The War of Light and Shadow

By Freddie23

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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.

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Chapter 80

The War of Light and Shadow – Part Two

"Yes," Sauron hissed darkly to himself, milky blue eyes narrowing beneath the shade of his hood. A smile split his dry lips and he tasted blood on his tongue at the unfamiliar action. From his vantage point, he could see that although his forces had been significantly depleted by the army of Men, they were still holding fast. Many Humans had died on the field of battle that day and many more would die before the end, he knew. It brought him joy of a kind to witness them falling to pieces, albeit slowly. His own army was holding true and strong, just as he had wished it would do. His Orcs and other allies would not quail under the threat of mere Humans. Aragorn was foolish to ever think they would. This was not the Battle of Helm's Deep, where a hunk of ancient stone was the only prize. This was the end game. All rested upon the outcome of this final great battle. The fate of Middle Earth was at stake.

Sauron could almost taste his victory at hand. He breathed deep, ignoring the rattling of his tortured lungs and the pain that billowed in his thin chest. He wanted to smell the wondrous scent of bloody, vicious battle. He had missed it so during his years in confinement.

Every blow the Men took, he smiled wider still, uncaring of the pain the action caused to his face. He wanted to revel in this success. He watched the banners so brazenly carried into battle as though Aragorn expected to plant them in the ground as markers of gained territory, fall along with their bearers, flutter to the ground to be trampled in the bloodied earth. He listened to the exquisite cries of pain and death all around him. Mostly Men, he imagined. His own creations would not scream in such a way. They would be honoured to die for him and his cause.

The brutality of the battle did not lessen or heighten his enjoyment of watching it. He did not care for the blood or the destructions wrought by swords and spears – even though he would not deny himself the entertainment of watching such atrocities – he only cared for the outcome and he was more certain than ever that he would be victorious now.

He told himself that he had never doubted his power but at the back of his mind, he could not deny that some doubt had for a time lingered. Aragorn had always surprised him in his actions, they were so very unpredictable. But there was to be no surprise this time. Aragorn was doing what every other battling commander would do. There was nothing cunning about this fight. That, Sauron mused as he watched another black and silver banner flutter to the blood-soaked ground, would be his downfall. How could the king have become so sloppy so suddenly? Of course, he already knew the answer. The Elf.

How he had rejoiced when reports had come to him after the battle on Pelennor Fields at Gondor of the death of the King's beloved guardian. He had always maintained that he cared not for the Elf aiding Aragorn in his quest to take the throne of Gondor and lead Men to victory over him but the truth was that he had been worried. He knew well the strength of the Elven race, he had witnessed it himself and he knew that the son of Thranduil could have posed a problem for him. But now he was gone, cut down by the Shadow he despised so much.

True, the Shadow had paid a terrible price for the death of the exiled Elf-prince. In that fight Sauron had lost one of the Nine, had broken that ancient kinship apart and they detested him, he believed, on some level for that betrayal despite the victory it may yet facilitate. And yet despite their raw grief, his heart had soared when he had heard the news. Aragorn was truly on his own now. The men he surrounded himself with were nothing compared to the Elf who had got the king this far and he did not fear them at all. In fact, he revelled in the fact that now Aragorn was being advised by those from Human lands. They would pose him no problem he knew. He had bested them many times before and despite their new alliance they were still weak.

They must have known this too. The Humans feared him. From the way they fought - with desperation rather than conviction - he knew this. His own Orcs fought the same way but they had been trained to do thusly.

"My Lord?" His Human Easterling messenger, whom he had chosen along with several others before the battle began to be his herald, approached again in a grovelling bow and Sauron tipped his head down distastefully to observe the snivelling creature and give him leave to speak. "News from the battle, my Lord. Our Orc and Goblin forces are being rapidly depleted. There are but a few hundred left standing. The Humans are decimating them, sir."

"Yes," hissed Sauron. "Clever boy." He had to concede this. Aragorn was taking out the largest threat first. True, the Uruk-hai were more dangerous and better fighters by far but the Orcs and Goblins were more numerous. Getting rid of them evened the playing field somewhat. Perhaps, he thought, he should not have been so quick to dismiss the wiles of the Humans.

"And the Trolls…"

"Yes." He had seen this. It had been a blow when the Men had taken down the first Troll but he had thought it a lucky fluke, until he watched Aragorn organise his men to systematically rid the field of those monstrous beasts.

"What should we do?"

