The War of Light and Shadow
By Freddie23
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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.
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Chapter 63 – The Time of Kings
For the rest of that fateful day, when the Wraiths of Mordor stalked the streets of Osgiliath causing chaos wherever they went, Aragorn patrolled with the Gondorian Men he had been assigned to earlier in the day. Faramir had set up twenty separate patrols to work their way methodically through the city, securing the people of Osgiliath as well as searching for the Enemy who were presumably still stalking around – although if they were then they remained unseen as no calls had gone up for aid as Faramir had commanded. Plenty of civilians were found, scattered and confused in the wake of the attack, but Aragorn saw not a single sign of the Wraiths.
Truthfully, his primary motivation for seeking to join the patrol was selfish: to assure himself that the Nazgul were not anywhere near. He felt that they had left but he had to be sure or he knew he would not be able to rest easy.
He worked easily alongside his assigned patrol, including three Gondorian soldiers and Ciaran of the Rangers. The patrol was commanded by Jecha, who since they'd met in the square at the start of the attack had yet to leave the king's side even for a moment, his weapon never once sheathed. But Aragorn found himself distracted from his duty. He understood why the Wraiths had come, even if no one would speak the truth around him. People of Osgiliath, citizens, soldiers had died for him. Just as he had always feared would happen. For he knew that the Wraiths had devastated the peace in Osgiliath for him.
In his pocket, the small band of gold still felt impossibly heavy, more so than it had in a long time. Whilst one hand held his Elven-blessed sword at the ready, the other rested at his side, above the searing gold. The thought that this was what the Wraiths had come for turned Aragorn's stomach, even more so than the notion that innocents had been injured in the attack. How could he now lose this thing most precious to him, this weapon that could change the fortunes of Men in the final battle? On a more personal level, he did not want to be parted from the Ring of Power. It was a great gift bestowed upon him by his sire. He would die before he allowed it to fall into Enemy hands.
"Aragorn, are you all right?"
He had not even realised he'd stumbled until a steadying hand appeared at his elbow. Dazed, he raised confused eyes to Jecha.
"Yes." His voice sounded oddly distant, even to him.
Jecha had not been convinced as he'd moved to Aragorn's front, both hands resting on the man's upper arms, peering into his face as though searching for something not immediately obvious.
"What's going on?" asked one of the Gondorian men wondering what the hold-up was.
"I don't know. Aragorn?"
Jecha was worried. He had never seen Aragorn this way before: detached as if he did not understand what was happening around him. Gripping Aragorn's shoulders, Jecha shook the king hard, searching for a reaction.
He got one.
"What?!" Aragorn shouted at him so violently that the Easterling took a staggering step backwards. "What do you want?! Can I not be allowed one moment of peace?!"
"My apologies, sir," Jecha said, still uncertain of what exactly had just transpired between them. "I was merely concerned."
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking, Aragorn."
Slowly, prompted by the observation, the man looked down at himself and saw that what Jecha said was indeed true. His whole body trembled as though he had been immersed in icy water, although the temperature outside was moderate at the moment. He couldn't understand why he trembled so violently, couldn't comprehend his reaction. No danger pricked at his senses. No Wraiths lurked nearby. And yet, he shook as if he had just come face to face with his worst enemy. Sweat trickled hotly down his brow and he raised his hand to wipe at it. In his hand though, he still held Anduril. His other hand, he realised, was still buried in his left jacket pocket, balled into a fist so tight that it ached and shook. Red hot heat seared at his palm and he almost cried out loud. But he could not easily release it.
Heart pounding wildly, Aragorn could see nothing but darkness for a seemingly endless moment. Every one of his senses was focused on this one thing, this small trinket that was his and his alone. Creatures of pure evil were seeking it out, looking for it and for him but he would not relinquish his great gift, not even under pain of death. It was his.
"Aragorn! Answer me! Tell me what is wrong."
Jecha was calling to him again, loud and worried. The only way to get the Easterling to quieten down was to answer.
"Nothing's wrong," he murmured non-committedly through barely parted lips, which were worryingly pale. "I'm fine."
"Should I fetch a healer maybe?" offered one of the Gondorian men, partially concerned, partially irritated that the patrol of the north quarter his Captain had ordered had ground to a halt.
"No, we are returning to the command post." Aragorn was not ill, Jecha knew instinctively. He didn't need a healer and even if he did then Jecha was determined that the young king would not remain in the potentially dangerous streets of Osgiliath.
"Command post? No, we have to sweep the streets."
"Fine. You continue to do that. We're going back," Jecha told them in no uncertain terms. He took Aragorn by the arm, gentler this time like he was worried of causing irreparable damage if his grip was a might too hard. "Come Aragorn."
