~
Crusade
by Arctapus
~

On the run...

The sun went down, the world falling into darkness once more as they rode west, hurrying through the broken lands toward the sanctuary of the mountains. Behind them, in endless shadow, the lands of their forebears lay, overcome by the forces of evil. Gondor had fallen and before that, Rohan. They had done much damage themselves before fleeing, the Nazgul lay dead and so did many thousands of the enemy but the one who cannot be named had prevailed against them.

Frodo must have failed, he considered, fragments of many fears cascading together in his mind. Aragorn pushed the image from his thoughts, casting into some corner of his mind still capable of rational thought all his sorrows for the halflings. It had been a desperate hope and one that had failed. Gandalf had prayed that it would be different, that Frodo and Sam would do what kings of men could not, but it was not to be.

Gandalf.

He was missing, perhaps fallen in the tide of battle on the Fields of Pelennor, that plain that stood between his own crown and the death of them all. They had stood side by side, the heirs of many lands, and struck down thousands but many more came and in the end, the remnants of the army had fled, leaving the city to the enemy. It had been the hardest thing they could have done, this haunting, terrible retreat.

It was dark when they reached the foothills, entering the great forests as they began to appear on shadowed hillsides, marching up the slopes of mountains that had once seemed so safe and familiar. Things had changed, familiar places becoming strange to his eyes and as he rode, Aragorn considered what monsters might be lurking in the darkness around them.

Legolas looked back, his heart numbed by the fall of Gondor. Among the dead he had searched for Gimli, finding him nowhere in the time they had to look. Aragorn had grabbed his arm, dragging him from the charnel fields and on horseback, with tears in their eyes, they gathered their remaining forces and fled. The city, flames rising in the sky, had emptied in the battle, women and children fleeing in the confusion of the fight. Men had died to make their escape plausible and now they were scattered all about, living who knew how, existing in the new world of terror and darkness all alone.

Gimli must be dead. This was clear in Legolas mind but he couldn't accept it and so he discounted the thought, calmness suffusing him as he rearranged reality to survive. He would show up some time, walking in with his usual bluster and then things would be easier to bear. Until then, he would continue as best he could in the world where the One Ring was in the hands of the Beast.

Rivendell...

They fled in groups, hurrying away for the sanctuary of the Havens and beyond, all of them filled with anguish and futility. He was the last, Elrond, Master of the great redoubt, along with his closest advisers and his sons. Clad in armor, his sword at his side, his bow and quiver on his back, he stood on the terrace of his home one last time.

It was clear with the capture of the Ring by the Enemy that the sanctuaries of the Elves would fall. He knew the moment Morgoth clutched the Ring that the time of peace and hopefulness was over. All of the Ring Bearers, all of them, knew. All of them knew what was coming. As he stood on his terrace, he worried for Celeborn and Galadriel and Thranduil as well for they were closer to the coming dread. They would have to flee as best they could, making their stand with him at the shores of the ocean as their people slipped away by ship.

He sighed raggedly, turning and facing his family, relief that Arwen was in the Grey Havens suffusing him. The end of the world was at hand and he knew it, feeling the doom before any other as it slipped its dark fingers into the sensibilities of all. He nodded and they stepped back, watching as he took the torch from Glorfindel's hand, turning and touching a tapestry with its bright flames.

Stepping back, watching as it ignited, they would retreat through the house, setting flames as they went and by the time they rode away to the west, the house would be engulfed.

In the mountain passes...

They hurried onward, fleeing with gathered humans, the remnants of Rohan and the Dale. Haldir stood by his horse, searching the trail behind them with his eyes and the hills above them as elves and men filed past, hurrying wearily westward to the shores of the sea. He was in charge of their retreat, the Lady and Lord mingled among the refugees, exhorting them to move and keep moving, those that came by land. Many had made for the sea, going by boat, and they would have their trials, their ordeals and their nightmare moments as well before they reached the haven of Cirdan.

They hadn't heard from the Woodland Realm, so quickly did their defenses fall. The Ring had been taken and the Three had failed. They had been cast off, lest their bearers be overtaken by evil. Now all they could do was flee and fight, making for the sea where ships lay. They would be able to leave Middle-earth but the others wouldn't. They were not allowed to come to the shores of Valinor. They would have to be left behind. As he stood in the rain, searching for the Enemy, Haldir of Lorien tried not to think of what would come when the Elves at last were gone.

In the mountains...

They made their way, passing abandoned possessions of people fleeing westward, scurrying toward the sea in a mad, blind rush to whatever refuge might be found. There were carvings here and there, the marks of Elves leaving information behind and he read it eagerly, hoping against hope for the sign he sought, the sign of Gandalf or one of his kind. He didn't find it but he found caves and into them they entered, throwing themselves down in exhaustion.

Éomer searched the confines, helping the wounded and the numbed, finding a rivulet of water that was fit for drinking. Faramir and Legolas, moving on momentum, pushed people in, dragging exhausted horses by their bridles and reins. Aragorn was last to enter, sword in hand and anguish in his heart as he faded back into the shadows with his people.

The water trickled down the mountainside, dripping in slow rivulets to the ground below. Middle-earth was in agony, in the hands of the Beast. Her creatures great and small, scurried from the darkness, making their way into what shelter there was. It was a dark night in the Misty Mountains, a dark night in the hearts of those left behind all alone.

