Disclaimer: I don't own The Lord of The Rings. J. R. R. Tolkien does. Lucky him.
The city of Mordor lay stagnant and silent in the luminosity of the dawn. A great grey mist hung about the city, and the tops of the towers strong and high were encircled with black fog. High up in the sky the screeches of the patrolling winged Nazgul could be heard from miles away, but not a speck of them could be seen in the sky.
~*~
For five days now Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli had traveled through the thick foliage and though thoroughly fatigued, they still traipsed along in the stifling heat always on guard for passing bands of orcs. At about noontime, the company came to the outskirts of Mordor. It was dark and dreary, though the sun was shining brilliantly. The wind still blew, but in Mordor the air seemed dormant and chilly. Mount Doom loomed in a distance, its feet in ashen ruin, its huge cone rising to dizzy heights. There it was in smouldering slumber, yet still as dangerous as a sleeping beast.
Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn stood for a while gazing at Mount Doom with mingled loathing and awe. Between them and the smoking mountain seemed like a barren desert, gutted and ruined. Under the lifting skirts of the bleak sky, dim light leaked into Mordor like pale morning through a grimy prison window.
"We shall set camp here and get rest until tomorrow. Then we shall ride to the Black Gate," said Aragorn. Then Aragorn drew Anduril, holding it glittering in the sun. "You shall not be sheathed again until the last battle is fought." Then Legolas and Gimli lay down to sleep after drinking the last of their water, and Aragorn sat down beside them to keep watch all through the night, Anduril in his lap. Looking out into the night sky, Aragorn fingered the jewel pendant that hung around his neck. It seemed out of place, cleverly concealed within the grimy folds of Aragorn's rusty green and brown shirt.
The next day, Aragorn led Legolas and Gimli to two great mounds of loose stones and earth. Below down Mordor lay like a great swamp of reeking mud and a putrid stench rose up with black steam from great fissures in the ground.
"Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! Justice shall be done upon him. For he has wrongfully he has made war upon Gondor and wrested its lands. Therefore the King of Gondor demands that he should atone for his evils, then depart forever. Come forth!" Gimli's vociferous voice filled the air and carried off to the Black Gate.
At first there was silence, and the echo of the dwarf's voice lingered awkwardly in the air, then diminished into a whisper. The Black Gate remained shut tightly, and no movement from within was heard or seen by the three. Gimli cast an inquiring glance at Aragorn, who nodded to him. And just as Gimli was about to shout their summon again, lo! The Black Gate opened and an army of orcs came trooping forth; at the head of the host a tall shape mounted on a black steed rode out proudly. The rider was garbed entirely in black, and the hood or his robe was pulled low over the eerie, revolting skeleton-like face, and in the socket of his eyes and nostrils there burned a sinister flame. He was no Ringwraith, but a living man. No one knew his name and he himself had forgotten it. But in the inhabitants that feared the Dark Lord in the lands near and far called him 'The Mouth of Sauron'.
Behind this Messenger rose a big fighting-orc, holding a single black banner bearing the token of the red Eye. And behind the leader of the orcs, ranks upon ranks of neatly lined orc soldiers eyed Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn with their leering eyes.
"So it is the King of Gondor who seeks his end?" the Messenger eyed the looked the warriors up and down, then turned his vile face towards Aragorn and sneered. "It seems that in the land of Gondor any peasant can become a king." Gimli, beside Aragorn, sprang forward with a cry of outrage. Aragorn thrust out an arm to prevent the dwarf from going any other, but he could not stop the Messenger's ice stare that fell on Gimli. "And midgets can be of service to the King?" was the cutting statement that issued from the slash across the mask that served as a mouth. Gimli's face burned as red as his hair, and he stood there, barely reaching the head of the horse before him. Legolas laid a warm hand on his shoulder. A second later the Messenger's gaze fell upon the elegant elf. "And elves befriend midgets…" Legolas said naught in answer, but took the other's eye and held it. Soon, though Legolas said no word or drew no weapon, the other quailed stumbled back as if menaced with a blow.
Then the Messenger laughed no more. The mask of a face was contorted with bewilderment and fury. He gazed at the hard faces of Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, and then fear overcame his wrath. Leaning forward, he spat vulgarly on the earth just a few inches from where Aragorn's stood, then with a loud cry he turned is steed with curt precision and charged back to the Black Gate. But even before they reached the gate, Sauron sprang his trap.
