The War of Light and Shadow

By Freddie23

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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.

A/N: My usual thanks go to all those who have left a review. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Apologies that it took longer than usual. I have only going to see The Hobbit at the cinema as an excuse!

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Chapter 71

The Missing, The Fallen

Aragorn was exhausted. Dead on his feet as a matter of fact following all that had happened upon the Pelennor and within the White City. But he couldn't bring himself to find rest. Not yet. There was too much to do and he was bound by duty to remain where he was needed.

Men hurried everywhere, pushing aside their own weariness and injury to concentrate on helping their fallen comrades. No Man fallen in defence of the city would be left behind, condemned to rot out on Pelennor; Faramir had been entirely emphatic about that. They would be given all honour for their sacrifice, a decree with which Aragorn heartily agreed. Every Man who had taken up arms in the effort to reclaim the White City deserved to be honoured.

Coming across yet another tragic Human casualty of the battle, Aragorn fell into a crouch, lifted the soldier's bottom half from where it had become partially sunken into the sludge left behind by many hundreds of feet churning already wet soil into mush, and held tight to the limp legs whilst a Gondorian soldier hefted up the head-end of the body, arms locked under the armpits of the unfortunate soul. It was a movement both men had practiced many times already and yet it was none the grimmer for their familiarity.

"Aragorn! Aragorn."

The young man looked around at the calling of his name and found Gimli, the Dwarf, hurrying towards him. The stout creature had lost his helmet, either in the battle or else he had discarded it himself when the fighting had ended, and blood was caking his forehead and cheek, blending into the light brown of his impressive beard. Aragorn wondered whether he had at some point received a head-wound in battle. And yet, he still stood tall, unyielding despite his haggard appearance, axe still gripped in his hand as though ready to again plunge into battle should he receive the call. Aragorn admired his stamina and wished that he could look to others as Gimli did now.

The Dwarf hustled towards Aragorn, weaving deftly around the working Men on the field to reach the king. His feet slipped occasionally but he stomped determinedly through the mud as if sheer force could prevent him from falling. It worked. Never once did he lose his footing entirely.

"Aragorn," he breathed when he came to a somewhat unsteady halt before the man. He paused for a moment, swallowing and breathing deeply, and Aragorn thought that he had run a long way specifically to find the king and found himself suddenly uneasy. The Dwarf was on a mission. "My father, I cannot find him. Have you seen him anywhere on the field? I have been asking everyone and no one knows a thing. You are my last hope."

"I am sorry, my friend, but I have not seen any sign of him."

Many people had asked him questions similar to Gimli's this day. They searched for family or friends or comrades in arms and looked to their new king for answers. But most of the time Aragorn could only answer as he had done Gimli; with apology. Some, he had directed to Minas Tirith itself for within the white walls the healers were treating many of the injured and he instructed Gimli now to do the same.

Gimli's face dropped. He had been expecting his noble father to be loitering somewhere around the helpers, maybe hacking up the giant Mumakil corpses to get at the fallen underneath. Gloin was a proud being; he would not sit idly by whilst there was work to be done for the salvation of others and he would not suffer being sent away to the city whilst there was work to be done. At least, that was what Gimli had been telling himself as some small comfort for the past two hours. He had known that Gloin must be somewhere helping the Humans clear the field. No matter how much he wanted to believe though, after so long his surety had turned to concern and his frantic search had taken him already into the healing halls and now brought him to the king himself. The physicians had assured him that no one matching Gloin's description had been brought in and Gimli trusted their word because a Dwarf would have been easily distinguishable amongst the man Humans. And now it seemed that Aragorn had no idea either.

Collecting himself, Gimli squared his shoulders. He would not give in yet. There was still hope. "If you see him, will you find me?"

Aragorn nodded dumbly. He knew what Gimli was really asking: If Gloin was found dead, he wanted to know as soon as possible. Not knowing was worse than knowing even the worst of truths. Maybe the Dwarf already knew in his heart the fate of his father but that didn't mean he would simply accept it without a fight. Still, Aragorn hoped that his stout friend would find a good ending to this battle. So many others had not.

The Dwarf walked away, obviously crestfallen, yet determined to continue his search even if it might be in vain. The truth was that Aragorn longed to join him. He wanted to be out there searching for the one lost to him. No one had seen any sign of Legolas since the end of the battle and the worry that had initially prickled at Aragorn's senses was beginning to fester in the pit of his stomach so it was becoming harder and harder to ignore. He had a bad feeling and he couldn't rid himself of it no matter how much he rationalised.

So he decided to pay it no heed, to push that festering fear to the back of his mind with sheer force of will. His presence was required on the field, helping with the retrieval of the dead; that he knew for certain. He could not forsake his men for his own personal comfort. No matter how much he wanted to, he could not abandon his duty as king to go off in search of his guardian. Besides, as several people had already insisted, Legolas was probably doing the same thing as him on the other side of the field. Pelennor was a big place and the carnage was immense.

Aragorn laid the man he was helping to carry down on the ground gently, at the end of a long line of the dead. He did not look at the number, did not try to count. He could not bring himself to do so. Not yet. Not when the battle was still so fresh.

"Aragorn." Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned to find Eomer, not looking at him but staring out onto the Plain. Aragorn followed the Rohan man's gaze towards the wall of green haze that had settled not far away from them, shimmering and writhing above the ground. They had been coming together again in the past hour or so, coalescing, gathering before the King of Gondor to whom their oath was pledged. Aragorn had ignored them thus far, unwilling to pay them any attention whilst there was cleaning up to do on the field but he sensed that they were growing impatient. "They're just standing there. Waiting, I think."

Long had these traitors been waiting for some kind of absolution and they were eager to be granted what Aragorn had promised beneath the mountain. The king sighed. He could ignore this onerous duty no longer. Reluctantly, he stepped over to where the Dead Army gathered in uneven clusters before him, swathed in their eerie green haze, bound yet by duty and unwilling to go unheeded any longer. Aragorn bowed his head once in acknowledgement of their presence. Closer, he could feel the first thrills of dissent amongst them. They would be a formidable force should they be offended.

