The War of Light and Shadow

By Freddie23

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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who is continuing to read and thank you for the reviews. I hope you will enjoy this new chapter.

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Chapter 78 – Loyalty To The King

Fabric branded with the emblems of Gondor flapped and snapped softly in the perfect breeze, occasionally snagging around the hastily crafted poles on which the banners of the king were held proudly aloft. The bearers subtly shook them until they flew straight and proud once more, not letting the wind dull the splendour of this moment. They led the way ahead. The entire army of Men followed them into battle. It was a great and rare honour, the young standard-bearers knew, to carry the emblem of Gondor and a greater honour still to do so at the side of the king returned, a ceremony not observed for hundreds of years now.

Aragorn's hard, determined grey gaze was fixed straight ahead, unwavering, unyielding. He had no cause to look behind him. He knew his people followed faithfully. At his side walked the standard-bearers and he could feel their pride and their excitement. Long had they waited for this, to march under a unified banner into battle against Middle Earth's greatest and most terrifying foe, the oppressor of the Human Race. They knew also, what it was they were marching into. Aragorn had spared no detail, even as his counsellors had advised against such brutal honesty. He had insisted on full disclosure, stating that no Man would be branded a coward should he or she wish to remain behind in the protection of Minas Tirith. Faramir had been furious at his candour. But it had paid off. Few had taken the safe route, even those who might have not been considered suitable for battle had aligned themselves in the envoy on Gladden Fields ready to march against the vast might of Mordor.

Aragorn had felt such immense love and pride for them that tears had welled in his eyes as they had come forward to proclaim their loyalty. But he was a commander, a king, and could not be seen to fall apart before those he commanded, so he had shoved this unprecedented emotion aside and had led them out of their newly reclaimed lands, ignoring the hundreds of people deemed unsuitable to go into battle – the old, young and infirm – behind them, seeing them off and praying for a swift and victorious return.

A strange peace had settled in his heart as he'd stood at the gates of Minas Tirith, soldiers swarming around him as they prepared for the great march. He knew for once that he was doing the right thing and that there was no other reasonable course of action. All doubt, all fear had left him and he felt for the first time like the leader he was born to be, like the leader they expected him to be. A weight had been lifted off his shoulders. This was his birth-right and he knew now what that meant. How much he had always underestimated it. He could not escape his destiny, for everything that had happened in his life so far, every challenge, tragedy and lesson had led him to this very moment, where he stood united with a people who looked to him for guidance and loved him as their king.

Perhaps his change of heart had some bearing on the people who now stood behind him, undeterred by the massive task that awaited them. Maybe they could sense the change in their previously reluctant king. If so, then Aragorn was glad, because he knew he would need their faith in the years to come. It would be no easy battle and the unfailing allegiance of his people would determine his victory, not just against Sauron but also against the deep seated Shadow that darkened their lands.

Not that Aragorn was not slightly nervous about the upcoming meeting of the two great armies. He knew well the dangers, knew what he would have to face at the end of this march. And he could not truthfully call himself confident, for in his heart he knew that Sauron would do everything in his power to destroy him entirely. But he remained determined and that had to count for something.

He had walked at the front of the lines the whole time, never falling behind or pushing too far forward. He was one with his army. That was vital. They had to know that he would always be beside them, during the march, into battle and when the war was done and they were granted their freedom. They appreciated that. He set a steady if slightly fast pace, following the path towards Mordor, well-trodden over the years by much Orc traffic to and from Minas Tirith. Sauron too would come this way, he was sure. Why would the Dark Lord make things hard for himself and his army? On his head, Aragorn wore the Crown of Gondor, impractical in battle but perfect for the morale his people so desperately needed and that was important considering what they were walking into. He wore a tunic emblazoned with the emblem of Gondor, he was dressed in clean clothes, handed to him by an elderly woman the night before who insisted he take them as her contribution to the effort, although she refused to tell him where she had gotten the uniform from. He appreciated it nonetheless. It made him feel better somehow; like a true leader for a change. Anduril hung at his side, patient but ready for action and Legolas' knives say at his other side. He almost smiled at himself when he judged himself to look almost as impressive as the Easterling Jecha who marched at his side, a pace behind him out of respect. Legolas would have laughed at that, he was sure.

