Crusade

by arctapus

What would happen if Frodo had failed? What would become the fate of the world then?

5. Chapter 5

=0=

*****Isengard ...

They crept closer, the miasmic swamp that was Isengard before them. No one seemed to be around and they waited, intent to make sure that they would be safe when they crept to the door that stood slightly ajar. In the war, it had been destroyed of effectiveness by the rage of the Ents. Now it stood abandoned but they knew it would not be for long. Eventually the orcs would be able to return and make it a base for their western incursions.

Aragorn looked from one side of the drowned compound to the other, searching for any sign of life. There wasn't any and he felt a cold and grim satisfaction. They would have time to search for a way to make the fortress uninhabitable. The orcs might come but they would have no forward base if he had any hand in the day's work.

Nodding to Halbarad, they began to creep forward, crossing the still drowned courtyard on the backs of stones. They moved to the door, sword and bow at ready and when they entered the dark and cool confines it was obvious they were alone. Aragorn stood and looked up, the ceiling hundreds of feet up, a darkling place that gave a deep sense of foreboding to them as they stood below.

He glanced around and then turned to his party, signaling some to be guardians and support those still stationed outside. The others were divided into teams and together they set out to find a way to being the stone tower down.

Eomer and Legolas moved up the stairs, weapons in hand as they crept upwards. Into each room they peered, one standing guard while the other searched, ever going upward in total silence. Below them, moving equally silently, Aragorn and three men made for the cellars. Dreading deeply what might be lurking in such a terrible place, they descended the staircases, torches in peered into rooms, most of them empty until they came to one that had an acrid smell. Aragorn paused, remembering that odor from another time and place. Moving forward, he peered into the gloom, shadowed and wavering with the flicker of his torch. Barrels stood side-by-side, one of them loosely covered and he pried off the lid and reached inside.

Black granules, grains of a sooty greasy material he pulled into the light and he sniffed them, the picture of what they were like formulating in his mind. He smiled grimly and found a scoop lying on the floor, filling it with the material and turning to go. They followed him, his men, flying up the stairs and once in the foyer again, he called upwards.

"Legolas! Eomer! Come!"

With that, he turned and hurried outside. Legolas and Eomer, with two other archers, hurried down the stairs and out of the door. When they reached the steps they paused, watching as Aragorn knelt nearby, working with a black substance on a flat dry rock. He had placed the scoop on the rock, balancing it carefully, then he rose and turned, hurrying up the stairs and disappeared for a moment into the silent tower. They watched curiously, patiently waiting for the reason for Aragorn's behavior. He returned with a thin white cord in his hands and kneeling once more he put one end into the dusty black pile. The other he laid carefully on the ground, standing and looking at them.

"I remember something important. Gandalf used to make fireworks for celebrations. The powder he used was like this. If this is what I think it is, if I light this cord, it will burn to this substance and cause it to explode."

They all stepped back, looking at him and then the black dust, almost as if expecting it to explode right then and there. He took a torch and knelt, lighting the end of it and then turned, urging everyone to step away. They turned and moved back, watching with fearful fascination as the fire burned up the length of the cord. It faltered a moment and then reached the funnel, sputtering and then exploding with a frightening blast.

Rocks were shattered and peppered them, drawing sharp exclamations of surprise and pain. They turned and stared at the place where the scoop was, now a charred and blasted hole in the stairs. Rubbing a bruised arm, Aragorn stared down at the blast hole, smiling with grim satisfaction. He turned and looked at them and then up the tall tower, his decision made for him already.

"We can destroy this place. I know how. Right now, I need your strength and cooperation."

They turned with him, following him up the stairs and into the building once more. For the next two hours, they moved the barrels, taking them to different levels of the tower. They placed them near to windows, opening and casting off the lids. Eomer went from each, tearing curtains and sticking one end of them into the dark material. The other end, he dangled out the window and then carefully, he poured kerosene on the cloth. He soaked it to the edge of the black substance, very careful not to let it get too wet.

Then he moved to another level and did the same until there were five barrels of explosive dust ready to light. Sweating with effort, Aragorn gathered his people and they left the building, their explosives in place. Hopping from rock to rock as they put distance between themselves and the tower. Behind them, like tongues dangling grotesquely from black cavernous mouths, the curtains flagged the barrels.

Aragorn paused and turned to Halbarad, Legolas and three others. "Make a fire arrow and light those fuses."

They nodded and with a moment of effort, five flaming arrows were ready to go. They took careful aim, Aragorn standing tensely watching and with almost simultaneous release, they flew through the air. They pierced the cloth, flames bursting into sight. For a brief second they burned and then almost as one, explosions appeared.

The building convulsed, shuddering for a moment and then exploded into pieces, erupting into the air. They turned and ran, tugging the horses behind them as the air rained down death from the shattered tower. The tower poured flame and dust, pieces of itself falling everywhere and when it was over, they stood on a nearby hillock.

The tower was gone, just the barest of jagged rock indicating where it had stood. It jutted up, like a broken tooth and smoke issued from it as bits of masonry still fell. The blast had been deafening, the loudest they had ever heard and they stood in shock at the destruction they had turned and looked at Aragorn, stilling at the sight of the coldness on his face. That kind of satisfaction he had seldom seen. Aragorn turned and nodded to Legolas, turning and walking to his horse. They mounted up and turned to ride, secure in knowing that the opportunities to hurt them had been struck a hard blow.

**********In another place ...

"Father."

He turned and looked at her, his beautiful daughter and smiled, holding out his hand. She came to him and hugged him, the same sense of security filling her again.

"Father? I have to talk to you."

"Very well," he said, comforted by her presence.

They turned and walked to the settee and sat, Arwen gathering her thoughts in silence for a moment. Then she looked at him, taking his hand into hers. "I have a difficult question to ask you, one that I must, Father."

He nodded, frowning a moment. "Ask, daughter."

"Father ... I want to know about the King ..."

He bit his lip and nodded, disquiet filling him. "The King and I ... we were partners in the leadership of our people for a very, very long time."

"I am aware of that, Father. I am also aware that you were very close to him ... intimate."

He sat a moment and then rose, turning to face her. "That part of my life was before you and your mother. I am not prepared at this time to talk about it. That time ... that history ..." He paused, sighing deeply. "It was another time and place, Arwen."

"It was," she agreed. "What I want to know is if there is a portion of that past that has come into the present. Is there anything between you and the King that will trespass on our lives now?"

Elrond felt his heart squeeze and he turned from her anxious gaze. "Arwen ... I cannot discuss what even I do not understand."

"You still love him. And he loves you," she said, quietly.

Elrond shook his head, his expression filled with pain. "Arwen ..."

"Father," she said, rising and walking to him, placing her hand on his arm. "I will not burden you further, but we must talk about this later. Tell me that you will."

He sighed painfully and nodded, avoiding her eyes. Then she turned him and hugged him tightly. He hugged her back, remorse filling him. Then she smiled, her eyes brimming and kissed his cheek. "I love you, Father."

"And I, you, daughter," he whispered, watching as she turned and walked to the door. She paused and smiled and him and then left, the door closing silently. He stood for a moment, his heart filled with pain. Then he pushed it aside, turning to his table where plans for their invasion lay.

***************On the trail ...

They rode hard, leaving the smoking ruin of their great success behind them. They would reach shelter by nightfall and the cavern of their rebel friends the next morning. The victory they had achieved had been a great thing and morale would be lifted for a while. Aragorn rued that they had not taken more than a couple of bags of the material with them but even that much was better than nothing. They would have a chance to make and leave behind little surprises and as they got better at using it, wield great victories out of certain defeats.

They rode onward, moving across the flatlands as they headed for the mountains and the sanctuary and safety of the forests beyond.

***************Late that night ...

He stood before the door, hesitating for a moment and then he knocked, entering at the sound of a soft voice. Gil-galad was there, sitting in a chair by a table, papers and scrolls littered over the top. He paused, smiling and then rose, waiting as his lover crossed the room. They stood before each other and then embraced. It was silent for a moment and then Elrond sighed.

"Things are too complicated right now," he whispered, rubbing his cheek against Gil-galad's. "My daughter came today. She wanted to discuss you and I."

Gil-galad sighed and looked into Elrond's face, unable to measure the emotions behind the mask that was so firmly in place. "I am sorry to hear this. But I am selfish enough to still want you."

"It is not in doubt where my feelings stand but for now, I can only manage to do what I must. I am asking you, my dearest friend, that you give me some latitude to do this first thing because it is so important."

Gil-galad nodded, kissing Elrond on the lips. "I will grant you that, melme. But I will serve you notice that I am not prepared to surrender what I feel for you."

"I am not asking you to," Elrond replied, unable to meet Gil-galad's eyes. "But I am asking that we hesitate for the good of all. At some date when there is a chance to think about this, then we must do it. But now, I cannot bear the reproaches that surely will come if this erupts into something we cannot control."

"Fair enough," Gil-galad replied, considering the misery on Elrond's face. "Life is complicated, isn't it? I remember simpler days even though there was danger everywhere. I do not know what may happen when we finally traverse these shoals but we shall sometime in the future."

Elrond nodded and embraced Gil-galad, kissing him back with all the devotion of a lifetime of love. Then he sighed and looked at the table, at the plans that were being drawn to move an army unprecedented since the days of the Beginning. "May I help you?" he asked, glancing at his lord.

Gil-galad smiled, kissing him softly. "There is not a moment of any day in which you do not do that, my brother, in some way or another."

Elrond sighed and squeezed his King's hand and together they worked into the early hours of the night.

