I'm glad you all liked my little tidbit with Elrond and Celebrían. It was enjoyable to write something that was more loving than lustful, though there was plenty of that! :) Now, I hope you are all ready for some shit to hit the fan, because I've got the fan on high and some turds ready to throw. (Ew…gross…)

Now, I hope to hear some from you guys this time, because I'm setting up for some major crap, here!

Chapter 36 – The Best Laid Plans

James sat on the pinnacle of the city, his legs thrown over the edge as he watched the orc army approaching. Already the people were bunkering down in their houses, some from the lower levels moving to the higher levels to take refuge in abandoned buildings. His cheek was sewn and bandaged by Draca, who had nearly wept at the sight of the wound. It had been deeper than he expected, and ached something fierce. But pain was not something that James had ever succumbed to, and it was not something that would take him now.

There was movement beside him and he turned his head to see Lucius sit down beside him. His hair was pulled back and tied out of his face, and his clothes were clean and presentable. He looked Lordly and noble, just as he always had.

"That is a large army," Lucius said conversationally, watching the writhing, dark mass approach.

"Orcs aren't particularly smart, most of the time. There's a lot of them, but they will do the most damage with their war machines. Orcs are advanced in the art of war," James returned, shifting his wings with nervous energy.

"Draca has decided to help in the Houses of Healing for this fight as well," Lucius said.

"There's no telling how many men will return to their homes in Rohan because Draca and Celebrían were in there healing. Orion lives, though he will not be joining the Rohirrim if they march to Gondor's aid," James said.

"You love her," Lucius said. James closed his eyes, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. His wing brushed against Lucius' arm, and the other wizard shivered slightly. He had always been a little frightened and disgusted by James. If James had seen it, he made no reaction.

"If I could die a thousand deaths to save her from what she had to endure, I would do so. If I had to endure torture every day for the rest of my life to keep her safe I would. My heart is no longer my own. It belongs to her. I will use every ounce of magic that Eru gave me to protect her and make her happy," James said, looking up at Lucius. His slitted, golden eyes were wet with tears. "Please do not take her from me. Do not make her choose between you and me. She would choose you and I would let her, but I would not live long without her. Dragons...we…dragons have soul mates, Mr. Malfoy. We may dally among lovers for a time, but when we find our soul mates we are complete. She completes me," James said.

Cool grey eyes regarded him for several long moments.

"I could never ask her to choose between us. It would break her and I would never forgive myself. There was a time when I would have fought to keep her from marrying someone not of pure blood. I don't care anymore. She became as good as a daughter to me and I love her very much. I will not say anything against your union, on one condition," Lucius said, noting the way James perked up.

"Anything, Mr. Malfoy. I would do anything," James whispered fiercely.

"Do not breed with her," Lucius said. James' eyes widened. "Do not saddle her with half-human children. Do not ruin her body with brats that could set her aflame," Lucius said, his voice on the edge of begging. James looked out over the city, his tears finally spilling, much to Lucius' surprise.

"That is a promise I can keep, Mr. Malfoy," James whispered shakily. "And have no problem doing so."

"And why is that?" Lucius asked, curious as to the quick agreement.

"It's the same reason Merlin never had blood heirs. The same reason there were never children fathered by Dumbledore, or Voldemort," James said. "Magic is all about balance. There are just as many Light affiliated wizards in the world as there are Dark. Many are shaded in grey. Some are born with low amounts of natural magic, with talents in other fields. And every so often, there are wizards born with exceedingly high amounts of natural magic. This is an imbalance, and so magic has to take something away. More often than not, nature takes away their ability to produce magically powerful children. I am one of the ones whose magic is far too high,"

"What are you saying?" Lucius asked. James took a shaking breath and let out a bitter laugh.

"I'm sterile."

Boromir was at the gates when they were opened, and the injured, limping horse dragged his brother inside the gates. With a cry Boromir was on him, using a knife to cut the broken stirrups that had wrapped around his brother's foot and kept him connected with the horse. A broken arrow pierced the armor at his shoulder, and his face was deathly pale.

"Brother!" Boromir called. Faramir was deathly still as Boromir knelt over him. On the other side of him another figure knelt, and he saw Talun checking him over.

"Unbuckle his armor, Boromir, so I can get this arrow out!" she said, going into healer mode. Some of the other soldiers watched as the two unbuckled the sides of his chest plate, carefully lifting it over the broken shaft. His tunic underneath was stained with blood. Talun reached forward, putting her fingers at his throat to feel for a pulse. For several long moments she could feel nothing, but she nearly cried aloud when she felt the soft shuddering pulse beneath her fingers.

