The War Of Light And Shadow

by Freddie23

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

75. Paths Lost And Rediscovered

The War of Light and Shadow

By Freddie23

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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.

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Chapter 75 – Paths Lost And Rediscovered

Aragorn didn't know for how long he had slept but he knew the moment he opened his eyes where in the city he had slept. Legolas' cold hand rested in his just as it had when he had fallen asleep, clasped tightly within his own. He raised his head from the bed where it had been pillowed upon his guardian's chest. For a moment, he was startled that he had drifted off at all considering his earlier restlessness and then slightly spooked that he had slept beside Legolas' inert body. And yet, comfort still washed over him at the closeness to his guardian no matter how macabre it may have been. For a brief moment, it felt as if all was not lost to him just yet.

He could not remain this way, he knew. Carefully, the man disengaged his hand and laid Legolas' stiff hand back down on the bed. No more tears would come as Aragorn stood again, bending to press a kiss to Legolas' brow. He had nothing left to give.

Knowing that this might very well be the last time he would ever look upon his best friend and beloved guardian, Aragorn walked backwards to the door so that he could keep the Elf in view as long as possible. Just as he was about to turn away to open the door though, drawn away by a sense of duty and weariness that could no longer be denied, his eyes caught sight of something resting up against the wall by the boarded-up window. Legolas' bag. Aragorn had forgotten all about that and didn't recall whether Jecha had brought it back with them when they had borne Legolas into Minas Tirith. Either way, there it rested.

It felt strange, taking something that belonged to his mentor, especially when Legolas had never allowed Aragorn to go rifling through his things. Even in his youth, Legolas had insisted he have some degree of privacy just as he had always allowed the boy his. But Aragorn knew that if he left the bag here then its contents may well get scavenged or discarded and never seen again. He couldn't bear that. So he picked up the bag, cast one last prayer in Legolas' direction and stepped from the room. He would speak later to Janor or Faramir about what would happen next to Legolas. But for now, Aragorn found his way back to the Seventh Level where his chambers were located. No one stopped him, although the streets were busy in the daylight. Some recognised him but none acknowledged his presence. Maybe they were unsure of how to address him, or maybe they sensed the grief radiating from him and thought it prudent to leave him alone in his own bubble of sadness. A wise decision that he was pleased for.

He made it back to his rooms without incident and shut the door firmly behind him. His chambers were vast but he settled in the far corner, sat on the floor, as though the small space was a comfort to him. Before him sat the bag that Legolas had carried ever since they had started travelling together on the Old Forest Road. It was an innocuous looking object, battered and ripped from decades of abuse, but it contained the Elf's whole life within. Every possession he owned was packed carefully away inside the thin, worn leather, every small space utilised.

For a long time, Aragorn simply stared at the object. To open it felt like an intrusion of privacy even though he knew that Legolas would have wanted him to have it.

Finally, the man undid the buckles and dropped the flap back. At the top, as always sat perhaps Legolas' most prized possessions, his twin white knives. Someone must have cleaned them up and put them back in the Elf's pack because last Aragorn had seen them they had been almost lost on the battlefield, caked in the blood of Orc and Man alike. Carefully, Aragorn lifted them out, one by one, and turned them over in his hands. He'd seen them much over the years. Legolas preferred to use them over any other weaponry, perhaps because they were undoubtedly his and not, as most of their other belongings were, scavenged from the dead. But despite this, Aragorn had never really looked at them. He remembered being fascinated as a child by them, by the swirling, illegible writing writhing over the blades and extending into the delicately carved white handles. Legolas had tended to them every night; he had even demonstrated weapon training and care to Aragorn during his lessons with them. A slight smile pulled at Aragorn's lips at the memory. 'You can look, but do not touch' his guardian had cautioned him of the sharp blades when training had first begun.

He laid the knives down and pulled from the bag Legolas' blanket. It was relatively new, scrounged from the Humans, but remained littered with holes and stained perhaps by its previous owner. Still, warmth was warmth and Legolas would never complain. Still neatly folded as was Legolas' want, Aragorn placed it on the floor to his right.