***************In the world ...

They circled lazily, watching the ground below as they flew over the earth. Below, unaware, creatures moved, heading ever westward toward the mountains beyond. Dark specks moving swiftly, encamping along the eastern side of the river, dark specks that were the enemy of freedom and peace. They circled and watched and then flew toward the ocean and the lord who loved them and depended upon their allegiance. They were the messengers of Manwe and he asked them to tell him of the movements and placement of Sauron's troops.

Sauron rued his Nazgul, dead and destroyed by Gandalf. He had no eyes and ears in the sky. He had only information he could divine from hisfoot soldiers, his collaborators and his own cosmic powers. He was divine but not infallible and as he sat in the Halls of Thranduil, he languidly considered his progress thus far. He was in no hurry, so completely confident in his victory was he, so the resistance that he was hearing about didn't bother him a bit.

He had other things to think about, turning and glancing to his left. Hanging by chains, stretched spread-eagled, Saruman gasped in pain. He glanced to his left and spied Grima, sitting on the floor, a collar around his neck. He was Sauron's pet, his own personal canine and when he walked about his domain, Grima came along at the end of a leash. It amused Sauron to humble them thusly.

Saruman was a longterm commitment in his mind, a slow and torturous death was on the agenda for that duplicitous bastard. He had sold out his master, trying to take the Ring for himself and for that there would be no mercy at all. He looked at the chain that lay at his feet, the end of which was attached to Grima's collar. He smiled to himself, amused that such weaklings could think they could overpower someone such as he. The Ring had sought him for three thousand years. It had needed him as much as he needed it and now they were together, inseparable and unbeatable, the masters of Middle-earth until the end of Time. He had plenty of time to defeat the remnants, rather relishing the idea of having that for a diversion over the course of relaxed in his chair, resting his eyes on Saruman's torment and considered the pleasure of his coming sojourn in Rivendell.

*********At the encampment of the resistance ...

They arrived late in the afternoon, the news of their triumph bringing a surge of happiness that had not been seen in their ranks before. Aragorn moved to the dining hall, pausing as Boromir gripped his arm, the big man's eyes filled with emotion. They stepped aside, Boromir taking his hand.

"You did well, I am told," Boromir said, gripping Aragorn's hand.

He relaxed a moment, his expression gentling. "We leveled Orthanc. They have no base in the south now."

Boromir nodded. "We have eliminated a spy network in the north along the river. Our watchers were right about orcs setting up hidden outposts. They are mostly, to our best knowledge, eliminated from here to thirty leagues north of us."

Aragorn nodded, sighing tiredly. "Good work," he said to someone he counted upon, the one who was slowly, tentatively filling Faramir's tactical role in his mind.

Boromir hesitated and then he held up a small book, one that Faramir had in his personal effects. "You should have this."

Aragorn looked at it, his eyes darkening with emotion. "That is yours. Your brother-"

"It has things that you might want to know. I ... I give it to you because of that. I have memories of my brother. You have less. Take it and if you ever want to give it back, I will take it. But for now, I think it would do you good to have and read it yourself."

Aragorn swallowed hard and reached out, taking the small leather-bound book into his hand. He nodded again, his eyes expressing what his lips could not and then he turned and walked into the alcove that was his home. He paused and then sat on the bunk, staring at the book in his hand, a small brown leather-bound journal of some quality. He unfastened the clasp and opened it, the neat hand of his lover filling the pages. Tears came to his eyes and he leaned back against the cavern wall, closing his eyes against the loneliness he felt.

He sniffled and then sat up, staring at the page and found his name written therein. He looked at it, the finally drawn handwriting and turned to the front to read. He sat all night, reading page after page, his dinner untouched as it sat on a box. He read and mourned, learning Faramir's heart and when he was finished, he was as lonely as he had ever felt.

He rose and put it in his pack, carefully concealing it and then walked through the silent cavern to the door. He walked through the yard beyond and up the hill to the solitary cairn where Faramir slept. The stars were bright overhead, the biggest star of all shining through the scattered clouds. Dew formed on the grass at his feet, the elevation ensuring that the temperatures at night were cool even in summer.

He stared at the rocks before him, a mounded heap of them and sighed, closing his eyes with pain. Faramir's words came back to him, halting thoughts about what it could mean to live in a world without hope. Then, grim determination to do the right thing, to be strong for his men, to help Aragorn against the burden that had fallen upon him overtook his despair. 'Help Aragorn.'It stuck in his mind, his heart filled with grief and as he stood in the darkness, he felt tears in his eyes.

He quashed them ruthlessly, unwilling to give in once more to the horror of what had happened in the split second of an unguarded moment. He had saved others and died in their place, Boromir included. He had once said that he feared his brother would die in his place and the opposite had happened. The desolation that Boromir bore on his back was evident to him. He felt it too. He had no hope that there would be a part of himself that would be private and emotional until that night when they had given in to each other. Now it was all gone and he was bereft. He would turn that suffering into action, he knew, but it gave no comfort.

'Behold the end of tribulations ... born on wings, the illuminating light of ancient days. Shadows fleet before the powers, ruthless end to the tyranny of one. All shadows shall be vanquished, sacrifices noted and repaid in kind. One alone shall triumph and the fallen shall rise again. Blessed be the peacemakers ...'

The words of some vision that Faramir had written down in his book came to him and he mulled them, unwilling to believe that they meant more than just that. He sighed, staring up at the heavens and felt more alone then than at any other time in his life. They were truly alone. The Valar knew, surely, what was happening. But they did not come. They were on their own now.

Turning, he walked down to the yard, passing sentries and softly whispering groups before entering the cave. He walked to his alcove and entered, reaching into the pack for Faramir's book. He stared at it and then put it in a pocket of his tunic, the feel of it against his heart comforting. Then with great effort, he lay alone on the bunk and closed his eyes, willing sleep to come.

***************Nearby ...

Legolas sat beside Eomer, working the shaft of an arrow. With skilled hands, he shaved with a sharp knife along the long nearly straight grain of the wood, making it more in keeping with his meticulous tastes. Eomer worked a whetstone on his blade, sharpening it to suit himself. It was quiet in the yard, the two leaning against a big rock, comfortable in the cool evening air.

"What will you fletch that with?" Eomer asked, admiring Legolas' skill with blade and wood.

"I have feathers in my kit. I put feathers I find in the pouch and use them against rainy days."

Eomer smiled, nodding. "Resourceful you are, Elf."

"I find it pays." Legolas smiled slightly. "What are you, human?"

Eomer glanced at him, shrugging slightly. "I am the last King of Rohan."

For a moment it was silent and then Legolas sighed. "I am sorry I asked you. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," Eomer replied stoically. "It is what it is."

"Perhaps," Legolas replied, sighing. He looked up and saw the evening star, the brightest star above them. It was far away, out of his reach and he knew that the Mariner didn't see them. How could he, he wondered, thinking for the thousandth time about his family. How could Earendil know? He glanced at Eomer, watching his sure hand work the blade and sighed. No one anywhere could know.

=0=

On the shores of Valinor, three days later ...

Ships sailed into the harbors and sheltered anchorages of the shoreline as they gathered to begin a transport that had not been seen in the living memories of at least half the inhabitants of Valinor. In domiciles and squares all over Aman, Elves gathered to listen to their chieftains. The situation was explained, the risks sorted and in great numbers they picked up their weapons.

Armor was secured from cabinets where it had lain unused for centuries. Helms, mail, swords and bows, all of it was gathered, cleaned and repaired. Men gathered their horses, tack and gear, all of the logistical and material needed for a war oversea.

They began to come in armies, marching behind their leaders, banners and symbols streaming in the cool breeze. They massed on the shores and when given the signal, began to board the ships that would take them away. Women, children and all others who were not going stood on the shoreline and watched. Ululations rang through the hillsides as the People of the Stars began to gather for war.

It wasn't festive. It wasn't frivolous or light-hearted. The seriousness of the crowds was evident. The Powers were coming to the Little Kingdom to remove once and for all the manifest evil that lingered from the Elder Days. They could feel the presence of greatness all around them and the sea thrummed with energy as the moment approached. It wasn't as rough as once it was but the steady chop of small waves was evidence enough of the interest of the gods who roamed the depths. They would be carried over the domain of Ulmo with care.

The breeze was brisk, the emanations of Manwe bearing themselves on the backs of the wind. His anger could be felt gathering and they drew from it what they needed as they began to make this thing happen for the first time in ages. Ships filled and sails were raised, moving them offshore to make space for others to come. They waited together, all of them gathering to land in Middle-earth at the very same time.

They stood together on the shore, all of the leaders of the Eldar clothed in their armor their weapons were in hand. As they did, Elrond felt a soft breeze, something familiar but very faint and then the mists parted and a beautiful ship appeared. It was graceful in a way that defied description and the sails were as white as the whitest snow. It signaled its presence before it was even seen by the bright light that shown from its prow. It came closer, gliding rather than sailing and when it finally reached the shore, they knew who it was.

Cirdan was smiling, admiring the lovely lines of the ship he had made so many years before. It was magical, this vessel, Vingilot they called it and it was obvious that it was one of a kind. The sails were pulled in as it glided to a stop, floating in the water off the shore where they stood.

Elrond stared at it transfixed, his eyes searching the deck until he found what he was looking for near the bow. A tall figure stood there, his hair in a black plait that hung to his waist. He wore simple clothing but made of very rich materials and of a style he could barely remember from the time of his childhood. A sword hung at his side, the necklace of Thingol was around his neck and in the brow of his crown a very bright jewel pulsing with light. Elrond closed his eyes, remembering the soft glow of the Silmaril in repose, when its light was not needed. He had touched it himself, a far away memory when his mother had shown them what it was like.