Jecha was not alone at Aragorn's side though. Interspersed between the standard bearers were the other commanders. Janor, Faramir, Halbarad. Gimli was there too, having sworn fealty to Aragorn and told the King that he would stand at his side the whole time – literally, it seemed. Eomer rode at the far end of the line, for he was atop a great war horse. Behind him rode several more of the Rohirrim, their best horseback warriors. Not many of the beasts had survived thus far but the Rohirrim loved their horses and Eomer had told any objectors that he would not feel right riding into such a battle without them. They were certainly impressive. Alternately, they carried the banners of Rohan and Gondor. Truly Men united.

Everyone else walked as one block behind the commanders. Gondorians mingled with the remaining Rohirrim and the Rangers. Never, back when they had first joined forces, would Aragorn have ever imagined that he would witness such a thing. Their oneness bolstered him further still. There was no joviality in the air though. No one spoke much, expect to utter the odd comment on their journey. Certainly, there was no laughter or rousing song. Confident in their path they may have been but they were experienced enough to know what lay ahead and it was no laughing matter. The mood did not seem right to rejoice in the upcoming battle. It would be a relief when it was all over with but there was no need to celebrate its coming.

The army was armed to the teeth. Every weapon that had been within Minas Tirith, whether it be of Human or Orc creation, had found its way onto the soldiers. They carried them in their hands, in packs, strapped to their backs, in sheaths – any way they could. Nothing was wasted. There were swords, daggers, axes, a cruel selection of Orkish whips, bows and arrows, pikes, lances. So many weapons slowed them down a little but it was worth it for such an armoury. They would be needed.

Aragorn himself carried only three weapons: the dagger which he had carried for most of his life tucked into his belt, Legolas' white handled knives and of course Anduril itself. But it felt enough. More than enough. Each weapon had defeated Orc and Uruk many times before. No reason why this time should be any different. He was not kitted out in armour, although a few of the other soldiers, mostly those from Gondor had deemed it an acceptable risk to forsake manoeuvrability for a second, metal skin. Personally, Aragorn found it too constricting, too annoying. Clunky and awkward, metal armour wasn't for him. Out of the other commanders, only Faramir wore a metal breastplate, etched with the symbol of Gondor. A family heirloom perhaps, Aragorn thought, saved by Denethor or some ancestor after deserting Minas Tirith the first time. He didn't begrudge the man that. He hoped it brought comfort to him.

They were making good time on their march, moving quick and steady, winding towards the mountains but Aragorn did not let them pause for rest. He had a destination in mind for the confrontation and he wanted to reach it with some time to spare before the Dark Army approached. Nobody seemed to mind the pace too much. They were eager to get somewhere where they might have some kind of advantage against their enemy. So there were no complaints either, which Aragorn appreciated. In spite of his new-found confidence, he wasn't sure that he could handle a barrage of complaints from his people.

Finally, they came to the place that Faramir had described during the stages of planning. It was a near perfect point of attack for the Men. Near the base of the great mountain range dividing Gondor from Mordor, they could easily see the massive Shadow army coming their way. It was good strategically because from the slopes, no weapon could traverse the distance and do them any harm and there was a deep dip at the base of the mountains, so they would have time to prepare before Sauron's army could attack them. It gave them a rare advantage and Aragorn found himself pleased that Faramir had been sensible enough to look at the maps and find such a camping place for them. At the very least, it put them on a more even footing with the Dark Army and Aragorn would take whatever small advantage he could get.

