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.

67. The Battle Of Pelennor Fields Part 2

The War of Light and Shadow

By Freddie23

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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.

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Chapter 67

The Battle Of Pelennor Fields – Part II

The Levels

Night had fallen but Minas Tirith remained unnaturally illuminated. Torches flared from the upper levels, lit by the creatures above, even as Pelennor fell dark and quiet in the distance, swallowing the devastation that remained scattered on the blood-drenched soil. For all the almost reverential quiet below, the city itself remained in utter chaos though, the battle not halting for anything as insubstantial as the night. Not long after nightfall, the Second Gate had been breached by the forces of Men and the blockade of writhing Goblins slaughtered without mercy, their bodies not presenting much of a barricade now they couldn't brandish their weapons. From above in the upper levels, the remaining Goblin archers continued to fire their small but deadly darts down to the invaders below but most by now had retreated further up the city's tiers in a pitiful but nevertheless heartening display to the Men of self-preservation; they were heedless of their masters' furious commands to stand their ground, overwhelmed by their natural inclination to retreat from the fury of their attackers. They knew that the Men were on a mission here and would not surrender the ground now that they had had a taste of it.

Thanks to Legolas and Gimli and their earlier attack on the Goblin archers from below and the foul creatures' innate cowardice, only a handful remained standing on the lip of the Second and Third Levels with their short bows drawn and ready for whenever a target presented itself. The Rohirrim took most of these remainders out not long before midnight enveloped the city. They must have seen what was coming and yet these remaining stubborn or mindless creatures did nothing to save themselves from their respective fates. They were afraid perhaps of their Uruk masters, more so even than the wrath of the invaders to their besieged sanctuary of Shadow.

Level Three fell to the armies of Light with remarkable ease that none in the forces of Men could have predicted. They swept as one through the third tier, killing everything that dared stand in their path. Remarkably few Men had fallen to the creatures of Darkness since entering the city; perhaps because they were the more experienced amongst the warriors who had survived the initial stages of battle and were not as easily defeated as their less seasoned kin. Each small victory, each yard of stained white stone gained in the name of Freedom, spurred them on further and faster and, although for the most part they were bone weary from their long exertions, they fought on, heedless of exhaustion or injury.

Aragorn was followed almost constantly by the ever-loyal Rangers. Janor, Kalub, Tarsem, Veron and Ciaran kept close to him whenever they could, self-appointed protectors of the King in his rightful home. Jecha at some point had taken his own people off in another direction, clearing out the Second Level perhaps just to be certain of its safety before moving on for fear that inattentiveness would lead to them becoming trapped within the city and thus make them more vulnerable than ever. Legolas, Aragorn had not seen since the skirmish before Second Gate. He'd heard the Goblin archers fall and had known instinctively that it was his guardian removing the threat without flair or permission. He had seen Legolas once at the Second Gate with the Dwarf, Gimli; the two of them working together to clear some of the threat before taking off by themselves once more. But since that moment, he had seen no sign at all of Legolas.

Probably because Legolas kept pushing staunchly onwards, taking each Gate smoothly and as quickly as he could manage and taking various Men who caught up to him with him as he went.

He surged forwards, never halting once, always seeking a way past the forces positioned to halt him. As almost a herald of the coming of Men, he proceeded. One Elf against the armies of Mordor was perhaps not much, but the fierce look in stony blue eyes, so much like those of the infamous king Thranduil who had fallen in Mirkwood, sent thrills of fear into the hearts of anyone or anything that crossed his path.

The men recognised this. They followed him, the much distrusted and disliked guardian of the King, as though he were a banner of Gondor surging ahead without thought or fear for what awaited him, without protest or hesitation. It was a splendid sight to behold for men who had never before seen one of the Firstborn in action. They were cheered by him, emboldened. As he feared nothing, so they felt the same. Nothing could touch the Prince of Mirkwood. Nothing could halt him in his newly found quest and the Men of Gondor admired that. They fed off his bravado, using it against any enemy he left alive for them to conquer.

Little thought was given to their own true commander, Faramir, who had fallen behind at some point. They would follow Legolas now to whatever end. All previous enmity forgotten as they become one to battle a darkness that if left unchallenged would swallow them whole.

