Chapter Twenty-Five: The Last Battle

Aragorn gazed down at me, his voice fraught with pity. "Isilden, I'm sorry…"

I said nothing as tears poured down my face. The man put his arms tenderly around me, and I wept into his tunic, sobs of despair wracking my body. Aragorn held me gently until at last my tears had dried. Then, without another word spoken, we continued to the House of Healing.

----

I stood silently at Denethor's bedside. Aragorn, Elrond, Théoden, Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf and the Steward's sons all stood nearby. Denethor's face was so terribly, sickly pale, many thought he was really dead. The only thing confirming his life was the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. And it was slight.

Boromir was silent as he placed his hand on his father's cheek, which was the color of parchment. But I saw the tears that streaked his face as he wept. Faramir laid a hand on his elder brother's trembling shoulder, tears flowing down his face as well.

It was Elrond who at last broke the silence that hung around us. "We have done all we can for him. I fear a greater evil is amassing. Mordor is preparing for the final war, that will ultimately decide the fate of our earth."

"Then we must defend ourselves," said Aragorn. "Gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate."

"We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms," Théoden told him.

"Not for ourselves," Elrond countered, "but perhaps for two little hobbits, somewhere in the darkness. It is in their hands that all of our hope lies."

Boromir nodded, his tears drying on his face. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes."

----

We came to Mordor a few hours later, after riding out from Minas Tirith. I rode behind Elrond on his steed, next to Aragorn. Legions of men from Rohan and Gondor rode behind us.

As we rode, I could feel my head pounding. I blamed it on the air, which was warming to an uncomfortable level. Elrond glanced at me over his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I lied. "Just a headache – it's the heat."

Elrond frowned slightly, but seemed to accept my alibi, and turned to gaze ahead.

The Black Gate of Mordor was a formidable sight, towering hundreds of feet high and spanning even wider. Even with an army behind me, I was terrified. This was it. The final battle.

The White Tree embroidered upon my tunic gleamed in the fiery light coming from somewhere behind the Gate. Everything was deadly silent; not even a breeze disturbed the dust. The Gate was shut and locked tight. Not even an ant could have walked through it.

Aragorn spurred his mount forward. Boromir, Faramir, Elrond, Gandalf, Théoden, Legolas and Gimli followed. Aragorn looked every inch the King he was fated to be; the White Tree upon his chest flashing in the sunlight, his sword gleaming as he unsheathed it. In a loud voice he shouted to the air: "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth, that justice may be done upon him!"

For a moment there was nothing but silence, and then the Gate creaked open…

A lone rider on a dark, armored horse galloped out toward us. The rider was also clothed in shades of ebony, and a helm of black metal concealed most of its face. The only thing that was visible was its mouth, which was contorted in a mocking, yellow-toothed grin.

"I am the Mouth of Sauron," it said in a low voice. "My liege, Sauron the Great, bids thee welcome. Is there any in this rabble with authority to treat with me?"

"We do not come to negotiate with Sauron," Elrond spoke up icily. "You may tell your 'liege' that the army of Mordor is to disband, and that he is to depart this land for ever."

The Mouth of Sauron sneered. "I remember you, Half-breed. Ah, yes… the spawn of Elwing, abandoned at your birth even by your own father. Noble heritage, indeed."

Elrond's eyes narrowed, and his fist clenched upon the hilt of his sword so hard that his knuckles whitened. He did not speak again.

The Mouth of Sauron gazed around him, and his eyes settled on me. "Well, how peculiar – an orc, riding in the company of Elves and Men. Are you aware that you are riding side-by-side with your enemies, orc?"

I remained silent, but my mouth twisted itself into a grimace of hatred. The Mouth of Sauron spoke again to me. "Have you no tongue in your head? Whose side are you on?"

I spat out my words like venom. "The furthest side from the likes of you."

The Mouth of Sauron, still smiling blandly, shook his finger at me and made a tsk, tsk sound with his tongue, chastising me as though I were an ill-behaved child. "My, my, aren't you being a naughty little boy? Turning on your creator, and bearing the Gondorian standard? Sauron deals most mercilessly with traitors and turncoats. He will devise a fitting punishment for you."

He then turned to Aragorn, addressing him coldly. "Ah, Isildur's Heir. The last of a ragged house, long bereft of lordship. More is required to make a King than a simple broken sword."

At that remark, something in me that seemed to have been tensing steadily, finally snapped. Whipping my sword from its sheath, I drew it back and swung. The Mouth of Sauron was slain before he could draw another breath; his head thudded to the ground and lay there unheeded.

