Title: Rings of Darkness

Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, Xena the Warrior Princess

Type: Regular

Based on: Movies, Books,

Rated: T for violence and language

Genre: Adventure, Angst, Action, Romance, Friendship, Tragedy

Chapters:

Status: Ongoing

Language: English

Cover Image:

Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess

Author's Note: Let's dive right into this alternate tale of Middle-Earth.

I: Prologue

Act I: Return of the Ringwraith: Darkness Descends

Black Gate of Mordor, 3019 TA, March 25 - 30

Hope dies last.

He had placed all his faith in that proverb, as had everyone who fought at the Battle of the Morannon. They thought that Frodo would ultimately destroy the Ring, Sauron would perish, and peace would gradually return to Middle-Earth. Though they were unaware of what would follow. Darkness rose and took Middle-Earth into an onward night, regardless of neither time nor sun. The storms separated the heroes and villains, washing the stage clean for the last battle, blood and flesh.

It was not what he had expected, no one had. The ring was thrown into Mount Doom, but it was saved at the last minute before it fell into the fire. And it found its Master faster than anyone would guess. Sauron, the Dark Lord, had been cunning and patient. As the Ring teetered on the edge of the abyss, he extended his shadowy influence, reaching out to snatch it from the precipice. With a sinister laugh that echoed across Mordor, he reclaimed the One Ring, his ultimate source of power.

The ground trembled as Sauron's malevolence surged, causing the very mountain to quake. The skies darkened, and a sinister red glow emanated from the Eye of Sauron atop Barad-dûr. The heroes who had fought so valiantly now faced a foe more formidable than ever before.

Darkness surrounded them, rising so fast and powerful that it seemed to suffocate every living creature, whether allied with Sauron or against him. However, those who had fought against Sauron found themselves in a particularly dire situation. They had invested their last ounce of strength in this final battle, their last hope centered around Frodo. And now, that hope crumbled before their eyes. They did not possess the details, but the chilling truth was undeniable – The One Ring had been returned to Sauron.

As the realization spread among the ranks of the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth, a collective sense of despair threatened to overcome them. The very earth quaked beneath the weight of this revelation, and the dark storm that had erupted above seemed to mock their efforts.

Gandalf, the wise and unyielding, sought to rally their spirits. "All is not lost," he declared, his voice carrying a resolute tone that cut through the gloom. "We have faced insurmountable odds before, and we shall do so again. Our cause is just, and our resolve unbreakable."

Aragorn, the true heir to the throne of Gondor, stepped forward, drawing Andúril from its sheath. "This is our darkest hour, but it is precisely in such times that heroes are born. Sauron may have regained the Ring, but he has not yet won the day. We must gather our strength and stand together, for the fate of Middle-Earth hangs in the balance."

Like Gandalf, Aragorn, and the rest of the Elves, Legolas was acutely aware that the growing darkness posed a far more insidious threat than even Sauron's formidable army. While Sauron's troops undoubtedly gained strength under the oppressive shadow, it was the encroaching darkness itself that posed an existential danger. Their enemy's presence loomed, unknowable and all-encompassing.

The grim realization settled in – continuing to fight in this pitch-black abyss was a sure path to doom. Retreat, though a bitter pill to swallow, was the only sensible choice. Yet, two of their dearest companions remained deep within the enemy's territory, and they could not, in good conscience, leave them behind.

Gandalf, his brow furrowed with worry, spoke with gravitas. "Retreating is our only option, my friends. We must regroup, gather our strength, and come up with a new strategy to face this darkness. But we cannot abandon our friends."

Aragorn, resolute as ever, nodded in agreement. "We shall send a stealthy and swift party to infiltrate the enemy lines and extract our friends. Time is of the essence, and we must act swiftly."

Gandalf, his eyes filled with both determination and a hint of sadness, added, "I will lead this mission myself, for I possess the knowledge and magic needed to navigate this treacherous darkness. The rest of you must make haste in retreating and preparing for the battles yet to come."

Gandalf's plan was a desperate one, but he had always been a beacon of hope in the darkest of times. He knew that the Hobbits—Sam, Frodo, and even Gollum—had borne the weight of the Ring for far too long. The knowledge that they were still alive was a glimmer of hope amidst the encroaching despair. With resolute nods from Aragorn, Legolas, and the others, Gandalf set his plan into motion. The decision weighed heavily on them all, for they knew that the fate of their friends, Frodo, Sam, and even the treacherous Gollum, hung in the balance.

