The Rohan Pride Trilogy
Part Three: Terms
Book Two
By: WhiteLadyOfTroy
Summary:
The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.
About the Trilogy:
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. The Fellowship of the Ring had two books within the text, as did The Two Towers and The Return of the King. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where The Fellowship of the Ring started. Terms will be divided into two books.
About Chapter Eighteen:
As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. In addition, I recognize that some of the upcoming events will, to many, seem far-fetched. So it may be, but do recall that lots of strange things happen in Middle-earth. (Not to mention the fact that I came up with it in sixth grade, so cut me some slack, lol.) Regarding the names of the Nazgûl, Khamûl is the only confirmed one—see Unfinished Tales. The other names are from a role-playing game, but since they are in Númenórean form, I have decided to use them. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.
Chapter Eighteen
It was the twenty-fifth of March. Within the Black Gate of Mordor, all was silent, hovering on the brink of a precipice like a diver on the edge of a cliff. The forces of the Dark Lord lay in wait; scouts had reported that an army of men was making its way to the Black Land. All the preparations had been made, all of the troops assembled. Mordor was still, and Sauron brooded quietly on his throne, his mind turning uneasily over the appearance of a Ranger from the north.
In the dead of night, so late that it was nearly morning, a shadow swept over the sky and landed softly on the barren ground before the Morannon. The Nazgûl's iron boots clanked together as he dismounted his steed; a dark cloak, covering a shapeless existence, rippled against the metal. Khamûl his name was, and all who saw him pass quailed with fear, for anger radiated from him like poisonous fumes from a furnace.
His Master was most displeased with the way the war was turning out. On the same day that his triumph in Gondor had been thwarted, the Elven king Thranduil in the north had held back the forces of Dol Guldur. Yet more of the Dark Lord's armies had attacked the Elves, this time in Lothlórien—again, victory had evaded their grasp. Khamûl seethed in anger, flexing his gauntlets.
In addition, just a week ago news had been sent to the Tower of the appearance of a human: The very woman that his master had employed as an experiment, in hopes of increasing his army by including the lesser gender. He snorted in contempt, stalking towards the Black Gate. Women! They were nothing but trouble. This one had been sent to find the Ring; she had failed, utterly, yet had the nerve to show her face in Mordor.
As he drew nearer to the Morannon, one of the irksome Orcs came bobbing over to him, shrinking away in terror even as he bowed. For a brief second, Khamûl contemplated killing him for the sport, but he had better things to do with his time, and his master's commands to obey. Ignoring the Orc's greeting, he growled, "Where is she?"
"I-In the Fang-fort, just as the orders from Lugbúrz said," the Orc replied nervously, referring in his native speech to what the Elves called Barad-dûr.
Khamûl regarded him with contempt. "Tell the Lieutenant that the Dark Lord wants the armies arranged before the Black Gate within the hour," he snarled, relaying his other message. "The men have been seen only a few leagues away."
The Orc bowed, though the Nazgûl had one last thing to say. "If I find out you have disobeyed me, you will be taken to Lugbúrz to suffer my master's displeasure!"
Once more, the Orc bowed, this time hastily and unsteadily. He hurried away, and for a few seconds Khamûl watched him, his invisible eyes flaring with disgust. At last satisfied that his instructions would be followed, he muttered a curse and turned towards Narchost, one of the Towers of the Teeth. His lip curled into a sneer as he drew closer to it. The foolish Gondorians had built it in the days of their power, such as they called it, yet long ago had abandoned it. Now it was used for his master's purposes.
He passed into Narchost, listening to the sound of his boots falling with a harsh noise upon the stone. Orcs stepped aside to let him by, each bowing frantically. He ignored them, and soon came to a flight of stairs. These curved down into the earth; no torch lit the dank walls, for the dungeons were here. Prisoners were kept in this place until transportation to the Dark Tower could be arranged.
Though the blackness was so complete that light itself was choked and unable to survive, Khamûl thrived on this existence. He could see every rat-infested corner, every slimy stone, every bone littering the floor, every fly buzzing around the corpses. A cold chill had fallen about the room in his presence, making him smile in something akin to pleasure. Yet not truly pleasure, for it had been so long since he had experienced the sensation… He did not know what it felt like.