Later that night...

Faramir sat on a rock, hunched in his cloak, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. Around him, sitting and lying with difficulty on the ground, men and women huddled. Faramir sat numbed, a slight wound on his hand the remnants of battle far away. He didn't see anything around him, so battered and weary was he, but images of other places came unbidden.

Boromir came to him, laughing and handsome, invincible. He was the dearest friend he had ever had, his brother. Boromir had become separated from him, disappearing into the rabble of battle and so he was unclear what had happened to him, his beloved older brother.

His heart ached, fear filling him as he struggled to assimilate their defeat. His father was missing, the men of his household and his brother, Boromir. The Elf lands had fallen, driven westward one by one and in the desolation on Legolas face, he could see his own uncertainty reflected. Did his father make it out? Was his family safe? What of their homes and fields, their holy places and their refuges? What of their people, women, children, the old? What of the world? What of the future?

He hung his head, tears brimming in his eyes in this low moment of his repute. Nearby, watching with dull eyes, Éomer sat, a cup of something hot in his hands. He watched Faramir, noting the slump of his shoulders and felt his despair. His uncle, cousin, friends and colleagues, his sister and the people of his kingdom... they were missing. He felt despair clutch at his throat and then he pushed it away, staring into the flames and willing hatred to take his heart.

He ached for it, the flame of deep emotion as he sat in the void of his misery. Numbness suffused him and he felt nothing. Even the images in his mind of murder and revenge could not rouse him from his stupor, so deep did the shock of the past few days run. Tomorrow, he considered. Tomorrow, he would rouse. Tomorrow, he would take sword in hand and carve from the belly of their dying world a stroke of revenge so sweet it would live in the annals of the few who would remain, giving them heart in the midst of the terror of their slavery.

It was all they could do now, Éomer considered. Glancing to his left, he saw Aragorn kneeling, conversing in a low tone with the Elf, Legolas. His eyes were bleak, the pale cast of his face reflected in the weak light of the fire. Legolas was filled with pain and suffering, his fear for his people, the loss of his friend clear for all to see. Éomer looked away, willing in the clutter of their surroundings, some such privacy for the Elf. He was not given to displays, this Éomer knew, and his openness, his sorrow was painful to see.

Aragorn rose, moving toward him, nodding and squeezing his shoulder as he passed. He had risen to his heritage and they hailed him their leader by acclamation as well as by simple alignment. He had rallied them in the chaos, gathering Rangers, Rohirrim and Gondorians together before making a break for the mountains. They had followed him, riding with fury and determination to the sanctuary of the great spine of rock that divided the world. Over lands both known and unknown, they had ridden with fury, helping their wounded, their weak and their young. Reaching the caverns, finding relief here, it was temporary, he knew. But it was something. It was something.

Éomer sighed and looked at Faramir, noting in his slumped form some kind of metaphor for the world. They were down and perhaps out but they would not go quietly into the night. As long as he had the strength to wield a sword, Éomer of Rohan would fight.

Grey Havens...

Cirdan stood on the dock, watching as Elves crowded onto boats. They were coming now in the thousands and he was pressed to accommodate them. Memories came to him, memories of terrible days long past, when children without parents and parents without children crowded his shores, seeking in the Uttermost West the refuge they could not find here.

The sky overhead was cloudy, threatening rain and he stared at it with worry even as the sea lapped at his feet. There would be rough sailing ahead as the ships began to leave, silently witnessed by the humans lining the shore. They had fled too, arriving in the Havens, some with Elvish companions but they could not continue, unwelcome on the shores of Valinor were they.

Instead, they stood silently, watching as the Firstborn left, heading into peace and refuge far away. As Cirdan watched them, tears came to his eyes, tears of futility, sorrow and fear. They would be left to face the Beast, left alone to endure the darkness from which the world would never recover.

With a sigh, he turned and helped a child climb the steps of the ship that was filling before him. Soon, he would toss the rope from the dock, watching as it slipped past him. Standing on its upper deck, awash in an agony of tears, Arwen of Rivendell stood. Cirdan watched her, the epitome of sorrow and felt the world crash about his shoulders.

Rain began to fall, droplets in great numbers as the sky wept with them, these fugitives of Earth.

In the far east of Middle-earth...

Sam sat hunched over the tiniest fire he could manage. Lying nearby, dazed with fatigue and injury, Frodo Baggins struggled to live. Sam had pulled him from the attack on the mountainside, Gollum fleeing with the Ring into the smoke. He had bitten Frodo's finger off, taking the Ring with it. Running down into the darkness, he disappeared from sight. Sam, in a frenzy of fear and rage, had pulled Frodo back from the flames of the mountain, back from the suicidal charge into death that he had made in the agony of pain that had enveloped him.

They had staggered down, missing boulders and lava flows, stumbling across the open ground until they found a hollow in the rocks. He had dressed Frodo's hand, laying him on his own cloak and had sat for a day and a half, watching him and waiting to be caught by the enemy.

They didn't come, the beasts of the night, and with gathering hopefulness, Sam had begun to awaken from the torpor of shock, fear and exhaustion that had enveloped them both. He had made a meal with what he had, nursing Frodo as best he could, even as he watched for the fist of the Beast to find them.