As the darkness pressed in around them, Gandalf raised his staff, and with a commanding voice, summoned the Eagles. These majestic creatures, allies of old, answered the call. With wings that gleamed like silver in the obsidian night, they descended from the heavens.

Gandalf climbed atop one of the noble birds, his cloak billowing in the night wind. "To Mount Doom!" he cried, and the Eagles soared upward, piercing the shroud of darkness that enveloped Middle-Earth.

High above, they beheld the desolation that had befallen the land. The once-green fields and shimmering waters were now shadows of their former selves, corrupted by Sauron's influence. But the true heart of their mission lay ahead.

Mount Doom, the fiery crucible where the Ring was to be destroyed, stood as an ominous silhouette against the starless sky. Gandalf's heart pounded with both hope and fear as they drew nearer, for he knew not what they would find there.

Legolas, ever vigilant, had sensed the arrival of the eagles before the rest. The majesty of these creatures, their wings spread wide against the dark sky, momentarily stole his focus. In that brief pause, he received a few wounds from the relentless orcs he was fighting. Yet, he couldn't tear his eyes away as he watched the White Wizard, Gandalf, climbing atop Gwaihir, the Eagle, and fly away along with three more of their noble Eagles. Together, they soared towards Mount Doom, a beacon of hope piercing the shroud of despair.

At that moment, he whispered a prayer in Elvish, his voice carried away by the wind, hoping that some measure of Elven grace would follow Gandalf on this perilous journey to find the Hobbits and return them safely.

Aragorn knew that the fate of Middle-Earth rested on his shoulders as well. He had been a warrior and a leader throughout these trials, and now his next act was clear: gather the remaining troops and retreat from Mordor, saving as many lives as possible.

The bitter truth hung in the air – at this moment, Sauron had triumphed, and they could not win this battle. They had entered the fray to buy Frodo time to destroy the Ring, and now, with that hope seemingly extinguished, they had to fall back to Gondor and regroup. The road ahead was uncertain, and the weight of responsibility rested heavily on Aragorn's shoulders.

Amid the chaos of battle, Aragorn, his sword blazing like a beacon of hope, sought out his loyal companions Legolas and Gimli. The cacophony of clashing weapons, the roars of orcs, and the haunting whispers of the dark winds filled the air. "Legolas! Gimli!" Aragorn's voice cut through the turmoil, his keen eyes scanning the battlefield for his friends. When he spotted their familiar figures amidst the fray, he shouted above the din. "We must gather our forces and retreat! There's nothing more to be done here!"

Legolas, his elven reflexes unmatched in combat, swiftly dispatched an orc with an arrow through its throat. He turned to Aragorn, his fair face marred with dirt and sweat. "Aragorn, what of Gandalf? And the Eagles?"

Aragorn nodded solemnly, "Gandalf leads them, and we must trust in their mission. Our task now is to save as many lives as we can and regroup in Gondor. There, we'll decide our next course of action."

Gimli, stout and unwavering, joined the conversation. "Aye, Aragorn, it's time we left this forsaken place. I'll rally the dwarves, and Legolas can gather our Elven friends. We'll make a fighting retreat, covering our comrades as we go."

Legolas and Gimli nodded in agreement, their trust in their leader unwavering. Together, they were on their respective missions, shouting orders and rallying those who still stood amidst the chaos. Together, with Elladan and Elrohir at their side, they were on their respective missions, shouting orders and rallying those who still stood amidst the chaos.

As they led their beleaguered company on this harrowing retreat, the twins, Elladan and Elrohir, fought valiantly alongside them. Their figures moved gracefully through the chaos of battle, their Elvish agility and skill unmatched.

Amidst the relentless onslaught of orcs, Elladan's blade danced with otherworldly grace, while Elrohir's bow sang with deadly precision. The twins were a formidable force, their presence bolstering the spirits of their companions.

The heroes of Middle-Earth began to fall back, forming a determined rear guard as they retreated from the relentless tide of Sauron's forces. The battle-worn soldiers, knowing that their quest to destroy the Ring had failed, retreated with heavy hearts but a glimmer of hope that they might yet find a way to thwart Sauron's dark ambitions.

As the remnants of their forces began to retreat, the orcs and Sauron's armies pressed on, a relentless tide of darkness. The heroes of Middle-Earth withdrew, battered and bruised, but not defeated in spirit. The future was uncertain, but they carried with them the hope that someday, somehow, they might rise again to face the ever-present threat of Sauron and his malevolent power.

With Elladan and Elrohir fighting alongside them, the company continued its grim retreat, their resolve unbroken despite the overwhelming odds. The twins' presence, like a beacon of Elven's grace amidst the chaos, reminded them that they were not alone in this desperate struggle.

