The War of Light and Shadow

By Freddie23

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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. Hope you enjoy Chapter 76.

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Chapter 76 – Callings

Cold calm had stolen over Aragorn as he went to stand before his assembled commanders. They all stood in a loose circle in the centre of the massive throne room, as there was nowhere but the two thrones to sit and none would approach those sacred places, not even Faramir who had a rightful claim to the smaller of them. So Aragorn stood also. He didn't want to be seen as weaker than them nor did he want to seem superior given the decision he had come here to convey, no matter what the truth might have been. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, hoping his posture conveyed assurance and strength, aware that everyone in the respectfully silent room was waiting on him.

Eomer, of course, knew what they had been summoned to discuss and Aragorn suspected that he had confided in Janor and Jecha at least, if not Faramir as well. But there was no immediate debate or protestation as there had been with the Council in Osgiliath – although they too were present and correct, looking rather sheepish considering how loudly they had objected to the recapturing of Minas Tirith in the first place and how it had ended in victory.

Aragorn felt mildly comforted that he had a few allies amongst him now.

Surely, the reluctant Council of Osgiliath would be his greatest challenge here today. And perhaps Faramir also. The man would be reluctant indeed to give up on his city so soon after winning it back. But nevertheless, Aragorn was confident that Eomer, Jecha and Janor and all their followers would stand behind him no matter what. Despite everything, they had liked Legolas and would understand his need to do something in the name of his guardian.

One entity that Aragorn was entirely unsure about was the newcomer Halbarad. The man stood tall and quiet on the far side of the room, making his presence known without being overly intrusive amongst those who had been allies longer. He remained an enigma and Aragorn did not know on which side the man would come down.

Still, Halbarad had brought only thirty Rangers with him; little opposition and a small loss to any potential attack.

"We have won Minas Tirith," Aragorn finally broke the silence, his voice echoing loudly as it bounced off of exquisite marble. "But we have not won the war."

Silence. Given what a great victory they had just succeeded in, it came as somewhat of a shock to be told that they had not won after all. And yet everyone remained quiet out of respect for their king.

"The Dark Lord still lives in Mordor."

Faramir stepped forward, as Aragorn had known he would at this moment. "This we know. But we have still facilitated a great victory for the Free Peoples of Middle Earth. And we know where you are going with this, my Lord."

"We are not free yet," Aragorn said, ignoring the snapped remark. "We remained chained to the Dark Lord's rule."

The Gondorian man sighed heavily to make his displeasure known to all and paced around his colleagues for a moment, seemingly deep in thought although Aragorn guessed that he had already rehearsed his argument in his head. Apparently, Eomer had indeed confided in his fellow prior to this gathering. Now Aragorn wished that he had kept his confidence.

"Our resources are massively depleted, our forces not yet recovered. And Mordor is no short distance away from Minas Tirith."

"I know all this."

"Then be you must understand the need to be reasonable. Your desire for revenge cannot be allowed to overrule common sense."

It was a cruel barb but it struck him hard, especially when said before people he looked up to and respected. Aragorn felt his cheeks flush hot in embarrassment. His mind was thrown back to Meduseld when the men had been arguing amongst themselves over their next course of action and he had felt so terribly out of his depth and had in the end been reduced to simply sitting quiet and waiting for the storm to pass. Then it had been Legolas who had intervened, much to the consternation of the Rohirrim, and spoken of their next step. Now, he was alone and for a brief moment Aragorn thought that he would drown in the responsibility. But that was not an option. It was all up to him now.

Clearing his throat, the young king boldly looked up to Faramir and retorted, "I am not allowing my need to avenge Legolas' death to cloud my judgement in this matter, Steward. I simply maintain that things cannot simply remain as they are. So long as Sauron yet lives then we will all be slaves. He will not leave Minas Tirith unchallenged for long. And as you have said already, Faramir, we are weakened."

"Yes, and how will marching on Mordor be any better for our people? Such a journey would take days and we have not the resources to sustain an army on such a journey."