Sauron smiled behind his hood. What a question to ask! Only a Man would have done so. An Orc or Uruk, so blindly dedicated to following his every will without question or comment, would never have thought to question the wisdom of his initial plan as laid out to all those fighting for his cause.

There would be no retreat. "The only way is forward. Decimate them."

Dark eyes looked about, peering from a black mask, uncertain of this order. He knew that if they continued they would be cut down eventually by the Humans from Gondor. His master did not see what was happening below. He couldn't possibly know. And how could he, a mere messenger, tell the Lord of Shadow that he was wrong and that his actions to continue as they were going were foolish?

So, he bowed deeply and backed away, cautious of the ring of Wraiths surrounding the Dark Lord. "Thank you, my Lord." Then he rushed away to convey the command to the leaders who would in turn relay it to their troops.

Sauron breathed deeply again, liking the smell of smoke and blood on the air. It reminded him of old times, when he had walked the Earth freely and brought him hope for a time when he would do so again.

Unfortunately, for all his posturing, the truth was that the journey across the mountains from his home, where he had been ensconced for many long years, had taken its toll on his already tortured and weakened Elven host's body. He could feel the strain in the long limbs simply from standing for so long. Pain wracked him and although it didn't debilitate him it was a distraction, one that he could ill afford.

Thinking back, he now somewhat regretted killing the Wizard Saruman. Yes, it had given him great power for a time but that was already fading. He could ask no more from the Nazgul surrounding him for he needed them for protection above all else. No. Soon the battle would be over and the reign of Shadow would well and truly begin. Then it wouldn't matter. He would be all powerful and he would have his Precious back with him and he would be whole again. No more weakling Elven bodies to contend with; he would be pure again, as he should be.

Still, he was not powerful yet and he staggered backwards slightly.

"My Lord!" exclaimed his personal servant, rushing forward to steady his master.

"Get off me!" Sauron bellowed in horror. To have Orc hands holding him was demeaning and would not be endured for anything. He would rather fall to the ground and crawl on his knees. He bent over double, trying to regain his strength as the Orc cowered away in terror.

All around him, the Nazgul closed in to protect him. They could sense vulnerability and they could feel it within their master now. They would not touch him. They knew better.

"My Lord."

"What?" the Lord Sauron shouted in anger as the Easterling herald approached again.

"My Lord, the Uruk-hai are under heavy attack. The Men are…they are beating them back, sire."

This pushed all thoughts of pain to the back of Sauron's mind and he straightened again. "Impossible," he declared, for it was inconceivable that Aragorn was beating him. His own forces far outnumbered that of the Human's. Aragorn's army was weak and his was strong. He could not be losing.

"It is true, my Master. The Men have become organised once again. The King is leading them, pushing our forces further back and continuously gaining ground. They are slaughtering everything in their path."

For a brief moment, Sauron found himself floundering. What now? He had not predicted this. Not so soon. Of course, his forces would be decimated by the battle. Perhaps a few might survive. But one thing he had been certain of was that the Men would be exterminated completely. His eyes moved over the large black bulks of his Nazgul, still sentinels at his side, and then to the battlefield in front of him.

By now, all the banners of Men had fallen. They had given up on patriotism and settled for simply surviving. But he could see Aragorn, even with his blurry eyes. The dark-haired man wore all the colours of old Gondor, red cloak emblazoned with the White Tree and crown and stars. He battled proudly as though he had been doing so for many years. And he was determined. Sauron could see that even from a distance. It was set on his face. He had come this far and, just like the Dark Lord himself, was not going to go away the loser.

Sauron remembered years ago listening to his spies inform him of Aragorn's attack on Helm's Deep. He recalled at the time thinking Aragorn reckless but also bold. He had felt admiration. And he felt it again now in his heart – as much as he hated the emotion. How could he not admire such foolish bravery? It was this 'foolish bravery', however, that had always scuppered Sauron's well-laid plans. He could never anticipate what the Men were going to do next. He had always assumed that that daring had come from Legolas. But perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps it had been Aragorn all along. Or maybe he had just learned much from his long-time mentor.

Either way, Aragorn was outwitting and out-fighting him. That would not do.

He looked to the battlefield again, eyes taking in the scene, calculating what to do next. Then his gaze was drawn to the patient dark shapes at his side. Another smile cracked his lips then and he licked away another warm sliver of blood.

Drawing himself up to his full height, he steeled himself for what he knew all along would happen.

