Chapter Text
"We walked as men once before the moon wore such scars and the mountains grew still. We ruled but took no pleasure in reigning, watched life and found no joy in what we spied. We ate but remained hungry, thirsted but knew not what would quench us; we feared but found no respite. Death hunted us. Fate lay in wait behind every door. What could a man feel but fear when such a specter loomed behind, always but a step behind? We thought only of escape."
It took time as it had before in ages past for their number to assemble. It took time but was inevitable. They knew no other path, had no other thought. They were strongest together. Some limped their way across the cracked and boiling plateau of Gorgoroth, two had been close enough to Citrith Ungol that their journey was short, another had not cleared Udun before the cataclysm and had to trek along the mountain range but arrived regardless. They found that the vale had been set to the torch in their absence, the bridge broken, but those hindrances could not keep them from their seat.
And Minas Morgul stood yet, abandoned but whole. It had been worse before. They had not had this retreat overlong in the span of their time in the world and well did they remember the wandering that had come before it. They broke morgul weapons to reclaim what traces of their power had imbued the blades and barbs, It was not enough but it helped. The worst of their wounds ceased to lame, the frail shudders eased. Though their master was laid low their captain had taken pains in the reforming of Minas Ithil. The spells he had left lived yet, if only faintly. The moon waxed and waned and waxed again as the eight rallied.
Soon broken armor was cast aside for intact gear, burned robes were left empty for absent orks to collect and mend. The stable was assessed and adequate horses were found thin but alive. They had broken free of their stalls in the calamity and helped themselves to the storerooms feed. Saddles were set, cinches tightened, bits pressed between chomping teeth before the eight led their chargers into the courtyard and around to the mountain pass. They were not called but their duty was known. All eyes were turned to Mordor and all ears strained to hear the will of their master. If he were still so be it. They would go themselves.
Thick clouds of smoke and ash greeted them as they passed, the ruins of the malevolent land stretched to the horizon before them like a desiccated carcass. The heat of a thousand furnaces rose from the remnants of Mt. Doom whose smoldering veins spread across the tortured landscape in lines of liquid fire. The volcano was a shell of itself but its heart still pressed melted rock from its many wounds. Abominations of nature had always endured in the dark crevasses of Mordor, hating, scheming, fighting for each ash tainted breath. None remained now. The eruption of the mountain had driven them from their ancestral home. They too would return in time if any yet lived. That which belonged to Mordor could never be free of it, not truly. It was a land that like its lord had never learned to let go.
Just beyond the encroaching magma lay the mighty ruin of the greatest fortress, felled with shocking ease by the smallest of mortals and the slimmest odds imaginable. Barad-dur was no more Sauron had fallen and all his works with him. No living eye took in the desolation of the dark throne, but it was seen. No living back stiffened in shock but the eight dark figures held themselves tightly in saddle. Phantom fingers clenched in metal shells, tightening and jerking the reigns of their mounts who stamped and bobbed in protest. The Nazgul sat mounted at the ready. They sat as they had in countless past years. They waited for the whisper of a fell voice to send them forth. But all was quite now, terribly quiet. The strained breaths of their steeds and the distant bubbling of fire seemed the only sounds in the world. The eight were armed and waiting to do battle for an enemy no longer there.
In that silence one dismounted, boots making a terrible clank as they hit the hard packed ground. He moved slowly forward from the rest, steps measured, hesitant. Rusty gauntlets pushed aside rock and shattered chunks of wall to reach the remnants of a great cracked doorway, clawed fingers stretched out to grasp it. They ghosted a caress over the familiar carved shape as their owner leaned through the arch. Giant pieces of stone blocked access to the remnants of countless stairs and the rooms beyond. Overturned braziers and ashes marked the remains of the once imposing entry hall. Everything above the fourth story had crashed to the ground and been utterly destroyed, everything below was filled with the debris from that destruction. He turned to face the rest. "...There is… nothing left worth saving." His fellows dismounted and came to his side, stepping around pieces of glory and memory and over the shredded remnants of a watchful hanging banner. "We have no choice... we must move on. We will not find him here."
The hoods of the remaining eight lowered in a pantomime of grief. Lost was that feeling, lost was all feeling in the wake of this blow.
