The War of Light and Shadow
By Freddie23
OIOIOIOI
Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.
A/N: Thank you for the reviews. Enjoy the next chapter.
OIOIOIOIOIOI
Chapter 56 – From Beyond The Veil
"Ciaran."
Grey eyes blinked sluggishly a couple of times after initially opening on the pain of the outside world. Uncertain of what exactly had disturbed him, Ciaran sighed a breath of irritation at being woken and closed his eyes again, fervently hoping to get back to that place in the depths of dreams where no discomfort could penetrate.
"Ciaran."
There it was again. Not a summons. Merely a whisper on the breeze. Barely there. And yet strangely loud also in his mind. A curious thing, indeed.
Sitting up stiffly under his pile of blankets, Ciaran looked about himself in confusion. All those around him close enough to whisper in such a manner appeared to still be sleeping. He was surrounded by the Rangers. Friends. None of them would play such a trick on him, not so soon after he was recovered from the poison-inflicted ailments that had knocked him down for days. No. So far on the road toward Gondor, the Men's general mood could hardly be described as jovial. With so many losses grieving them and such a heavy feeling of rivalry in the air between the now three separate factions of Men brought together, jokes were highly unlikely and pranks virtually outlawed.
"Ciaran."
And yet that voice calling to him…It was so heart-wrenchingly familiar but at the same time hard to place.
"Ciaran."
Familiar. So very familiar. A voice from his past.
Surely it could not be.
"Ciaran."
The young man got up to his knees, ignoring the slight pang of pain that ran through his still healing would. His head turned left and right, searching for whatever beckoned him so cruelly, so temptingly through the silence of the night. Overall, the camp was quiet. Aragorn had been pushing them all hard this past week since they had broken camp in wake of the future king's return and all were worn out. Most were sound asleep, undisturbed by the soft sound that had woken Ciaran.
"Ciaran."
Now certain that it was no game being played upon him by mischievous comrades and increasingly anxious at this conclusion, the young man climbed up to his feet. A better vantage point provided no further clues though.
Just as he was beginning to think that he was perhaps hallucinating from the lingering effects of the potent Orc poison that had been streaming its way through his veins of late, meaning that the prudent thing to do would be to get up and seek out the advice of the healers, a strange light caught his eye. Emanating from the bag laid next to where Legolas was sleeping, it drew him inexplicably forwards.
Carefully, he stepped over or around the slumbering Men in order to reach the Elf. He paid little attention to those around him and yet he jostled not one of them.
"Ciaran."
He stopped short at the noise. The sound had been clearer, more defined that time. As he came to the conclusion that the voice and the light were in some way connected, Ciaran felt little sense of trepidation at approaching the dual curiosities. What, after all, was the worst that could happen?
The strange red light that pulsed inside Legolas' bag grew brighter even as he watched it and began to pulsate even more deeply, beating faster the closer Ciaran got to it. Tendrils of red mist wrapped around him, ensnaring him, ensuring his compliance in answering the call. Irrationally, he tried to shake them off, batting at the illuminated air around him as one would at the pesky flies that irritated the men at meal times but it had no effect on the incorporeal wisps so he quickly gave up that notion of escaping this supernatural happening.
"Ciaran. Come to me."
Once again, Ciaran stopped abruptly, heart pounding so hard in his chest that it hurt and almost drowned out his own thoughts. The voice and the man who spoke it was now unmistakable.
"Father?" A soft whisper into the eerily reddened night, tentative and yet so very hopeful.
"Come to me, my child."
Swallowing furiously against the thick lump that had formed in his throat, Ciaran found that he was torn. This was not natural. Rationally, he knew that his father was dead. The dead could not commune with the living no matter how much the living longed for it. And yet, in spite of this long-held knowledge, Ciaran felt a spark of excited expectation in his heart.
Could his father really communicate with him from beyond the veil? He had died brutally but it had been creatures of powerful and ancient magic that had ended his life. Was it possible that his ever-strong-willed father was using that magic now in turn to speak with his son from beyond the grave?
Doubt may have rested heavily upon his mind but it was not enough to deter him from investigating the possibility further. Such an opportunity, no matter how remote the possibilities were, could not be passed over and to do so would surely be foolish.
"Father?" Ciaran whispered into the thin air, feeling ever so slightly foolish in doing so. "Tell me how."
"Come to me."
"How?"
"Come."