Next thing he found was Legolas' dented canteen. It was empty, although Aragorn doubted that he had had time to drink from it during the battle. Memories stirred in him of the Anduin and the very first time he had realised that Elves could actually become ill if they neglected themselves. Even then, on the brink of starvation, as Aragorn now recognised Legolas had been at that time, Legolas had been strong and unwilling to divulge just how much this world of Sauron's affected him to his young charge.

Adding this innocuous object to the small pile at his side, Aragorn went on to retrieve Legolas' sparse collection of stolen, poorly repaired and generally filthy clothes. There was not much. A couple of shirts, both the wrong size, which had always looked either far too baggy or had been ridiculously small and a spare pair of trousers, a fine, dark leather but these were broken and Aragorn remembered that Legolas had not had time to repair them recently so he had had to make do with the ones he had on. There was not another shred of clothing in there. Aragorn didn't own much either, although Legolas had always maintained that he was easier to dress as he was a smaller size. Besides, upon first coming to Rohan, he had been given some of the woollen garments crafted by the Rohirrim. Legolas had not been afforded such a luxury. Mostly because people didn't like him enough to bother with such an effort.

Each piece of clothing Aragorn folded with great care, laying them out in neat packages as though preparing them to be put back again later, although Legolas would never wear them again and they were all but useless to the king himself.

There was no more clothing inside but there was one other scrap of fabric tucked into an inside pocket, bulging ever so slightly. Aragorn carefully pulled it out. The fabric was pristine, unlike everything else that belonged to the prince, beautifully woven, stained a very light green although a darker pattern stained the reverse, for it was folded inside out. It was folded with great care around a small, hard object. Curious, Aragorn unwrapped it, tipping out a small ring into his palm. He recognised it immediately. He had seen his father wear it once. He had admired it at the time for it was a striking image that remained in his mind. Two small but splendidly cut emeralds set into the eyes of twin writhing serpents bearing a crown of flowers. The Ring of Barahir. An heirloom of his ancestry.

For a moment, Aragorn gazed in surprise at the fine ring. He had wondered what had happened to it. After being showed it by his father, Arathorn had put it in his pocket and never spoken of it again, as if he had done his duty in informing his son of its existence and never wanted to gaze upon it again. After the man had died, Aragorn had thought it lost and had never questioned Legolas about it. And he had kept it all these years. His father must have entrusted it to Legolas, to pass on to him whenever he thought the time was right. Why Legolas had never given it to him, Aragorn didn't know. Not that it mattered now. It was just a ring and to Aragorn it mattered little. He would give every jewel and treasure on the earth to have Legolas back with him.

He laid the ring aside, not able to bring himself to put it upon his finger just yet. Instead, he turned his attention to the swatch of fabric he held in his hand. It was undoubtedly Elven in origin. It was the softest fabric he had ever seen. He ran his thumb over it several times, wondering what it would feel like to wear such a garment as this came from. Embroidered upon the fabric was a coat of arms. A stand of trees and a crown of green and gold leaves. Aragorn remembered seeing such a pattern somewhere before. In the paintings in Rivendell, he had seen it emblazoned onto the tunics of the warriors. The Mirkwood army coming to the aid of their kin and allied Men during the first war with the Dark Lord. They had won then. How he wished he had pressed Erestor to explain more about the pictures. Maybe he would have understood Legolas a little better too. The symbol of Legolas' home, Aragorn thought, again focusing on the fabric. Perhaps even the royal coat of arms. Perhaps taken from one of Legolas' own long-lost tunics. It was splendid, depicting nature and wealth at the same time, living as one together. Was this what Mirkwood had been like? The natural world mingled with great, priceless possessions. What a splendid place Mirkwood must have been in its prime. He found himself suddenly envious of Legolas, of the upbringing he must have had. It was something that he himself would never have the opportunity to remember. He had no memento of any homeland for he had never had one. Nothing at all but memories of travelling, of being ensconced in the bubble of protection provided by the Rangers. Legolas had been lucky all those years out in the cold on his own to have something to look at and remember. Or maybe he hadn't looked at it that often. The fabric must have been old, from his past life certainly, but it was barely worn. Legolas had not spent countless nights touching it in the hope of inspiring nostalgia.

