The War of Light and Shadow
By Freddie23
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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.
A/N: Thanks so much for all your lovely reviews. I hope you enjoy this chapter, it's a little longer than normal. Anyway, let me know what you think…
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Chapter 68
The Battle Of Pelennor Fields Part III
Pelennor
Aragorn stood on the Seventh Level of Minas Tirith looking out over the mist-shrouded plain of Pelennor. The city was back in the hands of the Gondorians and a strange hush had blanketed it in the wake of the battle. Mist had crept up once again with the coming of the new dawn, shrouding the vast fields between the capital city and Osgiliath. Below, Aragorn knew from reports that healers and warriors alike were scouring the battlefield for those who lived in the hope that they might not all be beyond aid.
It wasn't clear yet how many Men had been lost to the Battle of Pelennor Fields as the Men were already referring to it. Reports had so far been vague and most probably inexact. But still the weight of the dead rested heavily on Aragorn's heart. Minas Tirith had come at a terrible price. From the heights of the city, it was impossible to hear much from the Fields below but occasionally a distant wail sounded, catching on the light breeze and wafting up to taunt him. Each time he caught sound of this unfettered agony, his heart skipped a beat.
He was tired but he could find no rest. Dawn of the third day since the start of the attack had come quickly but few men had spent the time resting. They had insisted on helping with the healing process of their comrades, many being curtailed into becoming battlefield assistants to the horribly stretched healers.
The bulk of the physicians had remained in Osgiliath during the attack regardless of whether or not they could handle a sword. They were a valuable commodity, too valuable to waste on fighting. Faramir had been insistent on that and, although it had limited their numbers somewhat, it had proven a good decision as they were needed now in the wake of the fighting more than they would have been in the battle. They hurried around their appointed rooms on the Lower Level treating whoever they could with their scant resourced even as more men and women streamed in seeking help and relief.
Already scouts had been sent back to Osgiliath where those who could not fight were being brought on horseback to the city so that the people of Gondor were not separated by the Pelennor. They would bring with them much-needed food and supplies to replenish the soldiers' flagging strength. Then perhaps things would calm down somewhat.
Aragorn knew that he should be down there helping the harried healers, or perhaps out clearing bodies down on the Pelennor but he could not seem to bring himself to move from his spot of observation.
"You did well."
Aragorn startled at the sound of his guardian's soft voice next to him and he turned to look at the Elf. Legolas stood tall and strong in spite of his obvious weariness, covered in blood, both black and red Aragorn noted with a start. Blue eyes, lined with worry and shadowed by exhaustion, squinted out into the greyness of the plains beyond although even with his superior Elven eyesight he couldn't have seen anything more than Aragorn.
"Thank you. Are you…?"
Anticipating what was going to be said, Legolas raised his hand to the wound that had stained his shirt red and smiled grimly. "It is already healing," he lied easily, dismissing the man's concerns.
Nodding in acceptance even though he wasn't entirely convinced, Aragorn leaned forwards so that his arms rested on the white wall that surrounded the pinnacle of Minas Tirith and sighed heavily. "Have you heard yet?"
"Heard what?"
"How many dead?"
"Oh. No, I haven't. I'm sure they are working on numbers for you."
The flippant attitude made a rush of anger go through Aragorn's aching heart and he had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping something irritably unpleasant at the Elf.
"Shouldn't you be down there helping them?"
For a moment, Legolas watched at his ward, who had once again resumed staring down at the mist-covered Pelennor, purposefully avoiding his gaze it seemed. He was surprised by the blunt question. It was the kind of thing he would have expected from Faramir, not his ward.
"If that is what you would like me to do," Legolas nevertheless answered softly, respectfully, never feeling more like he was speaking with the king than in that moment.
Aragorn made no attempt to answer, merely set his jaw. When, however, Legolas shot him one last curious look and went to walk away to do as was asked of him, the man asked softly of him, "Was it worth it?"
"Excuse me?"
"Was Minas Tirith worth all those Men?" A hint of bitterness entered Aragorn's tone even though he hadn't meant it to. It wasn't Legolas' fault that the deaths of so many rested on his mind and yet he felt the impulsive need to take it out on someone and Legolas was the closest and most convenient outlet.
Legolas moved slowly back towards the wall, uncertain whether he was really welcome but wanting to understand what Aragorn was trying to tell him all the same. "Do you think it was?"
Aragorn shrugged non-committedly, trying his best to look nonchalant despite feeling immensely invested in his answer. "A lump of white rock and a dusty empty field. It doesn't feel worth it yet."
Sighing, the Elf leaned with his back to the wall so that he was partially facing the man. "It was never about simply regaining the stronghold, Aragorn. Minas Tirith is symbolic."
"Of what?"
"Freedom. Power."
With a scoff, Aragorn dismissed, "Freedom and power! Is that all it comes down to in the end?"
"Aragorn, no one was forced into battle. The lives lost here today are the fault of the Shadow, not you or any other commander in our armies. They died knowing what was at stake, they knew the value of this city and they were prepared to sacrifice much for it. By lessening your victory here you are dishonouring their memories and for that no warrior would thank you."
"Why is it so easy for you?!" Aragorn snapped suddenly, turning slightly to face Legolas directly. "How can you look down there and see victory?"
"Down there I see waste. Terrible, heart-wrenching waste. But here, standing with the King of Gondor, by the Banner of the King, I see pride and valour. That is not to be scoffed at Aragorn. And never forget that despite the toll taken on your people this was a victory."