Gollum was gone, the Ring with him. Even as Sam feared that Sauron might find Gollum, he hoped he would. It would serve him right, to face the Unnamed one alone, Ring or no. But he hoped it wouldn't happen, so devastated would the world become.

Sighing, Sam nursed the fire, while behind him Frodo slept, the siren call of the Ring once more in his head.

Far away...

He fell through the night, a small spark of light in the infernal darkness. The world was of no consequence, so far from its suffering was he. Nothing mattered but falling and letting go. He fell onward, ever dropping away until all that he was faded from knowing.

In a cave in the Misty Mountains, the next day...

"Here. Eat this."

Faramir looked up, meeting Aragorn's concerned eyes. He shook his head but even as he did, he took the plate, more than aware that strength was needed now. He held it, the simple fare that was his lot to eat and sat staring, not noticing Aragorn sitting down beside him. They stared into the fire, shock and exhaustion setting in as they sat in the midst of the slowly subsiding chaos.

"You should eat," Aragorn prodded gently.

Faramir nodded, sighing softly. "I know." He glanced at Aragorn, at the sad expression on his face. "It's all over, isn't it. The end of the world has come and it falls to us to face it alone."

Aragorn looked away, into the small curling flames and sighed. "I cannot let it go."

"It has been ripped from us," Faramir sighed, shaking his head sadly.

"Then we must rip it back."

They both glanced up, meeting the determined gaze of Éomer. He knelt down, staring from one face to another. "It falls to us, to the three of us, to lead our people now. We have retreated and will regroup. Tell me that I am not a fool to believe that we can defend ourselves here."

"How can we defend ourselves when Morgoth has the Ring. He has to have the Ring now." Faramir sighed, the pounding in his head a visceral thing. "All that we hold dear, family and hearth, its fallen. The Elf lands have fallen. No where on the face of the Earth is there safety."

"Perhaps," Éomer said, his voice steely with resolve. "But we are here and we must do what we can, even if it means that we fail. I will not be giving up nor will I be giving in. If they mean to take me, I will make it a good end, but end it shall be, standing in a sea of dead orcs."

Aragorn smiled slightly, nodding his head. "Our forces are small and ill armed. We do not know where our kinsmen and brothers are. We would have to reorganize to make a stand here. The Enemy might throw all that he has against us, cleaning us out as a broom sweeps away spiders nests."

"Then they come," Éomer said, looking from one face to the other. "We are here, Gondor, Rohan and the Elf lands. We must stand together now or we will die without honor or hope."

It was silent a moment and then Faramir sighed deeply, wincing as if in pain. He nodded, glancing at Aragorn. "We have no hope but we can save a few of the defenseless. The more Elves that make the Falas, that many more shall be saved from murder. Our people here, they have no real hope but we can give them a tale to tell when the darkness falls."

Aragorn glanced at Legolas, who was listening to them without comment. "I have no other plan," he said, sighing sadly. "There is perhaps no other option, short of divine intervention, and I doubt if the Valar will come if we call. It falls to us now, the four of us. We must rally our people and make as good an end as we can. Perhaps in the doing, we can draw the pity of Eru."

Legolas sat quietly, his heart aching with sorrow. His family would be making their way toward the sea, he hoped, heading for the Havens as the Darkness crept westward. The journey might already have been made, he hoped, as he tried not to think of the destruction of his home. The men were gathered, talking together. The big man, Éomer, he still had fight. He had rage and fight, as the others did not but he was winning the day with the strength of his resolve.

Legolas rose and walked to their group, kneeling beside Aragorn as he listened to them converse. They were going to gather men, archers and swordsmen, and hold the passes so that people could flee. He would be able to tell if his family and people made it, as they would guard the narrow defiles in the craggy and stony mountain tops of the world.

The night wore on, the four huddled together as outside in the big world the fate of millions hung. In the Havens, ships filled, leaving the shores of their homeland forever. In the mountain passes, refugees hurried as best they could. Elven armies led by mighty lords took their people through hard lands, Lothlorien burning behind them and Rivendell as well.

Celeborn rode at the end of his column, his wife and the children ahead of him, as he guarded the van of the bulk of his people. They had left nothing behind, burning and destroying as they passed by, gathering to their numbers the stranglers of Rohan. The rain fell steadily as he sat upon his horse, his eyes fixed ever eastward as he prayed to Elbereth. The day he had never hoped to see was upon them, the sundering of good and evil a real thing before his eyes.

He sat tall on his horse, a sword in hand, his kingly raiment shimmering in the downpour. He sat tall and proud, fearless and unflappable, giving by example courage to his people.

Beyond the horizon, secure in his tower, Sauron exulted in his newfound form once more.

In the wilderness...

The sound beyond the river was deafening, as if a beating of drums or spears on shields. Orcs were there, massing along the river, their numbers impressive in spite of their losses over the past few weeks and the war previously. People had fled for days, walking, running and riding what horses they had on their way to the relative safety of the western shore. The Anduin was the demarcation line between the waning territory that was still free and the lands held in thrall by the Enemy.

They stood in the tree line, hundreds of bowmen, armed and waiting for a signal to fire. The Orcs were coming, fording the river at its more shallow points. They would be clambering up the riverbanks, vulnerable to attack and when they did, arrows would fly.

These were the patrols that worked this area of the river, making incursions into the still held land of the west, probing for weaknesses even as they gathered more strength.