"Our task here is done," the King of the Dead spoke, his words wispy, barely audible on the breeze and yet still full of power. He looked directly at Aragorn, sword raised, daring him, challenging. Anduril might have been able to fend off the blows of the ghostly weapon but Aragorn did not doubt that this king could have bested him if it came down to a fight. It was not a pleasant thought. "Now, fulfil your end of the bargain, Gondor King."

A command, not a request.

Aragorn remembered all too well his promise to release the army from their living death under the mountain. He recalled with absolute clarity the details of their bargain. They would come to Gondor's aid against the might of the Shadow and they would be released from their damnation. And yet Aragorn hesitated.

"Many died before you joined the Free Peoples in battle as you vowed," he stated bluntly, coming closer still to them, fingers brushing against the cool hilt of Anduril resting at his side. "You broke your oath, cursed one." There was hardness to his voice and he realised that he was angry with them for their betrayal. The Dead had not come as promised. They had waited until the last minute to join the conflict, until many of Gondor's forces were depleted, until it was almost too late.

The King of the Dead bristled at this accusation, glowing darker green than Aragorn had ever seen before and emitting a chill that made the Men close by shiver. Aragorn saw the mouths of his army open as if in protest although he could hear no words actually spoken. The King of the Dead raised his ghostly head in defiance and said, "The army of the Shadow is destroyed as we swore it would be. Now release us."

"You failed to keep your word," insisted the Human king again. "Why should I hold to mine?"

Tension filled the field; thick, palpable in the air for all to feel. Men stopped in their myriad grisly tasks to stare at what was happening before them. Hours ago, the people had given up trying to make any sense of this ghostly army's existence and decided to merely be grateful for the intervention when at last it had come, but they listened closely now to what was being said, intrigued once more by this interaction between the mystical and their king.

"Release us," hissed the Dead king, his own hand tightening on his sword. Behind him, his army readied themselves, became more substantial than before and all the more threatening because of it. They all brandished weapons, although all about knew that they had no need for blades or arrows.

"You must not, Aragorn," counselled Eomer softly from beside the King. His awed eyes shone with reflected ghostly light, unable to drift from the incredible supernatural sight spread before him. Never had such a thing been heard of by the Men of Rohan – and he doubted that when tales of this day were told, it would be entirely believed by their ancestors. "We may yet have use for this great army in our war."

Murmurs of agreement went up from the living crowd, although Aragorn noted that none was brave enough to come forward and say that directly to the face of the King of the Dead.

"Do not test me, boy," warned the king in a low voice. His form seemed to grow in size, until he stood taller than Aragorn and the green of his wavering body deepened further still until he looked almost Human himself.

For a long moment of tense silence, Aragorn considered. The Dead had indeed betrayed him. They had gone against their word. They had not come at the start of battle to fight alongside the Men of Gondor as they had promised and they had left many innocents to be killed, uncaring for the loss of their distant kin. But Aragorn did not think it was through cowardice this time, nor malice that they did so. They simply did not care about the armies of Men. They knew that so long as they intervened at some point, even toward the end of the battle, then Aragorn, as he had sworn deep inside the Dimholt, would be forced to grant them their freedom for they recognised him as a man of his word. This ambivalence towards the fate of Gondor and its people angered Aragorn. And yet, he found that he was also grateful to them. They had saved the race of Men at the last. Without them, the armies of United Gondor would have fallen entirely to the Shadow and there would be nothing left.

"I am not like you, Traitor," Aragorn finally addressed the King of the Dead, his decision made. "I will not break my word to you; although in my mind you deserve to linger in this perpetual state of nothing until the ending of the world." The King of the Dead did not look particularly worried at this remark. He knew already what Aragorn would say. Whatever honour the King of the Dead lacked, Aragorn, King of Men on Arda, more than made up for. "Consider your oaths fulfilled. Go now and be free with the thanks of all Free Men."

The King's face suddenly softened, and he seemed to morph into a completely different person before the eyes of those watching. It was a remarkable change. Relief swept over the Dead Army like a wave, the atmosphere noticeably changing from tension to immense gratitude in the blink of an eye. It seemed that they had feared that Aragorn would not release them. A great sigh came from the entire army and then they began to fade on the wind, being swept away to wherever peace awaited them.

Aragorn watched as their green bodies and weapons faded from sight and braced himself as the unnatural wind lashed at him. He did not know yet whether he would in the future regret his decision of clemency. But in his heart he knew this to be the right thing to do. After all, if he went back on his word, was he not as bad as the King of the Dead himself?

Once all trace of the Dead Army had left the battlefield and the air was its natural grey colour again, things started moving. Yes, what had happened was astonishing and would be the talk of many for a long time yet, but right then there were more earthly things to be worrying about and the Men of Gondor had much to do.

"That was a mistake, Aragorn." Eomer remained at the king's side, looking grimly in the spot where just seconds ago had stood a vast and unbeatable army capable of overwhelming any enemy of Men yet residing in Middle Earth. "They could have been invaluable in taking control of Mordor."

Aragorn shook his head thoughtfully, turning to the Rohan man at last. "No. They would not have fought for the possession of Mordor. They owed a debt to defend Gondor alone. That debt has been paid. They would not have fought for us."

"They would have fought for the King of Gondor. You controlled them, Aragorn. Such a weapon and you let it slip away."

"I persuaded them. There is much difference. Besides, you saw them; in their heart of hearts, they were traitors."

"Even at the end," agreed Eomer grimly, at last coming around to Aragorn's way of thinking. "Maybe you are right." He clapped his hand against Aragorn's shoulder by way of apology. Then he decided, "You made the best decision possible, Aragorn. It was not one I should have liked to make. And I suppose they did save our hides in the end. We must be thankful for that. Things could have been so much worse had they forsaken us entirely."

"Worse." Aragorn looked around the field, at the mourning people, at the rising smoke and the stench of death and found it hard to believe that any outcome could possibly have been worse. And yet, he knew that Eomer was correct. The armies of Shadow could have slaughtered every man, woman and child in Gondor had the Army of the Dead not come to aid them. That fate did not bear considering.