"Well, I hate it!" spat Aragorn, striding away from both the wall overlooking the fields and his guardian too.
"Aragorn! Wait!" Legolas trotted after his young ward. "Do not do this to yourself again. You knew the price you would have to pay for this. Faramir knew it too, as did every one of the commanders and warriors you consulted. Do you blame them too for this? Minas Tirith stands under the watch of Men once more. You should be proud of yourself. You have acted honourably." He caught up easily just as the path widened as they left the spur of jutting out rock and neared the king's quarters and throne room.
"Proud?!"
"Yes, Aragorn, proud."
"How can I be so now?"
"Because you are one step closer to ultimate victory over the Shadow."
"I don't care about victory!" Aragorn yelled, spinning to face his guardian, eyes flashing with unbridled anger.
Legolas came to an abrupt halt before his angry ward, somewhat taken aback by the fury behind the rugged, tired-looking face. Softly, Legolas reasoned, "I know you don't mean that and you should not let anyone else hear you speak such a thing."
Although Aragorn opened his mouth to speak, the words did not come and his grey eyes bored into those of unrepentant eyes of his guardian. Suddenly looking drained rather than annoyed, Aragorn's shoulders sagged and he dragged a hand over his eyes. No matter what his attitude, Legolas never failed to make him feel like a petulant child throwing a tantrum and this he knew was not the way a king was supposed to behave.
"I am sorry," he said softly from behind the shield of his hand, trembling slightly from the slight burst of adrenaline. "You are right; I did not mean what I said."
A soft hand came to rest upon Aragorn's shoulder, somehow immediately relieving some of the strain the young man felt, and Legolas offered a smile of reassurance even though it couldn't be seen. "You are tired. Once you have had some sleep then you will be able to look at things more clearly."
"I am too wound up to sleep."
Normally, Legolas would have protested but today it didn't seem appropriate, especially seeing as he felt much the same way. "Then come, show me the throne room. I have never seen Minas Tirith before and know little of it."
Finally removing his hand from his eyes, Aragorn smiled up at his guardian. "Well, Faramir gave me a tour earlier and delighted in telling me of the splendour of Gondorian architecture. Although, I think it was more of a hint that I myself am not from Gondor than pride in the accomplishments of his ancestors."
"You are their king and Minas Tirith is yours," Legolas asserted firmly, now laying his arm over the span of his ward's shoulders.
"Right."
"Aragorn!"
They were just walking towards the spot where the White Tree of Gondor, symbol of peace and strength of Men, stood wilting in the grey haze, when they saw Faramir hurrying towards them, his face grim.
Aragorn could not suppress a groan. "What now?" he muttered under his breath just before Faramir drew too close to them.
"Aragorn! The scouts have reported something," Faramir informed them breathlessly, coming to a juddering halt before them.
"What?"
"I know not. They said they spotted a cloud of dust away to the east heading towards Gondor through the mountain passes with all haste."
"Dust? That's all?"
"They reported that the ground shook, as if something dreadful comes our way."
"And how could they possibly know that?" asked Legolas flatly, holding little faith in the Human reports. Overreaction after a battle such as this was to be expected. They were all twitchy, expecting retaliation from some quarter. Still, there was no need to overreact at every movement.
"Because they know their jobs," replied Faramir tersely, as if he had not the time to spar with Legolas.
"Well, just keep me updated," Aragorn said, trying his best not to sound too flippant even though he agreed with Legolas entirely on this topic; there was no need to panic at a dust cloud and the sound of pounding. Doubtless, being so close to Mordor, it was to be expected anyway.
Faramir looked thoroughly aggrieved at being so flippantly dismissed but he could think of nothing else to say as Aragorn started to walk away with Legolas at his side.
Before they could get too far though, the increased sound of shouting came from below on the Fields. Legolas stopped abruptly, his sensitive ears picking up the sound immediately, and after a couple of seconds Aragorn caught on and halted as well. It was clear now. People were screaming.
"What is that?" Aragorn asked of his guardian, his voice quavering slightly.
Legolas turned back to face the spur that jutted out over Pelennor, his eyes narrowing as if he could determine what was happening simply by staring out at the clouded grey skies. Faramir too had frozen, the screams reaching his ears and making his body freeze. Something terrible was coming, he knew even then. When Legolas shoved past him, hastening towards the wall where he could look out directly over the Plains, the man shook his head as if to clear it of his terror and followed close behind Aragorn.
It was the last thing any of them could have anticipated seeing. So busy had they been with the battle for Minas Tirith and the clean up afterwards that almost all of their attention had been diverted away from the forgotten and almost empty city of Osgiliath. Even now, scouts and lookouts assigned to ensure the security of the city only concentrated on the east, in the direction of Mordor, for it was certain that if any threat would be coming their way then it would come from the Black Lands.
But they had not given any thought to the Anduin. The Great River flowed right through Osgiliath. The Gondorians had always guarded the river fiercely whilst they had occupied the ancient capital, knowing how easy it would be to mount an attack on the city from the water. And yet, it had now been overlooked. The river had not even been pinpointed as a major weak point in the battle. A great oversight in the planning, they realised now. It stood as an open gateway, practically inviting in the hordes of Mordor.
The cries were coming from the fields below for the people had spotted the enormous army marching across the plains towards them. Many of the Men were already fleeing, hastening towards Minas Tirith as fast as they could, where they would be safe from the advancing forces – or at least they hoped they would be.
