The War of Light and Shadow
By Freddie23
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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.
A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. I hope you all enjoy this next chapter.
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Chapter 61 – In Your Head
As Legolas walked, he closed his eyes, confident that his senses would guide him safely and without mishap. It wasn't like his eyesight was much good in this thick darkness anyway. He tried to imagine, as he walked, that he was wandering down the simple, bumpy mud path leading from his homeland to the mountains. He heard in his head the dying, ghostly cries of the once great green forest far in the distance and although it hurt more in his chest, he welcomed the familiarity and the pain.
Faltering a little in his footsteps as the crying within his head increased in volume, Legolas' hand shot up to rest upon his chest above his heart.
Wanting now to dispel of the image of his past, he opened his eyes, focusing on the dark surroundings of Osgiliath, and started working on shoving the pain aside as he had done multiple times in the past, but it would not work as it had done previously. Suddenly, he found himself struggling for breath amidst the searing agony. Forcing air brutally into his lungs, Legolas bent over, doubled up, hand clenched into a tight fist and pressed hard to his heaving breast.
Gasping in another painful gulp of warm air, he tried in vain to cry out for help. It was futile, he knew. No sound could be forced from his constricted throat. And even if he had been able to call out, there was no one close enough to hear.
Unable to breathe and becoming increasingly overwhelmed by the pain, Legolas stumbled sideways off the relatively smooth stone of the trodden path and into the dirt on its edge. He almost toppled over but instead crashed hard into the solid stone wall of a building. The new pain of his collision barely registered above that in his chest. Like fire, it burned, searing in his veins and filling his senses. Sliding down to the ground, arm grazing against uneven stone, Legolas pulled his legs up and huddled in a tight ball, willing the overpowering agony to cease.
Resting his forehead, now beaded with cold sweat, against his bent knees, he tried to will himself back into control. Pain could be dominated; just like loneliness and hunger, it could be stored away in the back of the mind, carefully hidden so that functioning could continue for as long as necessary to survive. The exiled Prince had been doing just that for the best part of a century now. He saw no reason why this tried and tested means of endurance should now collapse on him.
And yet, the dreadful pain continued to batter him, building now in his stomach and his head as well. What was this ruthless affliction, Legolas wondered vaguely. An affliction of the soul rather than the body was his guess.
Was this punishment then for his cruel words to Denethor? They had been true and yet painful to speak. Had all that guilt and self-hatred finally moved beyond merely blackening his soul and had sought a more physical outlet? Was he being poisoned by the dark secrets he'd held inside for so long? For the words he had spoken to Denethor echoed closely the opinion he held of himself.
Such a terrible hypocrite he had felt throwing them carelessly at another. Weak and cowardly he had branded the Steward. But the truth was that despite all the man's many flaws, Legolas still considered him to be the better man.
True, the altered Steward had abandoned his capital, had sought refuge behind the safety of his soldiers but even he had not entirely abandoned his people, not as Legolas had. Perhaps the Steward did not fight the hordes of Mordor as a warrior but in Legolas' eyes he still clung to one small act of bravery: Loyalty.
Long ago, Denethor could have fled. Upon taking up the mantle of the Stewardship from his father Ecthelion he could easily have taken his wife and left the city and its people to their fates. And yet he remained; lonely and soul-weary, but ultimately still standing amongst those who looked to him for leadership.
Why, Legolas wondered as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the deep agony making his whole body tremble, could he not have been as brave? Why had he not remained in Mirkwood with his people? He could have, he knew. After seeing the King fall, he could have fought off his loyal but feeble friend's attempts to drag him away, he could have turned back to fight even if he stood no chance against the Uruk-hai invading his home. Surely death would have been preferable to this life.
But he had not stayed with his fallen people. He had feared death and he had run from it. And he had not been able to save those he loved.
He gasped again and pushed his head back against the pitted stone of the wall. He was beginning to grow dizzy.