Feeling frustration building up inside of him at the maddeningly unhelpful directions, the voice of his father instructed simply, "Follow."
"Follow what?"
As if in response to his question, the red light, still pulsing steadily, glowed momentarily brighter. A sign for him to follow the light. But surely his father would not be found inside of Legolas' travelling pack!
Ciaran very nearly laughed out loud at the sheer absurdity of that idea.
After taking a moment to think it through, Ciaran came to the conclusion that he had nothing to lose by following this strange delusion's instructions. If in fact, this was madness then so be it. He would simply check it out and then go and find Valon and confess his fall into insanity.
So, he moved closer, following the tendrils of strange red light that beckoned him ever nearer.
Worried that the Elf might be disturbed by his clumsy Human footsteps, Ciaran moved on careful tiptoe as he approached. For a change, Legolas was asleep this night, his eyes shut tight. It was not often, Ciaran knew, that Legolas succumbed to sleep unless he felt secure where he was spending his resting hours. Very often he would be seen patrolling the borders of the camps, searching for a danger that he apparently feared would pass the Human guards by. However, with guards taking care to patrol the perimeter, this camp was as safe as it could possibly be. Fate, perhaps. Or maybe the ghost of his father had something to do with the Elf's prolonged and deep slumber. Either way, he was grateful. He remembered Legolas' fury at the man Grima when he had stolen something from him. He had no desire to be on the receiving end of that wrath.
Odd though it was, Ciaran did not find that off-putting as he knew he should have. He wanted the source of that voice to be made evident no matter what the consequences. Although he had his suspicions. A tingle of fear rippled through him.
Keeping his eyes securely on the Elf's peaceful features, watching for any sign of him waking, Ciaran crouched down next to him and reached for the strap of the bag. The movement was slow and careful but Legolas stirred slightly in its wake. Freezing for a moment solved the problem. Legolas settled back into sleep with a barely audible sigh.
Realising that he had been holding his breath in anticipation of getting caught, Ciaran took a beat to breathe in then smoothly lifted the bag from its resting place.
Thankfully, Legolas did not wake.
Ciaran carried the bag back to where his blanket was laid out, where he had been sleeping peacefully mere moments before, and sat down cross-legged on the ground, placing the stolen bag in front of him. His hands shook as he untied the flap at the front. The red glow had now lessened in strength since he had picked up the bag and by the time he pushed aside the flap it had died almost completely.
There was no doubt now what had drawn him in.
From beneath a thin layer of cloth, the light continued to glow softly, pulsing steadily as he watched it. The whispers, calling his name, had become more rapid, desperate inside of his head.
Now, Ciaran hesitated. The Palantir was calling to him. His father had spoken to him of the Seeing Stone not long after they had first arrived in Edoras; he'd spoken of the madness the thing had brought out in Men unfortunate enough to come into contact with it and of its terrible dangers.
And yet, he realised that an object that could twist the minds of Men was obviously leaden with magic.
"Ciaran, come to me."
The voice seemed louder this time and it made the boy jump in surprise and look around as if expecting to see a physical presence near him.
"F-Father?"
"Come to me, my son."
Emotion sitting thickly in his throat, Ciaran reached out his hand toward the glowing ball of illuminated stone. Merely touching the thing could not hurt – perhaps it might bring him closer to his father, even offer a way to get him back. For all his reasoning, though, Ciaran found that his hand continued to hover uncertainly above the surface of the Stone, trembling slightly. He was afraid of what he might hear or see, of what might be conjuring this kind of magic and enticing him to connect with it.
"Ciaran," a different voice this time, lower in volume but somehow more powerful, "your father awaits you."
Who was speaking such immensely tempting promises? Ciaran looked around himself again but no one else had been disturbed by the new voice. Suddenly, he wished he could ask Legolas for his advice. But he would not do that because he was certain that the ever-sensible Legolas would talk him out of taking a peek at what was on offer and he did not want to be talked down from what might be his only chance to commune with his father once more. After all, the Elf had stripped him of that honour when he had been pulled unceremoniously away from the caves before he could do anything to aid his stricken sire.
"Ciaran, would you like to see your father again?" hissed the voice, recapturing Ciaran's attention.
Swallowing again, the young man answered, "Yes." He kept his own voice low, at a whisper, now fearing discovery.
A pause followed, as if the source of the voice was mulling over the possible routes it could now take with the hopeful boy. Then, "I can return him to you."