Even through the mist, from the heights of the Citadel, Aragorn could see them. Hundreds of thousands of Orcs and Uruk-hai pouring from Osgiliath, falling into thick, ordered ranks and heading across the plain at an alarming speed, just as the Men had done two dawns ago. The noise was incredible; it almost made the stone beneath their feet tremble. There would be no stopping such a massive force, that much was immediately obvious to Aragorn. The host of Shadow vastly outnumbered the standing Men.
"My Lord!" a messenger shouted, hurrying over to Faramir. "My Lord, you must come!"
"What is it now?" Faramir had to force himself to tear his gaze away from the advancing army of Orcs come from Osgiliath.
"Orcs, my Lord. They're coming from the mountains!" The man pointed away in the opposite direction of Osgiliath, although nothing could be seen from Faramir's current vantage point.
"What?!"
"They want Minas Tirith!" exclaimed Aragorn but he also felt Legolas' gaze burning into him and he could almost feel what the Elf was thinking to himself. Not just for Minas Tirith were these creatures coming to Gondor. They wanted the ringleader of this venture. Orcs coming from Mordor were coming by order of the Dark Lord himself and Sauron wanted Aragorn dead more than anything, more even than he would want to retain Minas Tirith for himself. Almost instinctively, Aragorn's hand plunged into his jacket pocket to where the band of gold rested heavily, expectantly, nestled in the thickly woven fabric. It thrummed with power, as if it could sense that it's true master and creator was close at hand for the first time in centuries.
"My Lord, what should we do?" demanded the harassed messenger, his tone edging towards panic as he waited for Faramir's orders, fighting physically to keep himself still and wait for Faramir's command. "My Lord?"
Faramir looked to Aragorn, who was staring out blankly over the Pelennor Fields; looking but not really seeing. "Aragorn, did you hear? More Orcs are coming from Mordor. We have to do something."
"What?" Legolas asked in his ward's place.
"I don't know!" the man shouted angrily, although it was through panic more than anything. "I don't know!"
"A decision, Faramir," prompted the Elf as calmly as he could manage. Faramir was panicking enough for the both of them; he didn't need to add to it. Right now they needed calmness if they were going to get through this, no matter how hard such a thing might be in the face of such danger.
Again, Faramir glanced in Aragorn's direction, this time a hint of accusation in his eyes, as if he blamed the King for all this and he had been just an innocent soldier caught in the crossfire. "We cannot run. There is nowhere to go. We'll have to stand and fight."
The messenger, who had stood waiting somewhat impatiently for a decision from at least one of the gathered commanders, now spoke up in disbelief, "Fight all that?"
"What else can we do but fight?" snapped the Steward in a fluster. "Go summon the guards. We'll make base in the city and pray that we can keep them out. Make sure everyone is inside and then barricade the First Gate." He did not sound confident. Minas Tirith, for all its grandeur and strength was by no means perfect. Once caught inside there was no way out. Perhaps if the Orcs had come from just one direction they could have made a run for safety, even if it meant heading east into the mountains. But the armies cut off escape from both the mountains and Osgiliath. They were trapped.
"What's going on?" Eomer demanded as he approached with long strides. Obviously he had heard the clamour below but was apparently still ignorant of its source. On his heels were Jecha and Janor, also come to see what was happening. "Aragorn?"
Faramir answered the question simply by pointing out at the plains. When Eomer saw the advancing army, his face paled visibly, his confident air lost completely.
"We have to run."
Under any other circumstances, Legolas would have mocked the blunt display of fear but he could not mock Eomer for stating the same thing he felt in his heart.
"We've been through this. There can be no retreat. Orcs come at us also from the mountains," Faramir told him, pacing a couple of feet then whirling around and repeating the soothing gesture as though it might clear his mind sufficiently to come up with a plan to get them all out of this alive.
"How could he have known?"
"What?"
"Him? How could he have known we were taking Minas Tirith today?"
Faramir shrugged non-committedly as if he hadn't the time to answer the question and believed its asking to be a waste of time. "Who cares? Spies probably."
"Spies?" Eomer's eyes flicked instinctively over to Legolas, although he startled when they actually met the Elf's cold stare of the prince's eyes. Shifting his gaze quickly away, Eomer demanded of them, "What spies?"
"Crebain, most likely. Birds flying over the city would have seen our preparation for the attack. Or maybe he didn't know. Maybe they were ordered to converge on Osgiliath and will soon see that we have changed our base of operations. Either way, we are trapped here now."
"Oh gods!" Eomer exclaimed, his suspicion of Legolas momentarily forgotten. "I'll summon the Rohirrim back to arms. We have to defend the city."
"No."
As one, everyone turned to the sound of Aragorn's voice finally breaking through the not so subtle air of panic that had all but consumed them. The man was watching them now instead of the ever advancing army over Pelennor and he looked worryingly calm. The look seemed alien and inappropriate given what they were soon to face. Legolas' gaze automatically went to the man's jacket where he knew rested the great weapon of Mordor but Aragorn's hand rested limply at his side rather than clutching at the Ring. That at least was somewhat of a reassurance.
"What do you mean no?" demanded Eomer irritably, clearly itching to get back to his Rohirrim and prepare for the upcoming battle.
"We cannot hide inside the city."
"Then what do you propose?" Legolas asked with his customary calmness even though he didn't know what exactly Aragorn was getting at.
"Standing and fighting them upon the Pelennor."