Tears rolled unchecked down his cheeks. Here, hidden in the darkness, there was no one to see him succumb to grief. Why should he be ashamed when in his life he had done so many more shameful things, unforgiveable things?
He allowed himself, at long last, to recall those dreadful memories he'd long kept hidden even from himself. What did it matter now if this was the end? Let him suffer the fate he had been denied upon the falling of Mirkwood. It was no less than he deserved.
His father had screamed at the end, he remembered. Kings, those of royal blood, should always remain brave and strong so Legolas had always been taught, and yet Thranduil, proud, noble son of Oropher, had lived his final moments in abject terror. Never in his life had he witnessed the King afraid of anything or anyone. But then he had never expected to really. According to all those he had ever spoken to on the subject, a king was always unflappable, untouched by the feelings and fears that blighted other men. And yet, Thranduil had screamed a most blood-curdling scream at the end.
Despite this unexpected and uncharacteristic flaw in strength though, Thranduil had been strong. He had stayed with the kingdom he had built from the ground up and loved as dearly as his own family. Legolas had run.
How many people had still been trapped inside the vast honeycomb of rooms that had made up the great palace of Mirkwood? What of those that Legolas himself had told to hide, had instructed to wait for his return? Had they waited long enough that the Orcs' final sweep had uncovered them, or had they been cut down by the agents of the Shadow long before? Or perhaps the fire had gotten them. It was an unbearable thought, for others to have endured such an agonising end because of his cowardice.
Even his own family had not survived. He had not even been there when their lives ended. Only by accident had he stumbled upon the already cold bodies of his wife and children where they lay on the richly carpeted floor of his royal apartment, struck down, along with their loyal bodyguards, by the filth of Mordor that invaded their home on a far too regular basis. They had presented an easy target to the Shadow. How could the Orcs spare such obvious, vulnerable prey when it stood unprotected before them? His wife had fought, he knew, doing all she could to defend their children. Her knife, gifted to her by the King himself upon her joining with Legolas, lay beside her, unstained by Orkish blood. She had not stood a chance. She had never even had an opportunity to strike back. They had knocked her down and Legolas could easily imagine them laughing at her feeble attempts at defence. She could defend herself; Legolas had ensured it. Every Elf capable of bearing a weapon in Mirkwood was given the opportunity to learn, such was the evil attacking their home. But against such beasts, one knife would not have sufficed. After all, the Orcs had slaughtered the bodyguards assigned to protect the royals.
As the initial evacuation of the Stronghold had been called for, he had sat there on the floor, unable to move, cradling those he loved and wailing at the injustice the Shadow brought to their lands.
Sobbing brokenly into his hands, Legolas recalled with perfect clarity the moment that his beloved had pleaded with him to leave the forest, to take their still young children, blessings to the forest realm, somewhere safer, maybe even to the Undying Lands beyond the Sea where they may live under the protection of the Valar. The argument had been fierce; a rare occurrence in what had been an otherwise equitable relationship. She had begged for his compliance, fearing not just the danger presented to him on his frequent patrols of his beloved forest but also the encroaching danger from the Shadow's inexorable march against Thranduil's stronghold, and he had stubbornly ignored her warning, arguing that his people needed him to remain behind, needed him to defend them.
'And what of your family?' she had yelled at him in tearful fury.
'Some things are more important,' he had replied entreatingly, calm and set in his resolve.
Would he have hated himself as he did now had he done as she had pleaded and left Arda with her?
The conundrum beat around his throbbing head. He groaned in despair, then toppled over onto his side so that he laid in the cold dirt, where he thought he belonged, his back pressed against the wall.
"I'm sorry." The words sounded so very strange coming from his tight throat. Had he ever uttered them before? He could not recall. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Oddly comforting, that little mantra. Rocking in time, he begged to the silent street for forgiveness for his sins to be absolved. It was not to be because there was no one left to offer forgiveness. He was alone.