Aragorn was already shaking his head. "I have no intention of leading our army into the Black Lands."

The first rumbles of confusion went up amongst the gathered people; even those Aragorn knew to be loyal to him. He allowed them to speculate amongst themselves for a moment, knowing that they needed to do so.

It was Eomer who finally spoke up, perhaps thinking it would not sound so challenging coming from him. "Then…how? How will we fight the Dark Lord if we do not go to Mordor, Sire?"

A small smile played over Aragorn's lips at this. "We shall summon him here."

Another long stunned silence that this time Aragorn found rather amusing.

"Summon-?" started Faramir incredulously. "What could you possibly-? How?"

Walking to the centre of the circle, Aragorn looked to each commander in turn, hoping to convey assurance. "Legolas left me something. He said that it would benefit our cause greatly one day. I now believe him to be correct."

"What?" Eomer asked, interested. "What did he leave?"

"You should know. It resided hidden in Meduseld for long enough."

Realisation dawned a moment later and green eyes widened as Eomer gleaned what Aragorn was telling him. The others remained clueless. Only Aragorn, Legolas, Eomer and the now deceased Kinnale had been in the small room with the Palantir in Meduseld. No one else knew a whole lot about it, even though some had seen the strange object shortly after Kinnale's untimely death. Perhaps they had thought that after that misfortune, the commanders would have gotten rid of the cursed ball of stone that linked them to the evil of the Dark Lord.

"Please tell me you are not serious," the Rohan man demanded in a low voice, suddenly looking challenging and dangerous once more.

"Quite serious."

Eomer closed his eyes briefly to gain control of his rising anger and then pinned Aragorn with his most impressive stare. "Have you completely lost your mind?" So much for allies. "You intend to use that…thing."

"Yes."

"You-" He stopped, closed his eyes again as if to collect his thoughts and then continued, "Aragorn. Your Majesty. Do you remember what I told you when I first showed you that thing? I told you that it had driven anyone who touched it to the very brink of madness. Ciaran proved that when he looked into it to seek his father. And you want to summon the Darkness with it?"

Aragorn considered this for a moment and then answered bluntly, "Yes."

It appeared to be a struggle for the Rohan commander to remain cool in the face of his anger and he fought his annoyance for a good while before he spoke again. "Aragorn, I would have to strongly advise against that. It is a dangerous thing."

"I understand that. But it is a risk we have to take."

"No, it is not."

"Faramir just said that we cannot march on Mordor."

"Faramir is wrong!"

"No, he is not wrong. To face Sauron in his own lands would be folly. He would kill us before we even had a chance. But to fight on our terms…we might just win."

"No, Aragorn, we will not. We will be slaughtered."

"Trust that I know what I'm doing."

The clearing of a throat interrupted their discussion and both men looked to Faramir, who had been stood watching them in confusion. "I don't know what all this is about specifically but I get the gist and, whether dangerous or not, I think you're forgetting the one major caveat here, which is that Sauron, summoned or no, has never left Mordor and will not."

Aragorn's eyes went distant at this but he said softly, "He will come."

"How can you be so sure?"

The king's hand drifted to the hilt of Anduril, caressing the worn leather. So much history resided within this blade re-forged and history – destiny – could not be ignored. "He will come." The question stood and everyone waited for a more certain answer from their king. "He will come for me."

Janor stepped forward and, sounding more concerned than anyone had been about the king so far, said, "And that is a good idea? Offering yourself up for bait?"

"He has a point, Aragorn," put in Jecha at this point, ever concerned about the king's safety. "If Sauron comes to you, it will be to kill you. He will show no mercy."

"I am not looking for mercy. He will try to kill me and he will fail."

"How can you be so sure?" Faramir demanded to know.

"Because…this was destined to be."

Once more, silence fell over the room. It was thoughtful. No one was quite sure what to make of all this. The possibility that Aragorn had been driven to the brink of sanity by the pressures of his role as king and the death of someone so close to him was not dismissed readily even by those closest to him.