"Move on to what? Outside of Minas Morgul it may be that nothing remains." Another spat, "Even Citrith Ungol has been abandoned and its tower damaged by the mountain. There is nothing for us here until he returns… If he…"
"We could make for the other towers, see if they are still manned?” Another offered bleakly. "And once there consolidate those troops and wait." But wait for what? What if there was nothing to wait for?
Still another turned his back to the rubble, his voice a mere scratch of sound. "It is finished. We know it, even if we dare not say it. We will… will we fade?" Without the Dark Lord to rule their thoughts there was a growing space for doubt, for impossible possibilities, for thoughts of death. They had never gone this far, never dared or been capable of imagining a world after their maker. And now they faced the unimaginable without one of their own. "We are no longer whole... ... we are... only eight now..."
He who first dismounted seemed not to hear. A wail rose from his brothers but he did not join it. His form had bent across a pulverized piece of column, his hand was grasping for something in the dust. It came into his palm with the satisfying chime of metal on metal, shone a dull silver in the poor light. "This ring…" His breath caught, hissed out in a rush of strangled agony. "…The Witch King's ring…" The band caught fire when he held it aloft to the others, it flickered, it shone; it reflected the lava's glow and set off its crowning stone like a beacon light. "It still lives… How can this be? He fell… We felt his loss, even our Lord... yet this ring still lives."
“That cannot be.” Another seized it from him, held it up before his cowl. “It should be dormant, as were the dwarven rings we seized. They do not burn without their bearers…”
The thought seized them all swiftly, an unspoken terrible and impossible hope. Sauron had fallen lower than he had ever before but this ring lived. Their master was beyond their reach, but their Captain’s ring lived. The task before them was clear. For uncounted years they had been a thought apart and that only, tied by the magic that bound the nine together. Their minds, resonating with the echo of each other's minds, could never be separated regardless of physical distance. The ring bond between them had held strong long after flesh faded and memories died. That must be saved. They must be nine. They must find their Captain. The eight breathed as one and their breath whispered his name.
Heads rose and eyes burned like icy stars, gauntlets clenched, boots ground rock into dust. The riders turned from the ruins and caught their mounts and not a one looked back. (We must find the Witch King) Was the only desperate thought echoing between them. (Find him, be complete once more, and then...) Then perhaps he who had known their lord best of them all would know what they must do. Ghostly wails echoed across the burning plain as the eight rode forth onto Gondor. Midnight crawled in their wake; terror loped hound-like at their heels. A lone Fell beast roused from its perch on the gates at the thunder of their hooves, croaked after them as they passed. It turned its serpentine neck to the mountain, the tower and the fire; for a moment capturing all in the slit of its eye.
It would not stay. It would seek cleaner skies, familiar skies, and swallow hope in its wings.
Ch 1. Into the Darkness
Within a white tower atop a white city sat a white wizard. He was an odd combination of qualities. His robes were fine and brilliantly bright but he wore them casually. He had a face that could if schooled be stern, or even terrible, but as it was his mouth leaned ever to smiles and his voice to quiet mirth. His face was aged, but his being was ageless. His eyes were friendly and distant, looking past the present, beyond the past. He seemed one foot in this world with the other beyond the sea, well into the west, and he seemed uncomfortable with this straddling of worlds as though such a development were recent and not old habit. But there was nothing uncomfortable or unpracticed about the way he held his pipe in the corner of his jaw. Nothing uncertain in the way he blew smoke rings through his prior smoke rings. Tonight he felt more the outsider then was his norm. A king had been crowned, a man who he'd known nearly all his short life was at last in his own. But in some odd way they were strangers once more, in some odd way they had not known each other all this time. One of them had died to get this far, and the other... he had been forced to watch that death. It lay between them now, unspoken but unquestionably present. Even the joy of his return had not completely eclipsed the pain of his passing.
The rebirth itself had left the wizard changed. He was not the grey any longer, he was, and yet was not, Gandalf. It was an odd spot to be in to be certain. And this night in the midst of a kingdoms rejoicing he found himself troubled though he should be gladdened. There seemed countless ill omens about, the small kind which even wizards cannot be sure are more than old morbid fancies. Was the fire smoking more than it ought, or the shadows overreaching themselves across the floor? He was certain if nothing else that the wind whispered and the stars murmured, and he could almost see... something, something yet to come. Something that had not yet been but would be, might be, could be; something terrible.
