Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess
LXVII: The Last Stand
Black Gate of Mordor, 3019 TA, March 25
As the last echoes of the departing trumpets faded into the distance, Meriadoc Brandybuck, known to his friends as Merry, stood solemn and solitary. His gaze followed the diminishing lines of the army as they marched eastward, each company and troop disappearing into the distance down the long road to the Causeway. The morning sun, now high in the sky, cast its final glimmers on the departing spears and helms, creating fleeting sparks of light that danced and then vanished, leaving Merry in a shadow of forlornness.
Around him, the great city of Minas Tirith bore the scars of recent conflict, a stark testament to the sacrifices made in the name of freedom. Merry, feeling lost and adrift, was acutely aware of the absence of those he held dear. They had ventured into the murky horizon, leaving him to grapple with the gnawing uncertainty of their fate. The pain in his arm, a cruel reminder of the war's toll, surged anew, amplifying his sense of frailty and weariness.
It was then that Faramir, Steward of Gondor, approached him, his voice a comforting presence in the heavy air. "Come, Master Perian," he said with gentle firmness. "You bear the pain of your wounds still. Let us return to the Houses of Healing. Do not lose heart, for the warriors of Minas Tirith are resolute and strong. They will return."
Merry looked up into Faramir's eyes, finding there a reflection of his own mixed emotions – a blend of hope and sorrow. Though the ruins of the city were a poignant reminder of the war's devastation, Faramir's words offered a glimmer of solace.
"You may be right, Master Faramir," Merry replied, his voice a mere whisper against the backdrop of the vast, wounded city. Despite the dread that weighed heavily on his heart, he allowed himself a sliver of hope.
Leaning on Faramir for support, Merry began the slow journey back to the Houses of Healing. Their footsteps echoed on the stone streets of the city, a solitary sound in the lingering quiet. The battle's clamor had receded, leaving a hushed stillness in its wake.
As they walked, Merry's mind wandered to his friends – Pippin, Aragorn, and the others – each bravely facing their own perils in the sprawling conflict that engulfed the land. Pride swelled within him for their valor, intertwined with a deep-seated apprehension for their safety.
Faramir's voice broke through Merry's reverie, his words imbued with a soothing wisdom. "In times as dark as these, Master Meriadoc, hope becomes our most potent ally against despair. We must cling to it."
Merry nodded, absorbing the truth in Faramir's counsel. Despite the heavy burden of his heart, he felt the faint stirrings of hope – fragile yet enduring, standing defiant against the overwhelming odds they faced.
Upon reaching the Houses of Healing, the healers received Merry with tenderness and expertise, attending to his injuries with gentle care. Faramir remained by his side, a quiet, steadfast presence, until the grasp of sleep, free from the torments of war and loss, enveloped Merry.
In slumber, Merry's features, so often creased with worry and anguish, softened into an expression of tranquility. For the moment, he was sheltered from the harsh realities of the outside world, ensconced in the nurturing embrace of the healers.
Faramir, watching over the resting Hobbit, contemplated the ongoing struggle beyond the city walls. He understood well the grievous toll of war, yet he also recognized the enduring spirit of humanity, its remarkable resilience in the face of adversity. Silently, he offered a prayer for the safe return of the warriors, his heart laden with both sorrow and hope for the future they endeavored to secure. With a final, lingering glance at Merry, Faramir quietly departed, his spirit buoyed by a resilient hope for the days to come.
Faramir had returned outside on the gardens of the Healing House there he met Éowyn. They found themselves drawn together, each seeking solace in the other's presence. They stood side by side, gazing out over the city – a vista of stone and shadow under the overcast sky. Though both were marked by the toll of war, a resilient spirit endured within them.
Éowyn, garbed in a flowing robe of silk, her visage fair yet touched by weariness, broke the silence. "The city lies so still," she murmured. "There seems no warmth left in the sun. An unyielding chill pervades the air."
Faramir, standing close, offered her a gentle reassurance. "It is but the dampness of the season's first rain, Lady Éowyn," he said, his voice carrying a quiet strength. His gaze met hers, and in his eyes, she saw a glimmer of hope. "I hold to the belief that this shadow will not last. The sun will shine upon us again."
Their hands found each other, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Éowyn, moved by his words, allowed herself a small smile and rested her head on his shoulder. The simple gesture spoke volumes of the comfort they found in each other's company.
"Do you truly believe that, Faramir?" Éowyn asked, her voice soft but carrying a note of earnest inquiry. "That after such darkness, we might yet see light?"
Faramir gazed thoughtfully into the distance before replying. "In the heart of shadow, Lady Éowyn, the smallest light shines brightest. It is in times like these that we discover the strength we never knew we possessed. And it is together, united, that we find our way back to the light."
