Edoras, Rohan, twenty-five days after the Reclamation of the One Ring

An old man, weary from a long sad life, sat alone in the shining hall of Medusled. Fastlul, cousin of King Theoden and apparent heir to the throne of Rohan, ignored the sounds of sorrow and torment from outside his hall. In all his many years as Marshal of the Eastfold, he had never seen such acts of depravity weighed upon the victims of defeat. For the past fortnight, in the dead of the darkness, orcs would come from the conquered lands, leaving mounds of the severed heads of the fallen sons of Rohan around the walls of the city. Wives and mothers would scream as they found the pale faces of their husbands and sons staring back at them and they would fall silent ever after but for their sobs. The few of those that had returned from the fields of Gondor claimed that they had nearly achieved victory over the forces of Mordor. Having charged into the orc host with fearless wrath, they had driven their foes away from the city, yet they were reinforced by great beasts of the South. Some knew them as Oliphaunts from their childhood bedtime stories, but others claimed they had heard the name Mumakil shouted by the men of the South. And yet, despite the overwhelming odds, the Rohirrim still gained the advantage. It was then however, that all had changed for them.

A terrible had shriek filled the air, and a beast of terrible presence came from the sky. It took the King Theoden and his steed up in its maw and threw them against the ground. The King was crushed under his horse, and all but a single man stood against the beast and his prey. It was then that a ball of fire had erupted from the heights of the city of Minas Tirith, and all the servants of the enemy seemed to grow stronger and filled with a mad vigor. The Dark Rider then did battle with his adversaries, for the soldier had been joined by one of the small folk, and yet they fell. Leaving them in the clutches of his mount, he tore through the forces of Rohan and the reinforcements from Dol Amroth. He slew Prince Imrahil of the coast and claimed the heads of both the prince and Theoden. That victory was the last any of the survivors had seen, for those that had not fled were soon slain.

All of the riders that had returned were now encamped around the city, waiting for what many perceived to be an inevitable doom. The Isen had already been barred by forces that had spilled from Moria. Secret tunnels that had been bored over many years had opened near Isenguard, and the foul goblins of the mines were now encamped along the river with the few survivors of Saruman's army. They were a force that could not hope to take a city such as Edoras, but had created a blockade that would be impenetrable. It also seemed that, contrary to what he had told the masses, help would not arrive from the north. If the elves or the men of the north would have come to their aid, they would have been there days before. Hope had abandoned Rohan, now, all that remained was doom. Fastul was drawn from his mournful thoughts by the sound of deep horns. The call to arms. Standing, he threw open the heavy gold-framed doors of Medusled. The sky, which had been a soft blue just hours earlier, was now a deep, billowing grey. Dark clouds had poured over the land from the east, shrouding the land in shadow. In the distance, he could make out what seemed to be a writhing mass of black insects pouring towards the city. The low moan of sorrow that perpetually ailed the city rose into a mad cry of terror. Some ran to the gates with sword or tool in hand while others fled to their homes. Riders outside the walls spurred their horses into formation. The last rays of sunlight faded, delving the Golden Hall into darkness So, Mordor has finally come for us.

"To me! To me!" From atop the hill, Fastul could see his son, Halul, rallying those that would fight to him. A bitter smile stretched under the old man's beard. His son was the only joy of his old age. He was a fiery soul with an endless abundance of hope. He had not ridden to Gondor, for he and his company were occupied by a host of surviving Uruk-Hai who had taken up arms against the Woldings. It was one of many battles his son had returned to with the glory of victory on his brow, but now there was nowhere to return to and no victory to be won. His son would die. His people would die. There was no hope. There was only death. Unless he could win a battle of words.

Fastul made his way down through the dirt streets of Edoras, ignoring the cries of the people as he approached the gates. Striding to the front of the long line of men that had formed around the city, he approached Halul, mounted atop a mighty horse, one of the few gifts of worth he had given to his son.

"Father," Halul shouted gladly, "Come, take up a sword and a horse! We may win the day with you by our side!"

"Don't be a fool," he replied, barely concealing his despair, "There is no victory to be had this day. The best fate we can hope for is surrender."

"But.." His son's smile dropped entirely, "Father, have you forgotten the lesions that you taught me in my youth, the stories of heroes who never gave up? Can we not ascend to the glory of Bema the Hunter? Can we not prove victorious against insurmountable odds as Helm Hammerhand and his kin did?"

"Bema the Hunter is a lie for children and the naïve and Helm Hammerhand died in madness and agony. If we held even a bit of his luck, we too would go mad now so that we might not feel the terrible deaths they plan for us."