Stunned silence followed this suggestion. All but Legolas stared with open disbelief and some small amount of contempt at the king. Everyone knew that clashing with these two armies of Mordor would end in complete annihilation of the Human race encamped in Minas Tirith. There was no way they could possibly stand up against such might and numbers. Hundreds of thousands could be coming from Mordor and many more thousands coming even now across the plains from the Anduin. Those kinds of numbers could not be quelled by the few hundred Men that remained battle-worthy. Anyone with any sense could see that to attempt an attack now would be suicide. They stood no chance within Minas Tirith either but if they left the city then it would no longer be in control of the Gondorians and all that had already been wasted would be for nothing. That was an unbearable thought.
"Fighting them on the plain?" Faramir broke the thick silence, a bitter edge to his voice. "That's your plan?"
"Yes. We meet them in battle."
"That is madness," put in Eomer, with even more passion than his Gondorian counterpart. "We'd all be slaughtered."
"So will we be if we remain in the city," Aragorn noted flatly and a ripple of unease ran through the gathered commanders as this truth sank in. "What difference would it make?"
"We'd retain Minas Tirith under the flag of Gondor."
"For what? For it to be stripped of Gondorian control when we're all killed?"
"Better that than to simply surrender it."
"I am not proposing surrendering the city."
"You might as well be. What you suggest is suicide."
"No matter what we do now we will wind up in the same predicament. We will have to fight either way; why not do it out on Pelennor where we have space to move? If we remain within the city it'll be easier for them to pick us off one by one. We might just stand a chance if we meet them out in the open," Jecha reasoned, naturally backing his king.
"We stand no chance against that," Faramir shouted, gesturing wildly towards the mass of armoured bodies marching steadily towards them.
"I would rather go out fighting than hiding." Aragorn's statement stung for Faramir knew that it was a slight against the actions of his father, cowering for years in the protective bubble of Osgiliath. And yet, he felt a certain pride at the notion of doing what Denethor would have feared to do.
"Aragorn, we need a decision soon. They are gaining much ground," prompted Legolas quietly. He had remained quiet throughout the discussion, letting the commanders decide the best course of action. He knew he could have influenced Aragorn's decisions had he wanted to and yet he felt that he had to let the man figure out his own course. He would follow wherever Aragorn led the armies of Men. Long ago had he sworn to that and he would not shirk his responsibility to the king now. Death did not paralyse him with fear as it seemed to currently be doing with Eomer and Faramir although he could well understand the feeling.
"We will go out to meet them head on. Barricade the doors of the city once we are outside them. It might offer some protection to those people within, those who cannot fight. Put a sword in the hand of anyone who can hold one. No one is to be spared. And plunder the Uruk supplies left here. Fit everyone with shields and bows and arrows, whatever you must to make them battle-ready," ordered Aragorn even as he started moving away towards the Gate.
"That'll take time," Eomer warned, following behind the king, struggling to keep up.
"Then hurry it up. Go. We go out together. As one. The people of Men united under a single banner for the first time."
"Your banner?" asked Faramir somewhat tersely as he too followed them towards the Seventh Gate.
Aragorn turned his head upwards, eyes seeking out the black, somewhat worse for wear following Gondor's occupation, flag emblazoned with the White Tree of Gondor above which sat seven stars and topped with the Crown of Elendil that flapped stubbornly in the wind, a sign that Gondor was once again back in the rightful hands of Men.
He turned then and clasped Faramir's shoulder as if they had been friends for decades. "Our banner," he asserted without hesitation, eyes burning with patriotism and pride he had never before felt. "The banner of Gondor."
Faramir's lips curled up into a smile at this for he heard that there was no lie in Aragorn's voice. He reached up his own hand and in return clasped Aragorn's shoulder.
"Gondor."
"For Gondor," interrupted Eomer, coming to join them.
"Gondor." Jecha smiled as he too stepped close to them.
They were then joined by Janor, who looked a little uncomfortable at being amongst the other commanders even though he was technically still the captain of the Rangers.
"Gondor," the Ranger nevertheless declared strongly.
It was a simple pledge of allegiance but it filled them all with renewed confidence that Minas Tirith would not fall again to the Shadow.
Legolas stifled a smile at this show of camaraderie and loyalty to the kingdom barely yet reformed. Perhaps all hope was not lost after all.
The quiet was shattered by the starting of the slow steady beat of thousands of heavy Orc feet advancing on the city of Men. The gathered men parted with an encouraging nod to one another, running off down the levels of Minas Tirith, shouting out orders at any man they passed. If they were to have any hope of winning they would need every fighter all together on the field. After shooting a lingering look of fear and pride in Legolas' direction, Aragorn ran after them, knowing that even though he had not been asked or given any command, his guardian would follow behind him.
For the next minutes panic ensued. Soldiers rushed about everywhere leaden down with weaponry and shields; innocents hurried about, bringing whatever they could into the city for protection; children cried and there were a few arguments as women and their sons and daughters fought about the level of duty they owed Gondor and whether or not they would be allowed to go into battle. No parent wished to see their child placed in harm's way but such were the necessities of war. Passing, Legolas shoved into the hands of anyone who expressed a wish to do battle no matter what their age, a weapon and ordered them to the Lower level, heedless of the protests and curses protective parents threw at him. Only the young children, eager though they may have been to join their brethren, were spared. Healers hurried about, helping the injured up the sloping pathways to the upper levels where it was deemed they would be somewhat safer should the city be breached and also attempting to restrain those who wished to go back into battle but were obviously too injured to be of any use to anyone. The injured were mostly ignored by the hurrying soldiers. Although they required numbers, men who could not stand would only be a waste of resources. These men were given orders to protect those within the city should the gates be breached and the city occupied by the Shadow. This duty seemed to appease them somewhat and they settled for shouting out orders to the uninitiated and panicking. It added somewhat to the chaos but that was to be expected.
