Dawn breaking over Mordor was a very unusual sight. Not unusual in
its own appearance, but unusual in the effect it had over the barren plains
of Gorgoroth. To Anárion it seemed as though he was at sea once again, and
was merely watching the dawn break over the dark grey water. The thought
brought him a little peace of mind for a time; the idea that he was young
and innocent once again, going out on another adventure.
He was not, however, merely sitting at ease and watching the dawn. He turned to his left, and saw the haunted pass of Cirith Gorgor. It was still empty.
Anárion turned back to his fire. It was fed with dry moss and small, stunted shrubs that he had scavenged from the barren hills of the Morgai. He leaned closer to it, and prodded it up again with the end of a spear, urging the flames to take hold once more in what meager fuel he fed them with.
Ingold came trudging up to Anárion's position at the top of a large and steep hill that overlooked both Gorgoroth and Udûn with the foul path Cirith Gorgor. Anárion jumped at the sudden noise of his approach, but beckoned him forward. Panting for breath, the man stopped and looked over at Gorgoroth.
"It almost looks fair in this light," he said, still short of breath, "And I would call it such, if not for my knowledge of what foul deeds have come to pass here."
Anárion stood and walked over to his captain. They stood together for a few moments in silence, looking out over the plains.
"Nothing was evil to begin with, Ingold," Anárion said, "Mordor is no exception. Even though it has been the enemy's home for many years, even He cannot truly turn a land away from its roots. He can corrupt it, but always corruption can be healed."
"I think that here it will take many long ages," said Ingold.
Anárion nodded, "It will. And it may hold some of its current master's malice until the unmaking of the world, but I do not think it will be so." He turned to Ingold and smiled, "We will not live to see it, nor will our descendants for many years, but I believe that one day, Mordor will be a land of grassy plains, and of well-kept gardens."
Ingold shrugged, "It may be as you speak, but my heart doubts it. Always this land will be a stain upon Middle-earth, and nothing will take hold here."
"These are merely possibilities," Anárion said, "And none will be possible unless we focus on the task at hand. Have the scouts come back?"
Ingold turned away from Gorgoroth to his commander, "They have."
"And what do they say?"
Ingold took a deep breath before continuing, and he looked somewhat nervous, or so it seemed to Anárion, "The scouts say that the garrison at the Morannon can see a faint wisp of dust on the horizon, and they believe it to be the host of Lothlorien and Greenwood. They should be here tomorrow evening."
Anárion nodded, and was about to turn away when Ingold clapped a hand on his shoulder. Anárion looked into the face of Ingold, and saw that he was distressed.
"Is there something else, Ingold?" asked Anárion, his voice full of concern.
The younger man nodded, "Yes m'lord." He paused for a moment, and when he continued, his voice was somewhat shaky, "The Morannon garrison has sent out their own scouts, almost forty leagues down the Ered Lithui. Their scouts say that they came across large numbers of tracks that no orc- foot made. No foot of the faithless men either," he said quickly as Anárion opened his mouth to speak.
Anárion closed and opened his mouth several times, knowing what Ingold was suggesting.
"They think it was one of the Black Nùmenorians, do they?"
Ingold nodded grimly, "They do indeed m'lord. Also, they came across a rider, a rider dressed all in black. They thought it was one of the Nazgûl, so great was its menace."
"Nay, all the riders save their Lord are bottled within Minas Ithil," said Anárion as he shook his head, "It seems to me that it could be one of Ar-Pharazôn's deputies he sent to Umbar."
Ingold nodded, "You may be right m'lord. But who, or what, that thing is is not important right now. What matters is what it intends to do, if you understand."
"I understand what you are saying, Ingold. I would not lose any sleep over it. It probably means nothing. Come," Anárion gestured to the fire, "Let us break our fast."
Ingold dug some dried meat out of his pack, and Anárion laid it on a flat rock and placed it over the fire. While the meat cooked, Anárion took some lembas, the staple of the Last Alliance's diet, and dried fruit from his own pack. He laid them on a piece of cloth near the fire to warm them, and then took from a leather pouch on his belt a flask of elven wine. They passed it between each other as the fire slowly heated the meat.
At last it was finished, and they broke their fast on the meat and fruit, but ate little of the lembas; after six years of it they were a bit tired of it. The wine was nearly gone, and Ingold leaned back with the flask clutched in his hand, looking content. Anárion walked over to the edge of the precipice and looked out over his camp, which by now was buzzing with activity.
Six thousand men were under Anárion's command; a number which he felt was excessive. He was here to watch for the hosts of the Galadhrim and Greenwood, not to offer battle to any marauding orcs. Yet, in the early morning sun-light that all were still only getting used to, Anárion was filled with such a sense of pride that he could feel his chest swelling just by standing there. He walked back to the rock where Ingold lay, smiling in the warmth of the sun.
Anárion sat down beside him and slumped back against the rock. Letting the sun wash over his face, he smiled. Without opening his eyes, he turned to Ingold,
"Ingold?"
"Yes m'lord?" came the languorous reply.
"You watch over the camp today. I am going to take a rest."
"Aye m'lord," said Ingold, though he did not move.
Before long, both men were asleep against the rock, basking in the warm sunlight.
Anárion came to with a start and, glancing wildly around, he rose. Not sure what had awoken him, he carefully checked the surrounding area, hoping beyond hope that it was just a small animal that had moved suddenly in the tangled brush. He suddenly stood stock straight: there were no animals in Mordor.
He walked silently past the dying remains of his fire, and over to the edge of the precipice. There, off in the distance, was a huge, black mass, moving like a centipede over the plains of Gorgoroth.
'Easterlings,' thought Anárion, 'The encampment! They will be set upon and slain before they know what is happening!'
He looked straight down to where his troops were camped, well hidden from the plains by rocks and brush. In the calm, cool hours before darkness fell, there was little activity. Anárion looked back out to the plain; how long could his force delay the Easterlings, before they themselves were slain? An hour? Two? Perhaps more? His head swirled with possible plans of action and their respective costs and gains.
'Hold a moment,' he thought suddenly, 'They are marching south, not east. Is Orodruin their destination?'
Indeed, as their file marched onward, the leaders turned down Sauron's road to Orodruin. Anárion crept silently over to Ingold and shook the other man awake. Ingold groaned as he rolled over onto his side, still nearly asleep, but when Anárion placed his hand over his mouth, he quickly sat up and looked questioningly at Anárion.
Putting a finger to his lips, Anárion gestured over at the precipice. The two men quietly moved over. Peeking over the precipice, they saw the long line of Easterlings continue to march past. They sat for nearly twenty minutes that way, terribly afraid that at any moment they would be spotted and destroyed.
It never happened. Eventually the Easterling line faded into the distance, south over to Orodruin. Ingold wiped a hand across his sweaty brow,
"I thought we were doomed for sure, m'lord," he said.
Anárion shook his head slowly, "I do not think those men are going to be used, yet. I am beginning to feel my brother's doubts about the whole thing."
"And I do as well," said Ingold, "What shall we do my lord?"
Anárion shook his head once again, "Nothing. We shall do nothing. Tell none, and should any tell you, tell them to keep silent." He stood once again. "Douse all the fires, and tell the men to stay quiet until the Galadhrim arrive. Send two riders; one to follow the enemy host as far as they can, the other to track back along its path. I fear the garrison at the Morannon may have fallen."
"Alas," said Ingold, "It is no doubt as you speak. I shall send riders my lord." With those words, he turned down the path to go do his task.
Anárion merely nodded in response, and he lost himself in thought. Was this merely a ruse, to drive him mad, as it was doing? Or was it something much more sinister? He shook the thought from his head, and wrapped himself in his cloak to ward off a sudden chill. If it stayed like this, the men would be very angry at the lack of fires.
Was this the doing of Sauron as well? Or was it merely coincidence? The more time Anárion spent in Mordor, the more it seemed that he second- guessed himself. It was as though the very air sucked at his will, draining every drop of courage from him.
"I will not take this any longer," he stated calmly, staring out over the barren plains.
