The War of Light and Shadow

By Freddie23

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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.

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Chapter 53 – Promises Made

"All this was for nothing!" yelled Bracell angrily as he wiped his eyes dry with the sleeve of his shirt, serving only to smear dust and grime across his face.

"Shouting is not going to alter the outcome any," Aragorn sighed heavily. He understood that the man was angry. He was angry. Things had not turned out how he had led himself to hope they would. They had gone out of their way, lost precious time and put innocent people in danger on a fruitless errand based on nothing more than an elaborate ancient ghost story passed down through generations. It had been foolish, Aragorn now realised. The unreliable, unrepentant Army of the Dead were never going to help the living, not even for the future King of Gondor and his promises of clemency.

"No?!"

"Bracell, that's enough." Jecha's firm warning immediately silenced the suddenly outspoken man and, sending one last abstinent glare at the young king, he moved away to tend to his wife and daughter, still understandably shaken from the nightmare they had been forced to endure in the tunnels under the Dwimberg. Once he had gone, Jecha turned back to Aragorn, mildly surprised to find no look of relief or gratefulness on his face at his intervention, and said, "We need to decide what to do next."

"There is nothing to discuss in that regard," stated Aragorn in a cold tone, folding his arms tight across his chest. "This was a failure. Now we head towards Gondor and meet up with Eomer as was our original intention."

All eyes were turned on Aragorn as he spoke. "Are you sure that is the wisest choice?" Jecha asked calmly, his dark eyes shrewdly watching the younger man's face.

"I believe so."

Straight away, an argument started up between Kalub and Bracell at this, one arguing in favour of Aragorn's plan, the other arguing against. Each was convinced that their idea was correct and they kept at one another even as the Dwarves and the larger man of Harad moved in to pry them apart.

Aragorn sighed, looking away, and laid his hand upon his forehead as if it might clear his mind of the too many thoughts rolling around inside and prevent the headache that threatened to form. Fighting was clearly not getting them anywhere and yet these men seemed intent on continuing with the futile activity. Besides, his decision was made. He was not going to go back on it because two men voiced their opinions louder than the others. Strength – that was the impression a leader must give. Legolas had imparted that wisdom upon him once and he clung to that advice now.

As the yelling continued, Aragorn glanced back to Legolas who stood calmly watching the melee of people arguing with one another. Each side of the Elf stood the two Easterlings. Jecha appeared completely unruffled, both by the on-going argument and the fact that they had just been negotiating with the commander of an army of spectres and nearly gotten buried alive beneath the earth. He met Aragorn's eyes and nodded sombrely. Aragorn would receive no protest from the Easterlings.

Sighing, the young man turned away again and immediately frowned. He'd been so absorbed in the argument and the fact that this mission had been such a spectacular failure that he hadn't even realised that they had come out of the mountain in a place unknown to them.

Squinting his eyes, Aragorn looked out over a wide, murky river almost ridiculously packed with large, solid-looking boats bearing great black sails hanging limply due to the lack of wind.

"It's the Port of the Corsairs," explained Jecha, now at his side to answer the unasked question.

"What is a port?"

Jecha frowned in confusion behind his mask of perfectly straight black and red cloth.

When he did not immediately provide an answer, Legolas stepped forward and explained in his place, "It is where sailors dock their ships."

"And Corsairs?" He was unfamiliar with the name or race.

Legolas opened his mouth to speak but Jecha got there first this time, "Pirates. Mercenaries working in allegiance with the Dark Lord. They patrol the rivers, ferrying slaves from across the lands to Mordor and Isengard and the other fortresses of Shadow. Corsairs are a vicious people, compelled to do evil as much for personal gain as loyalty to the Shadow Lord. They are a cruel and dangerous race, Aragorn. We would do well to avoid them."

"Corsairs," Aragorn muttered under his breath in a thoughtful manner, still gazing out over the dirty water of the Anduin.

Cocking his head to the side in question at his ward's sudden thoughtfulness, Legolas enquired softly, "Aragorn?"

