Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: Alrighty, I shall answer questions---

Tigerlily --- You're absolutely right. The Ents, according to the book, did not assist at Mordor. However, ten wolves against an army is pretty stiff odds, so I'd thought I'd give them a little help. And also, I am not going to do the scouring of the Shire, just because I have no Saruman and therefore have nothing that needs scouring.

I guess those were all the questions that needed answering. ^_^

A brief warning about this chapter; for those squeamish about blood, combat, and various things involved in battle, please take care. This chapter is a bit… gruesome.

Please enjoy.

Chapter Twenty-Five

~

            It was quiet. Too quiet.

            Carefully picking his way across the rocky Mordor terrain, Aragorn swiveled his ears about, straining to pick up the sounds of any life. Nothing. Raised in the warm and free tundra, Aragorn had spent his whole life listening to birds chirping, caribou lowing, and the lemmings chattering as they scurried through the grass. The natural cries and rhythms of the land had been like a heartbeat in his spirit.

            But Mordor was dead.

            The land was barren of any growth save the scrubby clumps of grass that poked feebly from between the rocks, battling for survival. There were no trees, or even bushes for the partridges to live in, so the voices of the birds were not present.

            Caribou? A herd would be mad to be in here, even if there was no Wall. Same for the lemmings; for all their brainless activities, they gave Mordor a wise and wide berth.

            And now here they were. Right in the middle of it.

            Eomer was a young adult. Never before had he ventured from his territory. This peculiar and unnatural land was frightening him more than he cared to admit, so that he walked a little faster in order to be nearer to Aragorn. Eowyn, though, sensed his nervousness, and also quickened her pace to keep up with him.

            Even the Ents had the sense to remain quiet. While they would normally be hoom-ing and hom-ing, they detected the unbearable tension and need for silence in the air, swinging their heavy heads from side to side but making no sound other than the rumble of their hooves, which was felt more than heard.

            The silence was terrible. It was crushing and deadly, pressing steadily on their minds and numbing their instincts to the point of agony. In that hideous absence of sound drifted in the poisonous scent of smoke, unnatural and gut-wrenching, so putrid and filthy that it threw their sensitive noses out of balance.

            Something had to snap.

            Elrohir bolted from the Pack in a panic, bewildered and terrified by the absence of sound and the over-powering presence of the smoke. He ripped across the dry earth, flying across the black land in a sort of possessed madness, his paws kicking up scores of pebbles and shattering whatever sense of quiet there had been.

            Frenzied by his paranoia, the Pack divided uselessly. Elrond and Aragorn raced after Elrohir, and the other younger ranks dove for cover from an imaginary enemy. When a wolf sounds an alarm, it usually is for a very good cause. But Celeborn, Galadriel, and Glorfindel knew that there was no immediate danger, and they stayed more or less in a tight group, though Glorfindel broke off at one point to drag his terrified pack mate, Elladan over to stand with him.

            Perhaps Elrohir would have kept running and been unable to be stopped. Perhaps he would have darted down some crevice or ravine, too blind in panic to do anything. But he stopped dead in his tracks when a huge flurry of white and black wings was suddenly inches from his face.

            A bristling Gandalf had alighted on the ground, and as awkward as that was he managed to flap his wings into a hurricane of motion, at once so startling and noisy that even the hysterical Elrohir slid to a halt. He was nose to beak with the angriest eagle the tundra had ever seen, and he only stood with his tail tucked between his legs in meek submission. Gandalf, with all his feathers ruffled and sticking out in his bad mood, lectured him sharply through eye contact.

            -Fool! You run and bolt when the real danger is still a long journey ahead! Waste your energy now before the real battle lines are even drawn!-

            Aragorn and Elrond came panting up alongside their comrade, pressing their bodies against Elrohir to prevent him from running again. The Half-breed spoke on his sons' behalf.