What had become of him? How had he come to be here; lying in the dirt miserable and useless?
Pain overcame him again, putting a halt to the words beseeching forgiveness and he curled up tightly, arms wrapped around himself. Was this how it felt to die? It seemed fitting that it end in agony, no less than he deserved given the agony he had through his selfishness inflicted upon others, that he should be alone in his last moments to revel in the misery of his failings.
But he was not alone. He realised with a start that there was something out here in the city with him. In his mind, he recalled Faramir telling him of the terrible creature walking Osgiliath's streets preying upon the unfortunate lost souls unable to defend themselves. Most certainly he qualified as such a soul drowning in his grief. A sob of fear shot through him but quickly disappeared. What did it matter how he died? One way was much the same as another. Perhaps the monster prowling the streets would be more merciful.
Opening his eyes, Legolas saw a shadow, tall and forbidding. A shudder racked his thin frame, bile rose in his throat and the pressure in his head intensified to the point where he thought he might black out.
Noise filled his ears, entered his mind. At first he could not identify what the sound was but after a minute the pain in his head started to dim a little, allowing him to work out what the sound was. When he did, a frown creased his damp brow. Laughter. Deep, tinny laughter filled the hush of the deserted outskirts of the City of Stars.
Gasping in fetid air once more, Legolas tried to haul himself up from where he lay vulnerable on the ground. Fingers dug into the dirt as he twisted onto his front, enabling him to pull his weary body up onto his hands and knees, head still bent.
"Pathetic!" a high, distorted voice decided and a hard kick by a sharp, metal-toed boot connected with Legolas' side, sending him back to the ground with a heavy, painful thud.
"What…?" Speaking had become no easier so Legolas gave up and instead looked up at the shadowed presence interrupting his final moments.
The voice seemed bored as it pronounced, "You are not dying, Immortal."
"What?" Again it was gasping, almost inaudible.
And yet the shadow must have heard it because it took a casual step backwards onto the paved street and sighed loudly, "Idiot creature."
As rapidly as it had assaulted him just a few moments ago, the pain vanished. So abrupt was the change that his equilibrium, only just regained, was lost again and he fell back to the ground with a gasp.
It took a moment for him to calm his breathing, frantic as it had become when he had finally been able to draw air into his burning lungs and more time still for his head to clear enough to recall that he was no longer alone. He felt worryingly weak as he struggled back up onto his knees. It was as if all his body's energy had been sapped from him by whatever malevolent shadow he had been gripped by. Whether by this creature towering over him or by the sheer weight of his memories resurfaced he did not know. There was, though, a more pressing matter at hand, namely the shadowy being watching him.
"At last!" exclaimed the creature.
There was no doubt in Legolas' mind that this was an agent of the Shadow. It oozed malevolence. Darkness clung to it, thick and foreboding, and it made Legolas shudder in fear. He knew this was not one of the Nazgul. Having faced them once already, he was certain that he could recognise their presence when again faced with it. And yet there was a powerful charge in the air. Dark magic was easily recognisable even to the most ignorant of Arda's beings, and Legolas was no fool, he'd seen more than his fair share.
Slowly, the Elf climbed up to his feet, his palms pressed against the wall behind him for support as his legs still shook weakly.
"Who are you?" His voice was hoarse, impossible to disguise the weakness behind it.
The tall being laughed again, a terrible sound that filled the streets and resounded around Legolas' head. It found the question amusing, as if its answer should have been obvious.
"What are you?" Legolas rephrased ominously. He was acutely aware that he had but one weapon on his person – the small dagger on his belt. Such a small blade, he felt, would have no effect on this mysterious being, especially seeing as any attack on his part would be weak and ineffectual at best. He feared he'd be useless in a fight.
The being knew this. It was unconcerned. Legolas posed it no threat. As of yet, it had not even drawn a weapon. Although with the ability to create and vanish such immense pain on a whim, Legolas doubted it felt the need for any physical weapon at all.