Éowyn lifted her head, looking into Faramir's eyes. "And what of us, Faramir? In this world torn by war, what place do we find for ourselves?"
Faramir's hand tightened gently around hers. "We find a place where hope can dwell, Éowyn. A place where the courage of the heart can overcome the darkness of the world. Perhaps, in the days to come, we can seek that place together."
A moment of silence passed between them, filled with unspoken promises and the burgeoning of a bond forged in adversity. Éowyn's eyes reflected a newfound determination, kindled by Faramir's words.
"Together, then," she said with quiet resolve. "We will face what comes, and hold fast to the hope that this darkness will indeed pass."
As they stood there, hand in hand, looking out over the city, the first drops of rain began to fall, soft and gentle. It was as if the world itself was beginning to heal, drop by drop. In that moment, Faramir and Éowyn, though wounded and weary, felt a renewed sense of purpose and a deepening connection that promised to endure beyond the trials of war.
As the first light of dawn kissed the horizon, the host of the West, led by Aragorn, began its march towards the Black Gate. It was a grim journey, undertaken to distract the Eye of Sauron and afford Frodo the chance he needed to complete his perilous quest. Legolas, Gimli, Xena, and Gandalf rode at the vanguard with the Dúnedain and the sons of Elrond. Their mission was fraught with danger, yet it was their last hope.
The army reached Osgiliath by noon, where industrious hands worked to mend the remnants of battle. The once bustling city now served as a silent testament to the cost of war. In this place, the forces gathered their strength, repairing bridges and salvaging what they could. The vanguard pressed forward through the ruins, over the Anduin, and along the road that once connected the Towers of the Sun and the Moon.
The march was solemn, each soldier lost in his own thoughts, haunted by the specter of death and the darkness they had witnessed. Their hearts were set on reaching the Black Gate, where the final stand awaited. The air grew tense with the unspoken understanding that many might not return.
They halted at the Cross-roads under a great ring of trees. The silence was palpable, a stillness that seemed to watch and wait. No enemy stirred, yet the land itself seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.
Gandalf and Aragorn led the vanguard to the mouth of Morgul Vale. The evil city lay in ruin, its inhabitants defeated, but the air was thick with malice and dread. The Nazgûl, those wraiths of shadow, were abroad, their presence a suffocating weight upon the hearts of the warriors.
On the third day, the host continued northward, cautious but determined. Scouts surveyed the path ahead, vigilant for any sign of the enemy. The landscape changed, growing more desolate and inhospitable, a reflection of the darkness that lay at their journey's end.
The wind shifted from the north, bringing a biting chill. The land was barren, marred by the scars of industry and war. The Morannon loomed ahead, a monstrous gateway guarded by the Towers of the Teeth, a threshold to the dark heart of Mordor.
The Black Gate stood closed, its massive iron doors unyielding. No sound or movement betrayed the presence of the enemy, yet a heavy sense of watchfulness pervaded the air. The army of the West had reached the nadir of their endeavor, standing small and vulnerable before the immense fortifications that no mortal force could hope to breach.
Aragorn arrayed his forces upon two hills of stone and earth, remnants of the enemy's labor. The Captains, with a heavy heart, rode forth towards the Black Gate, a final act of defiance against the dark lord. Gandalf, as the chief herald, led the procession, followed by Aragorn, Éomer, Imrahil, and the sons of Elrond, with Legolas, Xena, Gimli, and Peregrin among them – a representation of all the free peoples of Middle-earth.
Reaching the Morannon, they unfurled their banner and sounded their trumpets, their voices echoing against the silent walls of Mordor. The Nazgûl circled overhead, a dark omen. Yet, no response came from the Gate.
The Captains knew well the peril they faced, the legions that hid within the dark land. Yet, they stood resolute, prepared to see their ruse to its end, to play their part in the unfolding drama of Middle-earth, their hearts holding onto a sliver of hope for Frodo's success.
The trumpets of war echoed across the desolate landscape as Aragorn and his companions approached the formidable Black Gate. With the fate of Middle-earth hanging in the balance, they rode with a determination that belied the unease gripping their hearts. Among them, Pippin, astride Gandalf's horse, gazed anxiously ahead, his mind fraught with worry for his dear friend Frodo.
Then, with a cacophony that shattered the stillness, the Black Gate opened, revealing the ghastly envoy of Sauron – the Mouth of Sauron. Mounted upon a dark steed, his appearance was as dreadful as the land he represented. His words, dripping with malice, sought to shake their resolve.