Aragorn's head shook, once left, once right, clearing away the thick fog of Shadow that had shrouded his mind briefly. He finally got up the strength to release his grip on the small ring of hot gold in his pocket. When the Ring dropped back into the depths of his pocket, he released a great gust of air from his mouth, not having realised that he had been holding his breath this whole time. Dizziness washed over him suddenly but only briefly. Soon, he'd regained some semblance of control over himself and he forced himself to focus on Jecha again, who was now stood before him, still trying to coax him to start moving back to the centre of Osgiliath.
"No. I'm fine. I'm all right," Aragorn reassured, a little more convincing than he had sounded before. He pulled his hand out from his jacket pocket with some effort; it shook uncontrollably and blood seeped from a thin crescent shaped cut on his palm where the edges of the Ring had cut into his thin flesh. It was a small wound, insignificant, and yet it burned, stung and what it represented made his heart pound all the harder.
"Aragorn?"
Wiping his bloodied palm against his already stained trousers, Aragorn smiled shakily.
"Let's go."
After sharing a bemused glance with his fellow patrolmen, Jecha hurried after the already retreating king, his footsteps loud on the otherwise deserted street. "Wait! Aragorn, wait!" When the younger man did not halt, Jecha hustled forward enough to snatch his arm, drawing him to a halt. "Don't you think you should sit down for a moment? Explain what happened."
"Nothing happened. Come, we'll return to the central command building."
"We're going back?" one of the soldiers asked in confusion at the king's sudden change of heart.
Aragorn turned back to gaze at the barely lit streets, lost within his own thoughts for a moment. Vaguely, he replied, "Yes. The Nazgul are no longer here."
All the Gondorian soldiers who'd been unlucky enough to be assigned to this patrol were getting increasingly weary of the two mercurial newcomers. Neither could decide what they wanted to do whilst both seemed to be vying for the command. It was infuriating and confusing and the soldiers were starting to get fed up with it.
So, shifting irritably on his feet, the boldest of the soldiers demanded in a strong voice, "How could you possibly know that?"
By his side, Aragorn's fingers twitched as he fought to keep them from seeking out the ring of gold in his pocket. "I can feel it."
"Perfect!" exclaimed the man sarcastically.
Unwilling to wait any longer for the uncertain Gondorians to make up their minds, Aragorn again started walking away. Over his shoulder, he called back, "Continue if you want. Up to you."
Of course, Jecha was always going to follow his king even if he didn't know for sure that Aragorn's assumptions about the passing of the danger were correct. The men of Osgiliath were not so loyal yet, however. They worked on the orders of the Captain of the city and through him on the orders of their Steward. And Faramir's orders had been clear – to make safe the city and search out the intruders. Ciaran too had sworn to aid all he could in protecting Osgiliath so he remained with the patrol, sending Aragorn an apologetic look as the man left.
So, Aragorn and Jecha were alone in walking back through the streets of Osgiliath, making for the command post. It was empty when they reached it. All the guards, including Faramir himself, were still out patrolling and Denethor was presumably somewhere safe recovering from Legolas' earlier attack. Where the Council were hiding was anybody's guess. Probably cowering safely away from the action, Jecha thought bitterly as he cast his eyes over the empty meeting table.
The tavern was dark, the fires had been extinguished long ago but neither man made to light them again, more than used to the cold and darkness that engulfed the building. Aragorn thought that the light of the flames would seem more foreign to him than the dismal grey hues of the world. So, they sat in darkness on the chairs surrounding the scarred conference table. Nothing was said. Neither could think of anything suitable. In truth though, Aragorn would have preferred some conversation to break up the tension. The silence left him ample time to think upon the coming of the Nazgul and the thing that they had come for. He did not want to dwell upon that so after a while, he got up to pace up and down the room simply for something to occupy himself.
Legolas came to them before any other. He stormed in through the door, breathless from running, to find Aragorn by the window and Jecha reclined neatly in one of the hard-backed chairs. Both men looked up at his uncharacteristically blundering entrance.
Naturally, Legolas' first and only concern was for his ward.
"Are you all right?" the Elf demanded somewhat brusquely, breathing heavily, eyes already seeking out any potential point of injury on his ward.
"Yes."
"I have been looking for you. Where have you been?"
"Patrolling with Jecha."
Legolas' gaze travelled to the seated Easterling and the man raised his hand elegantly in greeting.
"Have you seen them?"
Aragorn looked once at Jecha and then back at his guardian. No need to ask to whom Legolas was referring. "Only once. We saw them circling above. They are gone now," he answered softly.
"I know. What of Faramir; has he come back here?"
"Not since we arrived," it was Jecha who answered this time.
"Someone should inform him that the threat has passed."
Both sets of eyes moved to the Easterling and he got up from his chair with no effort at all, stretching out his lithe body. "I suppose that is me," he said in a falsely cheerful voice, going towards the door where Legolas stood. Pulling the Elf aside a little way, Jecha whispered so that Aragorn couldn't hear. "Something is wrong, Legolas. He does not look himself."
Legolas followed Jecha's gaze to his ward. He knew what was wrong without even asking.
"I'll take care of it, thank you."