"I shall deal with this myself."

Even the Nazgul were surprised. They didn't show it but he could feel it from them. None could have anticipated such a decision. Sauron had chosen to ride into battle but none of them imagined that he meant to actually join in with the fighting at any point. That was what an army, expendable, was for. A thrill of excitement rippled through those gathered. Their master was going to fight. By many, it had never been seen before.

"We go into battle," the Dark Lord then told his most faithful servants, now numbering only eight.

They were pleased. Finally, they would get the revenge they craved for the loss of their patriarch. Long had they lusted after it. Of course, their first duty was to their master and not themselves. But they would at least be given the opportunity to try.

Sauron's war horse was brought forward. It was a trial just to mount the monstrous beast. It stood taller than any of the Nazgul steeds and looked even more dreadful and his body was severely weakened. He possessed none of the superior balance or strength of his Elven host. All of that had gone when he had shoved aside the soul of the Elf he possessed and planted himself with dark magic inside the body. He was boosted up onto the great war horse by his servant.

Around him, the Nazgul also mounted their black horses. They were nimble and quick and within moments were ready to go.

Sauron felt no fear about riding into battle himself. He would not lower himself to feel anxiety about riding out to meet Aragorn. The boy would not know what hit him when he met the Dark Lord Sauron himself in battle.

OIOI

With every small advance, the Men gained further confidence that they might actually come out of this alive. Exhaustion was pushed aside for they knew that the end was coming and they were more confident than ever that it would fall in their favour. So many had died already and they keenly felt the losses of their comrades. But they would not dwell on it, would not be brought down by it. They would make each sacrifice count towards the ultimate victory because it was all they could do now.

Every Orc exterminated was one less to blight the world and it brought them comfort and renewed strength to think in that manner.

The King was pushing them ever onwards, standing at the front of the line, bold and impeccably composed despite the fact that he was as filthy and ragged with exhaustion as any soldier on the field. They did not begrudge him this truth though. In fact, they admired him all the more for his stamina. The Gondorian contingent thought how different already this rule was from that of the Steward that had preceded the King. Denethor would never have deigned walk among his people as an equal, let alone ride into battle as one of them. For that was how they viewed Aragorn now: Equal.

Yes, he stood brighter than all the others. Every eye on the field was trained on him at some point. They looked to him for guidance more even than they did their own individual trusted commanders. Even compared to the brightly bedecked Jecha, they thought Aragorn shone brightly on the field of darkness, a beacon for them to look to whenever their confidence was shaken.

They surged forward, killing everything of the Shadow in their way. Their lord had a plan; he wanted the Dark Lord himself to fall this day. They would do everything they could, thanks to their newly discovered loyalty, to make this possible and to bring about the peace they all so desperately craved.

OIOI

"Do not be absurd; you cannot possibly leave."

"Watch me."

Faramir shoved away the fussing healer who was trying her very best to keep him pinned to the ground where he lay.

"It is just a scratch. One of my men overreacted."

"Overreacted? He had to practically carry you here."

"He did no such thing!"

"You will stay until I have looked you over and bound that leg, Lord Faramir."

"I am needed."

"You are needed whole. A warrior limping about is next to useless. It will not take long and then you may return."

Faramir sighed and ceased fighting with the determined woman. It was proving useless and it was only using up valuable energy. Not that he was wanting for energy right then. His whole body pounded with the thrill of battle, adrenalin coursing through his veins and making him restless and twitchy to return to the fight. He wanted to join his soldiers in battle, wanted to continue to face the Enemy head on and without mercy as he had been doing now for two days straight. He fidgeted restlessly as he laid on the ground awaiting the healer's inspection of his wound.

It was his own fault, he determined, that he was in this position. He had been reckless and had been punished for his inattention with a Goblin arrow to the leg. He had ripped it out and just about had the forethought to check that there was no poison present before he had angrily cast it aside and went on the attack, searching for the beast who had shot him. Unfortunately before he could deliver justice, he had run into one of his fellow Gondorians who, having noticed blood pouring down his leg, had insisted that he be taken to the camp and see a healer. He had gone because he had been given no choice.

"You see, sir, it'll only take a few minutes."

"It'll go faster if you stop chatting," grumbled the man.

The woman shot him an irritated look suggesting that she also had better things to be doing right then but had been stuck with this duty.

"Faramir! Faramir!"