The Fourth Level of Minas Tirith was also easily taken. There was pathetically little fortification in place to halt the progress of the newly invigorated Men. But for the odd Uruk sent down to attempt to halt the advancing army on his own merit, there was no intervention to the advance of the Humans. Easily taken too was the Fifth Level. Here, supplies had been stored by the Shadow. Piles of roughly forged arrows were kept in wooden crates stacked two or three high surrounding the storage area, many emblazoned with the White Hand of Saruman, come from Isengard courtesy of the treacherous Wizard within. This reminder to the Men of the betrayal of the once respected Wizard of Orthanc enraged the Rohirrim and Gondorians alike and they tore the crates apart and snatched up handfuls of arrows as if they had been stolen from them personally and were reclaiming them in the name of their lost kingdoms. Legolas took the time to replenish his own supply, stuffing as many as he could into his two stolen quivers, although his pause on this level was briefer than that of the others. Some Men also retrieved abandoned Orc armour that had been left lying around as an extra defence against the might of Darkness they were up against, uncaring that it smelled so dreadfully of the scourge of Mordor that it was sickening. Legolas would not dirty himself by wearing something so steeped in Evil. Let the Shadow take him if that was the will of the fates. He would not fall looking for all the world like a creature aligned to the Darkness of Sauron. Some of the Men took up shields, all of them bearing the White Hand. They took too swords and daggers, although it appeared that few of these had been fashioned by the Shadow. Indeed, many looked to be of Human design, no doubt stolen by victorious Orc raiders. Anything the Men could carry was stolen for the good of the cause. What a terrible mistake the Uruk-hai leaders had made placing the supplies on this level rather than at the pinnacle of the city where by the time the Men reached them they would be useless in the fight. Still, not one of the army complained at this good fortune. It seemed fitting that the creatures' stupidity should be their downfall.

Legolas, however, pushed those who followed him relentlessly onwards, not allowing them to revel in this small victory over the Shadow for even a moment. It was on this level that he was finally joined by Faramir. The man looked weary and sported a bright red open gash on his cheek, blood hastily smeared away as he had attempted to clean it with his sleeve, but otherwise he looked well enough. He did not pause to resupply but rather joined Legolas to lead the following Men on up the incline towards the Sixth Gate. Legolas said not a word to him as he strode onwards, not even enquiring as to the whereabouts of Aragorn. There was no time to put such worries to rest. They knew that here they were bound to meet resistance, for within Minas Tirith the Uruk-hai still resided and they had been pushed steadily back by the invading force and they had nowhere to run after the Seventh Level. They would not want to become trapped at the peak of Minas Tirith so the two seasoned warriors knew that they would likely make their stand on Level Six. Besides, on the Seventh Level stood the main citadel and the King's court and they would not want the Men to reach that place for that would mean total surrender of the city.

The warriors' prediction proved correct. The Sixth Gate stood proudly open, smaller and less fortified than the others they had come across for the real defences did not extend this far up. Minas Tirith was considered to be impenetrable mainly because of the Othram Gate and the multiple defences on the first couple of levels; invading armies were never expected to get this far. The Uruk-hai had made very few structural changes to the city, but for ravaging it. No gates or traps of Orc construction stood in place of those built by the Men who had constructed the city in the first place. Foolish indeed, Legolas thought with a mix of bitterness and renewed amusement at their enemy.

The barricade they encountered on Level Six was actually formed of pretty much all the Shadow forces still left inside the city. Uruk-hai, Orcs and some remaining Goblins, who milled around behind the larger creatures as if ordered simply to be present for sheer bulk of numbers if not to fight. The front ranks sported tall shields all bearing the mocking mark of Saruman and some bore brightly flaring torches to illuminate the way. Every warrior of the Shadow carried weapons and all looked willing to die to retain control of Minas Tirith. These were not the cowards the Men had met before. They were the last line of defence, willing to do anything in their alliance to the Shadow. They knew that the city meant much to their master in Mordor and they would not surrender it for anything.

Faramir led the charge and Legolas and the other Men followed behind him now. Who they followed, the Steward or the Elf, was not apparent and it didn't seem to matter to either of them. There was no posturing involved between them now. They simply charged as one at the Uruk-hai and Orcs, who stood somewhat bewildered at the unannounced, abrupt action for a moment, perhaps expecting their numbers to have more of a startling impact upon the charging force. The Enemy did not move forward, waiting instead for the Men to come to them. Arrogance, once again shining through. For once, they were entitled to that arrogance though. Their forces were greater than that of the Men, in numbers and strength. They were nigh on unbeatable by the meagre force of Men that remained.