            -Forgive him, Gandalf. Forgive all of them. They are untried in such circumstances. There wasn't enough time. There just wasn't enough time.-

            The two remained locked in eye contact for a few tense moments. Finally, Elrond walked up alongside the eagle and stood next to him, inviting Gandalf to ride on his back. The offer was accepted, and in a storm of pounding wings the bird was up on his perch.

            By now, the three Elven alphas had managed to round the rest of the Pack up into a neat bunch, where they clustered together in states of shame and embarrassment. Aragorn brushed the incident off lightly, giving Elrohir an affectionate nuzzle and starting off again into the East.

            The rest followed him, ready to die fighting by his side.

            ~

            Two nights and a day they traveled, covering in thirty-six hours what had taken Frodo and Sam five days of walking. Now in the distance loomed Orodruin, mere a blotch of darkness against the red horizon. They did not know their little friends were so close. They did not know that all the power of Mordor was contained in that one factory.

            What they did now was that the Enemy was moving.

            It was only a few hours past dawn. The sun was still fresh in the sky, only just beginning its' lazy ascent into the heavens. Storm clouds were building angrily in the distance. The silence was now so electrifying it was almost unbearable.

            The Pack stood on a great slope, their numbers staggered along its' length in a sketchy formation, their keen eyes trained on the factories in the distance. Death was imminent, and all knew that it would not be the same number of wolves that walked away from this battle.

            And all at once, Celeborn threw back his head and sang a clear, high note. Galadriel at once joined him, and the two harmonized sweetly. Eomer's rich baritone slid up the scale in counterpoint. Elladan, Elrohir and Arwen all started at the same time, with Eowyn shortly afterwards, followed by Glorfindel. Elrond's voice lifted in tune, and lastly Aragorn's note of thunder punctuated the song.

            It was song of victory. A song of longing and sorrow, of yearning for the green days of old. It was a song of pain and triumph. It was a song that promised strength and boosted courage. But most of all, it was a song that ignited hope once more.

            So that when the forces of evil finally appeared to them, they were not afraid.

            ~

            The Great Hunter had turned out all his forces.

            The Orcs were a great blot upon the land, their ugly snouts lifted in growls of bloodlust, their scraggly black pelts like thorns and brambles. They were filthy and disgusting, and the only they thought about now was killing.

            Not only Orcs, but Wargs also. Wargs were rather like Orcs, in truth, but much bigger and stronger. Their jaws were capable of crunching bones to mere shards in one powerful clamp, and they were known to hold on to the death once they seized their prey.

            The ranks were littered with Hunters, not Nazgul, but still just as deadly. Their rifles, powered by energy from Orodruin, gleamed in the light of the fresh sun, which had suddenly turned harsh and cold in the sky. They seemed mildly surprised by the appearance of the Ents, but otherwise showed no reaction.

            But they had brought Trolls.

            Monstrous, hulking bears, with shaggy heads and massive paws, their jaws itching to close on flesh and their deep, rumbling roars sending chills into the pack. Most of them had never seen a bear before, let alone a Troll, with their mossy coats and claws like daggers.

            A long battle was before them.

            Rather than delay things any longer, Aragorn rose up on his hind legs and gave the trumpeting attack call. And down from their hill the Pack came, with the Ents gaining momentum and sweeping past them on long legs.

            So it was that the Ents were the first to smash into the ranks of Orcs and Wargs, sending bodies flying and screams of agony into the air. Treebeard himself made right for the nearest Troll, and as the bear rose up to meet him the mighty Ent lowered his head and went full speed ahead. The huge antlers punctured the Troll's abdomen, and the beast gave a piercing shriek of pain as ribs shattered and its' lungs were ripped to pieces. It fell dead, steam rising off its' massive corpse.

            One down, several hundred to go.