(It feels almost as if there is a pall about the place, some sepulchered staging of an act unplanned. It has midwinter's chill, twisted, almost cruel... and yet... ) Slowly Gandalf opened his eyes, glancing about to see if anyone had noticed his silence. He was alone. He closed his eyes once more, bidding the vision to return. What had that been? A premonition or distant recollection of an unvoiced regret? He had all manner of tools at his disposal but not all behaved or came when he called. Those things which he knew were not always clear when he needed to know them. The chill brought to mind the nine black riders; it could do no less with what events had been short months before this night. He did not like to think of them or the issues their very being had presented. Their doom for one was unimaginable to the wizard; after all, what befell a mortal so bent from the mold after death? Even the fate of uncorrupted men remained unknown. It was their lot to pass beyond the circles of the world and none save He who had created all could say what befell them there. Perhaps their lot was that which awaited the orks Morgoth had broken in time long since passed. He knew not where Sauron himself dwelt now, if anywhere at all. It did no good to wonder after the final fate of such beings.
But it was difficult to shake the nine from his thoughts after how his vision had felt. (So what else then you old fool? What else shares their aura..?) Why must he be thinking of them on a night such as this when nothing should bring them to mind? Was it simple recollection, was it idle thought, or was it some manner of warning... (My mind has been wandering today but it cannot be helped, having them all together will always bring back how they met in the first place. The crowning of a king is a cause to celebrate, not ruminate. Have I lost the focus to do even that? Fool indeed.) Gandalf let a sigh and watched his smoke ring go rouge and break through his prior efforts. (Oh bother.) Now thoroughly cross the wizard waved away the mess and puffed his pipe to start afresh.
(Aragorn is crowned, a king at last. That moment I can keep close I hope, along with the chaos in planning that coronation; Faramir’s worry and Arwen's amusement.) Gangalf allowed himself a short chuckle at the steward’s expense. (That poor man, he is struggling so to ease the cities transition back to a kingship while ever dotting upon the lady Eowyn...) He sat a bit straighter for somehow with that thought the vision seemed clearer, the aura about it more familiar. (Is she related to this then in some manner?) A soft creak from the doorway pulled his attention back to the present.
Within the door-frame Legolas bent his head slightly. If that were a greeting or the elf were checking for other tenants in the room Gandalf couldn’t be certain and he’d never swear to either. "Mithrandir might I speak with you? I would not have disturbed you but…" He paused, gaze sharp and curious as they regarded each other, "I have seen little of you at the feast. You have been all but a stranger since nightfall. What bids you keep such meager company as this? I would know what troubles you."
Gandalf smiled, "I am troubled?"
The woodland prince nodded, his eyes never leaving Gandalf's own. "You are troubled and should you wish to speak of it I will listen."
The wizard sighed, put his pipe to the side. "Come, come in, sit. You plan to do so regardless don’t you?" He turned his eyes from the door to the fire dancing on the logs, heard the elf cross the ground between them and draw up a chair. "Many things have in their time troubled me, some linger still but you need not be concerned. You should not have the time for such ravings when your comrades would rejoice with you." He paused, looked to Legolas. "But I imagine you feel the same way for me. Have I been as poor a guest this night as all that?"
The elf smiled, gave a soft shake of dismissal. "I did not mean that you were slighting us. It is only that you should be with us; the celebrating would do you good. As for myself..." He laughed. "I will not be missed I think! I was passing time with Gimli but he is at odds with me. I will not have a drinking contest with him and he's become irate. The hobbits are dancing and I fear I may look out of place among them if I joined. Aragorn has his heart and his hands full this night, even at his own celebration he must play the king. There are many, many grateful subjects he must receive well wishes from. The others are enjoying each other's company well enough." His smile dimmed. "Though Frodo is distant from us..."
Gandalf placed his hand on Legolas's shoulder, squeezed gently. "He has born a burden few have had to bear. He, I fear, may never be the same after it. Had there been another way..." That thought sat between them a moment, the fire cracked and hissed. "...but there was none. It does no good to regret such things in happy times."
