him deeply. How could this have happened, again? Beside him, Gandalf put down his wine cup with a purposefully loud clunk, breaking the King from his reverie.

Aragorn looked up and around the table. The faces before him were some of those he held most dear; and at the moment all of them were blank in shock and grief. As soon as they had returned from scouting, Aragorn had sent all other leaders and commanders from him so he could speak privately with the four who had returned. Their faces had betrayed them; he knew something terrible had occurred and it hadn't taken him long to work out what it was.

Faramir, to his credit, had still given Aragorn the information he had asked for, and a messenger had been dispatched to those in command to relay the condition of the Black Gate and what it would mean in their upcoming campaign. Now that was said and done, a deep stillness had fallen over the table.

Gandalf sighed, the sound audible in the heavy silence. "I can construct only two answers to this riddle. Neither one is encouraging." He glanced around the group, his eyes coming to rest on Merry and Pippin. "Either Sam has been captured to be used against Frodo, who is still resisting Melkor…or he has been taken to be a blood sacrifice himself, and our dear friend Frodo is dead, unwilling to give in to Melkor who now needs a new captive."

If it were possible, the silence deepened. It lasted a few moments before Aragorn shook his head. "I do not believe it."

"I do not want to, Sire. But we must consider it a possibility."

Pippin shook his head, and exchanged a glance with Merry, who did the same. "He's not dead." He shrugged as many eyes turned to him. "Do not ask me how I know. But I feel Frodo's still alive. Sam too."

"I called to him," Merry said quietly, staring unseeingly at the table before him. "Shouted to him as the Nazgul swooped. He didn't respond; he didn't even look at me. It was like he was suddenly turned to stone, unaware of everything around him."

Eowyn nodded. "I saw that too. He threw himself behind cover, as we all were doing, then suddenly…he was still; oblivious to the fight still going on, the danger still present to him."

"Sam's mind is quick," said Faramir. "He may not loudly let on about that truth, we all know Samwise Gamgee's mind is sharper than most. I daresay he realised what the Nazgul's plan was, and what it could mean for Frodo."

"The shock of considering his dearest friend's death would certainly give Sam more than just pause." Aragorn sighed, his face softening. "We know how close Frodo and Sam were; and the lengths they endured during the Quest. I have no doubt that realising Frodo's possible fate would have made Sam forget the waking world and whatever danger was present. A moment would have been enough for a Nazgul."

Pippin sighed quietly. "A moment was all it took."

Aragorn turned his gaze to Gandalf. "What say you?"

Gandalf shrugged. "Neither answer I provided for Sam's capture is positive, but nor are they certainties. If I had to choose one solution to act upon, I would consider that one, at least, of our friends is still alive."

"Whatever the truth to the situation, nothing is changed," Eowyn stated softly. "We are still going to the Dark Tower. It does not matter if we go to rescue the living, or retrieve the dead. Our way forward is clear."

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The rising sun found the large encamped armies already busy, having awoken in the dim grey light before dawn. There was a quiet yet busy feel as the various fighters prepared themselves for the coming day. Some sat around newly kindled fires and had one last ale with their close friends; some lamented to others about those they left behind and fought to protect. Snatches of song and soft laughter drifted through the air.

Standing outsider her tent, armour on, Eowyn considered the dawn. It was strange to think she might never see another. Or that Faramir might not, or Eomer, or any number of those she cared for. But somehow the possibility did not frighten her like it once might have – this was their path, they could only walk it. If she was to die today, she died with the love of a good man in her heart, and the joy of being present to see the beginning of the world's healing from the last War.

Soft footsteps in her direction shook her from her reverie. She turned to see her brother making his way over to her. He too was already dressed in armour for the upcoming battle, his helmet under one arm. Eomer smiled as he came to stand beside her.

"Do not look so worried, dear sister. I have not come to talk you out of this."

Eowyn looked at her brother sceptically. "No?"