"Aragorn-" began Eomer softly, thinking that perhaps it was time to escort the young king back to his rooms and consult a healer and that all of this had been done too quickly.

"No, Eomer. This is right. This is how it must happen. We will bring the Dark Lord to us, fight him on our terms, not his and we will win."

"We still wouldn't stand a chance!" exclaimed one of the elderly Council members that Aragorn recognised from Osgiliath. He wondered that the man had been able to hold his tongue for this long. "You would lead us to certain death?"

Aragorn thought for a moment, grey eyes distant, giving the comment serious consideration. It had not escaped him that many of the army would not return if they went into battle. But he had to think of the future, of what Middle Earth could be again. If he did nothing, if they lived trapped in Minas Tirith, forever hounded by the Shadow until the race of Men finally faltered and failed, then everything else would have been in vain, everything sacrificed would have been for naught.

"Yes. For Middle Earth. For freedom."

The hush that descended next was a curious mix of pride and utter dismay. All eyes rested upon Aragorn but he did not flinch from them as he had once done. These were his people. He owed them strength. So he endured their gazes, waiting for a response, ready no matter what they came up with.

Much to everyone's surprise, it was the stranger who came forth first. He stepped out of the tighter circle that had formed around the king during the short debate and came to stand directly in front of him. Laying his hand on his chest over the position where his heart rested, Halbarad bowed his head solemnly.

"We, the Rangers of the North, shall follow you, my King," he declared formally.

For a moment, Aragorn found himself too stunned to reply. Relief surged in his chest, almost making his eyes water, but he shoved it aside and straightened himself out.

Returning the bow briefly, he said, "Thank you."

Jecha was next to declare his allegiance. That was far more expected. The Easterling had always shown great loyalty to the Crown. It would not falter now, in the face of danger and death. "I will follow you, my King."

This time, Aragorn just nodded his thanks.

The other commanders followed swiftly then. Eomer, Janor. Faramir was the last, somewhat more reluctant but with a steely determination in his grey eyes that Aragorn had never seen before. He voiced no concern about their future plans and ignored muffled murmurs of indignation from his gathered Council as he pledged fealty to the king.

"Thank you," Aragorn said to them all and he let the sentiment hang in the air for a long moment.

Then, the planning came. It would be no easy feat to take on Sauron and the armies of Mordor but after the victory at Minas Tirith, their spirits were high again and their confidence in their army great.

By the end of the meeting, the general plans had been laid out. It was late by the time the commanders and their king retired to bed. Come morning, the whole city would know of the plans against Mordor and there would be much reassuring to do.

First, before the attack, the commanders had insisted on something that Aragorn had been dreading ever since the day Legolas had confided in him his true birth-right: A coronation. To see the king crowned would be a great boost for morale for the people of united Gondor, the gathered advisors had maintained over Aragorn's continued reluctance about the whole thing. He was asking those people of Gondor to go into battle for him yet again. Already they trusted him but a coronation would serve to consolidate their loyalty and to participate in a small ceremony before the people of Minas Tirith and wear the crown of the king was deemed a small price to pay for such fierce loyalty. Despite all his misgivings, Aragorn nevertheless stood quietly as they had hashed out the details of his coronation. It was decided: the loyal Men of Minas Tirith would be gather on the top level of the great retaken city and watch as Faramir, the current ruling Steward, crowned Aragorn the rightful King of Gondor at last.

That night, Aragorn went to bed filled with both new hope and great anxiety. He didn't sleep well; just lay on his bed of furs before his luxurious fire and thought about what was waiting for him the next day. How things had changed. So fast. One minute, he was walking the Old Forest Road with a reluctant guardian and the next he was here, alone, about to be crowned king. He wondered at what Legolas would have thought of all this. Alone in the dark, he smiled at this. Of course his mentor would have told him to grin and bear what was coming whilst at the same time retreating to the shadows to avoid interacting with any of the Men sealing Aragorn's fate. He was still uncertain as to whether he considered this a gift or a curse.