As Aragorn emerged from the Great Gate out onto the walkway that lead out onto Pelennor, he clamped his teeth together to keep himself from gasping out loud at the sight that greeted him. The Orc army had advanced to within a couple of hundred feet of the city and then halted, their feet continuing to pound upon the ground in a kind of mockery of their previous marching, making the very ground Aragorn stood upon tremble even through the stone of the walkway. They were intimidating. And it was working. Upon emerging from the city, some men cowered backwards, horrified by the sight of the great army. That another force was coming at them from the left, slowly sweeping along the edge of the mountain into which Minas Tirith was constructed, only served to terrify them further. None were allowed to retreat though. They were soldiers of Gondor now. They could not run in terror from the Enemy.
Moving to the front of the ranks, Legolas found Aragorn staring hard at the gathered forces opposing them. Dark cries of anger and confidence came from the Orcs and they stamped their feet and weapons upon the ground, every so often advancing a step or two, not enough to make any real progress but enough to chill the Human army awaiting them.
"Aragorn, call for the Gate to be barred," Jecha said without preamble as he reached the young man.
For a moment, Aragorn seemed not to register the advice, so enthralled was he in watching the vast army assembled on the fields. It had all looked so promising just that morning when victory had sounded for the Men. Now, as evening was beginning to settle in, everything had turned for the worse and Aragorn's heart was more chilled than ever at the prospect of what they faced.
"Bar the Gate!" he called after a minute, raising Anduril in the air in the prearranged signal.
"Aragorn, move them forwards." This time it was Faramir who gave the order. He seemed ill at ease like everyone else and yet in his hard grey eyes there was a steely determination shining. Perhaps he was regretting his decision to side with the ideal of Aragorn being placed on the throne of Gondor but now he was certain that he would keep the city of Minas Tirith no matter what the cost.
Swallowing back the bitter taste of fear that had pooled in his mouth, Aragorn took one reluctant step forward, Anduril still raised high and proud for all to see. The next step was filled with false confidence – his men needed to see him certain of the outcome, not moving forward nervously.
The army moved as one, keeping tight together. Spreading out would do little good against such a vast force; the result would always be the same. Aragorn stood at the front with the commanders at his side. The Men were mingled. There were no longer factions amongst them. Ranger stood side by side with Rohirrim and Gondorian. Dwarf stood next to Man and Legolas stood in his usual place at Aragorn's side. Behind the king, the first rank of soldiers all carried, hastily affixed to tall poles salvaged from the Uruk supplies, the black flag of Gondor, the banners of the king. They fluttered in the breeze and the Men all looked to them as though they would successfully shield them from danger and give them courage to face that danger. They meant much to the people of the city for it was this they fought for. For the stars – freedom; for the crown – the king; and for the White Tree – Gondor. It gave them strength and courage and supported their belief that Freedom was worth fighting and even dying for. This was the enemy they now looked upon, the terrible thing that had taken their lands and their families, that had killed their friends and ruined their homes. They hated these creatures. A deep burning hatred and it fuelled their strength. For Faramir the Gondorians stood proud, for they loved and trusted their Steward more than anyone. Jecha's people did not care for their leader's fanaticism over the King Aragorn as much but they loved the prospect of walking across the lands freely and without fear of attack from the Shadow. The two Dwarves stood shorter than any on the battlefield and yet they were skilled fighters and had shoved their way forward to the very front ranks, eager to see action before any other. For their lost people under the mountain they would cut down every Orc they met and show no mercy as they did so. The Rangers fought in memory of their fallen leader. Kinnale's death still rested heavily on their hearts even after all this time. Ciaran felt emotion build in his chest when he thought of what the Shadow had done to his father. He stood behind Legolas, wanting to stay close to the Elf, for they had become close, he thought, on the road to Gondor and although Legolas did not consider him a ward as he did Aragorn, Ciaran thought that his father would approve of his protection.
Darkness was beginning to descend over the lands and only the dual orange glows coming from the torches of Minas Tirith behind them and from the Orcs in front of them lit the battlefield. It was enough though. Beneath their feet remained the detritus of the earlier fight, both Orc and Man. Some were filled with revulsion at the thought of walking amongst the dead whilst others were propelled into courage at the thought of revenge for their deaths.
Sauron's forces were not coordinated as such, for the Orcs come from Osgiliath were led forward before those coming from the mountains had rounded the city limits. Steady and with terrible slowness, they marched forward, still making an unearthly racket with any manner of weapon.
As they drew closer, raising their weapons for battle and shouting incoherent obscenities at the Human army, Aragorn could make out the creature that stood at their head. It rode a black horse, whose eyes glowed a terrible mystical red. At his side, he felt Legolas recoil ever so slightly. The Elf knew who this was. The Mouth of Sauron was leading the force from the Anduin. A chill rippled through Legolas but he kept his fear to himself, schooling his features into stoic determination; should anyone look upon him they would see hard resolve rather than the thrill of fear he felt. He was determined though; he would not be bested by this creature that had once fooled him. He thought of Eowyn, somewhere far back in the ranks where her brother had ordered her to remain after she had insisted on going out with the army to meet the oncoming Shadow, wondered what she would make of seeing the Mouth of Sauron again after their brawl within the streets of Osgiliath. Then he thought of the terrible creature and what it would think of seeing her again. That brought a smile to his lips. He hoped it would be terrified at the visage of the Shieldmaiden of Rohan!
