They ringed the mountainsides, using trails and
vantage points that only the Lord of the Valley would
know. Elrond stood beside his king, their weapons
drawn and watched the archers take their places.
Beyond, on the road, the orcs came, prepared to encamp
on the rain soaked remains of a once gracious outpost
of civility in wild lands, the home of Elrond, Master
of the Valley.

He swallowed hard, the memories of the terrible moment
he set his home ablaze with his own hand streaming
back to him. Quashing them all ruthlessly, watching as
his sons took the lead in the slow descent to the
blackened remains, he glanced at his king.

"Let us go, Elrond," Gil-galad whispered, looking
through the trees. "I want to be there if there are
any creatures desecrating your home."

Elrond nodded and the two crept forward, weapons in
hand and lieutenants following. The ease with which
they made their way was belied by the mud that clung
to their boots but when they reached the blackened
fire pits, they were surprised to find them empty of
enemy. Gil-galad smiled, turning to his lover.

"We arrived first. I think we should arrange for them
to be welcomed, do you not agree?"

Elrond glanced from the remains of his chambers to the
king, nodding silently. "As you wish."

Gil-galad reached out and squeezed his arm. "They will
pay for this outrage. I promise."

Elrond nodded and gathered his wits. "We must turn our
eyes to the east, then. They will come that way."

Gil-galad nodded and turned, shouting orders to
soldiers, who in turned scurried to obey them. Walking
forward, staring at the waterfalls that coursed
through the charred remains of his home, Elrond of
Rivendell struggled not to weep.

***************At the cavern ...

They came back, two wounded rebels to be cared for by
healers. They were surrounded when they came,
questioned thoroughly and when they were finished
morale was enormously enhanced. Frodo stood beside
Sam, feeling better at that moment than any since
losing the Ring. He sighed and felt tears come to his
eyes, such was his joy and he turned, leaning against
Sam, who had placed his arm around Frodo's shoulders.

"There, there, Mr. Frodo," he said, smiling himself.
"It will all work out in the end. You'll see. Just
don't worry yourself about it anymore. Things are out
of our hands."

Frodo nodded, not trusting his voice and turned,
embracing Sam tightly. Sam, surprised, embraced him
back, hugging him against his chest. "You're just
tired, Mr. Frodo. That's all. You're just worn down by
the burden of this whole thing. Pretty soon it will be
over and we'll be back home in the Shire and all will
be forgotten. You'll see."

Frodo smiled, comforted by Sam's touch and old
feelings resurrected themselves before he repressed
them once more. Sam was his friend and his brother. He
was the only one besides his uncle that Frodo had
allowed to truly reach him. His parents' death had
left him emotionally bereft and it had taken a long
time for him to reach out again. But Sam was special,
warm and engaging. He was generous and loyal and
loving.

Frodo found a respite in Sam that existed no place
else in the world. There was no one else that came
close. He sighed deeply, warmed by the contact and
again the sensation of need arose. He quashed it,
ashamed of his feelings for he knew that Sam was his
friend and nothing more. They stood together, hugging
each other and when the soldiers rose to eat, they
broke their embrace.

Sam smiled and shook his head, turning cheerfully to
begin dinner. Frodo watched him, unsettled and needy
and then slowly walked to the fire to help him with
his chores.

***************That night ...

They had returned, telling of their adventures.
Watchers had been reinforced before they had left.
They had reached the cavern that night before sundown
and the morale was enormously high among the men.
Aragorn had eaten with his comrades and taken news,
then retired to his alcove to sit and reflect. He sat
on the cot that no longer felt welcoming and thought
about the one who he most needed to talk to.

Closing his eyes, Faramir came to him, laughing and
talking, giving him comfort. He could see his face
filled with passion and doubt and sorrow. He could
hear him whispering during their most intimate
moments. He could feel the sensations of Faramir's
body, the muscular and lanky form of his lover against
his own. He ached to hold him, to touch him, to talk
to him but it was futile, he knew, even as he wished
for it with a painful intensity.

He sighed and opened his eyes, startled to see
another, a very beautiful youth sitting on a box
across from him. He sat up and stared, comforted by
the vision. "Gandalf."

The youth smiled. "That was my name. One of many, I
dare say."

"You came," Aragorn said, his eyes burning with tears.
"You came back to us."

"I did," he replied with a chuckle. "I am here to
comfort you, to give you hope."

Aragorn swallowed around the lump in his throat,
shaking his head sadly. "What comfort is there for me
now? What hope is there?"

"You will be set free. A great host from the Land of
the Valar has begun to cast the Shadow back.

"I am glad for that." He sighed, resting his elbows on
his knees. "I had no hope without you and your kind."

"It took the intercession of the Elves to make it so,"
Olorin admitted with a smile. "Lord Elrond is very
persuasive."

Aragorn glanced at him and nodded. "He is."

"And what of you, my son?" Olorin asked quietly. "You
are bereft."

"I ... I lost someone close to me. We don't have the
benefit of immortality. What is lost is lost forever
for my kind."

Olorin nodded. "Little is the gift of Man appreciated
by those who must bear the grief of death. Your loss
is very hard, I know."

"My loss is small compared to others. Boromir has no
father and brother. Eomer mourns his sister, his uncle
and the Kingdom of his ancestors. What have I lost?
What is there for me to mourn?"

"A lover, most beloved," Olorin replied, sighing
softly. "You are so fragile, you of the Second Born. I
love you most dearly. Long have I walked the earth,
many generations of Men and still I sorrow for you and
your sad contemplations. Hope is all you must cling
to, my son. It is there, waiting for you to come to
it. It will lighten your heart."

"What is there to hope for? You are here and the world
will not die. That is good, I will concede. But what
do I do now?" Aragorn asked, rubbing his arm. "I am
weary."

"You will become King of the Reunited Kingdom. The
great lords of this world will call you their king.
All will prosper because of your wisdom."

"And I will be alone," Aragorn replied, bitter tears
in his voice.

"It does not have to be so."

Aragorn looked at him and leaned back against the
wall, too weary to debate.

"There are those among the Powers that feel the
sundering of Elves and Men something less desirable
now than it was when first considered. There are those
who would have it otherwise. All that is needed is a
token to make the case for rapprochement."

"What sort of token?" Aragorn asked, sighing.

"You were in love once with a beautiful Elf maiden.
She believes that it is still so."

"She is over the sea."

"That is not insurmountable," Olorin replied gently.
"All it would take is the gesture by you to her to
make the world as it once was in the days of your
fathers. The world of the Eldar and the Numenoreans
would be once more reality on the plains of your
fathers."

Aragorn sat quietly, staring at the beauty of the
figure he felt as a father to himself. He sat up,
resting his elbows on his knees. "I must make a
sacrifice."

"It is the way of Kings. Sacrifice is what you do for
your people and the Peace of Arda, Elessar of Gondor.
The world will change and you can make it a peaceful
transition. All you have to do is make a sacrifice for
the people that turn to you for shelter."

Aragorn sighed, staring at the dirt floor, memories of
another in his mind. "If I wed Arwen ... then the call
for the Elves would no longer be their first duty,
because our peoples would be joined."

Olorin nodded. "There are some who say that the world
would be a sadder place without their wisdom."

"It is in my hands."

Olorin nodded. "Sometimes it only takes a single
decision by a single person to change the world."

Aragorn sat back, his face filled with anguish. "It is
a bitter thing that you ask."

Olorin sighed, a sad expression forming on his ever
youthful face. "You make it sound like a prison
sentence rather than an opportunity to remember a love
that you once held deeply."

"That was then, this is now," Aragorn said, tugging
the necklace from his tunic. He stared at it, jerking
the chain until it broke and he could hold it free of
encumbrance. "I have other feelings. Things have
changed. I wear this to remember to hate, not love."

"Then you must learn to love again," Olorin said
kindly.

"No," Aragorn said, shaking his head sadly. "I cannot
allow that kind of pain again."

It was silent a moment, Olorin rising. "I will ask for
peace for you tonight."

Aragorn looked up at him, tears in his eyes. "I missed
you."

Olorin smiled, reaching down and touching Aragorn's
cheek, wiping away a tear that slipped from his eyes.
"I missed you as well. I will never be far, Elessar."

With that, he faded away and Aragorn was alone. He sat
for a long time holding the jewel and then he turned
and stuffed it into his pack. Reaching up, he pulled
the small diary from his pocket and opened to
treasured passages that usage had worn. For a while he
comforted himself with Faramir's words and then he
stretched out, closing his eyes.

Beyond the sight of his vision, a beautiful lady
appeared, Nienna herself, and she knelt beside him,
searching his face. She touched his cheek, her
soothing attentions relaxing Aragorn as he slept. She
absorbed his sorrow, his loneliness and misery and
when she rose, resolved to help his soul. She stood
and stared a moment and then vanished, leaving behind
small comfort for the future king of the
re-emerging world.

***************Near to Isengard ...

They passed the remains of Orthanc, marveling as they
did for the complete destruction of the invincible
tower. Ingwe and Fionwe led them, their forces bound
for Rohan and the White City of Gondor in the south.
Gil-galad and his people would come from the north,
liberating Imladris, the Woodland Realm and the Lorien
Wood. They would meet on the fields of Rohan, driving
the enemy before them and when they reached Minas
Tirith, they would turn to Mordor.

They were moving fast, passing rivers and mountains,
moving with speed to their ultimate objective. They
had more maneuvering room and the enemy was fleeing,
bedazzled by the glittering army that appeared out of
nowhere. They panicked and fled, very few of them
fighting and by the time they reached the flat lands
of the Horse Lords, the orcs were in a rout.

***************In a cavern ...

They stood out that morning, going into the mountains,
heading northward to find the enemy. By the time they
reached the pass that went west towards Imladris, they
were picking up signs of enemy everywhere. They
gathered on the edge of the tree line, scanning the
road as it wound through the mountains. Orcs were
clearly passing through the narrow straits.

Aragorn and Eomer, with Legolas following, slipped up
the trail with several Rangers of Ithilien. They moved
with stealth, following the deep ruts cut by
heavy-laden wains. After several miles they paused,
hearing ahead of them cries of chaos. Melting back
into the rocks, they waited for a half hour before the
sound of running feet greeted them.

Down the road, orcs were fleeing some unknown pursuer
and they watched as the numbers grew. Some were
wounded and some were maddened by fear, running
without weapons in their hands. Aragorn stood and
began to fire down into them, his men joining as the
orcs went by. They fell and died, blocking the road
and orcs stumbled and screamed, falling themselves.

Behind them, chasing them without remorse, forces of
the Eldar army pursued, meeting after an hour in the
middle of the pass. They paused and withdrew, each
side falling silent. Then Legolas called out, his
voice echoing in the silence until another called
back, hesitantly stepping into view, bow and arrow at
the ready.