"My lord?" Ingold turned back from his decent. Looking up at his Lord and Captain, Ingold felt a rush of pride and honor run through him. It wormed its way from his toes up to his head, and his heart was lifted.
Anárion looked to him painfully noble and sad, standing upon the precipice as though it were the bow of a mighty ship. His hair and cloak swaying in the wind merely added to his aura of majesty, and his armor glinting in the sun made him appear to be one of the great Lords of Men, perhaps Húrin the Elf-friend, a lord both fair and terrible.
The spell woven over Ingold was broken as Anárion turned down to look at his captain. In his face was written the tale of six years of sorrow and weariness, and want of sunlight and green earth. It pained Ingold, not the pain of pride as before, but the pain of one who has been given the news that a loved one will soon die. Yet in Anárion's eyes was written the greatest hurt. In those sea-grey eyes there was longing, and sorrow, and weariness of ash and rock, and also pain and guilt for those that had died for him. Ingold cast his own eyes down upon the rocky ground, lest the pain of his lord split his heart asunder.
"I was speaking to myself, Ingold," said Anárion, in a voice that revealed none of the anguish written in his face, "You have a duty to do, so do not trouble yourself with me."
"It is no trouble, lord," Ingold mumbled as he turned back down the winding stone path to the camp.
As soon as the man was out of earshot, Anárion smiled grimly, "Not now perhaps, Ingold, but when my time comes, I think you will have enough problems of your own to take upon yourself any of mine."
He stood there for a while, cloak still waving in the wind, and his mind deep in thought. After a time, it seemed he had found some solace in the designs of his mind, and he turned back to his fire.
He smothered it with dirt and stones, and wrapped his cloak more tightly about him. It would be a long night, one without sleep, and now he did not even have a fire. He leaned back against the rapidly cooling stones and let his eyes roam freely over the barren plains of Gorgoroth. The sun sank behind the Ered Lithui, and darkness fell suddenly over the land.
Anárion closed his eyes, but sleep would not come, and across his plane of thought, visions of his own death danced. He was not bound this time, but was pinned to the earth with countless black-feathered shafts.
He shifted his position, and willed the dreams away. Focusing on what good things he could recall of Nùmenor, and of Gondor, he settled himself down. Still sleep would not come, and instead of the beauty of Nùmenor and Gondor, he saw only ugliness. Sacrifices in the Great Temple of Ar-Pharazôn, or deep within Ered Nimras, in caves that that faithless people dwelt. He saw fires in the gardens of Ithilien and Rómmena, and the great wave that consumed all of Nùmenor.
At length, he gave up all hope of sleep and sat staring into the darkness. He remained in that state until dawn. Ingold and several others came and went, but he paid them no mind. Somewhere across that barren plain, a menacing presence settled on him, and he despaired.
The next day at noon, the scouts returned, riding at the head of a marching column of elves. The hosts of Lothlorien and Greenwood had arrived. Clad all in green, and lightly armored, they sang as they walked, and the sound brightened that foul land. The hearts of all who heard them were lifted, and hidden enemies trembled with fear. At the head of the marching hosts rode Celeborn and Galadriel, Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim, along with Gwathôl, King of Mirkwood and Father of Thranduil.
Neither force had much cavalry, as they waged war mostly in the forests, and were swift in moving from tree to tree. Gwathôl had, however, bartered horses from the men who lived in Anduin's vale, and so had a force of nearly three thousand mounted archers. Totaled together, he had nearly fifteen thousands at his command. Celeborn commanded nearly seventeen thousands, but this was near the whole of his people, as very few had come to the pass of Cirith Gorgor.
Anárion, having come down from his perch above the camp the hour before, stepped forward to great the Elf-Lords. He raised his right hand and smiled, almost half-heartedly,
"Mae govannen, edhellenhîr."
Celeborn leapt down from his horse, a great white stallion, with ease and grace attributed to the first-born. He glided over to Anárion and clapped a hand on his shoulder and smiled,
"Mae govannen mellon!" Celeborn embraced Anárion, and when Anárion did not return it, he moved back to arm's length and studied the man's face. It was covered with ash and dust, and underneath the once-fair face was lined with worry and a tangled mask of old scars. There were dark rings under his eyes. In those eyes Celeborn thought he saw pain and horror lurking just beneath the calm surface. He frowned, "You seem troubled, Anárion son of Elendil."
Anárion closed his eyes, and when he opened them, what Celeborn believed he had seen was gone. He shook his head and extended his arm to grasp the elf's shoulder. He smiled again, however falsely and shook his head,
"It is nothing, save perhaps weariness. A short rest should take care of it, and I can take such a thing now that you have arrived. Come in," he removed his arm from Celeborn's shoulder and swept in back in a grand gesture that encompassed the entire hidden camp, "Welcome, Lord Celeborn of Lothlorien, to my humble abode, however temporary it may be."
Celeborn bowed low before Anárion, and from the head of the column his wife Galadriel spoke,
"Had we known that Men of Gondor were so fair-spoken, we might have visited Minas Anor and Ithilien long ago."
Anárion bowed to Galadriel, "I thank you for your kind words Lady Galadriel, but I fear that not all in my country are as well-mannered."
Galadriel's eyes swiftly turned on to a group of men standing nearby. They were shorter and stockier than the Men of Nùmenor, and they did not wear the emblem of the White Tree and Seven Stars of Nùmenor. They were swarthy men. Her eyes shifted back to Anárion, and stared at him accusingly.
Barely perceivably, Anárion shook his head and mouthed 'not yet, but soon' in Westron, and again in Sindarin. Galadriel nodded, also barely noticeably, and then said aloud,
"At least we can say that men of Gondor are not afraid to point out their own weaknesses."
Anárion's eyes widened with fear at those words; surely Galadriel had gone too far. He glanced about, but none of the men standing about had caught the dual meaning. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief and then bowed low once again,
"Once more I must thank you for your kind words Lady Galadriel, but come! We cannot stand about on the plain all day. Your people must be weary after your journey. We do not have much at this camp, but all that we have, we will share with you."
With those words, he came out of his bow, and moved swiftly over to Galadriel. Kneeling and cupping his hands, he made a step for her to step down. She smiled at him, and dismounted her horse.
Galadriel leaned down, and clasped a hand on either side of his head. Slowly, she dragged him up from where he knelt in the dust, and she gently kissed his forehead. As she was pulling away, she whispered,
"Meet me tonight, just outside of camp. There is something we must speak of."
Before Anárion could respond Galadriel said aloud, "Again I must thank you for your courtesy, Lord Anárion."
The corners of Anárion's lips twitched slightly, "And again I must thank you for your kindness in your words, Lady of the Golden Wood."
With those words he stood and bowed once again to Galadriel, Celeborn, Gwathôl and all the other elf-lords in attendance. Galadriel offered him her arm, and he took it. As one, Celeborn, Galadriel and Anárion walked into the hidden camp, and the hosts followed them in, marching to a slow beat, nearly like a funeral dirge.
Ingold pulled Anárion aside briefly as they walked back to the camp. Anárion raised an eyebrow at his captain, who answered,
"The scouts say the Morannon garrison is all dead. Hacked into pieces in most cases."
Anárion lowered his head, "It is as I feared. Say nothing of this to any man or elf. I still have some hope that it may be nothing."
"Hopes often go awry in this land sir."
"What you say is true enough, but we cannot afford any doubt in the ranks. Keep this under wraps." He smiled, "Come, we are just about to entertain the elf lords at the evening meal."
The two walked off in the late afternoon light to Anárion's tent.
Anárion stood up slowly, as though it pained him to do so. The others, Celeborn and the Elf-lords, Ingold and his captains, all looked at him inquisitively. He smiled, again half-heartedly.
"I am afraid that I can no longer play the role of host this evening. I have certain . . . business," he glanced at Galadriel, and she nodded, "that I must attend to. Ingold," his captain's head jerked up, "I trust that you will carry out my duties for me." He bowed to all the elf-lords, "Good day to you my lords, we will meet again."