Looking closer, Aragorn again ran his thumb over the slightly raised symbol of Mirkwood. The royal house. He smiled thinly. The symbolism was perfect. The fabric swathing the Ring of Barahir. The House of Mirkwood protecting the Gondorian House. Legolas protecting Aragorn. Him. Tears blurred his eyes again, for just as the Ring of Barahir sat alone by his side, so he was separated from Legolas.

Wiping his wet eyes on his sleeve, Aragorn did not discard the cloth as he had with everything else. Rather, he slipped it into his pocket. Legolas had obviously cherished it, now so would he.

He picked up the Ring of Barahir and turned it over in his fingers. Why had Legolas never given it to him? He had never even mentioned it before. Had he not proven himself a good king in the past months of their campaign? Did Legolas consider him yet undeserving? These thoughts startled him. It was undeniable that they had had their disagreements and things had not been the same between them in recent years – they could not possibly remain the same, after all; Legolas had all but ensured that – but Aragorn had thought that Legolas believed in him as a king and a man. Clearly not. Legolas had held back. It hurt; that truth of his guardian's distrust.

Slowly, Aragorn slipped the ancient ring of his House onto his index finger. It fit perfectly, whether by accident or design.

He felt nothing. No thrill of his past, no call to his future. It was just a cold band of fine metal. Nothing like the white hot power that sat carefully concealed within his jacket pocket. The Ring of Barahir was a pretty heirloom and nothing more. It was somewhat anticlimactic. Maybe that was why Legolas had held out on him all this time. Maybe he knew that it was just a ring and meant nothing. Perhaps Arathorn had given it to him as an after-thought and he himself had forgotten all about it, buried it in his bag and never given it any further consideration. For that Aragorn could not blame him and so it was that which he chose to believe for he thought it better than the alternative.

Disappointed, Aragorn turned back to the bag. One thing remained in there, right at the bottom, wrapped in a far more familiar cloth. He thought he knew what this was. Shifting up onto his knees so that he could peer into the bag, Aragorn pulled the sides out a little, revealing the round shape of the object.

Yes, there is was, the familiar tingle of the Shadow at the edges of his senses.

Almost against his will, Aragorn's hand delved into the bag and fingers touched lightly upon the fabric. Immediately came the flash that he expected. Red fire and deep blackness assailed his vision as if he had been thrown into a raging fire that threatened not only to consume his body but violate his soul as well. He snatched his hand back, gripping his fingers to rid them of the pain of being burnt.

Legolas had eluded to keeping the Palantir even after the trouble it caused to him and Ciaran once before. After that unfortunate incident, when Ciaran had been tempted to the Shadow and Aragorn himself had felt the touch of Evil upon him, Legolas had never mentioned it to anyone again and Aragorn had not seen the Seeing Stone once since. But of course Legolas had kept it. When they had first looked upon it in Edoras, Legolas had mentioned to Eomer that it would be useful to their cause. He had not specified how. But he must have held that belief for it must have taken courage to bear around such Darkness. This, Aragorn knew well and his thoughts went immediately to the Ring in his pocket. And then he suddenly shoved the bag away and scuttled backwards. Sauron was close by whenever the Palantir was near and that he might be able to detect the Ring of Power terrified Aragorn to the core.

Breathing heavily in fear at how close he felt to Sauron, Aragorn stared uselessly at the bag, thinking upon what rested within. It was too much. Legolas had carried this for years. Determined, he must have been, to keep it so close. Unfortunately, it was just one more thing that Legolas had failed to explain to him.

Aragorn buried his face in his hands. What was he supposed to do now? Never before had he felt so lost. Not even when Legolas had first revealed to him his true lineage. There were those who could advise him, members of his own race who were significantly better commanders and strategists than he could claim to be, but he found that he just didn't have the heart to seek them out. He wanted to sit in this room forever and forget all about his destiny and the plans that were laid out for him. What did they matter now?

Anger suddenly burned inside of him again. How could Legolas make him feel this way? How was such a feeling fair? It was the Elf's fault. He had sworn fealty and yet not delivered. He had gone away; not by choice to be sure but he was gone nonetheless.

Crying out loud, Aragorn dropped his arms down onto his lap, tears spilling down his cheeks again. His gaze was drawn to the bag holding the Seeing Stone but he ignored its teasing pull and turned his head away. Fire flashed through his mind again, although this time it was the flames of his own rage and not the wrath of the Dark Lord that burned him.