Aragorn rose and climbed down through the rocks,
stepping over orcs to reach the Elf. The others joined
them and they gladly greeted each other, the Captain,
Galdor of Gondolin briefing them of their progress.
Aragorn nodded and then followed Galdor along with his
men as they hurried back through the pass to the main
force beyond.

When they descended through the gap, the forests of
Rivendell lay ahead and with practiced steps, he
hurried toward home.

***************Minas Tirith ...

He slept on his own bed, the room cleared of the chaos
of orc occupation. He had been starved, beaten and
wearied beyond the recall of any other similar moment.
But Denethor was alive and slowly coming to his
senses. No one seemed to be around but he could feel
the presence of others, those who did not answer
directly, but touched him merely with their loving
thoughts.

He could hear others freed from captivity and the vile
future of torture for the pleasure of the Beast. Many
was the familiar face and voice that he heard as he
slipped in and out of stupor lying on his bed. They
were recovering the house and parts of the town,
people returning to their business as they awaited the
army beyond.

Most of the people who weren't killed or captured had
fled to the west and the south. They would have to be
rounded up and brought back, fed and taken care of.
Their wounds would have to be tended and healed. There
was so much to do, he could hardly grasp it. But he
couldn't help, so weary was he from captivity that all
he could do was lie in restless sleep.

Beyond the window of his rooms, the river flowed
onward, heading to sea. The Kingdom of Dol Amroth had
held out to the last and was less broken in damages
than Minas Tirith. Boats would float up the river once
more, sailing toward the gracious and lovely capital
city. People would live in homes and hamlets, tilling
their fields and raising their children. This would
happen, or so soft voices whispered to him. All he had
to do was rest and get better.

He didn't know how to do that, so greatly was he
troubled by visions of the death of his sons. He slept
as best he could as around him in tiny incremental
steps, the rebuilding of Gondor had only just begun.

***************Mirkwood ...

The first messengers groveled before him, giving their
craven stories to the dark lord, their eyes unable to
meet his. He listened in silence, considering their
words carefully and then the magnitude of his
situation hit him hard. They were coming for him, the
Lords of the West and he was faced with the
probability of standing alone.

Melkor couldn't do it, having given much of his
essence to Arda during the formation of the world, but
he was stronger, having kept himself intact and so he
had given in to his arrogance, considering himself
invincible. He had not consolidated his power or smote
his enemies into dust, nor had he done what he should
have when scanning his new domains.

They had come without his notice and now he was
trapped, facing them all alone. He rose and stared
around, considering how close they were and decided
that he needed more information. Turning, staring at
his slaves, he signaled for Wormtongue to be brought
before him. He was, kneeling in abject submission and
listened hard to what Sauron told him.

The shackles were released and he was sent on his way,
scurrying toward Rivendell and the coming menace. When
Wormtongue had left, he looked around his domicile,
feeling discretion was the better part of valor. For a
moment he was himself and then he wasn't, transforming
before his terrified minions into one of his favorite
forms. He spread his wings and took to the air, a
vampiric force of evil fleeing toward Mordor.

They watched him go, disappearing into the night and
then turned to each other for a moment. They knew then
that there was nothing more to do than to flee as
well. Gathering what they could carry, they hurried
away, moving themselves with haste toward the east.

Part 20:
 

The camp was huge, an army of Eldar filling out the
hillsides but he could see men among them as well as
they hurried along. The burned out shell of his
childhood home haunted Aragorn as he followed Galdor
to the leadership of the forces all around him. Water
still thundered over the cliff sides of the Bruinen,
green trees still sheltered the grounds of the house,
but the stately and graceful beauty that was once a
haven was gone, charred beams and ashes all that
remained.

He had heard that Elrond had lit the fires with his
own hand, the same as Celeborn in Lothlorien. That one
was even more painful, the most revered spot of all to
him, that city of the Elves his most personally
treasured locale. By the time they reached the
pavilion that housed the lords of the Eldar, he had
straightened his tunic and his clothes as best he
could. He paused, Galdor turning, peering into the
shelter and after a moment, he was allowed inside.

Legolas followed, as did Eomer, Boromir and Gimli, the
rest waiting in tense but happy silence as they
watched the bustle around them. Inside the tent,
Elrond turned and smiled, embracing Aragorn as a long
lost son. Celeborn embraced him as well, and Legolas,
the two stepping aside to talk together.

Aragorn was introduced, turning to catch Legolas' cry
out his joy as Celeborn told him that his family was
safe. Oropher and Thranduil, true to their natures,
had taken the southern route with Fionwe and Ingwe on
the way to Gondor. Aragorn felt something lift from
his heart at the smiles of Legolas and the pleased
expression on Eomer's face.

"My lord, I never believed that I would see you
again," Aragorn replied as Elladan and Elrohir entered
the pavilion, smiles on their faces at the sight of
him standing there.

"We are here, Aragorn, to assist in the business of
ending the Shadow's grip on Middle-earth," Elrond
said. "My Lord and King, Gil-galad is in charge of the
army. I am once more his herald."

Aragorn bowed and took Gil-galad's hand. "I am
honored, my Lord."

"You are related," Gil-galad replied. "The Peredhel is
my kin and therefore, you are his. That makes us
related in some twisted and convoluted way only Elves
can conceive of. I cannot rest in peaceful bliss in
the lands of my fathers while kin of mine own family
is in harms way."

Aragorn smiled, the big man's open and robust style
warming and enveloping him in a confidence he had
forgotten he possessed. "I am in your debt and honored
to renew ties of kinship with you and yours."

"Good," Gil-galad replied with a grin. "This is like
talking to Elendil, Elrond. Do you not agree?"

Elrond smiled, shaking his head. "I am but a lowly
herald, my lord. I live to serve your every command."

"Indeed," Gil-galad replied, smiling. "There are more
kin to meet but that will come later. Right now, tell
us all that you know in your remarkable fight against
the enemy thus far."

Aragorn nodded and for an hour they poured over maps
and discussed strategy and by the time they were
finished, runners were heading south to bring the
forces of the rebel resistance up to the pass where
they could march eastward together.

They talked and talked and then broke for food,
sitting together in the gathering dusk. By then,
horsemen arrived, more relatives to introduce and
Aragorn of Gondor had the strange and privileged
opportunity to meet some of the earliest ancestors of
his family line. Thingol of Doriath and Turgon and
Dior of Gondolin were only three that he met that
night. They came to the pavilion and shared wine
together, planning to take the fight to the east the
next day.

Celeborn smiled and drew Aragorn to one side, asking
him to take a walk with him. It was his custom,
everyone knew, to walk in the evening and so they
stepped away to wander alone.

"You seem grieved of some heavy burden," Celeborn
asked, glancing at Aragorn, whom he had always loved.

"This whole business ... it is very unreal to me.
Meeting all of my family, even those so remote ... it
makes me feel light-headed."

"It makes us *all* light-headed," Celeborn chuckled.
"What say you of the notion being spun that sundering
our kindreds is not a good thing after all?"

"I would see the world poorer for the passing of your
people."

"And I would be hard pressed to leave," Celeborn said.
"My wife has found her friends once more, most notably
your ancestor, Melian. They give her great comfort, as
does our daughter."

"The Lady Celebrian? Is she well?" Aragorn asked.

"Very much so," Celeborn replied. "I am overcome with
pleasure to see her again. She is mine only child and
a father has great hopes and dreams for them,
especially when the world is so murky and deep."

Aragorn nodded, sighing. "She is a goodly woman."

"She is," Celeborn replied. He looked at Aragorn
sideways a moment. "So is Arwen."

Aragorn nodded. "She is that."

"I am aware of your affections for my granddaughter. I
know that you were hoping to wed some day. I am not
apposed to such an union transpiring, should it become
reality for our two kindreds to co-exist."

Aragorn nodded but he didn't comment, following
silently along the path with his friend. Celeborn
sighed.

"You are curiously silent on this matter," he replied.

"I am weary, my lord, and not especially good company.
There have been many losses and they weigh heavily
upon me."

"So I would guess," Celeborn said, pausing beside the
cliff side to stare into the abyss below in which the
river flowed swiftly. "This whole business, it was
inevitable. I was told rather bluntly that we were all
living on borrowed time and I knew that. But like
anyone else who loves their home, I preferred not to
consider that."

"None of us want things to end, the people and places
that we love," Aragorn agreed, Faramir coming unbidden
to his mind.

"There is someone in your heart that you mourn. I
would wish that it was my granddaughter but I am sure
it is not," Celeborn began hesitantly.

Aragorn stared into the darkness, willing the river to
take him away. "I am sorry. It has been long and hard
and things change."

"It is the curse of my daughters, that they should
love men who cannot love them back the way they
desire."

"My lord?" Aragorn asked, surprised.

"My daughter is in love with a man who loves her but
not as much as he loves another."

Aragorn glanced at Celeborn, at the sadness on his
face and felt badly. He stood listening, knowing
instinctively that it was all he had to offer.

"Celebrian is my jewel, the one creature above all for
whom I would surrender my life willingly and without
regret. I love her to the distraction of my better
sense. I married her to the only man who could keep
her safe and treat her with the respect and affection
I wanted for her. I did so knowing that her future
husband was in the deepest mourning possible for the
only true love of his life."

"The King," Aragorn murmured.

Celeborn nodded. "The King," he said sadly. "I never
held it against him. He is a good son, Elrond. He
loved the king and the king loved him but he was over
there and we were here and I am a father with a
daughter that I love. It seemed a way to save two
lives."

"At the time, it probably did," Aragorn offered.

"It would seem like wisdom. Then." Celeborn sighed.
"Now I am faced with the resurrection of the King and
the possible heart break of my daughter. I am also
mournful of the plight confronting Elrond."

"He made a sacrifice and was rewarded with a good wife
and children he loves," Aragorn mused, sighing softly.
"A good exchange for a life of loneliness I would
think."

"Is it?" Celeborn asked, glancing at Aragorn. "What
about you, Elessar? I am not immune to the
speculations of my peers."

Aragorn stood silently before turning grave eyes to
his foster grandfather. "I would die before I would
harm you or your family, such is my love for you. Your
home, the city in the trees, it was and will ever be
the home I hold dearest in my heart."

"You are being asked to sacrifice for something bigger
than any one person. That it involves my granddaughter
is a sorrow that will be mine, own private hell. What
concerns me now is your answer. And ... what the life
my granddaughter will live should you do what you must
in light of your station."

Aragorn sighed and stared at the figure beside him,
the heroic almost mythical person who had been part of
his life since his earliest memories. It was in that
cocoon that he had lived his life, sheltered in the
strength, wisdom and joy of such people. Now he was
faced with a decision that reached out to more than
just himself and Arwen. Now, in this darkling time, he
had to consider another hard choice, one that could
haunt them all. He sighed deeply.

