Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: Things are drawing to a climax, here… I hope I've properly conveyed the utter despair and ultimate hope in this situation. So, forward! The Dark Land is waiting!

Chapter Twenty-Four  

~

            The wind was the only sound.

            The Great Pack moved in silence, as the sudden impossibility of their task dawned on them and left them in a peculiar state of shock.

            Celeborn hurried to Galadriel's side, and the two mates rubbed their bodies together nervously. He planted a sound lick on her ear; she brought her head under his chin. Their golden tails entwined together.

            The others stood in various stages of thinking. It was Eowyn who suddenly realized that she was afraid. She had gone through the Paths of the Dead, and she had slain the leader of the Nazgul. But she had done this for Aragorn, and he had been always nearby. Now, her love was waiting on a hilltop for her, and she was miles away. Could she go running into the Dark Land knowing that Faramir trusted in her return?

            Glorfindel was uncertain. The other two members of his pack, Elladan and Elrohir, were bunched up with their sister Arwen, so the Imladris alpha stood alone. His breath created fine puffs of fog before him, and these he watched with a weary eye. He was an older wolf, not old per se but certainly no longer in his youth. Long had his pack been run with customs and decorum of days immemorial. Yet in these past few months, everything had turned upside-down. Would the madness ever stop?

            It was a surprise when Elrond trotted over to him with a wolf smile.

            -What troubles you, Glorfindel? Do you fear the battle ahead?-

            Glorfindel was offended by the unintentional suggestion of cowardice, and he rumbled ominously. However, it was clear even to him that Elrond meant no harm, so he instead shot a meaningful look in Aragorn's direction, allowing the Half-breed of the elder mind to see into his eyes.

            -You fear the rise of the Numenor?-

            The black wolf sighed and sat down next to the blond one, their fur rippling in that same wind as they continued to hold eye contact.

            -Aragorn is wise and strong. He will be a fine King of the Tundra. Fear not; he has too much love and respect for the Elven wolves to let them fall into forgetfulness. And as for your fate, alpha of Imladris… I cannot be sure. But I do know this; I owe you everything for raising my pups well.-

            At last, Glorfindel smiled, and the two of them turned heartened eyes to the East.

            It was Aragorn who lingered in doubt. His spirit was in turmoil; how could it be done? Was he expected to lead them into Mordor to conquer all and cleanse the tundra? Was he expected to march up to the gates and have them open before his mighty battle cry?

            A soft lick on the cheek interrupted his morbid thoughts. Arwen stood there, her eyes full of trust and love.

            Oh, yes, that was answer enough.

            The two of them embraced in the fashion of wolves, their necks pressed together so that their heads rested on each others' backs. Long they remained in this way, and forever they could have if Elrond had not cleared his throat dryly, his tail wagging.

            So. On to business.

            Celeborn, Aragorn, Eomer, and Elrond branched off and ran right up to the gate, sniffing it and inspecting it carefully. Aragorn was examining its' center, where it would open, while Eomer was shoving his shoulder up against it repeatedly. Celeborn and Elrond were discussing various methods of breaching the wall.

            They were before the Black Gate, the chief entrance into Mordor. When Gollum, Sam, and Frodo had passed into darkness, they had gone in through one of the lesser passages, leading them into the interior of the Wall. This Gate, however, opened right into Mordor, and was their best choice of admittance.

            Now if only they could get it open.

            The wolves took turns investigating it, each putting forward their own ideas and none of them working. At last, they lounged about and stared at the Gate, as though the power of their eyes could melt it.

            Nothing.

            All hope seemed lost when, in a moment they should have expected by now, the cry of an eagle filled the air.

            Up on their feet they went as Gandalf came gliding lazily into view, at last swooping down to settle on Elrond's back, seemingly oblivious to the state of distress all the wolves were in. He spoke into the mind of the Half-breed.

            -What are you all standing about for?-

-It may have escaped your notice, Winged One, but we with only four legs have no means of breaching the Wall.-

-Why don't you just open the Gate?-

-This may also have eluded you, but we are in the midst of deciding how to do precisely that.-

-Then perhaps I may offer you the key.-

-Key?-

They were cut off by a rumble of distant thunder. The ground shook beneath the wolves' paws, and they glanced about in alarm.