It had been expected, this last defence of Minas Tirith against the invading Men. Also it had been expected that this would be the hardest part. The Men, despite their new invigoration at having gotten so far, were battle-weary, their numbers thinned by the destruction wrought by the Enemy forces. And yet they persevered. Following Faramir's charge and Legolas' shining example of strength, they struck down the Uruk-hai as they crashed into them. One by one they took the Enemy apart, gaining a little more ground on the White City of their people.

Never had Aragorn seen such dedication from a people. During the assault on Helm's Deep, they had not been intending to capture the fortress as such but rather make a statement that they would not be kept out of the lands of Men. It had been a success. But now, the Men of Gondor wanted desperately their ancient capital city back. It was the jewel in the crown of both the Light and the Darkness. Both side wanted it with equal determination and would fight for it with equal passion – although the passion of the Shadow Armies was borne out of fear rather than desire.

Legolas could not help but admire their spirit. He'd seen men and women of all levels of skill falling around him all day and now through most of the night too and yet their courage was undiminished. It rivalled even the dedication of the Elves whilst they'd been defending their besieged homes at the start of the War. He could not remember ever being so impressed with a fighting force. If only he had had the time to compliment them on it. It might not have meant much to them given their attitude towards him but it burned in his heart, their determination. Such devastation they had seen. For decades they had been taught by the Steward Denethor that victory in Minas Tirith was impossible and yet in just a few short weeks, they had completely changed their way of thinking, aligning themselves to the King and going into a war they knew would be more challenging than anything they had ever faced before. It was inspiring, Legolas thought as he parried a blow from an Uruk and took its head off in return for the attack.

A pang of regret plucked at his heart as he stepped over the corpse. Not at the last creature to fall to his blade but rather at how different things might have been in the beginning had the Free Peoples of Middle Earth come together before this. Perhaps Sauron would never have risen to power and the lands of the Free never been surrendered to his might. But that had never been the case. There had been no unity. Men kept to their own lands, for the most part too involved in their own troubles to pay attention to the woes of others; and the Elves had been far too proud to ask for aid from anyone; especially those they had always considered the lesser races. Legolas remembered that he had been instrumental in that decision in the many council sessions he had attended during the war. An inherent distrust of Men had distanced them. What a mighty force they would have been had they consented to work together. But it was not to be. Even the Dwarves had not entreated for help from their neighbours during the war. All this could have so easily been avoided had there only been a little cooperation from the leaders of the lands, Legolas thought as he cut down an Uruk that was currently, having already lost both arms to Legolas' fiercely sharp blades, now trying to bite him instead. And yet it had been reduced to this. Allied Men, aided by a smattering of other races with little chance of genuine victory over an immensely powerful enemy, standing up for what was right. Even the Wise had not predicted such. So recently, in Rivendell, Elrond had scoffed at the very idea of an Elf allied to a Man. If even Elrond could not have foreseen such an alliance then a strange thing it must have been.

The Uruk snapping at him with filthy and already blood-stained teeth made to charge at Legolas, shouting something in the Black Speech. A smooth movement forward of his blade ended that problem and the Uruk crashed to the ground to join several of its comrades without another word.

Taking a moment, Legolas assessed the field. The Goblins were gone; although he had seen a few hurrying away into the dark alleyways of the city, fleeing the battle while they still had a chance of survival. Orcs remained but they were few now. And it seemed that the Men were finally getting the upper hand over the Uruk-hai.

Legolas raised his face to the skies. Dawn was coming. Above them, the sky was a curious mix of grey and pink, as though it knew that battle was raging on below and was reflecting the mood of Arda's people. The mist that Faramir and Aragorn had been so counting on the previous morning but that had failed to materialise when needed had now come back, shrouding the Pelennor Fields and those left struggling for life on it. It mattered little to the fighting warriors though. The mist did not come this far up and they could see before them well enough to see their enemy.

And yet, they were by now desperately tired. Every one of them had reached the limit of their endurance and it was beginning to show. Mistakes were being made. Many had resulted in minor slip-ups and wounds. The occasional Uruk was still falling but they retained their strength even after days of fighting and the Men had been mainly reduced to parrying the blows dealt them simply to stay alive.

