Six: Geometry of the Future

Talion and Daerwen continued on to Minas Morgul, and the wraith rested there to wait for dark while the drake went off to hunt. The sun had long ago begun its descent and now hovered just over the Ered Nimrais in the distance, casting the Pelennor and the Anduin and even the Morgulduin in golden light.

Talion sat and waited with the empty stillness of a Nazgûl until the sun had set completely. Only when it was full dark, the new moon a starless void rising over the Ephel Dúath, did he rouse Daerwen from her post-meal slumber to bear him aloft again. She took them high enough that even Talion felt the bitter cold, the mighty Anduin below them barely as wide as his littlest finger at arms' length, and glided across into Gondor.

He half-expected to feel like he was trespassing on sacred ground when he had Daerwen come around and land on the slopes of Mount Mindolluin above the city. This was a place unknown to all Men save the kings of Gondor, yet here they were, a Ringwraith and his fire-drake, gliding silently down out of the night to perch on the precipice overlooking Minas Tirith below. Talion dipped into the Unseen World as they descended, searching for guards on the off chance the new king had made changes here as well, but there was nothing and no one -

Wait. What was that?

Talion dropped from Daerwen's saddle and slowly, carefully, approached the thing he saw, the Unseen World falling away as he walked.

His eyes were better than a cat's in the dark, better even that Daerwen's, so he saw the sapling with bright clarity even in the pitch black night. It was white, white as the snow on the mountain slopes above it, lean but steady with the promise of strong growth to come in its rich crown of spring-green leaves.

The line of kings has flowered once more, and the White Tree with it.

He pulled off his gauntlet and reached out but did not dare close the last few inches between himself and the branches, content to just feel the tree's spirit as it pulsed with life - until the wind picked up just enough to make the sapling bend and brush its leaves over his bare palm.

The tree was unharmed by his touch, indeed seemed just slightly better and brighter, as if he had given it strength and health and life instead of taking it away. Talion let out an unsteady breath, blinking back dark tears.

The Ringwraith stepped back and bowed to the sapling, then turned and sought the Kingsway. It was an ancient and narrow track leading down into the city below, worn deeply into the bare stone of the mountain by the feet of kings long dead. He passed carefully and quietly through the streets in the city of his birth, tracking the ghostly blue footprints of his adopted daughter through the Unseen World to the house she shared with her family.

It was much simpler than its neighbors, more easily defensible to his trained eye, and had not taken much damage from the War of the Ring, possibly by virtue of its lesser size - a smaller target to hit, whether aimed-for or not, and in its simplicity not nearly as attractive for looters. He ducked around one side, finding the balcony to the primary bedroom, the doors open to the night air to catch a spring breeze. He paused, hidden in some bushes below the balcony, long enough for the guard patrol to pass him by before beginning his quiet ascent.

Idril and Baranor were both asleep in their bed, wrapped in soft linens and curled towards each other, holding hands even in slumber. With the blood of Númenor flowing strong in her veins, she was not much changed, but he… Even with his face smoothed out in slumber, he had many more wrinkles than Talion remembered, and his hair was almost completely white with age. The wraith grimaced and allowed himself a moment to grieve for a friend who would soon be gone, but then he pushed it away in favor of gratitude that the Dark Tower had been thrown down before his passing. If nothing else, he would have a chance to say goodbye when it was time.

He rapped softly on the doorframe, and Idril came awake at once, hand flying to the sword at her bedside. Baranor woke at her waking and fumbled for his own blade on the other side, even as his wife hissed, "Who's there? Speak, or I'll call the Guard!"

"Idril. Baranor."

Both of them relaxed at once, and Baranor abandoned his sword in favor of peering into the dark. "Talion!"

"It's me," he said softly, stepping inside and closing the doors behind him. Idril turned up the lamp on her bedside table, filling the room with a soft white glow. The lamps were the ones Celebrimbor had made in Eregion, recovered from Seregost after the fall of Minas Ithil, and their pure light stung his eyes but he refused to let it show as Idril threw back the blankets and hurried to embrace him. He held her, and Baranor when he hobbled over to join them, for several long minutes before they finally stepped back.

"You're really here," Baranor said, keeping a hand on his armor for both reassurance and stability. "You've truly returned."

"I have," the wraith answered, "but I don't dare stay here for long. There's a Maia in the palace; I'm worried about him sensing me." Even just glancing in the direction of the star-bright aura in the Unseen World caused him great pain - maybe more than the sun once had during his long descent.