"No." Eomer's face became sombre. "No, I have not. I know you will not be turned from this path, no matter the dangers, and that you will stand to the last to fight for those you care for. But I cannot say I am altogether glad you are here."

"I could say the same for you you, brother of mine. I dearly wish none of us were here; but here we stand."

"At least this time I know you fight with me."

Eowyn smiled at the memory. "You would have never let me come with you to Pelennor willingly; you would have claimed the danger too great and the horror too much."

"And in that I was proven wrong," Eomer admitted, somewhat sheepishly. "There is no doubt among any of the Free Peoples that you are not a seasoned warrior, and a hero of our time."

Eowyn smiled, linking her arm through her brother's. "Strength be with you today, my brother."

"Strength be with you," said Eomer as he kissed her hair.

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The march took the combined army some hours to complete. More than once Merry and Pippin privately marvelled at Aragorn's ability to get so many armies together, let alone in such organisation. Neither hobbit wanted to guess at the number of warriors that had been bought together; or question how it had all been planned out so carefully.

They travelled with Eowyn and Faramir and the band of Rohirrim who had volunteered to escort them over enemy lines. Thirty brave men and their horses, willing to go deep into dangerous territory for a purpose they had only been told the vaguest details of. Their group was near the back of the long march, as they were not to be on the front lines; but wait for a perfect moment to slip though the back lines of Mordor and fight their way through to the Dark Tower.

Before them, snaking slowly over the landscape, was the great force. The standards of each army caught high in the breeze, their warriors following it proudly. Behind Gondor's White Tree came battalions of armoured infantry, some cavalry and the leather-clad Ranger bowmen. Rohan's proud horse heralded cavalry of impressive numbers, and fewer (thought no less important) infantry, their long spears beginning to catch the sun's increasing light. Dol Amroth's majestic swan swam over more armoured infantry.

The Elven archers walked together – each with their own beautifully crated bow – under the combined elegant flags of Lothlorien and Greenwood. They were all lightly armoured, singing softly as they marched. Behind them were the colours of Erebor, as a great host of Dwarves strode along, tapping their axes and heavy swords idly.

Upon arriving at their destination, the armies set about their orders quickly. Half of the Rohirrim horsemen and of half the Dwarves set out for the other side of the battle plain they were to fight on. Infantry of Gondor and Rohan set themselves in battalions and companies as their arches set themselves behind the front lines, and the Elves gracefully set out to cover the surrounding slag-hills in whatever way seemed best.

Faramir positioned the Rohirrim volunteers near the top of the high ground that was closest to the gate. They were sure to hang back so as not to attract attention or be deemed a threat, but from their vantage point they could see the battle-plain and the Black Gate itself; and keep track of the opposing army's numbers. In this way, they could evenly judge the best time for their own attack rather than taking a chance and riding in blind to the circumstances awaiting them.

There was no doubt that the army itself was visible to the watching orcs of Mordor. After seeing that all was ready; Aragorn rode forward with Gandalf and a representative of each army. Once they were in sight, but not within bow-range, of the gate, Aragorn called for Melkor to give himself up; or face the army that challenged him.

The only reply to his words was the brutal sound of a long orc-horn call.

Atop the wall the envoys could see orcs moving, but there was no verbal reply nor envoy sent out to them. As the initial orc-horn call was repeated behind the wall, the undamaged side of the Black Gate began to move. Slowly and laboriously, it swung open, revealing the host of orcs inside. Aragorn gave the orders to ride back to the centre of the field to await the charge command. From there they could watch the approaching army, and judge it for size, but not be in danger. As his gaze swept the oncoming mass, Aragorn felt his eye drawn to the front of Mordor's army lines.