            The wolves broke into the fray like lightning. Aragorn worked with smooth precision, pivoting and leaping like a dancer, claws flashing and teeth slashing. Orc blood sprayed him and he heeded it not. He thought of Legolas, his comrade, and how he wished for his presence. He thought of Arwen, his beloved, and how he wished for her safety. Lastly, he thought of Boromir, and he wished the Gondor wolf could have lived to see this battle. He would have loved it so.

            Elrond was frighteningly ruthless, but he had reason to be. His pups were in this battle as well, and he fought for their lives as much as his own. So when Wargs and Orcs alike rushed to meet him, he plunged into their midst, ripping their jugulars with gruesome efficiency.

            Eomer fought with the same possessed spirit and frenzied power as Boromir had in the past. But for all his energy, he lacked the skill of Elrond and Aragorn, and failed to his kill his opponents on his first strike. The Orcs coming at him were already bloodied by his mark, and still they lived. Not for long, however; if his first strike was dizzying, his second was lethal.

            Galadriel was like a queen even in the midst of the carnage. Her killings were regal, her ruthlessness as beautiful and terrible as the sea. Time stood still in her circle of battle, and the Orcs seemed to come in a sort of slower motion towards her, so that she had plenty of time to whirl and face each one. No match they were for the queen of the wolves.

            Celeborn, on the other hand, was not a fighter. He could attack and he could defend himself, but he could not kill. His teeth found shoulder or face when he went for the jugular, so that he was quickly fenced in by the Orcs as he had been in previous battles. A particularly monstrous Warg was moving in for the kill…

            …when a slender pale form came flying in from the skirmish and dealt the attacker a lethal blow. The dazed Celeborn vaguely recalled Haldir performing such a rescue for him, and thought immediately that his beta had come. But his savior was not Elven, but Eowyn herself that had flown to his rescue. She gave him a curt nod before racing back into combat.

            Occasionally a body of an Orc or Warg flew into the air, thrown by an angry Ent, and remained suspended eerily against the sky before plummeting back into the terrors and adding to the piles of dead now strewn about the battlefield.

            But the battle was only beginning.

            The sun continued to edge painstakingly into the sky, yet it never lost its' fiery tinge. It was a rich scarlet as it ascended, the color of the battlefield below. The storm clouds continued to build and rumble ominously.

            Down into the fray spiraled Gandalf, his massive talons tearing into the faces of the Enemy. Screaming Orcs staggered around the field, blood streaming for their empty eye sockets. Wargs threw themselves to the earth in agony, their ears nothing but mere shreds of flesh. They were trampled by the Ents, their bodies pressed into the earth to be absorbed.

            It was a day of disaster. The guns of the Hunters did not fire, and the Trolls were being felled rapidly by the Ents. The few bullets that were set off were aimed at the great moose, but were lost in the great shaggy hides, unnoticed and doing no damage. But still the Orcs and Wargs provided a bitter assault, and ten wolves were not enough to fight several thousand of the fell creatures.

            So they were pressed backwards.

            And even as they struggled for footing, going in reverse up the steep hill, even as they faltered, their fighting failing as they nearly fell, a most peculiar sensation swept through them. Like a tidal wave, a river of little furry bodies streamed between their legs, little ears and heads brushing up against the bellies of the bigger wolves.

            Bewildered, Aragorn chanced a look back over his shoulder.

            Legolas stood on the hill a little ways behind him, and the Elven wolf reared up on his hind legs and howled in a playful imitation of the battle cry of the King of the Tundra. Gimli stood with him, and the little fox mimicked the gesture, although being unable to howl he yipped noisily. Pippin was last, and when he attempted to rear up he promptly tumbled backwards and landed on his tail. But he gamely threw back his head and howled anyway.

            The Naugrim had arrived, and never before had Aragorn been so grateful to see his Elven companion in his life. Still limping, but overriding it, Legolas came barreling into combat with a bark and a yip. He was fresh and ready for action.

            Pippin and Gimli also swept into the battle, disappearing under foot. Their presence was only noticeable when an Orc suddenly shrieked and leapt into the air, bleeding from his tender underside.

