The War Of Light And Shadow

by Freddie23

In a world changed by the rising of power in Mordor, Legolas gets entrusted with the life of a young boy. But he gets more than he bargained for as he must fight for his own life, for Aragorn's life and for the very future of Middle Earth. AU. Not slash. Complete.

66. The Battle Of Pelennor Fields Part 1

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 lovely reviews. Enjoy chapter 66.

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Chapter 66

The Battle Of Pelennor Fields Part I

Minas Tirith

Minas Tirith stood tall and threatening in the distance. So much taller and more threatening than it had ever seemed before. For so long the people of Osgiliath had stared, wondering at how far away from them their once proud city looked to them. And yet now, standing on the edge of the City of Stars, Minas Tirith seemed closer than it ever had, looming over them like a beast of the Shadow itself. Stone had never looked so terrifying. The grey light of dawn did the white walls little justice and although it looked washed out it nevertheless seemed impressive to the Humans who watched it so intently and seemingly through different eyes than they were used to.

They were waiting for the command. Faramir stood with Aragorn and Janor and Jecha at the front of the line, safe in the knowledge that the eyes of the Enemy would not be on Osgiliath yet. No one within the White City would know anything of the attack until the Human army reached the Pelennor Fields and by then it would be too late to stop the uprising. There would be no turning back.

Everyone, even the most seasoned of warriors, was tense. This was always the hardest part of any battle; waiting. No one knew why exactly they waited. None stood amongst the ranks could have guessed that it was simply because the Steward of Gondor was building up the nerve to call the command and the King of Gondor was waiting patiently at his side, unwilling to circumvent the man's command over his people, for most of them were of Gondor anyway. Aragorn had been determined that Faramir should be the one to shout the command and not him. It was, after all, the Steward's rightful place.

The shifting impatient shifting of feet seemed loud and some in the assembled army irrationally worried that such movement might alert anyone watching from the towers of the Great Gate of the intentions of the Men of Gondor in Osgiliath.

But Minas Tirith remained quiet and still. The Orcs would be retreating into the halls now, for although the meagre sunlight that could filter through the thick layers of clouds could do them no harm, it still caused them discomfort and they did not like being exposed to it for too long. The changeover would be seamless; so many times had it been practiced and performed. The Men were not waiting specifically for that event. But the bulk of the Orc and Goblin guards and patrols would retreat into the bowels of the city at the coming of daylight and it would take time once they were inside for them to mobilise again, giving the Men opportunity to make some progress across the now desolate farmland that had once made up the Pelennor Fields approaching the city. It was not a great amount of time but it was all they had and they had to take advantage of everything they possibly could.

Unfortunately, there was only one way into the city; no back door through which they could sneak as there had been when the Rohirrim and Rangers had stormed Helm's Deep. The Great Gate stood on the first level facing Osgiliath and that was the only way one could gain access. Really, the city had been built ingeniously, better, Legolas mused as he squinted to get a good look at the lower tier, even than the fortress of Helm's Deep had been in Edoras.

He and everyone else knew that the very moment the order was called and the Men left the relative safety of Osgiliath and climbed the remains of the Rammas Echor, the great wall surrounding the Pelennor Fields, destroyed to ruins when Minas Tirith had first been taken by the Shadow, the creatures on sentry duty facing the plains would see the attack and launch a defensive of their own. Still, Faramir and Aragorn hoped that they would gain enough distance before they managed to mobilise their forces, still in disarray during the changeover.

The tension in the ranks grew worse the longer they waited. Murmurs of discontent started up. After all the waiting for this moment, they wanted to get going.

Nevertheless, Faramir made them wait. The longer they waited, hopefully the longer it would take for the Orcs to get themselves together. Too long and their massing on the edge of the city would be spotted by the refreshed Orc lookouts immediately.

For days previous, the Pelennor Fields had been shrouded in the familiar thick fog, concealing the barren land and the White City almost entirely. During the planning of their attack, Faramir had explained that the Fields often looked the same, the mists rolling off the river and blanketing the plains. They had been relying somewhat on such an occurrence this morning too. Thick grey fog would have been highly effective in concealing their approach. But this morning their luck had run out. Aragorn had woken to the first clear day in weeks, not as much as a trace of fog covering the White City. Disappointment had swelled in him for he knew that this good weather would only make things more difficult for their plan. He had rushed around, searching out the commanders, undecided as to whether the assault should go ahead or be postponed. But Faramir had been insistent; Aragorn had talked him into this in the first place, they had finalised the plan, told everyone of it; they could not renege now.

And so, now they stood, waiting for the order to attack, staring with unconcealed fear at the object of their want. Gondor was going to be changed, one way or another this day.

"All right, we cannot wait any longer," Faramir finally spoke through the hush, quietly to Aragorn at his side. "Agreed?"

"Yes." Aragorn glanced to Eomer, Jecha and Jada, who all stood with him, waiting. They all nodded in turn and Aragorn said to Faramir, "Let's go." For a beat, there was uncertainty amongst the commanders once again. Only Legolas, standing slightly behind Aragorn, out of the way, seemed undaunted by the prospect of what was to come, although Aragorn could not be sure that this wasn't simply a ruse to falsify calm. Legolas had seen this kind of war before. That he looked undaunted was not of any great comfort now to his ward.