The woman was in a small cell, her hands fixed to the wall with rusting chains. One of the other Nazgûl had brought her here seven days ago. Since then, she had been given some food and drink, enough to keep her alive, but in such small portions that she was too weak to struggle. Indeed, she barely seemed to know where she was, and had not even noticed his presence.
Khamûl paused for a moment to recall his orders from Sauron. She was to be taken to the Dark Tower before the day's end—and she had to arrive in one piece, unspoiled and unharmed. The men had been strictly forbidden against laying their hands on her, with the threat of death if they disobeyed. So far, they had all complied. The woman was not nearly tempting enough: Each of her bones jutted out, straining against the skin; her frail body was hardly larger than a child's, and huddled pathetically in a small heap.
He snorted derisively, and at the sound the woman stirred with a faint moan. Her eyes did not fix on him, but she knew that he was there, and trembled in fear. Khamûl strode over to her, kicking open the door of her cell. It banged against the walls, making a loud clashing noise that caused her to cringe. Yet even then, she was not aware of what was happening: And so locks were not used on these dungeons, when the captives were prisoners of their own minds.
Withdrawing a key from the folds of his robes, he used it to undo the chains binding her to the wall. His cold gauntlet brushed her cheek as he did so, and she shivered. A low groan escaped her shriveled lips. "Borogor…" she whispered.
Khamûl paused before releasing the last chain. That name sounded familiar. One of the commanding officers, perhaps? It was not Orkish. No matter, he thought to himself, and let the shackles fall to the ground. The woman muttered some more, though it was no longer in the Common Tongue. This irritated him, and he was rougher than he would have been as he pulled her up by her throat.
The next moment he growled, for she wavered and became limp in his grasp. When he looked at her eyes, they were glazed over. How pathetically weak these humans were. The cold ring around his finger might have burned at times, but it made him inconceivably powerful… able to endure for years that which others could not bear for seconds. Unparalleled torment, the slow, everlasting decay of body and mind—all this Khamûl suffered, and far more.
Yet not for long. As he carried the woman out of the dungeons, a sense of excitement came over him. Soon the Dark Lord would triumph over the pitiful Free Peoples, and enslave them all. Revenge would be taken upon the Gondorians who had slain the Witch-king of Angmar. The Elves would be killed, all of them. And as a faithful servant to his master, Khamûl knew that he could expect a fine reward for his patience.
He ascended the stairs, and right away noticed that something was wrong. The activity in Narchost had increased tenfold since he had gone down into the dungeons. Everywhere he looked, Orcs were scrambling around the tower, donning armor and sharpening their swords. Their movements were frantic, and the higher-ranked ones were barking out fierce orders to the others. Numerous squabbles had already unraveled.
Without bothering to ask them what was happening, he swept out of Narchost and saw all of Sauron's army spread out before him. Countless thousands of men and Orcs stretched as far back as the eye could see. The remaining seven Nazgûl were standing at the head of this formidable force, awaiting his instruction. One of them swept over to him. "They have arrived," Akhorahil hissed, flexing his grip on his sword.
The news both surprised and worried Khamûl. He himself had given the orders to assemble the Dark Lord's army, though he had assumed that they had an hour or two until the Gondorians arrived—after an ambush had been sent to make trial of their strength, he had thought that their going would be slowed with caution. Yet apparently it was not so.
He gave a snarl of displeasure. Now he could not return to the Tower and toss the woman into the dungeons. There was simply not enough time for such a trip.
It was then that a voice rose into the air, drowning out even the Orcs as they jostled against each other in the lines. Khamûl stiffened as a man called from beyond the Black Gate, "Let the lord of the Black Land come forth! Let justice be done upon him!"
"Isildur's heir," Khamûl growled, knowing without a doubt that this was the insolent Ranger his master had dwelled on for months uncounted.
"Gandalf the Grey is also with them," someone snickered, and Khamûl smiled coldly when he saw the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr approach him on horseback. The creature was Sauron's ambassador, and indeed the most remarkable feature about him was his mouth—cracked and bleeding, with yellowed teeth that gnashed unpleasantly on every word spoken, it had intimidated many with just its appearance.
The Lieutenant shifted, and Khamûl saw that in his hands he held two items: A shirt of fine, glittering material, and the cloak that had been taken from the woman. "The Halfling's," the Lieutenant grinned, lifting the shirt. "Perhaps they will be willing to parlay for him."