It did not sound right. Promises like that surely could not be fulfilled and even if they were, the consequences would not doubt not be pleasant for any to endure.
"How?" Ciaran asked all the same, curiosity winning over his fear.
"Would you like to see your father again?"
"I…Yes."
Ciaran could have sworn he heard a laugh but it was too quiet now to be sure. "First you must do something for me."
"What must I do?"
"Pick up the Stone of Seeing and find out."
That was it? All he had to do was pick up the Palantir and his father would be returned? Could it really be that simple?
"Come to me, Ciaran," the voice pleaded, this time an odd amalgamation of his father and the unknown.
"Wait. Who are you?" It couldn't hurt to be better informed as to what kind of creature he was dealing with.
A definite laugh this time. Then the voice taunted softly, wrapping around his mind, "You know."
Deep down, Ciaran feared that he did know.
"Does it matter, child? I can give you what you desire most."
"Why would you?"
"You all misunderstand me so very much. I am not so bad."
Ciaran thought he detected a hint of mockery in the wispy voice and it irked him a little. This was not the time for games, surely.
"I want to help you, child."
The young man doubted that. Malice, covered though it was by sweet words and promises, laid thickly in the tone. It was not to be trusted. And yet, what was pledged would be difficult for any to refuse.
Covering his face with his hands, torn between want and conscience, Ciaran softly cried, "I cannot."
"Such a simple thing." The voice had grown fainter. It was leaving him. Leaving him to his solitary misery. "Such a little thing you must do for me, child. Come to me."
Something tugged at Ciaran's mind, drawing him close again to the Palantir that sat somehow malevolently before him.
"Ciaran! Help me, I beg of you." The cry shocked him and he rocked backwards as it reverberated despairingly through his head.
"Father?" Shifting up onto his knees so he could peer into the bag at the glowing Palantir, Ciaran felt hope soar in his heart. "Father, is that really you?"
"It is me," confirmed Kinnale.
Tears streaked down Ciaran's face unchecked. "Where are you, Father?"
"Come to me, my son."
"How?"
"Do as he asks."
"But…"
"It will be all right. Soon we can be together again. You do want that, don't you?"
"Of course."
"Then you must do what is asked of you, son."
"I don't…"
"Don't be afraid of it."
"I am afraid," confessed the young man.
"All will be well."
"Do you swear it?"
"Yes, I swear."
With his indecision rapidly fading, Ciaran nodded and let his eyes drift closed again for a brief moment. Fear did indeed pulse inside his head but, even more, he so desperately wanted to see his beloved father again. Such promises were hard to reject.
"All right," he finally agreed and then, without giving himself any time to further debate over this choice, he reached into the bag and laid his hands on the Palantir.
Ripping off the cloth, Ciaran stared wide-eyed into the depths of the purple-veined stone encased in his trembling hands.
It was beautiful. The most beautiful thing he had ever seen in all his life. It positively thrummed with magic. Hidden in its depths he thought he saw the shadow of his father, a blurred shape, barely distinguishable even to one who was searching. Leaning closer, he squinted into the ball of swirling purple and red mist.
Laughter resounded through Ciaran's mind then, so loud that it hurt his head and made him wince. As the laughter grew in intensity, so the light changed too. It glowed bright red once more. Gasping as fire burst forth from the Palantir's centre burning his hands on the smooth stone which just seconds before had been cool, Ciaran attempted to pull away but by now it was too late - he was bound to it.
"Child," boomed a voice so very different from the sweet, reassuring one that had beckoned him and lured him this far.
"Let me go," whimpered Ciaran, closing his eyes against the intensity of the Palantir's glare.
But the presence, undoubtedly that of the Dark Lord himself, would do no such thing. It clung onto him tightly, digging deeper inside his vulnerable, open mind, cruelly delving for what secrets rested inside.
Fight though he did, the weak mind of the young boy proved itself to be no match for the dark will of the Lord of Shadow. The Great Eye, wreathed with raging flames that burned the inside of his body and soul, invaded every inch of him, seeking knowledge and weakness, ravaging any barrier that stood in its way.
Throughout the vicious onslaught, Ciaran could do nothing. He realised his mistake now but it was too late; there was no going back now. Release would be on Sauron's terms, not his. Crying out, he squeezed his eyes shut tight but the fire raged just as brightly behind his lids.
"Let me go!"
"I see you!" chimed the mocking voice inside his head and the pain reached its peak. He screamed.