"Everyone clear on the plan?"

Nods of assent. They had been over it so many times that it was all but impossible to be ignorant.

"Should we say something first, to the men?" asked Aragorn.

"Be my guest."

Glancing over his shoulder, Aragorn said softly, "They are mostly of Osgiliath. Perhaps you should."

The prospect of having to give a speech of encouragement to his men and the others filled Faramir with dread. He'd never even witnessed a rousing speech before – it was never a part of his father's leadership – and he certainly had never had to give one.

Nevertheless, Faramir turned to his men, who silenced at his presence. They knew it was time.

Raising his sword above his head, the Captain of Osgiliath called, "For Gondor!"

With that, the command was given and the Men of Gondor surged forward with a collective cry. Most had never seen battle before. They were afraid. And yet the thrill of finally moving, the sound of the fierce passion of battle cries coming from the most seasoned warriors spurred them on and they joined in with relish for it bolstered their courage sufficiently to get them moving. Fear fled the front of their minds, although it lingered in their consciousness all the same, smothered for the time being by a surge of adrenaline.

Those first few yards across the Pelennor Fields were understandably filled with nervous tension from all quarters. Inevitably, the few moments of bravado brought on by the thrill of following behind renowned commanders in aid of the greater good of Mankind and the downfall of Shadow wore off, replaced by apprehension and many fast-tiring pounding of legs on dry dirt.

Pelennor was vast. Once farmland, long since grown barren under the cold watch of the Shadow, it was an unbroken plain with no shelter. The only incline was the steep hill leading up to the face of Minas Tirith itself and the slight rise atop which the Rammas Echor, the surrounding wall, was built.

The wall was traversed easily enough. But for the odd pile of rock to trip up the advancing Men, there was little of it left after the Shadow had torn it down during the first bid to seize Minas Tirith long ago.

Within moments of leaving the relative safety of Osgiliath, it became obvious that the advancing army of Men had been spotted. Perhaps the Uruk lookouts were more vigilant than predicted but even above the pounding of hundreds of feet on the ground, their cries of shock and urgency could be heard from the parapets. A loud, low horn could be heard in the distance as they sounded the alarm, announcing the attack to any creature within the city's walls. No doubt this was an unexpected occurrence. None within the city could have anticipated such a thing for the Men had given no indication of such despite being closely observed. Of course, it had been noticed, the increase of Men recently, but the spies of Minas Tirith dismissed it as unimportant. After all, no one would be stupid enough to take on the might of the Shadow.

Halfway across the plains, the Men split.

Eomer took the Rohirrim left of the city whilst Janor led the Rangers and Jecha's company right so they formed an unbroken line only five men deep at most points surrounding the city, still racing forward, undeterred by the desperate calls to arms wailing in the air all around them. A wall between Minas Tirith and Osgiliath. No Orc was going to get past them this day. For, although they wanted to reclaim the White City for themselves, they were not going to surrender Osgiliath to the Shadow either. The innocents, the children, elderly and infirm – those who could not fight - hid in Osgiliath's centre and they must be protected at any cost.

From the walls of Minas Tirith, the advancing mass of Men must have looked impressive, frightening even.

There was little chance of the Men reaching the city walls before the army of Shadow pulled themselves together and sent out a defensive force, the Men all knew that. They were not proven wrong.

The massive iron and steel Great Gates on the first level yawned open with a great squeal of protest to reveal nothing but a courtyard of black, moving bodies; the Orcs had mobilised. They poured out of the gateway as one, a river of unsteadily moving creatures, all brandishing weapons and coming forth with dreadful battle cries in their own fierce language. The Shadow was not going to give up Minas Tirith without a mighty fight. It meant too much to their master. At all costs, they had been ordered to defend the fortress.

Aragorn almost faltered when he saw what they were up against for the first time. Faramir's most excessive guess at Orc numbers encamped in Gondor was massively lacking, he realised. There were thousands, tens of thousands perhaps. Aragorn had no idea whether these Orcs were the entire contingent within the city or just a portion of the vast number. Either way, it was beyond them, that much was immediately obvious.

Still, they could not now retreat. Now that they had been spotted advancing, retreat was impossible. If they made for Osgiliath the creatures would chase them down and no doubt destroy them and everyone else for their brazen attempt at a takeover. Men had declared war on the Shadow and now they had to see it through.

Even the most experienced amongst the warriors going into battle this day felt the sting of fear as they clashed with the vast army of Minas Tirith.

Battle cries were replaced by the fierce clashing of weapon on weapon. A whole line of Men crashing as one with the Orcs. The noise was deafening. Aragorn immediately felt himself crushed as excitable men shoved him forward into the waiting Orc army, which attempted to push them back. Anduril felt too big for fighting in such confined conditions and yet every blow he wielded hit strong and true. The sword of kings was a powerful weapon and although the Orcs did not shrink in fear from it as others had done before it remained the perfect weapon for battle.