Before the rabble of orcs came a black horse. Its coat was so dark it was like a piece of moving night; starless and unfathomable. Astride it was a tall figure, straight and imposing, his armour dark and stylised in spikes. One of the metal gauntlets held the bridle gently – there was no need to exercise control over a creature so obviously bound to the will of its Master. A long straight sword was in one hand of the rider, its brutal blade naked and gleaming with a pale and eerie light. The helmet was elongated, spiked at the top and reminiscent of some kind of crown that had been twisted by darkness.

The horse came closer to Aragorn's own, and bought with it a feeling of dread and unease. Next to him, Shadowfax reared his head, causing Gandalf to utter soft words of comfort to his equine friend. Aragorn's own horse stamped nervously.

The armoured rider halted a fair distance from the envoys of the Free Peoples. In the silence that followed, the hand sitting on the bridle reached up and removed the helmet, revealing the face beneath.

White-blond hair framed a thin, pale face, the high cheekbones so prominent they seemed to cut the very air around them. Slightly sunken cheeks warped what might have once been a handsome face into something cruel and heartless. But it was the eyes that were the most chilling. Eyes that glowed, burned with contempt and a lust for the suffering of others. They bore into Aragorn with unrelenting malice, who felt himself recoil internally.

There was no doubting who it was before him. The eyes that stared at him were those he'd seen before; had threatened his kingdom and all he stood for a year ago. Yet some part of Aragorn was unafraid, regarding the figure before him with simple consideration. This, then, was Sauron. Sauron in the form of the Witch King, High General of the Armies of Mordor, the same Sauron who had been responsible for so many deaths and had almost returned to strength.

There was something odd, something final, about coming face to face with the man – the monster – who had been such an unseen part of Aragorn's life. Here Sauron was, before him. Face to face with an ancient power, albeit one diminished, and Aragorn found himself feeling more and more unafraid. The shock of Sauron's grandiose revealing of his face had faded, and Aragorn considered the man before him with both pity and contempt.

Beside the King of Gondor, Gandalf's face had turned into a scowl. His eyes were burning too, with contempt for the Maiar who had betrayed his own and been lured into darkness. "You were defeated once. It will be so again."

Sauron's face sank into a sneer. "So sure, Olorin?" he called, his words soft but carrying the distance. "Your precious halflings are all but dead, and falling under the sway of my Master's words. You only delay the inevitable."

"I will not hear that," Aragorn called back, his own voice strong and unwavering. "We have challenged you. There will be no more words."

Sauron's sneer grew. "So ready to wet your sword with blood, Aragorn son of Arathorn? Who would have thought, the Heir of Isildur such a ruthless tyrant of a king?"

Aragorn dearly wished to charge forward and take Sauron's head off at the shoulders, but knew such actions were foolish. "I will kill him," he said softly to Gandalf, whose stare did not abate. "For all he has done, and all he would do."

"I know I cannot turn you from that decision. Be careful, Sire. He will not fight fairly," Gandalf replied, his hand on his own sword hilt. He glanced at the armies of Mordor and at the army behind them. "We are with you, Aragorn."

"Kill me? I would like to see you try…boy." Sauron's reply was low and harsh, the mocking tone gone. "Do not think me deaf to your petty words."

The King of Gondor did not reply. Sauron laughed, the sound harsh in the early-afternoon light. "You have no honour." He spat on the ground, in Aragorn's direction. "Just like the halflings. You should have hard them scream."

"Enough!" Spurring his horse forward, Aragorn charged, his blade unsheathed. Anduril gleamed in the pale sunlight as Sauron laughed callously and drove his own horse forward, meeting Aragorn in the centre of the field with a clash of steel as their swords collided.

As Aragorn stared momentarily into the eyes of his opponent, he was dimly aware of the sound of horns behind him – the order to charge was being sounded and the united army becoming a flurry of action, pushing forward to engage the enemy. Soon enough the melee closed in around them, the foot-soldiers of Gondor and Rohan engaging the orcs, but neither Aragorn or Sauron took heed as they traded blows on horse-back.

Theirs was a battle for them alone.

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