Legolas watched from the edge of the tree line, watching as they began to wade forward. Soon they would be in the right position, the stragglers on the far shore joining them in the water. As the first bunch began to clamber up onto the banks again, he could feel the tension in his archers, the mixed bunch of Rangers, Rohirrim and Elves gathering up their arrows.

They kept coming, all of the beastly clutches moving forward until the final bunches were halfway across. At that moment, Legolas stepped forward, moving into view with arrow and bow in hand. He let it fly, the next one firmly in place and by the time the first hit its target, more arrows had landed.

They had no idea anyone was there, surprise being complete and by the time they turned to run, it was too late. They fell in droves, arrows finding their marks and the remaining few that didn't die right away were dispatched with sword and knife.

Legolas stood over an orc, bloody knife in hand. Panting with effort, he stared at the river. There were bodies floating away, dark forms drifting with the current and soon they were gone, taking from view by the water. He watched as his men gathered up their arrows, taking what was useable and leaving the rest.

With a whistle to all, they melted back into the trees, the area falling silent once more, nothing left alive. It was a small blow to the invasion, a stopgap action that would allow more people to escape to the west.

Gathering together, they moved silently toward the higher ground, heading back to the crossroads where they would report their good hunting.

At a ford nearby...

They stared across the open ground, watching the activity of the tower. It had been vastly destructive, the attack of the Ents, and Saruman hadn't been seen since. There was rumor that he had been taken away, either fleeing and or being dragged to Barad-dur. Whatever his fate, Aragorn wasn't unhappy. The wizard couldn't die enough deaths for the pain he had caused.

Sprawled beside him, watching with an intent gaze, Faramir of Gondor reclined. They had come to the fords, determined to assess the threat of the tower and its gathering inhabitants. Orcs had been coming there in steady streams but the course to the tower was littered with pitfalls. Groups of archers harried them as they came and many of them, too many, met premature endings at the hands of skilled bowmen.

There were less than before, even as they knew Sauron was breeding more, the footmen of his new tyranny. They killed them without mercy, on the march and at rest, cutting with each well-made shot, the odds into their favor.

Faramir had been tireless, moving from his despair into a manic availability, leading endless sorties against the enemy. Living on little sleep, eating whatever was handed to him, he had been ceaseless in his vigilance and his willingness to fight. Aragorn had drawn him to his side, fearing for his continuance and so they peered over the ridge, watching the tower below.

The Eye was embodied, no longer as keenly sighted as before, relying more and more on minions and beasts on foot. It was a small flaw, a small setback to a being with omnipotent power but enough of a edge to allow them to survive. He was throwing numbers at him, hordes of evil but they managed to hold their own and in some localities, push his forces back.

He crawled back, Faramir following and scurrying forward, they mounted their horses. Several men were with them, men of Gondor and Rohan, and together they hurried away, making for a ravine nearby. They entered it, brush being placed as they passed, blocking the view from any passers-by.

Dismounting, they gathered together, huddling in a circle as they whispered together. For a moment, they conversed and then several of them left, riding quickly away in the settling darkness of the coming evening. Faramir and Aragorn were left, awaiting confirmation of intelligence gathered earlier. Orcs and Uruk Hai were moving to make a garrison, reinforcing the tower for forward attacks.

Scouts were tracking them, Legolas was attacking them and by the time the month was finished, they had hopes to build a pale. Cross this line, you will die. That is what they hoped, as ever more people moved west. Some were beyond reach, already enslaved by the Beast. Others were moving, living like animals on the run. Beasts of the field and air, animals both wild and domesticated wandered into still free lands of the fading west. They were harnessed by desperate people, many of them happily and ever toward the sea they continued.

Aragorn stared at the sky, Faramir sitting beside him quietly as he watched the moon rise in the sky. The bright star of Earendil, sailing as ever across the ocean of night beamed its silver light to him. He considered his ancestor, moving across a changed world, and he wondered if Earendil would know of their fate. He hoped so but he doubted it, doubting because he dared not hope. There was no way out of the darkness now, this never-ending night that was descending. What puzzled him the most was why it was taking so long to lose.

"What do you suppose will happen?"

Aragorn glanced at Faramir, his face obscured by the darkness. "In the end?"

Faramir nodded, though he could not be clearly seen. "How long do you suppose we have before we die here in this place, this ending of the world?"

Aragorn shrugged, staring at his boot. "I do not know."

"Your family...what happened to them?"

The anguish in Faramir's voice was unmistakable, a sorrow that cut through the darkness and coiled around Aragorn's heart. They were both exhausted, wearied and worn. The burden had fallen to them and to the other two, Éomer and Legolas, and they had little respite from the endless toil.

"I have no family besides myself. Any other kin, though they are very distant, have sailed for the Undying Lands by now."

"It was said that you had a fair lady in Imladris, an Elf maiden of great beauty."

"She's long gone, sailing with her remaining kin," Aragorn said. It was quiet a moment. "I am glad that she did. I feared that she would not, but her father and other relatives have prevailed..."

"They go there every day, leaving us behind. I do not know what would be worse...staying here to a fate like our own or going away to safety, knowing what was happening here."

Aragorn nodded, sighing. "Both are hell."

They sat together, silent and weary, and then Faramir sighed, his voice soft with sorrow. "I miss my brother," he whispered as tears stung his eyes. "I lament for him every day."