Legolas felt the same biting weariness. With little reserves of strength to begin with, it was inevitable. The battle had been exciting to a degree. He always found some rush of adrenaline whenever he was able to spill the blood of the Shadow on the Free Lands of Arda but that could only sustain for so long. Weariness began to settle in sooner or later. Still, it was not over yet. They could not fall at this last hurdle.

"Rangers! To me!" Aragorn's voice rang out loud and clear even over the clamour of battle on the white stones and Legolas felt a beat of relief run through him, for he had seen neither sight nor sound of the man since Pelennor.

Bringing the Rangers together, Aragorn hoped to create a strong united force against the remaining Uruks.

Above this Sixth Tier stood the Seventh, the pride of Minas Tirith and Aragorn did not want the Uruks retreating up there if he could at all help it.

Janor motioned those nearest him to follow and Legolas too answered the King's call.

Mercifully, his ward looked mostly unharmed. He was dripping with a vile mixture of black blood and sweat and Legolas caught a small flash of red on his left arm – a wound sustained in battle. There was a momentary flicker of surprise and similar relief in his grey eyes when Aragorn in turn caught sight of his guardian but now was the time for action, not reflection and gladness at the health of another.

"Gondor!" the young man cried as he led the Rangers against the Uruk-hai, fiercely rallying them for one last spurt of strength and courage against the Shadow.

Cries went up all around, "For Gondor!" and the people seemed somewhat rejuvenated, incredibly given how much they had already endured during this fight. Uruk-hai fell more rapidly after this, alarmed as they were by this renewed show of might.

"Aragorn!" warned Tarsem, the Rangers' scout, gesturing wildly toward the Sixth Gate where a few of the Uruk commanders were currently attempting a retreat into the side streets, recognising the need to get out of the way of the Human attackers.

"Legolas, look to the Gate!" Aragorn called loudly to his guardian, engaged as he currently was in his own fight with a particularly large Uruk intent, it seemed, on hacking off his arm and parting him from Anduril. He knew that his guardian could handle the threat of the commanders fleeing for higher ground.

Legolas kicked out with vicious strength at the creature he was fighting at the sound of Aragorn's call, sending the loathsome being crashing backwards into one of its fellows, and dashed away before either one of them could regain their footing. On his way past, he snatched up the collar of the Dwarf Gimli whom he had worked with earlier in the night, confident as he had become of the stout creature's skill in battle. He would have taken some Men with him as well except amongst them he was still not well liked and he could not guarantee completely that his actions so far that day had changed their opinion sufficiently, besides, the closest to him at that moment was Faramir. With him, Legolas knew it would be more difficult to cut off the Uruks before they reached the top tier of the city.

Gimli grumbled in surprise at the rough treatment but when he realised what was going on he was released from the Elf's grip and ran along behind the lithe creature without further coercion.

"We have to cut them off, Gimli" Legolas told him somewhat breathlessly as he raced up the incline clutching his knives tightly in his hands. "Aragorn does not want them on the upper level." Gimli did not reply but Legolas heard him panting hard just behind him in the effort to keep up and he took this as acquiescence to his plan.

They raced along the main street, passing the occasional side alley, although such were far wider and further between than they had been on the more intricate lower levels. Every few alleys, Legolas caught sight of the glint of shining green eyes in the darkness. Goblins remained hiding in the city and he made a mental note to inform Aragorn that the city would have to be thoroughly cleansed of this evil before it could be finally declared in power of the Gondorians once more. But for the time being the Goblins did not bother Legolas so he did not pay them much heed.

No longer was the Elf moving as quickly as he had earlier down on the lower levels so the Dwarf had little trouble keeping up with him anymore. Twice in this battle, Legolas had required his help; he thought of what his father, so bigoted towards the Elven race in general and towards Legolas in particular, would say when he recounted this notion once the battle was won. A smile almost tugged at his lips but he shoved it back, concentrating on what he had to do in the moment.

"How many are there?" he panted as he ran up the steady sloping path behind Legolas.

"I know not."

"And you didn't think to bring more warriors?" Gimli snapped irritably at the lack of preparation on the part of the Elf.

"Unfortunately I did not." Legolas did not seem at all perturbed by the accusations nor by the fact that there was an unknown number of high-ranking Uruks up there and but two of them. "Come. We must hurry."

"Well, move quicker, then!"