OIOI

The coronation happened within the week and was no big affair. It couldn't possibly be. People were still grieving for what had been lost and reeling from the aftermath of the ferocious Battle of Pelennor Fields. And yet, by midday, hundreds had gathered, awaiting the moment their leader would be publically named. Every man, woman and child capable of doing so came to the highest level of Minas Tirith, gathered outside of the elaborate throne room where the commanders had spread the word that morning that the ceremony would take place. The whole place was fairly buzzing with excitement. Many had interacted with their king at some point for he had been instrumental in preparing for the attacks and everyone knew the importance of this ceremony to name Aragorn as their official king. It meant a lot to them all. Forever would they be loyal to the commanders and Steward who had led them as far as Osgiliath but this signified a whole new beginning for the scattered race of Men reunited and that was something to rejoice in.

On the steps leading to the throne room, stood Eomer, Faramir and Jecha. All were dressed well, although by no means grandly. They wore no sign on their persons of their respective ranks. Only Jecha looked mildly impressive in his scarlet robes and finely polished belts and exotic-styled weaponry but that was nothing out of the ordinary; his splendour was a common sight. They all waited patiently for Aragorn to join them, admiring the strength of their people as they turned out in the midday gloom to witness an event that would change them as a people for good and quite possibly change the fortunes of Middle Earth.

Inside the throne room, stood the man about to be honoured. Aragorn paced nervously, as he had been doing for most of the night and well into the morning, the heels of his well-worn shoes clicking loudly on the splendid marble floor. He could hear outside the chatter of his people. They were all waiting for his appearance, some excited, others mournful. Butterflies flapped in his stomach, making him grateful that he had declined the offer of a porridge breakfast.

With great courage he had strode into battle, leading his people against the near impossible forces of the Shadow and bringing them out victorious against impossible odds; but facing Sauron's blood-thirsty hoards was infinitely better than what now awaited him. Orcs went down at the stroke of a blade but this was a far more sedate battle that nonetheless terrified him. He knew expectations were high for him and he recognised too that things might well turn sour when people realised what he had in store for them.

Smoothing out his jacket and repositioning Anduril, which rested reassuringly in its scabbard against his leg, Aragorn walked to the door and back. It wouldn't be long before Faramir would announce him and he would have to go out and be looked upon by all those hundreds of people. He wasn't entirely sure what the order of business would be. He knew there was a crown – a magnificent thing crafted from gold and rubies that would be placed upon his head as a symbol of his royal status. When he had been shown the item he had almost laughed at its ridiculousness. Of all the things the Orcs could have taken and they had left this priceless monstrosity behind. Why, he had asked Faramir in all seriousness as he'd tried on the sacred symbol of power, had the Uruk-hai not thought to loot the vaults beneath the city? Faramir had smiled at him and reminded him that gold meant little to the servants of Mordor.

Still, he had reminded himself that despite all the pomp that was about to surround him, he was being bestowed a great honour and must do all in his power to prove himself worthy of it. And that was the thought more than any other that terrified him.

Not for the first time that morning, Aragorn's thoughts drifted to his mentor. Legolas lay resting now beneath the city in the beautiful crypts designed for the kings of old. Although Aragorn thought that the Elf would hate such an entombment he could not bear to place his guardian upon a funeral pyre and stand and watch one he loved like a father burn. It didn't seem right to Aragorn that Legolas was not here to see this when he had worked so very hard to see it come to pass. Of all people, the Elf deserved to be there.

These despairing thoughts were dangerous though and he pushed them aside with grim determination. He had grieved Legolas' passing and now he was set on completing the next phase. First, get the coronation over with and then grant freedom to his people. So simple when one looked on the surface but beneath the veneer of simplicity laid an impossibly complex plan that Aragorn himself remained unsure about.

Still, first he had to concentrate on the day ahead. Once that chore was over, he could look to the future and concentrate on what must be done.