The sound of an approaching gallop drew the attention of father and son. Far ahead of the dark host rode a horse of Rohan. Atop its back was a figure, held up in an unnatural position. A sick gasp broke out amongst the line as the figure came into view. Astride the horse sat the body of Eomer, sister-son of King Theoden. He was naked and mutilated, his flesh torn and scarred. A wooden beam had been nailed into his back, pinning him to the saddle. His face was frozen in a stage of agony, as if his last moments, or days, had been excruciatingly painful. Several men rushed to take up the body and, as they un-stuck him from his position, three rings fell from his grasp. Fastul took them up and held back a choke as he recognized them. They were the signets of Theoden, Eomer, and Lady Eowyn. The last of the royal line was gone. All hope was gone.

"Rally men!"

Fastul turned in shock as his son raised his sword.

"What are you doing, boy?"

"They have violated our king! They must pay for this insult!"

"No! We may still live if we do not attack them! An envoy will come and I can barter for the lives of our people."

"And give them a life without honor or glory? I say that is no life worth saving. To me men!"

"No, you idiot! I forbade it!"

"For death! For glory!"

Fastul fell to his knees. His old heart, already filled with a lifetime of sorrows, was stabbed once final time as his son kicked his horse into motion. The last vestiges of Rohan's army, too few to even protect the city, now rode away into certain death. Dirt was kicked up around him by hooves, and his ears were deafened by the sounds of a mad charge. All his work had been for nothing. The only thing he still loved and all that he had poured his heart into would now herald the death of every innocent man, woman, and child in the city. It was a mere ten minutes later when the first orcs charged past him. He could not turn to see them as they set fire to the walls and poured into Edoras. He ignored the screams of children and the cries of their mothers. He did not look when the gold of Medusled began to melt as fire engulfed the hall of his forefathers. All was for not, it seemed. Every battle and every drop of blood spilled for the sake of Rohan and her people was meaningless. They would burn in the fires of conquest and be enslaved by the conquerors. They would forget their histories and become nothing but animals to work the fields of their masters. Death would be a mercy. Fastul felt no change in his soul when a cold presence approached him. He did not look up as an iron-gloved hand wrapped around his throat. He was lifted to the eye of a dark armored being, tall and terrible.

"So," he hissed, "You are he that took the place of the fallen king. You seem quite his lesser, for he at least stood against me. Even his sister's daughter was a greater challenge than you and your son. Know this, before you die. Your people will not die swiftly. They will rot away in agony. Your fields will burn and your horses shall be ground into meal. Your time is over. A new age will dawn. The age of the Nazgul. The age of Reformation. The age of the New Order. Make your peace."

The Witch-King of Angmar clenched his fist, slowly crushing his victim's throat. Clawing through the dregs of his despair, Fastul pulled forth the image of his departed wife. Her shimmering blue eyes. Her glowing auburn hair. Her ageless beauty. She was his last thought. And so, the last king of Rohan met his end.

The Heights of Mount Caradhras, Twenty-Six Days after the Reclamation of the One Ring.

Glorfindel pulled his cloak tight around his shivering frame. Being an elf meant many physical advantages, including a higher tolerance to the cold, however, the chill that had fallen over the Mountains of Moria was deep and stinging. Despite being the middle of spring, a wave of dark clouds and cold air had billowed over the Misty Mountains from the East. Glorfindel could only assume that the foul weather was the work of Sauron. While he had sworn not to send forces of orcs or men over the mountains, he had never made any promises about weather. Glorfindel stared intently at the small fire that he, Arwen, and Gliron huddled around. The mercenary stood silently by the opening in the small crag the company had found themselves in. Fateel had proven to be quite the invaluable asset to them over the past week. Not only was it he that had shown them a faster way to the mountain, cutting nearly two days from their journey, but he had also been the only one amongst them that had the skill to light a fire in the frigged space they inhabited. While he did not worry about the safety of Arwen and Fateel, both seemed to be strong enough to survive the cold, Glorinfdel was beginning to fear for Gliron. The young ranger was a master with the bow, and had saved Glorfindel from a pack of Wargs some years before, but the man was no veteran of his kin and he had never before endured a passing of the Misty Mountains.

"I think we've dwelled here long enough." murmured Fateel, as if to himself.

"What makes you say that?" Arwen had proved to be the only one of the company to maintain a distrust of the man. Glorfindel, while understanding her initial hesitation, found it rather odd that he had not swayed her yet. He had been just helpful enough that it did not seem that he was attempting to gain their trust, which Glorfindel had found made him that much more trustworthy.

"There's foul taste in the air. You make this trip enough times, and you begin to learn how the mountain is. There's another will here and I'd rather it not find us at unawares."

"I agree," said Glorifindel, "The sooner we make the cross, the better. Gliron, put out the fire. Make sure no one stumbles upon it."

Begrudgingly, he and Arwen cleared their campsite while Glorfindel approached Fateel.

"How soon can we make the passage?"

"Two days, no sleep."