He quickly ducked out of the tent, and walked with his long strides out to the edge of the camp. Two soldiers approached him, but he insisted that he take solitary guard duty. They departed, and he wrapped himself in his black cloak. Were it not for his face, he would have been as invisible as a Nazgûl, sitting there in the fast-fading twilight. He sat, his expression hard and stern, until he saw Galadriel.
Galadriel had that day chosen to wear a simple white gown, and it glittered in both the sun and the stars. It merely enhanced her natural radiance. She looked, to Anárion, to be as fair as one of the Valar. He silently stood, and walked to her.
He thought that he was quiet, and his body near invisible, but Galadriel did not seem surprised when he moved into position next to her. She smiled at him, and he bowed slightly.
With her hands she brought him back up again and continued to smile, "Anárion, you need not bow so often. There is a point when it crosses the line from courteous to suspicious."
Anárion nodded, "You wanted to see me?"
Galadriel's smile did not leave, "Yes, Anárion. You may have deceived my husband with your words of bravado, but you will not fool me."
Anárion took a step back, shocked, "What do you mean by this?"
Galadriel advanced a step, "You are filled with a nameless fear; it is evident in your eyes. Do not try to hide it!"
"Why? What point is there in letting men know that their commander is afraid? No, not afraid, terrified. Terrified at the prospect of going face to face with . . ." he shuddered, ". . . Him, as we will no doubt have to someday, someday soon."
Galadriel looked at him sternly, "You must never stand alone, for isolation is His greatest strength." Her look softened, "Anárion, Elendil's son, you cannot let the nameless things that claw at the back of your mind rule your deeds. You are a Son of Nùmenor, a Lord of a noble people. Your will is great, and your mind strong. You are capable of weathering this storm."
Anárion nodded, and was silent for a moment. Suddenly he said, "Galadriel! You have the gift of foresight, do you not?"
"Some say I do, some say I do not. Why do you ask?"
Anárion swallowed, "I have had . . . visions, some might call them. Visions of my own demise at the hands of Sauron. I need to know, are they true?"
Galadriel smiled wryly, "I believe your father says this often, 'with Sauron nothing is as it seems'. I suggest that you take his advice."
"I must know."
"A man's fate should be something he should discover himself. . ."
Anárion fell to his knees, "I beseech you! I can barely force myself to move for fear it should push me on that path. I need to know, is it my fate to die here, and never again see Minas Anor that I love?"
Galadriel gave him a look laden with pity, "I need no foresight to see that if you continue as you are, you will die."
Anárion cocked his right eyebrow, "My Lady?"
"You can no longer despair," she knelt down beside him, and their eyes met. In Galadriel, Anárion saw hope, but mingled amongst it sorrow. In Anárion, however, Galadriel saw a terrible thing. She said nothing about it, but instead continued as though she had seen nothing. But in her heart, she began to feel fear for the Son of Elendil. "You are a child of Nùmenor, and no matter what awaits you, you will meet it with courage."
Anárion stood, and his eyes were wet with tears, "My Lady," he said, "Once again I must thank you for your words. You have brought hope to where there was none. I must go now and rest. Let your husband know that we move out tomorrow morning."
He spun on his heel and stalked back into the camp, but his step was lighter, and he whistled softly as he moved throw the rows of tents, and he cheerfully greeted both elf and man. For in his heart, something new stirred, a feeling that he had not felt since the fall of Nùmenor. It gave him courage, and it gave him a new aura of nobility around him. It was hope.
Galadriel, however, remained as she was, kneeling in the dust of the slopes of the Morgai. And she wept, for all she had seen in Anárion's eyes was death and ruin.
The camp was abuzz with activity the next morning. In the grey dawn, men and elves hurriedly packed belongings and food, while cavalry-men threw saddles on their horses and tightened cinches. Anárion's royal guard polished their shields and sharpened their swords and the Lords of Elves and Men broke their fast in Anárion's tent.
It was an altogether different atmosphere at the table that morning. The whole affair seemed rushed and stressed. Many were surprised at Anárion's sudden change in mood. He seemed quite jovial, and laughed and sang with the rest of them. Celeborn winced at Anárion's off-key baritone voice, but said nothing and smiled as they finished the song.
However, even as Anárion had become good-humored, Galadriel had become sullen. She would not sing nor would she speak with anyone but Celeborn, and then only briefly. She seemed to be brooding, and perhaps only Sauron's arrival would have snapped her out of her musings.
When breakfast was ended, Celeborn and Galadriel left arm-in-arm to see to their horses, and Ingold went to command the mustering of the Nùmenorians. One by one, the other lords and captains left to see to their own tasks. Soon, Anárion and Gwathôl, along with six servants, were left. The servants set about packing the tent for the journey back to the Barad- dûr. Gwathôl turned to Anárion,
"Do you think we have a chance?"
Anárion shook his head slowly, "I am the wrong person to ask. Gil- galad seems to think this plan will work, and my father also, but I fear that we are merely dancing into Sauron's hands."
"Perhaps Mordor has made you paranoid," suggested Gwathôl.
"Six years of this place can do nearly anything to you," he paused. In that pause, something reached out and snatched control of his mind and mouth, "How is it that a King of such a noble land can ride after six years of war to the marches of Mordor with such a great host?"
Gwathôl frowned and furrowed his brow, "What are you suggesting? That the elves of Greenwood are cowards?"
Anárion's hand moved to his sword-hilt, "I have suggested no such thing, but it seems that you believe it so."
"What have you done that makes you better than my people? Rested on your haunches for six years?" Gwathôl snarled.
"At the least we joined battle with his host ere his strength waned!" Anárion retorted sharply. "And we have kept him bottled within his strongholds, even with the price of our lives and our spirits!"
"You would have found a host of enemies on your rear and a ruined land behind them if it were not for us!"
"I doubt that! A mindless rabble of orcs may threaten you in your woods, but my people are safe behind walls of stone!"
They stared at each other for a moment. Anárion broke it and sat down upon a packed trunk. He put his head in his hands and shook it gently.
"I apologize, Gwathôl. I did not mean to call your honor into question. I suppose madness took me." He looked up at the Elven King, "It happens in this land. It is the will of Sauron, I guess, to sunder his enemies from one another."
"I do not hold it against you," said Gwathôl, relaxing his muscles, "You are weary, and you have a long road ahead of you."
"Sometimes I fear that it is too long," Anárion said sullenly.
Gwathôl frowned, "Then you have been putting on a front all morning?"
Anárion shrugged, "Yes and no. That is not how I would normally act anywhere at any time. I am, however, trying to keep myself from despair. It has attacked me many times before, and in many places. This was one of them."
Gwathôl walked over to Anárion clapped his hand on the man's shoulder, and said, "Do not let your courage fail yet, son of Elendil. The war is still left to be fought."
Gwathôl swept aside the tent flap with one arm. With one final look back at the tall man sitting on the trunk, he left the tent. Anárion stared at the opposite wall of the tent until servants began to take it down. What did he have left? Orcs ravaged his homeland, his wife was dead, his sons hidden away from the world, and now his sanity began to slip through his fingers like water. He thought of Galadriel, and of her words. He had that night made up his mind not to despair, but now he had seen what kind of hold Sauron had on him; he did not see how he couldn't. Gwathôl's words echoed in his mind, 'the war is still left to be fought'.
In the dark recesses of his mind, an idea began to grow. He had a responsibility, to fight this war, not for himself, but for the thousands of woman and children that depended on their king. Even if he should die, then so be it.
Firm for once in his purpose, he stood up to find that he was no longer in a tent. Two servants came and took the trunk he had been sitting on. All that was left where his tent had been was his armor and helm on his cloak that was spread out over the dusty ground.
He put on his armor quickly, and jammed the helm down on his head. He moved swiftly to where the hosts were assembling, fastening his cloak as he ran. He skidded out of the brush into the assembly. Six thousand black and grey clad men raised their right arm in salute and shouted his name. Pride surged through him in mighty waves, and it intensified as Ingold brought his house. With one mighty bound, he leapt to the saddle. He wheeled his chestnut stallion about and drew his sword.