"I remember when we reclaimed Helm's Deep the men celebrated," Eomer said softly, regretfully, his eyes roving as Aragorn's did over the chaos. "There is nothing to celebrate here." Soft green eyes scanned upwards the white city, standing slightly hazy but undeniably impressive through the smoke. "You have to ask yourself if it was really worth it."

A pang of regret tugged at Aragorn's heart. He had been asking himself that very question ever since they had first stepped out of Osgiliath. Was owning this lump of white rock really worth all the death and hurt that had resulted from this battle? Right then, it seemed a total waste and one he regretted already. What he would feel later when this battle dimmed in his memory and the Shadow had fallen to the forces of Light, Aragorn was unsure. But for now, it tortured him, this price that had been paid by innocent Men he had commanded to die for him.

Before Aragorn had to struggle to find something to say to the man at his side, someone hurried towards them, recognisable as a healer from Rohan by his blonde hair and the blood that stained his clothing and reddened his hands.

"Lord Eomer. It's your sister."

Nothing more needed to be said. Eomer abandoned his impromptu conference with Aragorn and raced towards the city, outpacing the breathless healer easily, dodging around people, ignoring all the aggravated looks he received at his bullish methods of gaining a few precious seconds. Aragorn was only a couple of steps behind him, following the path he created through the people. He was as worried about Eowyn as Eomer was. He had seen no sign of her, although he recalled that Eomer had ordered her to remain near the city walls. They had become friends in the time they had known each other and Aragorn didn't think he could stand one of his friends to have fallen in this battle of his own making.

They hurried through the busy corridors towards where they had earlier ordered Faramir set up the medical wing on the First Level. The hall itself was filled almost to capacity with the wounded and the healers trying to help them. Healing stations had been set up along the corridors, triaging those coming in to the city to seek medical attention in an attempt to lessen the numbers within. With so many casualties, Faramir had had to prioritise and this seemed the most efficient way of doing it.

Eomer ran past the triage stations. A couple of healers tried to halt him but he ignored all attempts to bar his way. He and Aragorn emerged into the main hall to find many men and women lying on the ground, some covered in blankets to hide the fact that the dead were lying amongst the living. Wails of pain and despair filled the hall, almost unbearably joining together to become a symphony of misery, an echo of what Aragorn had heard out on the Pelennor. Wounds ranged from minor cuts, which were being treated by physicians around the walls of the hall, to serious potentially fatal injury. Operations on the worst cases were being performed in an adjoining room, away from the eyes of the others who might be offended by the bloody necessities.

Ignoring all of these ailing people, Eomer snagged a healer by the arm and demanded to know Eowyn's whereabouts. The healer's eyes scanned the room briefly then she pointed to the far corner.

There Eowyn lay on the floor, another healer crouching at her side, seeming to be doing nothing at more to help her than holding her hand. As they drew nearer, Aragorn saw that the blonde woman was completely still where she laid. He could not even see her chest rising and falling. Her skin was deathly pale and her eyes shut to the horror surrounding her. She looked, for all the world, as if the healers were too late.

However, Eowyn was not lost to them. Not yet.

"They found her right on the outskirts of the field during a cursory patrol, brought her back here," explained the healer, risking taking his eyes off his patient to glance at Eomer.

Eomer knelt down beside his sister, taking her free hand so gently, as though afraid that the pale skin might break if he applied too much pressure. "What happened to her?"

"We cannot tell, sir."

"What do you mean you cannot tell?!"

"There does not appear to be any reason behind this illness. It is almost as though…the life is being drained out of her, sir. We do not know what could be the cause of such a thing. She has sustained no wounds that we can see that could account for her current state."

Passing his hand over his sister's sweat-beaded brow, Eomer sighed. "What happened here, sister? Tell me so that I may help."

His plea went unheeded. Eowyn remained unconscious.

"I'm not sure what more we can do," said the healer quietly, regretfully. He had probably uttered the same words several times already today thought Aragorn, and meant each of them just as intently as he did now.

"She's going to die?" Eomer's voice was so small that Aragorn could barely hear it.

"If we can't discover the cause of this then…yes. I fear she might."

Aragorn felt his heart plunge. When he had heard that Eowyn was in the healer's wing, he had hoped that the woman had received a minor injury and gone to seek help. But this was worse. So much worse. And what could they do if no one even knew what ailed her?

"I'm sorry," the king uttered to Eomer but the Rohan man didn't seem to hear his sympathies. Feeling utterly useless once more, Aragorn turned away, trying not to look too closely at the individuals lying in the hall. It was too much for him to bear right then. He could not stand to think that many would blame him for this. And he was to blame, he told himself as he walked more sedately amongst them now. It had been his decision that had brought them to Minas Tirith and it had been his strategy that had led them to hurt. How, Aragorn thought despairingly, could he live with such knowledge? How could he ever look any of them in the eye again?

So, he left Eomer with his sister and returned through the crowds out onto the Pelennor Fields once again. He spent a little time helping with the dead, this time taking up Orcs as well and piling them none-too-gently away from the lines of the Men for burning later. There was no ceremony in this unfavourable task. Orcs and Uruks were dumped carelessly together in ever-larger piles. It was not a pleasant job but Aragorn found some satisfaction every time he threw on another of the ugly creatures of Sauron. Even this job did not distract him though. Visiting the healing hall had alerted Aragorn once more to the absence of his guardian. He still had not seen Legolas, nor heard anyone mention him and the Elf had not been in the healing hall as Aragorn had suspected him to be. That nagging worry claimed him once again but this time it could not be ignored as before. Eowyn had fallen in battle. Legolas might have also.

He turned away from his task and looked around, out over the Pelennor. There were fewer men about now. It was late afternoon and most of his people had gone inside to rest and recover themselves. No tell-tale flash of gold caught Aragorn's eye. No Legolas anywhere in sight.

Surely had someone seen the Elf upon the field then it would have been reported to him by now. Someone would have told him. He had asked enough people about his guardian's whereabouts since the ending of the battle. The lack of information suggested that no one had seen Legolas yet and that was deeply worrying for the man.

If Legolas was indeed well after the battle, Aragorn thought, would he not have come looking for his ward? That protective side of Legolas, the one he so often fought back against in his youth, should have kicked in by now. Of course, Legolas would have seen to whatever needed doing in whatever place he had been working in. But eventually Aragorn knew that he would have needed reassurance that his ward was unharmed. Given the number of casualties in this battle, Legolas would also have wanted to assure his ward that he was well.