Almost immediately, Aragorn lost all track of those who had stood at his side during the initial approach. He had gone down the centre with Faramir and the Men of Osgiliath behind him. It felt strange; his allegiance had always been with the Rangers and yet it had been presumed that the king would stand next to the Steward in battle. He had had no opportunity to protest this. And he supposed that it didn't matter anyway. Legolas had been stood right behind him on the edge of Osgiliath and Aragorn had known his presence during the run across Pelennor but as he glanced left and right now, the Elf was lost amidst the chaos. In fact, the only sight of allies he could see were the bright red uniforms of the two Easterling warriors, standing out in the sea of dull armour.

Feeling very much alone in this, Aragorn felt his pulse pounding hard. Each Orc downed by Anduril represented a small victory and he took Legolas' advice and concentrated on that alone. Any thought for his comrades momentarily deserted him as he threw himself, body and soul, into winning this battle. The only way he would see them again was to thin the herd of terrible Mordor creatures.

The Orcs fought hard, considering that they had been so completely taken by surprise. Still, they were creatures bred only for war, this was in their nature. They showed no finesse in fighting, hacking away indiscriminately at any ally of the Light they could find – and even taking out a few of their own in their recklessness. Using any weapon they had handy – swords, knives, scimitars, clubs, their own claws and teeth even - they forced the Men apart, breaking the loose ranks apart with ease. Orc far outnumbered Men and the Shadow knew this.

Despite their relative lack of numbers, the Allied Human Army fought remarkably well. They did not distinguish between foes, simply kept slashing at everything created by the Shadow. And many Orcs fell on the battlefield, for although there were plenty of them, their battle skills were still shoddy at best.

Aragorn himself found killing two in one single blow from his great sword easy enough.

But simply killing the Orcs was not enough, he knew. They had to advance. Minas Tirith still stood looming over them in the distance. Faramir had informed them that the only access to the city was through the Great Gate of Othram on the First Level; that was their target. They had to keep moving forward.

Unfortunately, upon clashing with the wall of Orcs, the Men had been pushed back a little way. Ranks had broken and Men scattered, doing whatever they could to stay alive and kill as many Orcs as they could. Aragorn could not blame them for it. Indeed, he had done the same thing. But it had thrown them into disarray and that would not do.

Slashing low to take an Orc down as it raised its sword to strike at him, Aragorn turned away when presented with the opportunity and shouted over the cacophony, "Rally to me!" Even above the noise of battle, his voice sounded clear and strong. Men turned to look at him, stood tall and proud amidst the chaos, Anduril raised high in the air as he summoned to him his people. "To me!" They needed to reform some semblance of order if they were going to proceed towards Minas Tirith.

Slowly, Men moved to the centre, the message finding its way across the field. It was hardly perfect organisation but after a while Aragorn started to see familiar faces near him, covered though they were with the filth and gore of battle already. Eomer looked undeniably fearsome brandishing not one but two swords of Rohan, so too did Faramir with the Men of Osgiliath staying close by him. For all bonds of allegiance that had been declared, the factions of Men still stuck together. Ranger, Rohirrim, Gondorian. Not that it mattered in the least. As long as they were fighting, that was all that mattered.

Aragorn did immediately note the general absence of many of the younger, inexperienced fighters that Faramir and Eomer had recruited to bolster their ranks. Many had fallen under the first wave of Orcs and perhaps that had been expected. In private, in the dark when the rest of the Council had retired for the night, Faramir had confessed to the king that they needed numbers in the initial stages of the assault and that he knew fully well that many of the untrained Men would not make it to the walled city. Indeed, it seemed that Faramir had been correct. Aragorn felt a stab of terrible guilt but he forced it aside as the Orcs surged at them, attempting once more to disband the reformed ranks.

Together, the Men managed to lessen the Orc numbers significantly, although they paid a great price for it. The ground was littered with Orc bodies but scattered amongst them laid many innocent men and women. So many were dead already and only a fraction of Minas Tirith had emptied onto the Plain so far.

"Aragorn!"

The king spun to see Janor hastening towards him through the clamour. Terror was written all over the young Ranger's face as he shoved aside the Enemy to reach the king.

"Aragorn!" he gasped breathlessly as he reached his companion. "Look to the city."

Diverted as he had been with killing the creatures attacking them, Aragorn had taken his eyes off the city in the distance. Now, he looked towards the First Level and his heart dropped in his chest.

"Oh my…"

From the Great Gates now marched in an orderly fashion, rank upon rank of Uruk-hai. All bore large shields and weaponry. Some carried torches with them, lighting the darkening field. Upon the walls of the city more Orcs and Goblins had lined up, mostly on the Second and Third Levels. On the higher levels stood Goblin archers, ready for the moment that the Men got close enough to fire upon. On the Second Level, Orcs had lined up, some archers but some gathered around large steaming vats. What was contained within, Aragorn did not know but it couldn't possibly have been good.

"What do we do now?" demanded Janor in open fear.

"I…Find Faramir. Find him! Now!"