Ah, the Halfling. It had been captured in the pass of Cirith Ungol, where the giant spider Shelob dwelt. None knew what it had been doing there, nor why: Nothing of value had been found on him, other than the shirt. More troubling was the fact that he had gotten so far into the Black Land without being spotted. He was currently being held in the tower guarding Cirith Ungol, awaiting interrogation.
Khamûl did not know how terribly wrong he was. So he merely nodded his head at the Lieutenant, and raised his hand at the sentinels on the Gates, giving the signal for them to be opened.
"And what of the woman?" the Lieutenant asked, gesturing towards the limp form in Khamûl's arms. "Shall we show her to them, as well?"
"She is of no importance to them," Khamûl replied, his voice a low hiss. "I doubt that any of them would recognize her. Remember, she was their enemy."
The Lieutenant inclined his head, and then turned away. The Black Gate were opening as they spoke, though only a small crack had yet revealed itself in the cold mass of iron. Khamûl smiled very faintly, and slipped from the view of the Gondorians. It would not do to reveal himself before his entrance into the battle. The other Nazgûl hid themselves likewise, standing close beside their steeds in preparation for the fight.
"What are your plans regarding the woman?" Akhorahil asked him, glancing disdainfully at her.
Khamûl sighed in annoyance. "These prisoners are far more trouble than they are worth," he snarled, and looked at Narchost. He had been planning on placing the woman back inside, yet a strange foreboding feeling had swelled up within him. It was only for the briefest instant, and perhaps a mere echo of his former self, but he was suddenly unsure of whether that would be the best idea.
Akhorahil seemed to sense his doubt. "Then have your steed carry her into battle like a prized trophy. Nothing strikes the heart of men more than seeing a woman in peril—and they will not dare shoot at you, for fear of harming her."
"Do you not think that they will be more concerned about the Orcs than the skies?" Khamûl asked, though even as he said this his mind was mulling over the idea. Akhorahil had a fair point: It would terrify the men to see such a sight, to see what cruelty the Dark Lord treated his prisoners with. And it was true that they would think twice before releasing their arrows at his mount—yet another weakness of their kind.
How he enjoyed profiting from their flaws.
It was the early morning of March twenty-fifth when Aragorn, now called Elessar, and his men arrayed themselves before the Black Gate of Mordor. Gondorians and Rohirrim alike stood together, mingled with each other in the last offense of the Free Peoples. Swords shook with nervousness; tongues wet lips with anxiety. No one expected to survive. No one expected the battle to last more than an hour.
Legolas reined Arod in for a brief moment, causing Gimli to tighten his grip around his waist. He scanned the Mountains of Shadow, wondering where Frodo and Sam were, or if they were even still alive. It was for the Halflings that they now made this hopeless assault upon Mordor, seeking to divert Sauron's attention from what was happening in his own land. In this last, desperate attempt, they sought to give Frodo the time he needed to destroy the Ring.
Just then, Aragorn nudged his horse forward, heading towards the Morannon to declare his challenge. A standard-bearer followed him, holding the flag of Gondor. The White Tree rippled in the wind. Gandalf and Pippin went after them; Éomer and Legolas brought up the rear. The Captains of the West had gone forth to war, and would probably never return to their lands again.
Legolas' eyes swept over Éomer's form, stiff and bowed against the fate that had been handed to him. He was the king of Rohan, but his people would soon likely perish or be enslaved, should Frodo not reach Mount Doom in time. His uncle was dead, and the White Lady lay on a bed in the Houses of Healing, struggling to recover from the shadow that covered her. And Gúthwyn…
He felt a surge of pity for her. To hand oneself over to the Dark Lord, all for the sake of two children, was something even the bravest man would have debated long about before doing. It pained his heart to think of her perishing in a windowless dungeon—she was terrified of the dark—far away from the friends and family that she so loved. Such a grim, horrible end he could barely begin to imagine.
Hammel and Haiweth had been left in Gondor, under the care of the Warden of the Houses of Healing. The Lady Éowyn remained there as well, along with Faramir, the son of the Steward Denethor. Denethor no longer lived: In a fit of madness, he had tried to burn himself on a pyre. When Gandalf had foiled his plans, he had leapt off the top level of Minas Tirith, falling to his death on the Pelennor Fields. They had recovered what was left of his body shortly before their departure.