What could he say? With Jecha off in search of the Captain of Osgiliath, Legolas found himself alone with his young ward and he knew what had to be done and yet he could not dig up the words. It was not simply that the Ring was a touchy subject for both of them, although it was indeed the touchiest of subjects, but also Legolas couldn't help but feel that he had lost a good deal of faith in Aragorn's eyes. Never had he pretended to hold any kind of good opinion of himself but ever since he'd dragged Aragorn and Arathorn into the clearing near where Arathorn had spent his final moments, he'd known that Aragorn looked up to him, sought his advice and respect in equal measure. But now…
Legolas sighed heavily and moved to sit in one of the creaky old chairs that sat mismatched around the table. He was weary. Ground down by lack of sleep and his recent encounter with the Voice of Evil, his thoughts wandered to Bree of all places, those few days they had rested amidst the confusion in the old Inn, thought of the kindly barman whose name he could no longer recall, of the straw mattress he had slept in but once during his stay. His mind turned then to the taken city of Minas Tirith, to the splendour that it had once radiated. He had never seen it at its peak under the rule of Men but he could imagine it clearly in his mind. And then there was Osgiliath. Cold and ruined under the constant threat of the Shadow. The cities of Men were not all that he had thought them. He'd told Aragorn many times on their travels that amongst Men they would find their salvation and yet so far they had found nothing but trouble. Allies were all very well but what was the point if their endgame remained unattainable?
"Aren't you going to say anything?"
Aragorn's voice startled the Elf from his meandering thoughts and his head snapped upright. Grey eyes, hard through the dull light of day, were fixed upon him, waiting.
Slapping his hands down on his thighs, a soft sign of defeat, Legolas rocked back in his chair and fixed his eyes upon his ward. "What would you like me to say?"
He'd never been able to hold that intense blue stare so Aragorn shifted his own back outside to safer territory. "Why did you do that to the Steward?"
"Faramir told you about that?"
"Eomer. We need him to be on our side, we needed his trust. I need his trust. And you…Why?"
"I barely laid a hand on him."
"But you said something, didn't you?" He looked back to his guardian, expression a mixture of demand and pleading. He didn't want to have to do this but he had to all the same. Possibly, Eomer or Jecha, or Faramir even, had instructed him that it was what was required of him. This was a king's duty. "Legolas?"
"I spoke the truth, nothing more."
"The truth about what?"
"About him, Aragorn. About what he is."
"What is he? What did you say? Tell me."
"I called him a coward, which is indeed what he is. It is about time you realised that, Aragorn. You are a better man than he could ever hope to be and I pray that you know that. Why should that worthless man sit upon your throne, rule your people?"
"My throne is apparently within Minas Tirith, overrun by the Shadow, if you recall," said Aragorn acidly.
"Metaphorical throne then. You know what I mean."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Fight! I want you to fight for what is rightfully yours! That Steward is nothing but your servant now and he has overstayed his welcome in your place."
Aragorn had resumed his pacing, restless again. "So, what, I just kick the old man to the ground and step over his limp body to get to my throne and hope that his loyal people eventually, miraculously come around to my way of thinking?" he shouted, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Yes!" Legolas shouted in reply, startling the man. "Yes, that's exactly what you should be doing! Do you think I brought you all this way so that you could give up at the final hurdle? Denethor will not bring to an end that which I have fought so hard to bring about. He must not be allowed to push you aside because of his own ignorance and pride. I will not allow it! Rule of Gondor belongs to you! You believed that before you came here. What has changed in the interim?"
Silence. Aragorn ceased walking and stared long and hard at his guardian; flummoxed, it seemed, by the simple question. For long minutes, he did not speak and Legolas did not seek to push him. Aragorn hated it when his guardian did nothing to help him along and it always seemed to happen when he most needed guidance.
Finally, anger long since deflated, Aragorn sat himself down with a sigh, despairing, and ran his hands through his hair.
"I don't know," he answered at last, his voice cracking somewhat at the admission. "I don't know." He sounded defeated and as tired as Legolas felt.
His guardian looked at him, unwavering, as he asked frankly, "Do you not?"
It struck him; he did know. It was a small, innocuous-looking ring of pure gold that he carried hidden deep in his pocket. It was the influence of the Shadow, those tendrils of Darkness creeping over him ever more by the moment, threatening to choke him or drag him towards the path of Evil. That corruption tainted him and he feared what it would mean in the end. By taking the throne of Gondor now with this uncertainty hanging all around him, was he not only placing his people in harm's way through his own weakness?
"He's close."
"Not this again," Legolas breathed in irritation, much to Aragorn shock.
"Excuse me?"
"Stop with the excuses!" No subtlety this time.
"What? I don't…"
"Yes, he's close. I know it, Aragorn. I feel it too. And I know the burden you bear even if I can't understand it and I am truly, truly sorry that you are forced to carry it. But you cannot allow it to rule you. It is what he wants. You must stand up to him, as you have been doing all this time. Do not surrender to him. Do not fear him."