He opened his eyes, noting the presence of another, a tall and lovely woman with beautiful eyes. Elwing the White, the daughter of Turgon stood beside her husband on the deck of his ship. Elrond stepped forward, Turgon catching his arm and he paused, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

"Wait until they dock," he said, smiling at his grandson as the ship began to move without sails pulled up. It found the dock and pulled even with ease, stopping without effort from anyone on board. Elrond and the others turned and walked to the stairs, climbing down to the water level. Along the wooden structure they went until they came to the ship and the plank that was laid to allow them to board.

Elrond paused, looking at the couple who stood there, their faces wreathed in tears and smiles. They knew him, he sensed, before they ever met him as an adult. They had not forgotten him in the long, long years apart. He hesitated and then stepped onto the plank, crossing to the deck without a word. His father turned, smiling at him with pride and held out his hand gripping Elrond's. They stood a moment and then embraced each other as his mother stood nearby, tears on her cheeks.

The others waited until he had embraced his parents before boarding the ship that would take them to the Grey Havens and the war beyond. Elrond held his mother, images of Elros in his head and made a vow to tell them everything that he knew. The wind was soothing against his tear-stained cheeks, the sun middling warm against his skin. Soon they would sail out to save a world where the last surviving descendent of his brother fought alone.

***************In Mirkwood the Great ...

He hung by his wrists, willing himself to expire but the beast prevented it as if he could read his mind. He was beyond pain, beyond terror and it would not become less than it was right now. Sauron was stretching out his suffering, making sure that he lasted before he decided how he would kill the wizard.

Saruman could die a mortal death that much was certain but Sauron kept it from him like a dangling carrot. It was torment unmatched and he struggled to resist it but the power over him was just too great. He would last and last before the end came and from there, he was uncertain where he would go. No one would allow him to shelter in Mandos, the Valar would know of his terrible treachery. He would end in the Void, tossing into oblivion with Melkor, to spend eternity bereft of the warmth of God. Hell was an absence of the love of Iluvatar and as he hung in his misery, he felt the sorrow of his life fill him. But it wasn't for the right reasons. He was selfish to the end and as orcs laughed and poked at his plight, he wept silently for his own sorry hide.

***************On the shores of Valinor ...

They lined the beaches and the cliff sides for more than a league, witnessing the greatest armada to leave these shores in the remembered history of their people. Vanyar and Noldor stood side-by-side on the decks of ships with Teleri, kindreds all. The wind was favorable, Manwe sending them toward the east with fulsome gusts.

The great Armada was going to war and eagles flew onward to scout the land ahead. Ship after ship sailed behind Earendil as he sailed Vingilot with ease. Standing by his side, holding his mother's hand, Elrond watched as the mists formed around them. Ulmo was concealing them, preventing their discovery and there would be more than this in the days ahead, he knew.

Tulkas had been seen, it was said, riding his horse along the shore. He would be there, leading the army against the demons and smiting them dead with his sword and his hands. He closed his eyes, thinking of the days when the world was young and so was he. He wished Elros was with him to see this moment when the family they had never known had come to his aid.

The sky was obscured and the mist refreshed him as they sailed with the armada toward their native shores. In a few hours they would be there and the press eastward would begin. Once more the Eldar would stand against the darkness. Celeborn and Galadriel stood behind him, as did Turgon and Dior and Thingol King. The members of his family had joined his friends and they went to war with him and his twin sons.

Cirdan stood on deck, watching the sure hands of Earendil steer the great wheel of the ship he had made. The magic of the vessel he could feel beneath his feet, this ship that could fly across the sea and the sky. He felt the years fall away as they came ever closer to the fabled shores of his beloved home. Soon they would disembark and form into armies and ride out to meet the demon for the very last time. Glancing back, he considered Valinor. Soon it would be his home too. For now, he would do his best and make sure that liberation was successful and worry about the future when it was certain it would be there.

******In the mountains ...

He paused by a stream, bending down to drink. The cold water felt good on his parched throat. They were working along the forest, fighting back roving bands of orcs who were trying to find a way into the higher up ground. Legolas stood waiting, watching Aragorn as he drank. The man was tense and strained. He lived for the hunt now, for destroying his foes and he knew sorrow drove him onward.

Eomer was walking back when he paused, staring behind them. Then he drew his sword, catching their eye. Aragorn rose and pulled his sword as Legolas pulled an arrow from his quiver. They paused for a moment as a very bright light formed in the trees just behind them.

"What is it?" Eomer asked, moving to stand with them, gripping his sword with great tension.

"I ... do not move," Aragorn said, hesitating himself as a sense of peace he had not felt in over a year came to him. He hesitated again and then stepped forward, Eomer gripping his arm.

"Do not go there," the Rohirrim said, his face filled with distrust and fear.

Aragorn squeezed Eomer's hand and stepped forward, lowering his sword. He came to the edge of the trees and paused, the light growing until it hurt his eyes. Then it faded and a figure stepped forward, youthful and beautiful with kindly eyes. A smile graced his lips, warm and friendly and when he came to Aragorn, the figure touched his face with his hand.

Aragorn closed his eyes, the peace that transmitted through that simple gesture soothing and overwhelming. Tears came to his eyes and spilled down his face. The youthful figure smiled. "You despair, my brother. Do not give up hope. There are those that are coming who will stand with you. Have faith."

"Who are you?" Aragorn whispered, reaching his hand to the creature, touching his long hair with wonder.

"You have known me by many names. Now you see me as I truly am. Olorin, I am called."

Aragorn felt his heart squeeze and tears spilled once more. "Gandalf," he whispered. "Gandalf." His voice was broken with pain and astonishment and he felt his heart rend in two. "You have come back."

"Yes," Olorin replied with a smile. "I will not be leaving you until the ends are achieved."

Aragorn nodded, swiping at his eyes. "I missed you, Gandalf."

"And I, you," the youth replied. "Do not despair. I am with you even when you cannot see me. I will return."

With that, he faded and the light went out, leaving Aragorn alone once more. He stared at the emptiness and turned, agitated, looking around himself frantically. "Don't go!" he shouted, but to no avail. The figure didn't reappear again."

Aragorn," Legolas said, rising from his knees, his eyes filled with concern for his friend.

Aragorn stopped and gathered himself together, his iron control reasserting itself once more. He sighed painfully and nodded to the two, moving toward the stream once more. He splashed his face and turned to them, a grim look of satisfaction on his face. "He said others are coming. The Valar are coming."

"I cannot give myself that much hope," Eomer replied.

Legolas squeezed his arm, a slight look of amusement to his normally calm expression. "The Valar are coming. They are coming to destroy Sauron and it is up to us to make sure that they do." He glanced at Aragorn, nodding with a smile. "My people are coming back."

Aragorn looked at him and then nodded, glancing at the men who had gathered silently around the three of them. He turned and looked at them, measuring the moment and decided that truth was the best option.

"There was someone here that has given us a sign. The forces of Aman are gathering."

They shifted, surprised, smiles of hopefulness on the faces of some.

"They are coming to avenge our world. What we have to do now is hold the line. We have to hold on until they come." Aragorn turned and looked at his partners, nodding. "Let's go," he said with steely determination.

They moved out, melting into the mountains and when they were gone, it was still again. Out on the sea, moving with the wind, the greatest armada the world would ever see made its way to Middle Earth.

***************On the shores of the sea ...

They huddled for miles and miles, lining the shores of the sea. The misery of their situation relieved as best could be done by the Elves that still lived in the Havens. They gave what they had and helped with the sick but there was not much left to do. They boarded ships, filled with anguish and left for safety beyond sight of men. Behind them, watching with rage and despair, the Strangers were reluctantly abandoned to their fate.

The crush of refugees, even animals had slowed somewhat because the rebels in the mountains were able to stem the tide of enemy that had harried them thus far. They rested in all the lands between the mountains and the sea, yet ever they moved westward in a futile attempt to find sanctuary.

The night was dark beneath the clouds of the heavens and the days were wet and dank. But this night the clouds parted and the heavens were open to the people below once more. She stood by the fire, staring at the sky, bothered by something she could ill define. Turning to her father, who was sitting beside her mother, she frowned.

"Papa?"

He looked at her, his eyes filled with despair and followed her finger as it pointed to the sky. He frowned a moment, then rose to stand, considering the element that appeared to be gone.

"The star, Papa. Where is the star?"

He stared at the sky, vainly searching for the evening star that was always there. It was gone and he felt terror, so he gathered his daughter and huddled near his wife as the night wore onward. He didn't know what it meant but it couldn't be good. Nothing was ever going to be good again.

***************At the Havens ...

They woke to a drear day, the mists from the ocean rolling inward toward the land, forming dew on everything and pain in joints made weary by cold. Old people groaned and young ones muttered as another day of despair dawned. She stood and stared at the restless ocean her eyes roaming from the sea to the shore and as she turned, she paused for a moment, wondering what it was that she saw that was new.

A light flickered, a bright and piercing light and so she turned and stared as it came ever closer. She had never seen one so bright and it drew her toward it, making her hurry down the steps toward the guarded docks. An Elf turned and held out his hand, kindly halting her in her tracks. "Look!" she said, pointing out to sea. "A light."

The guard turned and looked, surprise crossing his ageless face and the two stood together, watching the light grow. Activity paused on the cliff side above them and on the wharf beyond and around them as well. Eyes turned to the sea, to the steadily growing light and when the mists finally parted it was breathtaking to see.

White ships emerged, swan ships glittering with gold, silver and purple, with banners flying in the crisp morning breeze. They were filled with armored soldiers, with colorfully cloaked officers and in the lead of them all sailed a beautiful white ship. On the deck, steering it forward, stood a tall dark-haired figure and on the brow of his crown shown a spectacular light.

She gripped the Elf's hand, looking with joy into his face. "It's Earendil, isn't it? It's the Silmaril, like in the stories," she asked.