Sitting up so suddenly that he nearly knocked the healer to the ground, Faramir turned towards the urgent cry. "What?"

"He's coming!"

"Who?"

"The Dark Lord himself! You have to come. Now!"

Shoving aside the stunned and terrified healer, all thoughts of getting patched up fading along with the aching pain stretching down his leg, Faramir ran after the messenger sent to fetch him. As he raced down the hill, taking the time to aid his companions in slaughtering the occasional Orc that managed to slip past the first defences and attempt to get at the camp where the healers worked tirelessly, Faramir spied what all the furore was about.

Like a dark cloud Sauron descended the hill on the opposite side of the battlefield, surrounded by what were unmistakably the Nazgul. He momentarily faltered. How could he not have predicted this? Aragorn had spoken of luring the Dark Lord and his army from his lands and they had all sensed Sauron's presence nearby as they waited for the assault. But Faramir had never thought that the Dark Lord would take to the battlefield.

He plunged into battle, pushing his way past Orc and Man alike in attempt to reach the front. He knew that this was where Aragorn would be and he wanted to be at the King's side when he faced his nightmare in person for the first time.

OIOI

Aragorn knew what was coming. It felt almost like an approaching storm, malevolent and terrible and almost tangible in the air. The Uruk-hai and Orcs that remained standing knew what was coming as well. They fought more ferociously at the coming of their master, as though on some level trying to impress and protect their dark creator or prove themselves loyal to the Shadow. And then, as if the instruction had been called, although no command came over the battlefield, they parted, letting through the first of the Wraiths. Aragorn watched the beasts in horror for he had met them before and knew their power all too well. All around them, everything went still. The Uruk-hai backed off, pressing back the Men although no longer with brutal malice but rather wanting to clear the way for their master and his terrible dark guardsmen. The Men too backed away fearfully, trembling at the horror that had come amongst them.

This confrontation was for Aragorn, none other. No one would be allowed to interfere in what was to follow.

Sauron came confidently forth on his steed, his face cast into shadow by his black hood, still Aragorn instinctively knew that he was smirking. He was not afraid. Safe within his bubble of protection, he did not yet fear the King of Gondor. Aragorn feared him though. His heart raced and he broke out in a cold sweat. All that he had done had been leading up to this very moment. Now that it was here, he was afraid. He would not let it show though. Sauron would not know the doubt that plagued his heart.

In a dark leather-gloved hand, Sauron carried a great broadsword. Aragorn had never seen anything like it. He had always considered the fearsome swords of the Nazgul to be Evil ingrained into metal but this was something else entirely. It practically dripped with dark magic; just as Anduril sang with the magic of the Elves. The blade itself was almost black in colour, as though evil had tainted the very metal it had been crafted from. Down half its length were engraved elaborate verses of script that Aragorn could not read but which he presumed were of the Black Speech of Mordor. Near the hilt was etched a detailed image of a wolf's head, making the whole thing look even more fearsome, as if it needed such extra detailing to strike fear into the hearts of its foes. The handle was wrapped in black leather and the pommel decorated with yet another wolf's head created from steel. Its eyes held sizeable rubies that shone blood red.

It was a truly terrible piece of weaponry to behold.

But Aragorn held Anduril and felt its Light power thrumming as strong as ever. These two swords had met in combat before and he could feel the tension, if such a thing were possible, between Light and Dark. Anduril pulsed in eagerness and Aragorn felt the same beat in his own heart.

Sauron himself was physically not what Aragorn had been expecting. Never had they met before, although both felt they knew each other well, such had been their vague but poignant encounters in the past. He was small upon his horse, withered almost, although he was clearly trying to appear bigger. Not that it mattered. He was intimidating enough surrounded by the terrible Nazgul. They made up for any bodily shortcomings the Dark Lord may have had.

Everyone around them backed away further. As they did so, small fights started breaking out again between Man and Uruk. In a matter of moments, the battle was raging around them again. The Nazgul ignored it completely; they, like their master, wanted nothing more than the king. He had eluded them long enough. Sauron, also, seemed unbothered by the fighting around him.

So confident was he that he was safe, he dismounted his great horse so that he and Aragorn were level. It was a risk to be seen as a mere mortal but he wanted to relish every moment of this long-awaited conversation.

"Here we are at last, Aragorn" the Dark Lord started as his Wraiths dismounted alongside him and unsheathed their swords. "I feel this has been a long time coming."