Legolas startled at this. A Dwarf telling an Elf that he was being too slow! And, he realised with a shock that he was indeed moving slowly, barely faster than a jog. And that was about as fast as his aching legs would allow him to travel, he was forced to accept with a thrill of alarm. In fact, he noted with no small amount of irritation, the Dwarf could have easily outpaced him had he had a mind to. But he found that he was just too tired to move any faster. And besides, he reasoned unnecessarily to himself to soothe his aching pride, he was conserving strength for the fight up ahead.

He and Gimli caught up with the fleeing Uruks just as they were about to reach the final gate that led onto the flat plateau of the topmost level of Minas Tirith.

Legolas wished that he had had the forethought to keep his bow to hand but he had dropped it after the Goblins had scattered, foolishly thinking it would no longer be needed. Now all he had was his two white-handled knives and a Human-crafted sword that hung in the scabbard at his side.

Gimli heaved his axe up, ready for the attack and launched himself without preamble forwards with a fierce battle-cry.

The Uruks appeared startled as their footsteps faltered at the unexpected attack. They turned to see what approached them and for a brief moment seemed too stunned to launch a counterattack.

Within moments of Gimli pummelling into their ranks three had fallen to the fine, rune-engraved axe of the Dwarf. Legolas was a moment behind him and took down another by simply and without preamble separating its head from the rest of its body.

There were a mere dozen in total, all leaders of the different clans, Legolas supposed from the marks they carried on their armour and skin. A few bore the chillingly familiar mark of the White Hand, visitors from Isengard; whilst others simply wore black armour, those most likely from Mordor. But they were killed without prejudice. All had the same agenda. All of them were also well schooled in battle despite their elevated status amongst their race. Rather than scattering as Legolas had suspected they might do, leaving the less intelligent among them to stay behind and face the wrath of the Light, they grouped together, weapons swinging in well-practiced movements designed simply to kill what challenged them.

Another two creatures fell to Legolas' blades before things started to go more in the favour of the Uruk-hai. Gimli found his axe suddenly knocked from his hand. Clearly this had never happened to him before because of the look of complete amazement and horror that overcame the Dwarf's heavily bearded face. It would have been amusing to Legolas had the Dwarf's situation not been so perilous. He danced backwards with grace his bulky form did not really look suited for, avoiding being sliced open at the belly by a mere inch, although the tip of the Uruk sword dragged at the material of his padded jacket. He stared up at his attacker, neck craned to see the creatures face.

"Gimli!"

The Dwarf turned at the bellow, reflexes sharp enough even though his astonishment that he easily caught the Elf's white knife by the gleaming handle as it was tossed to him by his companion. He was relieved that it was a knife and not the broadsword that had been thrown to him as this particular blade was actually the perfect length for the shorter Dwarf. He caught it just in time to parry a heavy blow from the Uruk.

Back on track, if not a little put off by the fact that he now fought with an unfamiliar weapon, Gimli sliced at the Uruk's legs, within easy reach of him, and the monster crashed to the ground where it rapidly was finished off by Elven metal.

Legolas found, much to his chagrin, that he was not doing so well as his Dwarven companion. After throwing one of his knives to Gimli in order to provide him with some weapon on the field of battle when he had been disarmed, Legolas had been momentarily disoriented. First mistake: he had not managed to lift his arm fast enough to deflect the sword of one of his attackers. It caught him across the shoulder, ripping into the skin with perfect ease. The pain didn't register for a full minute but when it did he was again thrown.

The second blow delivered was somewhat more severe for the Elf. By now, there were less than half a dozen Uruk-hai standing but they all had plenty of fight left in them. Legolas' already low reserves of energy, meanwhile, were fast dwindling away. He hadn't even noticed the Uruk coming up behind him, nor had he registered until it was too late the warning call that Gimli shouted out. The first he knew of his third mistake was the impossibly sharp pain that ripped through his side.

On reflex and against all his millennia of training, he dropped his weapon to cradle the injury just seconds after the filthy sword was withdrawn from his flesh. He had barely a moment to realise this error. He felt his legs being kicked out from beneath him and he could do nothing to halt his drop to the ground. Stunned at how fast this had all happened, how quickly he had been overcome, Legolas caught himself on his hands before he smashed facedown onto the uneven cobbling of the path. There was little he could do now to defend himself. He had no weapon to hand and from the angle he had fallen he knew he would not be able to retrieve the hefty Human sword at his side from its sheath in time.

