A/N: Good Afternoon!
It has been a while, has it not! Apologies for the wait! But here is the next chapter!
Thank you to: YAYA Kitsune, IronManRox2k12, Kouzui Chisei, NightShadeMoon, Harry's Love Can Conquer All and lisa8 for following! Welcome to the story!
A big thank you to: Twilight-lover106, Kouzui Chisei, NightShadeMoon and lisa8 for favouriting!
And a big thank you to my regular reviewers: Elves are awesome, and Ailith-Kansas for your lovely reviews!
This chapter is for you guys!
P.s: Disclaimer: Any text you recognise is from the Extended edition of the films, not mine, anything you don't is mine. Ha! Simples! :)
P.P.S: There may be another smaller wait for the next chapter, as I haven't decided on Ailith's fate yet, and I want to try and write a few different scenarios out before deciding and then posting. Thank you so much to those who have stuck with Ailith from the very beginning to this somewhat gruesome could-be-end. Your readership has kept me going when I felt down, and has greatly encouraged me to keep going. This mammoth piece of work is over 70,000 words long, and you guys have really made me feel worth as an attempted writer. So this whole story is dedicated to you guys. Thanks again!
xYruniwyliox
Chapter Thirty-Five: Do not go where I cannot follow.
As the chants and arrows of the enemies' Army increased, a Halfling was seen rushing down from the Upper Levels of the city, searching for something or someone, his large, bare feet, slapping loudly on the stone floors as he sped past soldiers racing to their posts, or carrying the injured to the higher level halls of healing.
Women screamed, children howled for their parents, and all the while, Peregrine Took of the Shire almost clawed at his ears to make the sounds go away. He scrunched his face in pain – the Shire never suffered such an agonising scene, where families were torn apart, butchered, all in the name of this darkness.
But it is still a possibility… if Frodo and Sam fail. If we fail…
He shook his head and moved onwards, pulling himself from his thoughts. No. It would not do to dwell on these things at such a time. He had to find Gandalf! He called for the White Wizard repeatedly as he rounded every corner, as he spied every Longshanks, his lips turning upwards at a memory in Bree of the word being shouted at a cloaked and wild looking Aragorn.
He skidded around yet another corner and saw a flash of purest white. There! He raced to the Wizard, only reaching the feet of the Wizened Mage. "Gandalf!" he cried, calling the Wizard's attention. "Gandalf! Denethor has lost his mind! He's burning Faramir alive! He has Lady Ailith lashed to the pyre too!" Gandalf grabbed the flailing Hobbit, and tugged himforwards. "Up!" he commanded, "Quickly!" and swung the Halfling onto the mighty Horse behind him. Kicking his heels into the flanks of the pure beast, Gandalf hissed words to encourage the speed of his old friend. They flew past the lower levels, rising higher into the city, until the last set of gates before they would reach their goal, Shadowfax drew to a halt.
There, towering above them, was a fell beast, it's rancid breath petering from tight wide jaws, rows of razor sharp teeth glinted in the waning light, and sat upon this creature from the darkness, shrouded in a cloak of darkest black was him. Gandalf glared, placing his staff in front of him and the Hobbit, as he stared viciously into the face of the Witch King of Angmar. Gandalf straightened his shoulders, seeing a flash of Ailith's predicament shoot before his eyes. He saw for himself how Denethor's iron gaze steeled itself in looking at her.
"You will burn, Witch. And not even Mandos' halls will be able to recognise you." He seethed.
Gandalf squared himself against the Wraith, before spitting out his words with venom. "Go back to the Abyss! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master!" he commanded, his voice ringing out across the courtyard. "Do you not know death when you see it old man?" he hissed, bringing out a terrified scream from the hobbit behind the Wizard. "This is my hour!" the Wraith cooed, drawing his sword, which immediately burst into flame, causing the Istari's staff to burst into pieces, knocking the two riders from the horse.
Pippin whimpered from the floor. "Gandalf!" He called, gripping the white robes in front of him. His whole body trembled, and he squeezed his eyes shut for fear of seeing anything bad from happening to his wizened companion. The creature began to advance, roaring its putrid sound into Gandalf's face. Pippin pulled his short sword from its sheath and screeched, running towards the Wraith and its' creature. Another roar caused the Halfling to falter, halting him in his steps, but before either party could move to attack or flee, the might form of Shadowfax had leapt before the hobbit noisily, and stood protecting him. Pippin turned his sapphire gaze to the white beast before him, in awe and gratitude. Shadowfax had stopped him from being very foolish indeed.