Faramir's voice, booming and strong and sounding very much like his father Denethor had done when he had lived, drifted into the throne room although Aragorn paid little attention to the actual words being spoken. He knew his cue was almost upon him. Faramir was lamenting the loss of soldiers fallen during the war and then commending the bravery of those who had fought and then wishing the swift return to health to those injured in defence of their city. Aragorn was glad that he didn't have to take on that particular responsibility. He didn't think he'd sound as convincing to the gathered crowds as Faramir did.

Aragorn took the few moments he had left on his own to pace back and forth, hoping to calm his nerves. Then he stood still and waited by the doors for the introduction he knew was coming. Faramir prattled on for a while longer and people lapped up his words of praise and sympathy. The Steward was a born public speaker, good at projecting empathy and praise upon his rapt audience.

"…Your king!" declared Faramir proudly and then dead silence as they waited.

That was his summons. Taking a deep breath, Aragorn pushed through the door and was almost knocked over by a wall of cheering noise that had burst into life at his appearance. He faltered on the top step, overwhelmed. Gazing out over the masses gathered to greet him, Aragorn could hardly believe what he was seeing with his own eyes. People were cheering him joyously. He couldn't pick out any faces he knew but he must have had friends out there and that calmed him somewhat.

Faramir sent him a small smile that Aragorn thought almost bordered on false. For all his many virtues, Aragorn still felt that Faramir still did not entirely trust him.

Aragorn took a deep breath as he waited for the people to be calm and quiet again. Then the ceremony began.

It was, just as had been promised, mercifully short. Faramir said a few short words about the responsibility of Crown and Kingdom and Aragorn wondered whether these were the words the kings before him had spoken or whether the Steward had just made them up. Then he was asked to kneel. A buzz of excitement filled the courtyard at this. Aragorn knelt on the step before the Steward. Faramir turned then and retrieved the King's crown from the pillow held out to him by Jecha. He moved it reverentially to Aragorn and lowered it slowly onto the king's head with great ceremony. No words. There was no need.

The crown nestled perfectly upon the dark hair, like it had been crafted for him alone to wear. The weight was significant; and not just the heavy gold but the meaning behind that ghastly-looking halo was immense. Aragorn's eyes slipped closed. Panic fluttered briefly in his heart but he did not allow the fear to overcome him and when he opened his eyes again it was to the smiling faces of his friends watching him with pride.

"Thank you," he said softly to Faramir and once more the man offered him a lacklustre smile.

Turning, Aragorn looked out over the people gathered, now watching in silence. The excitement had dimmed and given way to delight. Gondor's people mingled easily with the Rohirrim and the remaining Rangers, for the first time that Aragorn had seen. It brought gratification to his own heart to see at last that Men were willing to be united under one banner of the king.

For a long moment, he just studied them all, taking in the sight. So long he had worked towards this and now that the moment was finally here, he was pleased. His grief was put to the back of his mind for the time being as he focused only on what lay ahead of him. There would be time later to dwell on the past once more.

"Thank you all for being here," he called, his voice carried over the crowd on the light breeze, not as practiced as Faramir's but strong nonetheless. Shuffling ensued as the crowd waited for what would come next from their newly crowned king. This was the first time that Aragorn had addressed them as a whole. "Today is a day of celebration and also one of remembrance. Our fallen friends will forever be missed. What they sacrificed for the return of this city to the hands of Men will never be forgotten by any within the White City. Great Men all, they will live forever in our memories and we must ever strive to make their sacrifices worthwhile. We must fight for our Freedom; finish the work that they started upon Pelennor."

Uncertain silence followed this declaration. This was not the joyful speech they had been expecting this day.

"Tomorrow, we ride to Mordor. We will face our enemy, meet him head-on. And we will best him. The Dark Lord of Mordor will fall before the might of this Kingdom Reunited. And Men will be Free and powerful on Arda once more. I will not let this great kingdom fall again into the hands of the Shadow. Arda will stand free and whole once more and Men will lead the way to that victory."