Aragorn shook his dark head to clear it and smiled at his guardian. "Nothing." After shooting a disapproving glance at the still on-going scuffle, Aragorn prompted curtly, "We should get moving."

Legolas followed his ward's gaze idly then turned to Jecha, saying in a somewhat bland tone, "You should break that up."

Clearly the man was not overly impressed by the notion of him being delegated the task of breaking up the feud between his followers. He looked about ready to protest at the suggestion but his companions' firm glare told him that this might be in poor judgement so he promptly nodded and strolled over to the brawl in order to break it up before it actually came to physical blows – a very real possibility judging that tempers were ever fraying further.

Meanwhile, Aragorn looked to his guardian, saying softly, "I am sorry."

Tearing his attentions away from the group of fighters who were now being placated by an extremely – and rather comically – annoyed Jecha, Legolas turned shining eyes towards his uncertain ward. "What for?"

"All this."

"I don't…"

"You warned me right from the start that this would never work but I chose not to listen to your wisdom and plunged blindly into the Dimholt on this fool's errand. All we succeeded in doing in the end is wasting more valuable time. I'm sorry. I should have listened to you," the young man apologised in a low voice so that his doubts could not be overheard by those who had designated themselves his followers.

For a long, slightly uncomfortable moment, Legolas simply stared at him, his gaze unreadable even to one whom by now should have been better able to. Then the Elf smiled softly in reassurance and laid his hand on Aragorn's stooped shoulder with no hesitation.

"There are going to be a great many difficult decisions in your future, Aragorn. Sometimes they will be right, occasionally they will prove wrong." Aragorn dipped his head at the insinuation that he had gotten this particular decision incorrect. "You don't ever have to worry over my allegiance. I will always be by your side and defend your choices. Always do what you believe to be right and you will do just fine in your task."

Aragorn's gaze came up to meet his mentor's and he grinned widely. "You couldn't have told me that a week ago?"

"And make things too easy?" Legolas smiled in return. "Hardly."

"I suppose I did deserve your censure."

Legolas sobered at this and met Aragorn's eyes with a serious, steady stare of his own. "Aragorn, the time is coming when you will have to lead your people against unimaginable power drenched in pure evil. You need to be strong, confident. You must not always be concerned that you are upsetting your friends. Do what you must and those true to you will be at your side no matter what."

"It's hard to…I don't know how to…"

"Of course it is hard. Being a leader is tremendously difficult. It is supposed to be challenging. But people will respect you for your strength and they will love you for your indecision when it comes to putting their lives on the line. You have everything you need to be a king, Aragorn; you simply have to learn how to put that knowledge into action and to trust in your convictions."

"Is this how you felt when you ruled in Mirkwood?"

It was a dangerous question to ask the Elf and indeed Legolas flinched as if physically struck. His eyes momentarily darkened with the familiar deep pain of memories dredged to the surface anytime Aragorn mentioned his past. But then he forcefully cleared his mind so that he could answer his ward's genuine question with frankness that just a few years ago he would have found impossible.

Much to Aragorn's immense surprise, Legolas actually managed a chuckle, although he had to admit that it did sound horribly strained. He gripped Aragorn's shoulder tight as he said mirthfully, "I never had cause to treat with the Dead. You have already outdone me."

Although Aragorn also laughed, he corrected himself, "I meant the leadership side of it."

"I know you did." Legolas' eyes flickered down again before he answered. "It's harder for you, Aragorn. The world is changed. Things are very different for you now than when I was commander in my own home. You have to find your own way."

Aragorn had rather hoped that his guardian and mentor would impart some greater wisdom, something firm and decisive that would make his transition into kinghood that much easier. But then, he reasoned, Legolas had never been particularly inclined to provide him with straight answers. It was an irritation now that he needed advice but he expected it.

"All right," he shrugged. "Helpful. Thank you."