"Boromir was a good man," Aragorn said, reaching out and squeezing Faramir's hand. "I did not know him well, but of what I did know I respected."

"He was my friend," Faramir sighed, shaking his head sadly. "I don't know what has happened to all that I loved, but I know they must have died, killed in the fall of the city. I am alone in the world, this collapsing small world and I feel as alone as ever I have in my life."

Aragorn sat a moment and then moved closer, slipping his arm around Faramir's shoulders. "We will make our stand and what comes, will come. You are not alone, Faramir."

Faramir sighed raggedly, rubbing his eyes with his hands. "I am sorry," he said sadly, shaking his head. "I do not want to burden you further."

"You haven't," Aragorn replied, smiling slightly. He leaned his forehead against Faramir's cheek, the warmth of the touch of another being incalculable. "I do not mind."

Faramir closed his eyes, his pain lightening with the touch of the king. He had given Aragorn that honor in his mind, granting to the tall regal man that which he had earned by his velour. It might never come to pass now, the formalization of this title and position, but Faramir gave it to him anyway.

It was quiet a moment and then Aragorn sighed, rubbing his cheek against Faramir's. Faramir didn't move, he didn't protest the affection, closing his own eyes as he absorbed it. Aragorn was solid, real and warm. He turned his face slightly, the other's breath soft against his lips and then they touched, finding each other in the darkness. He pressed against Aragorn, forgetting for that moment all but the force against him, the passionate kiss that devoured his will.

A firm hand pressed him down, as a strong body moved to cover him, their kiss unbroken as they settled on the hard ground. Faramir relaxed, allowing Aragorn's touch as the older man sought his skin. A strong hand, calloused and relentless, slipped past his jerkin, caressing his chest. He moaned and sighed, the older man pausing.

Aragorn stared down at Faramir, at half shuttered eyes and flushed cheeks. He felt searing pain, the burden of his responsibilities and the hopelessness of their fight overwhelming him. Then he closed his eyes, leaning down to the warmth that Faramir represented and shut out the terrors of the world around them. He moved against Faramir, sighing softly as he sought to make the firmest contact that he could. He found it, grinding against the slim lanky figure beneath him, feeling warmth suffuse him at the sounds he made.

A deep guttural groan, a tensing of his body, the feel of strong legs moving up to grip him...these things he got back as he thrust against Faramir, his mouth relentless in pursuit of pleasure. He groaned himself, his fire building as his orgasm grew in the middle of his body. Then there was a sound near him and he froze, the strong legs holding him falling away as the body they belonged to tensed as if to fight. Faramir rose slightly, pressing against Aragorn, their faces nearly touching as they looked over his shoulder.

It was silent a moment and then the sound turned to flapping as a night owl rose in the air and flew away. Faramir let out his breath, turning his gaze to the side, his cheek rasping across the stubble of Aragorn's face. Their lips met, a desperate joining and then they lay back and the dance continued. He grunted his pleasure against the body beneath him and when he felt the fire engulf him he groaned low and long. Faramir twisted, arching in relief and the sound of Aragorn's voice was a dull moan in his ear.

He sighed and felt limp, his arms and legs falling to the damp earth as once more his senses kicked in. Aragorn was still moving, then he was still and they lay shattered like glass on the ground. Faramir encircled Aragorn, his arms enclosing him as his fingers threaded through the dark hair of his partner's head. He gripped it tightly, a soft gasp from Aragorn his only reaction and then he let go, his arms falling away.

Aragorn raised up, staring down at his partner, at his pale reddish lashes and his flushed fair skin. He was breathing raggedy, his red lips parted and to Aragorn at that moment, he was everything that mattered in the world. There was no worries and cares, no responsibility and no fear. There was just the masculine body beneath him and the dark sky above. He relaxed, the arms returning as strong hands idly ran the length of his back. Up and down, pausing to touch him, to explore and to know, the hands went on. He closed his eyes, sprawled between Faramir's legs as they lay together, unwilling to move.

But at last they did, both sitting up together, their eyes cast aside until Aragorn paused. He reached out and took Faramir's hand, holding it and squeezing it as they sat together silently. Faramir glanced at him, then he stared held by dark eyes and in them he saw what he knew he reflected.

Gratitude, plain and simple. Gratitude for the moment, for the chance to feel alive again before the world slammed back in. He leaned forward and kissed Aragorn on the lips, over and over and over again. Aragorn closed his eyes, joining the tenderness as for the moment together they held back the darkness.

Overhead, the stars continued, the bright one in particular as down below on the land, night steadily came. The shadow of the Beast, implacable and draining, straining color from the living world, as ever forward it crept. It was hedging closer every day, taking life and delivering death and terror, horror and sorrow, giving back nothing in its wake.

But in the shallow recess, lying spooned together, Faramir of Gondor and Aragorn held each other. Faramir rested his head on his arm, his hand entwined with Aragorn, as the King lay behind him, close to his warmth. Lying in the darkness, with no hope for a future, Faramir resolved to serve where he could. He would be the King's shadow, his guardian, his companion and when he needed it most, he would be his lover.

They might not last forever, or for a while, or even days, but Faramir of Gondor resolved to last to the bitter end.