"Who are you?" Legolas repeated with more strength this time.
It seemed to make little impact upon the creature, although upon the Elf's third try, the being deigned to answer.
Proudly standing taller, it declared somewhat grandly and extremely chillingly, "I am the Voice of Mordor."
The grand title meant little to Legolas though. Never had he heard of such a creature. Still, he had, somehow, the absolute knowledge that this was a close ally of the Dark Lord and that was a good enough reason to fear.
Swallowing thickly, he asked rather less confidently, "Why are you here?"
The being cocked its head to the side, as though this particular question was wholly unexpected. Still, it gathered its wits within a minute and answered in an almost polite tone, "I have come to speak with you, Thranduilion, and to take from you another king."
A shot of fear went through Legolas' heart. Aragorn. It had come for Aragorn.
Knowing that within the core of the slumbering city, Aragorn lay entirely unaware of this terrible danger to his life, Legolas sought for a way out. But the creature was very effectively blocking his escape and even if he could manage to dodge past the vast form and race towards his ward he knew that he would never make it, he did not have the strength to outrun the Shadow.
"You tremble, Thranduilion," the Mouth of Sauron mocked around a laugh.
Legolas had to admit, "I am afraid."
"For your ward."
"Yes."
"And for yourself?"
How much of his heart had this creature seen? Did it know of all his many imperfections, his doubts over his questionable character?
"Yes," he answered honestly.
Again, the creature laughed. "Yes that is wise. You reek of dread." It paused as if to observe the Elf it had caught in its net, mulling over the brief exchange of frank words. It had intelligence. Sauron's aides may have been mindlessly obedient but they were not all as dull-witted as the hybrid Orcs that made up the vast legions of the Shadow Army. It was not to be intimidated by the sharp minds of Elves. After all, it was allied to the Master of All Arda; what had it to fear from one solitary Elf?
Coming a short step closer, it said quietly, voice laced with malice, "You are right to fear. The Lord of Shadow knows much of you, Legolas of Greenwood."
"Does he now?" A poor and horribly belated attempt at nonchalance and both beings knew it.
After uttering another throaty chuckle, the dark creature carried on. "Indeed. You have made some grievous mistakes, Foolish One."
"You think so?"
The dark head nodded solemnly. "Never should you have taken such a dangerous path. Now I fear there is no turning back for you."
"I have no intention of doing so."
"No." It laughed and this time it sounded almost wistful, as if it understood the duty, the heavy burden that Legolas carried, and sympathised to an extent with it. Legolas knew this to be a trick though. This thing had no soul. It had no capacity for sympathy. "And yet," it continued and had it not been for the deep Darkness surrounding the creature and the slight edge of danger in its tone this could almost have been mistaken for a casual conversation, "the Dark Lord does allow for some leniency, even amongst the most heinous traitors to his dominion."
"If your Lord thinks he can turn me to the Shadow then he is sorely mistaken and you are wasting your time with me." With breath once more in his body, Legolas was relieved to hear that his words were becoming stronger again even if they didn't sound quite as impressive as he would have liked.
"Ah, but the Shadow is already inside you, Thranduilion. It has been for some time." This self-satisfied declaration was followed by sharp movement as the creature delved its gloved hand into its mass of thick black robes to retrieve something, which upon finding, it pulled out before Legolas with a flourish.
Legolas' blood ran cold and for the second time that night all the air was wrenched from his body. His hand shot to his heart, mouth open in unconcealed horror.
"You recognise it, Prince." The creature cracked a sickening grin of pleasure. "Behold, the blood of your sire decorating his own blade."
"No." Indeed, the blade, shining brightly even in the night for it was truly made by Elvish hands, easy to recognise for its shape, was stained and the thought that this was the very sword that had been used on his father sickened the Elf. He slumped against the wall once again, shaking his head in desperate denial. "No. No!"
"You cannot deny."