"For me too." Aragorn's hands gripped his sword so tight that they ached.

"You have suffered great losses here already."

"As have you."

Sauron inclined his head slightly. "True. Terms?"

"Excuse me?"

"Terms for surrender. In civilised warfare you would plead for the lives of your soldiers."

"Civilised warfare? Is that what this is?"

Sauron extended his free hand. "Of course. So, terms."

Aragorn frowned again and shook his head as though he didn't understand.

At this, Sauron laughed, a terrible, croaky sound that sounded breathless. "Ah, so uneducated," he taunted, knowing the effect it would have. "What heathen raised you into kinghood?" Sauron smiled again as Aragorn's posture tightened and his hands clenched tighter still around the handle of his sword in anger. "Ah yes. The coward Prince of the Woodland Realm. Legolas Thranduilion."

"Don't you dare speak his name!" spat Aragorn angrily.

"Was he really so lax in his tutelage? That, I suppose, is what comes from looking to uncouth immortals for guidance."

"Shut up!"

"So low, your anger. Not kingly at all. But then you are not a king, are you? Not really. You're just a boy pretending."

"I said shut up!"

Anger flared in Sauron's mind at this and he stepped forward. "You think you can command me, boy?! A weak bloodline raised by a weakling in turn. What threat do you think you can pose me, child?"

Regaining his composure, Aragorn said, "A significant one, it seems. You have wasted much time chasing me, so I hear."

"All for this moment," sighed Sauron almost in pleasure. "I have waited long for this moment, Aragorn. You have no idea."

"I feel the same way. Ever since I first learned of you and your tyranny, I have awaited this confrontation."

Beneath his hood, Sauron smiled again. "Then this is what it comes down to. We have both waited for so long; it seems a shame to waste this opportunity with talking."

Aragorn's eyes roamed over to the patiently waiting Nazgul and he asked, "Must they stand between us or will you face me equally."

"Never will you be equal to me, child. But, given your need for fairness, they will not intervene."

Sauron was confident of his victory, Aragorn realised with a shudder. It disconcerted him a little. Perhaps, despite his initial belief, he would be better off fighting the Nazgul than the Dark Lord himself.

Nevertheless, Aragorn held Anduril in a slightly looser grip, not wanting to take away from his skill with strength alone. He would need both, he thought, to win this fight, if such a thing were indeed possible. Sauron, meanwhile, motioned with his hand to the Wraiths around him. They all obediently stood back, although their swords remained within their grasps and Aragorn knew than that despite his word Sauron would summon them into battle if things looked like they were turning against him.

All about them, the battle thundered on. Few were distracted by the confrontation going on amongst them, although they were all aware of it. It would have been impossible not to be. Standing like sentinels, the Nazgul surrounded them, keeping the fight contained.

"Ah, I will savour this moment, Aragorn," said Sauron almost wistfully as they came closer together. "I would hope you do too. When I win, you will be dead but you will have fought with honour. I respect that."

Aragorn made no reply. What could he say? He did not require or want the Dark Lord's approval. In fact, the very notion sickened him. So he concentrated instead on preparing himself for battle. Everything he had learned from both his Elven guardian and from his Human companions he dredged up now, desperately trying to judge what move he should start with and whether Sauron would anticipate him.

The first blow was delivered by Aragorn. Raising Anduril high, he slammed into the dark sword without preamble or mercy. It was an opening gambit. He knew he would inflict no harm upon the Dark Lord. He did, however, surprise him and that counted for something.

Sauron stumbled backwards, shocked by the heavy impact. He had not been expecting it so soon.

"Uncivilised," he spat in disgust as he struggled to regain his balance within his crumbling host. Last time he had been in battle, he had been far stronger. He was not used to such a stark display of his own weakness. His eyes lighted then upon Aragorn's sword and he smiled beneath the cloak of his hood. "Narsil," he growled. That sword was unforgettable and unmistakeable. "We meet again on the field of battle."

"Anduril," corrected Aragorn showing off the blade re-forged before the Dark Lord.

"A new name; but broken once before and destined to be so again."

"You think so? Why then are you afraid?"

Anger surged with the dark heart of the Lord of Arda and he rushed forward and slammed his own sword against Anduril in an attempt to knock it from the hand of its new owner.