"Is there anyone among this rabble with authority to parley?" he sneered, his gaze mocking them.
Gandalf, unflinching, faced the Mouth of Sauron. "We do not come to parley with treachery," he declared. "The armies of Mordor must disperse, and Sauron must depart these lands."
The Mouth of Sauron's reply was sinister, his hand revealing Frodo's Mithril shirt. The sight struck a blow to their hearts. Pippin's cry of "Frodo!" was a sharp reminder of the peril their friend faced. Gandalf, sternly silencing the hobbits, looked upon the shirt with deep concern.
Aragorn, eyes flashing with anger, responded with swift justice, ending the envoy's mockery with a single stroke of his sword. "Negotiations are concluded," he stated firmly.
The Black Gate opened once more, unleashing a tide of orcs. The Eye of Sauron, now fully focused on them, intensified the looming threat. Aragorn commanded a strategic retreat, positioning his forces for the impending onslaught.
The orc army surged forth, eager to engulf the men of the West. Aragorn's rallying cry galvanized the troops, igniting a fierce determination in their hearts. "Stand, Men of the West! This is the hour of our doom, but we shall stand and fight!"
As the battle commenced, Legolas and Gimli stood side by side, their camaraderie unbroken even in the face of overwhelming odds. Xena, her warrior spirit undimmed, readied herself for the fray, exchanging a knowing glance with Legolas.
Gimli, with a touch of humor amidst the grimness, quipped about dying beside an elf. Legolas, smiling, offered the comfort of friendship in their shared fate. Xena, with a warrior's focus, urged them to battle readiness. "Save your affections for later; the battle is upon us."
The men of the West, though outnumbered, faced the enemy with unyielding resolve. Swords were drawn, shields raised, and hearts steeled for the fight of their lives. The clash of steel and roar of battle filled the air as they stood against the darkness, united in their final stand for the freedom of Middle-earth.
As the formidable Black Gate creaked open, revealing the menacing legions of Sauron, a sense of impending doom settled over the assembled forces of the West. The great hosts of Mordor, a terrifying amalgam of Orcs, Trolls, Easterlings, and Haradrim, poured forth in a deluge of malice, ready to clash with Aragorn and his brave companions.
Gandalf, Aragorn, Éomer, the sons of Elrond, and the rest of the Captains swiftly retreated to their ranks, their horses' hooves thundering against the ground, even as the armies of Mordor jeered and roared in anticipation. The air thickened with dust as the Easterlings advanced, and the ominous sound of marching Orcs echoed from the hills.
Imrahil of Dol Amroth, alongside his sons and even his daughter, Lothíriel, stood ready with the men of Gondor. The princess, a figure of both grace and strength, gazed determinedly upon the enemy, her presence a testament to the valor of her people.
Éowyn, standing alongside Faramir, observed the growing silence over the city, a stark contrast to the tumultuous battlefield. Her words, tinged with despair, spoke of the cold and darkness encroaching upon their world. Yet Faramir, ever the beacon of hope, reassured her with gentle words, a soft smile gracing his features. Together, they found solace in each other's company, sharing a quiet moment of respite amidst the chaos.
Back on the battlefield, the Morannon teemed with foes, encircling the men of the West. Yet, as they stood on the brink of despair, hope flickered anew. The Eagles of the Misty Mountains, called forth by Gandalf's command, swooped down from the skies, their majestic wings cutting through the air as they engaged the Nazgûl in fierce aerial combat.
Amidst the cacophony of battle, Aragorn, wielding Andúril, stood resolute, a beacon of light against the encroaching darkness. The Captains of the West rallied their forces, preparing for the onslaught. Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond, fought valiantly, their elven blades flashing amidst the sea of enemies.
The battlefield, now a maelstrom of violence, echoed with the clash of steel and the cries of the fallen. Legolas and Gimli, their legendary friendship unbroken, fought back-to-back, their tally of slain foes rising with each passing moment. Xena, the warrior princess, her chakram spinning lethally, added her own count to the grim tally.
As the forces of Mordor pressed in, a sudden, earth-shattering change swept over the battlefield. A great shadow, cast by Sauron himself, loomed over the land, but it was swiftly torn asunder by a powerful wind, signaling the Dark Lord's demise.
A cry of triumph rose from the men of the West as they realized the impossible had been achieved – the Ring had been destroyed, and with it, the power of Sauron was undone. The enemy forces, bereft of their master's will, fell into disarray, their ranks breaking as despair took hold.
In the aftermath of this monumental victory, Gandalf, mounted upon the Eagles, hastened to find Frodo and Sam, while Aragorn and the other Captains gathered the wounded and began the solemn journey back to Minas Tirith. The War of the Ring had come to an end, and though much was lost, the Free Peoples of Middle-earth had prevailed.