All this convinced Aragorn that all was not well. Something was very wrong.

Deciding that he could no longer ignore his concerns, Aragorn walked away from the team working on the dead, determined to find his guardian. If he found Legolas working amongst the others then he could go back to work in the knowledge that his mentor was safe. And if not- Well, he didn't want to think about that.

He worked methodically, eyes to the ground the whole way as he traced a path away from the White City, glancing up every minute or so in case Legolas was wandering around the field. Mostly, Aragorn saw only Orcs and Uruk-hai. The further away from the city he went the more Men there were. Not allies to the Light but Haradhrim and Easterlings, easily recognisable due to their unique garb and war-painted faces. He ignored them. He didn't care about how many of their people had perished. They had chosen the side of Darkness and suffered the consequences. Many he saw had injuries obviously sustained by weaponry but some also had broken necks or spines, as though they had fallen from great heights and Aragorn's mind went to the Mumakil that had fallen. Had Legolas himself thrown these Men down to their deaths? Hope soared in his heart. Legolas had been fighting the Mumakil and the Haradhrim, surely then he would be around this area somewhere. And yet, Aragorn could find no sign of him. His eyes flicked from the ground and upwards again, searching constantly.

Aragorn didn't know how long he searched the ever-quieting field. He recognised the change in light as the day drew to a close. Many more people had gone inside now, either to rest or to get medical attention for the more minor wounds they had sustained, more confident that they could find a healer now that the healing halls had calmed down somewhat. Some remained searching through the dead for comrades, although hope of finding any still alive was growing slimmer by the hour and everyone knew it.

Every person Aragorn passed, he asked of Legolas. No one had seen the Elf anywhere, either on the field or within the city walls. With every negative answer he received, his heart plummeted a little further. He knew, even though he hated to admit it to himself, that the longer Legolas remained missing the less chance there was of him being alive when he was found. And yet, he continued onwards, unwilling to give up hope. Legolas would not give up on him. Never. So Aragorn would not admit defeat either. He told himself, over the sound of that nagging pessimistic voice in his head, that Legolas would be fine, that there was some rational explanation for his disappearance, that he was an Elf who could survive far greater hardship than any Human. That had to count for something.

"Aragorn!"

The man turned to the sound of a familiar voice, but he already knew it was not the one he was hoping to hear. "Not now, Janor."

The Ranger hurried over to him, stepping around Orc carcasses still with a slight limp despite his clearly having been seen by the physicians. Aragorn saw that his left hand was heavily bandaged, blood beginning to seep through. He was pale, obviously still in considerable pain and looked a little shaky as he struggled to regain his breath after the run. The man's visit to the healers would have been brief, Aragorn knew, but such an injury would surely need looking at further. For the moment, though, he looked like he was on a mission and a missing limb was not going to stop him. "I just thought you would want to know that Jecha showed up in the city a while ago. He is fine. As is his companion."

Aragorn's heart leapt and suddenly his attention was entirely on the Ranger. "Was Legolas with him?" he asked hopefully.

Janor's brow wrinkled in a frown. "You haven't found him yet?"

It answered Aragorn's question. Swallowing back bitter disappointment and stubbornly blinking back tears before Janor noticed, he turned back to the task at hand. "No, I haven't found him. He's nowhere. No one has seen him. I can't find him, Janor! And he should be easy to find. He would be searching for me if he could, I know he would. Something is wrong."

"Maybe in circling the field you're simply missing one another."

"No. He's nowhere!"

Janor's eyes scanned the field, squinting in the poor light. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"Not since the second attack."

"Oh. Well, don't worry. I'll get some people together and we'll look for him together."

Aragorn shook his head despairingly, trying desperately to keep his hopes up in face of all the doubt gathering in his mind. "He fell in battle. He must have done or we would have found each other by now."

"You don't know that for sure."

"I do. I would have seen him by now if he was standing, Janor."

"Maybe he is in the city somewhere helping with the clean-up. Maybe he saw you and, seeing that you were unharmed, went to help someone else."

"I don't think so."

The Ranger didn't know what to say. He knew how close Aragorn was to his guardian. That he couldn't find Legolas must have been maddening. Indeed, already Janor was worried, for it didn't seem like Legolas to be so thoughtless when it came to his ward. Aragorn was correct; after the battle, he would have gone in search of his ward, not hidden away where no one could find him. The prospect of Legolas lying out there amongst the dead was almost unbearable.

"I'll get some people together and help you look for him."

Before Aragorn could reply, Janor had run off to gather a search-party.

Within twenty minutes, several men had been gathered together and they joined Aragorn in checking the field for Legolas. Bracell, the Gondorian man under Jecha's command was with them, no doubt under coercion given his ambivalence toward Legolas and Aragorn himself. Jecha himself was nowhere about so Aragorn assumed that he remained within the city, perhaps receiving medical attention. Nor was his companion with the party but Aragorn had never imagined that he would be anywhere around. The rest of the party were made up of the Rangers, unsurprisingly. Ciaran looked almost as concerned as Aragorn for the boy had been close to Legolas after his father's demise. Janor had returned too despite the fact that Aragorn thought he should probably be in the city getting his wounds checked. Tarsem the scout and Kalub the Rangers' tracker had come out to look and Aragorn was somewhat disheartened to find that they were not at all irritated to have been dragged into the search as they would normally have been, which suggested to Aragorn that they were fearing the worst too and had enough decency between them to remain respectful. Veron, the now solitary twin was not there though but Aragorn didn't know whether he had fallen in battle or was simply occupied elsewhere. He had not yet received reports from anyone regarding how many or who had fallen and suddenly felt like perhaps that was something he should be interested in.

They formed a line and searched even more methodically than Aragorn had been able to do on his own. They split only when they came upon a downed Mumakil and they couldn't hold the ranks.

For an hour they found nothing at all. Not a sight nor sign of Legolas.