            So the Naugrim worked their magic, giving the wolves a brief but noticeable reprieve from the battle. The Orcs and Wargs were a bit distracted at the moment… it is quite easy to lose one's focus when thousands of needle sharp teeth are chomping on very sensitive areas.

            The Orcs and Wargs were beginning to fall back rapidly, screeching and dancing on the air as the Naugrim followed them, biting each other in their desperation to escape. The death toll increased as Wargs killed Orcs in their panic, and Orcs killed Wargs in their hysteria. They smashed into each other, teeth flying from mouths punched with heavy skulls.

            It was madness. Absolute chaos.

            As the insane animals swept past the Trolls, the mighty bears fell dead or mauled under the frantic teeth and claws. One such beast, huge and hulking, had been on the verge of crushing a whole group of Naugrim. A sharp nip in its' ankle distracted it. The Troll, its' huge bear head swiveling down, spotted Pippin clinging in determination to its' leg. About to strike the killing blow, it suddenly threw back its' head and roared in agony as a foaming Warg dealt it a lethal strike in the back of the neck.

            The huge body came plummeting towards the earth, and Pippin saw it too late. Though he spurred his little legs into action, the Hobbit wolf was overtaken. The carcass of the Troll fell upon him and he was buried alive under its' tremendous bulk.

            Overhead, the thunderhead cracked a terrifying roll of thunder. The Orcs and Wargs scattered rapidly, the Naugrim staying with them, while the lightning terrified the Ents and spooked them into a stampede, so that they broke and scattered across the land, their hooves pounding and shaking the earth.

            That left the wolves and the Hunters. The two forces stared at each other in cold and dreaded silence, but neither side made an actual move. The tension was broken only by the cracks of thunder, becoming more and frequent.

            And then he came.

            Rising from between the midst of the Hunters, appearing from the smoke and haze like some ghastly apparition from the depths of hell, Sauron, the Great Hunter, towered over the scene. He wore thick heavy gloves and huge black boots. The ski mask over his head covered his features, but the helmet he wore with red infrared goggles gave him a face more hideous than imagined. Across his massive chest was a sash of pelts.

            They recognized the skin of Wormtongue there. His body had been taken from the battlefield and stripped bare, his sparse grey coat now a trophy across the breast of the Enemy. The head had been left intact, so now the taut remains of a face watched them with empty eye sockets.

So the Great Hunter had come to settle this uprising once and for all.

            No one moved at all. Elrond longed to throw himself at his target and rid the world of the Hunter once and for all, but it would be folly. Aragorn, however, thought of something. In three sharp barks he commanded his Pack, and they flew at once to his command.

            Splitting into groups of two, the Pack scattered and raced towards the Hunter. The outer groups brought themselves in faster, so Sauron was practically pinned in a semi-circle. They moved with such speed and desperation that even the other hunters could do nothing.

            But then everything seemed to slow. Reaching behind him, Sauron pulled from its' holster a massive high-powered rifle, swinging it back around and leveling it before him, taking swift aim and firing a single shot. It ripped through the air and broke with more horrible certainty than the thunder overhead.

            And the bullet found its' target. Because the Great Hunter never misses.

            Elrond screamed once and fell to the earth, a terrible hole punched into him with blood escaping freely into the earth. The bullet had entered at his right collarbone and gone clear through, tearing out behind the right shoulder, leaving an exit wound the size of a clenched fist. His back legs convulsed in agony, propelling him forwards across the earth as he writhed in pain. Arching his back, he rolled over onto his side and lay sickeningly still and quiet.

            And it was even as he stared in horror and disbelief, even as his tail dropped between his legs and his ears pressed back in confusion, even as he wanted to run to his fallen friend, Aragorn suddenly found himself looking down the crosshairs of a rifle.

            At the other end of the gun, Sauron's finger was tightening on the trigger.

~ To Be Continued