As he swung it over his head he shouted to the amassed forces, "Men of Gondor, Elves of the great forests! We have been idle long enough! Soon now, very soon, we will break down the gates of Orodruin and the Barad- dûr! We will bring that slime Sauron the Deceiver forth from his filthy hole! We will destroy the last remnant of that evil the nameless one created long ago! Go now and fear no evil will or deed!"
A great cheer rose up from the hosts, and Anárion smiled. Genuinely, and for the first time in a long time. They rode off, first the cavalry, sitting high on their proud steeds. Next came the long columns of infantry, elves and men, backs straight and arms swinging; they sang as they marched. Then came the wagons, laden with supplies and arms, and pulled by great bulls.
At the very head of the column rode Anárion and his party. The King of Gondor sat high in his saddle, and for once seemed truly and rightly at ease. The shadow had fallen from his heart and it was replaced by a great beacon of hope. Yet, deep within him, fear and desperation still worked, and a nameless dread still held sway over his actions. However, none noticed.
When he saw this, Celeborn turned to Galadriel. "I have no idea what you made him do, but he seems now to be thrice the man he ever was."
Galadriel smiled in a manner that could be described as either sly or sorrowful, "He has accepted his own fate, and this mood is of his own making. I cannot force him to do this."
And with that, Galadriel refused to say more throughout the entire journey across Gorgoroth.
This journey took the better part of four days, across a dry and barren country that was utterly devoid of life. For four days they toiled over the rocks and stones. Many, of both kindreds, were injured on the rocks; they were borne in the wagons with shredded feet and legs. These wagons had even less luck. Barely an hour would pass before one or more would break a wheel or an axel. Horses were not exempt either. Nearly six hundred had to be killed after they broke a leg.
One evening, after they had halted, Celeborn came to speak with Anárion. Even the Lord of the Galadhrim was not free of injury; his entire left leg had been torn up upon the rocks when his horse stumbled. He leaned heavily on an unstrung bow as he moved through the rows of weary soldiers. Anárion turned to him as he approached. The King of Gondor was still wearing the same fierce smile as when they set out.
He moved forward to help Celeborn as he stumbled. Celeborn nodded his thanks, then spoke, "Lord Anárion, I do not mean to be disrespectful, after all, you do know your way around this putrid land better than I," he paused, "But would it not be possible for us to have taken Sauron's road and arrive at the encampment just as quickly, and with smaller injury?"
Anárion smiled grimly. He thought only of the Easterling host he had seen, and how they would be at the same disadvantage if they pursued them through the rocks. Something nameless clawed at the back of his mind, and he withheld the fact, and answered Celeborn with a mere: "No."
He then walked away to move among the men, and Celeborn stared after him. He shook his head slowly, "That man moves as though he has grown tired of life." This was not far from the truth.
It was a ragged and weary army that finally made its way into the encampment of the Last Alliance. In a long line they dragged into the long rows of tents, exhausted to the point of collapse. Only Anárion and Gwathôl still stood tall. Gwathôl immediately leapt from his saddle to greet Thranduil, his only son. As the two embraced, Anárion wheeled his horse about and trotted over to where Gil-galad stood.
Gil-galad leaned upon Aiglos as he watched the weary soldiers trudge through the camp, wondering what could have forced them to stay off the roads. Anárion leaped off his horse and bowed to Gil-galad.
Gil-galad stared hard at Anárion, "I would hope you have good reason to go traipsing about Gorgoroth with an army already weary and footsore."
Anárion grimaced, "My king, if we could take this conversation somewhere where unfriendly ears might not hear of it."
Gil-galad stared a moment longer at the tall man, then nodded. "Come with me," he said and walked towards his tent.
Anárion followed slowly, looking up into the sky occasionally, as though something was up there, just out of sight. As the pair walked through the jumble of tents, Anárion noticed that there were far fewer men and elves moving about than there should be, even with the newly arrived sylvan elves.
They passed through the Nùmenorian quarter, and here there seemed to be more, but there were still far fewer than Anárion remembered. A man he recognized, Aerlinn, a captain, rushed out into the wide avenue between the tents.
"Aerlinn!" he called, "What is this all about? There are far fewer of our own people hear than there ought to be!"
Aerlinn winced, "You ought not to speak so loudly, Lord. The enemy is not only watching, but listening as well."
"Of this I am well aware, Aerlinn; my vigilance hasn't changed. But I fear you have changed. The Aerlinn I know would never shun a direct question from his Lord and Master."
"My Lord," said Aerlinn, "All are nervous, and do not dare speak openly of anything. The elven lords say that it is all coming down to it, and that our labors are about to bear fruit."
"It will be a deadly harvest," said Anárion bitterly.
"That may be true, Lord. Men have been going away quietly, usually at dusk. Those that remain seldom leave their tents. I believe we are getting ready for the pl. . .," Aerlinn caught himself, "For. . . it, I suppose."
Anárion nodded, "The board is set, and now it lies with us to make the move. I will see you on the field of battle, Aerlinn. You are to be one of the captains under my command."
Aerlinn touched his right temple, "May the grace of the Valar protect you my Lord."
Anárion returned the gesture, "And to you as well Aerlinn." With that, Anárion spun on his heel and trotted off after Gil-galad, who was rapidly disappearing in the distance.
Gil-galad slipped into his tent and sat down on a simple wooden chair. He reached behind him and pulled a small harp from a chest. On the large wooden table that occupied most of the tent there was a bottle of elven wine, and two goblets. He poured the wine and waited for Anárion to arrive while strumming his harp.
Anárion ducked into the tent and sat opposite Gil-galad. He looked the Elven king up and down. The fair face was pinched and drawn, and fatigue played about the grey eyes. The Elven king half-smiled at the man, and gestured towards the wine,
"Help yourself, Lord Anárion. Quench your thirst, and then we shall talk."
Anárion took one of the goblets and sipped politely at it. He set it aside and said, "My king, be not angry with me, I beg you. Fear and madness drove me to do what I have done!"
Gil-galad raised an eyebrow at Anárion. He stared into the disheveled face, stared at the dark circles under the eyes, at the lines of care at the edges of the lips and eyes. He half-smiled again, "I am not angry with you, Anárion. I am merely puzzled. You are a brave man," he stood, "What could possibly frighten you this badly?"
Anárion sat still for a long moment, considering his answer. Finally, he began, "My sanity is slipping Gil-galad. To not slip into madness is like trying to hold back the flow of the River Anduin. He is bearing down on me, and I cannot keep upright." He looked at Gil-galad pointedly, "If I wait much longer, my last defenses will fall, and my mind will be open to His will."
Gil-galad looked into Anárion's eyes; his own full of concern, "You are fast becoming a broken man, Anárion. There are fears that you will not share with anyone else. Tell me, what has you scared?"
"The enemy has brought in new strength from the east. A great host, greater than the one Celeborn and Gwathôl have brought, marched towards Orodruin no more than five nights ago."
"Have you told Celeborn, or anyone for that matter?"
"No," Anárion kneaded his forehead with his knuckles, "I have been . . . wavering, as of late. I will be as joyous as a small child one moment, fell as a cornered beast the next. I would have told Celeborn, but, something stopped me."
Gil-galad took the wine bottle and poured himself a goblet, "We will have a council tonight. In the meantime, you should go take some rest. I have a spare cot in the back of the tent."
Anárion drained his goblet, and stood. He nodded to Gil-galad and moved into the back of the tent, massaging the bridge of his nose. After draining his own goblet, Gil-galad silently walked to the back of the tent. He pushed aside the flap and looked in.
Anárion was asleep, which came as no surprise. He had been operating on very little sleep for far too long. His face, however, was twisted in torment. Gil-galad let the flap fall back into place. He waved a hand over Vilya, and whispered under his breath for a moment. Anárion's face relaxed, and he had his first nightmare-free sleep in many weeks.