He closed his eyes, falling into an exhausted sleep but for the first time since the coming of the end he didn't dream. He didn't see Boromir or his father or his city. He didn't see the terror and the horror around him. He saw younger days, when things were much better and for a while Faramir rested, wrapped in warmth.

On the shore of the Undying Lands...

He stood and watched, a tall and kingly figure, ever searching the ships as they came into the harbor. Always they came, shocked and shattered, wandering from the boats in a haze of tears. They carried very little, sometimes only their children but they were welcomed with care and gentleness and soft kindly voices.

Thousands of them came and thousands more waited. He had sent ships east, something he had never thought he could make happen, so great were the objections from those who shared power. It had overcome their reservations, this disaster repeating, coming home at last, this exile in reverse. They were hurt, many of them and their tales were tragic, but he couldn't commit more to the disaster, not yet. He was looking for someone who could help them understand this and find among the ashes some path for them to take.

He stood, the wind blowing against his face as he searched another ship, with his eyes, the latest to come from the lands of the east. He wasn't on board, the one that he sought and so he sighed with frustration as he turned to walk back up. They nodded to him, many of those that helped, knowing full well who the great man was and his commitment to the exiles.

He was tall and black-headed, keened eyed and kingly, as such was the lord that Gil-galad was. He came to the docks when the ship would come in, searching for the single Elf that he longed to see. He hadn't come yet and the news wasn't promising but he had no sense that Elrond's death had occurred.

The sea lapped against the shore, the gray sky overhead threatening rain as he turned at the top of the stairs to look out. His robe was thrown back, his white tunic brilliant, a counterpoint to the drabness of the world all around him.

Tomorrow, he considered, he would come to the docks and he would search the ships for the one that he sought. He would come every day, forever if need be, until at long last Elrond Peredhel was home once more.

It was becoming lighter in the steel-gray sky as he stood on the dock, Cirdan beside him, the two watching the struggle as it surged ever toward them. The people were fleeing without dignity, that having been stripped from them on the trail and as he stood watching the endless streaming of men, women and children, he saw someone he hadn't dared hope to see. Elrond nodded to Cirdan and hurried up the wharf, pausing beside a stair way for people to pass. Then he hurried up the steps, moving against the tide as he made his way to Thranduil, standing alone at the top.

People let him pass, their shocked eyes shimmering with their stories as he clambered past, reaching Thranduil at last. The Elf was his usual stately self, his arm bandaged from a wound and he nodded to Elrond, moving to one side to talk.

"Thranduil, what news of your county?" Elrond asked, even though he dreaded to know.

"We burned it, Elrond," he said, his voice tight with emotion as he moved slightly to let people pass.

On the hillside above them, standing in silent witness, row upon row of people watched. There were thousands of humans living in desperation along the sea shore from the Havens both north and southward but only a few among them that begged to go. They all knew better, that futility ever conscious in their minds as they watched their woodland comrades fleeing their doom. Elrond looked up, staring at them with dread, more than aware that for them there was no hope.

"They stand there like crows, ready to pick a carcass but its as if they have no idea that the body will be theirs." Thranduil sighed and turned to the sea, watching as his family boarded a ship. "My son is missing, my son, Legolas. He was in Gondor when the Beast overcame the world. I can only assume that he is in the care of Mandos," he said, his voice tight with rage and grief. "Anything less than that is unbearable."

Elrond sighed, closing his eyes. He had put his sons on a ship, much against their will. They had been part of the retreat, keeping order and fighting the enemy and now they were safely away from Middle-Earth. He had been assured Arwen was gone but he couldn't go without Celeborn and Galadriel and even then he was unsure if he could go at all. The land of his fathers and the land of his long years was now defenseless and he felt desperate to do something.

He had ordered his sons forward, with a message in his own hand, begging them to take it to the lords of Valinor. They must come and help, they must he had insisted and finally, in defeat, they had boarded and left. The mists has swallowed them and his relief had been enormous until he had turned and looked up at the solemn gallery on the cliff sides.

"When are you leaving?" Thranduil asked, his haunted eyes staring out to sea.

"I do not know," Elrond replied, shaking his head in sadness. "I am not sure that I will leave. How can I go with the world like this and no one to stop it."

"There is no stopping it, Elrond. We all lived on borrowed time. The inevitable has arrived and we must do what we can. One kindred will live and one will not. Men will pay for the folly of our own kind."

"That is why I cannot leave," Elrond said, his voice tight with conviction and then he turned and looked at Thranduil as hope rose in his heart. "Go to Valinor. Tell what is happening. Beg them to come and help these people. We just cannot go , Thranduil, and leave the world this way. All the years and all the people, they don't deserve this fate."

Thranduil looked at him, weariness suffusing him but he nodded anyway. "I was going to do that, Elrond, for Legolas. My son is dead, at least, that is what I am going to believe. It is too terrible a burden to think anything else. I will go to Valinor and I will beg them to do something but do not hold your breath, Elrond of Imladris."

Elrond nodded and gripped Thranduil's arm, their eyes holding in sorrow and suffering for a moment. Then Thranduil nodded and stepped forward, limping to the ship that held his family and Elrond's hopes.

The wind was brisk and it stung his face as he stood watching. For a few moments he had hope and then he turned, staring up the hill at the silent multitudes watching, their eyes a condemnation of his people and their hope.

In the mountains...