He turned, his own face filled with joy and nodded, so overcome with emotion was he, himself. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, glancing up to the shoreline where people began to gather and cheer with abandon. "Go up and stay back. My people are coming," he said with pride, tears burning in his eyes.

He turned and ran forward, rousing deck hands as the horizon began to fill with white swan ships. They stretched across the horizon as far as could be seen and they came in more numbers than could be counted. They were led by Vingilot and as they entered the harbor, hands on shore scrambled to give them a berth.

They glided in, pulling up on the docks, ropes were tossed and orders briskly given. Orderly lines of soldiers disembarked while on the stable ships horses where brought from the holds. They moved toward the cliff side and the roads that would bring them topside and people moved aside, hysterical with joy. They reached their hands to touch the soldiers, crying their relief and their hopes as well.

The armies disembarked and would until the next day gathering together on the flatlands above. Horses in their livery, soldiers in their armor would regroup on the shores of the sea as other ships took their places, dispensing their loads. Moving then to anchorages off shore, still others came and disgorged their loads. Horses and Elves, archers and foot soldiers came in numbers to join the war. Then with the sound of horns calling the greatest hope of all could be heard in the distance. They were coming, the gods of the world, coming to lead them forward into the gathering fight.

and Orome and Fionwe as well would go before the armies as they marched toward the east. In the air all around them, they could feel the presence of Manwe while in the mists against their faces and the thrum of the rivers, Ulmo made himself known as well.

The people parted, making way for their saviors and offered their prayers and their thanks. Men joined them, gathering their weapons and with horses and on foot, they went with the tide. The Elves welcomed them, pulling them into their ranks and together they went forward to save the world.

Civilians walked beside them until they moved beyond the shelters, heading for battles beyond the shores. When they were lost to sight, people stood for a long time, unable to assimilate that they might not be enslaved. It was silent and still in the camps along the ocean for a long, long time.

***************In the front of the army ...

They had their plans laid and their captains determined, the army organized and their roles assigned. Elrond rode beside Gil-galad, bearing his standard and before him rode the Elder kings and captains of the guard. His father stayed behind, his own role defined and with his grandfathers' company, Elrond rode off to war. Thingol led them, Ingwe by his side, with Turgon and Dior following behind.

Others came, figures from the pages of books and he knew that his sons were nearby as well. Celeborn and Glorfindel, Erestor and Ellan, all of the Elves of the great houses were there. Chieftains of Kindreds, some returning for the first time since the Great Journey, rode side-by-side toward the gathering fight.

The sky had begun to clear as they moved steadily forward, the laughter of Tulkas distinctly heard. They had ridden ahead, going out to hunt the enemy, clearing the path to the den of the Beast. Tulkas claimed the honor of destroying Sauron as he had destroyed his master eons before.

Elrond sighed, glancing at Gil-galad, catching the ghost of a smile on that formidable man's face. He returned it, his heart lighter for it and together they continued into the growing dusk.

=0=

The rain fell steadily, a soothing soft sensation. He crouched under the cover of trees and watched the river. The Anduin swept by, dark and full, coursing toward the sea far away. Beyond there were orcs, camping in groups and they crouched tensely, as if waiting for a signal.

All along the tree line, archers were also waiting, prepared to make any crossing dear. Aragorn and Gimli squatted together, while farther down the line Eomer and Legolas sat watching as well. They were heartened now, knowing that they were not alone and so it would be their lot to hang on.

As they waited, he listened, a niggling thing bothering him, like one missing thing out of many. There was something out of joint here, something just a little askew and as he considered what it was, he heard a sound behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, his adrenaline surging and froze at the sight of a very tall man. He was standing by himself, watching over the river just like they were.

He was tall and very muscular and dressed in a style of clothing that was ancient and functional. He had long blond hair and a blond beard, eyes piercing like daggers and a smile on his face. He stood silently, glancing at Aragorn with bemusement and then he disappeared into thin air.

The static of the air soothed, becoming less electrical and he felt his nerves relaxing again. Turning, he glanced at Gimli, who was still staring at the orcs and smiled slightly, gratified.

Tulkas.

He had seen Tulkas, or so he thought. The god of the hunt was with them. As he sat on the ground, he considered the possibility that there might indeed be hope. The sound of bells came over the breeze, soft and gentle and totally out of place. Gimli turned and glanced at Aragorn, frowning. Then he turned and looked at the orc camps beyond the river. Some had risen, watching toward the north as the sound of bells became louder. All along the line, archers turned northward and stared into the gloom for the source of the sound.

Aragorn stood, peering through the trees as beyond the bend of the river a light could be seen. It was coming closer, the sound of dogs added and when it rounded the bend, it could be seen as a rider. Upon a white horse he came, a horse unlike that seen in Middle earth in many ages of Men and Elves. Big dogs ran beside the horse, massive jaws slavering and dark eyes seeking battle, they wore collars dark and studded around their big necks.

Aragorn sat up, rising onto his knees and peered through the limbs of the trees that shrouded their position. With the rider, a big and powerful man, came others, lesser beings but no less beautiful. He paused, staring out at the encampments of the enemy before calling to them in a language that Aragorn didn't know with any great detail.

Those with him raised their voices, calling out their challenges as well before raising horns to their lips. They rang out, bellowing sounds of great purity and Aragorn found himself on his feet, sword in hand. He moved from the trees called to battle by the horns of Orome and as he stumbled forward, his feet moving as if with a mind of their own, the horsemen drew swords and spurred their mounts forward, their shouts ringing out.

For a moment, the orcs just stood dumbfounded and then they turned and began to run, some dropping their weapons in terror and others pulling theirs to make futile stands as the riders went through them like a hot knife through butter. All along the line of defense, archers stepped forward weapons poised, called almost without thought to join the forces before them.

Legolas was moving, shooting fleeing orcs, the first to recover from the awe that had taken the rest. Then Aragorn was running, reaching the edge of the river and as he did, he began to engage those that had crossed. More joined him as the slaughter continued and before he could even think, it was over.

The stillness was almost painful as they stood among the dead, turning as one to the riders among them. They were beautiful, impossibly so and they exulted in their victory before turning their gaze to the Elves and men in their midst. Aragorn stood transfixed, watching Orome circle him, astride his horse. He met Orome's gaze, unable to look away and as he did, feelings and words filled his mind.

The tumult of ages became clear to him, faces of people he had never seen but instinctively knew showing themselves as almost memories of his own. He could see him, Elros, tall and beautiful, the picture of Elrond in the crown of his fathers. Others came, images all and then they faded away in the silence surrounding them.

"You must not despair," Orome said, smiling at Aragorn. "You are not alone."

Aragorn nodded nearly numb with fatigue and revelation. "Why show all of the memories, my Lord?"

"Because they are your legacy, heir of Isildur. It will not end with you," Orome said, turning and looking toward the east. "I have to go. There is much hunting to do before the world is free of the Shadow."

"Don't go," Aragorn said, stepping eyes regarded him and Orome smiled. "The hunt calls me." He looked at his companions and then back at Aragorn. With a smile, he turned his horse and began to ford the river. They stood watching as the group rode away, disappearing into the darkness of the eastern lands.

Eomer let out a breath he had been holding and turned to Legolas, caught by the expression on the Elf's face. He was filled with pride and awe, a strange mix of love and longing, as if something had been renewed and remade inside of him. He was watching the darkness where the gods had disappeared and then he turned to Eomer and smiled. Nodding, he glanced at Aragorn and turned to the forest, walking back through the orcs on his way to shelter. They all began to follow, Aragorn the last, until they disappeared into the shadow of the trees once more.

***************On the trail to the East ...

They made their first camp in the wilderness that led to the Valley of the Bruinen. Elrond stood by the door of his tent and considered how strange it all seemed and how long ago it was that he had left this land in retreat. Now they were back, armed and ready to fight, passing through tides of suffering humanity as they moved back to his longtime home.

Gil-galad watched him, pausing on his way back to the tent he would share with his herald. The sadness that suffused his lover was hard to watch. This land was not unknown to him. He had spent many days traveling across it on the way to the hospitality of the Last Homely House. It was Elrond's land, he had always thought in his mind, the place he had chosen to make his stand.

Somewhere ahead, an abomination had happened, the destruction of a place the like of which would never be seen in the world again. They were too late for the traditions and grace of that redoubtable domicile but they could exact their revenge in consolation.

Celeborn was for revenge, Gil-galad knew, a sentiment that he himself could hold to. Others were less direct about their motivations but they all felt it, this need to punish. Ingwe and Thingol were sitting together, along with Dior, Turgon and a number of others who would leave in the morning with Fionwe to go to the Gap of Rohan. Earendil was gone, sailing his vessel into the sky, flying away to help in his own had watched them go, his parents standing side-by-side and the wistful look on his face was painful to Gil-galad's eyes. He had spent his small stores of spare time with his herald, the mere presence of his person a comfort to him. Being here was painful, memories of places long gone tugging at the vision of the new reality. Doriath was gone, as was Gondolin and other places treasured and known as well.

More land was inhabited by men, lesser and greater and they were going toward the great White City of Elendil. It had fallen, a terrible thing to contemplate and now they must liberate it but before that could happen, they had to engage the enemy. Rivendell would be the first place they would do that he considered the first place of many they would seek out the Beast.

The passes were narrow and so they would have to be careful, marshalling their forces both north and south. A group would be moving toward the Gap of Rohan, making for Isengard and the garrisons expected there. He himself would be going to Rivendell, leading the forces that would secure that locale. He continued forward, greeting Elrond's wan smile with his own. "You look tired."

"I don't know what to think. I was a child last time something this big happened. I feel like a character in one of my books rather than a person in the midst of history."