The Black Gate opened once again, and blasts of horns filled the air. Drumbeats thundered from the tops of the towers, the monotonous sounds chilling the hearts of the three with every beat. Then swarms of orcs, in addition to the small band that had trooped out with the Messenger came streaming out the gate, the dust from beneath the hooves of black horses rising up and smothering the air.
Upon one hill Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn stood back to back, anticipating the attack. Aragorn had Anduril drawn and glinting in the sun. Gimli raised his axe up high, the sharp blade poised to strike. Legolas had already placed an arrow in his bow, and was aiming for the first line of orcs. There were a few thousand orcs, but it was not the full force of Sauron.
The first waves of orcs rushed forward, yelling barbarically and stampeding towards their targets. Aragorn sprang forward and hacked away vigorously, black and red blood spurted into the air as the orc flew into pieces. One of its daggers soared into the air, and as it came down Aragorn caught it swiftly and flung it directly at another orc. The dagger struck with lethal accuracy, and the orc collapsed to the ground, dead. Sensing something come up behind him, Aragorn turned Anduril and stabbed backwards. Sure enough, the tip of his sword came into contact with an orc. There was an ear-piercing screech, which faded into the air as Aragorn pulled his sword out.
Gimli watched the seemingly endless flow of orcs and then realised that the front lines of orcs had already reached the mound on which they were standing. Then Gimli heard the whine of an arrow from Legolas's bow, and he sprang into action. His axe cleaved into an orc, and Gimli watched satisfied as the initial leery expression changed to one of sheer agony, then the orc slid onto the ground, the life completely sapped from its crumpled body. Two orcs lunged themselves onto the robust dwarf, catching him off guard. Gimli shook himself forcefully, and felt the two orcs fly into the air. They hit the trunk of a decaying oak and slumped down onto the earth.
Legolas felt the arrow depart from his bow, and traced its curving course as it sliced through the air and finally embedded itself firmly into the chest of a fighting-orc. The orc gave a deafening cry and fell back upon its comrades, toppling backwards and burying a number of its comrades beneath it. Another orc advanced towards the tall elf, twisted dagger drawn and ready to strike. It came bearing down upon the elf, and as Legolas shot another arrow into the air, he saw not the looming danger behind him. Suddenly, perchance some Elvish instinct had played its magic, Legolas whirled around and darted left just as the orc thrust its dagger forward. Whipping out the long white knife that hung on his green belt, Legolas stabbed forwards, and black blood surged out from the orc as it fell to the ground.
"Alas… the untainted knife has been stained," Legolas mourned sadly, gazing at his soiled weapon.
~*~
Morning had come again, and the wispy grey clouds moved apart to let the minute rays of light down onto Mordor. To Sam it seemed that day in Mordor was no different from night. The sky was still tinted black, and the dismal shadowy figures concealed from sight within the deep forests still lurked about ghostly. It seemed like a long time since Sam had rescued his Master from the clutches of evil Shagrat and the orcs, but in truth it had only been a day.
The two hobbits had hidden in the forest just after their escape, and had spent the whole night struggling to put some distance between the tower and them. Finally, exhausted, starving and thirsting, Sam and Frodo staggered into a clearing. Tall ferns overgrew the ground, and hidden beneath them lay the moldering trunks of fallen trees. Then fatigue overcame them, and Frodo gave a deep wheezing gasp of air before collapsing to the ground, and there he lay like a dead thing. Sam stooped down beside his Master, and panic seized him upon seeing Frodo's pallid face and sunken cheeks.
Sam gently took Frodo by the shoulders and moved him so that he was lying against a boulder. Frodo's face was etched with uneasiness, but he slept all the same, his hands clenched in fists. Sam knew that among all the pains his Master bore, the increasing weight of the Ring was the worst. It was a burden to his body and a torment to his mind. For the few nights they'd been together, Sam had not failed to notice how Frodo's left hand would often be raised as if to ward of a blow or to shield himself. And sometimes his right hand would creep up to his breast, but then slowly, as his will repossessed mastery, it would be withdrawn.
Sam gave one look at Frodo, then grabbed his almost empty water bottle and walked out of the clearing. Sam had not gone a very long way before he heard a far off sound that brought him to a halt. Unbelievable but, unmistakable. The gentle trickling of water. Sam moved a few paces to the right, and there, water flowed down a sharp and narrow crevice. The last remnants, perhaps, of sweet rain that fell on sunlit meadows, but unfortunate to fall upon the dying land of Mordor and in due course wander fruitless in the dust.