And now they were here in Mordor, the dominion of Sauron. As they came to a halt before the Black Gate, Legolas sighed heavily. He could not help but picture Gúthwyn in his mind, and wondered where they had taken her. A chill ran up and down his body as he envisioned multiple scenarios, each one a thousand times worse than the last. Yet as bad as his thoughts were, he did not doubt that the horror was increased tenfold in Éomer's mind.
Once again, he sighed, and turned his attentions to Aragorn, now known as Elessar by his people. He truly looked the part of a king. His Ranger garb was hidden beneath a full skirt of mail, underlying a robe of black leather. On this was embroidered the emblem of Gondor: the White Tree of renowned fame, set below seven silver stars. His black cloak billowed behind him, fastened to his shoulders with two silver and gold brooches. He had not been declared king, and nor would he unless by some miracle Frodo managed to fulfill his quest in time, but the Gondorians were delighted to accept him.
At the moment, Aragorn was gazing thoughtfully up at the Morannon. It thoroughly dwarfed him in height, yet he was not intimidated. "Let the lord of the Black Land come forth!" he called, his voice echoing over the silent grounds. "Let justice be done upon him!"
For a long time, all was quiet. Éomer glanced uneasily around them, his eyes narrowed and his mouth frowning over the scene. Legolas gave him a small, sympathetic smile before looking back at the Gates. A great rumbling noise had begun within them. Slowly but surely, a crack appeared in the cold iron, growing larger by the second. He held the reins of Arod tighter, should the horse take fright and try to shy away.
Soon, the Gates were opened enough so that a man might ride through. And one did: A messenger of Sauron, garbed in black, guided his steed out of a swirling cloud of dust towards them. Over his shoulder, Legolas saw with a sinking heart a solid wall of Orcs, awaiting a command to attack. Even his Elven eyes could not determine an end to their lines.
The creature—for it could surely not be a human, with all but its pale chin and mouth foul beyond description covered by a steel helmet—approached them on an ironclad horse. The beast itself seemed evil: Its eyes were flaming red, glaring at them all from its sockets, and it grunted menacingly as it drew closer to them.
"My master, Sauron the Great, bids thee welcome," the creature said, flecks of spit and what looked suspiciously like blood flying from its mouth. Legolas saw Pippin recoil in disgust as it bared its yellowed teeth in a grin at them.
Aragorn raised his eyebrows, but did not say anything. Neither did the others. Legolas watched as the messenger's mouth turned towards each of them, then hissed in amusement. "Is there any in this rout with authority to treat with me?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.
At last, Gandalf spoke. "We do not come to treat with Sauron," he replied calmly, and the creature's head twisted to look at him; "faithless and accursed." Fetid teeth gnashed together in disapproval. "Tell your master this: The armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart these lands, never to return.
A snort of derision escaped the messenger, just as they had all expected. "Old Greybeard," he sneered, and what must have been a smile passed over his face. "I have a token I was bidden to show thee."
To the horror of all who had been in the Company, he withdrew from a pocket of his robes two articles of clothing: A tattered black cloak, and a shirt of mithril. Legolas' heart froze as he looked upon Frodo's garments. A terror seized him in a relentless grip, so that for a moment he could barely breathe. The Halfling had been captured. All was lost.
A laugh sounded in the air, and the clothes were thrown at Gandalf. The wizard caught them, turning them over in his hands.
"Frodo!" Pippin cried in despair, his face twisting in grief. For the first time, the messenger noticed him.
"Silence!" Gandalf barked.
"No!" Merry exclaimed in dismay. Behind him, Éomer was staring in shock at the clothing.
"Silence!" Gandalf ordered again, as the messenger's head swiveled around to look at the Hobbit.
Cold laughter met their ears. "The Halfling was dear to thee, I see," the creature said, smirking. "Know that he suffered greatly at the hands of his host."
Behind Legolas, Gimli grumbled in pure hatred. Legolas felt the bile rising in his throat.
"Who would have thought," the messenger mused, "that one so small could endure so much pain?"
It was too much for Pippin. Silent tears began forming in his eyes. The creature's mouth focused on him for the briefest instant before saying, "And he did, Gandalf. He did."
Gandalf did not say anything, and it came to Legolas then that something was wrong with this. Had the Ring been reclaimed, Sauron's darkness would have spread over the lands already. They would have known immediately; all would have felt the change. Yet there was nothing in the air to hint at it…
It was then that Éomer said, unexpectedly, "That cloak. It is too large for a Hobbit."