"Faramir…"

Boromir looked up to see Denethor standing aside, his face chalky white and his eyes filled with tears.

"Do you see what your pride has wrought? Are you satisfied?" Boromir cried angrily.

Denethor looked at the still, broken body of his son, and felt nothing but hot, angry shame. In the still face he saw Finduilas, her beauty dimmed in death. Faramir's birth had weakened her, and she had never recovered her strength. Slowly, as a beautiful flower, she had wilted into nothingness over the years, until the cold arms of death took her from him. In Faramir's eyes he'd seen her, the bright-eyed remnant of the Eldar blood from the sea. The rabid curiosity and high spirit had been hers. And he had blamed the boy for Finduilas' death. He had blamed the boy, who had done nothing but be brought into this world. And now, as he looked at the blood-stained tunic of his youngest son, he realized the awful truth that he had been denying himself. Faramir had never been to blame.

It was himself. He had killed Finduilas by wanting another child. He'd wanted another child to share with his beautiful wife, and his own selfish desire had taken her. And now, he'd wanted to preserve the victory of his eldest son, and in pride he'd sent away the youngest.

"My son…my boy…I have failed you…" Denethor said.

Talun carefully reached forward, grasping the arrow close to his shoulder. She applied firm but steady pressure, easing the arrow out of the wound. It was not deep, and the jagged tip was pulled from his flesh. She made a face at the hooked tip, but smelled it to see if it was poisoned. She could smell none of the sharp tang of orc venom, and threw the arrow tip aside. She always had her healers kit at her side, and quickly withdrew a wad of bandage to stop the bleeding in his shoulder.

"He needs to be moved. I can only do so much out here in the open. Take me to your houses of healing and I will tend to him," Talun said sharply. Two men came up with a litter to carry him, and he was loaded with care.

"I do not want my son tended to by an orc," Denethor said sharply. Boromir stood, his hands stained with Faramir's blood from the removal of the armor.

"Don't you dare! Don't you pretend to care for him after everything you've put him through! All our lives he has just wanted your approval, and all he's gotten is scorn and ridicule. You cannot suddenly care about who heals him. Talun is a talented healer among her people. It was her that saved my life when I lay in an infirmary bed, pierced with venom-soaked arrows. I trusted her with my own life, and I trust her with Faramir's," Boromir snapped. Talun only spared them a glance, before following the men that carried Faramir's body. "You are steward of Gondor. We are on the eve of war! Gather up your wits and lead your people like a man! Not a sniveling shadow!"

Denethor inhaled sharply, standing straight and looking his son in the eyes.

"Your impertinence could cost you your head on any other day. But today you are right. I…I must be the beacon of Minas Tirith, ere the people lose their faith. Make sure there are men at the gate, and focus on the first three levels. No one has ever made it further than that. Boromir….son…no…Captain Boromir, you are the second in command in Gondor. They've taken the Rammas Echor and are coming up the Pelennor. Osgliath is taken, beyond our use now," Denethor said. Boromir's lips tightened at the mention of Osgiliath, but he said nothing as his father moved into a military mindset.

Denethor looked around at the faces in the crowd, and happened to see young Pippin standing among the soldiers, having seen Faramir carried in.

"Pippin, lad! Follow me. It has been long indeed since I put on my battle armor. I shall need some assistance!" Denethor barked. Pippin stood straight and saluted. Denethor turned to the others. "To your posts!"

Boromir turned to them with a fierce look, his eyes blazing.

"Let's send these foul creatures back to the abyss!"

"Time is against us. Make ready!" Théoden called. The order was sent through the ranks of the Rohirrim. He could see the army mounting up, packing up their things. The tents were left behind for the women and children to deal with. Many were making their final farewells to their loved ones. Elrond and Celebrían stood near the King, Elrond beside his horse as Celebrían buried her face into the side of her husband's neck, trying to memorize the smell of him.

"I saw something last night, while we slept," Elrond said. Celebrían pulled back a little, looking up into his eyes. His emotional upheaval from their reunion had passed, and how in his face she could see the Elrond she had loved and pledged her heart and body to. Steady as the mountain and strong as a great tree, he was, with many thousands of years of experience and strength. "This battle is not the end. There is another march the armies will make to decide the fate of Arda. Whatever happens, I want you to stay in Edoras. If the battle goes ill, flee to the Grey Havens and go back to Valinor. You can stop in Rivendell and gather the ellyth and elflings there," he said.