They moved on, hitting and running, husbanding their forces as they made the enemy pay. Dear was their progress, bought by their own blood and the rebels made them pay for the territory they gained. The river was their pale, its western shores no man's land and the enemy made their assaults with varying success.

Legolas and Éomer were partners in the fighting, leading their bowmen along the length of their lines. Éomer was less the archer than horseman nonpareil, but he learned quickly and advanced his skills. At night they would hide, watching through the trees to the encampments nearby and when an orc would leave the protection of the fire, they died. It was unsettling to the enemy, their confidence shaken and so the stalemate worked, holding them at bay.

It was dark when they found their positions, having crept like cats in the woods to the edge of the encampment of orcs that had come up during the day. They had faded ahead of them, letting them inside the forest and by the time they had settled, there were bowmen on every side. Éomer watched, Legolas beside him and with the shorthand born of experience, they moved apart and away. Down the line, signaling to their archers, the two captains crept as they sent ahead the word.

Over in the center, around a huge fire they sat, growling and arguing as they waited for the dawn. They didn't know they were surrounded and they had no idea they would die that night before the first arrow found its target and the camp exploded into shouts.

Furious and hopeless, they called to the heavens, crouching and standing and running they died. Those that tried to make for the river were slain in the darkness by sword and by bow. For twenty minutes it was horrific and then it was silent as in the camp of the Uruks, few remained alive.

Legolas moved forward, knife in hand. Around him bowmen followed armed. He dispatched three as the others were slain and then they dragged them into a pile and set it ablaze. Éomer watched, a black bag in his hand and turned to Legolas, holding it up.

"They had a pouch."

Legolas nodded. "We better get it to Aragorn as soon as we can."

Turning and moving away, they walked into the darkness, fading like shadows in the woods once more.

Barad-dur...

He stood by the window, staring out at the darkness, reveling in the sensation of having sensation once more. He had been so long without form that he was disoriented and clumsy. His wounds from the ages were still with him and even though he had the Ring, he wasn't in a hurry to act. He wanted to feel again, the entire pleasure of being formed again and turning, he walked to the mirror once more.

He stood before it, an aged and ancient being and studied himself closely, his eyes critical of everything. He was tall, much taller than any man living, long-limbed and sinewy rather than muscular. He had skin that was aged, thick and tanned like leather and scars dotted his hide like tattoos. He was shorn of hair, his pate gleaming in the candle light and his eyes were like fire, smoldering with their cruelty, endless and deep.

They didn't contain wisdom, but lust, hatred and satisfaction. At long last he had won, taking the world away from his enemies. Even Melkor hadn't done that, succeeding in the end, he exulted in his penultimate victory. Orcs came and went, bringing him news and sustenance but he barely noticed, so focused was he on himself. He looked at his hand with its missing finger and thought about the tall man that had taken it from him.

Isildur. Isildur's bane.

The Ring on his finger soothed him with its fiery touch. He had hunted it for ages, through oceans of time and he had found it, his heart line, on the hand of a ghoul.

Gollum.

The beast, a little wasted creature, he had his Precious and had tried to run away, seeking refuge from his all-seeing eye. But he, himself, had been too cunning, finding him through his minions and when he had been brought to him here, Gollum had resisted. Defying him even when the Ring was taken, Gollum made his last stand and as Sauron watched him, he knew what he would do. He would punish the little cur in the most personal of ways, dispatching him to a death that no one should face.

He ordered his men to take him to Shelob and there in her lair, leave him behind to face her alone. Shelob had been hurt, perhaps mortally or no and she would be in no mind to distinguish between friend or enemy. Gollum's fate would be in her hands, his life or death hers to decide and he would have his Ring and his other problems as well.

Gollum had been carried off, his screams balm to Sauron's soul and so the Beast had turned and bent his will to another. Scanning the world, seeking just the right one, he summoned his wizard and sent forces to bring him back. He could sense Saruman's frenzy, his fear and his terror so he gave to Saruman his good will and soothing sensations of friendship to lull his frantic spirit.

Come to Barad-dur and share with me my victory, join in the pleasures that are ours alone. He could feel the dilemma in Saruman's mind but in the end he capitulated as he always had before. Sauron studied his face, with its pits and its scars, unavoidable injuries over the eons of time. Perhaps he would do something about that, making over his battered remains, painting a new portrait of the lord of the world.

Sauron stood and studied himself, fascinated by his reflection after eons of disembodiment in the darkness of his tower. Soon Saruman would be here, brought with haste by his army and then he would pay in the most extreme ways he could devise. He had dared to desire his Ring and to make effort to get it and this he couldn't allow to pass by unpunished.

Until the moment Saruman came, Sauron would wait and feel the terror of the world as he gathered his strength and his scattered forces together. The Ring was content to be with him forever and it gave to him what it could of his old power and strength. But Sauron wasn't hasty, he wasn't in a hurry nor did he care that not all of the world was under his strict and merciless control.

Eventually it would be, the remaining free lands and when it was over he would encamp in all the capitals of the world. He would spread his domain and all that he was, his tentacles of blasphemy overcoming the good. In the end, it was inevitable, the darkening of the light and he would sit unchallenged on the throne of Middle-Earth. Until then, he could be forgiven for taking time to acclimate to the sensations of touch, hearing, smelling and taste. He would look at things in detail, his person and his possessions and when the time was right, he would ride forth in dread.