"That's easy for you to say."
"No, Aragorn, it is not easy. In case you haven't noticed, I am standing right at your side. If he takes you, he takes me too. That is a given. It is what I have always known. And I fear it, Aragorn. More so each day."
"I can't," Aragorn wailed, flopping down into a chair and clasping his hands tightly between his knees, eyes downcast. "I don't know what to do."
"Yes, you do. You've known since we first arrived here. We didn't come for Osgiliath. A provincial city is as worthless to us as it is to Sauron himself. Minas Tirith is the prize. Take that and give the Dark Lord something to lose sleep over. It's the last stepping stone to Mordor, all that stands between us and freedom. You know all of this, Aragorn, and yet still you hesitate. Why?"
"I'm afraid."
"Of what? Death? Him? Fear neither, Aragorn. You are king and there is too much at stake for you to be disrupted by fear."
"How?" Aragorn asked, watery eyes seeking comfort from his guardian's once more steady gaze. "How is it to be done?"
"Muster those of Gondor, tell Eomer to ready the Rohirrim. The Rangers have been with you from the start, they'll follow you now to whatever end. And, with those allied by your side, unleash the wrath of Men upon the White City. Take it back from the Shadow; place the city back in the hands of Men where it belongs."
Aragorn was shaking his head before Legolas had even finished. "The city is completely overrun and we do not have the loyalty of Gondor's people and since you near-incapacitated the Steward, we're not likely to."
"Tell them to reclaim their city and they will follow you."
"To their deaths?"
"Yes."
"Why would they?"
"Because you are their king."
"They don't believe that to be true."
"They will!"
"Stop saying that!" Aragorn yelled suddenly, explosively, his hand sweeping out impulsively to send a candle and its holder from the table between them clattering noisily to the floor. "I'm tired of hearing it. Everything is not simply going to fall into place. And I don't know how to make it work, Legolas! I don't!" Legolas made no response as Aragorn resumed his restless jaunt around the tavern's room. He knew that his ward had to walk off his excess energy before the discussion could continue in a more reasonable fashion. True to form, Aragorn's demeanour was calmer when he spoke next. In fact, he sounded rather wistful. "Remember when you were tutoring me, as my father instructed you to?" At Legolas' short nod, the man continued, "Well, I want that old Legolas back with me. Tell me what to do. Please."
Legolas sighed heavily, wearily, and replied around it, "I already have. You're just not listening to me. I cannot do this for you, Aragorn, even if I wished to."
"Why not? You were a leader, a great commander amongst the Elves so Erestor of Imladris told me once. That's more of a qualification than I can claim."
"Amongst the Elves once, maybe. But not in the eyes of these Men. They would not listen to me, would not follow me to whatever end as they would you. I think Eomer has proven that to be true countless times already." Legolas smiled softly but Aragorn didn't seem to find any humour in it. He remained staring at Legolas, eyes pleading and hopeful. "I am sorry, child."
"I don't want this."
"I do understand your reluctance. Never think I do not."
Finally having exhausted all his energies, Aragorn lowered himself into a chair. When he next spoke he sounded probably more defeated than Legolas had ever heard him. "Sometimes, I wish we'd never left the Old Forest Road. I wish we could spend our days wandering aimlessly around familiar territory with no troubles or responsibilities."
"I did warn you. You were quite insistent, as I recall."
"You don't have to keep reminding me."
The hush that fell was a little more comfortable than it had been previously. Both were simply tired, no longer angry. It would not remain quiet for long though. Soon Faramir would return, bringing his guards along with him because he would not wish to be in the same room as Legolas without a couple of burly guards after the incident with Denethor. Then things were bound to get very loud soon.
"Very well," Aragorn agreed at last around a sigh. "I suppose we…I should speak with Faramir."
IOIOI
His most loyal servant had failed to return to him. His voice, his only connection to the world he ruled over had been severed, albeit temporarily, from him and the loss upset him greatly. He had not the energy to pace despite his restlessness. Despite the best efforts of the Wizard and the strength of the Elf he had taken, this latest host body was fast failing, just as the others had done before it. But he could not afford to take another just because of his discomfort. According to his wardens, there was but one solitary host Elf left available to him in his dungeons and even that one was fading. Of course, he could always recall the White Wizard to his service, get him to patch up one of his past vessels enough to make it reasonably fit for his use or maybe strengthen the body of a Man or Dwarf but he despised the idea of recycling the empty weakened husks of the Elves and the thought of inhabiting the hairy, stumpy body of one of the Dwarven race make him sick. And Men, they were simply too weak to contain his splendour for more than a few hours. He cringed behind the shadow of his hood. As if it wasn't bad enough that he was forced to muddy himself with the spirits of the lower orders in the first place.
Damn this wretched curse!