"NO!"
"The blood of a coward. The same blood beats in your own heart, Thranduilion. You are one and the same." It paused then, waiting completely still and silent for Legolas to regain some semblance of control so that its next offer was not lost on the Elf. When steely blue eyes were once more focused upon him, the Mouth of Sauron went on. "Redeem your cowardice now, Thranduilion. You need only utter but a few words to be absolved of all your crimes against your Lord and Master. Give me the location of the child and release yourself from this self-imposed misery."
Legolas shook his head, forcefully tearing his eyes away from the creature. More than the macabre interest in his father's lost sword, the creature of Shadow held some kind of inexplicable, almost hypnotic effect on him.
With a jolt of horror and contempt for himself, he realised suddenly that he was tempted by the offer.
Should he meet the Lord of Darkness, he would be condemned to death, almost certainly. Perhaps then, when in the Halls of Waiting, he could join those long since lost to him and all this pain and guilt would at last be done with. How tempting this now proved with the decision laid freely before him. Whether through the Shadow's influence washing over him or his own dark longing for freedom, he felt his mouth opening to accept.
"He…He is…"
"Yes?" the dark creature encouraged, stepping forward eagerly, the tip of Thranduil's lost sword pointing harmlessly down to the earth in its distraction.
Why did he hesitate? It could have ended this life of cruel purgatory for once and for all, could have freed his tormented soul at last. And yet, he couldn't. The words choked in his throat, bitter and stubborn. He bowed his head, fighting the urge to curl into a ball and pitifully cry.
After a long moment of simply breathing in and out, Legolas nodded just once. Upon raising his hard eyes, he found the tall creature staring expectantly at him, waiting for the inevitable result of its considerable powers of persuasion.
Swallowing back the lump of disappointment in himself that had lodged low in his throat, the exiled Prince of Mirkwood gave his answer.
"He is…"
"Yes."
"Beyond your reach, foul creature of Darkness!"
For a long while, the air was thick with the silence that followed Legolas' defiant declaration. In its hand, the sword of Mirkwood quivered, undoubtedly with sheer rage. Few had dared to defy him for he was Mordor, spoke for those lands and the whole world's master.
The atmosphere began to grow heavy, pressing in around them and Legolas felt as if a great weight was on his chest and he struggled once more to breathe. Shaking, he'd braced himself for the coming pain he'd imagined would follow for his noncompliance but it did not come. His eyes were fixed upon the robed shadow, curious and fearful in equal measure.
"A poor choice, Thranduilion." The conclusion was soft and yet brimmed with hatred and fury.
"My choice."
Taking a short step closer to its trapped prey, the lieutenant of Barad-dur seemed to calm and the suffocating tension dissipated. "But are you certain?" it queried teasingly.
"Kill me if you will, but you will never know anything of my charge. I know where my allegiance lies, where it will always remain."
"Loyalty; such a terrible weakness amongst your kind." Coming closer still, the creature revelled in its next words, knowing how they would wound. "Erestor of Imladris was loyal to you right up until the end."
Legolas felt his heart contract in pain. "What?" he managed to force out.
"Not just towards you but towards his lord also. Even after we slit the throat of his friend and tortured him to the very brink of madness, he remained rather stubbornly steadfast in his convictions." It grinned as Legolas exhaled a ragged sob of denial. "I asked him before the end if it was truly worth it. But he would not relent. His head looked mightily fine mounted upon my master's wall." Legolas was trembling now with grief and rage and he looked up into the pale face of this most hated tormentor. The next cruel words broke any sensible restraint he'd been holding onto though. "It adorned the space next to your father."
"NO!"
Fuelled by anger more intense than any he had ever felt before in his long life, Legolas threw caution to the wind and recklessly pushed himself away from the wall, launching himself at this sadistic creature of pure evil. He took great satisfaction as the being, wraith-like though it appeared, was actually a heavy, solid mass that hit the ground with a painful crash. The creature had not anticipated quite such a violent reaction to his words, not expected the tortured Elf to be quite so vicious in his attack. Legolas had drawn his dagger on him before it even recalled that it possessed a weapon of its own.