"I will do what is asked of me, for the good of us
all." He turned and faced Celeborn, swallowing around
the lump in his throat. "I cannot tell you that I will
be all that you want me to be but I will be all that I
can. I swear it."

Celeborn nodded, smiling slightly. "You have the same
sensibilities as Elrond, my son. He swore that to me
and ever he has kept his promise. I will not talk to
you about this again."

Aragorn nodded and the two turned, walking together
along the cliff side. The water flowed ever onward and
the sea beckoned, the blinding barrier between heaven
and the earth.

***************In Barad-dur ...

He walked through the halls, minions scattering as
they made way for their lord and master. His return
was a surprise and they shuddered away, shrinking from
the horrible dread and terror that he dispensed like
spoor. He moved onward until he reached his palantir
and then uncovering it from its shroud, he began to
look into the world.

Images of armies, vast and golden, greeted him and he
felt fear. It gripped his heart and his mind began to
formulate plans to save himself from the gathering
might ever surging toward them. Even as he stood
thinking, he could feel them surrounding him, the
unearthly powers from before the birth of the world.

He scanned the heavens, searching for enemies and
found a ship sailing free of its normal path. Earendil
was searching for him, Manwe by his side and he felt
his heart clutching at the sight of the two together.
They could find him easily, his options being few and
so he turned his eyes westward to the valleys and
forests. Grima he saw, making his way to the Gap of
Rohan, making his way to the lords opposing him. He
would be taken, it was his great hope, taken and then
ingratiate himself as a refugee who could help.

It would not give him much but it might accidentally
give him something. He would have eyes and ears in the
heart of the enemy and the palantir that surely they
had would be reached. Grima was as slimy and difficult
as they came.

He turned and paced, considering the dispatches that
he had afore times disregarded. He would gather his
armies and dispatch them to places to wait for his
command. Then he would do what he always did when
things got tough. He would try and talk his way out of
the box he was in.

Turning back to his palantir, he tried to gauge the
enemy arrayed before him, struggling as he did to
pierce the shroud of obscurity that they had placed
over themselves to hide from his ever-roving and
all-seeing eyes.

***************The next day ...

They mounted up and made their way forward, a
three-pronged force heading toward Mirkwood. Part of
them, led by Dior, would attack the mountain fastness
of the Woodland Realm. The second prong, led by
Thingol, would attack the spiders in Lorien. They had
moved up from the south, from Dol Guldor and environs,
finding fresh land to promulgate
themselves.

Gil-galad and Elrond, with Turgon by their side, would
continue southward, moving toward Edoras and then
southward toward Osgiliath and Minas Tirith. Not at
this time would they make for Mordor and the Black
Tower of the Beast until they all met up again.
Aragorn and his Rangers, his archers and his
swordsmen, his cavalry and his Rohirrim would travel
with Elrond. They would be his eyes and ears, ranging
ahead of the army, dispatching to the main body the
lay of the land.

Eomer paced all night, waiting for the dawn to come,
desperate with his countrymen to return to his
homeland. Legolas watched at dawn as he saddled his
horse, fretting quietly with the stirrups and belly
band. He walked to his lover, stilling him with a
touch, his anxious blue eyes searching Eomer's face.

"You must not hope for much," Legolas said quietly. "I
have learned that to do so brings on much heartache."

Eomer paused, looking at Legolas with pained eyes and
then pulled him into an embrace. They held each other
tightly and then Eomer let him go, turning back to the
saddle of his horse. He paused, looking at Legolas
with dark and pain-filled eyes. "I have no hopes,
Legolas, about my family or my country but I know now
that I am the King of Rohan. I have to go and take
stock of what's left. Hopefully, the Valar will
deliver me the chance for revenge."

"I will go with you, no matter what comes," Legolas
said quietly.

Eomer slipped an arm around his lover and pulled him
in for a passionate kiss. Legolas kissed him back,
staring at Eomer with impassioned eyes as they quietly
stepped back from each other. Legolas turned and
mounted his horse, waiting for Eomer to do the same.
Together, they sat, side-by-side, waiting for the
orders to go.

Aragorn left the pavilion, walking to his men, nodding
for them to mount up. They would be heading out first,
going to the junction where the roads diverged and the
army would pivot. The rain had stopped falling, the
sky clearing slowly as they turned and began to ride
through the camp. They were an impressive sight,
grim-faced men of many lands and Aragorn nodded when
Elladan and Elrohir joined them, hunters all.

Gil-galad watched them disappear from sight in the
trees and congestion of the camp. Turning, he glanced
into the tent, watching as Elrond rolled up their
maps. They would set out in a half hour, letting the
scouts get some distance and then it would be nonstop
for the next few days. If things went well and the
opposition was fleeing as fast as watchers have said,
then the march to Mordor wouldn't take long.

With a sigh, he turned and entered the pavilion once
more.

***************Minas Tirith ...

Denethor stood at a window, staring out at the
desiccated plain below. What had once been rolling
plains, homes and farms was now a charnel field of
trenches, destruction and the stench of rotting flesh.
The orcs had not cleaned up their mess, leaving it
where it was and the sight of it turned his stomach.

He turned and hobbled on his swollen feet, sitting
once more in a chair. The city was being refortified,
men coming out of hiding and the south lands once
more. They came in numbers, telling odd tales about
dreams that told them the city was free. He wondered
about the Valar, about the dreams he himself had had,
but nothing could persuade him of hope any longer.

His sons were gone, no one knowing of their
whereabouts and he had no faith that he wasn't
completely bereft of family. Imrahil had come, the
Prince of Dol Amroth, coming out of the hills to
regroup in the city. They were making repairs on the
gate which had been destroyed in the fighting, hoping
to make a stand again should the enemy come.

But they didn't, the enemy, and it was most
perplexing. Scouts said they were fleeing to the dark
lands to the east. Many had died taking the city and
those that had stayed had been sent in part elsewhere.
More were coming, or so it was said, the Dark Lord
growing them out of the ground. He himself had no
truck with strange tales of magic, even if the
evidence lay in pieces all around his feet.

His dreams kept coming, memories of his son, Boromir,
and the youngest whom he had never treated well.
Faramir was different, a wholly different nature and
he had held the youngster at arms length the whole of
his life. Boromir was his heir, his champion, his
partner in the job of running the Kingdom. He,
himself, was faltering he knew, his own ambitions for
his son in conflict with the duties of his station.

Denethor was the Steward, but never the king and his
beloved son, Boromir, would never be either. What
would it take for a man to become king? How many
battles, how many times holding off the enemy would it
take to become acclaimed?

Then the dream came and the dreaded premonition that
their own days in power were numbered. The sword that
was broken. The one who would wield it. Those things
stuck daggers into his heart. His beloved son,
Boromir, deserved to be king but in his heart and his
mind, Denethor knew he never would.

Rankled is a small word for what he felt sometimes.
Rankled is what he felt for privilege. Gandalf had
bothered him, meddling with his business and winning
the affection and respect of Faramir. Jealous is a
word he would not say openly but it was a word that
described his heart. He held Faramir to a different
standard. He held him at arms length to punish him for
turning to another when he had his own father. That he
didn't acknowledge that he was guilty of pushing
Faramir to seek others for comfort was something he
would never, ever admit out loud.

Dreams had been coming to him, dreams of his sons.
Boromir was hearty and walked in the sunlight. Faramir
was shrouded in shadow, always just out of reach when
he called to him. He would wake up in a sweat, his
heart pounding, sure that something terrible had
happened to his boys. Then he would lie awake, unable
to sleep until the light of the day came once more.

He would go to the window and stare to the east, where
the blood red sky would pulse and churn. Beyond the
mountains, over the horizon, the Beast was working for
some terrible ends. He would stand and watch the sky,
the barometer of the world and dread would suffuse him
at the thought Sauron would return.

Boromir, he would think. Boromir, come home.

***************The junction ...

There was sign of orcs and they led to the north,
entering into the trees of the Wooded Realm. The road
would take a third of the forces to the seat of
Thranduil's power and battles would be enjoined in the
forest about. They would fight room-to-room in the
mountain fastness until the last corpse was dragged
out after two bitter days.

They would post a garrison and then turn to the
southeast, traveling to aid the army in Lorien. That
force would fight with a tenacity unparalleled,
killing the spiders that had crept into the void. At
their side, slaying with abandon, Tulkas and Orome
would assist them all. For two more days they would
battle their enemy until the last orc was dead and Dol
Guldor in ruins.

Aragorn sat his horse, waiting for the word to
withdraw, images of his heart home filling his mind.
It was a shambles now, the big trees denuded of the
homes and the beauty that once graced them. But it was
also denuded of the beastly monsters and evil
creatures that had called it their new home.

A trumpet sounded and he turned his horse, leading his
men to the front of the marching order. They were
going southward, across the Brown Lands to the Mark of
Rohan and Edoras. They made their way to the open
lands, breaking into their wide riding scouting
formation. Legolas and Eomer rode together, the big
Rohirrim's eyes bent toward his homeland.

***************On the trail ...

They paused, eating cold food, resting their horses.
Behind them the army of the Eldar was marching. Night
was coming but they were determined to press onward,
encountering as they went so very little of their foe.
Boromir sat and stared at the sky, missing the bright
star of the heavens. He glanced around and noticed
Aragorn sitting the ground, leaning against a rock as
he smoked his pipe. In his hand, he held Faramir's
book and a sad expression graced his face.

Boromir felt pain suffuse him and he glanced away.
They had not talked since Faramir's death, that ragged
pain something he tried to avoid. Faramir had died
saving the both of them, sacrificing himself for them.
It seared him, the loss of his brother, the younger
child he had helped to raise. Aragorn had loved him,
this he could see. Faramir had found peace in his
company. He owned Aragorn a great debt, even as he
knew he could never articulate it to the quiet and
solitary figure of his king.

Aragorn *was* his king, the liberator of their people
and Boromir made a vow to serve him as best he could.
They were comrades riding to battle and they fought
side-by-side, two men with a common tie, the quiet
eyes of a dead and much loved man.

Faramir lay on a hillside in a forgotten mountain
meadow. Boromir made a vow to bring him home when this
war was done. He hated that he had to leave him, the
last place they had been together, and leave him to
lie in the cold, cold ground.

"Are you all right?"

Boromir looked up, meeting Eomer's concerned eyes. He
nodded and moved slightly as the big man settled
beside him.

"I wish I could say the same," Eomer replied
nervously. "I am afraid to hazard what my kingdom is
like now."

"And I, too," Boromir answered. "We are both the
remnants of great traditions. It had to fall upon us,
this end time."

"But for the Elves," Eomer said, glancing at and
resting his eyes on Legolas.

"But for the Elves," Boromir replied, watching as
Aragorn turned the pages of Faramir's book.