It was almost twilight by the time they stopped at the peak of the hill. Sentries were sent out to survey the area and defences were set up. No shelter was available but they were fortunate enough that the weather remained warm and dry. It perked up spirits even more. Upon Aragorn's order, everyone went about setting everything they needed up. Fires were lit and food was started cooking. There was no reason to conceal their whereabouts. Sauron knew they were there. Any signal that hastened the Dark Lord's approach, Aragorn considered a positive so they were ordered to build the fires up as much as possible with the fuel they had available. Let the Darkness come to the beacons of Gondor.

"Well, here we are," sighed Eomer, having dismounted his horse and passed it off to another of the Rohirrim to care for. "No turning back now."

Aragorn stripped off his jacket, realising for the first time that he was sweating in the heat and asked, "You weren't ever thinking about turning back, were you?"

"Of course not. Still: the point of no return."

"That is good."

"If you say so." Eomer looked around at the gathered Men as they unpacked their meagre belongings and set up blankets for sleeping on the ground. There was a buzz of excitement in the air now and certainly a relief that the march was over. Eomer's gaze drifted back to Aragorn and he asked, "Do you need anything?"

"No."

"Then I'll leave you to rest." His green eyes moved over instead towards the mountains. They looked increasingly dark and threatening as the sun's light left the grey, overcast skies.

Sauron was just beyond those towering mountains, coming ever closer to them. Aragorn could almost feel his presence. A gentle tingle of anticipation – not necessarily born out of fear – rippled through him every so often, reminding him of what was coming. And the Ring in his pocket fairly screamed at him. It knew what was coming, could feel the change and he knew it wanted to get back to its master. Shoving aside the feeling, he shook his head and left Eomer staring at the dark mountains.

Sleep, he feared, would evade him this night but he laid down on the cold, hard ground and tried to rest anyway. It was sensible, to gather his strength to him before the fight came. For a long while, he laid with his eyes closed, feigning sleep until finally it crept over him and he drifted into reassuring, smothering darkness.

He dreamed, unsurprisingly, of Mordor. He dreamed of the Dark Lord, huge and dark against the raging flames lapping all around him. Sauron stood there, laughing at his attempts to reach him through the fire, at his screams as the heat scorched his skin. The more frustrated Aragorn became, the louder the Dark Lord laughed. When the amusement had died, Sauron simply stepped forward and with one great blow of Anduril, which he now held snugly in his hand as if it had always been there, ended the life of the King of Gondor.

It was at this point that Aragorn woke up, sweat beading on his forehead and chest, which was heaving with every strained breath he took. He was not dead, he realised with a surge of relief. But the fear of it remained and he didn't dare go back to sleep after that. Instead he laid on his back, looking up at the clouded sky, hand fisted around the band of gold still held in his pocket, thinking of what the next day would bring.

OIOI

The next day, it turned out, brought very little but rain. The heavy skies opened and for an hour after dawn, it poured from the sky in great splashes, soaking everything and everyone almost instantly. The Men fought to keep the fires lit but soon gave up the battle and instead focused on keeping their remaining supply of food and wood dry. They sat huddled under whatever shelter they had – blankets, jackets. Only the horses revelled in the deluge. They seemed to love being soaked after the intense heat of the journey.

Aragorn spent most of the day staring at the mountains, what little of them he could see through the haze of rain. No sign yet had been seen by any of the scouts of the approaching army of Shadow, but Aragorn didn't require visual confirmation. He could hear them coming. He could feel them coming.

By the next evening, the rain had ceased and the heat had made it almost unbearably muggy and a fine mist was beginning to settle around them, almost shrouding the mountains from sight once more. It made the Men understandably nervous. They feared that they would not be able to see the approach of the Black Army, that Sauron and his minions would simply sneak up on them and the fight would be over before it began. Aragorn did not fear this though. Sauron's army, upon its approach, would be so blatantly obvious that not even the thickest fog could conceal its coming. He doubted that the Dark Lord would sneak up on them anyway. For all his faults, he had pride and would not be reduced to creeping around in the shadows. He'd want to face his foes head on, prove his strength. Just like Aragorn would.