OIOI
The entire camp was startled into awareness by the loud scream. Legolas leapt up, suddenly alert, recognising immediately who had issued the cry. A soft orange light came from the place where Ciaran had bedded down for the night and it illuminated the boy, showing him writhing in agony on the ground at its centre.
A quick glance around showed Legolas that his bag of possessions was missing. He knew then what was afflicting the young man.
Things moved fast then.
Some of those Men close to Ciaran moved uncertainly away, not understanding what was happening to their companion, whereas Janor and Aragorn rushed forward in an attempt to help their friend. For a long moment, Legolas was frozen to the spot, observing but unable to react immediately.
Only when Aragorn yelled Ciaran's name in alarm did Legolas snap out of his stupor.
"Aragorn, no!" the Elf shouted, lurching forward in a futile attempt to reach his ward before he could lay his hands on Ciaran and the Stone of Seeing.
It was too late though. Concerned for his friend at his time of suffering, Aragorn dropped to his knees and grabbed his arm in an attempt to get the young Ranger to release the mystical ball of stone without even considering the consequences of his actions.
Fire ripped through Aragorn the moment he laid hands on his friend, fanned by the sudden presence of the King of Men. His cries of agony joined Ciaran's.
Sauron's voice, clear and crisp, appeared in his own mind them.
Whispering, "Aragorn. Come to me." The Eye blazed before his eyes, wreathed still in fire and searing brightly against a backdrop of the blackest black. "It is almost time, King. We will meet…"
Legolas grabbed his ward's arm, wrenching it none too gently away from Ciaran. In the process, the Elf caught a flash of the flame, dazzling him in its intensity. The presence that swamped him was immediately recognisable as the Dark Lord of Mordor and his soul screamed in pain and terror.
In shock and horror, Legolas and Aragorn both toppled backwards, falling into a useless, crumpled, quivering heap on the ground. The jolt of Legolas' added presence had finally dislodged the Palantir from Ciaran's hands and he too fell backwards with a breathless scream.
The light and the whispers ceased straight away, leaving nothing but stunned silence and heavy breathing in their wake. Men stared at the Elf and the two Men, none knowing quite what to do. They feared to touch them just in case the same Shadow laced through them. Evil yet lingered in the air, leaving a bitter taste in the mouths of the soldiers of Light and making them understandably fearful.
"Aragorn," Legolas' voice, unusually weak, finally broke the thick blanket of silence.
Slowly, Legolas moved to sit up, only to discover that Aragorn remained leant against him where he had fallen after being disconnected from the power of the Palantir. The boy did not move at his call though. It seemed he had been rendered immobile by the dark effects of the Stone.
"Aragorn."
At the sound of the Elf calling the name of their king, several men rushed forwards, Jecha naturally being one of the first.
"Are you all right?" both Eomer and Jecha asked at the same time as they each took one of Aragorn's arms to help in to sit up.
In reply, Aragorn just nodded, head too clouded to think straight enough to answer verbally.
"Ciaran, can you hear me?" Janor's voice called louder above all the others. He was bent over Ciaran, who remained laid flat on his back, completely unresponsive. "Ciaran? Get a healer! Now!" the man yelled at the others gathered around him.
Someone ran off in search of one of the physicians but the majority of the crowd remained, both frightened and curious.
"Aragorn, look at me," Legolas demanded, now knelt before the young man, holding cold hands between his own. The man's eyes focused a little more on his guardian and he nodded again. "Tell me, are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm all right." Already, the fuzziness was starting to clear and he was able to think clearly once more. "Are you?"
"Fine."
"Ciaran?"
Legolas looked over to where a young healer was hurrying towards the Ranger was being tended to by his companions Janor and Kalub.
"What was that?" Eomer demanded of Legolas.
"I think you know already."
Eomer's eyes darkened. Indeed, he had witnessed the horrible power of the Palantir, watched it twisting Human thoughts into madness and bringing forth death and horror but he had never seen anything quite that strong before. In the past, the Palantir seemed to have taken its time in warping the Human mind. This seemed almost instantaneous. He shuddered at the thought of where this additional potency had come from and only one answer sprung to mind. The Dark Lord had been perilously close this night. He had caught a much-coveted glimpse of his enemy.
Hauling himself wearily up to his feet, the Elven prince moved over to where Ciaran was now being encouraged to open his eyes. "Is everything all right?" he asked of the young healer tending him.