He wanted to be doing something. A stark contrast to his feeling of wanting to drown in his own sorrows just a moment ago. Getting up, he stalked the length of the room and back, searching for inspiration. Nothing came to him. They had taken Minas Tirith, the battle was won. The clean-up continued but he was not in the mood for that. He wanted to hurt something; wanted to kill. He wanted the Shadow to suffer for what it had done. It was not enough that he had struck down so many of the Enemy in the battle. He needed more. He wanted…revenge.

The realisation almost threw him off balance so that he reached for the wall to steady himself. So consumed by his own grief and sense of loss had Aragorn been that he had not given any thought to the repercussions of Legolas' death. Of course the Elf would want his death avenged. He was a soldier, dead set against beating back the creeping Shadow. And what had been Legolas' last wish? For his ward to continue. To beat the Dark Lord and make the world right again.

Filled suddenly with renewed purpose, Aragorn smiled a grim smile and bent down to pick up his own previously discarded weapons. Shrugging on his belt and checking that Anduril rested firmly at his side, he prepared himself. He did not immediately rush out the door though because another thought came to him and he returned to Legolas' pitiful pile of belongings and retrieved the two white knives. They seemed heavier than they had before but he turned them both over in his hands for a moment, getting used to the feel. Much like Anduril had when he had first been gifted the sword by the Elves of Imladris, these knives felt filled with potent Elven power and he trembled in anticipation at watching them spill blood by his own actions.

Now fully armed and prepared, Aragorn left the room, almost colliding with a guard who was stood in the corridor outside. He did not question his presence, nor pause when the young man called after him in surprise; he simply strode down the hallway, searching for the door that would lead him outside. The vastness of Minas Tirith suddenly felt too confining.

OIOI

"To victory."

"Victory," went up the subdued replying chorus.

Sat outside of the city walls, overlooking the Pelennor Fields, the various commanders raised their cups in tribute. Formal celebrations could happen later, when things were more certain and people had had a chance to recover from the battle and from their losses. But now, late in the night when the soldiers and healers had been sent to rest and things were quiet, Faramir, Eomer, Janor and Jecha gathered together to toast winning the battle and to remember what had been lost.

There had been so little time to reflect in the days since the battle. So much had to be done. There were still the injured to care for, the securing of the city to undertake, inventory of what the Shadow's forces had left behind and bodies to be recovered. But this night, when the only other people awake were the skeleton crew of guards patrolling the city, seemed like a good night to reflect at long last.

Each took a long sip of their water. It didn't seem right to drink the remaining dregs of the Ranger's alcohol when there was use for the liquid in the healing halls. So they toasted with water.

"It doesn't seem real," Faramir commented, sitting back against the wall as he lowered his tin cup to rest on his knee. "For years my people have fought for this."

"They didn't fight. They stood by hoping that Minas Tirith might miraculously be cleansed and they could regain it for themselves," snapped Jecha without thought, for what he spoke was the truth.

The Steward bristled for a moment but then settled again. Tonight was not a night for fighting amongst themselves. "Still, it is strange."

"Bet you're glad we came now," remarked Eomer with a grin.

"Immensely."

"But what now?" Janor asked quietly.

Silence for a long moment and then Jecha spoke again, softer than before. Respectful. "That will be up to the King."

"The King? Oh, you mean the man who is right hiding away in his rooms and refusing to come out, shirking all responsibility?" muttered Faramir but he shrank back when he immediately felt the tension around the other commanders build up. Insulting Aragorn was not a good move amongst them. "My apologies. But it is true all the same."

"Give him a break. He has lost much," Janor told the Steward, his mind immediately flying to Legolas.

"Who hasn't lost much? I lost my father; do you see my dwelling on the past? We must take pains to secure this city in case of another attack."

"It is different for him. Legolas was not just his guardian; he was his guide also. Without him, Aragorn feels lost. He needs time to figure out what his next move will be."

"But can we really wait? Right now, Sauron is probably plotting our demise. There are things in Minas Tirith that need doing and we need a leader to ensure that they are done. Sauron will see our weaknesses if we allow him to."

Eomer grinned broadly over at him. "Scared?"