Gil-galad smiled, sitting down beside his lover. He squeezed Elrond's hand. "History is just one day following another, occasionally punctured by interesting events."

"You have a way to make even exciting things mundane," Elrond said, smirking with a sigh. "I love that about you, your accessibility."

"That I am guessing is a very sophisticated way of saying that I am easy."

Elrond smiled, shaking his head, his dark eyes filled with passion. "There is nothing about you that is easy, my King."

"You speak to me formally," Gil-galad said, his hand gently massaging the tension of Elrond's neck. He watched his lover's eyes close, a sigh escaping his lips. "You and I are more than that."

"I have never forgotten, melme," Elrond sighed. "I cannot forget that. Ever."

"Nor I," Gil-galad said, his hand falling to his lap. He sat back, relaxing his big frame. "I wish for you tonight."

Elrond nodded, grinning for a moment. He looked at his lover, at the relaxed and familiar sight of his king in battle garb. "There seems as if little time has passed from the time we did this as brothers together."

"Some things are timeless. Like you and me."

"You are hopeless," Elrond said, chuckling. "I am glad for that, for I find that hopeless describes my heart for you. It describes my regard for you, my King."

Gil-galad's gaze was dark with emotion as he met Elrond's. He reached out, drawing his fingers down the side of Elrond's face, the Peredhel's dark eyes closing at the tenderness of his touch.

"You break my heart," Elrond whispered, sighing with emotion.

"I do not wish it, Elrond," he replied quietly. "But you know my own."

"I do," Elrond replied, staring at his lover. "And you know my dilemma."

"That is so," Gil-galad replied. "We are hopeless, you and I. I am not even sure that the wisdom of the Valar can make this right."

"Later," Elrond replied, sighing. "When there is time to think. Then we can see what ... what we can do."

"It is a callous and terrible thing, my beloved brother that such should befall two so devoted for so long, that we should be reduced to debating whose tears must fall to ensure another's happiness."

Elrond nodded and looked into the night sky, the evening star missing from its accustomed place. "My father is a miracle, or so I have been told. He wept when I told him of Elros. He has never known us I thought but he told me that he watched over us every night." Elrond swallowed around the lump in his throat. "I find that sadder than the idea that he never knew us at all."

Gil-galad squeezed Elrond's arm. "Your father loves you," he said quietly. "Your mother does too." He sighed. "You and I are fated to be different, to have different burdens. We are not like other people."

Elrond smiled slightly, glancing at his lover. "It is our curse?"

"Sometimes," Gil-galad replied, chuckling. "Our curse and our very great burden," he said, sitting up and leaning close to Elrond. "But in the midst of our deliberations, we are entitled to joy, Elrond."

"At what cost?" Elrond asked, watching as his king rose and turned to the door of their tent.

Dark eyes half shuttered met his own, eyes that smoldered with need. "That is to be determined later, my brother. We can only know about now." With that, he turned and entered his tent.

Elrond watched him go, sitting quietly, his own thoughts a jumble in his mind. Then he rose and stared at the sky, sighing with fatigue once more. For a moment he just stared and then he turned, entering the tent he would share and the open arms of his lover. As he did, another watched, his dark eyes filled with sadness and then he turned and walked onward as was his custom in the evening. Celeborn stared upward, at the newly strange sky and wondered where Earendil sailed this night. Around him the camp settled in sleep, gearing up for the entrance into Rivendell the next day.

=0=

"You can not sleep?"

Eomer stared into the concerned eyes of his lover and shrugged, moving slightly so that Legolas could sit beside him. They sat together, staring at the sky. "The night star is gone."

"I noticed. The Mariner is freed from the Heavens and joins the Powers in the war against our Enemy."

"That makes sense," Eomer said, nodding. Then he smiled slightly. "That is, if anything can make sense these days."

Legolas smiled and squeezed Eomer's arm. "Do not despair. Orome came to us today and Olorin. They are *with* us."

"Too many are not," Eomer said softly.

Legolas sighed, shaking his head, staring at the toe of his boot. "I am shaken by the notion of your gift, Eomer. It would seem that gift may not be the most accurate description of what your frailness entails."

Eomer smiled slightly. "There will come a day when the end of my life will intrude and you will be left alone. I do not envy you the passing of all that you love." Dark eyes fixed themselves on Legolas. "You are not given to display, Legolas, but I must hear it from your own lips. Do you love me?"

Legolas' expression gentled his eyes warm with emotion. "Aye. I do. I love you, Eomer son of Eomund. I do not know how it came to be but I do. You were there when I needed someone and in that, for me, came love."

Eomer nodded, overcome with relief. He stared at Legolas' hands, long fingers of amazing strength and agility. "I worried. I will admit it. I am a mortal and you are of Elven kind. You will some day watch the passing of my spirit from beyond your knowing. Only in the End of Time will we know where the other fled to when our mortal homes fall to dust."

Legolas nodded, taking Eomer's hand into his own. He pressed his lips against it, sighing softly. "You are a curse to me, Eomer, and a great blessing. I am doomed to suffer your loss even as I rejoice at your company. It is a two-edged sword, our friendship."

Eomer sighed, nodding. "I will not regret a moment. I will regret only leaving you."

"Then let us live now and not rue what might come some day. We are here and it is now. There might be no more than this. Let us not regret the future."

Eomer nodded. "I am given to moroseness tonight."

"You have lost much," Legolas replied."And you."

"My family will be restored to me someday if they have gone beyond the circle of this world. I do not know where you go, brother. Maybe it is in some way the same for you but only among Men to know. I do not myself. There is only guessing for my part."

Eomer nodded and looked at the sky, the absence of the night star keenly felt. "Tomorrow. That is something that I can almost consider now. Maybe there will be one."

Legolas smiled and rose, pulling Eomer to his feet. They stood together, their gazes level and then Legolas leaned forward, kissing Eomer with the softest brush of his lips. "Maybe," he said, smirking. "Forget it now."

Eomer smiled and nodded, turning and walking back into the light of the campfire with his lover. They would lie together that night and in the morning pick up their arms to fight once more.

***************On the road to Rivendell ...

They moved slowly, armed to the teeth. They were going to Rivendell to make a shelter for their master. They had learned to be very careful, since the enemy was like smoke, issuing practically straight from the ground and disappearing into the forest without a trace. They were merciless, leaving no one alive and so they moved with discretion and many armed guards.

No matter how much they told their lord, Sauron refused to be interested yet. He was preoccupied with other things. Exploring his domains and gloating were his main diversions and he knew he would wipe out the remaining opposition in his own time. Who but the pitiful remnants of Man and Elf could stand against him? It would amuse him and keep him occupied in the endless years of his domination to moved slowly, wains heavy-laden, rolling ever westward toward the narrow valley of Rivendell.

***************On the Plains of Pelennor ...

They rode slowly across, a band of warriors, their unnatural countenance casting an eerie glow. Before them, driven like cattle, the enemy ran, dropping their weapons as they fled. Beyond them, draped in scorched disarray, Minas Tirith gaped into the darkening sky. It was ruined and broken, banners of hatred flying from its ramparts, and it beggared the mind to see it thus.

He rode forward, another by his side, a shining and beautiful youth. The crowds ran, their foul refuse scattered before them as the party made their way through the ruined grounds. Word went on before them and the city began to empty as forces fled the coming of death. By the time they reached the great gate, the city was almost deserted, the enemy conceding their hard-won gains.

The few that remained or were unable to leave were dispatched without comment by dog and sword. Up every winding level, the party continued until they reached the great Citadel at the very top. The youth dismounted and entered the main chamber, walking toward a place that he instinctively knew.

Sword drawn, the light of his countenance the only illumination, he braved the stairs that led to the dungeon. Past cast off weapons, past cowering enemy remnants, he moved forward until he came to the place he intended. Pausing, sighing, he touched the metal locks, the manacles releasing themselves at his mere touch.

The doors opened and wretched creatures peered out, men who had been captured and held since the city fell. Among them, bowed and bedraggled, the Steward of Gondor limped toward the youth. Kind eyes greeted him and a hand steadied him as Olorin of the Maiar helped Denethor out.

=0=

They ringed the mountainsides, using trails and vantage points that only the Lord of the Valley would know. Elrond stood beside his king, their weapons drawn and watched the archers take their places. Beyond, on the road, the orcs came, prepared to encamp on the rain soaked remains of a once gracious outpost of civility in wild lands, the home of Elrond, Master of the Valley.

He swallowed hard, the memories of the terrible moment he set his home ablaze with his own hand streaming back to him. Quashing them all ruthlessly, watching as his sons took the lead in the slow descent to the blackened remains, he glanced at his king.

"Let us go, Elrond," Gil-galad whispered, looking through the trees. "I want to be there if there are any creatures desecrating your home."

Elrond nodded and the two crept forward, weapons in hand and lieutenants following. The ease with which they made their way was belied by the mud that clung to their boots but when they reached the blackened fire pits, they were surprised to find them empty of enemy.

Gil-galad smiled, turning to his lover. "We arrived first. I think we should arrange for them to be welcomed, do you not agree?"

Elrond glanced from the remains of his chambers to the king, nodding silently. "As you wish."

Gil-galad reached out and squeezed his arm. "They will pay for this outrage. I promise."

Elrond nodded and gathered his wits. "We must turn our eyes to the east, then. They will come that way."

Gil-galad nodded and turned, shouting orders to soldiers, who in turned scurried to obey them. Walking forward, staring at the waterfalls that coursed through the charred remains of his home, Elrond of Rivendell struggled not to weep.