It was not what Aragorn expected. Sauron was weak, that much had become obvious to him with his opening blow. But this was no weak blow delivered. It made him stagger backwards it was so powerful. His hands shook with the strength of the blow. He parried the next two hits, surprised still by the power behind them. He could feel it reverberate through his body with each and every hit. It came, he was certain, from the sword rather than from the Dark Lord himself. His only hope was that with each clash, Sauron could feel the power of Anduril just as acutely.

Two great and powerful leaders and their swords were soon deeply engaged in their own battle, cut off by the Nazgul from the others from their respective armies. Sauron might have been physically weaker, Aragorn realised, but they were evenly matched. In truth, he had expected nothing less. He was prepared for this even when he had summoned the Dark Lord to him through the Palantir.

It was monumentally tiring. Each blow from Sauron's dark-bladed sword sent reverberations all down his arms, dulling his senses and making his arms weaken until they tingled under the strain. He tried a few attacks of his own but found himself more often than not on the defence. Only his anger kept him going and gave him strength enough to carry on fighting. Sauron had taken away from him everything he had ever loved. First his mother, then his father and finally Legolas, his most beloved mentor and guardian. He hated Sauron. Pure, burning hatred that ran deep within his heart and could not be dampened by force of will alone. Never had he imagined himself capable of such terrible hatred and it frightened him just a little. Legolas would not have approved of such a strategy but he used that fire within himself to give him strength, to fight the abomination that threatened what remained of the Free Peoples. He found, the more he fought to get a good strike in and make an impact in this fight, that he wanted Sauron to suffer, wanted to gaze upon his dead body before the end of the night. The desire consumed him. Tears fogged his eyes as he thought upon his guardian, of what this foul creature had taken from him. Legolas would tell him not to give up, to keep fighting to whatever end and so he would. Even if it meant dying because of it. He was more determined than ever to rid the earth of this great and terrible evil.

One lucky blow finally got the better of Aragorn and he stumbled backwards, almost losing his footing and crashing into one of the sombre guards positioned around them. Breathing heavily and sweating with the effort of simply keeping from being struck down, Aragorn distanced himself a little from the Dark Lord and eyed up the robed enemy once more.

Sauron laughed at his momentary retreat and lowered his sword slightly. "You see. For all your confidence, child, you are still weak. You always will be. You cannot win this fight so why trouble yourself?"

Straightening himself out, Aragorn held Anduril in both hands again before him. At least the sword did not tire. Determination soared within him again and he flew forwards, slamming into Sauron and narrowly missing a blow to the tall body before him. His miscalculation cost him and Legolas' frequent lectures about not attacking in anger flashed through his mind as if to torment him. Using the momentum of his attack and his newly found strength, Sauron finally knocked him fully to the ground.

Laughing darkly again, Sauron stepped closer to him. Looking down at the man crouched on all fours on the ground, unable to recover himself as he might have hoped, Sauron frowned in disappointment. "I was hoping for better from you." He knew that the young man was failing, that he had little strength left. He let his sword hand drop to his side, confident that Aragorn posed no immediate threat to him on the ground. "You disappoint me, King of Gondor. What would your guardian say?" He laughed, pausing to kick Aragorn to the ground when the man raised his head to glare in anger at the comment.

Truth was, the fight was taking it out of him too. This body, already failing drastically, was simply not strong enough for battle and was suffering from the exertion the Dark Lord was putting it under. He stretched his stiff neck and blinked his eyes to try to clear away the blurriness. He was sweating, he realised in revulsion. How he hated these bodies! He didn't know how mortals could stand them.

Raising his hand, he flipped back the large hood swathing his face.

Aragorn's reaction was instant. A gasp flew from his lips at the sight of Sauron bared to the flickering orange of torchlight.

It was not the terrible damage done to the face. Not the pale, almost translucent skin mottled with dark purple and red veins and sporting many scratches and sores. It was not the thin lips, dried and cracked and caked with dried blood from where they had split time and again. Not the thin blonde hair cropped short to the scratched scalp. Nor was it the milky eyes that had once clearly been vibrant blue in colour.

Rather, it was all this together and the likeness to one he loved dearly that stole the breath from Aragorn's lungs and froze the blood in his veins.

The visage of the Elf before him was so terrible that it sent Aragorn's head reeling and nausea rose in his throat. He had never set eyes on the face of the Dark Lord before. He did not know what he had expected to find. Perhaps he had thought that he would be akin to the Nazgul; mere empty forms, shells. Shades. But this standing before him was undoubtedly once an Elf for it looked so much like Legolas that Aragorn could almost have believed that the Elven prince was stood before him and not resting within the white marble crypts of Minas Tirith.