As Aragorn and the dwindling remnants of his once-proud army rode back to Gondor, a somber silence enveloped them. The magnitude of their defeat lay heavy on their hearts, casting long shadows across their path. The clash of swords, the battle cries, and the thundering hooves of their steeds had given way to an eerie stillness, broken only by the mournful howl of the wind.

In the aftermath of Sauron's victory, the very air seemed tainted, thick with an oppressive darkness that seeped into the souls of those who had dared to defy the Dark Lord. The very land they traversed bore the scars of their battle, scarred and charred as a testament to the horrors they had witnessed.

Gone was the hope that had once burned brightly, the belief that Frodo would succeed in destroying the Ring and vanquishing Sauron. Now, a sense of impending doom hung over them like a shroud, and the reality of their failure gnawed at their spirits.

The darkness was no longer an abstract threat; it was a tangible, suffocating presence that crept into the hearts of even the bravest. Aragorn and the Elves, beings of great resilience, could feel the insidious effects of the Ring's return to Sauron. It was as if a corrupting force had been unleashed, sowing despair and discord in its wake.

As they rode, they cast furtive glances at one another, their eyes reflecting a mixture of grief, regret, and fear. The road ahead was uncertain, and the future of Middle-Earth appeared bleaker than ever before. They had retreated from the Morannon, but Sauron's dominion extended further than they could have imagined, and his malevolence was spreading like a festering wound.

Legolas, the ethereal Elf with ageless eyes and a heart attuned to the harmony of nature felt a despair that transcended words. As the miles stretched between the Morannon and their sanctuary in Gondor, a gnawing dread coiled within him, intertwining with the fibers of his very being. He knew, with a heavy heart, that his brethren were not immune to this encroaching darkness.

While those who had honed the art of warfare, like him, might yet find the strength to withstand the relentless night that loomed, the rest of the Elves were in peril. The essence of their existence, their ethereal connection to the beauty and light of Middle-Earth, was under threat. The malevolence of Sauron's return and the twisted allure of the Ring had already begun to affect their once-pure souls.

The Ring, that accursed artifact, whispered its poison into the very air they breathed. Its insidious tendrils reached out to each Elf, weaving a web of doubt and despair. It sought to darken their hearts, to extinguish the radiant light that had once defined their race.

Legolas, though he bore the weight of his people's plight with a stoic grace, knew the danger that lay ahead. The Elves, beings of boundless beauty and grace, were not impervious to the allure of power and the corrosive influence of darkness. Their very existence, steeped in the love of the land and its natural wonders, made them vulnerable to the Ring's insidious charm.

As the journey continued, the once-vibrant woods and rivers they passed seemed to wither and fade. The melody of the forest birds grew muted, and the whispering leaves spoke of sorrow and lament. The very air they inhaled was tainted, carrying the scent of impending doom.

Legolas, his keen senses attuned to the subtle rhythms of Middle-Earth, felt a growing disquiet within him. He knew that the road ahead would test not only their physical prowess but also their resilience against the creeping shadows that threatened to consume their very souls.

As Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli led the ragged remnants of their once-mighty army back to Gondor, a palpable sense of despair hung heavily in the air. The journey, fraught with ominous foreboding, was a somber procession through lands now touched by the creeping darkness. The very landscape seemed to mourn their return.

The once-lush fields that surrounded the living cities were now pallid and desolate, their vibrant hues drained by an unseen malevolence. The waters of the Anduin, once teeming with life, flowed like a sluggish river of despair. The sun, shrouded by thick, ashen clouds, cast a sickly pallor upon the land.

The journey back to Gondor was a relentless odyssey through a world now twisted and malevolent. Every step of the way was fraught with peril, and the road they once knew had transformed into a treacherous path through the heart of darkness.

Days turned into nights, and nights into days, as Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli led their beleaguered company on this harrowing retreat. Short breaks for rest and nourishment were necessary but fleeting, for they were pursued relentlessly by Sauron's ever-vigilant forces.

The once-familiar landscapes had become nightmarish battlegrounds. The shadowy woods, once filled with the gentle murmur of leaves, now harbored lurking horrors. The streams, once pure and life-giving, had turned into stagnant pools of dread. Each bend in the road held the potential for ambush, and the very air they breathed carried the stench of death.