Legolas smiled, a smile that appeared to be genuine lighting his face with the knowledge that his ward had finally learned to be a little diplomatic during his time travelling with him, although he still had some work to do.

"You are most welcome. Now we should help Jecha restore order amongst his people and then leave this cursed place."

Once Aragorn stepped into the fray with a sharp word, it was quickly broken apart. They were not going to disobey their king and Aragorn's voice alone, low and commanding as it was, was enough to restore order. He snapped angrily at them that fighting amongst themselves was neither sensible nor constructive. At least a few of them had the good graces to look ashamed of their childish behaviour. Jecha stepped out of the group, straightening out his burgundy robes, which for the first time since Aragorn had met him appeared displaced.

Taking a moment, Aragorn looked at the faces of the eclectic group of followers he had gathered to him on his journey. He frowned then when he realised something was missing.

"Where is Grima?"

Startled that the slimy man was not stood amongst them, everyone began looking about for their larcenous captive but it was to no avail.

This time, Aragorn demanded of them all in a shout, "He escaped?!"

"Damn it! That slippery snake!" Legolas cursed loudly, looking all around for any sign of the missing man. The scuffle had been going on for a while now and he and Aragorn too had been preoccupied; Grima could have covered some distance since his escape.

"Spread out," Jecha commanded. "Find him."

"No, wait." All paused in their actions at Aragorn's contradictory order, all curious as to why it had been given. When Aragorn's gaze fell upon Legolas' face he found it to be understandingly impassive, waiting patiently for the next decision to be declared. "Let him go."

"Let him go? Are you crazy?!" Kalub suddenly shouted at him, detaching himself from the others to stand toe-to-toe with Aragorn. "He stole the Seeing Stone from us!" Aragorn nodded in acknowledgement, cool and calm for a change, as he recognised Kalub's justified argument. He was certain this time of his decision, he realised. It proved a rather relieving feeling considering he had almost always been plagued by self-doubt in the past. Looking from Aragorn to Legolas, Kalub exclaimed in disbelief, "Legolas, tell him!"

Suddenly, Legolas found all eyes on him. A part of him did want to protest. He was still furious with that slimy, filthy thief. He wanted Grima to pay. But he would not show up his newly confident ward before the others.

"You heard him," the Elf told Kalub in an austere voice. "Let us leave."

"I can't believe you…!"

"Enough," interrupted Jecha, shoving past the Ranger. "The King has spoken." For the first time, the Easterling bowed his head in respect to Aragorn.

It startled Aragorn so much that he stood frozen and speechless for a long moment. Uncertain of how to respond, he instinctively looked towards Legolas for advice on how to proceed. The Elf held a look of knowing, almost as if he had been anticipating this very moment. Certainly, he did not seem overly surprised by the slight genuflection.

Aragorn, however, could not have been more shocked. Except, that is, until his eyes travelled over the others, who also had their heads bowed in deference.

"No," he gasped in near horror. He was not used to this and he wasn't sure he liked it. "Please."

Once more he looked pleading to his guardian but to his horror he found that now Legolas too had his head bowed, his right hand resting in respect and love over his heart.

"Please don't. Legolas…You don't have to…"

"Your Majesty."

Aragorn jumped at the title coming from the deep voice behind him. Spinning around, he found himself face to face with the King of the Dead and his army of spectres. Although his mouth fell open, ready to exclaim in shock, no sound actually managed to escape him.

"If you vow to release us when the fight is done then we will fight for you," the ghostly king announced severely.

Slowly, Aragorn nodded his head in agreement. He would honour the deal he had made back in the vast necropolis beneath the mountain in exchange for an unbeatable, fearsome army of the Dead.

"When Gondor is retaken, you shall be free."

The King of the Dead Men of Dunharrow narrowed his eyes, ascertaining whether this was indeed genuine. Then, after Aragorn endured a stare that most living mortals would have quailed before, the ghostly king nodded once.

"Call on us, King, and we shall come to the ancient City of White."

"Thank you."