Finally lowering his eyes from the clouded heavens and seeing Aragorn's look of shock and revulsion, Sauron smiled sickeningly. "Yes," he hissed almost in pleasure. "Yes. This-My vessel."

Aragorn's eyes were wide with horror as he stared, unable to look away no matter how desperately he wanted to.

"It is not what you think," assured the Dark Lord. "I have seen your guardian before. The resemblance is striking, is it not? Or at least it was before-" He trailed off, his own eyes raking down the thin body his spirit possessed. "How I would have loved to have seen his face upon my revealing of this. Legolas' own sire fighting his adopted son in battle. The poetry is indescribable. It fills me with joy."

"Legolas'…Father."

"It's terrible, I know. Coincidence, in truth, Aragorn. Of the remaining Elves within my captivity, my servants brought me this. I had not thought it would last so long. When I considered the great drama of it all, I longed for it to be so." He breathed a deep, rattling breath. "I needed a vessel, Aragorn; a strong vessel. How I would have loved to have your guardian. I would have loved for us to be one. It was my greatest regret that I did not command my servants to bring him to me when they had the chance. But, Thranduil, I suppose, will suffice." He ran his hand down the mutilated, gaunt face, long nails raking at the translucent skin and drawing scratches of blood.

It was too terrible to dwell upon and yet Aragorn could not tear his gaze away. For the first time, he was grateful beyond words that Legolas was not here to see this abomination. It would have broken him; as had been the Dark Lord's intent.

Legolas had spoken little of his father to his ward. After Lothlorien, he had shared nothing else of his past life in Mirkwood. But from that short conversation, Aragorn had inferred that he was a strong, proud being. This torture would have been unbearable.

"Is he…alive?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"How?"

"Magic. You have no notion, Aragorn, of how hard this is to maintain. I even had to align myself with the Wizard to ensure its continued survival. Humiliating. But I believe it to be worth it. I have tried Men before, you understand. Even Dwarves. But they were just not strong enough. No, even as their spirits fade, the Elves have extraordinary power within them. It is admirable. And a king, no less."

"He died. In Mirkwood. Legolas said he had died."

Sauron laughed then, a terrible sound that did not suit his body. "Kill such a great asset? What a notion!"

Aragorn climbed to his knees, still fighting sickness. It was too terrible to behold. This creature who had once been like Legolas had been, twisted beyond all recognition and violated in this most horrific way for the purpose of true Evil. It was depraved.

"But enough of this, Aragorn. It will not do. I came here to kill you. I must see it through, you understand. Besides, I have heard tell that you have something of great importance to me. I would like it back." He paused then and tilted his head in consideration. It looked too much like Legolas doing it and Aragorn wondered whether he was using it merely to mock him. "I propose a deal. Give me the Ring and I will let you live this day. You may run from this battle now and live out the rest of your days as you see fit."

"Never!"

"That is disappointing. What would your guardian say-?"

Suddenly, overcome with new fury, Aragorn launched himself with remarkable speed at Sauron, knocking him off his feet for the first time. "No!" he screamed as he tumbled to the ground with the Dark Lord. Beneath him, Sauron attempted to flip him but Aragorn was full of renewed anger and adrenaline. Pulling out Legolas' white knife, Aragorn held it before the face of the wretched creature. "Recognise this? Look at it well, for this is the blade that will kill you."

"Nazgul!" the Dark Lord shouted and suddenly Aragorn was grabbed from behind and wrenched to his feet. Anduril was torn from his grasp and Legolas' knife was thrown away from him. He was powerless to stop it.

"You liar! A fair fight?! You do not know a fair fight, creature of Evil!" Aragorn raged even as the cold Shadow of the Nazgul began to drain his strength with their simple touch. He was surrounded now by the horrific creatures. "Fight me honourably."

"Why would I do that? You have had your fun here. I will suffer no more."

The Nazgul parted before Aragorn to let their master through. He stood before the struggling young king for a moment and then reached a gloved hand into Aragorn's pocket.

Terror raced through Aragorn's heart. The Ring. He had found it.

"No!"

Every feature of the Dark Lord's face relaxed when his fingers curled around the small band of powerful gold. "At last. At last!" He gripped the Ring within his fist, holding it close to his chest above his heart. "No more," he muttered as if to the body containing him.