Thus, hope was rekindled in the hearts of all who had stood against the darkness, and the Age of Men dawned with the promise of peace and renewal. The scars of war would take time to heal, but on this day, under the clearing skies, Middle-earth was free at last.
In the quiet chambers of Minas Tirith, Xena, once hailed as both Hero and Destroyer of Nations, found herself wrestling with a tumult of emotions that the end of the War of the Ring had stirred within her. The victorious cries that echoed through the city's streets, celebrating the fall of Sauron and the dawn of peace, could not penetrate the deep introspection that gripped her soul.
The very fabric of her being, woven with threads of battle and atonement, seemed out of place in this world healing from its scars. The irony was not lost on her; a warrior without a war, a savior questioning her salvation. The victory over the spreading evil had not brought her the inner peace she so desperately sought but had instead cast her into a sea of uncertainty.
Her conversation with Legolas about the troubles in Mirkwood lingered in her mind. The elven prince, ever loyal to his kin and kingdom, was now bound for Imladris to ensure Arwen's safe journey to King Elessar. Xena had agreed to accompany them, but the decision did not ease the restlessness that gnawed at her spirit.
In the confines of her assigned chamber, two of Gondor's finest seamstresses worked diligently, crafting a wardrobe befitting the celebration of peace. But the very idea of trading her battle-worn armor for gowns stirred a sense of irritation within her. Armor had been her second skin, her shield against the world. Now, as she was coaxed into the silks and velvets of peace, she felt exposed, vulnerable.
Just days ago, Middle-earth had been shrouded in mourning, the shadow of darkness hanging heavily over all. Now, as hope was rekindled, men and women returned to the rhythm of their lives, their resilience shining through. Yet, for Xena, there was no ordinary pattern to return to, no rhythm to guide her steps. This world, so different from her own, offered no answers to the questions that haunted her.
With Sauron's defeat, she pondered whether the curses that plagued Mirkwood had also been lifted. The thought should have lightened her heart, but instead, she found herself grappling with a sense of purposelessness. The mood of celebration that enveloped the city only deepened her sense of alienation.
Perhaps her anger stemmed from the realization that the end of the war did not signify the end of her journey. The path of atonement, she knew, was long and winding, with no clear destination. As she stood at the crossroads of her destiny, the warrior within her yearned for a new cause, a new battle to give meaning to her existence.
In this moment of introspection, Xena understood that her struggle was not just against the foes of Middle-earth but also against the turmoil within her own soul. The war may have ended, but her battle for inner peace and understanding had just begun.
In the chamber, time seemed to have stretched and bent upon itself, as Xena, the warrior known for her fierce battles, now stood amidst an array of fabrics and needles. The tailors, skilled though they were in their craft, found themselves in a peculiar struggle: the creation of a suitable attire for someone whose essence was more akin to battlefields than ballrooms. They proposed gowns, she demanded armor; a compromise seemed elusive.
After hours of gentle persuasion and compromise, a creation was born from the hands of the seamstresses - a gown that bridged the divide between the warrior and the elegance required of the present occasion. It was an exquisite piece, its design harking back to the regal attire of elven maidens and noblewomen. The gown, crafted in rich burgundy red crushed velvet, clung to her form in a fitted bodice before flaring out gracefully at the waist into a flowing skirt. The off-the-shoulder design, paired with long, flowing sleeves of sheer burgundy chiffon, added an air of ethereal grace.
The bodice, structured and corset-like, was adorned with intricate patterns formed by satin black ribbons that crisscrossed across her torso. A black satin belt cinched the waist, from which the skirt cascaded down in elegant folds. As Xena regarded her reflection, a sense of unfamiliarity washed over her. Her typically rugged and battle-ready appearance was transformed, her natural beauty now accentuated by the finesse of the gown.
Her dark brown hair and fair skin, often marred by the toils of war, now shone with a refreshed vitality. She was, undeniably, beautiful – a fact she had always known but seldom acknowledged in her bearing. In this moment, garbed in the elegance befitting an elven maiden, her confidence in her beauty was not just evident but radiant.
Her contemplation was interrupted by a knock at the door. The seamstresses, their task fulfilled, eagerly opened the door, hoping for an escape from the intensity of Xena's presence. To their surprise and bashful delight, it was Elladan, the dark-haired Elven prince, who stood at the threshold. They bowed and blushed, swiftly departing from the room.