The Human army held their ground as the creatures approached. They had moved far away from the walls of Minas Tirith so as not to get trapped against the ancient stone. Patience was a hard thing to maintain while waiting for battle though. The men were twitchy. Now that they were here, they wanted to plunge in, as if by doing so the whole thing would be over faster. But Aragorn held them firm, watching with narrowed grey eyes the advance towards them.
When he could clearly see the yellow eyes and twisted features of the first rank of Uruk-hai through the natural gloom, Aragorn raised Anduril high in the air again and shouted the command as loud as he could, "Now!"
Rather than the charge that the Uruk-hai might have expected, from behind the Human army came a sudden bright flare of yellow and orange fire as one of those still within the city dropped a flaming torch from the edge of the Second Level down to the Great Gate, instantly igniting the oil and tar that had earlier been dropped and ignited by the Orcs within the city. The whole thing went up again instantly, ringing nearly the entire front of the city and effectively barring the gates from intrusion. If they were going to lose the battle, the Men were not going to so easily surrender the city.
The fire had a good effect. The Mouth of Sauron halted his horse with a sharp tug on the reins, struggling only slightly to keep his seat as the war horse reared up on its hind legs at the blast of heat. He had not expected that. The army behind him ground to a halt, silent now as it waited for orders.
A wicked grin split the Voice's lips and his eyes sought out the King standing tall at the front of the ranks of Men, the sword his master hated so defiantly held up before his people like a trophy. That was the prize, that boy. If he took the king out of the game then his master would indeed be pleased. He noted that the young man who had declared himself a king was wearing a slight smirk, well pleased with himself at having used the Shadows' own defences against them.
"Let us begin now, Aragorn," the Mouth of Sauron called in perfect Westron and even though they were still some distance apart, Aragorn and every other in the ranks of the Light heard what was said with perfect clarity.
In turn, Aragorn muttered, "Come and get me!"
The Mouth of Sauron turned his horse in a full circle, as if assessing the readiness of his forces then charged forwards without warning.
"Charge!" yelled Aragorn, lurching forward.
A second behind him was Legolas and the others.
The two armies clashed with stunning force. The poles holding the flags of Gondor were lowered and used instead as deadly spears. The Men took a kind of sick satisfaction in seeing the flags stained with the blood of the Shadow and, dropping the now useless weapons hurried into the fray now armed with their swords instead with the intention of shedding yet more blood.
The Mouth of Sauron stayed back behind his lines of guards, unwilling to do anything but watch over what was happening in the battle before him. It was not seemly for the lieutenant of Mordor to actually engage in battle. Surely his master would never expect such. His head turned to the mountains just as the second force approached at a steady march, seemingly not fazed by the fact that the battle had already begun.
Whilst he had been in Isengard to meet up with the Uruk-hai left behind by Saruman, his master had obviously mustered another force from Mordor to join them. Sauron was taking no chances. That much was clear simply by the fact that this second force was led by the Nazgul themselves. Although he could not see them yet, the lieutenant could feel them. Their presence was like a pressure in the air, pressing down on him; the pure Dark magic of the Witchking approached. The Men attacking the Orc armies clearly felt it too for there was a ripple of fear.
Aragorn swung his head around to the approach of the second mass of Orcs. A brief wave of panic surged through him but he shoved it brutally aside and called out, "Look to the Mountains!"
Whilst many continued to battle the Uruk-hai branded with the White Hand, others turned to the Mordor Orcs. They bore no symbols of allegiance for none was needed; it was blatantly obvious to everyone where they came from and Sauron did not feel the need to prove his might in the same way as the ill-fated White Wizard had.
The numbers were staggering. Never had the Men seen so many creatures of the Shadow gathered in one place. Orcs, Goblins, Uruk-hai, even a few of the Wild Men from around Isengard had been gathered into the vast army. It was an impossible force, the Men of the Light realised. Some privately reasoned that staying inside the city walls and flying a white flag of surrender might have been a better proposition for them given what they faced. And yet they had followed their king blindly into battle without proper thought. They could not turn back now.
"What is that?!" screamed one man, pointing out towards Osgiliath. The earth trembled and shook beneath the feet of Men, as if giants were coming across the plain towards them. "Oh, save us!" he cried, turning away and trying to run away from what approached only to become impaled upon an Uruk spear.
Aragorn too looked towards Osgiliath at the shout of warning and stopped in his tracks in shock. Yet another force was marching towards them; a second wave from the River. This one did not consist of Orcs or Uruk-hai or any other creature created by the Shadow. These were Men, it seemed. Thousands of them. Some were easily recognisable for they bore the same scarlet tunics as Jecha himself wore: Easterlings. They all marched grouped together, moving fast and confidently out at the front of the force, all carrying curved swords and long spears, tips glinting in the light of the torches. They made for a truly terrifying sight. Other Men were less recognisable to Aragorn. Massive Humans, taller even than Legolas and resembling very much the Harad man under Jecha's command, marched both on the ground and rode in curious towers constructed of bamboo and rope atop impossibly massive beasts with long trunks and four long, terrible-looking tusks penetrating from their heads. They were all daubed in red and white war-paint and looked horribly vicious in themselves. Their gigantic heads moved from side to side, controlled it seemed by a single Haradhrim rider at the front.