He sensed rather than saw the Uruk's sword coming down for the killing blow. It hovered over him for what seemed to him like an excessively long drawn out amount of time.

Before it could reach its target though, Legolas saw a blur of grey and red then heard an almighty crash from behind him. He turned his head to see that the Uruk was now pinned beneath the battling form of the Dwarf, no less powerful because of his stunted size.

The creature ended its life in a haze of its own black blood as Gimli pounded Legolas' own long knife deep into its chest until he felt stone grating at the tip.

"Are you all right?" called the Dwarf from where he still sat astride the hulking Uruk. "Legolas?"

"I'm fine," the Elf reassured back, although he had yet to move from where he knelt on the ground. It was then that he realised that the sounds of battle had died away around him. No Uruks were left standing, rather all were scattered on the ground in various states of disarray. When had that happened he wondered to himself. When had they been victorious?

"Legolas!" Aragorn's voice came clearly over the strange silence. "What happened?"

"I'm all right." Pushing his exhausted body up as he gained his legs, Legolas reassured his ward with a nod. Men came pouring in then, some moving past them to go to the Seventh and final level of the city, as if reaching this final level was the only way to truly ensure victory for Gondor. Aragorn snagged his guardian's arm as he stood; worried that he was not entirely steady on his feet.

"Gimli? Are you well?" Legolas asked, taking the attention away from himself while the opportunity presented itself.

"Never better," grinned the Dwarf, finally getting up from his position on top of the Uruk-hai. "Job done."

"There are still Orcs and Goblins in the city. It will need to be swept."

"Victory is ours and he is still a pessimist," laughed Eomer as he joined them. "I want casualty reports." This was directed at one of the Rohirrim who stood by his side and the man immediately ran off to do as he was told. "Good work, Aragorn."

"If you're still up for some action, Gimli, there are strays to be taken care of," Aragorn ignored the praise from Eomer and was straight back to the task of securing the city properly. It would not truly belong to Man until it had been entirely purged of the Shadow.

"Gladly. My axe has strength in it yet." He bent proudly to retrieve his fallen weapon then went to hand back the white knife Legolas had thrown him. "Good fight, lad. You Elves maybe aren't so bad after all."

A fleeting smile passed over Legolas' pale features. "Thank you. A great compliment coming from you, master Dwarf."

"Do not let my father know I said that though," added Gimli with such seriousness that Aragorn had to struggle to stifle his laugh at the inherent pride of the Dwarf. Laughter, he thought, would not be well received.

"I will take it with me to my grave."

Gimli laughed heartily then, looking almost as though he had not been fighting the Shadow for nearly two days now. Legolas could not imagine that he or many others in the city looked similar.

"Gather together some Men who are willing and chase down as many of the intruders as you can. I want the city thoroughly swept, every alley on every level, until there is nothing evil left here," commanded Aragorn to the Dwarf. "Faramir, show me the Seventh Level please."

The Steward of Gondor looked dead on his feet and it wasn't surprising. With so much at stake for his own people, he had fought harder than any other on the battlefield and now that they had taken the city back for the people of Gondor he was well and truly exhausted. Nevertheless, he nodded eagerly at Aragorn's invitation for he had never seen the upper levels of the city before and knew only about as much as his father and the Council had deigned to tell him.

"Gimli, wait, I'll go with you."

The Dwarf turned back when he heard Legolas' call. A look of disbelief passed unconcealed over his face and his eyes moved all over the Elf's body, scrutinising what he saw before him. "You should stay with your king; maybe seek out a healer, get that wound seen to."

"It is only a scratch. There is much yet to do. I am better helping Aragorn in this way." Not waiting for permission for he knew he didn't need it from the Dwarf, Legolas overtook him in three easy strides, motioning to a few men as he passed, heedless of whether or not they were willing to partake of this new task or not and led the way down the slope to the lower levels where they would begin to systematically cleanse Minas Tirith of the Shadow that had dwelt for so long inside.

OIOI

"NO!"

The almighty cry was echoed by great tremors all throughout the dark lands of Mordor as if the very earth was rattled by the fury thrust out by its lord and master. Startled creatures under the Dark Lord's rule turned instinctively to look towards the towering building of Barad-dur which glowed with the deep red light from the Mountain of Doom.

"No! No! NO!"

Sauron paced back and forth forcefully, walking off his anger. So far it had not been effective and he had been reduced to screaming obscenities at his terrified messenger.