Bound to Mordor by necessity brought about by the weakness of his hosts, he needed his Voice. But the Nine had instead taken the injured, defeated creature back to the home Sauron had gifted to them at Minas Morgul.
The cursed guardian of the Human King had hurt him, so the reports from his spies told him. One of Sauron's own struck down by the hand of a mere Elf. It was unseemly. Infuriating.
Anger boiled in his heart, roiling and bubbling until he wanted to scream to purge himself of it.
This was too much.
It had not even been the King of Men, as he proclaimed himself to be, that had struck down his most valuable acolyte. It was the pesky Guardian.
Sauron lowered his head to the sound of steadily dripping liquid against stone. His hand unclenched when he realised that he'd drawn blood from his palm so tight was his fist. For a moment, diverted, he stared with interest at the glistening crimson on his grey flagstone floor. Blood. Interesting. He could not recall ever having bled before. So tortured was the body he now walked around in that he felt no sting of pain through the endless, relentless anguish. Into his mind popped the image of one of the wretched Firstborn, the one who had hurt him so personally, the one, the only one, who had drawn blood from the veins of the Dark Lord, perhaps even one who looked just like the creature his spirit now possessed, bleeding the same thick liquid. A fleeting smile crossed his lips before it curved downwards into a grimace as he fought the urge to claw at this wretched face, this mask he wore.
He did not want to look like one of them anymore. He wanted freedom. His whole disembodied being craved for it, coveted it, almost to the point of being unendurable. He pictured the smug smile of satisfaction the Guardian must now be wearing upon that fair face at the notion of spilling the rich blood of the Shadow Lord and he clenched his hands again as a further disincentive to defacing the form he possessed. No. That would not do. Better to rip off the face of the Guardian instead. That would be infinitely more satisfying.
This thought brought a sense of peace washing over him.
He was not powerless yet. In fact, he had gained much.
It had taken mere moments of the Nine's coming to the City of Stars for Sauron to feel it through them. The Ring had been tantalisingly close. And yet, they had failed to return it to him. In truth though, he was not overly worried. Ever would the Ring return to him. It was loyal to but one master. Whether through the false king or by other means, it would find its way back to its rightful owner in time and then Sauron would have no reason to fear anything.
Calm infused his tortured soul for a spell. Not everything had come completely unravelled yet. Some things remained nicely on track. Perhaps the One would bring him the boy as well.
What a great victory that would be. Two great accomplishments and he would at long last be free of all constraints. Nothing could stand in his way. Middle Earth would be, for once and for all, indisputably, his.
No point in simply hoping, however. Yes, it had been a small defeat to lose one of his loyal servants but he would not dwell on the disappointment.
Now was the time for action.
Another smile bloomed on pale lips, thin, cracked and weak. The Guardian would rue the day he ever thought to tangle with the Shadow.
And the boy, he would not be allowed to become complacent in his position. Let him and his foolish band of followers feel what the true wrath of Mordor felt like. The time for games was over. Now the war could be ended.
OIOI
Never had the city of Osgiliath been so quiet. Not one living soul walked the streets. Only the distant combined rumblings of Minas Tirith and Mordor itself underscored the ominous hush. A low mist had settled all around the city, covering the Anduin, the Mountains and the Pelennor. It was horribly claustrophobic, this endless white-out. Mists had rolled off of the river, obscuring the view from all sides early that morning and it simply would not clear.
It was into this gloom that Legolas now stared, trying to keep his breathing slow and steady as irrational fear of suffocation assailed his mind. He was staring out at the White City, or where he knew the White City to be. He wondered whether its inhabitants were feeling the same oppression. Probably not, he reasoned. The foul filth of Mordor probably rejoiced in it.
He sighed and his long breath joined the mist in the still air, stirring it briefly before becoming lost in the haze. The fires burning all around the brazen, foolish city of Osgiliath only added to the pollution in the air and Legolas stifled a cough when the taste of smoke filled his throat. All that had happened and the people of Gondor could not be dissuaded from lighting up their city with fires and candles. They saw it as comfort. As though blanketed in light nothing could touch them. Not only was it wasteful but Legolas now feared that the Shadow would see it as an open invitation to attack. He knew that the coming of the Nazgul would not be the end of it. They had been forced back into the Darkness but there would always be consequences. What exactly they would be, Legolas didn't yet know, but they frightened him all the same.
Aragorn's footsteps were loud on the street; he made no attempt to conceal his approach. In fact, he seemed to be purposefully stomping his feet to announce his coming. Legolas smiled thinly. His ward was not pleased and he wanted all around to know it.
"How was it?"
"How do you think it was? It was a funeral ceremony." Legolas nodded at the tart tone taken by his ward. He felt like he probably deserved it. "People were upset. Not much was said. Just as you might expect."
"Maybe they couldn't think of anything good to say."
"Don't speak like that."
"Apologies."
Aragorn joined his repentant guardian by the wall against which he was leant and continued to softly admonish, "You shouldn't speak ill of the dead."