Raising the dagger high above his head, the exiled Elven prince released a feral cry and brought the weapon down as hard as he could against the monster pinned beneath him.
The dagger never hit its mark. The creature had size and strength on its side and with its life under threat, it reacted instinctively. It threw the light weight of the prince from its body. Unable to fight such a strong action, Legolas hit the ground hard but rolled smoothly further away from the creature of Darkness before nimbly regaining his footing.
Adrenaline overruled common sense then and as the creature somewhat ungainly gained its feet, Legolas attacked again.
One short blade against such a powerful being was always destined to be ineffectual, even if it was propelled by cold hatred.
The creature halted Legolas' approach with a wide sweep of Thranduil's sword and wisely the Elf danced away from the deadly arch. It laughed at the retreat; good humour returned now that it felt back in control of the situation. Again, Legolas darted forward but he was no match for the broadsword of the Elves wielded by a creature of terrible dark magic.
"Foolish child."
Legolas frowned at this mild slur. His chest was heaving with every breath he took, although it was from exertion now rather than the dark sorcery of the Shadow. His frown altered from one of anger to one of confusion. This was Sauron's lieutenant, powerful beyond reason or fear. He knew already that it could cause debilitating agony of the body and soul simply by willing it so and yet the lesser attacker threatening its power and very existence remained still standing, still fighting. It did not add up.
"You…" he started as his mind began to piece everything together. "What…?"
The sword was lowered and the creature grinned, showing off pointed teeth, black and horrible. "Forgive the histrionics. It was best that you did not interfere."
"Interfere?"
The dreadful truth suddenly crashed over him in the same instant that he heard an otherworldly screech from above. Dropping the dagger in favour of protecting his ears from the high-pitched assault, Legolas looked skywards to see the shapes, blacker than the night, soaring over the city. Foul beasts, huge, ancient and unearthly, circled the entire expanse of the city with seemingly no effort at all, their wings rising and dipping slowly, bearing them smoothly across the grey city below. So huge were the dragon-like, scaled beasts that the very fact that they were able to remain airborne seemed a miracle in itself. Red eyes gleamed clear against the cloying greyness of the sky's backdrop.
For all the horror of these primeval beasts, it was the creatures that they bore that turned the previously boiling blood in Legolas' veins to ice. Darker and more menacing even than the beasts upon which they rode, their great heads turned from side to side, sweeping over the city, searching.
There was no mistaking what these Shadow-beings were, for Legolas had once in his past engaged them in battle, barely escaping with his life – indeed, his Ranger friend Kinnale had not been so fortunate.
The Nazgul had come to Osgiliath.
Nor was there any doubt in Legolas' mind why the Wraiths had come.
"Aragorn," he breathed to himself in horror.
"Yes. Yes," the Voice of Darkness hissed in glee. It knew now that Legolas understood the reason behind its coming.
"No."
Not having realised that he had fallen onto his knees after the unnatural screech of the Nazgul, Legolas hauled himself to his feet with great effort, for he found himself exhausted by this encounter with the Voice of Shadow. Horror was blatant on his features. He understood the plot now. All this treating had merely been a distraction. Probably it had been this dark creature that had lured him down this path to a confrontation in the first place. Maybe even his anger whilst speaking with Denethor earlier in the night had been prompted by the presence in the vicinity of this wicked servant of Sauron, leading him away from the centre of the city. Away from Aragorn.
Unwittingly, Legolas had walked right into a trap. Worse, he had left the ward he'd sworn to protect completely exposed.
The lieutenant of the Dark Tower did not need Legolas' direction to find the young king. It had seekers out already who could within mere minutes scour the city for their prize.