No more words were exchanged between the two kings. The pact had been made.

OIOI

"Eowyn?"

The woman quickly ducked her head, frantically wiping at her wet face with the sleeve of her shirt.

"Yes?" Steadier than she could have hoped for.

It would not fool her brother though and, undeterred, he lowered himself to sit at her side, perfectly angled so that he could peer forward and see her face. "Are you well?"

"Of course." She swallowed thickly, nodding her head. Knowing that her observant brother would need more reassurance than that, she turned her face directly towards him and attempted a smile. "I'm fine, brother."

Green eyes stared into hers for a long moment, critical, questioning. Then, he raised his hand to her thin cheek, rubbing his thumb across the remaining, hastily erased tear tracks. "I remember as a child what a shocking liar you were, sister. Little has changed."

She scoffed, finally looking away from her brother. "Everything has changed."

Now that his hand had been shoved away, Eomer instead laid it on his sister's shoulder. "What is wrong?"

"Everything," she snapped in seeming anger. "Everything is wrong, Eomer. Look at us. We are hunted. Those creatures killed…killed so many of us." Tears fell freely from her eyes but she was not ashamed; they were justified.

"I know. Their deaths weigh heavily upon my heart also."

"Why are we doing this?"

His brow creased in confusion and he was compelled to query, "Doing what?"

"This. Going up against the Shadow. We can never win. They will keep coming for us until we are completely destroyed."

"And we will fight them until the very end."

"What end?"

Eomer cocked his head in question. Never before had Eowyn questioned their path. She had followed quietly and loyally ever since they had fled the Deep. She had even asked her brother and others amongst their acquaintance to give her some lessons in how to wield weapons. Although she had once been proficient in using a sword, her time in the dungeons of Helm's Deep had left her weak and uncertain, her skills and reflexes significantly dulled over time. She had been admirably determined though.

"What do you think is going to happen, Eomer? Honestly."

"Aragorn is…"

She scoffed again, louder this time, her eyes turning up to the dark clouded skies. "King? So everyone keeps saying. So he gets to Gondor, retakes the throne. Then what?"

"I don't know."

"The Dark Lord is not going to just surrender because a Man sits on the throne, is he?"

"No, I suppose not."

"At some point, we will have to fight him and his armies. And more of us will die. Maybe all of us. Then it would all be over. All of this will become pointless."

"Eowyn," sighed the commander, "you cannot think in that way."

"Why not? What are we following here?" she demanded, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. "Aragorn might not prove our salvation, you know."

"I thought you trusted him."

"I like him, Eomer, I do. He is a good man, I can tell. But that doesn't mean he knows what he's doing."

"You trust Legolas though, don't you?"

Eowyn raised her head at the mention of the Elf, an unusual admiring light sparking briefly in her eyes. "Of course I trust him."

"So you trust him but not me?"

"I didn't say that. Don't twist my words."

It was obvious that Eomer was offended by her apparent lack of confidence in him, for it had been he who had taken the ultimate decision to align the Rohirrim with the future King of Gondor and his already loyal Rangers. That his own flesh and blood did not believe in this cause…What did that say about his other followers? Did they also lack faith in their leader? This was indeed a troubling prospect if it was true.

"What other choice do you think we have?" he asked softly of her, trying to swallow his disappointment in her low view of him. "That man is all we have."

Shaking her head, pausing to swipe short blonde hair back off her forehead, Eowyn told him in a quiet voice, "It's not enough."

"Well, it'll have to be." Determination strengthened inside him and he hardened his heart against his own nagging doubts. "Maybe we will all die in the process but sitting back and waiting to be slaughtered by the minions of the Dark Lord is hardly an appealing alternative. I don't know about you but I plan to go down fighting, rid this earth of that twisted master of Shadow for once and for all."

Such rousing speech should have been saved for a battle occasion, Eowyn thought as her brother's fierce words sank in.

A hand was laid against her shoulder and immediately she felt comforted.