Elladan entered with the ease and grace characteristic of his kind. His eyes immediately found Xena, and a smile, warm and genuine, lit up his features, softening the lines etched by time and battle. He regarded her with a mixture of admiration and amusement, a silent acknowledgment of the transformation she had undergone. The warrior in a gown – a sight he found both striking and curiously fitting.
Xena, once known as both Hero and Destroyer of Nations, stood before the mirror, her warrior's guise exchanged for the elegance of a gown. Elladan's comment on her changed appearance brought a lightness to the room, a brief respite from the weight of their recent trials. His words, teasing yet sincere, hinted at an admiration that went beyond mere physical change. It was a recognition of the journey she had undergone, both in battle and within.
The conversation between them flowed effortlessly, an easy banter that belied the deep respect and understanding they shared. Elladan's suggestion to seek Legolas' help for new armor in Imladris brought a practical solution to her dilemma, though his playful warning about Arwen's penchant for gowns elicited a chuckle. It was clear that the elves of Imladris had a fondness for beauty in attire, a contrast to Xena's preference for practicality.
Xena's inquiry about Elrohir and the reason for their separate paths back to Imladris revealed a deeper layer of concern, perhaps a hint of longing for the camaraderie and security that came with the presence of the twin sons of Elrond. Elladan's explanation, centered around safety and strategy, highlighted the ever-present need for caution, even in the wake of victory. The world of Middle-earth, though freer from the shadow of Sauron, was still not devoid of danger.
Xena's agreement to the plan, albeit with a hidden reluctance to ride alone with Legolas, spoke volumes of her cautious nature. She was a warrior, always aware of the variables and potential risks, even in seemingly peaceful times. Her willingness to adapt, to don a gown or armor as the situation demanded, was a testament to her resilience and versatility.
As Elladan prepared to leave, the atmosphere in the room was one of quiet understanding and mutual respect. The paths they were to take might be separate, but the bond forged through shared battles and common purpose remained unbroken. In this moment of transition, as Xena looked upon her own reflection, now altered by the gown she wore, she was reminded of the many facets of her identity – warrior, hero, friend. Each played its part in the tapestry of her life, each a thread in the story of Xena, the warrior with a heart both fierce and gentle.
Xena, once a warrior of unparalleled renown, stood draped in the unfamiliar softness of a gown. Her past titles of Hero and Destroyer of Nations hung over her like shadows, their weight palpable in the still air. The recent war, though victorious, had not quelled the tempest within her. Questions lingered, particularly about the unresolved mysteries of Mirkwood and its curses. These were enigmas that neither she nor Legolas, her elven companion, had been able to unravel.
Elladan's remarks about Legolas's hesitance to allow Xena to ride with the rangers stirred a familiar fire in her. The mention of Legolas's name brought a sharp edge to her voice, her patience worn thin by the elf's perceived arrogance. Elladan's attempt to ease the tension with humor did little to mollify her; if anything, it only sharpened her resolve to confront Legolas.
The sudden appearance of Legolas, resplendent in his elven garb, interrupted their exchange. His presence, commanding yet graceful, seemed to charge the air with an electric tension. Xena's response to him was curt, her words a clear reflection of her frustration. Yet beneath the surface, there was an unspoken acknowledgment of the complex bond they shared, a connection that defied easy explanation.
Elrohir's intervention, though well-intentioned, did little to diffuse the brewing storm between Xena and Legolas. His comment about Xena's transformation into a young lady of elegance only served to highlight the change that had taken place in her, a change that was more than skin-deep.
The moment the twins departed, Legolas seized the opportunity to address Xena privately. His words, though spoken lightly, carried an undercurrent of seriousness. He expressed his concerns for her safety, a sentiment that Xena bristled at. Her fiery response was swift, her pride and independence asserting themselves in the face of perceived patronization.
Their conversation, charged with an intensity that bordered on confrontation, was abruptly cut short by Legolas's suggestion to join the others for dinner. The atmosphere shifted, the tension dissipating as quickly as it had arisen. As they walked together, Legolas's gentle touch on her arm was a silent acknowledgment of their shared journey and the battles they had faced side by side.
In the halls of Gondor, where survivors and heroes gathered to celebrate their hard-won peace, Xena and Legolas joined their friends. The evening promised a moment of respite, a brief escape from the lingering uncertainties and the shadows of war. It was a chance to honor the sacrifices made and to cherish the bonds forged in the crucible of conflict.
As they entered the hall, Xena's thoughts lingered on the complexities of her relationship with Legolas, the mysteries of Mirkwood, and the path that lay ahead. The future was uncertain, the challenges daunting, but for now, she allowed herself a moment of peace, surrounded by those who had become her companions in a world far from her own.
((Upcoming Chapter Sixty-Eight))
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