Part 21:
 

The city stood on the great outcrop of stone, a
monument to the ages of man's determination to live
well in difficult circumstances. Villages and farms
dotted the area, all burned to the ground. Sign of the
enemy was everywhere but they were missing in action.
Footprints and other signs led to Mordor. They were
fleeing, usually in great haste, as if the hounds of
death were on their trail.

Aragorn led his men, riding across the plains and when
they topped a nearby hill, they pulled up short.
Meduseld still stood, tall and unscathed but the city
was half burned, the other half still standing.
For a few moments they sat, scanning the city and then
Eomer spurred his horse, galloping like the wind.
Other Rohirrim racing with him made for the city gate
with abandon.

Aragorn hurried after them, sword pulled free and when
they reached the open gate, they paused. Nothing was
moving, banners of the Eye flapping in the gathering
breeze, but the city was as still as a graveyard. They
entered cautiously, unwilling to move hastily as they
rode through the winding streets to the palace at the
top.

Some houses were gutted and others desecrated,
evidence of boorish occupation everywhere. The horse
lots were empty, all things of value taken or
scattered, weeds choking the lanes and gardens of the
houses. Meduseld stood before them, intact but
neglected and Eomer leapt down and entered the
building. His sword at the ready, his rage boundless,
he helped search the building from top to bottom.

It was empty, deserted and when they gathered again,
it was with no news of his uncle, cousin or sister.
Legolas stood beside Eomer as he digested his
disappointment along with his rage over the
destruction of his home. Turning, he looked at those
gathered with him.

"I need to know of the King and Prince Theodred. I
..." he paused and gathered his dread and his despair.
"I need to know of my sister."

They nodded and turned, beginning again but when it
was over there was no more evidence than before. They
stood on the steps, watching the horizon as the
skyline began to fill with a great army. They marched
in formation, moving toward the palace, an army bound
for the city in the south.

***************That night ...

"There has not been much resistance," Gil-galad
replied, sipping his wine as he sat in a chair in the
Hall of the King. They had camped around the mountain,
watchers posted and waited for the dawn to come.

Eomer had sat quietly, now defacto King of Rohan and
when dinner was finished, excused himself. Legolas
watched him go and rose, leaving the table, following
Eomer to a room in the back. It had been ransacked,
very little left but heavy furniture but it had been
his sister's room and to here he came for comfort and
to despair in private.

Legolas hesitated at the door, watching as Eomer
searched for some small thing that was hers. He
turned, his eyes wild and paused when he saw Legolas.

"Do you want me to go?"

"No," Eomer said, his voice breaking. "Please."

Legolas nodded and crossed the floor, enveloping his
lover in his arms. For the next two hours they would
sit on the floor while Eomer wept for his sister and
told of her life.

***************Dawn ...

They gathered together, once more setting out, the
first part of the army that Thingol led reaching the
river beyond. They were coming to join him for the
engagement ahead on the plains of Pelennor in the
shadow of Minas Tirith. The others coming from the
south would be nearing the rendezvous point where they
would meet up.

Aragorn turned and with his men, rode off, moving
ahead of the army to scout the way. Eomer rode near to
him, sitting his horse with a stony expression as they
left his country behind them. The only thing besides
the task at hand and Legolas that meant anything to
him was the burning and overpowering thirst for
revenge. It began on the floor of Eowyn's room and
would end in the courtyard of Barad-dur.

All he had to do was endure.

***************On the trail from the south ...

They moved onward, making excellent time. The expected
battle at Isengard had never materialized. They moved
onward, expecting conflict but it never came. Bodies
they passed, orcs and others, one of them a
pasty-faced man with black stringy hair. He had been
caught in the open, his throat slit, a victim of the
random chaos of war.

As they rode past his body, lying where it fell, none
of the lords or soldiers knew him. No one short of
Eomer would be able to tell them that the dead body
was formerly known as Grima Wormtongue.

***************In the heavens ...

He watched with growing agitation, the abominations
happening below. The world was in agony and it was all
one person's fault. The armies of his beloved Eldalie
were advancing upon his sanctuary but he could feel
with the Ring the difficulties ahead. It might take
years and many would die, so he considered something
he had never asked before.

Manwe of Arda slipped from his shape and spirited away
from the deck of Vingilot. He slipped away into the
continuum of existence, seeking the perfect thought of
the One.

***************Near Osgiliath ...

Aragorn stared southward, toward the bend of the great
river and the tortured city of Osgiliath. It had been
Faramir's charge to save the city and they had talked
about that failure together from time-to-time. They
had talked of everything and anything, Faramir was a
good listener and he found himself yearning for that
quiet gaze and humorous re-joiner. He was lonely, more
lonely than he could have imagined but he pushed it
away, concentrating on the task at hand.

They were close to Faramir's city, the home of his
birth. It would be harder and harder on him the closer
they got. Boromir was a help, his strong and hardy
support welcomed, but it wasn't the same. It never
would be, he knew.

Sighing, he tapped his horse's sides and continued
onward, moving ever closer to the land he would rule.

***************On the trail ...

The wind was growing, blowing against their backs,
almost as if the elements were conspiring to help them
cross the plains. Battles in the south had been spare
to non-existent, the enemy merely fleeing eastward. In
the north, in Mirkwood, there was vicious fighting as
fell beasts and spiders resisted them. They were
overcome and the depths of Dol Guldor cleansed before
those forces marched post haste to the lands of Rohan.
 

They were converging together, each of them keeping
their part of the bargain, making for the plains of
the Pelennor Fields. By the time Aragorn reached
Osgiliath, it was a rain-soaked ruin, the bones of the
dead laying scattered in the street. Boromir's face
was ashen as they crept through that graveyard,
heading for the bridge that would take them across.

Bridges built by orcs littered the river, affording
the armies coming an easy crossing. They waited in the
shelter of a shattered building, as in the gathering
darkness torches could be seen. The first stages of
the army were coming and soon they would be camping in
the wreckage of the city streets. Boromir was
speechless, his expression telling his feelings as he
stood alone near a dripping eave.

Aragorn walked toward him, gingerly standing beside
him, waiting for him to say anything he needed to say.

"This place was once beautiful," he whispered,
glancing at Aragorn. "This was my brother's station.
He was to defend this city. He did, mostly, as much as
could be had."

Aragorn nodded, sorrow piercing him. "It was all too
much."

Boromir nodded. "We had no hope. I remember winning
back the city once but here we are, standing in the
ruins. All around us, nothing but death and ruins. It
didn't matter, did it. It didn't matter that Faramir
tried so hard. It couldn't be held. My father ..." He
paused, grimacing slightly. "My father is dead."

Aragorn sighed and squeezed Boromir's arm. The big man
turned, a fleeting look of gratitude on his face. "I
guess that is the least I can say. Who among us hasn't
lost someone in this war?"

Aragorn nodded, a gentle look of compassion on his
face. "Then we make them pay."

Boromir nodded, turning to look out into the gloom of
the darkening sky. "Yes, we will."

***************At the river ...

They crossed the Entwash, skirting Edoras, the White
Mountains shimmering in the distance. They were blood
red as the sun began to set, shadowing them with
colors unnatural. Thranduil rode beside his father, an
impressive sight in his cold faced rage. Fionwe and
the others rode before them, each of them in their
position of rank in the marching order.

This was the land that his son had crossed on the way
to his death in the lands of the south. Legolas, his
beloved son, died in agony at the hands of the Beast.
He would never rest, he would never have peace until
they were all destroyed off the face of the earth. His
father rode beside him, a copy of his agony and
together they would ride into battle again.

The wind was brisk against their back as they rode and
eagles circled high in the air. The elements were with
them, he considered as he glanced upward at the
clearing sky. The clouds were leaving and the sun's
warmth was welcome as they made their way to the
rendezvous at Osgiliath.

It couldn't come too soon.

***************In the twilight of Osgiliath ...

He sat on a rock, unable to sleep, fatigue covering
him like a shroud.

"You should be sleeping."

Aragorn looked up, smiling slightly to Gimli, the
Dwarf moving to sit next to him. "It is hard to do."

"That it is," Gimli agreed. "I, myself, can sleep
standing up."

Aragorn smiled. "I guess you can."

"You seem not quite yourself." Gimli shifted, uneasy
with private discussions. "I know we have had a hard
time but I'm just a little bit worried about you,
that's all."

Aragorn sighed and looked down at the Dwarf, smiling
slightly. "I'll be all right."

"Probably," Gimli replied, staring straight ahead. He
shifted again. "I just figured that you were nervous
about the future, that's all. After all, the talk is
that you will be the next King of Gondor. That would
make any man nervous."

Aragorn nodded, smiling. "I suppose it would."

Gimli smiled and rose, turning and pausing for a
moment. He turned and looked at Aragorn with
affection. "You do know, don't you, laddie, that you
have many friends and they are with you come what
may."

Aragorn nodded, swallowing around the lump in his
throat. "I do, Gimli."

Gimli nodded and hesitated, then he turned and walked
to the place where he would sleep. Aragorn watched him
go, loving him at that moment like the brother that he
was. Then he turned to the night, his hand touching
the book that he kept in his pocket, as he waited for
the morning's light to come.

***************Morning, near to the dawn ...

They stood in the pavilion, going over all possible
access points to the city beyond. The scouts had been
sent out and were due back soon. Elrond and Gil-galad
considered the myriad pitfalls of crossing unexplored
territory. Boromir and Aragorn filled them in on the
details of the first battle, when the tide had gone
against them and the city fell. It had been a charnel
house and they had little new news beyond the first
reports of Fionwe's approach.

The weather had cleared off but the wind was
relentless, the restless ruminations of Manwe ever
present. The sun was shining, the shadows pushed back,
the leaching of color quelled. It had been disturbing
the first time he had seen it and Boromir was relieved
to see a more normal cast to the world again. It gave
him heart, now when he really needed it and he
listened to the plan as it was described.

"We could explore what is happening," he suggested in
a lull in the conversation. All eyes turned to him and
he rose. "Few know the city the way I do. Let us go
and see what is amiss there. It is too quiet by half
if the orcs are still here. If the city is open, we
can save ourselves battle and time."

Aragorn nodded and Gil-galad as well.

"Go to the city. Scout it. Tell us what you will,"
Gil-galad said, watching as the two men rose and
turned to go. "Come back alive."

They nodded and left, Gimli, Eomer and Legolas rising
from where they waited outside the house that was
headquarters for the army command. They mounted up and
turned, riding out of camp, Halbarad joining them. By
the time they reached the edge of the city, Elladan
and Elrohir had silently joined them.

They crossed the river and rode toward the city,
passing over much destruction and skirting skeletons
of indeterminate creatures. The city rose before them,
a glorious monument to man's ingenuity and tenacity,
seven levels of occupation bearing the scars of war.