"Gliron needs to rest, and I assume that you will need to as well."

"The boy is your problem. I can handle myself. You hired me to get over these mountains as fast as possible and I'm holding up my end of the bargain."

"I understand your hurry, but I think we could manage at least two hours of rest for him. He's only a man."

A sideways glance alerted Glorfindel to his poor use of words,

"I don't mean like that. I only mean that you mortals need rest more than my kind. I fear that he will die of exhaustion if we do not stop at least once."

"Its fine," shouted Gliron from the cave, "I'll be alright."

"You heard the boy," snapped Fateel, "He can make it."

Glorfindel suddenly felt his feelings of appreciation for the man begin to dwindle. Leaving Fateel to plot a course, he returned to the cave to collect his things. Soon the party had returned to the long trek through the winding cliff sides of the mountain. Glorfindel and Arwen were the most comfortable with the snow-covered ledges, stepping lightly over the heavily packed snow. Fateel, while not so light on his feet, had attached foreign devises to his boots. The planks of ridged wood extended from his shoes like claws, keeping the man from sinking too far into the snow with each step. Despite the heavy clouds looming above them, not a single snowflake had fallen for their entire journey. It was not until the sun had begun to set behind them that specks of white began to drift through the air.

"Take these." Fateel said, pulling three bright lights from one of the many pounces attached to his bandolier. As they fell into the hands of the waiting company, they noticed that they were jagged stones, glowing as if there was a golden fire burning within them.

"What are these?" questioned the awestruck Gliron.

"You clearly have never been in one of the Dwarven halls." Fateel replied with something akin to humor in his voice, "These are Emberstones. They're mined in the Blue Mountains in the west and the Red Mountains in the east. The Dwarves usually keep them to themselves, but the Stiffbeards gave me a box of 'em for killing a wyrm that had slithered its way into their treasury."

"We elves have a similar stone," Glorfindel added, "but they never glow this bright. In Gondolin, they were infused into many blades. That is why some of our weapons glow blue when orcs or other foul things are near."

"Once night falls," Fateel interrupted, "There will be no light. We will most likely also be in a snow-storm, so it will be next to impossible to see each other or the path without these stones. Follow my light exactly or you'll end up falling to a very painful and regrettable death. Am I understood?"

All nodded as they formed a line behind Fateel. Gliron stood behind Arwen while Glorfindel took the rear. Fateel took two stones from his pouch, tying one to a chord that hung from his wrist. Soon, night enveloped them all, plunging them into a world of darkness pierced only by the five lights. For hours, they trudged along in the night, nearly falling to their doom multiple times. Fateel maintained a constantly confidant presence, but the three followers would still stumble or be blinded by a burst of snow. Towards midnight as he guessed, Glorfindel noticed that Gliron had begun to stumble. Ehaustion was clearly beginning to set in, however, he knew that nothing he could say would sway Fateel into stopping. Glorfindel counted it a miracle that the ranger did not collapse or slip off the edge, and breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted the sun begin to rise.

Despite the wall of snow fall and the curtain of clouds, the vista still proved dazzling. Streaks of golden light poured over the distant vales of the Anduin. The river sparkled in the light and he thought he might have glimpsed specks of golden Mallorn Trees. He whispered a prayer of thanks to Eru for the gift of elven eyesight.

"Stop!"

He was pulled from his admiration of the landscape by Fateel's sudden command.

"What is it?"

The man did not reply. He stood perfectly still, implying to the others that they should do the same. Glorfindel suddenly felt a slight shift in the ground, quickly realizing the peril that they faced. Fateel began to adjust his weight softly, but ceased when even his slightest movements caused the stone beneath to rumble. It was too late, however, for Glorfindel to notice Gliron's state. The man, despite his attempts to remain still, was wavering with exhaustion. Before any move could be made to stop him, the ranger fell. He hit the ground with a pitiful thump as he hit the snow, yet the sound quickly turned into the laud and violent grinding of stone. Gliron, coming to his senses, attempted to stand, but it was too late. With a thunderous crack, the ledge the company stood on crumbled, sending them down along with the rock and stone.

Glorfindel hit the ground first, having swung himself under Gliron to keep the man from shattering under his own weight on the slope. They hit the snow with a soft thump, rolling desperately to avoid a hail of jagged rocks. They, along with Arwen continued to tumble down the ridge, while Fateel lept from the outcropping that he had latched himself to, diving gracefully towards the others. They fell along the snow-caked slopes, eventually collapsing in the depths of the deep crevasse between the mighty hills. Glorfindel forced his aching body up from his prostrate position, ignoring the dripping warmth than ran down his forehead. A sharp yell filled the air, and he turned to see Gliron clutching his bent and bloody leg. He rushed to the ranger's aid along with Arwen, who had made the descent unscathed.