I looked up as a horn blew somewhere before them, and a shadow crept over the horizon.

It seemed as though all of Mordor was gathered on the threshold; thousands of orcs were joined by massive trolls and other foul beasts.

But worst of all was the Eye. Lidless, flaming, it stared unwaveringly at us, piercing my very soul with its gaze.

"Pull back!" Aragorn yelled. "Pull back!"

Elrond turned his horse with the others to follow Aragorn as he rode swiftly away from the Gate. We rejoined the mass of soldiers, and Aragorn rode before us, yelling as he did.

"Hold your ground! Hold your ground! Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers!" he cried. "I see fear in your eyes, and so can you, no doubt, in mine. Courage is not the absence of fear; it is acting despite the fear. There may come a day when it fails; when all chance of valor has gone beyond recall or desire. But it is not this day!"

My heart leapt as Aragorn continued, "Men of the West, fear no darkness! By all that you hold dear upon this earth, stand! This day shall be a sword day… a red day… ere the sun rises!"

Thousands of naked swords shone in the sunlight, and the light of the Eye. The legions of Mordor were all around us, pressing in on us. Silence reigned once more, as the dull pounding in my head intensified. Aragorn slowly strode forward, staring silently up at the Eye.

Then the stillness was broken by his voice, a whisper.

"For Frodo."

With that, he leapt forward with a yell. Scrambling down from the back of Elrond's horse, I rushed to follow him. Merry and Pippin ran alongside me, and we were soon overwhelmed by our own forces as the soldiers of Gondor and Rohan dove into battle.

I yelled wildly at the orcs as I cut them down, hacking and slashing with unbridled rage. Many of them died hearing cries of "That's for my parents!" "That's for Lord Denethor!" and the one I used most often, "That's for Elennar!"

"Good for you," Aragorn panted, coming up beside me. With his sword, he left another orc with a very brief headache. "Elendil!"

Despite the constant drumming in my head, I battled on. Blood splattered my tunic, partially obliterating the White Tree. Our forces beat the orcs back bravely, but it seemed we were beginning to lose the fight. And the pain in my head – oh, the pain!

My brain felt as if someone was using it like a blacksmith's iron, heating it red-hot and pummeling it with a hammer. I thought my head was ready to crack. Heedless of everything around me, I fell to the ground, eyes closed, clutching at my scalp, my nails digging into my skin. The pain grew greater… greater…

…and stopped.

When I opened my eyes again, my vision was veiled in red. All I could hear were the steady thumps of my heart and the sound of my breaths whooshing to and from my lungs. But then… there was a voice.

"Whom do you serve?" it hissed.

I heard myself reply in a blank monotone.

"Saruman."

"Good," the voice praised me. "What is your duty?"

I lifted my bloodstained sword as I spoke one word.

"Kill."

The crimson mist parted like a curtain, and I saw before me an elf. He stood motionless, his sword hanging in its sheath at his side, gazing silently at something. I neither knew nor cared what. My task was clear, clearer now than it had ever been, than it would ever be.

I stepped forward a pace, and the elf did not move. Another, and my sword was aimed for his back. A third, and the cloak that swept back from his shoulders was tickling my face. I was close enough, I thought.

If I had been any closer, I would have heard his whispers.

"Come on… come on… any second now…"

I brushed aside the cloak that whipped against my face, raising my sword in a steady hand. I could almost smell the elf's blood pulsing through his body, and savored the sweet thought of my first taste of it. Smiling in silent triumph, I licked my lips. He would never see it coming.

But neither did I.

I was blasted off my feet by some massive blow, though there was no-one near enough to strike me. Pulsing red and black shapes flooded my sight. I felt as though my soul was being skinned. Layers of me peeled back and screamed away in the maelstrom that was my new world.

Red-hot fire devoured me. This was pain beyond pain; it felt like being immersed in molten metal and being told it was icy water. I was screaming, a toneless, senseless wail that threatened to deafen me. I would have welcomed it, just to escape. I longed for oblivion.

But I couldn't escape. Not until it was over.

My limited sight was dimming. My heart thudded ever louder in my ears, but gradually it softened and faded. Now other sounds were taking its place. Voices. They tumbled over one another in a contest to be the loudest, and one easily won. It was a cry that sliced through my numbing mind like a silver knife before flashing into the all-consuming black.

"ISILDEN!"