Then, as dusk was settling in, Kalub called out to the line and everyone came to a sudden halt, each one dreading what might have been found. Aragorn ran over to where the man was knelt on the muddy ground. But it was not Legolas who had been discovered. Aragorn couldn't decide whether to feel relieved at this or disappointed, so he shoved both warring emotions aside and concentrated on what had been found pressed into the dirt.

"Isn't this Legolas' knife?"

Swallowing back the bitter taste of fear, Aragorn nodded. "Yes. One of them." There it lay, partially covered in dirt and caked almost completely in blood, and yet still recognisable as Legolas', a white-handled knife bearing Elven runes along the length of the perfect, long blade. Its twin was nowhere to be seen. Nor was its owner.

"He must be somewhere nearby then," reasoned Janor hopefully.

Tarsem looked skywards pointedly and said, "It's getting dark. Soon it will be too dark to search. We should return to the city and…"

"No," interrupted Aragorn firmly, "I will not leave this field until I have found him."

"It won't be possible to find him in the night hours, Aragorn."

"I will look harder," the man insisted, unrelenting. That terrible dread had settled deeper into his heart now, becoming a part of him and he was beginning to fear that he would never shift it, like once it had set down root in his chest it would be with him forever more.

"You might not find him," the red-headed scout told him bluntly, saying aloud what the others didn't even dare to think. Aragorn physically recoiled at that point, staggering back a pace as if Tarsem had hit him with a flat plank of wood right across the face. "What then? Will you haunt the battlefield forever, searching?"

"How dare you say such a thing!" growled the young king, having composed himself somewhat. He took a threatening step towards Tarsem but Janor put out his arm to halt the king's progress, not wanting another fight on his hands.

"Tarsem, perhaps we should continue looking for a time," suggested the commander of the Rangers, trying to placate both parties.

"Fine. But what's the point really? We're looking for a body by now."

That comment should have sent Aragorn over the edge. He should have pummelled the scout into oblivion for such words. But he could not. He staggered again, away from the other Rangers for he could not bear to hear what he knew deep down to be the truth. Pale and trembling at the possibility of having lost his guardian, he walked slowly, backwards away from those he had once considered friends but now looked to him as strangers. He turned away from them. He couldn't look at them any longer. They looked…defeated. Shaking his head, he walked away, continuing on his path. He didn't hear anyone following him and tears pricked at his eyes. They had given up. He could picture their faces, the looks of sympathy for his continuing delusion.

The ground was blurry but Aragorn's concentration did not waver. He was alone now. The Rangers, he suspected had departed, deciding to leave him to his fruitless quest. Perhaps they had gone to seek out Eomer or Jecha to bring him back to the city. But Aragorn was determined that he would not return to his captured lump of meaningless stone until he found his guardian – not matter what state he was in.

Darkness came and as Tarsem had predicted, visibility was down to virtually nothing. Aragorn had to bend low to be able to see the ground. He supposed that he should have returned to the city to retrieve a torch to light his way but that would expend valuable time and he would not do that. So long as he could see the tell-tale flash of gold hair that he searched for, that was all that mattered, and even in the darkness, he was confident that he could spot Legolas amongst the black humps of Orc carcasses.

With the night came the cold. It was colder than Aragorn remembered it being for a long while. He shivered beneath his jacket, the heat of battle that had protected him before now gone. But he doggedly kept his head bowed and his eyes on the ground, for Legolas would surely be cold now too.

Despite his desperate need to find his guardian, Aragorn worked methodically, forcing himself not to cut corners. That would not do. But Pelennor was massive and there was much ground to cover. Alone, it would take the whole night. Not that Aragorn minded. If that was what it took, then so be it. His thoughts were not on his people encamped within Minas Tirith, although in the distance he could see the torchlight boldly casting an eerie orange glow on the ground below, but on only one.

So singularly focused was he on his task that Aragorn didn't hear heavy footsteps heading his way.

"Majesty."

"Jecha," Aragorn greeted without stopping or even glancing up.

"No luck?"

The question was so dismissive, like Aragorn had merely misplaced a favourite dagger and was searching the field for the innocuous object. Anger boiled within him, but he shoved it aside, squaring his jaw and continuing to search.

"Gimli might have a better idea of where to look," Jecha continued when he received nothing but icy silence from his king.

For the first time in hours, Aragorn raised his head, blinking in the darkness to find the Dwarf Gimli stood at Jecha's side, axe still in his hands, a fresh bandage now encircling his head where he had been injured. The stout being looked pale behind his long ginger beard, although Aragorn didn't think his pallor was entirely due to his injury. He recalled that Gimli had been searching for his father earlier. He wondered whether the younger Dwarf had found him not as he would wish him. He felt sympathy for the Dwarf's loss but there was something hard glinting in dark eyes, a defiance against grief, that made him hold his silence.

"Where?" Aragorn finally asked.

"On the other side of the field. That was where I last saw him."

Aragorn looked off in the opposite direction although it was impossible to see much in the darkness.

"Tell him," prompted Jecha, shoving gently at the Dwarf's arm as if Gimli were in some way reluctant.

"Legolas and I were taking out the Mumakil and their Haradhrim riders. One by one bringing them down. He would climb up whilst I…" Gimli cut himself off and cleared his throat noisily when Jecha nudged him again, urging him to get to the point. "Then we ran into Eowyn as Legolas was insisting that I go to the healers because I was hit." He ran grubby fingers over the rough bandage covering his forehead. "And then…it came."

"It?" asked Aragorn, even though he had a fairly good idea about what Gimli spoke.

"The Wraith. It knocked Eowyn and me aside as if we were nothing. I was knocked unconscious. But…when I awoke someone said that the Wraith had been slain."

"It was Eowyn," Jecha said. "She woke briefly earlier. Her speech was mostly garbled nonsense but the healers managed to piece together how she had been injured and deduced that it was she who had plunged her sword through the back of the Wraith that had fallen. A most brave thing to do; if not foolhardy. Legolas' name was mentioned also, although they could drag nothing more of use from her before she lost consciousness. The healers believe that some kind of poison has been administered and that is why she ails."

"Poison? So Legolas…?"

"We don't know yet," Jecha reassured and Aragorn felt relief that for the first time that night someone seemed to be optimistic. "Come, let us search the place where Gimli fell. If Legolas did indeed encounter a Wraith in battle then he would not have gotten far."