***************At the cavern ...

They came back, two wounded rebels to be cared for by healers. They were surrounded when they came, questioned thoroughly and when they were finished morale was enormously enhanced. Frodo stood beside Sam, feeling better at that moment than any time since losing the Ring. He sighed and felt tears come to his eyes, such was his joy and he turned, leaning against Sam, who had placed his arm around Frodo's shoulders.

"There, there, Mr. Frodo," he said, smiling himself. "It will all work out in the end. You'll see. Just don't worry yourself about it anymore. Things are out of our hands."

Frodo nodded, not trusting his voice and turned, embracing Sam tightly. Sam, surprised, embraced him back, hugging him against his chest. "You're just tired, Mr. Frodo. That's all. You're just worn down by the burden of this whole thing. Pretty soon it will be over and we'll be back home in the Shire and all will be forgotten. You'll see."

Frodo smiled, comforted by Sam's touch and old feelings resurrected themselves before he repressed them once more. Sam was his friend and his brother. He was the only one besides his uncle that Frodo had allowed to truly reach him. His parents' death had left him emotionally bereft and it had taken a long time for him to reach out again. But Sam was special, warm and engaging. He was generous and loyal and found a respite in Sam that existed no place else in the world. There was no one else that came close.

He sighed deeply, warmed by the contact and again the sensation of need arose. He quashed it, ashamed of his feelings for he knew that Sam was his friend and nothing more. They stood together, hugging each other and when the soldiers rose to eat, they broke their embrace.

Sam smiled and shook his head, turning cheerfully to begin dinner. Frodo watched him, unsettled and needy and then slowly walked to the fire to help him with his chores.

***************That night ...

They had returned, telling of their adventures. Watchers had been reinforced before they had left. They had reached the cavern that night before sundown and the morale was enormously high among the men. Aragorn had eaten with his comrades and taken news, then retired to his alcove to sit and reflect. He sat on the cot that no longer felt welcoming and thought about the one who he most needed to talk to.

Closing his eyes, Faramir came to him, laughing and talking, giving him comfort. He could see his face filled with passion and doubt and sorrow. He could hear him whispering during their most intimate moments. He could feel the sensations of Faramir's body, the muscular and lanky form of his lover against his own. He ached to hold him, to touch him, to talk to him but it was futile, he knew, even as he wished for it with a painful intensity.

He sighed and opened his eyes, startled to see another, a very beautiful youth sitting on a box across from him. He sat up and stared, comforted by the vision. "Gandalf."

The youth smiled. "That was my name. One of many, I dare say."

"You came," Aragorn said, his eyes burning with tears. "You came back to us."

"I did," he replied with a chuckle. "I am here to comfort you, to give you hope."

Aragorn swallowed around the lump in his throat, shaking his head sadly. "What comfort is there for me now? What hope is there?"

"You will be set free. A great host from the Land of the Valar has begun to cast the Shadow back."

"I am glad for that." He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees. "I had no hope without you and your kind."

"It took the intercession of the Elves to make it so," Olorin admitted with a smile. "Lord Elrond is very persuasive."

Aragorn glanced at him and nodded. "He is."

"And what of you, my son?" Olorin asked quietly. "You are bereft."

"I ... I lost someone close to me. We don't have the benefit of immortality. What is lost is lost forever for my kind."

Olorin nodded. "Little is the gift of Man appreciated by those who must bear the grief of death. Your loss is very hard, I know."

"My loss is small compared to others. Boromir has no father and brother. Eomer mourns his sister, his uncle and the Kingdom of his ancestors. What have I lost? What is there for me to mourn?"

"A lover, most beloved," Olorin replied, sighing softly. "You are so fragile, you of the Second Born. I love you most dearly. Long have I walked the earth many generations of Men, yet still I sorrow for you and your sad contemplations. Hope is all you must cling to, my son. It is there, waiting for you to come to it. It will lighten your heart."

"What is there to hope for? You are here and the world will not die. That is good, I will concede. But what do I do now?" Aragorn asked, rubbing his arm. "I am weary."

"You will become King of the Reunited Kingdom. The great lords of this world will call you their king. All will prosper because of your wisdom."

"And I will be alone," Aragorn replied, bitter tears in his voice.

"It does not have to be so."

Aragorn looked at him and leaned back against the wall, too weary to debate.

"There are those among the Powers that feel the sundering of Elves and Men something less desirable now than it was when first considered. There are those who would have it otherwise. All that is needed is a token to make the case for rapprochement."

"What sort of token?" Aragorn asked, sighing.

"You were in love once with a beautiful Elf maiden. She believes that it is still so."

"She is over the sea."

"That is not insurmountable," Olorin replied gently. "All it would take is the gesture by you to her to make the world as it once was in the days of your fathers. The world of the Eldar and the Numenoreans would be once more reality on the plains of your fathers."

Aragorn sat quietly, staring at the beauty of the figure he felt as a father to himself. He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. "I must make a sacrifice."

"It is the way of Kings. Sacrifice is what you do for your people and the Peace of Arda, Elessar of Gondor. The world will change and you can make it a peaceful transition. All you have to do is make a sacrifice for the people that turn to you for shelter."

Aragorn sighed, staring at the dirt floor, memories of another in his mind. "If I wed Arwen ... then the call for the Elves would no longer be their first duty, because our peoples would be joined."

Olorin nodded. "There are some who say that the world would be a sadder place without their wisdom."

"It is in my hands."

Olorin nodded. "Sometimes it only takes a single decision by a single person to change the world."

Aragorn sat back, his face filled with anguish. "It is a bitter thing that you ask."

Olorin sighed, a sad expression forming on his ever youthful face. "You make it sound like a prison sentence rather than an opportunity to remember a love that you once held deeply."

"That was then, this is now," Aragorn said, tugging the necklace from his tunic. He stared at it, jerking the chain until it broke and he could hold it free of encumbrance. "I have other feelings. Things have changed. I wear this to remember to hate, not love."

"Then you must learn to love again," Olorin said kindly.

"No," Aragorn said, shaking his head sadly. "I cannot allow that kind of pain again."

It was silent a moment, Olorin rising. "I will ask for peace for you tonight."

Aragorn looked up at him, tears in his eyes. "I missed you."

Olorin smiled, reaching down and touching Aragorn's cheek, wiping away a tear that slipped from his eyes. "I missed you as well. I will never be far, Elessar."

With that, he faded away and Aragorn was alone. He sat for a long time holding the jewel and then he turned and stuffed it into his pack. Reaching up, he pulled the small diary from his pocket and opened to treasured passages that usage had worn. For a while, he comforted himself with Faramir's words and then he stretched out, closing his eyes.

Beyond the sight of his vision, a beautiful lady appeared, Nienna herself and she knelt beside him, searching his face. She touched his cheek, her soothing attentions relaxing Aragorn as he slept. She absorbed his sorrow, his loneliness and misery and when she rose, resolved to help his soul. She stood and stared a moment and then vanished, leaving behind small comfort for the future king of the re-emerging world.

***************Near to Isengard ...

They passed the remains of Orthanc, marveling as they did for the complete destruction of the invincible tower. Ingwe and Fionwe led them, their forces bound for Rohan and the White City of Gondor in the south. Gil-galad and his people would come from the north, liberating Imladris, the Woodland Realm and the Lorien Wood. They would meet on the fields of Rohan driving the enemy before them and when they reached Minas Tirith, they would turn to Mordor.

They were moving fast, passing rivers and mountains, moving with speed to their ultimate objective. They had more maneuvering room and the enemy was fleeing, bedazzled by the glittering army that appeared out of nowhere. They panicked and fled, very few of them fighting and by the time they reached the flat lands of the Horse Lords, the orcs were in a rout.

***************In a cavern ...

They stood out that morning, going into the mountains, heading northward to find the enemy. By the time they reached the pass that went west towards Imladris, they were picking up signs of enemy everywhere. They gathered on the edge of the tree line, scanning the road as it wound through the mountains. Orcs were clearly passing through the narrow straits.

Aragorn and Eomer, with Legolas following, slipped up the trail with several Rangers of Ithilien. They moved with stealth, following the deep ruts cut by heavy-laden wains. After several miles they paused, hearing ahead of them cries of chaos. Melting back into the rocks, they waited for a half hour before the sound of running feet greeted them.

Down the road, orcs were fleeing some unknown pursuer and they watched as the numbers grew. Some were wounded and some were maddened by fear, running without weapons in their hands. Aragorn stood and began to fire down into them, his men joining as the orcs went by. They fell and died, blocking the road, orcs stumbling and screaming falling themselves.

Behind them, chasing them without remorse, forces of the Eldar army pursued, meeting after an hour in the middle of the pass. They paused and withdrew, each side falling silent. Then Legolas called out, his voice echoing in the silence until another called back, hesitantly stepping into view, bow and arrow at the rose and climbed down through the rocks, stepping over orcs to reach the Elf. The others joined them and they gladly greeted each other, the Captain, Galdor of Gondolin briefing them of their progress. Aragorn nodded and then followed Galdor along with his men as they hurried back through the pass to the main force beyond.

When they descended through the gap, the forests of Rivendell lay ahead and with practiced steps, he hurried toward home.

***************Minas Tirith ...

He slept on his own bed, the room cleared of the chaos of orc occupation. He had been starved, beaten and wearied beyond the recall of any other similar moment. But Denethor was alive and slowly coming to his senses. No one seemed to be around but he could feel the presence of others, those who did not answer directly, but touched him merely with their loving could hear others freed from captivity and the vile future of torture for the pleasure of the Beast. Many was the familiar face and voice that he heard as he slipped in and out of stupor lying on his bed. They were recovering the house and parts of the town, people returning to their business as they awaited the army beyond.