Without weighing the consequences, Sam dove forward and pressed his mouth to the trickle of water. Under normal circumstances it would have tasted vile to the hobbit, but in this expiring land it seemed heavenly to him. The water was cold, oily and acrid at the same time. Sam drank his fill and then placed his water bottle where his mouth had been just a few seconds ago. The water came dripping down into the container. The first few drops hit the bottom with loud 'plop's, but as the liquid filled the container it made light dripping sounds.
When Sam's water bottle had been filled, he capped it tightly and turned to go back into the clearing where Frodo lay asleep. Their food supply was meager but adequate, and Sam knew what they needed most was water. There were still the leftovers from Faramir in his pack; a few dried fruits and nuts. And there were still four wafers of lembas, the Elven waybread.
Suddenly, something caught Sam's eye, and his eyes glanced right just in time to see a petite black figure dart through the trees and away into the forest. Heart palpitating violently, Sam thrashed back to the clearing, only to find Frodo still sleeping against the boulder peacefully. Sam reached his Master and shook the hobbit awake gently. "Mr. Frodo Sir, I got us some water!" Sam informed the dazed hobbit. Frodo's eyes snapped open at once, and his face lit up at the mere mention of 'water'. "Water, Sam? Water, did you say? Where Sam? Give it to me at once!" he rasped out, his parched throat burning inside him. "Yes Mr. Frodo Sir," Sam readily tipped the water bottle into Frodo's open mouth, and watched as the slightly greyish waterfall into his Master's mouth.
Frodo drank almost half the contents of the water bottle, the two hobbits finished the food Faramir had gave them. The dried food made them thirst even more, and the water level in Sam's water bottle had gone down by a considerable amount.
Sam glanced at Frodo's contented face. "Mr. Frodo Sir, I fear that Gollum's been following us again," he picked his words carefully. Frodo stared long and hard at Sam, then sighed heavily and turned his head away. "Yes, I've seen him too, Sam, often at night. Those two yellow eyes have been with us ever since we escaped the Tower of Cirith Ungol," he murmured to Sam. "Somehow Gollum must have picked up our trail and followed us."
Sam shuddered, disgusted at the thought of the creature. "We should have gotten rid of him back then," he muttered, fingering the edge of Sting, which was in the hilt at his side. Frodo gave a defeated sigh. "We shan't dwell on that topic Sam. I'm too tired to think of anything- even Gollum!" Sam's cheeks coloured faintly at this remark. Frodo saw how uncomfortable Sam was, and he decided to change the subject. "Come on, Sam. You'd better have a rest- you've been travelling all day and night. Here, take a sip of water, it'll quench your thirst," Frodo grabbed the water bottle and tipped it into Sam's open mouth. Indeed the young hobbit looked fatigued, his face drained of colour.
"I'll… I'll just take a ten-minute nap, Mr. Frodo. We have to get a move on soon. Will you rouse me then, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked as he leaned his head against the hard, coarse surface of the boulder. Frodo smiled gently and nodded. "Of course I will, Sam. Do get some rest now," his voice sank to a whisper as Sam's eyes began to close. His head drooped upon his own chest, Sam slept serenely.
Frodo got to his feet and fingered the Ring at his breast. He could feel it- the cold hard metal through his tunic, and just the sheer touch of it made him loath it with all his little heart. But yet somehow the Ring drew him closer, and Frodo found himself starting to get the Ring out from his pocket.
"No, Frodo Baggins. You won't!" a voice in his head reproved him; his grip on the Ring loosened and Frodo's hand dropped limply down to his side. Pent up tears threatened to surge out from deep inside, and Frodo had to muffle a sniff. How could he have almost succumbed to the temptation of the Evil? Frodo looked up into the dirty sky. To the North, great columns of smoke and twisting fires rose into the sky, entwining with each other. Frodo quailed deep inside, wondering what fate awaited him on top of Mount Doom.
The gentle and soothing snoring from Sam snapped Frodo back to his senses. It had been past ten minutes already, and it was time for Sam to be woken up.