Shoving past fighting Men, Janor went to do as asked, slashing down anything that sought to halt his progress. This new threat had somewhat diminished his fear of the plain Orcs.

Aragorn watched as the Orcs began to fall back to the city, slowly at first and then faster as the Uruk-hai advanced. The larger creatures walked slowly, marching with surprising uniformity. Ahead of them stood a particularly large Uruk, scarred and already smeared with blood, as though it had been preparing itself for battle by bathing in the blood of its past victims.

They began to form a living wall between the Human army and the city. Aragorn realised that they had unwittingly come closer to Minas Tirith than he had realised. Within, the Shadow had prepared the second defence.

He could not pause long to observe what was happening before him. Many Orcs yet remained on the Plains and they could not be left to re-join their comrades within the city. One problem at a time, Aragorn reminded himself, drawing a breath into his lungs.

The Uruks, however, were not going to wait for the Men to finish killing their lesser brothers and make their way to them. They lined up, spanning the width of the city, moving almost as one, and marched with a loud clattering intermingled with the foul taunts of the creatures as they worked themselves into a frenzy towards the battling Men.

"Commanders!" Aragorn shouted above the increased noise of battle. By now, surely most of the commanders would have noticed this new threat and would be listening out for further orders from their king. "Commanders! Look to the Uruk-hai," he nevertheless shouted as loud as he could manage in an effort to be heard.

Aragorn was fairly confident that his commanding officers would know how to arrange their forces to best defeat this new foe. He raced across the battlefield, having to take extra care not to trip over the numerous bodies now littering the ground, calling the same order over and over until the first sections of Men began moving forward towards Minas Tirith and the living barricade the Uruks had erected.

On his path through the fighting, Aragorn literally bumped into Janor and he tugged at the man's arm, a silent instruction to follow. Pointing with the gleaming blade of Anduril, coated although it was in the black blood of his enemies, he called loudly to those surrounding him, "Rangers! The barricade, drive it back!"

The reaction was instantaneous. Not one person seemed to hesitate at the order being called out by Aragorn, for in many ways he had become as much a commander of the Rangers since Kinnale's passing as Janor was. They surged forwards, undaunted now by the Orcs surrounding them. The Uruks were far greater a challenge and they would not be halted by the lesser creatures of Sauron. If anything, this new threat bolstered the Rangers' anger and gave them new purpose. They would not be stopped from entering Minas Tirith now. There was too much at stake.

Soon the other factions of Men also joined in the assault. Gondorians plunged into the fray led by Faramir who had also heeded the call for aid, followed by the Rohirrim. Now they killed every enemy they encountered and soon the Orc numbers dwindled further for they had become slack in their efforts now that they had been joined by their stronger companions.

The Uruk-hai were a fearsome species, better than their smaller Orc counterparts and they held their ground well. Their ranks were never less than two deep and clearly they were as intent on keeping the Men out as the forces of Light were intent on breaking through to the White City. The more experienced amongst the Men tackled the Uruks, whilst the lesser warriors picked off the remaining Orcs swarming around them. Some of the creatures scattered at this new vicious onslaught, shrinking behind the ranks of their betters.

The Uruk barricade held firm for a long time. Longer than Aragorn would have liked. They were not easily defeated, probably because they knew well the cost of failure. And yet, the Men remained firm in their convictions and pressed the Uruk line backwards towards the City of Men. Commands yelled in the Black Speech of Mordor went up; desperate instructions to beat back the invaders as they gained ground. This heartened the Men further, for it meant they were making some progress.

"Eomer!"

The Rohan commander turned abruptly at the shout that went up through the din. He found the source easily as Legolas. The Elf was fighting his own battle with three Uruk-hai and yet his attention was currently on the man instead of the creatures battling him from three separate angles. It was a cry of warning and it proved invaluable because a huge creature was currently stood behind the Rohan commander, scimitar raised ready for the killing blow that, but for the shout from Legolas, Eomer would never have seen coming. He parried the attack, and after brief combat, the creature fell to the sword of Rohan, joining many of its comrades in the blood-churned dirt.

Eomer looked for Legolas, ready to call his thanks but the Elf had already been absorbed back into the battle. Shrugging, and remembering that the time might soon come when he could and would return the favour, Eomer returned his attention to the Uruk line.

Hours had passed since the dawn assault and the Men's reserves of strength were inevitably starting to dwindle. They were slowing down. Fortunately, they had made a significant dent in the numbers of the servants of Darkness and a little after midday the line of Uruk-hai finally broke. It was impossible to tell exactly which faction of Men had finally broken the ranks but the Men surged through the gap, again bolstered by this success, killing everything that stood in their path, although for the most part the field ahead of them leading to the White City remained clear after the thick Uruk barricade; only Minas Tirith stood proud and strong in the distance.

Men poured through the break in the barricade, stopping all attempts on the part of the Uruk-hai to rebuild the line, and widening it further as they went. It was too late for the Uruk-hai now. They were swallowed up in the sea of Human warriors, elated at this first victory, taken down in their surprise by the experienced among Men until only a few remained. None fled back to the city. Better to die in battle than at the hands of their superiors within the white walls – or worse in Mordor itself. Death was most certainly preferable to that fate.