Forcing aside his continuing discomfort at the shrill shrieking from above, Legolas turned from the laughing servant of Shadow and made towards the city. Surely all the city had been alerted to the threat to their home by now. The Nazgul were far from subtle in their approach.
"You'll never make it in time; feeble being."
Legolas did not halt, no matter how much he wanted to turn and make the taunting creature regret ever setting foot inside Osgiliath. Aragorn was of more importance than vengeance.
OIOI
To Faramir, it seemed as if every living soul in Osgiliath was crowding the streets. Everywhere, people were running. Civilians screamed, moving about as if by simply keeping going they could forestall their demise. Soldiers, too, were frantic. They were trying, mostly with little success, to restore order. In their panic, few listened to the voices of reason and chaos ensued.
A high cry split the shouts of complete terror. As one, the population of Osgiliath ducked, throwing their arms up either to cover their ears or to shield their heads. The beasts came so close that Faramir felt the rush of cold air, distorted by beating wings, above and all around him. He crouched low to the ground. But he needn't have feared. The beasts did not land, simply sailed low then swept back up into the sky, lightening now with the day's new beginning.
Chaos took over completely again with the beasts' ascent. People staggered to their feet and resumed their frantic scurrying around.
Cursing, Faramir also leapt up, sword gripped tightly in his hand. He discovered with a quick glance upwards that the beasts had resumed circling the city. It was as if their strategy was to simply create as much panic as possible with their presence. And if this was indeed the case then they were succeeding. Still, Faramir suspected that they had a greater purpose here and would only circle harmlessly above for so long.
"Get them out of here," he yelled towards a disorganised group of guards as he ran past them. Every soldier he passed received the same sharp command. "Get them inside! Get them off the streets!"
"Captain!"
"Maran!" The Captain of Osgiliath very nearly barrelled into his lieutenant. He wasted no time on greetings. Grabbing the older man's arm, he dragged him away through the throng of people. "Gather the soldiers. Meet in the square and we will defeat this threat upon our home."
"But what are they?" He looked up in horror at the massive creatures, the like of which he had never before seen. "And how can such evil be defeated, sir?"
Breathless, Faramir followed his lieutenant's gaze, forcing down his own fear. It would not do for his men to witness him in the throes of panic.
"I do not know. But defeat them we must. For the city, we must stand and fight. Go now."
"Sir." Maran paused only briefly to accept Faramir's wish of good luck before disappearing amongst the crowd.
Amidst the rising noise of panic, Faramir heard his right-hand man yelling none too gentle commands for the soldiers to do their jobs as they knew how and clear the streets of the innocent civilians. Little could be achieved through disorder. Once said order had been restored, the warriors of Gondor could get to work.
Whilst Maran went off to organise the troops, Faramir ran towards the command post. Denethor remained in bed, being tended to by healers following the attack by Legolas. Faramir knew that his ample personal guard would keep the Steward safe during the invasion. He did not need to worry about his father's safety. Although he had a sneaking suspicion that these monsters had not come for the keeper of Gondor. His thoughts turned, for the first time, to the king. And as his thoughts changed so his physical direction of travel. As he headed away, he broke into a run, moving toward the cluster of buildings where the men of Rohan had been housed.
The creatures did another low swoop over the city and, finding himself suddenly alone on the street, he ducked into a doorway, sheltering himself from the beating wings.
Never before had he laid eyes on these creatures. Yet he thought he knew what they were all the same. Growing up in the constant shadow of the taken city of Minas Tirith, many stories had been told to him by seasoned warriors and kindly councillors alike. They spoke of the taking of Minas Tirith, of the dreadful black creatures that patrolled the White City, striking down any soldier or machine of war put in their way. These creatures could be nothing else. Wraiths.
Men had said that these Shadow agents could not be defeated. All that touched them crumbled under their evil and no blade could cut them.
And now they were here, in Osgiliath, prowling, hunting, searching, destroying everything in their path.
To Be Continued…