Legolas looked to where the king of Rohan's wide eyes were. In his hands, Gandalf still held the other garment—the long black cloak that was, indeed, bigger than it should have been. For a moment he puzzled over it, for it was familiar.
"Ah," the messenger breathed. "My mistake. That belongs to a slave who… failed to complete her task."
His words slammed into Legolas' gut. All of the color left his face; Éomer's was a mirror of his own.
"What did you do to her?" Éomer growled in a choked voice, nudging Firefoot forward.
For a second, the creature was taken aback by the ferocity with which he was addressed. Then he recovered swiftly. "She will be punished, of course," he replied silkily. "In the same manner of the Halfling, though worse—far worse. The Dark Lord does not appreciate disobedience. If there is any of her left when he is done, I expect she shall be thrown to the men, so they might do with her what they will."
Éomer froze, his face horrified. He looked sick. Legolas felt a wave of revulsion sweep over him, and prayed that Gúthwyn would mercifully perish before such a fate befell her.
"Why?" the messenger asked in delight, sensing weakness. "Do you know this woman? Was she your lover, perhaps? Your wife? Your favorite tavern whore?"
With a hideous snarl, Éomer spat, "How dare you? She was my—"
"Éomer!" Aragorn said warningly, his voice covering the word "sister." Before anyone could say anything, he moved his horse forward, a fire smoldering in his eyes.
"And who is this?" the creature inquired, giving the Ranger a disdainful glance. "Isildur's heir?"
Aragorn did not respond to his mocking words, and merely drew closer to the messenger.
"It takes more to make a king than a broken Elvish blade," Sauron's servant snorted. It was the last thing he spoke.
With a terrible roar, Aragorn drew Andúril from its sheathe and delivered a sweeping strike to the messenger's head. It separated from his body, spiraling harmlessly towards the ground; the mouth stoppered in its insolence.
"I guess that concludes negotiations," Gimli sighed. Legolas did not have the heart to answer him.
Aragorn wheeled his horse around. "I do not believe it," he said, his eyes ablaze with the ruinous fire. "I will not!"
A lurching creaking noise above them sounded, and they all looked to see the Gates opening further. This time, row upon row of Orcs was revealed to be marching towards them. Legolas' gaze clouded at the sight, and his mouth thinned. With only two hundred men at his command, Aragorn was outnumbered at least ten to one. As the Morannon spread its cold arms apart, he could see a bright red glare from Sauron's tower. It was his Eye, burning through the smoke with the fierceness of the sun.
"Pull back," the Ranger said, espying it also. "Pull back!"
They obeyed, turning their horses about to follow him as he rode towards his men. A roaring sound was growing in Legolas' ears, harsh and guttural in the language of the Orcs. Before them, the men were becoming nervous, several of them backing up as they realized just how powerless they truly were. Their glances darted all around them; the entire line was in danger of collapsing.
"Hold your ground!" Aragorn commanded them, raising his sword in defiance of the Enemy. "Hold your ground!"
Though all of them looked terrified, none broke their formation as Isildur's heir rode along the ranks. "Sons of Gondor, of Rohan," he called as he went, "my brothers! I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me!"
Legolas watched his friend speak to his troops, and knew without a doubt that he would have been the greatest king Gondor had ever seen since the days of Elendil the Tall. It grieved him to think that all his dreams, all of his toils, would come to naught in this hour.
"A day may come," Aragorn continued, "when the courage of Men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship. But it is not this day."
The men were no longer moving. They remained utterly still, listening intently to what their leader was saying. Determination was awakening on their faces, grim and weary with trial. Though they might fall today, they would not go without costing the Enemy heavy loss.
"An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the age of Men comes crashing down!" Aragorn shouted, showing none of the fear that Legolas knew was racing through his friend. "But it is not this day. This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, Men of the West!"
He held his sword aloft as his horse reared proudly; Gondorians and Rohirrim alike withdrew their own blades, so that the sound of ringing metal echoed over the grounds. None of them would flee now—indeed, they were surrounded, for more Orcs had emerged from caves in the mountains.
Those on horse dismounted. Legolas stroked Arod's mane briefly. "Farewell, my friend," he murmured. Several squires came forward to lead the mares into the center of the troops, for even in this hopeless situation some care was taken for their animals.