"Oh, right, Mithrandir," Idril said, hurrying to their wardrobe and yanking open the doors. It was simply but well made of an unfamiliar pale wood, the handles worn smooth and burnished with long use. "Gandalf the White - they're saying he fought a Balrog, you know?"

"Oh? Is that so?"

"Yes, in Moria. You never told us there was a Balrog in Moria." She shot a baleful glare over her shoulder as she dug for the spot of blackness within. He did not need the Unseen World to sense the Witch-king's Ring; even inert, it had power and presence beyond the others.

Talion winced. "It was far away and trapped underground, so it didn't seem that important?"

"Adar."

"I know I can't defeat a Balrog without Carnán, but I can evadeone perfectly well on my own, thank you."

At last Idril came out with a small wooden box, which she opened for him. The Witch-king's Ring lay within, a thick steel band set with an onyx so dark that it seemed to suck in the light from Celebrimbor's lamps. It looked like she had used the box to pick up the Ring without touching it, closing the box around it, because there was a scattering of soil and ripped grass from the Pelennor Fields within. Wise of her.

Talion picked it up and examined it. Suladân's Ring was flame incarnate, and Akhôrahil's felt of sorcery, lightning tingling over the skin and gritty potions on the tongue, the heavy scent of herbs and smoke filling the lungs and addling the mind. The Witch-king's Ring was pure darkness, a night with no moon or even stars, a yawning pit with no bottom, the endless black and crushing weight in the depths of the sea. There was no up or down, left or right, forward or back, only a blank void stretching on for eternity-

You cannot see inside me! Nothing of my soul remains…

Talion shook his head, broke free of its hold. Like the others, this Ring no longer had a will of its own, but it still had power enough to drown the unwary. Perhaps he would have to take it to Orodruin sooner rather than later. "Thank you - both of you. You've done so very well. How are the children?"

"Hithaer has joined the Guard of the Citadel, and Angreth has chosen to become a Ranger of Ithilien, though both of them hope that their positions will be useful to you now that you have returned," Idril said, snapping the box shut and tossing it back in the wardrobe without looking.

"I will probably end up seeing Angreth myself at some point, but do pass along my congratulations to both of them; those are quite the achievements. And speaking of the Rangers of Ithilien…"

"Most of them have been pulled back closer to the city," said Baranor, accepting the Ringwraith's help to step back and sit on the edge of the bed. "They're serving as scouts for army companies, checking the villages and towns that the Orcs marched through, looking for stragglers. If you have the time, you might do a night flight of your own; there may be some of ours here."

"I think most of them have already made their way home, or so Ghûra and the others have implied, but I'll check anyway; they may have been separated from their units." He hesitated for a moment. They had not made mention of… "What of Denethor? Has the king not retained him as Steward in court?"

Baranor's face fell. "He's dead, Talion. He died during the War of the Ring, and Boromir also. Boromir was killed by Saruman's Orcs up near the Argonath, but we don't know what happened to Denethor - only that he's gone."

Oh. "I guess it was too much to hope that everyone had survived," he said sadly. Both the Steward and his eldest had been shockingly good to Mordor, given… everything. The wraith had worked closely with Denethor during his father Ecthelion's reign, albeit in secret, resisting Sauron both west and east of the Ephel Dúath, and then Boromir after when Denethor took up the Steward's Sceptre.

He opened his mouth to speak again, to ask who held the office of Steward, when a ripple of energy touched him, a sense of :waking: and :searching: coming from the palace above. Talion stopped and turned his head in its direction, holding himself absolutely still and suppressing his dark presence as much as he could. The attention swept over him without seeming to see him, so he turned back to his children. "I need to go; the Maia is awake. It seems he's sensed me."

"Hopefully we will see you again soon, Adar. Be well."

Both of them embraced him again, before Idril dimmed the lamps to let him slip away.

Going up the Kingsway in the dark was much easier than coming down, even for him, and he skimmed a hand along Daerwen's scales before swinging up into her saddle, the three Rings of Power secure around his neck.

They swept central Gondor between Cair Andros and the mouth of the River Erui, where it spilled into the Anduin, and also the part of Ithilien that Sauron's army had marched through, encountering only a few Orcs left behind. Most were hostile, so Talion put them down, but there were a few that had been a part of his army in the past, and would be so again now that he had returned. He directed them to Minas Morgul, since apparently the deep woods of Ithilien looked much the same to them and left them wandering in circles, much like the forest of Carnán. Then he spurred Daerwen on to the city in question for a few hours' rest before they pressed on.