The Ents were coming!

Up and over the hills from the South the moose came, their long strides carrying them effortlessly along as they swept in one great wave towards the Gate. Their mossy antlers again gave the striking image of a moving forest, as the great shapes seemed to be almost like branches.

Elrond shook his head. He should have been used to Gandalf's surprises by now.

It was Treebeard who came trotting right up to the wolves, his large head swinging from side to side and his breath smoking out of his nostrils. One giant hoof pawed at the ground as he spoke to their minds.

-What have we missed, little wolves? Don't tell us that we're too late for battle! The Ents have not fought in some time, you know…-

The remaining moose tossed their heads and made that strange –Hoom, hom, hoom, hom…- sound amongst themselves.

Aragorn and Elrond exchanged knowing looks.

Moments later, the Black Gate was under heavy assault. A concentrated group of Ents was using their mighty antlers as battering rams, hammering at the structure with stubborn tenacity.

Boom.

Boom.

The wolves sat together on their hilltop, watching and nodding. Truth be told, Aragorn had all but forgotten that the Ents would be coming to meet them; Elrond hadn't expected them to get here with such timing. As with most of Gandalf's aid, this came at the moment when all seemed lost.

Boom.

Boom.

Treebeard and his folk were not to be swayed, not even by the fierce and powerful gates of Mordor. Again and again they butted against it, and each time Treebeard insisted that the next hit would be the last one needed. Still, the pounding continued.

Boom.

Boom.

Elrond shook his head nervously. Surely the Enemy knew of their position by now; perhaps at this very moment he was sending out his troops! Nazgul, Orcs, and worse could be waiting behind that gate when they opened it. Rising to his feet, the black wolf paced about restlessly.

Boom.

Crack.

As one, the wolves sprang to their feet, alert, as the Gate splintered down the middle. The crack was massive, and the Ents hammered at it with renewed enthusiasm.

Crack.

Crack.

In less than two minutes, the Gate had been reduced to firewood. Massive panels were scattered across the snow, and the larger splinters were being dragged to either side by the wolves.

The Black Gate was open.

Their path stretched out before them, the Black Land sprawling before their eyes in all its' horrors. The smoke of factories plumed morbidly in the distance, rolling towards them in filthy waves.

Celeborn flattened his ears and coughed disdainfully. Elrond chuckled, relieved by this distraction.

-Yes, it reeks of smoke and evil. Not a smell we wolves are accustomed to.-

Eomer volunteered a woof about being used to the smell of evil anyway, and Eowyn snorted at the memory of their beta, Wormtongue. She tried to imagine him standing with them there at the Gate; in her minds' eye she saw the scrawny grey wolf skittering about before the ruins, yipping nervously and eyes darting around in terror.

What had become of Wormtongue? None but Legolas had been present at his death, and in the battle his carcass had been lost. A shame, that; she herself would have loved to see the traitor stretched out the ground, those eerie eyes glassy and that wicked throat torn open.

Realizing that she was taking far too much pleasure from the image of her dead enemy, she hurriedly turned her thoughts back to the present.

At last, Aragorn ventured towards the Gate. A few cautious steps carried him inside, where he looked around for a moment, sniffing the air and glancing about for any sign of waiting disaster.

Nothing.

He tossed an encouraging bark over his shoulder, and the other wolves loped in after him. There they stood, a pack of ten preparing to advance into the heart of all evil in the tundra.

No turning back.

Treebeard and the Ents rumbled after them, insisting they be allowed to fight as well. Aragorn was not about to deny them; they needed all the help they could get.

There was a suspended moment as the wolves stood together and looked into each others' eyes. This could very well be the last time they were all together in peace and harmony. A battle lay ahead, a battle from which it was very likely not all of them would return…

Taking a deep breath, Aragorn walked resolutely towards the East. The rest fell in line beside him.

It was time.

~ To Be Continued