All the while, the Orcs were drawing closer. He thought he could see now some Men filtered among their ranks, though none of them appeared to be from Harad, and there were no Easterlings. Rather, these looked like slaves of the Dark Lord, ones who were being forced to fight at his bidding.
A sigh from Gimli caught his attention. "Never thought I would die fighting side by side with an Elf," he muttered.
Legolas smiled. "What about side by side with a friend?" he asked, turning to the Dwarf who had been his companion for many months.
"Aye," Gimli said, nodding thoughtfully. "I could do that."
No more words did they exchange. Legolas fixed his gaze back on the Orcs, and though their numbers only seemed to be increasing his heart felt lighter than it had moments ago. This might have been the end, yet it was not as terrible as he had imagined it would be. He actually felt rather calm—sooner or later his end would come, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. His only task now was to fight as hard and long as he was able, so that Frodo and Sam might have a chance.
Sauron's army had halted, and was now staring menacingly at their opponents, trying to intimidate them with looks alone. It did not matter what they did: The hearts of the Men of the West were set, and only death would take them from the battle. Andúril gleamed in the frail light, issuing a silent challenge to the darkness. Aragorn was staring directly at the Eye.
He stepped forward, lowering his sword. For a time, no one moved. Not even the Orcs seemed to breathe. A strange feeling crept over Legolas: His friend had faltered, doubtful, unsure of what to do. His shoulders were hesitant, his motions slow.
And then all of his thoughts were dispersed as Aragorn turned around and looked at them. A faint smile crept over his features. "For Frodo," he whispered.
Heeding not the danger, Aragorn Elessar of the Dúnedain raised his sword against the foes of his people. With a great cry, he sprang forward. Merry and Pippin leapt after him. As if they had been released from a spell, the Gondorians and the Rohirrim charged, their yells uplifted in the air. Legolas ran also, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he withdrew his bow and fired a shot. It bit into the throat of an Orc.
In seconds, hand to hand combat ensued. He abandoned his bow in favor of his knives, sinking them deep into an Orc. When he pulled them out, the white metal was stained with black blood. Soon, he had killed more Orcs than he could keep track of. The Free Peoples were holding their own against Sauron's army, though how long this would last he did not know.
As he slashed across the chest of an attacker, Legolas heard a familiar shrieking noise that sent shivers up and down his spine. He did not have to glance up to see the Nazgûl swooping down over the battlefield. Indeed, listening to their calls was enough; more than one of the men were hewn as they cowered, stricken senseless by the sound. The shadows of the Black Riders circled over the fighters endlessly, inflicting little physical damage but terrifying their enemies.
Yet then another cry was added to the chaos, shriller, yet not horrifying. In spite of himself, he looked up just in time to see one of the Nazgûl's steeds colliding with a smaller bird. Its feathers were bronze, its beak piercing through the flesh of the carrion beast.
"The eagles are coming!" he heard Pippin yell, and the call was uptaken by the other men. A glimmer of hope arose in his heart as the Nazgûl reeled. Something fell from the sky onto the ground, though he did not see what it was. And at that moment, an Orc lunged at him; he delivered a swift stroke to its neck, slaying him utterly. Above him the battle in the skies continued, with the eagles gaining the clear mastery.
It was then that the wind started to shift. Great screeching noises poured from the Nazgûl, and for reasons quite unknown to all they hastily left the fight, speeding away towards Barad-dûr. Their departure gave the men heart, and they attacked with increasing ferocity. Legolas saw Éomer give a fatal blow to an Orc with his shield, and knew that it was more than the Black Rider's absence that lent fury to his strokes. He fought for his sisters, one wounded in the course of battle and the other beyond all thought of rescue.
Another Orc fell beneath the twin knives; as its body collapsed to the ground, Legolas heard an inhuman growl not too far away. He turned and saw a mountain troll, clad in iron armor and carrying a thick sword in its hands, approaching Aragorn. Worry gripped at his heart, and he made his way closer to the Ranger. Men were circling all around the troll, looking for an opening in his defenses as their leader parried with it.
With a great roar, the creature swung his hand at Aragorn. Caught off guard, the man was flung to the ground. Legolas began hacking at the Orcs that stood between him and his friend, desperate to come to his aid before it was too late. Panic fueled his moments as Aragorn turned over, only to have his chest stomped on by the troll.