"Immensely," smiled the Steward back, his tension easing.

"Either way, we'll know soon enough." Janor was confident of that at least. Aragorn would not make them wait long.

The conversation turned away from politics then, for it was too much of an uncertain topic for them; better not to worry over it. There would be time for worrying later. They talked instead of people they loved, of their pasts, of what they planned to do when the war was done with. Conversation flowed freely even though it was only water that filled their cups. These were powerful men in the fate of Middle Earth but at that moment they were just four soldiers discussing mindless things in the hope that it might simulate normalcy even for only a moment. That was what they yearned for more than anything. A return to the simple lives their fathers had known. After the winning of Minas Tirith, that wish seemed closer than ever to coming true.

When the talk turned to the details of Jecha's childhood amongst the tribes of Easterlings constantly at war with each other as well as with the rest of the world, Eomer found his mind drifting. For some reason, he rather liked the Easterling as an enigma and would have preferred him to remain that way. He couldn't quite make himself believe that Jecha was as he and his fellow Rohirrim and Ranger and Gondorian were. He had turned traitor once – there was nothing to say he wouldn't again. It seemed that he didn't trust his fellow commanders as much as he liked to think.

So Eomer chose the rather impractical tactic of burying his head in the sand and ignoring Jecha's tale lest it churn up any more ideas of treachery in his mind. Rather, he let his eyes wander around the battlefield. Not much remained. The fires had long since died out. Men had stopped working at sundown. Only the bodies of the Enemy remained now. Some Men remained unaccounted for but it seemed pointless to scour the field for them as chances were they were lost forever. So the clean-up now consisted of getting rid of the foul carcasses of the Enemy.

Mercifully, the wind was blowing away from them this night or else Eomer feared the stench of rotting flesh would have been unbearable. At times, as the Uruk and Orc corpses burned upon their heaps, the smell drifted over the city and made anyone who caught scent of it gag in repulsion. But such was necessary, for it would have been a hundred times worse had the corpses been allowed to simply rot into the earth. Men now worked with their noses shrouded in cloth to help with the smell and each day they came back looking grimmer than ever.

Of course, Eomer had done his share of the work too. He divided his time between sitting with his ailing sister, at Council and helping with the manual labour on the battlefield. At times he managed to sleep too, although that seemed a rare occurrence of late. Still, the commanders all knew that they must set a good example for their people, especially with Aragorn absent.

It was as Eomer was looking over the field, contemplating how many more days their people must toil to finish the gruesome job, that he caught sight of a shadow slipping from Minas Tirith's main gate. His first instinct was to go for his sword but he quelled that action as he didn't think it an enemy. In fact, even from a distance too great to know for certain, he could guess at who the deserter might be. He had been expecting it to a certain degree.

"Excuse me," he told the others as he climbed to his feet.

He jogged across the field until he reached the path leading away from the city and then followed it at a much slower pace. Ahead of him walked Aragorn, steady and unyielding. In his hands flashed white and silver. Weapons drawn, determined. He looked a picture of kingly strength even from behind and at a distance. Eomer found himself marginally impressed – although still not surprised.

The man was getting further away from him so Eomer pushed himself into a jog again and called out, "Aragorn!"

The word echoed all around and immediately Aragorn spun towards him, weapons up, stopping to wonder at being followed.

Catching up, Eomer asked, "Where are you going?"

Tears were still wet upon Aragorn's face. He had been crying recently. Anduril was secured around his waist, ready and waiting to see battle again. Despite his dishevelled appearance though, there was steely determination in grey eyes and Eomer knew that he had his mind set on action and that through his grief and anger, he would be difficult to deter.

Slowly, Eomer moved around him, Aragorn turning in a slow circle to follow him, watching as the Rohan man positioned himself to block his path.

Again, Eomer asked, "Where are you going?"

Aragorn took a step forward, bringing him right up close to the older man, who still refused to move. He sidestepped then but Eomer followed him, refusing passage. Anger flashed in his eyes again and his right hand which held a glinting white knife that had once belonged to Legolas, twitched dangerously in warning.

"Stand aside, Eomer," growled the younger man fiercely.