"But," he started, so much calmer now, "if you wish it, Kinnale spoke of the home town of the Rangers, Bree, and that their families had been left behind there. I could send some guards to escort you there where you will be safe."

Eowyn could not deny that the prospect of safety, tucked away far from the violence of war was so appealing to her in spite of her desire to make a difference to the overall outcome. And yet something pricked at her conscience and she knew that she could not leave. It was not merely a sense of duty that stayed her. Only recently had she been blessed by the mysterious Elf, given a rare second chance and allowed to see her beloved brother once more. She knew that she owed people for these bestowed gifts.

She could not now abandon those she loved and respected.

"No," she said after a while. "No, I will stand and fight beside you."

It broke Eomer's heart to hear the words coming from his little sister's mouth. He did not want to see her plunge headlong into battle that it was true that they could never win. Surely the only possible outcome of such action was failure and to that end, death. But nor did he want to send her away, not after everything the family had already endured. Torn between the two, he remained unsure.

Releasing a sigh of breath, Eomer pulled the fragile form of the woman into his arms, enveloping her in a hug that comforted him almost as much as it did her.

"Eomer?"

The commander looked up, biting his lip to keep from snapping at the intrusion on a rare moment of peace with his sister. Instead, he lifted his head from where it had come to rest against Eowyn's. "What is it now, Janor?"

"It's Ciaran."

Eomer's eyes dropped closed in sadness at the mention of Kinnale's son. How he had wanted to look after that boy in the absence of Kinnale and Legolas, to be as a mentor and guardian to him. Always had he felt responsible for his people but after the young man had been through so much, lost so much, he felt even more so. He had failed to protect Ciaran and the rest of his people during the battle. And now things were fast going downhill and Eomer felt completely useless.

"Is Valon with him?"

"Yes but…He is asking for his father and when I explained to him that Kinnale was…gone, he demanded to speak to you and now he will not settle. Valon wants you to come and see if you can calm him down."

Of all the people in this ragtag group of displaced Men, Eomer thought that Ciaran deserved this the least. The boy had been through more than enough for one lifetime, losing his father in the most dreadful way.

"All right," Eomer sighed heavily, unwrapping his arm from where it still rested around his sister. Before he got to his feet, he pressed a kiss onto Eowyn's forehead, muttering, "Get some rest," hoping that would be consoling enough to allow her to endure the rest of the night amidst her troubled thoughts.

"You need to rest too," she called after him as he walked away with the anxious Janor at his side.

To himself, Eomer acknowledged with a sigh, "I know."

"Where's my father?"

"Ciaran, you know that your father is not here." Eomer knelt down next to the boy, snagging the trembling hand that had been extended imploringly towards him as soon as Ciaran's eyes had spotted his approach. "You know this." His free hand laid against the child's fevered brow in a poor attempt at comfort.

"Did you see?" Ciaran asked, pleading for an answer, his eyes wide and alert.

Eomer cast a glance up at the worried-looking Janor, who shrugged to indicate that he had no clue what Ciaran was talking about and gave the impression that he and the others around had had to put up with such random questions for a good time.

"See what?"

"The Shadows."

"What shadows? There are no 'shadows', Ciaran. Nothing is here."

Ciaran let out a keening wail then, his free hand came up to grip hold of Eomer's jacket. "The shadows. They are coming," he breathed, a mix of pleading and terror written on his pale face. "They are here!"

Spooked by this eerie premonition, the commander of the Rohirrim glanced around himself but as far as he could tell there was nothing untoward lurking in the bubble of firelight that encompassed the Men's camp. Beyond the light though, he could not be certain and a shiver crept up his spine.

"There is nothing here."

"I saw them."

"Saw what? What are you talking about?" It wasn't that Eomer was angry with the boy for his confusion. He was afraid. "Ciaran?"

By now though, the boy had fallen back to sleep, his chest heaving with the effort of every breath he took.

Getting up to his feet, Eomer ran his hand over his face in attempt to refresh himself enough to form a coherent sentence.