"Aragorn!" he yelled frantically, flinging aside an Orc that sought to deter him. The Ranger struggled under the troll's foot, unsheathing a dagger from his belt and stabbing it into the rough flesh.
Suddenly, an invisible bolt of energy surged through him. Legolas froze; he was not the only one who had felt it. A wailing cry rose over the battlefield, a shriek that seemed to scream of a thousand years' agony and torment. The mountain troll paused, his sword halfway raised to smite Aragorn. As one, the Orcs hesitated, glancing uncertainly back and forth between their opponents and the tower of Barad-dûr.
What had been an offense soon became a rout. The Enemy's forces began scattering in unexplained alarm, their will broken and defeated. Legolas did not continue fighting. His attention was fixed on Barad-dûr, on the Eye of Sauron. Clouds of shadow appeared to be swirling around the Dark Lord. It was then that he realized that Mount Doom was smoking, rumbling in forewarning of eruption. Only one thing could that mean.
"Frodo," he murmured in amazement, in disbelief, in a joyous shock beyond anything he had experienced, as the very foundations of Barad-dûr began crumbling. As if they were made of sticks, the iron walls were disintegrating, sliding down towards the ground as though they had been held together by flimsy strings. The Eye of Sauron blazed in terror as its impregnable fortress came hurtling to the ashen plain of Gorgoroth, yet it was growing smaller with each passing second.
Legolas gaped in open awe as the Dark Lord vanished, his spirit fleeing Middle-earth after thousands of years a shadow upon the minds of all the Free Peoples. Frodo Baggins of the Shire had destroyed the Ring, banishing Sauron the Great into the Void for all eternity. With his disappearance came a second bolt of energy, and then the stones of Barad-dûr exploded. His reign had ended.
The remains of the tower were flung onto the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust that grew so that nothing else could be seen. It raced towards the Morannon, an unstoppable force. Legolas watched it as if hypnotized, hardly daring to conceive that Sauron had been vanquished at last. Triumphant shouts of "Frodo!" echoed numbly in his ears. The parched ground began sinking beneath the very feet of the Orcs, throwing them and the Morannon into the clutches of the earth. Sauron's empire was being decimated before their own eyes in an end that none of them had foreseen.
Only Mount Doom was left. And then it erupted, throwing molten lava hundreds of feet into the air. Legolas' heart froze, his happiness turned to horror. What had once been cries of delight morphed into tears; Pippin's face was wet as he wordlessly mouthed "Frodo" over and over again.
Yet not all were silent. "The realm of Sauron is ended!" Gandalf declared, though his eyes shone with tears. "The Ringbearer has fulfilled his Quest."
Even as he spoke, the leader of the eagles swooped down to land beside him. At his appearance, many of the Enemy that had not been able to flee cast aside their weapons, begging for mercy. These were all Men, ones whom had been least willing to fight. But Gandalf paid them no heed, leaving such matters to the others. He climbed atop the eagle, and before many were aware of it he had been lifted into the sky.
Legolas watched him go, and understood that he was trying to find Frodo. With every fiber of his being he hoped that the search would not be in vain. So much had the Halfling sacrificed for the good of Middle-earth; so much had he lost. His somber eyes roamed the battlefield, flickering over Aragorn—who had gotten to his feet, unharmed by the troll—and the Hobbits, weeping quietly together.
He saw Gimli then, and started making his way over to the Dwarf. Mercifully, his friend did not appear to be injured, but for a small cut on his head. He did not doubt that the attacker's victory had been short-lived. As he went, he gazed at the countless dead, though noting with relief that most of them were the Enemy. Only a few Gondorians and Rohirrim did he see.
To his right an Orc laid, an axe driven through his head. Yet it was not the gruesome sight that made him pause in curiosity: There was a hand sticking out from beneath it, a human hand, slender and looking strangely out of place amidst the carnage. He frowned and moved closer, wondering if it was a young boy—but he did not think that any had embarked upon the march to Mordor.
Drawn to it for some reason, he knelt beside the hand. It was small, and the skin was papery thin. Legolas knitted his eyebrows, and then reached out for the Orc. With no small amount of effort, for the creature was garbed in several pounds' worth of iron armor, he shoved the Orc off of the body. As he did, he found his eyes widening in shock and horror.
Gúthwyn's face was staring up at him.