"Did Faramir teach you that?"
"Maybe. No matter what his past crimes or his faults, Denethor was their Steward and they loved him in their way. You shouldn't mock or make light of their grief."
"I was not mocking it, Aragorn. I am truly sorry for his passing."
"Are you?"
Legolas shifted his gaze to his left, to Aragorn. The man looked tired. Sad. It startled Legolas that his ward was feeling the grief so acutely.
"Are you all right?"
"Is this what you wanted?" Aragorn asked bluntly in response.
"Excuse me?"
"When you spoke to Denethor that night, did you have some clue, some inkling, that he might do this?"
"Are you suggesting that I prodded him to take his own life?"
"No."
"Are you honestly saying that I drove him to his death?"
"No!" Aragorn exclaimed in horror when he realised what he had implied before his guardian. "I'm not saying that, Legolas!"
"Good, because I would never do anything so terrible. Yes, I thought the Steward a fool, misguided, cowardly, even, but I did not wish him dead. The opposite, in fact. I wanted him to fight for his life and the freedom of his people. I told him as much when I spoke to him."
Aragorn nodded, satisfied with the answer. "I am sorry for doubting you."
"And I am sorry, too, for Denethor's passing."
"Faramir is taking it hard."
"I'd imagine."
"I offered Valon up to take a look at him but he refused."
"He is grieving, nothing more. It will pass."
"How can you be so cold?!" the man suddenly exploded angrily with a shake of his head. "The man is dead and his son is distraught and you don't care at all!"
Legolas stared into turbulent grey eyes for long moments, trying to understand what was so upsetting his ward. Then it struck him. Aragorn was right. He didn't care. He felt no sadness, no regret, that Denethor had taken his own life. He felt only a mild tinge of pity for Faramir who had been unfortunate enough to discover his father laid on the floor of his room in a pool of his own blood that had spilled from wrists split with a blade. He would have spared the young man that, were it possible.
"I do care, Aragorn. Very much," he lied, not wanting the man to see this side of him, of which he was ashamed. "But I will not stand before the Steward's pyre and feign sadness."
"Feign sadness? So you do feel nothing?"
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters!" the man yelled, making Legolas startle in shock.
"Aragorn."
"I just can't…I can't understand you. But then I suppose I never have, have I?" He sounded defeated, tired. Hardly surprising; it had been a long, stressful week for the young king.
"Did you speak with Faramir about…?"
"Don't! Don't ask that! Now that, not now!"
Legolas flinched; it was not the question to ask to disprove the coldness that his disillusioned ward had seen in him. But he had to push the subject for Aragorn had been idling over it ever since the Wraiths had come to Osgiliath.
"Aragorn, you need to talk to him."
Now? His father just died, Legolas. Can't we just…"
"All the more reason to move things along. He is Steward now."
"I…" Aragorn turned away but stayed put and started again, "I can't do this now."
"Aragorn…"
"Aragorn."
The man turned at the sound of Faramir's voice; face a picture of guilt, worried at how much the son of Denethor had heard of his conversation with Legolas. Certainly, the blonde man's face was thunderous but that could just as easily have been a reaction to Legolas' mere presence. Faramir had no qualms in placing the blame for his father's death squarely upon Legolas' shoulders. And Legolas stood before him, unrepentant.
"Faramir, how are you?" Aragorn asked lamely just to break the tension.
Eyes still locked with Legolas' as if in battle, Faramir replied, "Can I talk with you?"
"Of course. About what?"
"In private."
Legolas made no comment at this obvious slight towards him and his exclusion, certain as he was that a part of Faramir had wanted to provoke a reaction that would justify the anger he felt.
"Yes."
Aragorn moved past the Gondorian man, waiting to lead him away but also positioned to hold back the newly named Steward should he make an attempt to attack Legolas, which, from the expression on his face, seemed extremely likely. However, Faramir did not go for the Elf, merely pinned him with an impressively icy glare, then followed Aragorn beyond the Elf's sight into the mist.
OIOI
"A truce?"
"An alliance," corrected Faramir in a definitive tone to the mumbled complaints of his gathered Council.
"Sir," one of the men leaned forward into the table so he could catch the Steward's attention, "are you so sure of this course of action?" It was said condescendingly, as if the untested Steward were making such a blatant mistake on only his first day of command that it could not be ignored. "It might not be the wisest course."
"Yes. Of this I am certain." Blue-grey eyes roved around the packed meeting room. For the most part, it looked discomforted, uncertain, maybe even a little frightened by the prospect of Faramir, youngest son of the ever discontented Denethor, taking up his father's mantle as Steward and potentially changing everything the previous Steward had stood for. The Council liked order and Faramir was challenging that, threatening disorder by supporting the supposed king who had so recently come amongst them. "This is the path that I would take. I believe it to be right."