Unfazed by the meaning that Aragorn could have divined from those words if he chose in his dark frame of mind, Jecha moved away from where the small group stood gathered. Aragorn was more reluctant to leave. He was being thorough as Legolas had always taught him to be, searching one grid at a time for what he sought and then moving on to another so nothing could be missed by sloppiness. Methodical and precise. To break away from his system now might lead him further away from his guardian. On the other hand, if Gimli had even a vague notion as to where Legolas was then surely it was worth pursuing. It would be foolish to stick to something that clearly was not producing results.

Forcing himself away, Aragorn followed Jecha and Gimli. They carried no light but the three weary searchers did not seem to mind the darkness. Gimli was concentrating hard. Or maybe, Aragorn pondered, his mind was so occupied by the passing of his father and he was simply lost in thought. Would he too soon wear the same look of weary sadness as the now orphaned Dwarf? Pushing the unbearable thought aside with a shake of his head, Aragorn poured all his concentration onto the ground, determined that he would not miss anything now that hope had been kindled.

In this place, just like the other he had been recently scouring, there were more Human enemy fatalities than Orcs. They lay still, long since expired, bodies growing cold and pale in the near freezing air. Aragorn wondered whether it had been Legolas who had ended their lives with his confident strokes. It was impossible to tell in the darkness whether the Men bore wounds inflicted by the twin white knives but even so it felt to Aragorn as if his guardian was still amongst them, imprinted upon their bodies even after their deaths. The smell of charcoal was distant here, for it drifted from the burning remains of the city's defences, dispersed greatly by the breeze. But it was far from fresh even this distance from the city. Birds had already descended from above to pick at the glorious, plentiful meal laid out before them. The smell of death was thick and dense, almost choking Aragorn in its intensity. He recalled it. Not from battle. But rather from dreams. His first taste of the Shadow he had seen in Mordor in the dead of night, where he had watched his Ranger friends and his trusted guardian die right before him. He remembered the terrible smell of death was the same. He almost gagged at the memory and stumbled in the dirt.

"Are you well?" Jecha asked when he noticed Aragorn's unexpected reaction. It was not surprising to the man, however. The sight of so much death was enough to turn even the strongest stomach of the most seasoned warrior.

Aragorn raised his hand to silence any further queries, not wanting to waste any more precious time and motioned for them to continue the search.

Legolas was not dead, he told himself as firmly as he could manage. Not until he saw it with his own eyes would he believe it. His dreams were but taunts by the Shadow, as were these feelings he now experienced. He had not succumbed to them before, at Legolas' urging; he would not now be brought down by them.

They walked on through the wreckage of war, careful not to trip over the countless lumps littering the field, until Gimli at last spoke and pointed out the rough location he had last seen Legolas just moments after his injury. It was far from the city. Jecha confirmed that this was also roughly the place where the initial search-parties had found Eowyn hours earlier. There was no immediate sign of Legolas though and Aragorn felt disappointment race through him. He had half expected it to be easy once he knew the general location. But it seemed that the search would have to continue to find some sign of his elusive guardian.

The feel of the ground changed. The dirt crunched beneath their feet and the scent of death and Evil filled their nostrils, more potent than ever. And Aragorn knew at once that this was the place. Here the Nazgul had fallen. The whole earth reeked of its dark magic. He pondered that if the world was once more made whole, nothing would ever dare grow on this spot again, such was the foul pollution left behind by the Shadow. In death though, the once powerful Wraith had no physical effect on the searchers aside from the odd tingling sensation that something dreadful had occurred in this place. No lingering magic assailed them, willing them to turn back, as they thought might have been the case for the power of the Witchking was immense. And Eowyn alone had defeated this greatest evil, doing what even the greatest warriors could not, crushing it into nothing but a charred patch of dirt. Sauron would not have expected that, Aragorn thought with pride.

Their search once more proved fruitless. Legolas was nowhere to be seen. Jecha began to wonder whether there was even a body to find. They picked through the corpses of countless slaughtered Men, scattering the carrion birds every time they became too bold and settled upon the wondrous feast spread before them. Blood had churned up the dirt beyond the charred circle left behind by the Wraith; Aragorn heard it squelching beneath his boots, making the whole process even more miserable and sickening. He felt no sympathy for these Men left to rot in the foul earth though. They had chosen their side, they had aligned themselves with the Shadow and they had done so by choice in the end. Coercion was not an excuse. He could not feel anything for their demise; except maybe the faintest flutter of happiness that their evil had at last been wiped away. He considered what a terrible thought that was. To feel nothing for Men who had only been doing what they believed to be right. And yet, he could not change his mind so easily.

The Army of the Dead had been thorough when they had swept through the ranks of the Enemy; they had left nothing of Sauron's Evil alive. The only movement upon the field came from the small search party and the ravenous birds picking through and squabbling over the remains. Soon, more animals would descend, wanting a piece of the feast left behind by the warring factions, probably coming from far and wide for such an ample meal but by then the men of Gondor would hopefully have cleared the field somewhat. For now, though, Aragorn had no intention of giving up his search to clear the litter from the Pelennor.

The first grey light of dawn filtered down through the thick cover of tempestuous clouds.

Jecha looked upwards. How quiet the skies seemed now that the Wraiths had abandoned them. For how long they would remain away was another matter. They would not forsake Gondor for long for they had lost much to the White City and would soon want their revenge for their fallen king. In the quiet, Jecha turned his attentions back to Aragorn. The boy looked exhausted but determined. Gimli simply looked exhausted now. Jecha had been hard-pressed to drag him away from his father's side into this task and he still didn't really want to be here despite also wanting to help his friend the Elf whom he had spoken highly of.

"We're not going to find him, are we?" Gimli's voice broke the deep hush that had fallen between them. Soon the city in the distance would be stirring again with the day and they would be joined on the field by the weary warriors for another day's grim task of searching for the living but for now it was quiet, disconcertingly so. Even the birds went about their task in relative silence, only flapping upwards when their current meal lost its appeal in favour of something better.

"Not alive," uttered the Easterling in grim reply. Once more, his gaze was drawn to Aragorn. Their king would not give up, he knew, not until he found that which he searched for. He had watched the young man enough to recognise the determination set on his features.