At least twenty of these beasts walked in a straight line come from Osgiliath, although how they had gotten there by river Aragorn could not fathom. Yet more Men walked behind them, their origins not so clear as the Easterlings and Haradhrim. Maybe Sauron had scraped together every ally he could find regardless of race or tribe.
Whatever small hope the Men of Gondor might have possessed up until that point was crushed a moment later when a terrible, high-pitched screech sounded from above them. They immediately recognised it, for they had heard it all too recently in the skies above Osgiliath. The Nazgul had returned. What hope did they now have? Against such massive forces, victory was impossible.
Aragorn's heart leapt in his chest as he looked upwards and then back towards the ruined city. How much more would the Shadow throw at them this day?
He desperately tried to think his way out of this battle as he hacked away at the Enemy. Soon both other forces would descend fully on them and they would stand no chance at all. He thought of the Dead Men of Dunharrow who had sworn their allegiance to him and his heart stung with their betrayal even though on some level he had expected nothing less from them. Legolas had warned him of the traitors, had told him that they could not change who they were no matter what they promised, that they would ever be cowardly turncoats. In the first phase of taking Minas Tirith, the forces of Men had survived simply through good fortune and boldness that had taken the previous occupants by surprise, but they could not survive this. Nor could they retreat for the Great Gate was wreathed with fire behind them, impenetrable now by their own doing. Surrender was not an option either, for the armies of Shadow would not heed surrender. They would simply slaughter anything that stopped in the attack before the issue could ever be raised with the Uruk commanders.
It truly was hopeless. Aragorn felt a desperate pang of regret. His friends would die on this field and there was nothing he could do. Legolas had told him that all kings had to make sacrifices, that it was the curse of leadership. But, this? No, Aragorn did not want this. His crown and Minas Tirith was not worth all these lives.
The Nazgul swooped low on their fearsome dragon beasts, whose claws picked up the bodies of the unfortunate soldiers, not distinguishing between enemy and ally. Screams filled the field as the Orcs from Mordor washed over the battling Men from the opposite side. They were trapped and hopelessly outnumbered.
"Legolas!" Aragorn cried out in near desperation, searching for his guardian amidst the chaos. He could not find the Elf though. He could find none of the other commanders either. The horrible thought that maybe they had already fallen crossed his mind and panic welled up inside him at the thought that he was the only one left standing, that he was all alone. The urge to sit down and simply give up and pray for a quick and painless death almost overcame him. Only the sight of his men still battling doggedly to escape this horror kept him on his feet. Whilst they fought, he would not give in.
OIOI
Legolas was battling his way through the Uruk-hai proudly bearing the White Hand of Saruman. In spite of having a specific target in mind, he left none that he met alive. If he did, they would only kill his comrades and that would not do. Several times already, they had almost gotten the better of him. They were strong and well-armed and he was weak and tired from the previous battle. And yet, he remained on his feet the whole time, not taking a single blow. Arrows fell around him, although he didn't think they were specifically aimed at him. A couple of Goblins were firing indiscriminately into the crowd hoping to hit something worthwhile. It didn't matter if the target happened to be one of their own. There were plenty more to replace any casualties on the side of the Shadow.
Some time ago, a couple of Men had attached themselves to the Elf, looking to him for command in place of their own leaders from whom they had apparently become separated. Legolas mostly ignored them. He didn't have time to look after anybody else, not when the fighting was so fierce and there was so much to concentrate on. And yet they shadowed him relentlessly. A poor decision, he thought, considering he was more likely, with his reckless plan, than most to get killed before the battle was done.
"Elf!" one Orc screeched when it saw him, both excited and rabid at the smell of Elf blood. All creatures of the Shadow hated the Firstborn with a passion and this one already seemed to be thinking of all the delightfully horrid things it could do with one of the Elves. It attracted its fellows with a call in its own language. But Legolas had no time for such matters. As he passed, he slit the Orc's throat with one single, smooth swipe of his knife and then set about killing its companions who came running towards the sound of the cry. Excitement gone, they attacked with the intent to kill. No point in keeping a creature alive that they couldn't control. Not one of them even touched him though. He was too quick. With a destination in mind, Legolas was, for the moment at least, unstoppable.
He was upon the Mouth of Sauron before the creature even realised that anyone had broken away from the main battle to target him. He was not stood far away, wanting to see the outcome and yet also not wanting to engage in the fighting himself.
Legolas ran forward and thrust his dagger deep in the neck of the black horse the lieutenant rode. The animal reared in shock and pain, almost throwing its master off its back. It started to bolt but couldn't sort its legs out and ended up toppling over then crashing over onto its side in its death throes. The lieutenant of Mordor was thrown from its back, lucky not to be crushed beneath the writhing beast.
Before the creature even had a chance to regain his footing or reach for the sword which remained in its scabbard at his side, Legolas was running back towards him, his own weapons ready for the fight.
Spitting out a vile curse, the Mouth of Sauron leapt up awkwardly and looked around for his attacker. When he saw Legolas, he grinned a horrible, split grin, as if pleased that this had come to pass. The two did, after all, had unfinished business that needed tending to.
"You," he snarled.
"Me."
The Mouth of Sauron circled Legolas, very much aware that he was alone with this Elf. Not that it mattered. He was confident enough. It was just one Elf; one he had been so close to defeating once before.