"But, my Lord Faramir, the late Lord Denethor had not…"
"I am not my father!" Silence fell at that declaration, a mixture of sympathetic and worried. Faramir relaxed somewhat at the hush. Anger would not help this transition go smoothly. So, he calmed his irritation at the unchangeable Council and settled his hands down on the smooth wood of the table before him. "In the wake of Denethor's rule, I must do what is best for you all and I believe that this is the best thing, not for myself or for the inflated egos of this Council, but for the people of Gondor. I think we can all agree that their needs must be met before anything else."
"Of course this is so, my Lord, but relinquishing the Stewardship…"
"Not relinquishing it. I am merely having this ancient birth-right work alongside the kingship of Gondor." He shot a glance in Aragorn's direction. The man had remained silent since the Council had been summoned to the command post on the eve of Denethor's funeral. Faramir had admired him for that, for not throwing around his weight and opinion in defence of the arrangement they had come to just a couple of hours previous. It strengthened his belief that this was the right thing to do and made him look slightly less threatening to the Council. "Together, we shall be all the stronger."
The Councillor who had, it seemed, been speaking for the whole room, now stood up, mirroring Faramir's stance at the top of the table only he had an uncertain smile upon thin, sneering lips.
"But you would be surrendering Gondor to, forgive me sir," he said, fleetingly and insincerely glancing in Aragorn's direction, "a mere, unproven child." Faramir trapped the old man with a long, hard stare and the Councillor chuckled somewhat uncomfortably under the deep gaze in an effort to take the edge off his comments. "I just want to hear that you fully understand what this entails. And that you are not being coerced or unduly influenced so soon after the passing of your…beloved father."
"I am not ignorant of what an alliance will mean. I have listened to all opinions, weighed up my choice calmly and thoroughly."
Another smile, as false and haughty as the last one came to the Councillor's face then and he cocked his head to the side in question as he asked, "Might I enquire, my Lord, as to what opinions you have been listening to? Because none of us gathered here," he swept his hand in an arch to all the Councillors gathered around the table, "were consulted on this most important of decisions."
"Gondor does not consist solely of this Council. I am doing this for my people and it is their opinions I consider to be the most important of all and those that I have listened to."
Again the Councillor smiled, as if the young Faramir had said something amusingly uneducated. "Due respect, my Lord, but are the people of Gondor really qualified to advise you in this matter?"
"You think not? And you are qualified, I suppose? You who have never held a weapon in conflict against the Shadow? Are you better positioned to decide than these soldiers who ceaselessly defend this kingdom?"
Faramir waited politely for a reply but the old man struggled. He stuttered, searching for a rebuke but Faramir knew that he would not come up with one and indeed a full minute later the Councillor returned to his seat with a flush of embarrassment on his gaunt, wrinkled cheeks. He'd just been outwitted by the child he had always dismissed as being rather too impolitic to take up the mantle of Steward. It was humiliating to lose to the lesser son of his trusted leader. He knew there was no going back now. His defeat would turn the Council to Faramir's way of thinking, for if their chief Councillor could not bring down the logic of Faramir's decision then they would consider his reasoning to be sound and fall in line.
The new Steward looked again around the table at its occupants. He had watched enough Council sessions headed by his father to know when they were in agreement and he fought back a smile at his achievement. No diplomacy, indeed! All the better that these men were the ones whom Denethor had charged with the tutelage of his sons.
"Are there any further objections?" he asked simply out of courtesy. There were none, the shaking of grey heads and the murmurs of consent told him. "Good." He shifted position slightly so that Aragorn was invited to join him at the table and the dark man obediently stepped forward to do so, included for the first time amongst the people of Gondor. "Then to my next decision. Aragorn has informed me of the allegiance to him of great allies, the details of which I will not share here, but nevertheless they are great and powerful confederates. With the forces of Men combined thusly, we have a rare opportunity." The Council appeared unsettled by this, like they sensed more of an upheaval coming to them this evening.
"Opportunity to do what, exactly?" asked their disgraced spokesman through clenched teeth.
Faramir fixed him with another intense stare to purposefully fill him with unease, then declared, "To take back Minas Tirith from the clutches of the Shadow."
Immediately, the respectful silence was abandoned in favour of complete uproar. The room erupted, just as he had expected it would, into chaos. Usually mild-mannered advisors leapt from their chairs, all objecting at once, denying what Faramir was saying, even suggesting that grief must surely be addling their young leader's mind. Faramir let the outraged din wash over him, holding his nerve, just as Aragorn was doing with rather better success at his side. Perhaps it was because the old Councillors had no expectations when it came to Aragorn as they did the younger son of the Steward that Faramir found it harder to hear their cries of consternation and speculative votes of no confidence. Or maybe Aragorn didn't care either way.
The yelling and protestations continued for far longer than Faramir had expected them to. There was no chance to reply to any of the random questions fired at him. Each was swallowed up in the cacophony but the men did not seem to care. In fact, the chaos only fuelled their anger. By the time the shouting had reached its apex, most were up on their feet, arguing now amongst themselves even though the consensus remained that Faramir's proposed plan to attack the White City and reclaim it in the name of Mankind was foolish at best and outright suicidal at worst.