As they crossed paths with Sauron's troops, fierce battles ensued. The clash of swords, the twang of Legolas' bowstring, and Gimli's resolute axe cleaving through the enemy ranks echoed through the desolation. They fought valiantly, but the odds were stacked against them. Many among their company, brave warriors who had stood shoulder to shoulder with them at the Morannon, met their end in these bloody skirmishes.

The darkness, insatiable and relentless, seemed to conspire against their every step. It bore down upon them, both physically and spiritually, as if to snuff out the last flicker of hope. Their morale waned with each passing day, and the prospect of returning to the White City felt like a distant dream, slipping further from their grasp.

Gimli, his brow furrowed with determination, hewed a path through the enemy ranks. Legolas, with an arrow always at the ready, loosed arrows with deadly precision. Aragorn, his blade held high, led the charge with unwavering resolve. But even their formidable prowess was tested to its limits.

As they fought through the unending night, a sense of foreboding settled upon them. The losses they endured were not only a blow to their numbers but also to their spirit. Each fallen comrade was a testament to the darkness's relentless advance, and their sacrifices weighed heavily on the survivors.

And yet, they pressed on, driven by a fierce determination to reach Gondor. The road ahead was fraught with peril, and the darkness threatened to consume them entirely. But as long as a glimmer of hope remained, they would fight on, for the White City beckoned as a final bastion of light in a world gripped by despair.

The Rohirrim and Gondorians, stalwart in their loyalty to Aragorn, followed their King without a crown with unwavering dedication. Their spirits, once aflame with hope and valor, had been slowly drained by the relentless advance of darkness. These were warriors bereft of their will to fight, their hearts heavy with the burden of despair.

Aragorn, the beacon of leadership even in these dire times, rode at the forefront. He may have lacked a crown, but his presence still carried the weight of a king. By his side, Legolas and Gimli, steadfast as ever, did their best to kindle the dwindling flame of courage among their comrades.

The hobbits, who had shown remarkable bravery throughout their perilous journey, found themselves succumbing to the pervasive gloom that surrounded them. The burden had taken its toll on their spirits, and now they followed the procession with heavy hearts.

Yet, Aragorn and his trusted friends Legolas and Gimli refused to let the darkness claim their spirits entirely. They shared tales of valor and heroism, reminding their comrades of the battles they had fought and the victories they had won. They sang songs of old, melodies that had once filled their hearts with hope, now echoing through the bleak landscape as a defiant anthem.

The journey was grueling, the road ahead fraught with peril at every turn, but they pressed on. Each step was an act of defiance against the encroaching despair. They clung to the belief that, no matter how faint, a glimmer of hope still remained.

As they neared Gondor, the White City stood as a distant beacon of light, a symbol of all they had fought for. The walls of Gondor, the last fortress of Men, held the promise of safety and sanctuary. The warriors, weary and battered, could almost taste the respite that awaited them. The emotions that coursed through their ranks were a complex tapestry of weariness, fear, and unwavering determination. The darkness had tested them to their limits, but the spirit of defiance burned within them, a testament to the indomitable will of those who still dared to stand against the night.

As they approached the formidable walls of Gondor, the grim sentinel of the West, the contrast between the resplendent city and the shadowed world beyond its walls was stark. The towering architecture of Gondor, a testament to the might of Men, stood as a beacon of hope amidst the encroaching gloom. Yet, even the White City was not untouched by the weight of their failure. The people who had cheered them on their departure now watched in silence, their faces etched with lines of sorrow and uncertainty. Their allies, the Rohirrim and other Free Peoples of Middle-Earth bore expressions of grim determination, but the flicker of hope was dim.

Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, leading their bedraggled troops through the city gates, felt the weight of responsibility and loss pressing upon their shoulders. Their armor, once gleaming with pride and valor, was now tarnished and battered, mirroring the state of their souls.

Inside Gondor, the atmosphere was heavy with sorrow and trepidation. The once-proud city was now a refuge, a sanctuary in the gathering storm. The streets, once bustling with life, were now filled with hushed conversations and wary glances. The people of Gondor had heard of the defeat at the Morannon, and the shadow of Sauron's impending conquest loomed large.

As they made their way to the citadel, the heart of Gondor's power, the trio could feel the eyes of the city upon them. They were not only heroes returned from battle but also bearers of devastating news. The council, comprised of the city's leaders and advisors, awaited them with somber faces.

The arrival in Gondor, once a moment of triumph and jubilation, had become a funeral march. The darkness that had descended upon Middle-Earth had stolen not only their hope but also their innocence. The road ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, and the tears that fell from the eyes of those who witnessed their return were not only for the fallen but for the world itself, teetering on the precipice of an unending night.

((Upcoming Act Two))

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