Gil-galad walked back to his seat, and stood over it for a few moments, thinking. The greatest crucible still laid before them, and with men everywhere in worse shape than Anárion, how would they meet it?
He was not, however, merely sitting at ease and watching the dawn. He turned to his left, and saw the haunted pass of Cirith Gorgor. It was still empty.
Anárion turned back to his fire. It was fed with dry moss and small, stunted shrubs that he had scavenged from the barren hills of the Morgai. He leaned closer to it, and prodded it up again with the end of a spear, urging the flames to take hold once more in what meager fuel he fed them with.
Ingold came trudging up to Anárion's position at the top of a large and steep hill that overlooked both Gorgoroth and Udûn with the foul path Cirith Gorgor. Anárion jumped at the sudden noise of his approach, but beckoned him forward. Panting for breath, the man stopped and looked over at Gorgoroth.
"It almost looks fair in this light," he said, still short of breath, "And I would call it such, if not for my knowledge of what foul deeds have come to pass here."
Anárion stood and walked over to his captain. They stood together for a few moments in silence, looking out over the plains.
"Nothing was evil to begin with, Ingold," Anárion said, "Mordor is no exception. Even though it has been the enemy's home for many years, even He cannot truly turn a land away from its roots. He can corrupt it, but always corruption can be healed."
"I think that here it will take many long ages," said Ingold.
Anárion nodded, "It will. And it may hold some of its current master's malice until the unmaking of the world, but I do not think it will be so." He turned to Ingold and smiled, "We will not live to see it, nor will our descendants for many years, but I believe that one day, Mordor will be a land of grassy plains, and of well-kept gardens."
Ingold shrugged, "It may be as you speak, but my heart doubts it. Always this land will be a stain upon Middle-earth, and nothing will take hold here."
"These are merely possibilities," Anárion said, "And none will be possible unless we focus on the task at hand. Have the scouts come back?"
Ingold turned away from Gorgoroth to his commander, "They have."
"And what do they say?"
Ingold took a deep breath before continuing, and he looked somewhat nervous, or so it seemed to Anárion, "The scouts say that the garrison at the Morannon can see a faint wisp of dust on the horizon, and they believe it to be the host of Lothlorien and Greenwood. They should be here tomorrow evening."
Anárion nodded, and was about to turn away when Ingold clapped a hand on his shoulder. Anárion looked into the face of Ingold, and saw that he was distressed.
"Is there something else, Ingold?" asked Anárion, his voice full of concern.
The younger man nodded, "Yes m'lord." He paused for a moment, and when he continued, his voice was somewhat shaky, "The Morannon garrison has sent out their own scouts, almost forty leagues down the Ered Lithui. Their scouts say that they came across large numbers of tracks that no orc- foot made. No foot of the faithless men either," he said quickly as Anárion opened his mouth to speak.
Anárion closed and opened his mouth several times, knowing what Ingold was suggesting.
"They think it was one of the Black Nùmenorians, do they?"
Ingold nodded grimly, "They do indeed m'lord. Also, they came across a rider, a rider dressed all in black. They thought it was one of the Nazgûl, so great was its menace."
"Nay, all the riders save their Lord are bottled within Minas Ithil," said Anárion as he shook his head, "It seems to me that it could be one of Ar-Pharazôn's deputies he sent to Umbar."
Ingold nodded, "You may be right m'lord. But who, or what, that thing is is not important right now. What matters is what it intends to do, if you understand."
"I understand what you are saying, Ingold. I would not lose any sleep over it. It probably means nothing. Come," Anárion gestured to the fire, "Let us break our fast."
Ingold dug some dried meat out of his pack, and Anárion laid it on a flat rock and placed it over the fire. While the meat cooked, Anárion took some lembas, the staple of the Last Alliance's diet, and dried fruit from his own pack. He laid them on a piece of cloth near the fire to warm them, and then took from a leather pouch on his belt a flask of elven wine. They passed it between each other as the fire slowly heated the meat.
At last it was finished, and they broke their fast on the meat and fruit, but ate little of the lembas; after six years of it they were a bit tired of it. The wine was nearly gone, and Ingold leaned back with the flask clutched in his hand, looking content. Anárion walked over to the edge of the precipice and looked out over his camp, which by now was buzzing with activity.
Six thousand men were under Anárion's command; a number which he felt was excessive. He was here to watch for the hosts of the Galadhrim and Greenwood, not to offer battle to any marauding orcs. Yet, in the early morning sun-light that all were still only getting used to, Anárion was filled with such a sense of pride that he could feel his chest swelling just by standing there. He walked back to the rock where Ingold lay, smiling in the warmth of the sun.
Anárion sat down beside him and slumped back against the rock. Letting the sun wash over his face, he smiled. Without opening his eyes, he turned to Ingold,
"Ingold?"
"Yes m'lord?" came the languorous reply.
"You watch over the camp today. I am going to take a rest."
"Aye m'lord," said Ingold, though he did not move.
Before long, both men were asleep against the rock, basking in the warm sunlight.
Anárion came to with a start and, glancing wildly around, he rose. Not sure what had awoken him, he carefully checked the surrounding area, hoping beyond hope that it was just a small animal that had moved suddenly in the tangled brush. He suddenly stood stock straight: there were no animals in Mordor.
He walked silently past the dying remains of his fire, and over to the edge of the precipice. There, off in the distance, was a huge, black mass, moving like a centipede over the plains of Gorgoroth.
'Easterlings,' thought Anárion, 'The encampment! They will be set upon and slain before they know what is happening!'
He looked straight down to where his troops were camped, well hidden from the plains by rocks and brush. In the calm, cool hours before darkness fell, there was little activity. Anárion looked back out to the plain; how long could his force delay the Easterlings, before they themselves were slain? An hour? Two? Perhaps more? His head swirled with possible plans of action and their respective costs and gains.
'Hold a moment,' he thought suddenly, 'They are marching south, not east. Is Orodruin their destination?'
Indeed, as their file marched onward, the leaders turned down Sauron's road to Orodruin. Anárion crept silently over to Ingold and shook the other man awake. Ingold groaned as he rolled over onto his side, still nearly asleep, but when Anárion placed his hand over his mouth, he quickly sat up and looked questioningly at Anárion.
Putting a finger to his lips, Anárion gestured over at the precipice. The two men quietly moved over. Peeking over the precipice, they saw the long line of Easterlings continue to march past. They sat for nearly twenty minutes that way, terribly afraid that at any moment they would be spotted and destroyed.
It never happened. Eventually the Easterling line faded into the distance, south over to Orodruin. Ingold wiped a hand across his sweaty brow,
"I thought we were doomed for sure, m'lord," he said.
Anárion shook his head slowly, "I do not think those men are going to be used, yet. I am beginning to feel my brother's doubts about the whole thing."
"And I do as well," said Ingold, "What shall we do my lord?"
Anárion shook his head once again, "Nothing. We shall do nothing. Tell none, and should any tell you, tell them to keep silent." He stood once again. "Douse all the fires, and tell the men to stay quiet until the Galadhrim arrive. Send two riders; one to follow the enemy host as far as they can, the other to track back along its path. I fear the garrison at the Morannon may have fallen."
"Alas," said Ingold, "It is no doubt as you speak. I shall send riders my lord." With those words, he turned down the path to go do his task.
Anárion merely nodded in response, and he lost himself in thought. Was this merely a ruse, to drive him mad, as it was doing? Or was it something much more sinister? He shook the thought from his head, and wrapped himself in his cloak to ward off a sudden chill. If it stayed like this, the men would be very angry at the lack of fires.
Was this the doing of Sauron as well? Or was it merely coincidence? The more time Anárion spent in Mordor, the more it seemed that he second- guessed himself. It was as though the very air sucked at his will, draining every drop of courage from him.
"I will not take this any longer," he stated calmly, staring out over the barren plains.
"My lord?" Ingold turned back from his decent. Looking up at his Lord and Captain, Ingold felt a rush of pride and honor run through him. It wormed its way from his toes up to his head, and his heart was lifted.