Several things happened all at once then and left Aragorn reeling. Firstly he felt a terrific blow from behind and then felt fire lapping at his back. Stunned, he instinctively dropped to the ground and peered up just in time to see seven of the remaining eight Nazgul being engulfed in raging flames. The squealed their unearthly cries and wheeled away, leaving only one, which was immediately pulled into battle by several Men.

Free, Aragorn looked up just in time to see Sauron sliding the Ring over his gloved finger, a look of sheer joy upon his face.

Anduril had fallen away from him and Aragorn threw himself forward to grab its handle. Curling his fingers about the fine leather, he forced up his exhausted body, using the sword as a prop.

Sauron never even saw him, so entranced was he by the Ring once more surging its power through every part of his body and soul. He felt like himself once more. It was wondrous, feeling how he had felt so many years ago when he had possessed true power. For centuries, he had yearned for this reunion. He felt whole again. The power sang within him, filling him with its dark song and fusing within his soul. His body no longer felt as one of the crumbling, weakling Elves. It felt like him again. He could not see if any physical transformation had taken place and he didn't care. His soul was free and whole. That was what mattered.

He had won. He had won the war. He was master of Middle Earth. It was indisputable now. He was undefeatable in battle, now he had his Precious back. Throwing back his head, he let out a great cry of sheer joy as the power surged to every part of his body, from his mind to the very tips of his toes. Finally, he saw the world again for what it was, no longer in a haze. Everything was clear.

And then, suddenly and without warning, it was gone. He didn't understand it but it drained from him so quickly that he was left reeling and fell to the ground, weak legs no longer able to support him. He literally felt the power granted him so briefly by the Ring he had coveted slowly leeching from him, its fire cooling in his veins and leaving him feeling limp and lifeless as it fled him. Glazed eyes moved down sluggishly to where pain was gnawing at him and he lifted his left arm. It took a long moment to register that it was gone. Half his arm was gone. From the elbow down was completely gone.

The pain did not immediately register and he looked about himself almost calmly with question written in his eyes as to where his arm had disappeared to. Then he saw. It lay limp and strange-looking upon the blood-soaked ground at the feet of Aragorn, King of Men. No ring rested over the finger though. It was gone. His Precious taken from him again. There waited Anduril, proud and boasting over its second victory over the Shadow. Narsil haunted him still.

But Aragorn had not put on the Ring. It was simply gone from sight. Anger flooded Sauron again and he attempted to stand but found that his body was not responding. He could not move. All he could do was stare helplessly up at the young man who, against all the odds, had bested him.

"Look at you now," said Aragorn slowly to him, looking down at the pitiful sight knelt before him.

"You-" spat Sauron but it didn't sound too threatening, slurred as his speech was becoming. "It's not…over-" He reached out a hand as if to grab at Aragorn's jacket but the man merely took a small step backwards and Sauron toppled, catching himself with his remaining hand before he fell face-down into the earth. "How…?"

"Ever have you underestimated the line of Isildur. It is your greatest failing even now."

Anduril came to rest close to him and Sauron knew then that it was true. This was the end. How, he could not fathom. But so it was true.

Aragorn raised Anduril high. It felt monumental, this moment. And yet he hesitated. He could say nothing. His throat was too tight for words. He wanted to beg forgiveness for a part of him knew that he was about to strike down Legolas' beloved father. He wanted Legolas to be here to advise him, although it would not have been objective anymore, he knew. And yet, as he began to bring the sword down hard against the craning neck, Aragorn knew somehow that this was a sacrifice that must be made and that neither Legolas nor his ill-fated father would object to the need. Indeed, in the milky blue eyes, so curiously like Legolas' beneath the veneer of Shadow placed over them, Aragorn fancied he saw understanding and forgiveness.

The final blow was immense and Aragorn had not been expecting it to be so.

Thrown backwards in a wave of incredible Black Magic, Aragorn felt a great blast of raw light and heat, almost as though flames were exploding over him although he felt no pain but that of his awkward landing on the ground several feet away. The ground beneath him trembled and shook, rattling his teeth. All around him, he saw people staggering to keep their balance as the ground quaked. Orcs looked around in amazement at what was happening and already they were beginning to flee, not stopped by the equally stunned Men. Another wave washed over them then and Aragorn threw himself back flat on the ground, covering his face with his arm as a shield against the white light and hot wind that blasted over him.

And then it was over. Everything cleared and went utterly silent.

To Be Continued…