They paused on the rammas, then crossed it, riding
with swords and bows drawn, meeting no resistance as
they cautiously approached. There were trenches that
reeked of horrible smells, bodies of the dead and
weapons scattered everywhere. The road was blocked and
they made their way carefully, searching in all
directions for any sign of danger. But they didn't
find it, so completely vacated was the enemy camps and
when they came within sight of the guard on the gates,
they could see men on the ramparts.

They hailed the guards and they were hailed back, the
gate parting slightly and a man rode out, galloping
his horse and careening to a stop before their group.

"Hail!" he called out, almost impossibly happy. "Who
are you and where-"

He paused, staring with astonishment at Boromir. "Lord
Boromir!"

Boromir spurred his horse forward, turning and gazing
back at the river beyond. "Is the city free?"

"Yes, my lord," the man replied, dazed in amazement.
"It is free."

"And the surrounding area? What happened to the
enemy?" Aragorn asked.

"They have fled. Prince Imrahil and his knights have
returned and brought others. We are fortifying the
city as best we can against the idea that they will be
coming back."

Aragorn nodded and turned to Halbarad. "Go to the
King. Tell him the news. Minas Tirith is in the hands
of men."

Halbarad nodded and turned, riding as fast as he could
back toward Osgiliath. Aragorn turned and looked at
the guard. "We are coming into the city."

"Good," the guard replied, smiling at Boromir. "Your
father will be pleased to see you."

Boromir started and looked at the guard in disbelief.
"My father? He's alive?"

"Yes, Lord, he is," the guard replied with a smile.

Boromir looked around him, astonished surprise on his
face. Then he spurred his horse and galloped for the
gate. The rest followed, the guard behind them and
they entered quickly, beginning the trek upward.
Through each level they rode swiftly, through each
gate they entered unhindered as through the city word
spread. Boromir had returned, they cried, heartened
beyond words that the hero of Osgiliath had returned
alive.

When they reached the Citadel, they dismounted and
hurried in, pausing in the ante way as Boromir took
his bearings. He turned to a guard, Beregond of the
city and grabbed his arm. "My father? Where is he?"

"In his chamber," the astonished man replied.

Turning, Boromir hurried up the hallway, turning
corners and climbing stairs until he reached the
chamber of his father. Opening the door, he stepped
inside, searching the room for him. A man by a window
turned, staring at Boromir with disbelieving eyes and
then, with tears in his eyes, Boromir rushed to his
father and embraced him tightly.

***************Far away ...

They came to the entrance, a ragged group of people,
gathered together in the fall of the city. He was the
defacto leader, the default leader since the wounding
of his father in the melee of escape. Theodred peered
out, watching the blue sky. Something felt different
than it was before. The caverns had sheltered them,
those known only to the Rohirrim, a fall back refuge
in times of war. They had come here, gathering, his
father in his arms and they had nursed their wounds as
they rested. A scout had told him of a valiant army
passing nearby and he had sent him to scout for more
word.

Riding across the plains, several more with them,
Theodred saw his rider return. He watched as they came
near to him and slowed their horses, a man and three
Elves in full battle armor. He walked to them,
addressing Ellan of Mirkwood and gave them his story
and the tale of his need. They nodded and one rode
back, organizing relief, preparing to take the
soldiers among them with them to the fight. The
civilians would remain, given stores and provisions
and they would be rescued when the fighting was over.

Theodred helped them, making a vow to his father that
he would avenge their people with the last ounce of
his blood. Then with seventy-five Rohirrim, he mounted
his horse and rode with the Elves to the army beyond.
He would ride for his father and his country and his
people and he would avenge all of them for the murder
of their country. But most of all, he would avenge his
cousins, Eomer and Eowyn, lost from their knowledge
since the siege of their city.

Part 22:
 

In the White City ...

Aragorn stood upon the ramparts, staring out to the
plains beyond, considering the vast area that had been
laid waste. Nothing that was living existed between
himself and the walls beyond, the silver slip of the
river a demarcation line between the living and the
dead. The army would be coming, settling in to set up
their base as beyond the walls of the city, in the
east, Mordor would come to bear their wrath.

Turning, he looked upward at the standard flying in
the breeze, the symbol of the Stewards who had guarded
his legacy all the years of their long winter. Boromir
was with his father, telling him of the fall of
Faramir and the conditions of the world as it stood
now. He wondered if he would be mentioned for any of
the myriad reasons and he pushed it out of his mind as
he considered the future.

It was strange to think there was to be one, so deadly
had the past year been to hope but it was there, a
small flicker of light on the horizon of his hitherto
for darkened life. He had made agreement to make the
peace, using his own body and mind to garner the
outcome, agreeing to wed Arwen in principle. His soul
was his own and he had given it to another, someone he
would never see again. This was Faramir's city, the
place of his raising and Aragorn was surrounded with
echoes of his all- to-short life.

The Wise of the World wanted to change the rules, to
make it possible for each kindred to co-exist with the
other and he was the page upon which the deal would be
written. Arwen and Aragorn, sacrifices for the many,
giving up the only life he, himself ever would have to
make it so. She would linger on when he died, all
things being equal and whatever children they might
have would pick up his scepter and carry on. The line
of kings would be unbroken and the joining of both
peoples reconstituted At least it was consolation that
she would be able to go west after his doom.

He, himself would eventually fall into the void or
wherever men went when the world for them ended. He
didn't care, so resigned was he to his fate that even
that last adventure held no fear for him now.
Grim-faced and silent, he stood at the ramparts,
staring out into the gathering gloom.

Nearby, watching quietly, Boromir stood, debating with
himself whether to speak with Aragorn, so unwilling
was he to disturb his silence. Then he sighed and
stepped forward, pausing by the walls, leaning his
elbows on the stonework.

"How is your father?" Aragorn asked.

"He is recovering from many months in prison," Boromir
replied, relief in his expression and his voice. "I am
beyond words with my own surprise and delight."

Aragorn nodded, turning his gaze outward once more.
"That is good."

"My father knows of you and who you are. I told him
that I would not become Steward. He is not completely
at peace with that prospect yet. He wanted to see that
our line continued with me."

"And you, Boromir? Did you want it to continue? Did
you ever want to be king?" Aragorn asked.

"Truly?" he asked, regarding Aragorn evenly.

Aragorn nodded. "Truthfully."

"Yes," Boromir replied. "I wanted to be king. I wanted
it and Faramir knew it too. He never did, my brother.
He was a gentle person, given to books and other
pursuits. I think he was the best man I ever knew."

Aragorn looked away, emotion welling in his heart. He
nodded. "I think so too."

"He saved my life, my brother." He paused, swallowing
around the lump in his throat. "I never got to tell
him goodbye. He spoke but I never caught the words he
said."

"He said, 'Sacrifice,'" Aragorn replied. He stared
into the darkness, unwilling and unable to meet
Boromir's gaze.

Boromir nodded. "He sacrificed himself for you and me.
I feel a debt that sometimes is so heavy I feel
crushed from the weight of it." He sighed, his eyes
burning with unshed tears. "I never told you that I
was surprised that he was with you ... in that way."

Aragorn stared at his hands, unwilling to meet
Boromir's eyes.

"I am glad though that he was. He seemed happy when he
was with you. That makes it easier to bear, that he
had happiness for a while. I don't think that he had a
lot of that growing up. Our father was ... he wasn't
fair."

"Nothing is fair, is it?" Aragorn asked. "If it were
fair, he would be alive and none of this would have
happened."

"But then you would never had met him or known him.
That wouldn't be something you would seek, would it?"

"No," Aragorn whispered, sighing sadly. "I wouldn't
have wanted that."

"I know," Boromir said, his voice filled with tears.
"I miss him, my brother. I helped raise him.
We were close. He was my ..." Boromir paused and
swallowed hard. "He was my truest friend."

Aragorn turned and embraced Boromir, holding him as
he himself was held. High in a tower, standing by the
window, a grief-stricken father watched alone.

***************That night ...

They came and camped, clearing away debris and other
hindrances, making the ground fit once more for
habitation. The officers and captains of the great
army met in the Citadel of the great city. Dinner was
simple but the company was elegant and much
conversation lay about the next phase of their plan.
Fionwe and his army was sighted by outriders and the
news was that they would arrive in a day and a half.
That would be a good thing because it would allow the
armies to gear up and rest, while scouts checked out
the access points to the Demon's own land.

***************Late that night ...

They shared a room, given their rank, in the Citadel
itself. It had a bed and they lay together, resting
from strenuous excursions into love and lust. Legolas
sighed, Eomer shifted and the moon outside the window
was large and round.

"We will be going against the Beast in days," Legolas
said. "I am hoping that the Valar come with us."

"I think they must already be there," Eomer said, his
head resting on Legolas' stomach. "The enemy runs like
scared children. Something is hunting them besides
us."

"My father and grandfather, most likely," Legolas
said, smiling in spite of himself. "My father is a
formidable man."

"I am glad for you, Legolas. No matter my own sorrows,
just know that."

Legolas stroked Eomer's soft golden hair. "I grieve
for you, gwador*. Every day I grieve for you."

"It cannot be undone," Eomer said, moving to lie
alongside the lanky form of his lover. He slipped a
leg over Legolas' body, his arm around, his waist,
tightening his grip. Moving closer, he nuzzled
Legolas' chin, kissing his mouth when he turned his
head. "All there is for me and you is now."

"Such are the thoughts of mortals," Legolas whispered,
turning to face his lover. He ran his hand down
Eomer's muscular thigh, grown strong and smooth with
muscles from years of riding every day. "I am sorry
for your grief."

"And I, you when you were suffering," Eomer replied
with a sigh. He leaned forward and kissed Legolas'
mouth, savoring his lips, slipping his arms around his
lover's strong masculine body. He rolled over,
pressing Legolas into the soft mattress, the worn
sheets as if satin to his overheated skin.

"More," Legolas whispered, wrapping his strong lean
legs around Eomer's broad body as strong fingers
threaded through his long golden hair. "I need more."

Strong hands gripped him, pulling him ever closer to
his own body as Eomer complied. He devoured Legolas'
lips, his hand pulling the Elf's face closer to him.
He couldn't get enough of the sweetness of his mouth
and he sighed, pausing as he stared into blue eyes
smoky with desire.

"I never believed that folk like you existed outside
of children's tales. To hold you close to me makes a
lot of my heartaches fade."

Legolas gently pushed him over, straddling him and
pressing his hands down onto the bed. He leaned
forward and kissed Eomer, sitting over him like an
pale and beautiful apparition from a dream. The
moonlight haloed his head, his golden hair soft and
silken in the dim light. "I am here. I am not going
anywhere. Do not fear, Eomer, that I will leave you."