Most of the people who weren't killed or captured had fled to the west and the south. They would have to be rounded up and brought back, fed and taken care of. Their wounds would have to be tended and healed. There was so much to do he could hardly grasp it. But he couldn't help, so weary was he from captivity that all he could do was lie in restless sleep.

Beyond the window of his rooms, the river flowed onward, heading to sea. The Kingdom of Dol Amroth had held out to the last and was less broken in damages than Minas Tirith. Boats would float up the river once more, sailing toward the gracious and lovely capital city. People would live in homes and hamlets, tilling their fields and raising their children. This would happen, or so soft voices whispered to him. All that he had to do now was rest and get better. He didn't know how to do that, so greatly was he troubled by visions of the death of his sons. He slept as best he could as around him in tiny incremental steps the rebuilding of Gondor had only just begun.

***************Mirkwood ...

The first messengers groveled before him, giving their craven stories to the dark lord, their eyes unable to meet his. He listened in silence, considering their words carefully and then the magnitude of his situation hit him hard. They were coming for him, the Lords of the West and he was faced with the probability of standing alone.

Melkor couldn't do it, having given much of his essence to Arda during the formation of the world, but he was stronger, having kept himself intact and so he had given in to his arrogance, considering himself invincible. He had not consolidated his power or smote his enemies into dust, nor had he done what he should have when scanning his new had come without his notice and now he was trapped, facing them all alone. He rose and stared around, considering how close they were and decided that he needed more information. Turning, staring at his slaves, he signaled for Wormtongue to be brought before him. The traitor kneelt in abject submission and listened hard to what Sauron told him.

The shackles were released and he was sent on his way, scurrying toward Rivendell and the coming menace. When Wormtongue had left, he looked around his domicile, feeling discretion was the better part of valor. For a moment he was himself and then he wasn't, transforming before his terrified minions into one of his favorite forms. He spread his wings and took to the air, a vampiric force of evil fleeing toward Mordor.

They watched him go, disappearing into the night and then turned to each other for a moment. They knew then that there was nothing more to do than to flee as well. Gathering what they could carry, they hurried away, moving themselves with haste toward the east.

=0=

The camp was huge, an army of Eldar filling out the hillsides but he could see men among them as well as they hurried along. The burned out shell of his childhood home haunted Aragorn as he followed Galdor to the leadership of the forces all around him. Water still thundered over the cliff sides of the Bruinen, green trees still sheltered the grounds of the house, but the stately and graceful beauty that was once a haven was gone, charred beams and ashes all that remained.

He had heard that Elrond had lit the fires with his own hand, the same as Celeborn in Lothlorien. That one was even more painful, the most revered spot of all to him, that city of the Elves his most personally treasured locale. By the time they reached the pavilion that housed the lords of the Eldar, he had straightened his tunic and his clothes as best he could. He paused, Galdor turning, peering into the shelter and after a moment he was allowed inside.

Legolas followed, as did Eomer, Boromir and Gimli, the rest waiting in tense but happy silence as they watched the bustle around them. Inside the tent, Elrond turned and smiled, embracing Aragorn as a long lost son. Celeborn embraced him as well, and Legolas, the two stepping aside to talk together.

Aragorn was introduced, turning to catch Legolas' cry out his joy as Celeborn told him that his family was safe. Oropher and Thranduil, true to their natures, had taken the southern route with Fionwe and Ingwe on the way to Gondor. Aragorn felt something lift from his heart at the smiles of Legolas and the pleased expression on Eomer's face.

"My lord, I never believed that I would see you again," Aragorn replied as Elladan and Elrohir entered the pavilion, smiles on their faces at the sight of him standing there.

"We are here, Aragorn, to assist in the business of ending the Shadow's grip on Middle-earth," Elrond said. "My Lord and King, Gil-galad is in charge of the army. I am once more his herald."

Aragorn bowed and took Gil-galad's hand. "I am honored, my Lord."

"You are related," Gil-galad replied. "The Peredhel is my kin and therefore you are his. That makes us related in some twisted and convoluted way only Elves can conceive of. I cannot rest in peaceful bliss in the lands of my fathers while kin of mine own family is in harms way."

Aragorn smiled, the big man's open and robust style warming and enveloping him in a confidence he had forgotten he possessed. "I am in your debt and honored to renew ties of kinship with you and yours."

"Good," Gil-galad replied with a grin. "This is like talking to Elendil, Elrond. Do you not agree?"

Elrond smiled, shaking his head. "I am but a lowly herald, my lord. I live to serve your every command."

"Indeed," Gil-galad replied, smiling. "There are more kin to meet but that will come later. Right now, tell us all that you know in your remarkable fight against the enemy thus far."

Aragorn nodded and for an hour they poured over maps and discussed strategy and by the time they were finished, runners were heading south to bring the forces of the rebel resistance up to the pass where they could march eastward together.

They talked and talked, then broke for food, sitting together in the gathering dusk. By then horsemen arrived, more relatives to introduce and Aragorn of Gondor had the strange and privileged opportunity to meet some of the earliest ancestors of his family line. Thingol of Doriath and Turgon and Dior of Gondolin were only three that he met that night. They came to the pavilion and shared wine together, planning to take the fight to the east the next day.

Celeborn smiled and drew Aragorn to one side, asking him to take a walk with him. It was his custom everyone knew to walk in the evening and so they stepped away to wander alone.

"You seem grieved of some heavy burden," Celeborn asked, glancing at Aragorn, whom he had always loved.

"This whole business ... it is very unreal to me. Meeting all of my family, even those so remote ... it makes me feel light-headed."

"It makes us *all* light-headed," Celeborn chuckled. "What say you of the notion being spun that sundering our kindreds is not a good thing after all?"

"I would see the world poorer for the passing of your people."

"And I would be hard pressed to leave," Celeborn said. "My wife has found her friends once more, most notably your ancestor, Melian. They give her great comfort as does our daughter."

"The Lady Celebrian? Is she well?" Aragorn asked.

"Very much so," Celeborn replied. "I am overcome with pleasure to see her again. She is mine only child and a father has great hopes and dreams for them, especially when the world is so murky and deep."

Aragorn nodded, sighing. "She is a goodly woman."

"She is," Celeborn replied. He looked at Aragorn sideways a moment. "So is Arwen."

Aragorn nodded. "She is that."

"I am aware of your affections for my granddaughter. I know that you were hoping to wed some day. I am not apposed to such an union transpiring should it become reality for our two kindreds to co-exist."

Aragorn nodded but he didn't comment, following silently along the path with his friend.

Celeborn sighed."You are curiously silent on this matter," he replied.

"I am weary, my lord, and not especially good company. There have been many losses and they weigh heavily upon me."

"So I would guess," Celeborn said, pausing beside the cliff side to stare into the abyss below in which the river flowed swiftly. "This whole business, it was inevitable. I was told rather bluntly that we were all living on borrowed time and I knew that. But like anyone else who loves their home, I preferred not to consider that."

"None of us want things to end, the people and places that we love," Aragorn agreed, Faramir coming unbidden to his mind.

"There is someone in your heart that you mourn. I would wish that it was my granddaughter but I am sure it is not," Celeborn began hesitantly.

Aragorn stared into the darkness, willing the river to take him away. "I am sorry. It has been long and hard and things change."

"It is the curse of my daughters, that they should love men who cannot love them back the way they desire."

"My lord?" Aragorn asked, surprised.

"My daughter is in love with a man who loves her but not as much as he loves another."

Aragorn glanced at Celeborn, at the sadness on his face and felt badly.

He stood listening, knowing instinctively that it was all he had to offer.

"Celebrian is my jewel, the one creature above all for whom I would surrender my life willingly and without regret. I love her to the distraction of my better sense. I married her to the only man who could keep her safe and treat her with the respect and affection I wanted for her. I did so knowing that her future husband was in the deepest mourning possible for the only true love of his life."

"The King," Aragorn murmured.

Celeborn nodded. "The King," he said sadly. "I never held it against him. He is a good son, Elrond. He loved the king and the king loved him but he was over there and we were here and I am a father with a daughter that I love. It seemed a way to save two lives."

"At the time, it probably did," Aragorn offered.

"It would seem like wisdom. Then." Celeborn sighed. "Now I am faced with the resurrection of the King and the possible heart break of my daughter. I am also mournful of the plight confronting Elrond."

"He made a sacrifice and was rewarded with a good wife and children he loves," Aragorn mused, sighing softly. "A good exchange for a life of loneliness I would think."

"Is it?" Celeborn asked, glancing at Aragorn. "What about you, Elessar? I am not immune to the speculations of my peers."

Aragorn stood silently before turning grave eyes to his foster grandfather. "I would die before I would harm you or your family, such is my love for you. Your home, the city in the trees, it was and will ever be the home I hold dearest in my heart."

"You are being asked to sacrifice for something bigger than any one person. That it involves my granddaughter is a sorrow that will be mine, own private hell. What concerns me now is your answer. And ... what the life my granddaughter will live should you do what you must in light of your station."

Aragorn sighed and stared at the figure beside him, the heroic almost mythical person who had been part of his life since his earliest memories. It was in that cocoon that he had lived his life, sheltered in the strength, wisdom and joy of such people. Now he was faced with a decision that reached out to more than just himself and Arwen. Now, in this darkling time, he had to consider another hard choice, one that could haunt them all.

He sighed deeply."I will do what is asked of me, for the good of us all." He turned and faced Celeborn, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "I cannot tell you that I will be all that you want me to be but I will be all that I can. I swear it."

Celeborn nodded, smiling slightly. "You have the same sensibilities as Elrond, my son. He swore that to me and ever he has kept his promise. I will not talk to you about this again."

Aragorn nodded and the two turned, walking together along the cliff side. The water flowed ever onward and the sea beckoned, the blinding barrier between heaven and the earth.