~*~
Arwen gazed out into the sky as the fiery sun sank low beneath the top of the green peaks of the faraway hills, the clouds shining a loud orange and red. But still, a web of grey shadows weaved itself into the magnificent sunset. And for Arwen too, a veil of misery was interlaced in her heart, and a seed of doubt had begun to spring up in her heart, threatening to overpower the shoots of hope.
The Elven princess stood rigid, staring out from one of the terraces over the loud-flowing River Bruinen. Her pale hands, smooth and flawless, rested gingerly on the polished metal railing. The crimson light from the sunset was reflected in her bright Elven eyes, making them shine a deep red.
The light of the cool winter evening was now glowing faintly in the valley, and the noise of bubbling waters resounded through the valley. Arwen looked up into the darkened sky and at the sinister glow of the far away fires ablaze in Mordor. The moon was full tonight, and it hovered high above Rivendell. The white terraces, intricately designed with sinuous Elvish patterns.
Out of the darkness, Arwen sensed someone come up from behind her. She glanced askance at the tall figure, who stood next to her. Dark hair the colour of the shadows of the twilight resembled hers, and the Elf next to her had a circlet of silver set upon his dark head. Clear grey eyes the colour of a misty morning peered into the distance, and in them was the light like the light of the stars. The face of the Elf was neither old nor young, and it was Elrond, Arwen's father himself, whom the Elf princess was looking at.
"Tell me whither," Elrond said, his eyes held a fixed point in the distance, and he did not look upon Arwen, "Whither you are thinking of the mortal Aragorn." Arwen's pale cheeks flushed a delicate tinge of pink, and she looked away, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her pointed ear. "He is in danger," she whispered, struggling to fight the urge to release the pent up emotions churning inside her. Arwen felt her face heat up, and her vision blurred and the tears that were welling up in her eyes threatened to flow down her wind-kissed cheeks.
Elrond seemed able to discern her feelings, for he looked away and said simply, "An army of elves and a few men will be sent to Mordor. I promise you Aragorn will not fight alone."
Arwen looked up, startled. But she added, "Aragorn does not go to battle alone. He has with him noble Gimli son of Gloin and Prince Legolas of the Mirkwood Realm." Arwen's voice had strengthened, and she lifted her chin up in a show of confidence.
Elrond turned to his daughter and met her grey eyes. "Of course," he replied. Then suddenly Arwen was clinging to him, her arms wrapped around his neck, sobbing. Not heart-brokenly, but happily. The corners of Elrond's lips lifted slightly in a rueful smile, and gingerly he reached out to stroke his daughter's hair tenderly.
~*~
Aragorn felt the dreaded fatigue creeping stealthily into his limbs. The ground was littered with the corpses of orcs, probably about two thousand orcs. But the stream of them from the Black Gate was endless.
Bands of orcs would charge towards the three weary warriors, only to be shot down by Legolas' flying arrows. The number of orcs charging towards them did not seem to be thinning out. Instead, Aragorn thought as he slashed an orc, it seemed to be growing.
Then suddenly, overcome by exhaustion, Aragorn collapsed to the earth, and his sword clanged to the ground loudly. Legolas gave a shout, and after releasing two arrows into the air, he rushed over to Aragorn and managed to get the man to his feet. "Aragorn! Get up! We must continue to fight!" Legolas continued to shoot arrows from his rapidly emptying quiver.
Aragorn scrambled to his mud-caked knees with renewed vigour, but before he got to his feet, something heavy lurched towards him. Aragorn's back hit the ground with a loud thud, and the small loose pebbles that littered the battleground dug deep into his back. Pain like a thousand daggers pierced Aragorn's back, and he gave a cry. But he soon realised that the agony he felt was not from his fall…
For a big fighting orc had crashed into Aragorn, and the orc had been holding a long deadly knife. And now the black handle of the knife jutted out from his stomach, and suddenly Aragorn felt an intense, excruciating pain in his chest. It felt as though something foreign had entered his body. Then a chill spread all over his body, from his chest down to his wobbly, unsteady legs and up to his dizzy head.
The world went blurry.
Everything went black.
Legolas and Gimli watched in utter horror as Aragorn slumped to the ground.
Author's Note: That's it for the second chapter! Aragorn fans pleeease do not get upset!!!! I'm an Aragorn fan myself, actually so I really can't bear to kill him. Ack! No hints! Hope you liked this chapter! And thanks to all who reviewed, you know who you are! (Not Voldemort.)