A victory though this breakthrough was, the forces of Men were still a long way from retaking the fortress of Gondor. Led by the commanders, the Human army raced across the plain. Minas Tirith was so very tantalisingly close. And yet still the Shadow haunted its levels. Archers had been posted on the Second and Third Levels and a few test arrows were unleashed but they still fell far short of reaching the Human invaders.

Far enough away to be untouched by the bolts of the Goblin archers, Aragorn called for the halt and for their own archers to come forward. The archers, those who had survived the Fields, dashed forwards, taking their stance and firing up at the city walls. Predictably, their own arrows fell short too.

With a wave of his hand, Aragorn signalled the advance, although at a slightly slower pace this time. They had no shields to protect them – all such defensive weaponry that may once have existed in Osgiliath had been broken down and used for firewood in times past. It was a matter of which side was better equipped in the art of long distance warfare. With nothing left behind them to threaten them, the Men moved slowly, edging forward, pausing every time a barrage of arrows was released from the city walls.

Then, a single arrow flew from the ranks of Men, sailing effortlessly high through the air and hitting true in the forehead of a weedy Goblin on the Second Level. For a moment nothing happened. This was a show of strength and precision, nothing more. And then, the Shadow reacted, badly, to the assault on one of their own. Arrows flew indiscriminately from Minas Tirith, most of them hitting the ground a fair distance away, one of two reaching the ranks of Men. The Goblins were furious that it had been the Human archer that had made the first kill and they were reacting in the only way they knew how: with unrestrained fury and reckless attack. Loud shouts of anger, crude words in the Black Tongue, came forth, washing over the already noisy battlefield and drowning out the cries of the dying.

After a while, another arrow was sent soaring through the air, hitting yet another Goblin, which fell from its precarious perch on the very edge of the wall where it had positioned itself in an effort to gain an extra few inches closer to the battlefield, to land on the ground at the base of the city. A call of anger came from the Goblin army again and on the levels they ran back and forth until they were repositioned although it made no difference, few of their arrows reached the Men below, stopped as they were a safe distance away.

Murmurs of appreciation and good humour struck up amongst the weary Men and they turned their heads, looking for the accomplished shooter amongst their ranks.

At the front, Aragorn smiled thinly. He needed no proof of who this bold archer was, for it could only have been Legolas. How terribly angry Sauron would have been, Aragorn pondered as he watched another Goblin tumble from the walls and the others make a subtle retreat back as if that might save their hides from well-aimed Elven-crafted arrows, had he known that an Elf was single-handedly picking off the army encamped at Minas Tirith.

But it could not last. Legolas had a limited supply of arrows and he knew better than to waste them on unnecessary showmanship when battle loomed. So when the Goblins began their retreat a little way from their posts, fearing this archer who was besting them with such ease, he called the advance, knowing that Aragorn would hear and follow the instruction. And it was so. Waving Anduril high in the air for all to see, Aragorn took advantage of the momentary lapse in bravery of the Goblin guards and the Men of Gondor surged forwards, racing up the so called Hill of the Guard, the steep incline leading up to the First Circle and the Great Gate.

Taken by surprise at the sudden advance, the Goblins struggled for a moment to reorganise themselves and so by the time the arrows started flying again, the Men had covered some considerable distance which would not have been possible without the distraction.

The Shadow Army though was prepared for anything. They had had a long time to prepare the City for this type of assault, although inwardly they had always been confident that the people of Osgiliath, running scared as they were, would never launch such an assault. Plans had been made meticulously, drills performed each and every day.

Many Men fell to the small, precise Goblin arrows, and many Goblins fell to flying Human shafts during the advance. But many of them lived to reach the level plain that led to the pathway winding up to the Othram. Those that did were confronted with something worse than arrows.

Orcs lined the Second Level also, directly above the Great Gates gaping open in invitation to the Human invaders. They had long ago, when the Tower first came under the control of the Shadow, installed great iron cauldrons along the walls, fuelled by fires and filled with oil or pitch, a thick black tar that could be poured from above on the attacking forces below to halt their progress into the city. They scrambled now to man them.

Faramir saw this coming, saw the smoke, thick and acrid, rising from the Second Level and shouted the warning to his kinsmen. They were trapped now and the Orcs knew it. They poured the oil and the thick, steaming tar down, forming a liquid curtain across the entrance to Minas Tirith, forcing the army to a halt where they were trapped directly in range of the Goblin archers or be burned by the boiling liquids. The smell was indescribable. Men coughed and retched and the potency of the fumes emitted as the wind blew the smoke over them as if in collusion with the Shadow, commanded by the Dark Lord himself.

One thing that perhaps the Orcs had not considered carefully enough when fortifying the city was the masses of smoke and steam the boiling liquid belched out, billowing in the direction of the wind and effectively concealing the Men below from the archers above. But it didn't matter. They had formed a barrier that the Men could not cross and that any sane Man would not try.

For now, Minas Tirith seemed once again impenetrable to the United Men of Gondor.