Reluctant to leave them exposed with so many other Ringwraiths still in the wind, Talion directed the drake down into the cave leading to Celebrimbor's barrow, and there she curled up with a soft purr, her Nazgûl leaning up against her side. She was so warm, full of fire and life, and the necromancer could only bask in it, soak it up and let it seep down to his bones, the cold and hollow places that his Ring had carved out of his soul. It did not truly reach - the dark of the tomb delved too deep, and he had been trapped in the still quiet for too long - but the thaw had still begun. Perhaps in time he would return to something like himself as he had been before Isildur's Ring.

He snorted quietly at that. There was no going back for him - not in the world of the living, at least. He was a Ringwraith, and would be one until he died for the final time.

But though he would always be a shade… he need not be a shadow.

Talion reached out with his Ring, though he did not send his fëa to the Shore. Denethor.

He listened, but the Steward's spirit did not answer. That made him frown. Talion had never fought under Denethor, only his father Ecthelion, but he had learned much of command and leadership fighting alongside him, and through many long years of correspondence, much more than his time as Captain of the Black Gate had taught him. They had exchanged countless letters in code, passed from hand to hand and wing to wing between Gondor and Mordor, first only of matters of soldiery and battle, but finally easing to something like camaraderie as two leaders of nations at war without and within against the Dark Powers, then at last to friendship. Denethor had been overjoyed to marry Finduilas, so proud when his sons were born - and so grieved when his father died, and then his dear wife only a few years after.

I understand now why you threw yourself into battle to forget your sorrow and avenge your beloved, he had written after a long silence. My own heart overflows with mourning for Finduilas - and also fury at Sauron, for even though you have restrained him for many long years, the sight of the Shadow looming in the East filled her with horror and fear, sickened and weakened her; never could she bear it.

I will see him thrown down even if it kills me.

Surely Denethor would not have become so spiteful as to refuse to answer Talion in such a short time as he had been gone. Surely he would not have forgotten their friendship the instant the wraith passed into darkness.

He called more firmly, demanding an answer - but there was none, not even a refusal to answer. Now that was troubling.

He frowned more deeply but let the connection fade, and stroked Daerwen's nose in thought as she slept. Her nostrils flared automatically, taking in his scent, a low rumbling purr of acknowledgement leaving her throat. He left her alone then, letting the empty stillness of a Nazgûl settle over him - the only kind of sleep he could reach now.

The first stragglers from Ithilien stumbled along the bridge into the city near dawn, the dimmest glow of sunrise clearing the Ephel Dúath. Talion left Daerwen to sleep and went up to meet them, effortlessly scaling the cliff, then ducking under the ruined arch at the base of the citadel and ghosting through the streets.

It seemed that the stragglers had picked up stragglers, because there were a few among them that he had not seen the night before.

"Gravewalker."

"Ur-Lasu," he acknowledged the Olog, inclining his head. "Mozû will be glad to hear you survived the war."

"So he lived as well, did he? Good. We still haven't settled our match."

"Given that your title is The Tracker, is it really that much of a contest to determine who is the better hunter?"

"His mastery of beasts lets him exceed me there, but I can beat him with people every time."

"Ah, so it's a draw then. These buildings here will keep the weather off, but you should press on to Mordor as soon as possible. The Gondorians are sweeping Ithilien, and who knows where they plan to stop."

The Olog captain waved his followers inside, and they moved quickly to start setting up a temporary camp, already squabbling over food. "Will they continue into Mordor as well? Do we need to keep watch?"

"I don't know. I don't believe so - I suspect they have enough to deal with as it is - but we're already emptying the Cirith Ungol fortress and heading down to Núrn for now; this is just another reason to do it quickly."

"Agreed."

Still sated from her hunts the previous day, Daerwen was able to set out at once, flying straight as an arrow across the plateau of Gorgoroth to the Mithram Spur and Seregost. The Ringwraith holding Coldharbour was his priority, but he wanted to check on Tar Goroth before coming at the city from the north.

Khargukôr was uninhabited, but that was hardly surprising. Whether or not it was still uninhabitable was another matter, and it seemed no one wanted to risk it; after Eltariel and Makû's rampage, he was of a mind to agree. Talion had Daerwen swing around over the region, and they found the Orcs sheltering in the cave that led to Celebrimbor's barrows. Ratbag seemed to be on watch but was paying more attention to whatever he had in his hands; he did not look up until Daerwen landed on a snow drift, cracking the ice layer on the top.