The crumpled heap of white robes stirred, as the Istari raised his head, his darkened eyes searching for Pippin, before locking on the With King. "You have failed!" the Wraith bellowed. "The World of Men will fall!" it called, before a loud horn sounded on the battlefield below. Glancing at the fields of Pelennor, the Witch King directed his fell beast to fly, and both took off into the skies. Gandalf released a breath he was not aware that he was holding, before swiftly climbing atop Shadowfax once more, hauling the Halfling with him.
"Come Pippin, we must fly, otherwise Ailith will be lost." He stated, before they were once again galloping through the crowds of people, rubble and other obstacles between them and the crypt of the Kings.
Ailith raised her head in defiance, not tearing her gaze from the breathing form of Faramir. Her arms had long since gone numb from holding on to the pyre, and now the rope binding her chaffed, rubbing raw against her wrists, sopping from the oil that Denethor, the Lord and Steward of Gondor had poured over himself, his son and now parts of her.
"But not all of you is to be anointed, witch." He spat. "For that would make your death too fast. Only your hands and your hair." He declared. And so her hair had been rebraided after being soaked, and her hands had been covered in the oil. She had decided to keep struggling to free herself, and use the oil as a lubricant, sending the Varda a quick prayer, and focusing on the crazed man now speaking in prayers to himself.
"Set a fire in our flesh," he stated, opening his arms wide, his sopping iron curls sticking to the fur of his cloak. Ailith managed to free a hand, before reaching out to one of the approaching soliders and kicking him away from the pyre. She noticed the others also advancing and managed to knock another back. Before anything else could be done, she was slapped. Hard. Backhanded by a bejewelled, anointed, wet hand, which left a sting that throbbed upon her cheek. She turned her jade-like eyes to the man and glared.
"You are making a grave mistake, Denethor. Look at him! His chest rises and falls, he breaths!" she called. Again he opened his arms, and as the soldiers approached once more, the doors burst open, and in rode Gandalf, atop his old friend.
"Mithrandir!" Ailith called, relief shining in her eyes. She struggled more against the second bond, determined to be free. "Stay this madness!" called Gandalf, his fury at the situation radiating from him in waves. Ailith hadn't seen Denethor snatch a torch from the closest soldier. Too busy was she in attempting to free herself. She did hear his chilling declaration, and turned to look at him a moment too late.
"You may triumph in the field of battle for a day, but against the power that has risen in the east, there is no victory!" he called, before dropping the torch to the pyre. Immediately flames sprang up, and Ailith tried harder than ever to be free. The heat licked at her face, and caused her to shut her eyes, struggling to free herself blindly. Gandalf had since grabbed a spear and knocked the Steward from the pyre, Pippin leaping from behind him onto the pyre and rolling Faramir free, to the ground. In passing by Faramir, Pippin had clipped a lit piece of kindling, which sparked Ailith's ropes aflame. With a gasp, she struggled harder, but she could feel her flesh crawling with the sting of burns. She cried out and the rope snapped, flicking the lit end to her wet face, and with a scream of terror and injury, she fell back hitting and swatting at her face as she burned.
Denethor had risen, his clothing rumpled, his oil-soaked face gleeful as he watched her struggle on the floor, knowing if she wasn't helped, her hair would catch next. He turned his hateful eyes upon the Hobbit, beating flames out of his son's breeches and strode over. "NO! You will not take my son from me!" he cried angrily, gripping the front of Pippin's tunic. A whinny behind him caused him to whirl around as Shadowfax kicked him up on the burning pyre. "Faramir!" he called, grief-stricken, and to his astonishment, Faramir opened his eyes. Truly feeling the burn of that which he had almost done, coupled with the burn of the fire, Denethor let out a blood curdling scream before fleeing the crypt, aflame and throwing himself from the citadel parapets.
Gandalf hurried to Ailith and put out the flames on the front of her tunic and her hand and face, her writhing, trembling and convulsing form weeping beneath him. He murmured repeatedly until she quietened, before he turned to the soldiers. "This Woman will be afforded the respect she deserves. She has saved the Lord Steward Faramir, and has protected this city. You will take her and Lord Faramir to the Halls of Healing immediately, and you will perish a heinous death if my orders are not met." He barked out. The men moved instantly, cradling Ailith and carrying her to the halls of healing, Faramir borne between four men behind them.
Ailith was placed on a cot near the belltower, while Faramir was borne in further. Dreams and visions flashed behind her emerald eyes, as she struggled to fight the darkness.