Anárion looked to him painfully noble and sad, standing upon the precipice as though it were the bow of a mighty ship. His hair and cloak swaying in the wind merely added to his aura of majesty, and his armor glinting in the sun made him appear to be one of the great Lords of Men, perhaps Húrin the Elf-friend, a lord both fair and terrible.
The spell woven over Ingold was broken as Anárion turned down to look at his captain. In his face was written the tale of six years of sorrow and weariness, and want of sunlight and green earth. It pained Ingold, not the pain of pride as before, but the pain of one who has been given the news that a loved one will soon die. Yet in Anárion's eyes was written the greatest hurt. In those sea-grey eyes there was longing, and sorrow, and weariness of ash and rock, and also pain and guilt for those that had died for him. Ingold cast his own eyes down upon the rocky ground, lest the pain of his lord split his heart asunder.
"I was speaking to myself, Ingold," said Anárion, in a voice that revealed none of the anguish written in his face, "You have a duty to do, so do not trouble yourself with me."
"It is no trouble, lord," Ingold mumbled as he turned back down the winding stone path to the camp.
As soon as the man was out of earshot, Anárion smiled grimly, "Not now perhaps, Ingold, but when my time comes, I think you will have enough problems of your own to take upon yourself any of mine."
He stood there for a while, cloak still waving in the wind, and his mind deep in thought. After a time, it seemed he had found some solace in the designs of his mind, and he turned back to his fire.
He smothered it with dirt and stones, and wrapped his cloak more tightly about him. It would be a long night, one without sleep, and now he did not even have a fire. He leaned back against the rapidly cooling stones and let his eyes roam freely over the barren plains of Gorgoroth. The sun sank behind the Ered Lithui, and darkness fell suddenly over the land.
Anárion closed his eyes, but sleep would not come, and across his plane of thought, visions of his own death danced. He was not bound this time, but was pinned to the earth with countless black-feathered shafts.
He shifted his position, and willed the dreams away. Focusing on what good things he could recall of Nùmenor, and of Gondor, he settled himself down. Still sleep would not come, and instead of the beauty of Nùmenor and Gondor, he saw only ugliness. Sacrifices in the Great Temple of Ar-Pharazôn, or deep within Ered Nimras, in caves that that faithless people dwelt. He saw fires in the gardens of Ithilien and Rómmena, and the great wave that consumed all of Nùmenor.
At length, he gave up all hope of sleep and sat staring into the darkness. He remained in that state until dawn. Ingold and several others came and went, but he paid them no mind. Somewhere across that barren plain, a menacing presence settled on him, and he despaired.
The next day at noon, the scouts returned, riding at the head of a marching column of elves. The hosts of Lothlorien and Greenwood had arrived. Clad all in green, and lightly armored, they sang as they walked, and the sound brightened that foul land. The hearts of all who heard them were lifted, and hidden enemies trembled with fear. At the head of the marching hosts rode Celeborn and Galadriel, Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim, along with Gwathôl, King of Mirkwood and Father of Thranduil.
Neither force had much cavalry, as they waged war mostly in the forests, and were swift in moving from tree to tree. Gwathôl had, however, bartered horses from the men who lived in Anduin's vale, and so had a force of nearly three thousand mounted archers. Totaled together, he had nearly fifteen thousands at his command. Celeborn commanded nearly seventeen thousands, but this was near the whole of his people, as very few had come to the pass of Cirith Gorgor.
Anárion, having come down from his perch above the camp the hour before, stepped forward to great the Elf-Lords. He raised his right hand and smiled, almost half-heartedly,
"Mae govannen, edhellenhîr."
Celeborn leapt down from his horse, a great white stallion, with ease and grace attributed to the first-born. He glided over to Anárion and clapped a hand on his shoulder and smiled,
"Mae govannen mellon!" Celeborn embraced Anárion, and when Anárion did not return it, he moved back to arm's length and studied the man's face. It was covered with ash and dust, and underneath the once-fair face was lined with worry and a tangled mask of old scars. There were dark rings under his eyes. In those eyes Celeborn thought he saw pain and horror lurking just beneath the calm surface. He frowned, "You seem troubled, Anárion son of Elendil."
Anárion closed his eyes, and when he opened them, what Celeborn believed he had seen was gone. He shook his head and extended his arm to grasp the elf's shoulder. He smiled again, however falsely and shook his head,
"It is nothing, save perhaps weariness. A short rest should take care of it, and I can take such a thing now that you have arrived. Come in," he removed his arm from Celeborn's shoulder and swept in back in a grand gesture that encompassed the entire hidden camp, "Welcome, Lord Celeborn of Lothlorien, to my humble abode, however temporary it may be."
Celeborn bowed low before Anárion, and from the head of the column his wife Galadriel spoke,
"Had we known that Men of Gondor were so fair-spoken, we might have visited Minas Anor and Ithilien long ago."
Anárion bowed to Galadriel, "I thank you for your kind words Lady Galadriel, but I fear that not all in my country are as well-mannered."
Galadriel's eyes swiftly turned on to a group of men standing nearby. They were shorter and stockier than the Men of Nùmenor, and they did not wear the emblem of the White Tree and Seven Stars of Nùmenor. They were swarthy men. Her eyes shifted back to Anárion, and stared at him accusingly.
Barely perceivably, Anárion shook his head and mouthed 'not yet, but soon' in Westron, and again in Sindarin. Galadriel nodded, also barely noticeably, and then said aloud,
"At least we can say that men of Gondor are not afraid to point out their own weaknesses."
Anárion's eyes widened with fear at those words; surely Galadriel had gone too far. He glanced about, but none of the men standing about had caught the dual meaning. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief and then bowed low once again,
"Once more I must thank you for your kind words Lady Galadriel, but come! We cannot stand about on the plain all day. Your people must be weary after your journey. We do not have much at this camp, but all that we have, we will share with you."
With those words, he came out of his bow, and moved swiftly over to Galadriel. Kneeling and cupping his hands, he made a step for her to step down. She smiled at him, and dismounted her horse.
Galadriel leaned down, and clasped a hand on either side of his head. Slowly, she dragged him up from where he knelt in the dust, and she gently kissed his forehead. As she was pulling away, she whispered,
"Meet me tonight, just outside of camp. There is something we must speak of."
Before Anárion could respond Galadriel said aloud, "Again I must thank you for your courtesy, Lord Anárion."
The corners of Anárion's lips twitched slightly, "And again I must thank you for your kindness in your words, Lady of the Golden Wood."
With those words he stood and bowed once again to Galadriel, Celeborn, Gwathôl and all the other elf-lords in attendance. Galadriel offered him her arm, and he took it. As one, Celeborn, Galadriel and Anárion walked into the hidden camp, and the hosts followed them in, marching to a slow beat, nearly like a funeral dirge.
Ingold pulled Anárion aside briefly as they walked back to the camp. Anárion raised an eyebrow at his captain, who answered,
"The scouts say the Morannon garrison is all dead. Hacked into pieces in most cases."
Anárion lowered his head, "It is as I feared. Say nothing of this to any man or elf. I still have some hope that it may be nothing."
"Hopes often go awry in this land sir."
"What you say is true enough, but we cannot afford any doubt in the ranks. Keep this under wraps." He smiled, "Come, we are just about to entertain the elf lords at the evening meal."
The two walked off in the late afternoon light to Anárion's tent.
Anárion stood up slowly, as though it pained him to do so. The others, Celeborn and the Elf-lords, Ingold and his captains, all looked at him inquisitively. He smiled, again half-heartedly.
"I am afraid that I can no longer play the role of host this evening. I have certain . . . business," he glanced at Galadriel, and she nodded, "that I must attend to. Ingold," his captain's head jerked up, "I trust that you will carry out my duties for me." He bowed to all the elf-lords, "Good day to you my lords, we will meet again."