Holding up his hand to prevent the king from moving and hoping that it might prevent any irrational action on his part, Eomer reasoned calmly, "I cannot allow you to continue upon this course. You know that."

"I am king; I do not need permission from you or any other."

"Then listen to wise counsel, King. Please. To go to Mordor now, unprepared and angry, is madness."

"Out of my way, Rohirrim," warned Aragorn darkly, this time holding Legolas' knife up higher still, although Eomer sensed that he would not use it just yet, not against one he considered an ally and a friend.

"Aragorn, please, listen to reason."

Shoving hard at Eomer's chest to get him out of the way, Aragorn tried to get past again but Eomer was equally determined and would not be swayed, not even by violence.

"Get out of my way!" roared Aragorn, fresh tears slipping down his rugged cheeks. "Now!"

"I have already told you that I cannot. You are my King and I am sworn to protect you and thus I cannot leave you alone now. This is suicide."

"I don't care!"

Remaining calm in the face of the storm of fury and grief coming at him, Eomer raised his hands again, not knowing whilst Aragorn was so out of sorts whether he would actually use those fearsome weapons held in his hands.

"I know you don't mean that. Legolas would not have you say such things."

The mention of Aragorn's ward did not go down well and Aragorn's hands tightened again on the twin knives in anger. Eomer prepared to jump out of the way of an attack.

"Don't you say that! You know nothing about him! You hated him until the day he died and don't you deny it!"

"I did not hate him."

"Shut up!"

"I cannot."

Suddenly, Aragorn lunged at him, one knife raised to Eomer's throat. The man tensed, ready for the killing blow and knowing fully well that retreat had suddenly become impossible. His life now rested on Aragorn's state of mind. A terrifying thought indeed.

"Aragorn, listen to me please. This is not the way."

"What do you know?" snarled the man angrily.

"More than you think. I have lost too. I know how it feels – that deep grief. It feels like you're drowning in it and you cannot drag yourself to the surface. But walking head-long into a fight you know you cannot win is not the way. It will not bring Legolas back. Nor will revenge."

"I don't care. He took something precious to me and now he must pay!"

"And he will. He will pay. But not yet."

"I cannot wait!" Aragorn yelled, suddenly shoving Eomer hard away from him and starting to walk away again. "I cannot!"

Chasing after him, Eomer, still uncertain as to how far exactly Aragorn would go to get away, dashed in front of the young king, holding out his hands to halt his progress once again. Aragorn obediently ground to a halt, although his hands were gripping the handles of the twin knives so tight that they shook.

"Please, Aragorn," implored the Rohan man in one last ditch attempt to talk some sense into his stricken king, "just think about this for a moment. I know it is hard to see clearly. I feel the need for vengeance just as intently as you do." Aragorn looked ready to shove past him again so Eomer hurried onwards. "I know that you are grieving. I know the depths of your pain. Legolas' passing is…unbearable. But this is not the way. Charge in without preparation and you will be slaughtered before ever you reach the Dark Lord's inner sanctum. Be patient and you may stand a chance against him. With us at your side. Please, think!"

For a long moment, the tension held. The air was thick with it, as if the very earth bristled over the pain emanating from the King of Men and thirsted for vengeance just as much as he. A strange thought, Eomer contemplated as he gazed steadily into Aragorn's grey eyes, trying to apply the same technique with the younger man that he had seen Legolas use on occasion. It was hard to tell whether it was working or whether Aragorn was just waiting for the right moment to cut him down and proceed upon his suicidal mission.

Then, suddenly, something snapped. In an instant, the atmosphere changed from tension to one of absolute dejection. Aragorn himself loosened up completely, shoulders slumping forward, hands going limp so that the two knives dropped to the ground with twin thumps. Eomer himself relaxed, realising that he had been readying himself for a fight; willing to do whatever he had to in order to protect the king.

"I am sorry," Eomer told the younger man softly, his words sounding insufferably loud in the quiet and indeed Aragorn actually flinched upon hearing them.

Aragorn stood there, on the roughly hewn path leading away from Minas Tirith. No more tears fell but they pooled in his eyes, threatening to spill.

The silence, Eomer decided after a full minute of it, was worse than the threat of being run through with deadly sharp knives. He didn't know what to say next. What more could he say but 'sorry'? Nothing could comfort in the wake of the death of a loved one. And yet, even in his silence, Aragorn seemed to almost be begging for some words of comfort, looking for wisdom from the older man of Rohan.