Mumbling started up then. Definitely not what they had been expecting. Behind him, Aragorn felt the commanders shuffling uncertainly. He had not gone over with them what he would say and he was blatantly ignoring their advice of a soft approach for his first speech to the people.

"I know you are afraid of the future, and you are right to be so. I am afraid too. But we must be strong now. It is that strength that has carried us through so far. We are so close to the freedom we crave.

"It will not be easy. I will not lie. The battle will be hard. We may lose more. But we will not lose the war against the Shadow."

He touched upon the crown on his head, fingers caressing the fine jewels embedded into flawless gold. "I will ever strive to earn this great honour you have bestowed upon me," Aragorn got back to what Faramir had advised him to say to his people. "I thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Together we shall make this kingdom great once again. I know it."

Aragorn fell silent then, eyes gazing over the crowd one final time before returning slowly to the throne room and out of their sight.

"Uh, that was not what we discussed yesterday," Faramir said, hurriedly following him in and out of the sight of the people of Gondor.

"No." Aragorn removed the crown from his head. It was ceremonial; he had no intention of wearing it all the time. It was a relief to have the thing removed from his head.

"Why not?"

"Because they did not need to hear a pre-rehearsed speech. They needed the truth."

"To scare them into compliance?"

"If necessary."

Faramir sighed loudly then but moved on to the next topic he wanted to discuss with the king. "There was something else-"

"Yes?"

"My title." The Gondorian man had wanted to bring this up for a long while but had not found the opportunity. Aragorn glanced over his shoulder at him, eyebrows raised in question at the sharp change of subject. "We haven't discussed it yet but…the Stewardship. I know that technically now that there is a king there is no use for a keeper of Gondor but I believe I can still be useful to you-"

"You can keep your title, Faramir. I do have use for you as a Steward. In fact, your help will be invaluable."

"In keeping my men in line?"

"Among other things." Aragorn threw his jacket off and turned to Faramir, asking, "Was there anything else?"

"No, that was all. Unless you need anything."

"No, thank you."

With that, Aragorn found himself alone again in the spacious room. He walked to the tall window and looked out over the people still gathered outside. They had not begun to disperse yet, perhaps waiting for him to put in another appearance or maybe just basking in the wonderful celebratory feeling that blanketed the city. Aragorn didn't care. It didn't matter to him one bit their reasons for staying. Let them wallow in their relief for a while. Soon the respite would all be over and it would be back to war.

Not appreciating the feeling of being cooped up any longer than necessary, Aragorn left the throne room, avoiding areas of the city where he might meet any wandering Men not in attendance on the Seventh Level. He met no resistance at all, not even the guards posted around the city noticed him. Legolas had taught him well how to sneak. It was a skill that had come in handy many times and all his experience now worked to his advantage. Although it seemed a little strange, being forced to sneak around his own kingdom. From his hand dangled the golden crown of the Kings of Gondor. He couldn't bear to wear it all the time within the city just yet even though Faramir had suggested that that was exactly what the people expected of him; carrying it would have to suffice for the time being. At his side, Anduril rested patiently and solidly, bringing him inner strength with its mere presence. Legolas' white knives were tucked into his belt. In his pocket the Ring burned fiercely. It knew what was coming next.

Aragorn made his way through the deserted corridors, going ever lower until the grey light from outside dimmed into darkness and he was forced to tread carefully in the gloom so as not to stumble. For extra security, he trailed his hands along the walls in case he lost his footing down the steep, narrow staircase. There were no torches down here for there was not generally any need for them and he did not want to bring one with him. Over the years his eyes had grown quite accustomed to the darkness; it didn't bother him as it had done in his youth when all natural shadows scared him just as much as the unnatural ones did now in his adulthood.

There was a definite chill in the air but that was not the reason for the sustained trembling in his fingers. With the hand that held his crown, he pulled his jacket together although didn't button it up. Soon, he thought he would face the fire and would appreciate not being swaddled in thick clothing.