He quickly ducked out of the tent, and walked with his long strides out to the edge of the camp. Two soldiers approached him, but he insisted that he take solitary guard duty. They departed, and he wrapped himself in his black cloak. Were it not for his face, he would have been as invisible as a Nazgûl, sitting there in the fast-fading twilight. He sat, his expression hard and stern, until he saw Galadriel.
Galadriel had that day chosen to wear a simple white gown, and it glittered in both the sun and the stars. It merely enhanced her natural radiance. She looked, to Anárion, to be as fair as one of the Valar. He silently stood, and walked to her.
He thought that he was quiet, and his body near invisible, but Galadriel did not seem surprised when he moved into position next to her. She smiled at him, and he bowed slightly.
With her hands she brought him back up again and continued to smile, "Anárion, you need not bow so often. There is a point when it crosses the line from courteous to suspicious."
Anárion nodded, "You wanted to see me?"
Galadriel's smile did not leave, "Yes, Anárion. You may have deceived my husband with your words of bravado, but you will not fool me."
Anárion took a step back, shocked, "What do you mean by this?"
Galadriel advanced a step, "You are filled with a nameless fear; it is evident in your eyes. Do not try to hide it!"
"Why? What point is there in letting men know that their commander is afraid? No, not afraid, terrified. Terrified at the prospect of going face to face with . . ." he shuddered, ". . . Him, as we will no doubt have to someday, someday soon."
Galadriel looked at him sternly, "You must never stand alone, for isolation is His greatest strength." Her look softened, "Anárion, Elendil's son, you cannot let the nameless things that claw at the back of your mind rule your deeds. You are a Son of Nùmenor, a Lord of a noble people. Your will is great, and your mind strong. You are capable of weathering this storm."
Anárion nodded, and was silent for a moment. Suddenly he said, "Galadriel! You have the gift of foresight, do you not?"
"Some say I do, some say I do not. Why do you ask?"
Anárion swallowed, "I have had . . . visions, some might call them. Visions of my own demise at the hands of Sauron. I need to know, are they true?"
Galadriel smiled wryly, "I believe your father says this often, 'with Sauron nothing is as it seems'. I suggest that you take his advice."
"I must know."
"A man's fate should be something he should discover himself. . ."
Anárion fell to his knees, "I beseech you! I can barely force myself to move for fear it should push me on that path. I need to know, is it my fate to die here, and never again see Minas Anor that I love?"
Galadriel gave him a look laden with pity, "I need no foresight to see that if you continue as you are, you will die."
Anárion cocked his right eyebrow, "My Lady?"
"You can no longer despair," she knelt down beside him, and their eyes met. In Galadriel, Anárion saw hope, but mingled amongst it sorrow. In Anárion, however, Galadriel saw a terrible thing. She said nothing about it, but instead continued as though she had seen nothing. But in her heart, she began to feel fear for the Son of Elendil. "You are a child of Nùmenor, and no matter what awaits you, you will meet it with courage."
Anárion stood, and his eyes were wet with tears, "My Lady," he said, "Once again I must thank you for your words. You have brought hope to where there was none. I must go now and rest. Let your husband know that we move out tomorrow morning."
He spun on his heel and stalked back into the camp, but his step was lighter, and he whistled softly as he moved throw the rows of tents, and he cheerfully greeted both elf and man. For in his heart, something new stirred, a feeling that he had not felt since the fall of Nùmenor. It gave him courage, and it gave him a new aura of nobility around him. It was hope.
Galadriel, however, remained as she was, kneeling in the dust of the slopes of the Morgai. And she wept, for all she had seen in Anárion's eyes was death and ruin.
The camp was abuzz with activity the next morning. In the grey dawn, men and elves hurriedly packed belongings and food, while cavalry-men threw saddles on their horses and tightened cinches. Anárion's royal guard polished their shields and sharpened their swords and the Lords of Elves and Men broke their fast in Anárion's tent.
It was an altogether different atmosphere at the table that morning. The whole affair seemed rushed and stressed. Many were surprised at Anárion's sudden change in mood. He seemed quite jovial, and laughed and sang with the rest of them. Celeborn winced at Anárion's off-key baritone voice, but said nothing and smiled as they finished the song.
However, even as Anárion had become good-humored, Galadriel had become sullen. She would not sing nor would she speak with anyone but Celeborn, and then only briefly. She seemed to be brooding, and perhaps only Sauron's arrival would have snapped her out of her musings.
When breakfast was ended, Celeborn and Galadriel left arm-in-arm to see to their horses, and Ingold went to command the mustering of the Nùmenorians. One by one, the other lords and captains left to see to their own tasks. Soon, Anárion and Gwathôl, along with six servants, were left. The servants set about packing the tent for the journey back to the Barad- dûr. Gwathôl turned to Anárion,
"Do you think we have a chance?"
Anárion shook his head slowly, "I am the wrong person to ask. Gil- galad seems to think this plan will work, and my father also, but I fear that we are merely dancing into Sauron's hands."
"Perhaps Mordor has made you paranoid," suggested Gwathôl.
"Six years of this place can do nearly anything to you," he paused. In that pause, something reached out and snatched control of his mind and mouth, "How is it that a King of such a noble land can ride after six years of war to the marches of Mordor with such a great host?"
Gwathôl frowned and furrowed his brow, "What are you suggesting? That the elves of Greenwood are cowards?"
Anárion's hand moved to his sword-hilt, "I have suggested no such thing, but it seems that you believe it so."
"What have you done that makes you better than my people? Rested on your haunches for six years?" Gwathôl snarled.
"At the least we joined battle with his host ere his strength waned!" Anárion retorted sharply. "And we have kept him bottled within his strongholds, even with the price of our lives and our spirits!"
"You would have found a host of enemies on your rear and a ruined land behind them if it were not for us!"
"I doubt that! A mindless rabble of orcs may threaten you in your woods, but my people are safe behind walls of stone!"
They stared at each other for a moment. Anárion broke it and sat down upon a packed trunk. He put his head in his hands and shook it gently.
"I apologize, Gwathôl. I did not mean to call your honor into question. I suppose madness took me." He looked up at the Elven King, "It happens in this land. It is the will of Sauron, I guess, to sunder his enemies from one another."
"I do not hold it against you," said Gwathôl, relaxing his muscles, "You are weary, and you have a long road ahead of you."
"Sometimes I fear that it is too long," Anárion said sullenly.
Gwathôl frowned, "Then you have been putting on a front all morning?"
Anárion shrugged, "Yes and no. That is not how I would normally act anywhere at any time. I am, however, trying to keep myself from despair. It has attacked me many times before, and in many places. This was one of them."
Gwathôl walked over to Anárion clapped his hand on the man's shoulder, and said, "Do not let your courage fail yet, son of Elendil. The war is still left to be fought."
Gwathôl swept aside the tent flap with one arm. With one final look back at the tall man sitting on the trunk, he left the tent. Anárion stared at the opposite wall of the tent until servants began to take it down. What did he have left? Orcs ravaged his homeland, his wife was dead, his sons hidden away from the world, and now his sanity began to slip through his fingers like water. He thought of Galadriel, and of her words. He had that night made up his mind not to despair, but now he had seen what kind of hold Sauron had on him; he did not see how he couldn't. Gwathôl's words echoed in his mind, 'the war is still left to be fought'.
In the dark recesses of his mind, an idea began to grow. He had a responsibility, to fight this war, not for himself, but for the thousands of woman and children that depended on their king. Even if he should die, then so be it.
Firm for once in his purpose, he stood up to find that he was no longer in a tent. Two servants came and took the trunk he had been sitting on. All that was left where his tent had been was his armor and helm on his cloak that was spread out over the dusty ground.
He put on his armor quickly, and jammed the helm down on his head. He moved swiftly to where the hosts were assembling, fastening his cloak as he ran. He skidded out of the brush into the assembly. Six thousand black and grey clad men raised their right arm in salute and shouted his name. Pride surged through him in mighty waves, and it intensified as Ingold brought his house. With one mighty bound, he leapt to the saddle. He wheeled his chestnut stallion about and drew his sword.