When such wisdom did not seem forthcoming, he raised his eyes to Eomer and asked in a small whisper, "What am I to do now?"

Yes, that was the problem. Until now, he had always had a destination. Legolas had always known what to do, where to go to get what was needed for the next phase. But now, he was in Gondor, King at last. Victory had been assured and yet the biggest hurdle yet stood before him and he had no idea how to go about getting past it. He needed guidance. He was useless without it, he realised. He was languishing here in Minas Tirith. He needed to be doing something; hence his sudden intense need to seek out the abomination that had taken away from him his direction and purpose. But that was beyond his reach.

Eomer carefully took a step closer to him, as though worried that he might just break into pieces should he be startled in any way, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Come back to the city. Rest tonight."

"And then?"

"And then tomorrow…we prepare."

Anger suddenly burned in Aragorn's chest again at the mention of this. He didn't want to plan. He wanted to seek out Sauron and kill him. Never had he felt an urge so strong; it was almost overpowering. But he knew that it was not sensible. What Eomer had said was correct. To plunge into Mordor without planning would be the death of him and then Sauron would stand forever unopposed and it would have all been for nothing. That would not do. So he forced the anger down, closing his eyes in concentration as he got a hold of himself once more.

In the back of his mind, he felt the subtle pull of the Ring grow ever so slightly bolder, as though taunting him. His fingers twitched at his side, longing to touch the band of gold, to feel its power just once more. But he did not succumb to the need. He knew that it corrupted, distorted and ever sought to destroy him, for it belonged to Sauron and that was his will. He would not surrender to him, would not let everything he and Legolas had worked for be in vain. He would stand bold and resist the call for as long as he needed to. He would not stray from his path. He would march into Mordor with the full might of the Free Peoples behind him and he would take his revenge – not just for Legolas but for his father and for everything that had been tainted by the Shadow. The thought made his spirits soar and his hands finally stilled at his sides. A small smile of peace came to his lips and he knew he must have looked absurd or mad to Eomer but he didn't care.

Finally, he opened his eyes and found that indeed Eomer was looking at him strangely. Perhaps he thought that the grief had made him snap completely but in actuality it was quite the opposite. He was more in control of himself now than ever before because he had purpose again. It was clear in his mind what he had to do. Tomorrow, he would reveal his will to his people and they would follow him and they would succeed and then it would all be done.

"Yes," he finally spoke, his voice still raw with emotion but steadier now than it had been. "We shall return to the city. The commanders will convene in the morning."

"Very well," Eomer agreed, although now he felt that perhaps he had spoken without thought and prompted into action something that he would regret later. "Come, I will walk you back."

To ensure that he wasn't feigning and once left alone return to his previous path, Aragorn thought with a wry smile to himself. He nodded once and bent to retrieve the twin blades. Suddenly, they felt lighter in his hands and he realised that in actual fact he had been dreading where he was going and his intentions once he reached the lands of Sauron.

Eomer walked him all the way back to his room and ensured that he was settled before leaving. Aragorn was sure that on the way out he had a quiet word with the guard in his doorway; ensuring that his king would partake of no more late-night wanderings. Aragorn had no intention of going anywhere though.

Even so, he found that sleep eluded him. Perhaps he had slept too long already. But he was restless. He gave up trying to drift off after an hour and instead wandered around the room for a while. It was impossible in the blackness to see anything out the window, although he found himself staring out of the glass for a while, looking out over Pelennor where he knew the bodies of the Orc armies still decayed. He didn't care. Let them rot. Why should he bother about such heinous creatures? His mind began to take a dark turn then and he wondered whether they thought the same of Men. Perhaps. Despite his idle wonderings though, Aragorn found that he didn't care. He hated those creatures of Shadow more than ever.

Having indulged in enough dark thoughts for one night, Aragorn turned his back on Pelennor and sat down on the floor under the window.