As he got nearer the bottom of the winding steps, a flickering orange light of torches began to illuminate the white stone. His destination lay just around the corner and Aragorn felt his heart begin to suddenly race. For the whole night and day he had been preparing himself mentally for the task ahead of him but now that the time was here, he faltered on the steps, grasping at the stone wall with his free hand to brace himself against his fear.

Taking a deep, somewhat shuddery breath to steady himself, Aragorn forced his feet to carry him around the corner and onto the plateau. The stone room that waited for him at the bottom of the stairs was magnificent, more so even than the throne room far above.

It was white stone, just like the rest of Minas Tirith's marvellous façade. Everywhere stood raised platforms on which rested the carved images of the kings past and valorous knights. This was the great crypt of the Kings and Stewards of Minas Tirith. Every care was taken to ensure that the dead royals of Gondor rested in spectacular peace beneath their living realm overhead. White marble was everywhere. Great blocks were carved in effigy of the fallen monarchs and warriors. Serene but eerily blank faces stared up at Aragorn as he passed them by. Blank white eyes stared at the ceiling, hands rested across broad chests, clasping long swords to their bodies as trophies, symbols of past glories before death had claimed them. On some of the plinths were carved inscriptions that Aragorn did not pause to read; words celebrating long, prosperous lives perhaps or extolling the virtues of kings considered to be better in retrospect than in life. It was a sad place, filled with reverence and memory. Aragorn thought it strange that the halls of the dead were more splendid than those of the living and he wondered at what his ancestors had thought of death. They respected it whereas he feared it, despised it. Different times, he supposed.

Although he was alone down here amongst the dusty bones of his ancestors, Aragorn walked quietly, respectfully past them. These men were better in his mind than his most fateful ancestor. They had not been tempted by Darkness and power. They had not ravaged their kingdoms with their poor decisions as Isildur had done. He felt that he could have learned a lot from these great men had he been able to communicate with them. But they offered him nothing but empty marble gazes now as he walked by them.

Legolas lay down here also. Aragorn had had to fight for the privilege; an Elf resting amongst kings of Men. Faramir had balked at the idea that the Elf be laid amongst the heroes of his people. But Aragorn had persisted. Legolas deserved this honour, perhaps more even than these men from times of relative peace, laying at rest in their caskets surrounded by opulent marble and jewels from when the world was an entirely different place. Faramir had eventually been overruled when Eomer also agreed that Legolas should be laid to rest in the crypts of Minas Tirith. The rest of the council had followed the decision of the king after that. And so the Prince of Mirkwood now laid amongst the Kings of Men. Apt seeing as he had restored their kingdom.

He was sealed within the tomb pre-prepared for Denethor and never used. What use was it, Aragorn had argued to an outraged Faramir when he had first made the suggestion, for the casket to go unused when there was one now who deserved it? It didn't help matters with Faramir that Denethor laid buried beneath the soil in an unmarked grave in Osgiliath. Aragorn decided as he walked amongst the Stewards' ancestors, that he would rectify that later when the war was over. Denethor, despite all his foibles, deserved a proper resting place like those who had come before him. He led his people for years, kept them alive at least. For that he deserved at least some kind of acknowledgement and respect.

Aragorn passed Legolas' tomb by without pausing. His fingers ran over the smooth, cool stone but he did not halt. If he did then he would be swayed from his path.

The source of his determination and anxiety rested on the lid of an ancient tomb, inscribed with writing too worn with age to be legible and covered with the same piece of fine Rohan cloth Aragorn had seen many times before. He came to a halt four paces from the tomb. For a long moment, he stared at the ball hidden beneath the finery. He could see nothing. The thing was dark and dormant but he felt like it knew he was there.

His hands still shaking slightly, Aragorn raised the heavy crown to his head and rested it carefully there, taking care that it was on straight and would look impressive enough to whatever awaited him. He straightened his jacket out, leaving it unbuttoned. It didn't matter either way. Next, he took Anduril from where it rested in his scabbard, pulled it out smoothly and looked up and down the impressive length of steel. The weapon thrummed in his hand, alive with mystical Elven strength.