"Elflings?" Celebrían asked. Elrond smiled.

"There was a great increase in births after the power of the Three was cut from Sauron's taint. I believe such an occurrence happened in Lothlórien as well," he laughed. Celebrían returned his smile. Then she lifted her hands and placed them on both sides of his face.

"Return to me. I crossed back over the Sundering Seas. And while, for a time, it was to help as I could, the deciding factor was you. I would be able to see you again," she said. He folded her in his arms tightly.

"I thought I would have to sail to see you again. And I wasn't ready to go. I can make no promises to my return, but I can assure you that I will fight with all the glory of the Eldar there," he said, his face fierce.

"My Lord,"

They turned to see Glorfindel standing, resplendent in elven armor and armed with his favorite blade. In his hands he carried a battle horn, and Elrond's heart raced to see it. This was the horn he'd carried when he was the Herald of Gil-Galad, and it had not seen battle since the Last Alliance on the slopes of Orodruin. Glorfindel held out the horn, and Elrond reached forward, taking it by the fresh leather strap. The horn was of bone, etched with many elvish characters and sealed with a protective coating. The etchings had been stained and showed up well against the white of the bone. It was tipped in silver and gold, wrought together in intricate designs.

"Belegrhas, the Great Horn," Elrond said. "It will blow in battle once more." The horn seemed warm in his hands as he attached it to his belt. Celebrían then gave him a traditional salute of farewell from the Lady of a land, touching her hand to her heart and then to his.

"My heart goes with thee," she said softly. "Be safe." Then she moved to each of the elven warriors, giving them this salute. Those who had known the Lady well shed tears, which she wiped away before moving on. When the last of them had been saluted, the elves mounted their horses, awaiting the sign from Théoden King.

He sat astride Snowmane, his favored white horse, looking as a warrior of old as the sun caught in his hair, lighting it up in golden fire. The braid of unicorn hair that Draca had left with him glowed almost white in the light of the sun, glittering with latent magic.

Lost in the writhing army, a lady and a hobbit sat astride the same horse.

"Are you ready, Merry? It will all be over, soon," Éowyn said.

"Prepare to move out!" Came the echoing voice of Éomer.

"I am ready to help in any way I can, My Lady," Merry said. "I know I am no great knight of Rohan. I'm a Hobbit. I only want to help my friends. The ones that I've made recently," he said, looking across to where an Uruk of Isengard sat on one of the massive battle wolves. "And even the ones I've had for a long time. Frodo, Sam, and Pippin. More than anything, I want to see them again," Merry said. In front of Merry, carefully strapped to the horse's saddle, a furry little head popped up.

"Arf! Rrr…ark! Ark!" Haverl gave his two copper pieces to the conversation, causing Merry to laugh. Haverl's little piece of leather had been replaced by a larger piece, carefully tied around his body like a piece of armor. The fingers had been cut off of a broken gauntlet, and used to make leg armor for him. And a shallow tin cup had been fastened to his head like a helm. He was battle ready.

"Well said, little friend. Let no on underestimate us by the size of our bodies, but may we be judged by the size of our hearts!" he said.

"Make haste! We ride through the night!" They heard Théoden call. Then the sounds of horns went up. The sweet, high sound of the horns of the Rohirrim, joined with the alto tones of the Redling horns, which were complimented by the deeper sound of the Rhûnic horns. Then there was a sound like they had never heard before, and they turned their heads to see Elrond blowing the Great Horn of his elves.

"To battle!" Éowyn said, nearly vibrating with excitement. Merry adjusted his helmet so he could see, and made sure that Haverl was situated tightly on the saddle. He was more solemn as they began to move.

"To battle."

"The orders are given. Let no one stand in thy way," Came the deep, sharp voice of Murazor. The other wraiths nodded, and the Witch-King dismounted his steed.

As the others moved like shadows, the captain of the Nazgûl stayed where he was. He could see all of Minas Tirith from his vantage point, and the army of orcs that had already began their siege on the wall. He was not much interested in what the snaga did. His orders were of higher importance.

Him and his brethren were to get the dragon wizard at any cost. He had a grand idea of how to do it, but he had to hope for a little luck for his bartering chip to appear. If that did not happen, he had several contingency plans, but he was definitely hoping that this particular one worked out. Not only would he get to torment a little wizardess for a bit, but he would also get to use that to torment a little dragon hatchling. His Master wanted to break the dragon's spirit a bit before he was taken to the Black Tower. He could have gone straight after the little bastard, but it would be easier to subdue him if there were a bartering chip to use. The boy was much more powerful than the girl.