First, he cleaned out his own pack, which he thought had been woefully neglected of late at which Legolas would have been utterly horrified. Then he re-packed Legolas' own bag, deciding to leave it where it was. He wasn't going to swap his things into Legolas' bag. It didn't seem right somehow. Besides, he had taken enough of Legolas' belongings. He didn't need more. Once that was done, he began cleaning and sharpening Anduril, something which should have been done straight after the battle but he had never gotten around to it. Then, he moved onto Legolas' knives, using the same technique that Legolas always had, thinking that was how it should be.

By the time dawn came, Aragorn had cleaned himself up and prepared himself for what must come next. His mind felt clearer now than it had done in days. Taking the time to reassert himself had helped and he was grateful that the people around him had afforded him the privilege that few enjoyed in times of war.

A knock at the door startled him from his musings as he looked out of the window over Pelennor into the seemingly ever-present morning mists.

"Enter," he called and turned just in time to see Eomer coming through the door.

"Good morning, my Lord," Eomer smiled, although he did not bother with bowing, for which Aragorn was grateful. It would take time to get used to such formalities on a regular basis.

"Morning."

"Did you sleep?"

"No," Aragorn answered truthfully. "But I thought a lot, Eomer and my mind is clearer now."

"I am glad to hear it. I was concerned for you last night."

Aragorn did not want to think upon the previous night. It didn't quite feel real. He could feel the echo of that blackness in his heart and feared that concentrating on it would make it manifest once more. Picking up his jacket, he slid his arms into the sleeves and distracted himself by asking Eomer, "There were Men come here?"

"My Lord?"

"Halbarad. A Ranger, I think he called himself."

"Yes. A Ranger of the North."

"What do you know of him?"

"Only what he has told me. He travelled the lands, mainly in the east, freeing the oppressed and aiding the Free where he could. He said that he had heard rumour of stirrings in Gondor."

"He did not report to the Steward?"

"He said not and Faramir has never heard of him or his people. It seems they are a law unto themselves; I suppose much as Kinnale's Rangers were. They never answered to Denethor either. When Men were divided, many such factions broke off. It's entirely possible that Halbarad never came into contact with any of them."

"Kinnale would have mentioned other Rangers had he known of them," Aragorn agreed with certainty. Additional soldiers was not something the Ranger would have ever hidden from them had he been aware.

"You have spent some time with them?"

"I spoke with them when they arrived. So too did Faramir, Jecha and Janor. They said that curiosity brought them to Gondor and they were surprised when they heard the King had been restored to the throne."

"And their loyalties?"

Eomer paused here for he knew what Aragorn was looking for: some assurance that these men, these Rangers no one had ever met, were reliable, honourable men who would not betray. "I believe them to be true, my Lord. Halbarad speaks as one against Mordor and who wishes to aid our cause. Neither he nor his people have given me cause to doubt them."

For a moment, Aragorn considered this. It was a risk, bringing new, untested people into the fold but he sorely needed help right then. His numbers were depleted. If the Rangers of the North, led by Halbarad, could help them then Aragorn knew he couldn't afford to turn them away.

"My Lord," Eomer prompted after a moment of thoughtful silence, "as you requested, the Commanders are gathered in the throne room and the Council of Osgiliath has also been brought together again, at the request of Lord Faramir."

Aragorn frowned. The Council. The people who opposed the re-taking of Minas Tirith in the first place. What could they want? No doubt to celebrate his great victory, for which they would surely want to take some credit. Or to stand in his way again. Well, that would not happen. The next step would go ahead whether it was agreed at court today or not. If he had to march into Mordor by himself; just him and the banner of Gondor and the twin white knives, then so be it.

"Thank you."

As the King passed him by, Eomer took his arm and brought him to a halt. "So you know, no matter what is decided in there, we are with you. The Rohirrim will ride with Aragorn of Gondor under the united banner. And you know that Janor and Jecha will also follow you." He nodded confidently, his decision made and thus irreversible. "Just so you know."

Aragorn's features softened slightly at this. He did have allies after all. Perhaps he wasn't quite as alone as he originally thought.

"Thank you, Eomer," the king smiled, embracing the startled Commander briefly. "You cannot know how much I appreciate it."

Eomer clapped him on the back and pulled away with a feigned scowl. "I can't believe you ever doubted it."

A genuine smile lit up Aragorn's face and he led the way through the doors and towards the throne room where his comrades were gathered.

To Be Continued…