"Valon, how is he?"

"Fevered but it will pass," answered the trusted Rohan healer, stepping forward whilst wiping his hands clean on a rag. "Orc poison can be dangerous but his dose was low. It'll be completely out of his system in a couple of days. After that he should make a full recovery. He was immensely lucky."

'Lucky', the healer called it. Indeed, the young Ranger had been lucky. Had Janor not insisted that he be checked over by a healer, more for shock than injury after he had tightly held the hand of many a dying man on the battlefield, they would not have spotted the poisoned wound until too late.

"Well that is some good news at least." The commander's eyes fell to the healer's hands, stained slightly red with the blood of many Men. "And the others?"

"Dropping like flies."

Anger surged in the commander's chest at this overtly flippant remark, callous for one of the physicians. "Is that really necessary?" he half- sighed, half-growled.

"My apologies." Tired as he was, Valon had let his professionalism slip around one that he had always deemed to be a friend and he regretted it for he knew that Eomer's guilt ran deep. "So far, thirty-two dead. The Orc's poison was strong. There was nothing I could do to spare them. There is no cure for those deeply infected."

"And how many now ill?"

"Another fifteen, not including Ciaran."

Forty-seven dead in total, killed pointlessly in a single, brutal attack, all under his command. They had not expected the Orcs, had not anticipated their fierce numbers and could never have predicted the use of more sophisticated weaponry in the form of poisoned arrows. Outnumbered, the Men had never stood a chance; even less of a chance given the use of long-range, incredibly effective weaponry.

The body count was overwhelming. It was more than Eomer had ever witnessed under his command, more even than he had seen slaughtered at Helm's Deep, more than any sane, rational person could deal with. In the past, protecting his small cluster of people who had remained safely ensconced in the Golden Hall of the Horse-lords, Eomer had considered himself to be a good commander. Now, he did not believe himself to be so. In fact, he thought himself a rather poor excuse for a leader.

"All right," he finally breathed out.

"How long do you think before Legolas and Aragorn return?" Janor asked of him.

"Oh, I don't know if they're even still alive."

Valon stepped in, hissing, "Do not let anyone else hear you talking like that." He looked around himself even though it was the dead of night and all but the guards and a couple of surviving healers tending their patients were still awake. "People are scared enough as it is."

"Scared of what? The damage has been done already," Eomer snapped out without even thinking what he was saying.

"Eomer," the physician warned in a low voice. "You shouldn't speak like that."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Valon. I'm just tired."

"Yes, well…Be that as it may, spreading fear will help nobody."

Eomer nodded, scraping his untidy hair back from his face. "I know that."

"People are looking to you for strength and calm."

"Didn't you just hear me say that I understand?"

"Indeed I did. And now you need to get some sleep, my young friend."

"There is much yet to do."

"Not tonight there is not. Certainly, there is nothing that Janor cannot handle. Isn't that right, Janor?"

"Uh, yes. Of course," replied the new commander of the Rangers, startled at suddenly being placed in charge. Even now, he was pining for Kinnale, for the deceased commander's rationality and leadership skills. For years he had followed the man, watched him leading with confidence and wisdom. How he wished that he possessed the same qualities as his mentor. Serving as second in command had been different; responsibility for the big decisions, for people's lives had not fallen to him. He missed those days of simplicity, simply following a better man.

"You are exhausted, Eomer; you have to sleep," Valon told the commander with something almost akin to cheer, flinging his arm across Eomer's broad shoulders, guiding him away from the patients' area. "You are no good to us only half awake."

"Very well." Really, he was too weary to argue over this.

"One night's sleep will do you good."

"I just agreed to do as you say."

"I know you did," smiled the healer. "I'm just…reiterating."

"Many thanks!" growled Eomer as he moved out of the glow of firelight in an attempt at finding somewhere quiet to settle down. He thought that he might be able to grab a couple of hours sleep before he was woken by the dawn and another relentless trek.

To Be Continued…