"Retreat!" Faramir yelled to his people as the steam rose from the boiling liquid pooling on the ground, billowing over his men and covering them in mildly stinging, scalding smoke. "Retreat." He could hardly see the ground beneath his feet but he moved backwards, simply hoping that he was on the right path for he could not see through the rising steam.

There was little point in pushing forward with the way so blocked and an army that had lost the ability to walk was as useless as no army at all.

"Retreat!"

He heard the men following his voice, panic filling them as they sought relief from the fumes. As he moved away from the wall of the First Circle though, something heavy dropped from the sky, landing just in front of him. Startling, he looked up, the fumes stinging his eyes and making them stream. A whoosh close by sounded and he recognised it as the sound of a fast-flying arrow, which was closely followed by another loud thump as a heavy bulk dropped to the ground although this one was followed by a loud, high-pitched shriek of agony – an Orkish cry – as it splashed helplessly in the thick, burning liquid, unable to flee the pain.

Turning his head and swiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket to clear them, Faramir searched about for the source of the archer, for it must surely have been an archer on the ground that was blindly picking off those creatures manning wall. Before he could though find the source, another body fell, this one close enough for him to see even through the smoke. It fell just on the edge of the expanding pool of oil, splashing the liquid up and catching Faramir on the leg. The boiling substance immediately burned and he hopped about for a moment, desperately swiping at the scald with the sleeve of his jacket in an attempt to prevent further damage.

"Come on!" a loud command came from Faramir's side and when he didn't immediately respond to the enigmatic order, a strong hand snagged his arm at the elbow and dragged him forward towards the simmering oil, which although rapidly cooling was still too hot to traverse.

Blinking to clear his vision, Faramir recognised the person at his side as Legolas. "What are you doing?" he demanded as he was dragged forward.

"We must hurry before we lose cover," Legolas insisted, not slowing.

He could do little as the Elf pulled him along. At first he could not determine what was happening but a second later he realised. Legolas had shot Orcs and Goblins down from the wall, enough that they formed a narrow bridge across the boiling oil. Some still lived but most had been killed by either the arrow shot with deadly accuracy at them or the fall.

Legolas skipped easily across the makeshift bridge, knowing that they were shielded by the steam rising from the boiling liquids for the time being. Faramir moved close behind him, using Legolas as a guide as to where was safe to tread rather than daring to cast his stinging eyes downwards. Already he was calling the order for the advance to follow him into the city. It was a precarious way across but most of the Orcs proved a good bridge.

Legolas reached the Great Gate first and was mildly surprised to find it still standing open as if in welcome. Killing the Orcs to make a way across the expanding moat of boiling oil and pitch, he hadn't thought about what would come next or how he would gain access to the city itself should the Orcs have done the sensible thing and shut the gates on the intruders. But, as had become routine, the armies of the Shadow were a complacent people. They had every confidence that all their measures of defence would work flawlessly and that they would not be outwitted by the attacking armies of Light. It was again their biggest weakness. Legolas leapt the last few feet onto solid, untouched ground just within the Great Gates of Minas Tirith. The first creature of the Light to have set foot there in decades.

He did not pause to relish the moment of triumph though. Racing through the high, impressive archways that greeted visitors to the White City, he searched for the closest gathering of Orcs and found it easily enough; the second wave beginning to assemble, presumably being prepared to chase the Men of Osgiliath back over the plains and cut them off in their own city.

They did not know what hit them. Strength bolstered by their first taste of true success the Men of Gondor ploughed into the Orcs, cutting all down in their wake. It was a sight to behold, the armies of Faramir, Eomer and Janor all combined, working in harmony as they swept through the entrance to the First Level.

As he passed, Legolas swept up two quivers full of Orc arrows from the dead creatures and hurried around the First Circle, slowly inclining upwards and leading to the Second. Minas Tirith consisted of seven levels in total and Legolas had to assume that each one of them was guarded and inhabited by at least some dreadful agent of the Shadow and he wanted to clear them out as fast as possible.

Behind him, Legolas heard footsteps but he could not pinpoint who they belonged to and he dared not slow his pace to check. They were the footsteps of Man and thusly not of any threat or interest to him.

Every Orc he passed that came at him with such confidence at stopping these wretched intruders on the sanctuary of Shadow in the eastern realms was taken down with a single swipe of impossibly sharp blades. The white handled knives, gifted to Legolas from his home in Mirkwood before its demise, were already strained heavily with the black blood of the Shadow but he was not done yet. His arms and hands may have ached cruelly from the exertion of battle but there was strength yet left in the Elf of the Woodland Realm. Minas Tirith would be back in the hands of Men once more before the nights' end, of this, Legolas was determined.

Determination washed over the Men of Osgiliath too. For many years they had watched as their once proud and beloved city fell to the influence of the Shadow, kept at a distance from them by the faintheartedness of their disillusioned ruling Steward. Now that they were here, walking on ground stolen from their people years ago and tainted by the horror of the Shadow, they were encouraged by the end in their sight, that they would regain this most powerful city for their own.

They killed the contingent of Orcs waiting at the entrance to the First Level with cries of glee. Then they followed their commander, Faramir, standing bravely at the head where his father would have shrunk from sight, through the entranceway into the First Circle.