Eomer swallowed hard, his eyes stinging with tears. He
nodded and Legolas leaned down, settling against his
body once more. Eomer rolled over, lying alongside his
partner, giving to him all the emotion and love he
could find in his soul. For a while, the shadows faded
and the world wasn't in ruins around them. For a
while, there was only the two of them, alone.

***************In a room nearby ...

Aragorn left his family at last, that is, the
collection of names from the ancient books of his
schooling made real. They were flesh and blood, filled
with tales and ready to tell them as they celebrated
so far their progress into the east. Thingol and the
rest would be here in the morning and then Legolas
would have his father once more.

He stood by his window, staring up at the moon, the
silver jewel in his hands once more. She had given it
to him, a gift from her heart and he had worn it next
to his for a very long time. But things had changed.
The *world* had changed and he wasn't the same person
that he was once before. She expected his love and he
would try to give it, or whatever was left from the
death of his heart.

Faramir ...

He couldn't release the memory and it haunted him here
in the house where he had been raised. He imagined
Faramir as a child and youth, running here and there
in the Citadel and it tore at him, his sadness almost
overwhelming as he stood and waited for the push
eastward.

He stared at the jewel and remembered the night she
gave it to him and the kiss he had given in return. It
was a heavy burden to know that she loved him and that
perhaps, at last, he couldn't return it. It was as if
there was a line dividing his old life from his new
one and there was no way to scale the walls again.

It hurt, this difference, but he knew it was permanent
and there was nothing he could do about it even if he
wanted. That he didn't want to do more or to do better
about it was the indication that he himself was
irretrievably changed. He considered Elrond and his
own situation. He loved another but was married to his
wife. The Eldar didn't take their vows lightly,
divorce so extremely rare as to defy recollection.

Even remarriage was tricky with the death of a spouse,
the Valar holding vows of marriage sacred. It was an
unbreakable bond, taking debate on rare occasions
amongst themselves to set a surviving spouse free. But
he wasn't married, except perhaps in his heart and
there was nothing to debate. He was the King. Hard
tasks come to hard men and he would do his duty,
carrying off the wishes of the Wise. If he had
melancholy moments as an outcome of the decision, then
he would have to make the best of his life.

Turning and staring at the moon, he considered the
future. It was not a given that he would survive this
fight. The demon would not go easily and even with
divine intervention, it was going to be a battle that
they might not win.

He sighed and turned, walking up the stone stairway to
the room that he had that was his alone. He would
spend the night sleeping fitfully and after a light
breakfast at dawn, he would help to welcome the army
of Fionwe son of Manwe and Elbereth the Beautiful.

***************In the middle of the second day ...

They came toward the city, their banners flying, a
great army moving swiftly eastward. Horns greeted them
and horns returned their trumpets as the army of the
Eldar made their way to the camps. Fionwe led them,
with his captains and his heralds, among them
Thranduil and Oropher of the Wooded Realm. Lords of
the First Age and eons before that sat straight in the
saddle as they passed into view.

People from the city and the surrounding villages,
more and more streaming in every day, watched them go
in an eerie silence, as if witnessing a dream that
could disappear like smoke. At the gate of the city,
waiting in borrowed armor, Denethor and Boromir of
Gondor stood. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and his
stately knights were guards of honor to the greatness
that came forward.

Fionwe and his herald, the kings of many generations,
all paused before the city as a token of respect.
Gil-galad and Elrond, Turgon, Thingol and Glorfindel
stood beside Denethor as they welcomed their guests.
It was silent with respect and awe as Fionwe descended
his horse, walking with a smile on his face toward the
Steward. Behind him, watching with intense quietude,
Gimli, Aragorn, Legolas and Eomer stood gazing upon
the incredible spectacle of Manwe's own son.

They greeted each other, Denethor and Boromir
gracious, and turning, they welcomed their visitors
inside. Walking together, they began the long traverse
to the Citadel that was seven levels above. For seven
hundred feet, they would ascend upward until at last
they reached their destination and a dinner in their
honor.

Legolas stood watching, his keen eyes searching until
at last he saw the one he wanted to see. Thranduil
walked beside his father and when he glanced to his
left, froze in his tracks at the sight of his son
alive. Emotions passed over his face, vivid and
dreadful and then he moved to embrace the son he
thought he'd lost.

Aragorn watched them, deeply gratified by the sight as
beside him, Eomer stood with a smile. He glanced at
Aragorn and then turned to walk back up when a voice
called to him, a voice filled with joy. He turned and
saw a warrior standing near to the gate, Gamling of
Edoras, his uncle's strong right hand.

He smiled and walked toward him, embracing him with
joy and listened with disbelief as Gamling told of the
retreat from Edoras. He learned that his cousin,
Theodred was alive and that his uncle, Theoden, was as
well. Tears nearly fell when they said they last track
of Eowyn in the battle with Nazgul that confounded
them at the end.

Aragorn turned and followed the leadership, moving up
the winding streets, feeling as lonely as he ever had
before. No one was waiting for him, no one that he any
longer wanted and there would be no happy reunions for
him this time. Only duty awaited, duty and obligation
and so he bottled his sorrows and continued upward,
bound by an ancient oath to serve his people with all
the strength he possessed.

The sun was warm on the battlements by evening when
the conversation and planning finally gave way. People
left and others gathered together as the evening began
to end. Legolas excused himself, going with his father
and grandfather, staying with them overnight in their
camp. Eomer and Gimli sat together playing chess from
a set that had been salvaged from a pile of cast off
belongings.

Everyone had someone and so he walked to the verandah,
staring out at the forest of flickering lights that
covered the plains before the city above. Hundreds of
campfires, thousands of torches, they shed a
shimmering spectacle for those above. He stared at the
lights, unaware that someone watched him until he
noticed another standing by his side. He turned and
nodded, Elrond beside him and they stared together
for a moment in silence.

"I despaired of ever seeing you again, Estel."

"And I, you, my lord," Aragorn replied.

Elrond smiled and sighed deeply. "It is a world
overturned from the possible to the impossible. I am
at the head of an army led by a Valarindi, the son of
Manwe and Elbereth to be precise. I am still in shock
over that possibility."

"And I too, my lord," Aragorn replied, smiling
slightly. "I am sorrow-filled to hear of the house,
that you had to light it with your own hand."

"It was necessary. I had no wish for my home to be
invaded by beasts," Elrond said. "I was pleased to get
my daughter oversea before things became too
terrible."

"I too am glad that she went to her kinfolk," Aragorn
replied, nodding.

"They have discussed with me a change of thought,"
Elrond hesitantly began. "They speak of rapprochement
between our two worlds. They speak of rapprochement
between our two peoples. I am not sure you have
heard."

"I have," Aragorn said, staring up at the moon.

"My daughter is filled with love for you. To have her
choose between a mortal and immortal life was more
than I could bear. I had nothing but affection and
trust for you, but I did not want her to linger in the
world when the last chance for her to live and
remember faded from her grasp." He sighed. "Now it
would seem that this would not have to be if the
sundering sea allowed us to remain or go, returning
and leaving as we see fit."

"That would make me happy, my lord. The world would be
poorer indeed if your kind faded from it," Aragorn
replied, his emotion heartfelt.

"I have always thought so. I regretted so deeply that
my brother had to make a choice such as he did. I
despair of his absence from my life even after all
these long, lonely years." He looked at Aragorn. "You
remind me of him, his strength and moral clarity."

Aragorn glanced at him, then looked at the sky. "Moral
clarity. Does that exist anymore?"

"It does, my son," Elrond sighed. "My king feels the
heat of it himself even as he struggles with his own
demons. He would wish the option for his people, the
option of remaining here and coming and going from
Aman. It is his duty to work for the good of his
people to the exclusion of his own private joys."

"It is the burden of kingship," Aragorn agreed.

"You will be king, of that I am convinced. You will
wear the crown and rule the reunited kingdom. Peace
shall prevail among the people and between us there
will be a world as it was meant to be. This time, in
this place, we get another chance."

"And I? What do I get?" Aragorn asked, probing Elrond
a small bit.

Elrond sighed, nodding. "You will get my beloved
daughter."

Aragorn silently sighed and looked out at the ocean of
lights flicking in the light evening breeze. "I will
get Arwen and the world will get what it needs. We are
the altar upon which the sacrifice for peace is made."

Elrond nodded, his expression sad. "It is the lot of
my family to be torn asunder in matters of the heart."

"The king," Aragorn whispered half to himself.

Elrond turned and looked at the lights, nodding
slightly. "I am impaled on a conundrum myself, torn
apart by my heart and my duty."

"Celeborn said that his daughters were sad to him,
women that loved men who could not give them love
back."

Elrond smiled a bitter smile. "He is correct. It is
their sorrow and our shame. I do not know what will
become of me, but I beg you to give my daughter what
you can." He stopped, his face a mask of pain and then
it vanished. "It can be done and maybe you will
remember what you felt. She *deserves* to be loved,
Estel."

Aragorn nodded and sighed. "I will be as true as I can
be, my lord, and I give you my promise to do so all my
life."

"Then that is good enough for me because I know that
is all that can be asked," Elrond said, glancing up at
the sky. "I met my father and mother for the first
time since I was a child."

Aragorn nodded and looked at the sky, the star missing
still in the firmament.

"I was filled with love for them, a sense of
abandonment disappearing," Elrond mused. "I told them
of my brother as best I could."

Aragorn nodded, sighing softly. "I am glad, my lord,
that you have your family again."

"It would have been better if Elros had been there."

Aragorn squeezed Elrond's hand and they stood
together, talking about family and the days to come.
They would never discuss Arwen and Aragorn's duty
again.

***************In the camp at the same time ...

It took Eomer two hours to find Theodred and the
encampment of the Rohirrim that formed part of the
bivouac. He gripped Theodred so tightly that he
groaned. They sat and talked for several hours,
catching up on what had happened.

The Rohirrim in the City and the Household Guard had
gathered and pulled the family and everyone else they
could out of the fighting that had engulfed Edoras.
They had fled, running away from the obvious hideaway
of Helms Deep and finding sanctuary in a little known
but well provisioned series of caves and caverns that
was kept for long term sojourns for their people when
in the southwest of their country.

They had holed up, caring for their wounded, including
Theoden. He had been injured and carried away, nursed
back to middling health in the safety of the tunnels.
Theodred was defacto king and had governed their
recovery, going out with teams in the night to round
up and bring to safety all of their people that they
could find. That is how they found the army marching
toward Gondor and the fight with Mordor.

He was himself well and spoiling for a fight. He had
seen Eowyn facing a Nazgul, the smoke and carnage
obscuring his view. But when the fighting permitted,
he had made his way toward where he had seen her last
and found a Nazgul and his steed lying dead on the
ground. It was the Witch King, killed by other than
the hand of "man". He knew Eowyn had done the deed but
he couldn't find her, falling back to take his father
and the others away. They were going to be riding to
battle with the others, adding their ferocity to the
overall impact. Nothing burned in him more than the
thought of revenge.