"Foolish creature," the lieutenant chastised, as if speaking to a tearaway child. He looked about then. For effect. "No woman to defend you this time." It grinned at its own joke but Legolas was not to be bated. He simply circled, waiting for his moment. This was personal. This creature had gone after Aragorn, after his ward, with the definite idea to kill him and it was the closest Legolas could get to Sauron on the battlefield. If he could rid the world of this fearsome lieutenant then he would leave the battle happy even if it were in death. "What are you going to do to me, Prince? Kill me?"
"The Wraiths are occupied. No one to save you now," Legolas said in return, his eyes darting up to the skies where the Nazgul still circled, eying the battle below.
With its head cocked to one side, the lieutenant of Mordor asked, "What makes you think I need them?"
Legolas shrugged. "You needed them before, to whisk you away from danger. From a woman." He felt the creature bristle with anger and suppressed a smile of satisfaction. "But you and me. Who do you think would win?"
The lieutenant brought his sword down into a ready position and snapped, "Let us find out, Elf. My master will be so pleased to see your head mounted upon his wall alongside your Imladrian friend."
Insults, Legolas could take. He expected nothing less. The creature was baiting him, trying to get him to attack in anger and thus messily. Legolas was better than that though. He would not fall for that old trick – his Mirkwood instructors would have been utterly mortified with their student had he done so. Still, the thought of Erestor and Elrond dying so horribly in Imladris made his pulse quicken and anger burned through his veins with every beat of his heart. He truly loathed this creature. Hated it more than any other enemy on this battlefield right then.
Circling carefully, Legolas waited for the lieutenant to attack first, which he knew he would because a creature such as that thought itself indestructible by the sword of a mere Elf. The lieutenant lurched indelicately forward in an action that suggested to Legolas that he used his fighting skills very little. Indeed, Legolas easily deflected the blow. The edge of the Voice's sword slid against Legolas' own with a dreadful squeal and was pushed away.
Now Legolas made his move. He danced around the creature, simultaneously attacking with both knives. One blow was deflected by a swipe of the lieutenant's black sword, the other caught the creature on the side, cutting through the thick wad of robes and hitting metal armour beneath.
Startled, the Mouth of Sauron looked down in shock. Legolas merely smiled. Not so indestructible. Armour could be gotten around, he knew. And the creature was afraid now; whether it would admit it or not.
"Damn you," it shouted as if mortally offended that Legolas had dared touch him. It launched itself at him and a full-on battle of wits and swords ensued.
The creature was as strong as Legolas remembered him being in Osgiliath. Once or twice it tried to beat him down to the ground, knowing that on the ground the Elf would be less of a threat. But Legolas would not allow it. He kept his feet, even if it meant retreating a little every now and then. Better that than being brought down to such a vulnerable position. He got two good strikes in of his own. One hitting armour again on the Mouth of Sauron's left side. The other was by far more satisfying. Forced down, Legolas thrust his knife down with all his strength into the creature's right foot, piercing straight through the metal boot there. The lieutenant howled in pain and hopped away, curling in on itself a little as it fought against the agony.
Legolas showed no mercy. Whilst it was momentarily incapacitated, he rushed forward, taking a risk by tackling the creature to the ground, using all his strength and body weight to knock it down and keep it there. Sat astride the struggling creature, Legolas set about knocking the sword from its grip. It fought him hard, kicking with heavy boots at his legs. But he would not give up. Finally, he extricated the sword from its hand. It was then that it seemed to realise the precariousness of its situation.
It screamed loudly followed by another cry in the Black Speech that Legolas didn't understand – although he could guess. It was crying for help.
But no one came. They were all too involved in the battle. And the Wraiths didn't even attempt to descend to help their wounded colleague. Perhaps they didn't think it was worth it or maybe they didn't care. Either way, Legolas was relieved. He couldn't have fought off a Wraith too.
Legolas transferred both his knives into one hand and used his free hand to rip off the creature's helmet. He flinched back at what he saw. Black lines radiated from its pale forehead all across its bald scalp, pulsating with the blood of Evil it seemed. Sharp pointed teeth snapped uselessly at him and it cried out when its head was exposed. Dark eyes, small and menacing deeply set in a pale, wrinkled face. It looked almost human, Legolas thought, and perhaps once long ago it had been so. But now it was twisted beyond all recognition. A shade worse than the Nazgul.
"For Aragorn," Legolas said firmly as he lifted his knife and thrust it straight through the creature's black eye, the most exposed part of its body.
For a moment, the lieutenant of Mordor twitched beneath him but it was purely a twitch of death for no life remained in the wretched monster.
Legolas took a moment to recover himself. The battle had exhausted him somewhat. The creature was strong and he could feel the Dark magic fairly radiating off the being. A weaker version of the Wraiths, he remembered thinking upon first encountering it on the streets of Osgiliath.
There was little time to dwell on the victory. He raised himself up, sheathing one of his knives. The other he used to cut the creature's head smoothly from its neck, just as it had apparently had its Orc servants do to Erestor when they had finished torturing him. Vengeance of a sort. Legolas took little pleasure from it though. There was no time. The great creatures bearing the armies of Men were advancing and nearly upon them.
He picked up the severed head and the sword of the lieutenant.
"Mordor!" he shouted as loud as he could.
Men looked up at him; saw him holding the head of one of the commanders of the Orc army. Orcs also looked to him, fear shining in their eyes. Their master was dead at the hands of the Elf!
Whilst the Orcs were momentarily stunned and horrified, the Men were bolstered. If Legolas could kill the Orcs' master then surely they could kill the mere Orcs. With a singular cry of anger, they launched an attack. It was stronger and more confident than before. All was not lost.
To Be Continued…