"How?!" he screamed loudly. "How did this happen?"

"I…" The messenger was an Orc who unfortunately knew nothing more than what he had been told by the Orc scouts who had reported to him just an hour before. As soon as he had received the word from the scout that Minas Tirith was under attack, he had wished that he had never been assigned the task of personal messenger to Barad-dur and had seriously considered walking into the den of the Uruk-hai and proclaiming them to all be worthless, stinking cowards and suffer whatever punishment they could come up with, for he was certain that anything would be better than what Sauron would do in his anger at the boldness of Men and failure of his own.

Sauron loosed another foul-mouthed tirade and the messenger sank back into the shadow of the room, satisfied to let his Lord shout out his anger rather than focus it on hurting him instead.

"Where are they?!"

Confused, the messenger stepped forward again anxiously, body bowed low in subservience as though such a showing might spare his life. "Who, Master?"

"My 'great, undefeatable weapons'," snapped the Dark Lord snidely, glowering from beneath his hood.

"The Nine? I know not, sir."

"Then find out!" bellowed the tall, lithe figure so loudly that the ancient walls shook with power. He unleashed another impossibly loud shout of sheer fury and paced some more, uncaring of whether he was gradually wearing out the borrowed – or stolen – magic that still pulsed through his veins. What good was power if he remained trapped within this realm whilst that man continued to do everything within his power to undermine and infuriate him?

All had been for nothing. It had been nearly two months since he had sent forth the disgraced Mouth of Mordor to quell the rebellion within Gondor and it had so far proven unsuccessful. How could that be? What more incentive did the wretched creature require? And he had sworn to take the armies of Mordor and Isengard with him and yet, although Isengard had emptied, scouts and spies had been unable to trace them across the lands. Renewed anger surged within his pounding chest when he thought of this potential betrayal. Surely none would be so fool-hardy. And yet, he had been failed once by that useless creature and through his own foolishness he had granted a second chance but only because his Voice had promised faithfully that he would be successful in taking out the greatest threat to his empire.

Perhaps it was he who was the real fool. He was too trusting of those servants around him when he knew in his heart that the only person he could really trust was himself.

The magic he had stolen from the White Wizard and borrowed in part from the Witchking himself had given him strength he had not known in many hundreds of years and yet it was still not enough. He remained trapped by his own fear of his mortality. The thought that he might again perish at the hands of the armies of Light terrified him. Only one thing could save him and it remained so firmly, infuriatingly beyond his reach.

And yet… He was stronger now than he had been when he'd been cut down at the so-named War of the Last Alliance. And the armies that stood against his rule were lesser than the combined might of those allied Men and Elves. A boy led them, an unseasoned child led by vain, incompetent fools whose lands had fallen so easily when the Shadow had ripped through them.

Sauron knew better than to underestimate them anymore. That prideful outlook had cost him dearly Helm's Deep – for a time anyway. But they were still lesser to his own armies.

With a single word, Sauron summoned back his nervous messenger, who bowed deeply as if concerned that his lord had changed his mind and decided to vicariously exact revenge on the Men of Gondor through him.

"Summon back to me the Nine. And prepare the army. We ride to war."

"W-We?" stuttered the Orc messenger, startled by the strange order. "Surely you do not intend to leave Mordor, Master?"

"Indeed," Sauron smiled grimly behind his hood. "I do."

"But…" It was no secret even amongst the lesser ranks of Orcs in the Dark Lands that their master was no longer impossibly strong and was in fact extremely vulnerable. Things had changed with the demise of the White Wizard and yet still it did not seem like a decision his Lord would normally take. Sauron leaving Mordor was just about the last thing anybody within the Black Lands could have anticipated. And perhaps that was the beauty of it as a strategy.

"Go."

"Yes, Master."

He didn't care for the opinion of useless servants. So close he had come the last time he had walked into battle on Dagorlad. Had it not been for those damned Men and their terrible sword now wielded by the newly proclaimed King of Men, then he would have won Middle Earth long before now. Not again would he fail.

Aragorn was not Isildur. Taking heart in that assertion, Sauron moved with more measured steps to the doorway. Within days he was determined to walk outside of the Black Lands that had sheltered him for so long, shielded by his best bodyguards and his precious Nine. None of his creations would fail him as he walked at their side, if only out of fear. And Aragorn would never expect such a course of action.

To Be Continued…