Pain. Tremendous pain. Visions flashed before her, as she watched on, dazedly. An army of Haradrim riding Mûmakil, swinging barbed tusks and destroying lines of horses and riders. Two women disguised as men, riding amongst their loved ones, swinging and slashing and parrying and stabbing. A Halfling seated in front of one of the women, he watches for approaching enemies. The King of Rohan battles fiercely, looking like a ferocious lion, golden maned, gold plated armour and a fine movement of body, making him move lithely, quickly and tactically.
Orcs slain as each horseman slashes through the fray, but none are a match for the Mûmakil. One of the women, Éowyn, reaches for another sword and with both arms out slashes the back joint of all four legs of the giant creature, causing it to fall, useless to the ground. Others began to copy after watching their comrade's strategy unfold.
Turning in her victory to hear her uncles' cries "To Mee!" she watched horrified that the Nazgûl caught her uncle and his horse in his jaws before tossing them carelessly to the ground. Hastily she intervened. As she neared the creature and placed herself between it and her uncle, the vision faded, and Ailith reached out to her friend, a cry of pain leaving her as darkness enveloped her, the echo of her friend's voice sounding in the air.
'I will kill you if you touch him!'
The vision regenerated. There on the fields were the two people she cared about most in the world. Aragorn was slashing with all his might, sweat staining his brow, anger marring his handsome face, while orcs and Haradrim and enemies fell before him, like trees falling in the wind. Beside him stood the dwarf, hacking at the orcs, a ferocious laugh bellowing from his lungs as he shouted at someone. Ailith turned, watching and a fair head of spun-golden hair caught her eye. He was climbing the arrows littering the leg of a Mûmakil, and began firing arrows repeatedly, gracefully and accurately at the Eastern riders. Finally, he fired a trio of arrows into the head of the beast, and it fell, with him sliding gracefully from the trunk ti land safely on his feet.
Suddenly his eyes widened, and he glanced at his tunic, touching a hand to the base of his throat, and whipping his head around. "Legolas?!" he heard Aragorn call. "It is her, Aragorn. She is hurt!" he called, fear seeping into his voice. "We cannot move close Legolas!" Aragorn replied firmly. "You will put yourself in more danger by losing focus now. We will search for her soon, I swear it! She is my sister!" he vowed. Legolas nodded, a grim look passing his beautiful features as he began slashing at Orcs with his twin blades with a new energy.
Ailith prayed that he would be alright, as the vision swirled again. Éowyn had defeated her enemy, but seemed wounded, and badly, as she collapsed to the floor. Aragorn seemed to sag with relief as a green haze passed through the city, and he began to run, with Legolas beside him, towards the Ruin of the once great White City of Minas Tirith. A smudged and limping Wizard was discovered wandering along the middle levels, he stopped to speak quietly with Aragorn and Legolas, placing a comforting arm on the Elf's shoulder, before pointing them in the direction they were to go. Her heart clenched at the sight of such sorrow on her Prince's face, and she hoped he would be well.
Aragorn and Legolas shoved past women and soldiers and peasants and who and whatever else lay in their path on their adamant journey to the halls of healing. Gandalf had told them of Denethor and his madness, and Legolas seethed. His blood boiled. He dare lay a hand on an Elleth of Imladris! On one of our kind? He shook his head, his braids shifting swiftly from side to side as they half marched, half ran to the rooms. Finally they reached her, and he could not hold in the sharp intake of breath as he looked upon her. Her right hand was gnarled and blackened from the fire, and the burn reached up past her elbow to her shoulder and the right side of her face. Her cheek, her temple and her neck, all blurred as the flesh had curled under the intensity of the flames. Scowling, Legolas felt his rage treble, as he fought to keep himself from shaking in anger. He noticed her hair was soaking wet, and had been let loose from any of her usual braids, but the tunic she was burned in was still upon her.
"Why have they only washed her hair?" he demanded in Sindarin, turning to his brother in arms. Aragorn sighed. "It seems that he doused her hair in the oil. They washed the last of it out, but could not determine whether to cut the tunic from her or not. I fear having left it however long, it will be painful to remove it." He replied solemnly. Shaking his head, Legolas all but tore the crystal from his throat and gently tied it around hers, being careful of the burns upon her once pale, unmarked throat.
"What will happen to her?" he asked quietly. So quietly, the Dunedain almost hadn't heard him.
"Hopefully, she will fight to see us again, but I cannot promise anything, brother. I am sorry." He said, moving to begin healing her.
"Please, Melleth nîn, you must not give up. I love you. I need to see your eyes again. Do not go where I cannot follow." Legolas pleaded softly, his azure eyes filling as he gripped her left hand tightly. He willed his own soul into hers, anything to get her healed again. He knew if she survived this, she would be scarred, but he wouldn't care. As long as she breathed. As long as she lived.