Aragorn's eyes were tired, gritty almost. He couldn't recall the last time he had rested. But it mattered not at all to him. Every pace through the wreckage was one less pace to cover over the vastness of the Pelennor. He kept that in mind, idly counting how far he had gone simply for something to keep his mind off the troublesome thoughts that insistently rolled through his mind one after the other. He could feel the deflation all around him as dawn broke. Jecha and Gimli, weary already from the battle, probably suffering injuries of their own and grief for the lost. But he was not defeated. Not yet. He kept telling himself that. Not until he saw with his own eyes. Legolas was not dead.

He thought about calling out for his guardian, hoping to provoke some reaction amongst the dead, but it seemed pointless. Had Legolas been able to shout, he would have done so already. So, he kept looking in focused silence. Searching for some sign of his mentor.

When he found such a sign, it was almost missed. He had looked upwards at the lightening sky and had very nearly stepped right over the knife. Only the slight, bright glint of the blade, caught from the corner of his eye, alerted him of what he had almost passed by. There it laid, starkly obvious amongst cruder Enemy weaponry; Legolas' other white-handled knife.

Aragorn picked it up out of the dirt and turned it over carefully in his hand. The blade was cold and caked with gore but even so it was unmistakeable. He swiped his thumbs over the plane of the blade, revealing the Elven runes worked into the metal. The blade had a beauty that Aragorn had always admired. How strange it felt to be holding the knife in his hands. Aragorn didn't think he had ever been allowed to even touch the knives, so precious were they to his guardian. It felt impossibly light in his hands compared to his own bulkier Anduril. Of Elven make, obviously, and so terribly Legolas.

He looked up from the ground, scanning the field broadly as he had not dared do before.

And there it was at last. The tell-tale sign he had been desperately searching for all night long. A brief flash of dirty gold, gaining his attention by ruffling ever so slightly by the breeze. Had he not been paying such close attention, had all his senses not been on such high alert, he could well have missed the sign entirely, so slight it was, partially obscured behind a flock of greedy, squabbling black crows and squeezed in between the tightly packed corpses of Orcs and Uruk-hai and Goblins.

Aragorn took a hesitant step forward, the long knife of Elven make still balanced on both palms almost in reverence of what it represented. At the change of angle, he caught sight of Legolas' jacket, a gaudy, almost comical yellow-orange blend of colour that only just fitted his slight frame. Upon rummaging through what little clothing was to be found in Rohan, it was all the Elf could find to fit him, although Aragorn had been greatly amused that the Elf was not at all pleased with his latest acquisition. Its unusual colour, teamed with the fact that it was almost a size too small for him made it a most unattractive item and Legolas had groused at the time that it must have been cobbled together out of necessity because no Man would ever choose to wear such an item. It had been a rare display of vanity on Legolas' part but one that Aragorn could understand completely; he was immensely pleased that the jacket would never fit his slightly broader frame despite Legolas once or twice trying to pass it on to him. He had insisted that his leather jacket fitted him so much better and was a more practical travelling garment even though it might not have been as warm as Legolas' offering. Legolas had shot him looks of irritation every time the subject was brought up. But he was never ungrateful for what he had scrounged. It may not have looked much and might well have attracted the attention of just about every enemy they encountered, but it had down padding sewn into the lining - a luxury not to be sniffed at – and speckled brown fur on the cuffs and collar for warmth and it had been the only suitable jacket that he had been able to swipe from the Rohirrim before they had left Edoras behind so Legolas had never again seriously complained about it. It proved unmistakeable now to whom the jacket belonged and Aragorn felt sickened at the new shade of red staining the already awful colour.

Suddenly, Aragorn found that he couldn't draw breath; such was the fear crushing his chest to the point of almost physical anguish. He was so very terrified of what he might find if he approached and scattered the flock of crows obscuring the majority of his view. No matter how much he wanted to, how much his mind screamed for action, his body would simply not heed the command for his legs to move him closer. So he simply stared, for an agonisingly long stretch of time. Another flutter of wind caught Legolas' hair and in turn brushed across Aragorn's face, chilling the sweat that rested there despite the cold air. The cool breeze was as good as a dunking in freezing water and more than enough to break the spell at last.

Dropping the knife to the ground, he lurched forward, stumbling, almost tripping and slipping in the sludge as he ran over the bodies of the dead Enemy to reach where his guardian lay. The crows scattered at his abrupt approach, flapping up into the air, squawking and squealing in irritation at the disturbance to their macabre meal. Aragorn felt a mild pang of disgust at their blood-covered beaks and feathers and the thought that they had been attempting to feed on the flesh of his guardian made him feel physically sick but he shoved his own discomfort aside and focused on Legolas. He was all that mattered.

Aragorn fell to his knees hard but felt no pain at the jarring his battered body received for his carelessness or disgust at the filth he was kneeling in. Legolas was partially covered by another body, two other bodies in fact. Uruk-hai, one missing limbs, the other divested of its head. He hefted the top body off, shoving it aside, a difficult task as the already weighty corpse had stiffened so as to make it most awkward to move since its demise. More of Legolas was revealed but it was impossible to tell much of his condition for a second body still covered him. Aragorn shoved at this one, its head laying not far away.

Then, at last, he could see his guardian for the first time since the beginning of the battle on Pelennor.

Legolas was unnaturally pale, his skin almost grey. And cold. So cold. He reached out for Legolas' hand and immediately recoiled for it was as cold as ice and stiff like the Uruk body he had just shoved away. Blood caked him, dried and darkened over time, from his golden head to his legs, although Aragorn couldn't be sure yet whether it was his all own or not. His eyes were closed tightly, lips slightly parted and he was so still. He looked for all the world like one of the dead.

Trembling so hard that it took two attempts to capture Legolas' wrist between his fingers, Aragorn searched for a pulse, pressing so hard in his desperation to feel one beneath the thin, cold skin that his own fingers ached with the effort. The Elf's skin was so cold that he did not expect to find one. How could Legolas possibly still be alive in this state?

"Aragorn?"