"His leg is shattered." Arwen said, tearing a long stretch of cloth from her cloak.

"Will he be able to make the journey?"

"I doubt it." She pulled the cloth tight around the wound, causing the man to scream in pain and fall into unconsciousness. "The best I can do for him is a stent. We will need a better healer than I to repair the bone. I…What is Fateel doing?"

Glorfindel turned towards the man, to was staring further into the unseen reaches of the canyon. He began to wander, seemingly aimlessly, away, causing the elf to run after him.

"Where are you going?"

"Do you not feel it?" Fateel raised a gauntleted hand to his forehead, as if he were focusing on a very difficult thought, "There is a presence here. Something old. Something hungry. A thing full of hate yet starving." Glorfindel was suddenly struck with the same awareness. come to me… let me feast… The voice in his mind was cold yet ravenous, like a wolf awaiting the slaughter, yet its summons seemed irresistible, for he, Fateel, and Arwen, who must have felt the same call, followed the voice. Through a long ravine it called them, ending at the foreboding entrance to a dark cave. The split in the sheer cliff-face was as tall as two men but the passage was nearly half filled by the marred and mutilated bodies of many orcs and goblins. Some seemed ancient, barely more than bones. This terrible sight managed to sober the group to a point, giving them such wits as to unsheathe their blades. They made their way into the long passage, carved deep into the mountain by unknown forces. Soon, however, they came upon a place where the cave opened up into a cavern of unseen magnitude.

"Leave this place!" A deep, powerful rasp echoed about the chamber. "Leave lest ye fall or become a vestal of great evil!"

With a quick movement, Fateel unstrapped two bottles of a cloudy liquid from his belt, throwing them into the depths. They erupted into a dark fire that illuminated the cavern, revealing, at its center, a dark armored figure resting upon his knees. His helm was in the shape of a skull and a black cloak covered his broad shoulders. In his clutch was a blade. It shone black like marble and it and was forged in the style of the ancient elves of Gondolin.

"Flee this place lest ye fall to the blade so unwisely remade. Gurthang was its name in the old days. It is ravenous and hungers for blood."

No! Test yourselves against me for I am cruel and terrible. Great honor is found in he who strikes my bearer down and victory will always come to him who takes me up.

Moving as if his actions were not of his accord, the blade-bearer stood, pointing the long blade at the intruders.

"Flee before I am made to kill thee!"

As if their actions were not their own, the three companions readied themselves with their own blades. Glorfindel, knowing the name and the hateful reputation of this sword, raised his shining silver blade in challenge.

"I know thee, Gurthang the Traitorous. Battle do thee feast for? Than battle thee shall receive!"

Yes! Your blood shall stain me and your bodies will join with the dead at my doorstep! Doom falls upon thee this day!

Moving as if it were the blade the pulled the man, the dark knight lunged with unnatural swiftness, nearly impaling Glorfindel, who parried the dark sword and swung down at the man's outstretched arm. He twisted, not only dodging the elf's strike but countering the bladework of Fateel. He carried on thusly, striking at the company like a viper while defending himself with unmatched skill. Wherever a blade was to fall upon the Bearer of Gurthang, the blade itself would be to defend its servant. Arwen, bearer of Hadafang, soon found herself the focus of Gurthang's wrath. Her blade danced around its rival, but she was soon out matched by the ancient knowledge of the black blade and fell. Just as the final blow was to be struck, however, the blades of both Glorfindel and Fateel caught Gurthang, and forced its slave to leap back lest he lose his hands. The man and the elf engaged the bearer, who moved like wind between the blades of his enemies. He spun with a wrathful vigor, striking Fateel's helm with the pommel of the blade, causing him to collapse to the floor. It was now just he and Glorfindel. Silver struck black in the wavering firelight, sending sparks flying across the cavern.

I want your blood!

Glorfindel was pushed back by the blade.

I want to taste your flesh!

He fell to his knees under the vicious assault.

I want…you!

As if the blade had chosen a different fate, it swung away in just the wrong angle. Glorfindel parried the strike, driving his own into the throat of the bearer. The bearer's body convulsed, losing his grip on the blade. It crashed against the floor with a resounding clang, and Glorfindel broke his sword has he drove it up into his opponent's skull.

"Beware…" he gargled, and then he went limp. Both body and elf fell to the ground. Glorfindel shook, pain raking his worn body. He had not faced such a capable foe since the elder days and that foe had taken his life. He looked down at the hilt of his blade. It was an old friend to him, but now, it was broken and worthless. He needed a blade. His eye was drawn by the glint of the fallen sword. It was silent now. It did not call to him, nor did it speak words of wrath to his mind. He had slain it. He must have. Reaching out, he took up the dark sword. It was strong, heavy yet balanced. This would be his own now. Gurthang had found a new master. Gurthang was free.