Taking a deep breath, Aragorn took three paces forward and leaned forward to pull off the cloth from the Palantir. Immediately power blasted over him and the Stone burst into life, filling with its natural purple light. It churned like the clouds in the sky, its depths writhing and swirling.

Aragorn took the last step and stared unflinchingly into the orb.

"I am here," he said in what he had hoped would be a strong voice but what actually turned out to be little more than a faint squeak. Clearing his throat, he tried again and was more pleased with the result. "I am here," he shouted into the orb, confident of the fact that he would be heard.

Indeed, a moment later the Palantir exploded with orange light. A fire raged within and blasted out towards him and Aragorn recoiled slightly although he felt none of the heat he had been expecting. It was undoubtedly the Dark Lord that now looked back at him. A loud screech came from the Stone but Aragorn wondered whether it was in his mind rather than reverberating through the cavernous crypt. After the initial burst of flame, the Palantir quieted somewhat, still swirling orange, tempestuous fire in its depths but no longer roiling as if in anger.

"I see you," came a hissed voice that Aragorn recognised from his previous encounters.

Holding Anduril proudly up before him, Aragorn managed to keep the tremble out of his hand and his voice. "Here I am."

Laughter, low and contained. No worry. No concern. Humour at the tricks used by boys. "Fool."

"Maybe. You and I shall meet soon. Then we shall see."

More laughter, more filled with humour now than before. It found his declaration amusing. "Fool," hissed the disembodied voice again.

"Here I am."

Another hissed, "I see you."

"Come and get me." Aragorn raised Anduril higher. Sauron would not have forgotten the Sword that was Broken that was for sure.

And indeed, the voice screeched again but came with no other words. The flames within the Stone flared bright again; fuelled by the anger of the Master of Mordor, it seemed. Aragorn didn't care. Let him rage and scream.

"Come get me," he said one last time and then threw the cloth back over the Palantir, breaking the connection. He felt its power pushing against him, searching for a connection and he stepped away. It could no longer see him. The link was broken.

He smiled ever so slightly in satisfaction even as he trembled with fear and adrenaline. Sauron had gotten a glimpse of him and now he would covet more than ever that which he wanted. True, Aragorn would have preferred that Sauron openly declare war on him then and there, to have the firm knowledge that the Dark Lord was coming for him, but he could not say he had guaranteed that. And yet, Aragorn remained sure that Sauron would come. He was angry, furious at this bold intrusion, at the King of Gondor using his own weapon against him and showing him what the king had become. He would have seen the crown of kings resting upon the man's head and seen Anduril, the sword that had struck him down once before. Aragorn had not shown Sauron the Ring of Power for there was no need to. He knew that the Dark Lord would have felt the Ring calling to him and he himself had felt the pulsating power of the band growing almost unbearable in his pocket. It had taunted its Dark Master, just as the king had known it would. He knew also that it would infuriate Sauron to know of it. Aragorn had something he wanted and he was openly flaunting it before the Shadow. The temptation would be too great to resist.

A strange relief washed over Aragorn. It was done. His plan was in motion at last.

What happened next would determine whether he would ever get to stand in this crypt again, so he took the opportunity to go back to where Legolas lay. He laid his hand flat on the marble.

"I'm sorry," he said softly into the quiet. "Wish me luck for what lays ahead."

With that, he turned and left. The Palantir could stay down here gathering dust alongside the bones of his ancestors. He had no further use for it. He had conveyed his message; it was but just another piece of stone to him now. He left the torch burning. It would go out soon but for a while at least Legolas could rest bathed in light, just as he had always wished to be.

Perhaps when Aragorn returned here, he could convey good news to his fallen guardian. It would really be something to tell Legolas that he had succeeded, that it hadn't all been for nothing. He smiled a small smile to himself as he ascended the steep staircase back out to the upper Levels of Minas Tirith.

His reckoning was at hand. Soon the world would be changed forever and perhaps all who rested down here would be proud of their king.

To Be Continued…