As he swung it over his head he shouted to the amassed forces, "Men of Gondor, Elves of the great forests! We have been idle long enough! Soon now, very soon, we will break down the gates of Orodruin and the Barad- dûr! We will bring that slime Sauron the Deceiver forth from his filthy hole! We will destroy the last remnant of that evil the nameless one created long ago! Go now and fear no evil will or deed!"
A great cheer rose up from the hosts, and Anárion smiled. Genuinely, and for the first time in a long time. They rode off, first the cavalry, sitting high on their proud steeds. Next came the long columns of infantry, elves and men, backs straight and arms swinging; they sang as they marched. Then came the wagons, laden with supplies and arms, and pulled by great bulls.
At the very head of the column rode Anárion and his party. The King of Gondor sat high in his saddle, and for once seemed truly and rightly at ease. The shadow had fallen from his heart and it was replaced by a great beacon of hope. Yet, deep within him, fear and desperation still worked, and a nameless dread still held sway over his actions. However, none noticed.
When he saw this, Celeborn turned to Galadriel. "I have no idea what you made him do, but he seems now to be thrice the man he ever was."
Galadriel smiled in a manner that could be described as either sly or sorrowful, "He has accepted his own fate, and this mood is of his own making. I cannot force him to do this."
And with that, Galadriel refused to say more throughout the entire journey across Gorgoroth.
This journey took the better part of four days, across a dry and barren country that was utterly devoid of life. For four days they toiled over the rocks and stones. Many, of both kindreds, were injured on the rocks; they were borne in the wagons with shredded feet and legs. These wagons had even less luck. Barely an hour would pass before one or more would break a wheel or an axel. Horses were not exempt either. Nearly six hundred had to be killed after they broke a leg.
One evening, after they had halted, Celeborn came to speak with Anárion. Even the Lord of the Galadhrim was not free of injury; his entire left leg had been torn up upon the rocks when his horse stumbled. He leaned heavily on an unstrung bow as he moved through the rows of weary soldiers. Anárion turned to him as he approached. The King of Gondor was still wearing the same fierce smile as when they set out.
He moved forward to help Celeborn as he stumbled. Celeborn nodded his thanks, then spoke, "Lord Anárion, I do not mean to be disrespectful, after all, you do know your way around this putrid land better than I," he paused, "But would it not be possible for us to have taken Sauron's road and arrive at the encampment just as quickly, and with smaller injury?"
Anárion smiled grimly. He thought only of the Easterling host he had seen, and how they would be at the same disadvantage if they pursued them through the rocks. Something nameless clawed at the back of his mind, and he withheld the fact, and answered Celeborn with a mere: "No."
He then walked away to move among the men, and Celeborn stared after him. He shook his head slowly, "That man moves as though he has grown tired of life." This was not far from the truth.
It was a ragged and weary army that finally made its way into the encampment of the Last Alliance. In a long line they dragged into the long rows of tents, exhausted to the point of collapse. Only Anárion and Gwathôl still stood tall. Gwathôl immediately leapt from his saddle to greet Thranduil, his only son. As the two embraced, Anárion wheeled his horse about and trotted over to where Gil-galad stood.
Gil-galad leaned upon Aiglos as he watched the weary soldiers trudge through the camp, wondering what could have forced them to stay off the roads. Anárion leaped off his horse and bowed to Gil-galad.
Gil-galad stared hard at Anárion, "I would hope you have good reason to go traipsing about Gorgoroth with an army already weary and footsore."
Anárion grimaced, "My king, if we could take this conversation somewhere where unfriendly ears might not hear of it."
Gil-galad stared a moment longer at the tall man, then nodded. "Come with me," he said and walked towards his tent.
Anárion followed slowly, looking up into the sky occasionally, as though something was up there, just out of sight. As the pair walked through the jumble of tents, Anárion noticed that there were far fewer men and elves moving about than there should be, even with the newly arrived sylvan elves.
They passed through the Nùmenorian quarter, and here there seemed to be more, but there were still far fewer than Anárion remembered. A man he recognized, Aerlinn, a captain, rushed out into the wide avenue between the tents.
"Aerlinn!" he called, "What is this all about? There are far fewer of our own people hear than there ought to be!"
Aerlinn winced, "You ought not to speak so loudly, Lord. The enemy is not only watching, but listening as well."
"Of this I am well aware, Aerlinn; my vigilance hasn't changed. But I fear you have changed. The Aerlinn I know would never shun a direct question from his Lord and Master."
"My Lord," said Aerlinn, "All are nervous, and do not dare speak openly of anything. The elven lords say that it is all coming down to it, and that our labors are about to bear fruit."
"It will be a deadly harvest," said Anárion bitterly.
"That may be true, Lord. Men have been going away quietly, usually at dusk. Those that remain seldom leave their tents. I believe we are getting ready for the pl. . .," Aerlinn caught himself, "For. . . it, I suppose."
Anárion nodded, "The board is set, and now it lies with us to make the move. I will see you on the field of battle, Aerlinn. You are to be one of the captains under my command."
Aerlinn touched his right temple, "May the grace of the Valar protect you my Lord."
Anárion returned the gesture, "And to you as well Aerlinn." With that, Anárion spun on his heel and trotted off after Gil-galad, who was rapidly disappearing in the distance.
Gil-galad slipped into his tent and sat down on a simple wooden chair. He reached behind him and pulled a small harp from a chest. On the large wooden table that occupied most of the tent there was a bottle of elven wine, and two goblets. He poured the wine and waited for Anárion to arrive while strumming his harp.
Anárion ducked into the tent and sat opposite Gil-galad. He looked the Elven king up and down. The fair face was pinched and drawn, and fatigue played about the grey eyes. The Elven king half-smiled at the man, and gestured towards the wine,
"Help yourself, Lord Anárion. Quench your thirst, and then we shall talk."
Anárion took one of the goblets and sipped politely at it. He set it aside and said, "My king, be not angry with me, I beg you. Fear and madness drove me to do what I have done!"
Gil-galad raised an eyebrow at Anárion. He stared into the disheveled face, stared at the dark circles under the eyes, at the lines of care at the edges of the lips and eyes. He half-smiled again, "I am not angry with you, Anárion. I am merely puzzled. You are a brave man," he stood, "What could possibly frighten you this badly?"
Anárion sat still for a long moment, considering his answer. Finally, he began, "My sanity is slipping Gil-galad. To not slip into madness is like trying to hold back the flow of the River Anduin. He is bearing down on me, and I cannot keep upright." He looked at Gil-galad pointedly, "If I wait much longer, my last defenses will fall, and my mind will be open to His will."
Gil-galad looked into Anárion's eyes; his own full of concern, "You are fast becoming a broken man, Anárion. There are fears that you will not share with anyone else. Tell me, what has you scared?"
"The enemy has brought in new strength from the east. A great host, greater than the one Celeborn and Gwathôl have brought, marched towards Orodruin no more than five nights ago."
"Have you told Celeborn, or anyone for that matter?"
"No," Anárion kneaded his forehead with his knuckles, "I have been . . . wavering, as of late. I will be as joyous as a small child one moment, fell as a cornered beast the next. I would have told Celeborn, but, something stopped me."
Gil-galad took the wine bottle and poured himself a goblet, "We will have a council tonight. In the meantime, you should go take some rest. I have a spare cot in the back of the tent."
Anárion drained his goblet, and stood. He nodded to Gil-galad and moved into the back of the tent, massaging the bridge of his nose. After draining his own goblet, Gil-galad silently walked to the back of the tent. He pushed aside the flap and looked in.
Anárion was asleep, which came as no surprise. He had been operating on very little sleep for far too long. His face, however, was twisted in torment. Gil-galad let the flap fall back into place. He waved a hand over Vilya, and whispered under his breath for a moment. Anárion's face relaxed, and he had his first nightmare-free sleep in many weeks.
Gil-galad walked back to his seat, and stood over it for a few moments, thinking. The greatest crucible still laid before them, and with men everywhere in worse shape than Anárion, how would they meet it?