***************In Barad-dur ...

He walked through the halls, minions scattering as they made way for their lord and master. His return was a surprise and they shuddered away, shrinking from the horrible dread and terror that he dispensed like spoor. He moved onward until he reached his palantir and then uncovering it from its shroud, he began to look into the of armies, vast and golden, greeted him and he felt fear. It gripped his heart and his mind began to formulate plans to save himself from the gathering might ever surging toward them. Even as he stood thinking, he could feel them surrounding him, the unearthly powers from before the birth of the world.

He scanned the heavens, searching for enemies and found a ship sailing free of its normal path. Earendil was searching for him, Manwe by his side and he felt his heart clutching at the sight of the two together. They could find him easily, his options being few and so he turned his eyes westward to the valleys and forests. Grima he saw, making his way to the Gap of Rohan, making his way to the lords opposing him. He would be taken, it was his great hope, taken and then ingratiate himself as a refugee who could help.

It would not give him much but it might accidentally give him something. He would have eyes and ears in the heart of the enemy and the palantir that surely they had would be reached. Grima was as slimy and difficult as they came.

He turned and paced, considering the dispatches that he had afore times disregarded. He would gather his armies and dispatch them to places to wait for his command. Then he would do what he always did when things got tough. He would try and talk his way out of the box he was in.

Turning back to his palantir, he tried to gauge the enemy arrayed before him, struggling as he did to pierce the shroud of obscurity that they had placed over themselves to hide from his ever-roving and all-seeing eyes.

***************The next day ...

They mounted up and made their way forward, a three-pronged force heading toward Mirkwood. Part of them led by Dior would attack the mountain fastness of the Woodland Realm. The second prong led by Thingol would attack the spiders in Lorien. They had moved up from the south, from Dol Guldor and environs, finding fresh land to promulgatethemselves.

Gil-galad and Elrond with Turgon by their side would continue southward, moving toward Edoras and then southward toward Osgiliath and Minas Tirith. Not at this time would they make for Mordor and the Black Tower of the Beast until they all met up again. Aragorn and his Rangers, his archers and his swordsmen, his cavalry and his Rohirrim would travel with Elrond. They would be his eyes and ears, ranging ahead of the army, dispatching to the main body the lay of the paced all night, waiting for the dawn to come, desperate with his countrymen to return to his homeland.

Legolas watched at dawn as he saddled his horse, fretting quietly with the stirrups and bellyband. He walked to his lover, stilling him with a touch, his anxious blue eyes searching Eomer's face.

"You must not hope for much," Legolas said quietly. "I have learned that to do so brings one much heartache."

Eomer paused, looking at Legolas with pained eyes and then pulled him into an embrace. They held each other tightly and then Eomer let him go, turning back to the saddle of his horse. He paused, looking at Legolas with dark and pain-filled eyes. "I have no hopes, Legolas, about my family or my country but I know now that I am the King of Rohan. I have to go and take stock of what's left. Hopefully, the Valar will deliver me the chance for revenge."

"I will go with you, no matter what comes," Legolas said quietly.

Eomer slipped an arm around his lover and pulled him in for a passionate kiss. Legolas kissed him back staring at Eomer with impassioned eyes as they quietly stepped back from each other. Legolas turned and mounted his horse, waiting for Eomer to do the same. Together, they sat side-by-side waiting for the orders to go.

Aragorn left the pavilion, walking to his men, nodding for them to mount up. They would be heading out first, going to the junction where the roads diverged and the army would pivot. The rain had stopped falling, the sky clearing slowly as they turned and began to ride through the camp. They were an impressive sight, grim-faced men of many lands and Aragorn nodded when Elladan and Elrohir joined them, hunters all.

Gil-galad watched them disappear from sight in the trees and congestion of the camp. Turning, he glanced into the tent, watching as Elrond rolled up their maps. They would set out in a half hour letting the scouts get some distance and then it would be nonstop for the next few days. If things went well and the opposition was fleeing as fast as watchers have said then the march to Mordor wouldn't take long. With a sigh, he turned and entered the pavilion once more.

***************Minas Tirith ...

Denethor stood at a window, staring out at the desiccated plain below. What had once been rolling plains, homes and farms was now a charnel field of trenches, destruction and the stench of rotting flesh. The orcs had not cleaned up their mess, leaving it where it was and the sight of it turned his stomach.

He turned and hobbled on his swollen feet, sitting once more in a chair. The city was being refortified, men coming out of hiding and the south lands once more. They came in numbers, telling odd tales about dreams that told them the city was free. He wondered about the Valar, about the dreams he himself had had, but nothing could persuade him of hope any longer.

His sons were gone, no one knowing of their whereabouts and he had no faith that he wasn't completely bereft of family. Imrahil had come, the Prince of Dol Amroth, coming out of the hills to regroup in the city. They were making repairs on the gate, which had been destroyed in the fighting hoping to make a stand again should the enemy come.

But they didn't, the enemy and it was most perplexing. Scouts said they were fleeing to the dark lands to the east. Many had died taking the city and those that had stayed had been sent in part elsewhere. More were coming, or so it was said, the Dark Lord growing them out of the ground. He himself had no truck with strange tales of magic, even if the evidence lay in pieces all around his feet.

His dreams kept coming, memories of his son, Boromir, and the youngest whom he had never treated well. Faramir was different, a wholly different nature and he had held the youngster at arms length the whole of his life. Boromir was his heir, his champion, his partner in the job of running the Kingdom. He, himself was faltering he knew, his own ambitions for his son in conflict with the duties of his station.

Denethor was the Steward, but never the king and his beloved son, Boromir, would never be either. What would it take for a man to become king? How many battles, how many times holding off the enemy would it take to become acclaimed?

Then the dream came and the dreaded premonition that their own days in power were numbered. The sword that was broken. The one who would wield it. Those things stuck daggers into his heart. His beloved son, Boromir, deserved to be king but in his heart and his mind, Denethor knew he never would.

Rankled is a small word for what he felt sometimes. Rankled is what he felt for privilege. Gandalf had bothered him, meddling with his business and winning the affection and respect of Faramir. Jealous is a word he would not say openly but it was a word that described his heart. He held Faramir to a different standard. He held him at arms length to punish him for turning to another when he had his own father. That he didn't acknowledge that he was guilty of pushing Faramir to seek others for comfort was something he would never ever admit outloud.

Dreams had been coming to him, dreams of his sons. Boromir was hearty and walked in the sunlight. Faramir was shrouded in shadow, always just out of reach when he called to him. He would wake up in a sweat, his heart pounding, sure that something terrible had happened to his boys. Then he would lie awake, unable to sleep until the light of the day came once more.

He would go to the window and stare to the east, where the blood red sky would pulse and churn. Beyond the mountains, over the horizon, the Beast was working for some terrible ends. He would stand and watch the sky, the barometer of the world and dread would suffuse him at the thought Sauron would return. Boromir, he would think. Boromir, come home.

***************The junction ...

There was sign of orcs and they led to the north, entering into the trees of the Wooded Realm. The road would take a third of the forces to the seat of Thranduil's power and battles would be enjoined in the forest about. They would fight room-to-room in the mountain fastness until the last corpse was dragged out after two bitter days.

They would post a garrison and then turn to the southeast, traveling to aid the army in Lorien. That force would fight with a tenacity unparalleled, killing the spiders that had crept into the void. At their side, slaying with abandon, Tulkas and Orome would assist them all. Fortwo more days they would battle their enemy until the last orc was dead and Dol Guldor in ruins.

Aragorn sat his horse, waiting for the word to withdraw, images of his heart home filling his mind. It was a shambles now the big trees denuded of the homes and the beauty that once graced them. But it was also denuded of the beastly monsters and evil creatures that had called it their new home.

A trumpet sounded and he turned his horse, leading his men to the front of the marching order. They were going southward, across the Brown Lands to the Mark of Rohan and Edoras. They made their way to the open lands, breaking into their wide riding scouting formation. Legolas and Eomer rode together, the big Rohirrim's eyes bent toward his homeland.

***************On the trail ...

They paused, eating cold food, resting their horses. Behind them the army of the Eldar was marching. Night was coming but they were determined to press onward, encountering as they went so very little of their foe. Boromir sat and stared at the sky, missing the bright star of the heavens. He glanced around and noticed Aragorn sitting the ground, leaning against a rock as he smoked his pipe. In his hand, he held Faramir's book and a sad expression graced his face.

Boromir felt pain suffuse him and he glanced away. They had not talked since Faramir's death, that ragged pain something he tried to avoid. Faramir had died saving the both of them, sacrificing himself for them. It seared him, the loss of his brother, the younger child he had helped to raise. Aragorn had loved him, this he could see. Faramir had found peace in his company. He owned Aragorn a great debt, even as he knew he could never articulate it to the quiet and solitary figure of his king.

Aragorn *was* his king, the liberator of their people and Boromir made a vow to serve him as best he could. They were comrades riding to battle and they fought side-by-side, two men with a common tie, the quiet eyes of a dead and much loved man.

Faramir lay on a hillside in a forgotten mountain meadow. Boromir made a vow to bring him home when this war was done. He hated that he had to leave him, the last place they had been together to leave him to lie in the cold, cold ground.

"Are you all right?"

Boromir looked up, meeting Eomer's concerned eyes. He nodded and moved slightly as the big man settled beside him.

"I wish I could say the same," Eomer replied nervously. "I am afraid to hazard what my kingdom is like now."

"And I, too," Boromir answered. "We are both the remnants of great traditions. It had to fall upon us, this end time."

"But for the Elves," Eomer said, glancing at and resting his eyes on Legolas.

"But for the Elves," Boromir replied, watching as Aragorn turned the pages of Faramir's book.

=0=