"Well, this is going excellently," said Faramir sarcastically into Aragorn's ear so the words could be heard above the general roar of anger.
Although Aragorn nodded in grim agreement, he leaned over and replied reasonably, "It is to be expected. Let them vent their anger amongst themselves now, get it out of their systems."
"Very well," Faramir sighed wearily, lowering himself down into his chair.
It was some time after that before the Council quietened, running out of steam at long last. Full darkness had settled over Osgiliath before they reclaimed their seats. Hoarse murmurs of surprise that night was upon them rippled around the room and there was the occasional quiet apology or mumble of shame at the proceeding disorder.
"Are you all quite finished now?" Faramir demanded of them sternly, rising from his seat for the address. "Good." At least they had the sense to look apologetic even though no apology was offered out loud. To hung heads, Faramir admonished, "What good do you think this petty in-fighting will do us? What good has it ever done us? Look at where we are now. Weak, hiding from our own city, kept out by defences built by the hands of Men, our ancestors. No more. It is time we took back what is ours, time we stood up to the Shadow. Denethor knew this; deep down." His eyes went to Aragorn, stood straight and tall at his side. "And we know it to be true now. So, we shall reclaim Gondor, take back the White City."
"Forgive me, sir, but I must speak. This is madness!"
"It must seem that way, I know," Faramir replied calmly to the youngest member of the Council, still a man well into his sixties. "But we must do it all the same. We must try."
"No. We need not. Only death can come from this course."
At this very astute comment, Faramir bent his head down, eyes falling closed. This he had considered much during his somewhat fraught talk with the equally sorrowful Aragorn. It pained him that his people, some of them at least, would come to death by the plan he proposed.
"I know," he finally acknowledged, voice quiet in the hush that awaited his reply. Then he proudly raised his eyes to the Council. "But we must do what is right."
"Sir…"
"I am ordering that every man and woman who can take up arms be prepared for war."
"My Lord, you cannot be serious!"
"I am."
"You would send our women to their deaths? It is barbaric."
"They have as much cause to fight as any man. Perhaps they do not desire to stand by uselessly whilst their loved ones go out to fight. And if it is good enough for the Rohirrim and the Rangers then it should be good enough for us too."
"And when will this attack take place?" asked another advisor snidely.
"As soon as the preparations can be made. Weapons must be gathered, armour perfected, a detailed plan devised. Then we go into battle."
The Chief Councillor shook his head in disapproval, speaking up. "This is most unwise."
"And yet I am undeterred."
With pursed lips, the Councillor looked around. He knew his fellow dignitaries supported his objections but they would not speak out of turn. Once the ruler had declared a plan then it must be followed. The Stewardship still meant much to these people and Faramir held the title therefore he must be respected. However, the Councillor's eyes shifted around the anxious table, resting for slightly longer on the silent, dark haired man at Faramir's side.
He cleared his throat, shifted in his chair as though making himself comfortable before the upcoming distasteful task. "Might I speak freely, sir?" A short nod from the Steward granted permission. "I think you have been influenced by this imposter. I think that he has been whispering ideas in your ear and I think that he has made you blind to all else."
Faramir remained quiet for a long minute, seemingly to put the Councillor ill at ease again. And it worked. The table was tense and silent. The father had always been irrational, implacable, the son was as yet an unknown quantity in leadership and they were unsure.
At last Faramir raised his eyes to Aragorn, who as of yet had not spoken a word to the Council.
"Lord Aragorn has indeed influenced me greatly. He has shown me the path that I should be taking, the one that my father always knew was right. This is what we are doing. I will discuss it no further."
"Democratic," muttered one Councillor, apparently expecting his comment of discontent to be swallowed up in a sea of similar remarks from his fellows but the room remained otherwise quiet. He looked up to find himself pinned with two sets of grey eyes.
"Any man who has a problem with this may relinquish their position on this Council and leave now."
They all stared at Faramir as if he had well and truly lost his mind. And yet, not one of them moved. The Council had always been the power in Osgiliath; they had worked too hard to reach the positions they now held to be removed. So they stayed.
"Good. Now, we must work out of strategy. Ideas are welcome. There is much to decide."
Faramir nodded towards Aragorn and the young king stepped over to the door and motioned inside Jecha, Eomer and Janor, who had stood waiting just outside for the command to join in the discussion. Their presence in the Council chamber had not been thought the best idea given the fragility of the Council and its members skittish to change. But now came planning and strategy and the three commander's expertise would undoubtedly prove invaluable.
This upset the Council. As if Aragorn wasn't bad enough, not they had to endure yet more newcomers shaking things up. Mumbles of discontent went up again but were this time ignored and thus they quickly subsided.
"All right; let's begin," Aragorn spoke for the first time.
To Be Continued…