It was all but impossible to get lost in Minas Tirith. The main street branched off into smaller roads, once residential perhaps back when Minas Tirith had been inhabited by Men, but the main way through the city was obvious enough and the Men knew that they need only follow the gentle incline upwards to reach the gate to the Second Level.

Aragorn had seen Legolas race through this way earlier, followed closely by Jecha and his companion Chel, the giant non-Westron-speaking Haradhrim. Had not Minas Tirith not been so easy to navigate, it would not have mattered today, for all Aragorn had to do was follow the trail of slain Orcs left behind.

When he finally caught up with his guardian and friends, they were engaged in battle once again. The Uruk-hai commanders had sent down some of the Goblins to confront the Men before they breached the Second Gate. Goblins were wily, fast creatures with little sense but good fighting skills and it was showing now. Legolas and Jecha, even with the help of their bulky friend, had made no further progress towards the Second Gate. However, the Goblins backed up a little at the sight of the advancing line of Men who had followed behind Faramir and Aragorn.

Once again plunging into battle, Aragorn found himself immediately surrounded by the small, lithe creatures. With their sickly grey skin and huge, wide eyes, adapted perfectly for the darkness of their natural homes deep in the caves, they made for a curious and frightening sight. Aragorn's experience with killing these creatures was limited. But hacking at them with his sword seemed to do the trick so he stuck with what he knew and Anduril shed yet more blood turning white stone black.

"Legolas!"

The cry went up, although the Elf wasn't certain who it came from. Nevertheless, he looked up, his attention diverted from the battle he'd become engaged in. He had hoped to reach the Second Level of the city without such a diversion but he had expected it nonetheless. The reason for the cry of his name became evident a moment later when arrows started raining down on the Men from the tier above them. Some Goblins had remained and were shooting down at both their own kind and the Men mixed in amongst them.

"Damn!" Legolas cursed to nobody in particular. In such close quarters, his bow was all but useless; he'd be cut down if he couldn't defend himself. "Dwarf!" he called to the closest creature to him, which just happened to be the younger of the two Dwarves from Jecha's patrol. He was not overly surprised that they had survived the initial battle. The Dwarven folk, for all their many faults in the eyes of the Elves, were a sturdy people who would not be beaten by the armies of Shadow whilst still they had breath in their bodies. And, Gimli's – for Legolas thought that was his name – presence might actually prove a blessing. His many tales to Aragorn around the fires at night, had revealed that he had come from under the mountains with his father – Gloin – and thus would be more adept than most at killing these wretched creatures of Darkness.

The Dwarf looked up at the call, great battle-axe that seemed almost too big for his small frame, poised for another killing blow upon any creature that ventured close enough for attack. Surprise registered in brown eyes beneath bushy eyebrows and understandably so. Legolas had yet to address either Dwarf during the years they had known each other.

"Goblin archers," Legolas shouted, pointing with his finger up to the rim of the Third Level and Second Level where the arrows were coming from. "I need cover."

For a moment or two it looked like the stout Dwarf warrior would protest, probably because of his inherent dislike of Legolas and Legolas' complete disregard not only of him but also of his father and the Dwarven race in general. But then duty and honour took over from any irritation he felt. He hefted his axe up, inviting Legolas to join him, ensuring that the Elf was confident of his commitment.

"The Dwarves will guard the Elves," he said in his own tongue, apparently confident that Legolas would not understand the slight against his people.

"Glad to hear it," Legolas called almost merrily over his shoulder as he strode away through the battling Men and Goblins.

For a second, Gimli stood, mouth open in shock that not only had the Elf understood the words he had spoken but that he had replied in the same language. He cast his mind back over all the insults shared in the language of the Dwarves over the fire about the Elf's aloofness and coolness towards them. That Legolas had understood every word of it whilst he and his father had been so amused at the prospect of sniping behind the pompous creature's back.

Nevertheless, there was work to be done on the battlefield now and Gimli would not disgrace the lost house of his father or the reputation of the Dwarves as a loyal and dutiful people out of spite for the Elf. For they were united now, the Free Peoples – Man, Elf and Dwarf – and they could trust only each other in the land of Darkness.

"I have your back, Elf," Gimli swore as he caught up with Legolas.

Reaching the edge of the skirmish, in a good enough if not ideal position to take out the opposition's archers, Legolas dumped his two stolen quivers packed with crudely rendered Orc arrows down on the ground.

"Here will do. Watch my back, Dwarf and I will watch the threat to you from above."

With a nod, Gimli turned his attention to the battle. From his position, he could see both sides of the road, although the dark alleyways branching off from the main path concerned him a little. From one end of the road nearest the Second Gate, the sounds of battle raged on and Gimli found his fingers itching to spill blood with his treasured axe, the only thing besides his stylised helm that had survived the attack on his home under the mountains. But he had sworn now a duty and he would not renege.