"Does he look all right to you?" snapped back the physician. The woman raised her eyes when she registered the impatient, irritated glare the Elf had fixed upon her. Sighing by way of apology, she explained, "I cannot tell yet. He does not respond."
"He has been touched by the Shadow."
"What does that mean?" demanded Jecha, although his concentration was solely on Aragorn and not on the son of Kinnale.
It was the healer who replied. "It means I don't know how to help him."
"The Shadow will clear in time."
"How do you know that?"
"I just do," Legolas said, turning away from Ciaran now that he had satisfied himself that the boy would live.
"Excellent."
"What about Aragorn?" Jecha asked persistently.
"He merely got a touch of the Shadow, a fleeting glance," Legolas assured confidently. " Just as I did." Every instinct told him to comfort his clearly still distressed ward who remained sat on the ground surrounded by people but there were more pressing matters to deal with first. His eyes scanned the ground, searching for the object, the source of the distress now filling their small camp. It had since grown dark once more, no longer pulsing with eerie, supernatural light. Still, it had not rolled far and Legolas spotted it with relative ease.
"Do not touch it!" he barked at a startled soldier who had just bent down to helpfully retrieve the misplaced Stone.
Legolas strode over and pushed the junior soldier roughly out of the way. The Stone of Seeing was quiet, dormant once more, but there was simply no way that he was going to risk laying his hands on it. Keeping his eyes on the dark orb, Legolas shrugged off his jacket and used it to wrap the Palantir securely up before lifting it off the ground.
"Just take it slowly."
"I'm going slowly," Aragorn mumbled irritably as he was helped to his feet by Jecha and Eomer, each holding one arm to steady the king.
"You've had a terrible shock."
"No, I'm fine." Raising his head, Aragorn sought out his guardian. "Legolas?"
"We have to leave."
"I had a feeling you would say that," sighed Eomer. That Elf was nothing if not predictable. Experience taught him that debate was useless so he turned to his gathered Men and called, "Get ready to move out."
"Did you feel it too?" Aragorn asked as he drew closer to his guardian.
"Yes, I felt it."
Dread filled Aragorn's heart, almost painful. "He knows."
OIOI
"My Lord?"
Many had been attracted by the almost maniacal laughter that echoed around the spacy halls of Barad-dur but few had the requisite courage to approach and investigate. Only the Dark Conduit, spokesperson for Sauron upon Middle Earth, dared go to his master.
"Foolish child," the Dark Lord croaked, his voice hoarse and strained through his laughter.
"Sire?"
The robed Lord of Mordor took a staggering step away from the stone plinth that held the glowing Seeing Stone. One gloved hand came to rest delicately upon his chest. Such mirth was draining him even though his vessel remained, for the time being, secure. But such joy simply could not be contained.
"Yes, everything is aligning at last."
"You have seen something, Master."
"Yes, seen. The strength of Men wanes. So easily manipulated."
Taking an awkward, hesitant step closer to his master, the Voice asked with a hideous grin, "Aragorn."
"So surrounded by fools that he does not see the truth laid before him." Sauron laughed, unnatural and hard even for the sycophants in his service to hear. "He thinks them assets, but they will prove his failing."
"My Lord?"
Collapsing rather gracelessly in exhaustion down into his chair in a billow of over-sized robes and an exhalation heavy with weariness, the Dark Lord smiled. "His strength will begin to wane soon enough. The fool plans to take the White City back from us. In this he is doomed to failure."
"Gondor?"
As he reached up to straighten out his hood, the Dark One agreed, "Daring. At Gondor he will meet his end. Never will this pretender meet me at my door."
The creature took a step forward, fluidly falling into an even lower standing bow, clasping hands, blackened and cracked, before him. "Our forces?"
"Unleash them upon the White City. Bring me the King of Fools."
Dropping closer still to the ground in genuflection, the spokesperson for the kingdom of Mordor cracked a horrifying grin of sheer pleasure. "I will see it done, my Lord," it sneered, backing away slowly. So far, the Son of Arathorn had evaded all attempts to halt him on his quest. What a joy it would be to out-do even the Nazgul and prove to his master that his place in the new order was vital. He would not be cut out of the Dark Lord's plans as others before him had been. He would take down the supposed king with his own hand, just as he had done with the arrogant fools in Rivendell.
His master's enemy would fall by his sword.
To Be Continued…