Seregost was warm despite all the snow, much warmer than it had been when the Dark Lord still ruled, and ice and snow were melting off the lower slopes of the mountains, pouring into the lowlands in fast-moving rivers and forming deep, cold lakes. From the air Talion had seen those same rivers snaking down out of the mountains and away into the broken plateau of Gorgoroth, and also into Lithlad beyond, wreaking havoc on whatever dry-land farming Sauron had there. No doubt Nákra and his tribe would enjoy applying their talents towards a solution, to ensure that the potentially yearly flooding would not destroy half the arable land in Mordor. He would inform them when they returned to Núrn.

"Gravewalker! You're back!" Ratbag cried, springing to his feet and racing over the moment Talion's feet hit the ground. "We heard the good news o' course, but I didn't wanna get my hopes up without seeing ya with my own eyes!"

The little Orc gave Talion a tight hug around the middle, which surprised him as much as Swinsere's had, and after a moment, the Ringwraith hesitantly returned it. Then Ratbag released him to run towards the cave. "Ranger! Ranger, come see who it is!"

The Olog stepped out as Talion followed the Orc over, and he let out a pleased rumble. "Gravewalker," Az-Harto said in Black Speech. "You are back with us once more."

"So it would seem," the necromancer answered in kind over the sounds of Daerwen crunching ice between her teeth. Many long decades in Mordor had taught him some dialects of Black Speech, including this one. "How is Tar Goroth? I want to check him over, and if it seems clear, you can head to Núrn at your leisure; I know you're not a fan of the cold."

"All quiet so far," the Olog answered, turning to lead the way across the ice with his kind's characteristic swaying gait. "There has been some melting, but not because of him."

"Glad to hear it."

The wind picked up a little as they stepped out of the mountains' shelter, whipping cold air up off the frozen surface of the lake. Ratbag immediately moved to use the massive Olog as a windbreak, as did a few other Orcs coming with them, but Talion just pulled his cloak tighter around himself and stared straight ahead, uncaring of the cold.

Before long the Balrog's massive form loomed under the ice, but the wraith waited until he was directly above the thing to drop to one knee and press his Ring-hand to the frozen surface of the lake. The jewel glowed necromantic green as he sent down a careful probe, a slow drip of power just enough to check on the Balrog without making it stir.

But then Talion reeled back in shock. "He's dead!"

"Dead?!" Ratbag nearly yelped. "Wait, like, not-decapitated-orc-dead or you-dead or dead-dead?"

"Dead-dead," the necromancer answered, slapping his hand back onto the ice and sending down a firmer probe, giving the Balrog a solid poke, then a slap stronger still. "He's gone. Even I can't call him back - assuming I wanted to."

"Oh. Well, that's good, right?"

"Very good." Talion stood, shaking the ice off his hand. "It means we don't have to worry about the remaining Nazgûl trying to resurrect it like Zog did, though we'll want to take or raze Khargukôr at some point, if only to stop others from using it as a base to build their power and destroy us."

Az-Harto let out another pleased grumble. "We will prepare for a journey south, then. Hopefully there are still boats tied up at Coldharbour."

"Take your time heading that way, but not too much," said Talion. "One of the Nine's in residence, but I should have it taken care of before you get there."

A few of the Orcs with them seemed to understand what he said or at least got the gist of it, because they grimaced. Az-Harto just nodded and turned back toward the cave that had been their home for a short while. "Don't die, Gravewalker. We still need you."

"I'm not planning on it."

Daerwen had stopped crunching on ice in favor of wriggling around in the snow by the time they returned. She had always been fascinated by the stuff, though she did not like spending a long time in it; like Az-Harto, she had never been fond of the cold, but unlike the Olog, her internal fire kept it at bay. The other Orcs who had stayed back in the cave watched with amused looks as she flailed around, sending snow flying. "Enjoy it while it lasts, sweetheart," Talion called to her, trudging through her drifts. "The snow's probably going to be mostly gone by summer."

The drake squawked in distress, gathering piles close under her wings. No! Don't want heavy-cold-ground-clouds to disappear!

"It'll be back this coming winter. Probably." The wraith scratched along her jaw, then went to her saddlebags and passed food and some warm furs to the Orcs. "That should get you to Coldharbour with no problem, and I'll make sure there's more there for you even if I have to bring it in myself."

"Thanks, Gravewalker. Hey, I found this thing a while ago but I still can't figure out what it - ow!"

Talion buried his face in Daerwen's scales and tried his hardest not to sigh aloud.

How did idiot-orc-Ratbag live long enough to leave his nest?

Good question, sweetheart.