Passing this reassurance on to his men proved all but useless however, so Aragorn ceased trying after a while and let their feeling of tension wash over him. He hoped that his peace, his serenity over the whole issue would go some way to easing their own tension but they remained tense and alert, eyes ever trained on the mountains.

The evening was quiet once more.

"The watches have all been set, my Lord," Jecha came to inform him, crouching down next to him and following his gaze up to the mountainside.

"Good. He may send scouts ahead to meet us."

"Then we'll be prepared."

Aragorn nodded and turned to face the man with a small smile. "Thank you, Jecha."

Dark eyes turned to the king and there was a glint of a smile hiding behind them. "For what exactly are you thanking me?"

"You have been very…loyal."

"Loyalty is a much lauded quality amongst my people." He stood up again, tall and strong beneath his garish robes. "I thank you for the compliment, my Lord."

Aragorn just laughed softly, a short chuckle that seemed more edgy than it did amused. "Do you think we will survive this, Jecha? Do you believe we'll come out the other side of this battle alive?"

"I thought that didn't matter to you."

The king shrugged. "It doesn't, I suppose. Long ago I pledged myself to this quest. I cannot, will not, turn back now." He sighed, heavy and deep. "To the very end."

A gloved hand was lowered to Aragorn's shoulder and squeezed gently in reassurance. "Let us hope his end and not ours."

"Let us hope."

For a moment, Aragorn fought not to squirm under the man's intense stare but finally it was broken and Jecha told him, "Get some rest tonight."

"I'll try."

Then he was alone again. The camp fell quiet and Aragorn decided to take Jecha's advice. He laid down on the ground and pulled his jacket tight around him. Arms folded around his chest, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. The shrouding mist, however, was, despite all his assurances to the others, making him uneasy as well. He found that he felt somewhat constricted by it and wished that he could simply open his eyes and see what lay ahead of him. Legolas, he knew would have berated him for such foolishness. There was no point in wishing for a change in the weather. One simply had to make the most of it.

Sleep snuck up on him after a few hours but it was short-lived.

He wasn't quite sure what woke him up. A feeling, perhaps. Whatever it was, it startled him. He sat up abruptly, looking about himself to find that the mists had dissipated somewhat and that in the light of the still burning fires, he could see the shapes of his sleeping men all around him. The camp was quiet and yet the feeling that something wasn't right tingled on the edges of Aragorn's senses, warning him to be wary.

His attention was instinctively drawn towards the mountain range towering over them. Even now, he could still sense the Darkness that was coming towards them and he focussed now on it more intensely. Getting to his feet, he stepped around sleeping bodies and squinted up the mountainside. There it was. The thing that had disturbed him, so small that he would never have noticed it had he not been searching. Vague lights shimmered near the summit, in exactly the place where Faramir had said the army of Darkness would come.

A haze of orange was all that he could see but he knew what it meant. Sauron was coming at last.

"It seems that they are not fearful of detection either," Jecha said, startling Aragorn as he emerged from the shadows where he had been sitting for most of the night, watching and waiting for just this moment.

"There is no point. They know we know they're coming. What use is there in hiding?"

Jecha nodded wisely and turned his gaze back to the slow-moving orange haze.

"Impossible to tell how many," he commented, unable to determine just how large the army was from the blur of torchlight.

"All of Mordor will come. He will spare nothing to end this."

Dark eyes flickered to the king at his side. "Reassuring."

"It won't matter. Sooner or later we would have had to rid the earth of them anyway."

"And the sooner the better, you think?"

"Yes."

Jecha found himself surprised and mightily impressed by this sudden and unprecedented change in the young king. "They'll be here within the day."

"But they will wait until darkness to attack. The night is more natural to them and easier for the Orcs to bear, even under the clouded skies."

"That could make things difficult for us."

"Perhaps marginally more difficult than during the daytime, I suppose. But it will make no real difference to our effort."