Legolas nodded once again, looked to him. "You are still yet to tell me what troubles you. I remain concerned despite your fine words."
Gandalf took a breath to give some answer but before he could start the door before them burst open and Gimli entered, unabashed by their surprised faces and tense shoulders.
"Why are you both in the shadows? A misdeed you do us, to consider our company so poor on a night such as this! I should have guessed you’d run to Gandalf elf, Are you seeking support to grow yourself a pair and a spine?” He was curt but jovial, “Why the moon is bright! The meat is roasted! And the victory is as good on the mind as the ale is in the stomach! It is an ideal night in fact for us to settle an old score…” There was no question that the dwarf was suggesting, or to whom that suggestion was directed. “I’ve been more than patient but my beard will grow no longer before this matters settled! You can’t hide, you can’t run, stand your ground and drink with me you tree climbing elven coward!”
Legolas sighed, plainly exhausted with the matter. "I will not indulge you in another drinking contest. I've refused for your own good Gimli, the last one didn't end favorably for you."
Gimli sputtered; "That was a fluke! I am due a rematch and you've no reason to be so cocky save that you fear to lose in a fair bout, is that it elf? Are you learning proper fear for a Dwarf?"
Legolas opened his mouth, then closed it, and for a moment he visibly considered his response. "...Yes Gimli, that's it exactly. You are my friend and I fear for you greatly. This time you might die in your sleep."
Gandalf laughed despite himself.
Aragorn ducked into an alcove and all but held his breath, watched tensely as another well to do couple passed by him without noting his hide away. He sagged with relief once they'd gone. (How can this many people fit into this building?) He sighed, leaned against the wall behind him. (Nay, be honest with yourself... How will I ever manage to manage all of them? There is a city more of them out there, and more further out besides. It will not be like the directing of forces, how can any mere man rule such a place as this?) It had started off well, so well! The actual crowning had been easily enough accomplished. Much of his time outside the preparation for that event had also been well managed. He'd spoken to healers for the wounded, masons for repairs and reinforcing walls, soldiers and their captains for hunting down and digging out the orks remaining. He had been fine, perfectly confident and comfortable, at least until tonight.
It had begun to settle on his mind that this time he was not assisting a leader and then taking his leave. This time he was not leaving at all. He was the leader now, he and his heirs after him. Gods what a thought. And who would he turn to and seek assistance from when he no longer knew what to do? (It takes more than a sword to make a king, and more than bloodlines for blood fails. It takes more even than destiny and prophesy. Those have lead me here...) He took hold of the crown on his brow and felt the etchings in the precious metals as he removed its unfamiliar weight. This was not the hood of a ranger, the symbol of a wanderer... It rested in his hands like a sword balanced across his palms. (...but now it comes to me alone. I must rule them, I must be fair, and patient, and brave...) He sighed again, bit the inside of his cheek to cut off the sound. (Much braver than I feel this night.)
And that meant returning to his party, Valar have mercy on him.
He placed the crown back onto his head, hoping it was settled properly. (Perhaps this will be easier with some goal. Within the hour I will make my way to my wife.) Setting that goal for himself he stepped out from his hiding spot and took the hallway back towards the courtyard. It proved to be an uphill battle. Many, many well wishes accepted/names poorly remembered/short conversations politely ended later he emerged into the open air and the noise of the crowd. Braziers and torches blazed and danced in the night breeze casting their warm glow over the active festivities. Faramir he caught a glimpse of passing by the banquet table with a flock of well dressed and important looking individuals. Aragorn smiled, amused to see that his steward was stuck in the same position as himself. Merry and Pippin were also easy to spot given both hobbits were dancing atop one of the tables. The people about them were laughing and clapping in time as the pair belted forth some unnamed shire song. Faintly over the many conversations he could hear something like;
"-better than any ever seen!
Not small or thin or leafy green-
that pumpkin was a shock to see
caught in the branches of her tree-oooh!
The farmer tried to get it down!
out of the branches tall and sprawlin-
only knocked down yellow leaves
and caterpillars fat and crawlin-oooh!
The pumpkin in the farmer's tree-
was such a sight for all to see-
that folks still go to get their fill..!
For perfect pumpkins grow there still!"