A soft whoosh sounded from behind him, followed by a distant wail of pain as a Goblin met its end at the point of a perfectly aimed Elven shot. Gimli found himself mildly impressed by the precision and speed. Each shot was followed by a cry or a thump as a Goblin fell from the upper levels. He was not inactive himself. Stray Orcs were making their way up, those spared by accident or design on the battlefield outside, having made their way across the boiling oil poured down by their masters. They sped up at the sight of the Dwarf but none got anywhere close to Legolas. And the Elf seemed perfectly at ease where he was. He did not once falter to glance behind him to ensure his safety, although Gimli found himself doing just that several times. Perhaps the Elf's trust in his unlikely companion was more absolute than Gimli had suspected, or maybe he was simply concentrating too hard to be bothered for his own life. He remembered Aragorn, on one of his more congenial nights, telling those gathered around the fire that once his guardian had been a great warrior amongst his people. So far, to Gimli at least, Legolas was living up to that great praise.

"We have to move," Legolas called to him as he continued to watch the road through the city.

"Where?"

However, Legolas grabbed Gimli's arm, leaving behind an empty quiver but taking another partially full one with him. "This way."

Rather than leading him back towards the battle, Legolas dragged Gimli down one of the many side-streets that branched off from the main.

"Where are we going?" asked the Dwarf, puffing at the pace Legolas set and unable to slow down due to the Elf's tight grip on his arm. "Do you even know?"

"How do you feel about sneaking up behind the Goblin attackers, my Dwarven friend?" Legolas asked as he navigated his way, more through sheer instinct than knowledge, through the narrow streets of Minas Tirith.

"Sounds dangerous."

"Indeed."

Gimli's face lightened. His axe had not slain the last Goblin this night. All Dwarves were accustomed to fighting the Goblins of Sauron. They dwelt beneath the ground, side by side with the Dwarven people and were perhaps their greatest enemy. It had been the Goblins that had sacked his own city beneath the mountains in Erebor. They had attacked as one, great swarms of them all at once, driving the Dwarves from their homes and out of their cities. Then they had systematically exterminated as many as they could, driving them out to meet their kin where they were slaughtered without mercy. Gimli hated them more than any other of the creatures created by Sauron for what they had done. They had killed his mother, his brothers and sisters. It had only been by chance and luck that he and his father had escaped with their lives. Others had escaped too but they had fallen prey to other evils and now it was just Gimli and Gloin, fighting together in this army of strange allies.

"Good. I have been longing to see some action," Gimli grinned in the darkness, no longer struggling to keep up with the prospect of a real battle close at hand.

"All you have seen today already has not been enough?" came Legolas' cool voice.

"Never enough when one is thirsty for revenge."

Gimli's words struck a nerve and Legolas felt his heart falter for a beat. Revenge. Yes, he had longed for that once too, longed to avenge the deaths of his people in Mirkwood. And yet, where the Dwarf had persisted and was not about to appease his longing for absolution from past sins, Legolas felt he remained stuck, for the truth was that it would never be enough for his heart. Even if they regained Minas Tirith and he saw Aragorn sat on the throne as he had promised Arathorn in his dying moments, even if they slaughtered every Orc in Gondor and beyond, he couldn't help but feel that he would never find true peace. And yet, he kept running, moving lithely through the shadows of long deserted abodes back towards the battle via a roundabout route. For Aragorn he would endure. Had he not always promised himself that? And Minas Tirith would not be the end. Even if they reclaimed the White City and all of Gondor then Sauron would yet live in Mordor and peace could not come to Arda as long as he continued to breathe. So what then? Would he march to Mordor behind his ward, not really needed and yet clinging to his duty just the same? Yes. He always would do so. For what was he if not the guardian of the King of Gondor? And when Aragorn was crowned? When all of Gondor bowed low before him and Middle Earth was liberated, free of Evil? Legolas knew he would stay even then. His duty would not end with this battle, or even this war.

One moment at a time. Never look too far into the future. Elrond had admonished him once as a young Elfling when he had confessed he longed to possess the gift of foresight as did the Wise of their race. Knowing the future could be as much a curse as not, the great Elven lord had cautioned him. One must live in the moment. Legolas had given that very advice to Aragorn on the eve of this battle and he struggled now to reinstate it into his own mind.

"This way," he commanded to the Dwarf, who now followed without coercion behind him.

He led Gimli towards the Second Gate. True to form, the Uruk-hai commanders, engineering this defence from the Upper Levels, had anticipated only a frontal assault. They had not imagined that Men could be so sneaky as to creep up behind the Goblin army and drive them away from the Second Gate.

Slowing, Legolas turned right down an alley and they were on the path to the main roadway through the city, parallel almost to the Gate. As expected, the Goblins had gained some ground and pushed the Men back a little way. It was a good thing for Legolas and his Dwarven companion though.

"Good luck, my friend," Legolas said in the language of the Dwarves, which although rusty from lack of use, still served him well enough now.

"And you."

With that, they raced down the alley, Gimli plunging immediately back into the fray, taking the startled creatures completely by surprise. Legolas hung back, firing a few arrows before he too joined in with the hand-to-hand combat, as determined as ever that Minas Tirith would belong to the race of Men before the sun rose over Gondor.

To Be Continued…