For a long moment, grey eyes scanned the dark expanse where the mountains stood impressively tall and came to rest upon the orange smudge of torchlight in the far distance. Then, with a soft sigh, Aragorn turned away from the threatening sight and returned to sit near the fire. He knew he wouldn't get back to sleep now, despite his calm façade, adrenaline surged through him and his heart beat fast in anticipation. So he settled for simply watching the flickering of the flames from his own fire. He wondered idly whether Sauron could see their flames in the distance, whether he worried about the numbers of Men assembled at the base of the mountains. Aragorn hoped so. He hoped Sauron was afraid of what awaited him and yet he doubted it. He doubted Sauron would fear him.

OIOI

Aragorn watched the dawn come before he got up and began waking people around him. He wanted his Men to be ready for what was now coming. There were preparations still to do. Weapons needed readying, strategies needed working through and perfecting. He was sure that they wouldn't appreciate being woken so early from what might well be the last peaceful night they had for a while, but he was restless and could wait no longer to do something.

The day was spent doing just that: Preparing. He checked everything. He had soldiers taking aside the new-comers to battle, going over the basic weapons training and attempting to get them ready for what lay ahead, refreshing what they had been taught. It might have been an impossible task but he hoped that it would make them feel a little better about going into battle.

The camp was busy, Men running everywhere. Aragorn liked it like that. It made it feel like maybe he was doing something useful. He knew though that today would be otherwise quiet.

Much to his surprise, he was proven wrong. At midday, he told people to get some rest, which they all did with relief. He wanted them to be rested up before they clashed with the army of Shadow in battle; they would need all their strength for what lay ahead. However, things were not quiet. As everyone settled down, a call came up from the scouts around the large camp.

Immediately, everyone leapt up, scrambled to get ready, snatched up their weapons, afraid that the attack was coming earlier than the commanders had predicted. They remained standing, still, waiting, banners flapping in the wind, with Aragorn at the front, as bemused as all the others. But nothing happened. It was eerily quiet and he figured the prelude to the attack would be noisy and violent.

With every man on edge, the Human scout who appeared was lucky not to have been struck down as he emerged from the haze of the daylight. Upon seeing hundreds of swords, spears and knives pointed directly at him, ready to strike him down, the scout, riding one of the precious Rohan horses, skidded to a halt and instinctively threw up his hands in a non-threatening gesture.

"I'm an ally. Don't shoot!" he called desperately to the warriors.

No one moved, as though fearing that this was some kind of terrible trick, until Aragorn lowered Anduril to the ground and Eomer, finally recognising one of his own scouts, called the all clear.

"I bring news," the scout told them once the threat to his life had passed.

"They're here." Aragorn spoke softly but the words were heard clearly enough for everyone was holding their breath waiting for the news the scout bore.

The feeling amongst the Men changed again suddenly at hearing this. Panic riffled through the crowd and they turned to one another, whispering their fears and occasionally their excitement. Aragorn let their emotions wash over him as he always did. He would not be pulled down by the terror of the upcoming fight. Besides, he still firmly believed that Sauron would not launch an attack until after nightfall. It was the only strategy that made sense.

So, much to the bemusement and irritation of his army, Aragorn sent them back to rest up some more, although he was prudent enough to place further security around the perimeter and also send the scouts back out to report back on the Dark army's approach. He had, after all, been wrong before, and he would not risk the lives of his men on a hunch.

They would wait for the Dark Lord to come. Aragorn would not risk his winning due to some skittish men eager for battle. He could feel Sauron now. So close, almost breathing down his neck. He could sense the tension in the air and knew that it came also from the Shadow army as well as his own. The united Humans had, after all, taken down the Dark Lord's first lieutenant as well as one of the dreaded Nazgul. His army would be foolish not to be afraid. Aragorn took some comfort in that thought. Soon he would face the one who had influenced his life, who had altered its course forever. And he was not afraid.

To Be Continued…