Samwise was piling high a plate with baked goods and stewed sweet meats. Aragorn spotted him through sheer habit he suspected, accustomed to looking at that height to locate his hobbit companions. He watched as Sam made his way from the banquet to where Eowyn's sat at a long table. Of Frodo he saw no sign but odds favored that Samwise hadn’t gotten all that food for his own sake. As much as Aragorn was accustomed to finding the hobbits, Sam was set in his ways looking after Frodo.
Aragorn decided given all the attention he was attracting on the green he might have a better chance at spotting Arwen by holding still. His best odds would be to climb the white tree but he would refrain, somehow. That would probably also be the easiest escape from all the conversations he could see he was about to have with strangers he would need to know. Perhaps a little tree climbing might be forgiven? Either way, odds were even better of her finding him first. He made further polite small talk and gradually maneuvered himself to a seat away from the heart of the party where he could watch the others celebrate. They were safe, they were joyful, and so he allowed a content smile to grace his lips. To think their adventures were over and for himself it ended with a night such as this.
(We will each go our own ways soon, far too soon. It will be long before I can travel again. Frodo and Samwise, Pippen, Merry, they will turn back to the shire as Bilbo did before them. Gimli speaks of little else than the caves he saw at the Hornburg. Many elves have left us for the west and the lands of Aman beyond it... how long will Legolas remain?) He shut his eyes against that thought, willing it to vanish with all that tied to it. His Arwen had almost sailed herself and still may wish she had one day. (Gandalf will not remain beside me overlong, wizards are made to walk. But then so are rangers.) A chuckle, despite himself. (And there is the rub again, I have much I must grow accustomed to. Wait, something is..?)
A chill breeze blew through Minas Tirith; the moon covered her face behind ghostly gray clouds. The night seemed to draw in closer, gutting the flames in the braziers and setting the cities glow beneath a shroud. All cheer vanished in the wake of something old and foul, and familiar. (Something is wrong.) Aragorn felt a slow rising dread, steady and swift as a winter thaw. Instincts sharp from years in the wilds set his hairs on end. (Something of Mordor is here.) Rising from his seat surprisingly unnoticed for a new king he strode to the end of the overlook and looked down upon the fields.
In the darkness of the moons absence the fields of Pelennor became an ocean of shadows, broken here and there only by the remnants of Mordor's abandoned siege weapons. They stretched out, seemingly endless, grasses undulating like waves in the abrupt chilled wind. Aragorn held himself still and let his gaze dart back and forth across the all but impenetrable blackness. He couldn't be sure in this light and from this distance but something looked to be moving against the wind.
Then a sound arose outside the city, a wail outside of the world. It was weak, likely inaudible to ears that had not heard it many times and clearly, but it was unmistakably the fading spectral cry of the Nazgul.
(It cannot be...) Aragorn’s mind raced at the possibility (They died when Sauron's fall tore Mordor apart, I saw them plummet from the sky!) It could not be but if not what could create that tone? (Am I somehow dreaming? I cannot be awake. I must be…) In the darkness of the field a great beast came to rest, so massive in size that its form was distinguishable even from the overlook of the city’s highest ring. The monster towered above the grass, balancing high on its haunches. It’s great membrane wings arched and folded, and its long neck turned about taking in its surroundings. Aragorn recognized it instantly for a fellbeast of Mordor, the foul flying mounts of the nine. It’s serpentine head with dead black eyes arched skyward and for a moment, a bizarre jarring moment, Aragorn imagined the beast was looking back at him.
Some of the cloud cover passed away from the moon then, shedding pale distorted light on the creature and its placement. In that spot on the field it remained, head turned upward, tail thrashing restlessly as though waiting. (...What is it waiting for?) He watched as the creature seemed to settle itself on the ground. (What does this mean?)
Spurred by dread he hurried from the festivities, never noticing that none seemed to see him pass. He ran through the city streets using alleys and jumping fences despite the thickness of his kingly garb. He did not notice how the descending gates were unmanned, he did not think to call for aid, he did not think to order a guard and send them out. He did not think even to call a warning. He was a king, but he had been a ranger far longer. He passed through the front gate lit brightly with torches and un-patrolled for the celebrations with not a soul aware he'd gone.