"Meduseld still stands."

Relief flooded Theodred's handsome face. "Thank the
Valar."

"Thank them indeed," Eomer replied. "They are here
with us. The army is led by the son of Manwe."

"How can we fail?" Theodred replied.

Eomer nodded grimly. How indeed could they?

****************In the Land of Mordor ...

He walked through the hordes of beasts lying sleeping
or arguing on the ground, unseen and undetected. He
was searching for one who was the master of all,
spurning the small potatoes for the main course. In
the dark tower ahead, the one he sought hid from his
relentless pursuit. He would bide his time, waiting
for the fatal mistake that inevitably gave him the
upper hand and while he waited he would fell as many
of the creatures that littered the ground around him
as he could.

Tulkas smiled as he walked among the creatures,
sorting out in his mind what he would do. They had
talked together, all the Valar, debating what to do
and he had come to Middle-earth to make his own
contribution. Waiting now, moving with stealth, it was
not the way he usually fought. He was not given to
subtleties. But this was different. The creature in
the tower was someone he wanted for himself. He would
wait, as asked by Manwe, for the honor.

In time, he told himself. In time all good things
come. With a smile and light step, he walked around
the tower of Barad-dur, considering the future ahead.

Part 23:
 

The dawn came quietly, the smell of rain in the air.
The atmosphere was electric as they walked to their
horses. It had the air of explosions, the feeling of a
coming thunderstorm hanging over them. The air had
been charging all night long, like some force
gathering in one confined space. They could all feel
it and Fionwe merely smiled, aware that unseen giants
were gathering on their side.

The mountain in the distance was spewing fumes, red
lights flashing as it made its own lightning. It
glowed an unworldly color, supported by dark clouds,
adding an ominous focus to their task ahead. Aragorn
mounted up, the chill in the air reminding him of a
cold spring deluge and glanced around at his men.

Eomer and Legolas were there, as was Gimli and
Theodred and many Rohirrim and his Gray Company as
well. Halbarad sat astride his horse, Elladan and
Elrohir beside him, while Gamling and Beregond climbed
into the saddle. They were the advanced forces, scouts
for the army, which was gearing up in the distances
around.

Men and horses, Elves and their captains all broke
their respite and began to get ready. A very great and
powerful army was gathering to move, heading toward
the rabble of the Beast in the Dark Lands. The Nazgul
were not there to haunt them, the orcs had fled. No
one knew what the situation was like beyond their
borders.

Aragorn and his men were going to find out and when
Glorfindel joined him, he nodded to go. They rode out,
grim-faced and determined, all of them ready to fight
to the death. Unaware to their sensibilities, others
went with them, Ainur and Maiar unclothed and
wrath-filled. Invisible to their senses, they
journeyed with their comrades, the First-and-Second
Born of the World's beginning, marching and moving
with grace and with intentions, to drive great evil
from the land one last time.

In the air, unseen above them, Manwe stood beside
Earendil, the great ship Vingilot sailing in the sky
toward the east. Forces were gathering and the wind
was increasing as the wrath of the King of the World
was felt at last.

***************On a hillside near the Black Gate ...

They lay on the hillside, staring down at the gate,
which surprisingly was half ajar and unattended.
Footprints led inwards or southward, the telltale
signs of chaos in the ranks of the enemy. Men of all
persuasions had fled the Dark Lord, fearing the wrath
of the Valar more than they feared him. Many had
stayed but fled into the Dark Lands, moving toward
Barad-dur and the one they served.

They crept down, moving with great care and found that
the gate was unattended. They climbed the great
staircases, finding the pulley mechanism that opened
it wider. Great trolls had done that labor and they
were without a possibility of making it open wider
without them. Aragorn dispatched riders to tell the
advancing army that the door was at least open to the
lands beyond.

They took up positions and waited, scanning the area
for trouble and found none as they crouched in the hot
midday sun.

***************On the trail ...

Elrond nodded and took the message, moving toward
Gil-galad and the leadership. He told them the news,
that the gate was ajar and Fionwe smiled, nodding
enigmatically. They rode onward, the greatest host
ever assembled behind them and by the time they
reached the plain that led to the gate, the ground was
covered as far as the eye could see with the banners
of Rohan, Lothlorien, Imladris, Gondor, Dol Amroth and
the lands of the Valar beyond the sea.

They waited for a moment, outriders going too and fro
as they surveyed the lands before them. Great dark
mountains stretched from the gates on both sides,
barriers to their might as they approached en masse.
The gate was ajar and they could see their scouts
standing on the iron walls, signaling that the area
was clear.

Fionwe smiled and turned, looking off to his left as
if waiting to see something no one else saw. For ten
minutes he sat and then they all could see it, an army
was approaching from the north of them. Elrond glanced
at Gil-galad and the King at him as they waited for
the view to improve. At last it did and they all
relaxed for an army of Dwarves was approaching.

Standing on the wall, the scouts had seen it sooner
than the rest of the army on the plain below. Gimli
cried out, turning to his companions.  "They are
coming! You see them! They cannot stay from the
fight!"

Legolas smiled and clapped Gimli on the shoulder,
shaking his head with amusement. "This is going to be
a glorious day," he said, smiling at Eomer. "This is
as in the olden days."

"It is," Eomer replied.

They watched as the army came down from the mountains,
throwing in their lot with the army of Elves. Turning,
they paused and then the leadership rode forward,
Fionwe at the front. They paused before the gate and
Fionwe raised his arms and held them still. The gate
groaned and then began to open, moving of its own
volition to open fully wide.

Aragorn and the others watched as it opened and then
hurried down the steps to their horses once more.
Beyond them, in the dusky light of the plain, an sea
of orcs awaited them. They would be the eyes and ears
of the approaching army and so they rode on ahead as
the army poured through the gate.

***************

She stood on the beach, staring out at sea, her
grandmother beside her. Arwen watched the choppy
waves, aware of the discord in the world around her.
The Valar were in agreement that the Little Kingdom
should be saved and they let their decision bleed into
the essence of the earth.

"The gods are moving against the Dark One," Galadriel
said, turning to her granddaughter. "The Beast will
not stand against their great wroth."

Arwen nodded, turning to her grandmother, a weak smile
on her face. "All that I love are riding against him.
I fear that I may be bereaved before the end."

"You love him."

She nodded. "I have hope, Grandmother. I have hope
that there can be a life again, that the good that
once was can be preserved."

"I hear children's laughter when I think about you,"
she replied, standing closer to her granddaughter. "I
see the delight and smiles of children."

"Then he will live?" Arwen asked, a tear trickling
down her cheek.

"I believe it will be so," Galadriel replied. She
slipped her arm around Arwen's waist, holding her
closer as they stared out to see. What she didn't tell
her was the long silences and sadness that was so
large a part of Aragorn's heart now. That she would
have to find out on her own, if ever. She would never
be able to tell Arwen herself.

***************Barad-dur ...

He stared into his palantir, watching as the army of
the Powers made their way towards him. Sauron thought
long and furiously, considering that there was little
he could do to sway them. What he could do was outlast
them. His fortress was impregnable, he himself had
made sure and they would have to siege him and his
terrible black darkness.

Orcs stayed out of the sight of his cruel eyes, the
sheer terror such looks gave to all who were foolish
to meet his gaze was overwhelming. Despair, death and
defeat came from his looks and he considered what he
would do to even the odds between them.

There was little that he could do and he paced in a
rage of such deep fury that the aura of it leeched
through the walls and seeped out into the surrounding
environs. His orcs quailed, his men cried to the
heavens and cast around for a way to flee.

As ever in the courtyard, a figure stood waiting,
impatient to do what he had been promised was his task
alone. Tulkas stood, unseen but felt by those that
shied away from the spot where he waited, ever ready
to take down the demon behind the thick and shining
walls of Barad-dur.

***************In the battle beyond the gate ...

They engaged the enemy on the plain before the tower,
Gorgoroth's pitted and desiccated lands embroiled with
war. Orcs, caught between Sauron and the forces of
Fionwe fought like demons or ran away. They fled in
great numbers toward the southeast, toward the Sea of
Nurnen and the empty lands beyond. The mountains
ringed them in and they had no place to go, that
someone didn't pursue them with sword and bow. In the
midst of the battle, along the front of their lines
figures appeared with wrath and vigor. Orome and
Olorin, others unnamed assisted in the fighting in the
hottest contested places.

The enemy fell back, terrified of the spectacle of
facing unearthly powers over which they could not win.
The tide pressed back, the army surged forward and
soon the rocky mountains that framed Barad-dur could
be seen.

Aragorn fought on foot, abandoning his horse, his
sword singing as he moved ever forward. Turgon was on
his right and Gil-galad and Elrond on his left as they
cut a path through to the tower beyond. Legolas and
Gimli, ever side-by-side, moved forward with the
Rohirrim while armies of Dwarves, their axes swinging
in wide arcs made a broad clear path along the length
of their line. Not since ages untold had Elf and Dwarf
fought in such a way and today it would help them
prevail.

The wind blew against their backs, eagles soared
overhead and everywhere the whispers of unseen beings
were heard. Women and men, exhorting them forward with
sighs and encouragement were ever whispering in their
ears. They moved forward, following the banner of
Fionwe, surging to within a league of the tower.

The horns blew, trumpets sounded and the cries and
shouts of great multitudes rent the air. The ground
grew slippery with blood from the dead and the dying
and corpses littered the field of battle. Screams
seemed surreal, smells almost too powerful to
withstand gripped the soldiers and horsemen engaged on
the ground. It stretched out, becoming almost slow
motion as they pushed forward nearly as one.

Then it all stopped, the surging armies and the
battlefield became quiet almost all at once. Aragorn
stood in the mud, his sword in his hand, his blood
rushing loudly in his ears. He was panting with effort
and adrenaline, his eyes turned toward the leadership
as they paused before the straight path that led to
the door.

No one seemed to breathe, no one seemed to move. The
big organic mass of soldiery paused as if one single
living thing. On the pathways ahead, standing as if
statues were a number of figures that were larger than
life. Aragorn stumbled forward, pausing beside Elrond,
himself disheveled and silently watching. The forces
at work, the unseen brethren that had accompanied them
had begun to show themselves.

Aragorn recognized Tulkas and struggled to know the
others as one by one they materialized on the path
leading to the doorway of the tower before them. It
was huge and malevolent but the calmness and humor of
the figures gathering gave him a strange sense that
something good and final was going to happen before
them. Elrond turned to him, his face filled with
satisfaction and awe.

"Tulkas, I recognize," Aragorn whispered, moving
closer to Elrond as the tension began to rise.
Overhead, the clouds gathered, black and sullen,
gathering together as if expressing their own rage.
The air crackled with electrical anticipation as the
army of the free peoples watched with growing concern.