"Stay here," he ordered the winged beast, and received an affirmative rumble. He took to the air lowly, gliding like a shadow towards the city. Stealth, while it was his to command, had never been his style. He wanted his prey to know he was there. He wanted them to feel the fear of his presence. But this was going to require all the stealth he could muster.

It wasn't so difficult to traverse the shadows of the circles of Minas Tirith. On the sixth circle lay the Houses of Healing, bustling with energy now that the orcs had finally made their move. They had yet to be brought an injury, but it was only a matter of time. He watched patiently as they moved inside. Morgoth's luck seemed to be on his side this night, as his target stepped out of the Houses for a moment.

"I only want to see what's going on. I'll be right back," she called to someone inside. She walked out onto the courtyard, her staff thumping against the grass as she approached the place where the sixth circle could overlook the rest of the city, and down into the Pelennor.

Draca had never been particularly battle hungry. Sure, she had enjoyed the occasional spar, but this whole thing of killing each other mindlessly was not her forte. Her specialty was healing, though it pained her to see such suffering. The battle of the Hornburg had been so very messy. So many lives lost. And yet, because of her skill, there had been many saved that would not have made it if she and Celebrían had not intervened.

She reached up and touched the stone set into the tip of her staff. Her focus stone was very warm tonight, the jade making her fingers tingle. Her fingers ran over the stone and then down over the cool metal of the nesting blades that draped across her staff.

She wasn't sure what caused it, but a sudden chill made her tremble violently. She got the sudden feeling of being watched, and turned sharply. Her heart nearly stopped beating in her chest. There in the courtyard, stood one of the Nine wraiths. He was the mightiest of them, in fact, and she knew him from her studies with Saruman, before he had succumbed to the power of the Palantír.

"Murazor, the Witch-King," she said, her voice frozen at a whisper.

"Ithilrhas the Green, healer of the order of Wizards," Murazor returned. Draca reached up and flipped the catch on her blades, tapping the staff against the ground and letting the three nesting blades separate. She had no sword with her, and so this was her only defense. "What a fair staff dost thou carry. A delicate thing, something fitting for a woman," he said, and drew his sword. It glittered and flashed as though made of ice and reflecting fire, the blade sharp and etched with many foul letters.

"What do you want with me, slave of Sauron?" she asked, with more confidence than she felt.

"A bit of a game…a paltry amount of thy time, really," he said, and began to approach her. She had nowhere to go. Murazor raised his blade suddenly, his footsteps quickening. Draca took a deep breath. As the Witch-King brought down his sword she shoved up her staff, catching the blade neatly between the blades of her staff. Sparks flew from the meeting of enchanted metal, bothering her eyes and lighting up the shrouded hood of the Nazgûl. He pulled back the blade and struck again. She blocked again, and again the metal arced with power.

They began a deadly dance, and Draca was not sure what was going on. His movements seemed rather slow to her, easily blocked if she concentrated hard enough. She did manage to buffer him back a few times with powerful strokes of her magic, but it was tiring her quickly-

Merlin. That was the point. He wasn't trying to defeat her in a duel, he was wearing out her physical stamina and her magic. He knew she wasn't a warrior. Perhaps she would stand a chance if she transformed!

"What's going on out- Eru!" One of the other healers had heard the sound of metal meeting, and had come to see who was fooling around. He had not expected to see the Green Wizard fighting off a Nazgûl.

Murazor saw the look of knowing pass across her silver eyes, and knew that she had figured out his ploy. It didn't bother him at all, and didn't change his plans. She looked over at the newcomer, and indeed his plans were helped along exponentially. He zipped like a dark cloud, moving behind her and raising the hilt of his sword. He brought it down sharply against the back of her head. She crumbled like a tower, her staff clattering to the ground. He reached out and grasped her green cloak, lifting her and throwing her over his shoulder. He looked back to the healer frozen in the doorway, and shrieked powerfully.

"Tell the dragon wizard his lover is in my possession, and may be traded at my leisure," Murazor hissed.

Then with another shriek he jumped from the overlook of the sixth circle, going back into the shadows and disappearing from mortal sight.

Step one of his plan had gone off without a hitch.

Oh noes! What could he be planning? That naughty wraith! :(

Now, you've read the chapter, so if you haven't already, I would love for you to favorite or follow. But honestly, I hope you review. I really, really do. (That kinda rhymed. I'm good sometimes.) Okay no more rhyming. It's such bad timing. Oh fuck a duck. I'm such a shmuck.

Dammit….review?