Jecha had at last cottoned on to the fact that Aragorn was no longer picking through the devastation of the battle as he had been doing with such focus and determination so far and was concentrated on one spot on the field. Curious, he ceased his own search and stopped dead, waiting for a reply from the young king. Although he wished it to be true, the Easterling had no idea whether Aragorn had found what he was looking for and even if he had it did not necessarily mean a good outcome. So far, they had not found a single living soul this far out and the chances now of finding one were slim at best. It was difficult, searching for a friend, knowing all the while that chances were the only thing he would find would be a corpse.

The king, however, ignored the call. He was using all his senses to detect some sign of life from Legolas, no matter how small it might have been. Anything would have been acceptable. Holding his breath as though the sound of his lungs inhaling and exhaling air might mask any slight indication of life from his guardian, Aragorn gave up and moved his fingers from Legolas' thin wrist to rest them upon his neck instead. He had seen physicians do this when they were searching for a pulse in the gravely injured. He pressed them deep into the side of the bloodied neck of his guardian and closed his eyes in concentration.

Behind him, Aragorn could hear footsteps coming towards him and he wanted to shush the two others who had ventured out to search the field with him for they could well be obscuring what he desperately looked for. But in the end, he didn't need to.

There it was at last. A slight flutter beneath his finger pads.

At first, he thought that maybe he had imagined it so intently was he wishing it to be present, or that it was his own blood pumping hard through his veins in his nervousness. But no. There it was. A heartbeat. And not his own. For a while, Aragorn kept his fingers right where they were, eagerly awaiting every slow, sluggish thump beneath his aching finger-pads. His own heart was racing wildly again; a mix of relief and utter fear.

Gasps from behind him finally stirred Aragorn from his vigil. He turned his head to Jecha and Gimli, who were both looking down at Legolas. It seemed they presumed him dead for they looked forlorn and suddenly wearier than ever. And it was not surprising that they had leapt to that conclusion. It could not be denied that Legolas truly did look like he no longer lived and Aragorn's reaction must have appeared to be one of grief rather than relief.

Suddenly, Aragorn himself gasped. What was he doing just sitting there doing nothing? Legolas might have lived but from the sluggish beat beneath his fingers it was only barely. And he was clearly gravely injured. He needed a healer.

"Aragorn?" Jecha asked again at the sharp intake of breath from the man. It was not surprising that the Easterling was concerned for the king. After all he had been through, he must have feared that Aragorn's mind would be broken at Legolas' death.

"He's alive." The words were so quiet, so croaky that neither Man nor Dwarf could understand them when they were first uttered. They stared at Aragorn as though fearful that he had completely lost his senses in his grief. Then Aragorn climbed up so he was crouched next to Legolas and began shoving aside the other debris that littered his guardian's body. "He's alive," he said louder this time, although the words hitched in his throat as reality began to set into his mind. "He's alive. He's alive!" How good it felt to say those words! It was more than he could have hoped for.

"What?" Disbelief. It was impossible, Jecha thought, that Legolas still lived. It had been too long, too long exposed to the elements, too long bleeding out. Any Man would be long dead by now, as the soldiers of Gondor had been proving. And yet Aragorn was certain. "He is alive?"

"Yes!" Aragorn insisted impatiently now. They had wasted too much time already. "Help me, Jecha, please."

The Easterling joined Aragorn at Legolas' side but crouched watching for a moment, waiting for the tell-tale rise and fall of the slim chest. And there it was. It was weak, shallow, but incredibly it was there all the same. "I don't believe it," he breathed out. Turning his head to where his Dwarven companion still stood watching in equal astonishment, Jecha ordered, "Go, fetch Valon himself right now. We will take Legolas back to the city immediately."

Gimli found that his stout, usually reliable legs could not or would not move beneath him just yet. He could hardly believe that the beaten, broken being lying before him was the same warrior Elf he had only the day before fought alongside. Another sharp command from the Easterling broke through his haze of astonishment though. He turned smartly on the spot and ran towards the city as fast as he could to call attention to the fact that help was needed. This far out on the plain though it was a useless waste of breath; everyone was still inside the walls of the city and unable to hear him.

Aragorn finished clearing off Legolas and found things to be worse than he had hoped for when he had discovered the presence of a pulse. Blood covered – no, saturated – the Elf's jacket and shirt, coming from a long, ugly gash from the Elf's shoulder, across his chest and growing deeper when it hit the emaciated abdomen. Worse, the wound no longer bled, indicating that Legolas didn't have much blood left in his body for it certainly did not look as though it were healing at all. It stood ugly and open, stark against the pale flesh of Legolas' body.

The wound was fatal. Deep down, Aragorn knew this to be true but he would not accept that just yet. He would do all he could before he even considered giving up on his guardian. Legolas would never give up easily, of that Aragorn was certain. Therefore, he would have to fight too. Jecha apparently recognised the severity of the injury too but he did not seem as optimistic as the king. He sighed heavily and sat back, as though already giving up.

"Legolas, hold on. We'll help you now, I promise," Aragorn told his unresponsive guardian as he shrugged off his jacket to lay it over the prone form. He looked up to find dark eyes staring at him in sympathy. This angered him. "I have not lost him yet!" he snapped at the Easterling. "Help me."

Reluctantly, Jecha rose to his feet. They were a fair distance from Minas Tirith; it would take considerable time to get to the city and retrieve more people to help bear Legolas back to the White City. He feared that Legolas did not have that much time to waste.

"Very well, Aragorn, if this is your wish," said the man calmly despite his misgivings. Truthfully he worried that moving Legolas now might cause more harm than good, especially without a trained healer present to deal with any problems that might arise. But what other choice did they have? At least this way, Legolas might stand more of a chance. Maybe.

Carrying the light Elven prince didn't prove a problem. Jecha had not been seriously hurt in battle and was probably in better physical condition than most other Men. Upon first lifting Legolas up from the ground, the Elf had stirred, a low groan rumbling through him lasting only as long as his shallow breath held out, but still he had not woken. Aragorn walked alongside them, eyes, glistening with tears, flicking constantly from the path ahead of them to his guardian, who hung limply in Jecha's arms. He could not bear the sight and yet nor could he stop himself from looking.

To Be Continued…