"That one is Orome," Elrond whispered, nodding to
another, brawny and wrathful. Beside him another
appeared, Aule the Smith, bringing a murmur of
appreciation and respect from Gimli nearby. Others
appeared, Maiar spirits, all of them gathering around
Tulkas himself.

Clouds rolled in the heavens and the sound of thunder
broke the stillness as rain began to pour from the
sky. Ulmo weighed in, his wrath falling heavily,
creating a mire for the enemy to tread. Fionwe stood
watching, his eyes rising to the heavens as lightning
split the sky. It cast fierce brittle rays of light
among the morass and then darkness fell once again.

The wind picked up as the rain fell harder and then
the clouds rumbled as if alive. Nothing showed itself
in the tower, the Beast fearing to come to the windows
to watch the world conspire against him. Tulkas grew
bright, his countenance almost blinding and then he
moved forward slowly, his laughter clearly heard. The
orcs that hadn't fled melted away before him, running
with searing madness to the east.

He reached the door and held out his hand, light
emanating from his fingers striking it. It built up
and then the door melted away, flowing into the dark
soil around the steps. He ran inside, disappearing
immediately and others followed as well. Lights burst
forth, pouring out of the window like brilliant arms
reaching for the sky. Up they went, a record of
Tulkas' progress until they reached the top of the
incredible fortress.

The thunder rolled and the sky roiled, like a snake
coiling for a terrible strike. They shrank on the
ground, uncertain of what to expect but Fionwe merely
stood calmly staring at the sky. Lightning crackled,
illuminating the scene and then faded, leaving them in
the dark once more. It was unnaturally dusky,
unnaturally eerie but no one moved or pulled away.

Spirits appeared, white and glowing, some floating in
the air and some standing on the ground. They stared
at the tower, as if concentrating their thoughts upon
it, making their will known to those inside. The
ground began to rumble as deep in the earth, oceans of
water surged in tumultuous spasms. Ulmo roared beneath
their feet and overhead Manwe made his anger felt.

Aragorn stood transfixed, his heart in his throat as
the outcome of the battle slipped from their hands.
More and more Maiar, more shimmering figures appeared
and then by his side, Olorin materialized. He smiled
at Aragorn, then turned to watch as the ring of bright
lights encircled Barad-dur.

A wailing sound issued from the tower, a piercing
shrieking sound of despair and then Tulkas appeared,
his face fey and dangerous as he dragged Sauron from
his own tower and flung him onto the ground. Sauron
rose and turned, screaming with rage and Orome drew
his sword and swung it with precision.

It arched, its blade flashing and smote Sauron's hand,
severing it from his arm in a single stroke. He
shrieked, the sound beyond evil and all around him
soldiers shrank back in fear. Fionwe stood his ground,
his cloak billowing around him as he looked to the sky
once again.

The clouds opened and a bright light pierced the
darkness, illuminating the two as they struggled
together. Sauron grappled with Tulkas, unequal to his
power and found himself face down with the Valar's
foot on his neck. Orome reached down and picked up
Sauron's hand, holding it and the Ring up high. Then
the lightning broke the darkness and the spirits began
to pulse, fading out one by one into nothingness.
Tulkas gripped Sauron's neck and pulled him to his
feet. His hideous face was contorted with pain and he
cried out to his master, Melkor.

This blasphemy shattered the darkness with lightning
and great daggers of light pierced the sky. They
struck the tower, biting blasts of fire and the
building shuddered and began to crack apart. Bolt
after bolt, shattering wails of thunder, they cowered
before the spectacle of the tower's violent death.

Implosions and explosions, flying rock and hissing
flames, Barad-dur convulsed in its death throes.
Tulkas turned Sauron, making him watch as all around
them the debris of the tower fell like rain. Flames
sputtered and hissed in the falling rain, the ground
shivered with the wrath of Ulmo. Above them all,
sailing down swiftly and silently, a white swan ship
passed through the sky.

Manwe stood on deck, his cape flying behind him and he
pointed his staff at the shivering demon. A pure
light, white as snow issued from it and struck Sauron,
rendering him helpless before the onslaught. He fell
to his knees but Tulkas dragged him up and then
stepped backward to leave him alone. The lights of the
heavens hit Sauron in force and he covered his eyes
with his injured hands.

He cried out as the lights engulfed his body and he
pulsed and shimmered and then faded away. His wailing
cry lingered and then faded as well as Sauron was
consigned forever into the abyss. Tulkas turned,
staring at the army, his laughter an incongruous sound
in the shattering fury of elemental raging. Then he
faded, as did the others, one-by-one until the lights
of the Valar had gone from the field.

Aragorn exhaled, unaware that he had held his breath
and then turned to see Fionwe change as well. He
glowed with a light as soft as the stars and then with
a smile and nod, faded away. Gil-galad turned, looking
around him as above in the sky, the clouds rolled
away. The rain stopped falling and the breeze gentled
as the day returned to the field of battle.

Nowhere could they see the bodies of their foes.
Nowhere could they see any enemy at all. Beyond them
in rubble lay the ruins of Barad-dur. It was as if
they had come to fight and no one came out to meet
them and they stood stunned and amazed as they looked
around. What was even more amazing was that in their
midst, all that had been killed before were well and
intact. No one was lost, no one was killed. The Valar
had given back what Sauron had taken.

As it became clear to Aragorn, an irrational thought
crossed his mind and he scanned around him for
Faramir. No matter where he wandered that day and the
next, no matter how hard he looked, Faramir was not
among the miracles performed.

That night as Aragorn wandered the camps looking, the
night star shown its silvery hues once more.

***************Six months later ...

He stood on the shores of the sundering sea, his crown
and robes of kingly attire in place. A white horse
stood waiting, his knights and lords of liege around
him, waiting for the swan ship to come to the bay.
Cirdan had gone for her, bringing Arwen at last and
the world of Men and Dwarves was there to greet her.

The kingdoms of Elves were in embryonic stages of
rebuilding but Gondor and Minas Tirith was farther
along. The world needed a spectacle, a reason to hope
and so the wedding of two peoples was set to commence.
A ship broke the mists, sailing with great stateliness
as Arwen of Imladris at last came home.

Part 24:

Twenty-five years later ...

He stood on the embankment, staring out at the lake,
sunlight like a field of diamonds sparkling upon its
flat surface. He came here every late spring, a
retreat from the burdens of his great office, seeking
peace in the quiet greenery of this secluded place.

Around him flowers were budding, leaves were broad and
green and the sound of birds could be heard as they
hunted prey along the shoreline. It was a rustic spot,
his alone, a gift of his station that he approved of
without reservation.

Few things he had chosen in the course of his life,
let alone family and children, though he had both now.
Arwen he had wed and between them they begot children,
a strapping son and three lovely young daughters. They
were like unto her, he had seen, their willowy grace
and dark eyes speaking to him of the Firstborn.

His son was like unto himself, tall and quiet, with
dark eyes and a sense of righteousness that made his
father proud. Eldarion was the apple of his
grandfathers' eyes, Elrond often visiting from his
redoubt in the mountains of the Bruinen Valley. His
grandparents from Lorien doted on their grandchildren,
having them into their Wood for stretches on end.

He had family with him, friends from the Shire to
Moria, comrades in the City and correspondence galore.
But he was alone since her passing, that abrupt and
dreadful day when Arwen Evenstar left his life. She
had fallen from her horse, the meara stopping
abruptly, the horse shying from a rabbit on the trail.
She had landed hard and all his skill couldn't save
her, Elrond himself arriving too late.

She had been alive and vital, his friend and companion
and then she was gone, leaving him behind to bear the
grief alone. His children were shattered, coming from
Lorien with their grandparents, where they had been
spending the summer. They greeted their father in
tears, himself mute with grief and together they had
born her to the shores of the sea. She was taken to
Aman, to lie in sacred soil, leaving behind a family
bereft of her love.

Aragorn had been shattered, unable to eat or sleep,
tending to his children and the well-wishes of
multitudes. His family from Valinor came to see them,
spending time with Elrond and Celeborn as well. Then
they had to leave and he was alone again. Eomer and
Legolas had visited from the Mark and Gimli from
Moria, where he was the King. Condolences arrived
from the Shire and from elsewhere but they were poor
consolation to the ones left behind.

He stared at the lake, memories old and cherished
coming into this mind as he absorbed the sun's warmth.
 

"I have a vision."

Faramir. He came to him now, as he always did. This
was his moment alone with the memory.

"I dream of a time when we can be together and the
threat is not upon us."

"What do you see?" he had asked, holding Faramir in
his arms.

"A summer's day by a lake some place. A summer's day
and you and I together, walking along the shore by
ourselves."

He came here every year, to be alone with that memory
and to restore his equilibrium for the rest of the
year. He stepped down from the embankment, his boots
crunching on the cinders that made a path along the
lakeside shore. He remembered, as he walked, the words
he had said in reply, swaying gently as they stood
together.

"Some day, if the world is not lost, perhaps we can
find our way to a lake some place, a lake dappled by
the sun."

He had, coming here to a cabin that he had built
himself, living simply and quietly in the solitude.
Arwen had not asked him about it, nor had she come
with him, allowing him this respite from the pressures
of their life. She had understood him well, he knew,
his complexities and his silences and had never
intruded upon his need for this place.

He paused and closed his eyes, the sun warm upon his
face. Birds called across the lake and he heard fish
jumping in the water. The breeze was gentle and cool,
refreshing and comforting and he stood absorbing the
beauty around him. Turning, he continued, coming
around a copse of trees when he paused, frowning
slightly. His hand instinctively went to his belt,
reaching for the sword hilt that wasn't there. He had
left it on his bed, walking out unarmed, secure in the
privacy of his lakeshore retreat.

Someone was standing by the water, a tall and
well-made man, his back to Aragorn. He wore simple
gray clothing, trousers and tunic, but his feet were
bare and he was unarmed. For a moment, Aragorn felt
anger and then curiosity. He hesitated and then spoke
up.

"Who are you? This is a private sanctuary."

"Sanctuary," a soft voice spoke. He didn't turn, but
stared out, silent and solid and strange.

Aragorn considered his actions for a moment and then
stepped forward, off the trail. He walked to the
stranger and stopped behind him, pausing uncertainly.
He was tall and slim, with shoulder-length blond hair,
tinged by red and wavy. Aragorn swallowed, willing
impossible thoughts away and put his hand on the
stranger's shoulder. "Who are you?" he asked, turning
the figure around.

Warm eyes met his, a soft smile greeted him and
Aragorn was rooted to the spot. He stared, unwilling
to hope, and then with a shaking hand, touched the
cheek of the stranger before him.

"Faramir," he whispered with a sigh.

The End

back