Outside the walls of Orthanc...

He wore a beggar's clothing, carrying a walking stick of wood. His powers were gone and he had no where to go. The Havens wouldn't take him, this traitor to all and so he had no choice but to hide in the mountains. Beside him, limping, Grima Wormtongue hurried, willing himself to keep up with the wizard.

They were in desperate circumstances with no place to hide but his fear drove him on and so he followed his master. Saruman didn't look from the left to the right, but kept up a pace that belied his years. They would hide in the mountains, in caves and other places until he could find a way to ingratiate himself with Sauron again. There had to be a way to redeem himself with the demon, a way to ensure that he didn't spend eternity in torment. He would find it somehow because there was no way out, no turning back, no gamble left to take.

There would be no way for him to return to Valinor, no way for the Valar to forget or forgive. The world had fallen and he had been on the winning side but in all of the debacle, there could be no bigger loser. He had hoped to rule the world, or at least some part of it but it wasn't to be without a miracle in hand.

As he hurried along the road, the thin moon overhead, Saruman of Isengard plotted and schemed.

On the shores of Valinor...

They stepped from the ships, staggering up the docks, moving like numbed cattle in the darkness of the night. They came every day, more and more of them and more of the ships had begun to go back. There had been a huge disagreement but Gil-galad had prevailed, pursuing rescue without relief as he watched for Elrond.

It had been centuries, years uncounted, since he had the pleasure of the Peredhel's company. They had been comrades and then friends and inevitably lovers, spending every minute of their time together until Rivendell became necessary. A refuge and a forward base, tied in with Lothlorien and the Woodland Realm of Thranduil and Oropher, it had been his home away from home in the ceaseless travel he had to make.

They had such an abiding connection that the first real thought in his mind when he came back from his sojourn with Mandos was Elrond. Gil-galad could feel all the sorrows and the decisions, the pains and payments of everything he ever did in his long, hard life. The weight of the burdens and the trials of his battles and the crushing and brutal ending of his own long life. But like a cool breeze in his mind, like a silver thread connecting all of it was the tender regard and the wise dark eyes of the only person he had ever loved.

He couldn't come back to his old life, when he came to his senses and stepped into the sunlight of the living world again. He wasn't allowed to go east, though he considered it daily, his waking hours consumed with finding Elrond once more.

Others had cautioned him, warning him of Elrond's marriage as Galadriel and Celeborn's relatives eyed him coolly. He didn't care then and he didn't care now, so many days of his return taken up with pacing the beaches, staring into the east and aching with need.

He had lost his soul mate, his lover and his friend, the only one who understood him and knew without speaking what was needed and not. No one else in the length of his great life had ever touched him so deeply and no one else would, this he knew for certain. He was given counsel by many. Take a wife, do something noble, rule a desmense, work in crafts, lead the people here and make a new life. But it wasn't enough, or even a little because the biggest part of his heart was still in the world beyond the sea in the shrouded mists of the east.

Elrond would come, this he knew. Gil-galad had watched the children arrive, a tall beautiful girl and two handsome grim boys. They were like him and not, something of Celebrian in them and when they greeted each other he felt pain in his heart. Turning away, he searched other boats, scrutinizing each Elf as they disembarked.

He hadn't come. Not on this day and the others but he would come, Gil-galad thought, if he remained alive. He pushed that thought away, not willing to be frightened anymore than he was willing to live alone forever.

If Elrond didn't come back, if he was lost in the fall of the free lands, Gil-galad wondered if he would survive his sorrow. As it was, if he came, it would be difficult to say the least. The war, Celebrian and all the rest was in chaos. So was his heart, he considered, as he watched Thranduil walk toward him, climbing the steps to where the King stood alone.

Thranduil paused, holding out his hand and Gil-galad grasped it, gripping it hard. "I bring you greetings from Elrond," he said, pausing as the emotion on Gil-galad's face surged.

Gil-galad closed his eyes, clutching Thranduil's hand and then he nodded, turning away. "The Peredhel lives?"

"Yes, he does," Thranduil said, his voice tired and sorrowed as he thought of his son, lost in the east. "He wants me to beg you to come to our rescue, to save the world from the Beast at Barad-dur."

Gil-galad turned, nodding curtly. "Then we better get going," he said.

The two men turned and walked up the steps, where at the top stood waiting, Oropher. Thranduil turned, pausing in his tracks as the beloved figure of his father came to view. Gil-galad squeezed his arm, pressing him forward and Thranduil climbed up, embracing Oropher tightly.

Gil-galad watched, sighing with sadness even as he rejoiced at the small joy before him. He turned and looked at the sea, willing the mists to part so that he could see where his heart still lay. The breeze was cool and he stood thinking, gathering his arguments as he considered what to do. It didn't occur to him not to try, even though he had not been successful in any of his efforts on this topic so far.

It was enough that Elrond lived and that he sought his help, for him to gird himself for battle once again. With a sigh, he turned and began to climb again, to gather his forces for the battle ahead.

In the forest of the Golden Wood...

The towering city was ashes upon the ground, piles and piles of them as the rain fell relentlessly. Rivulets of moisture in the dark smelly mounds of soot and blackened wood carved ruts that flowed into the darkened foliage surrounding the trees where people once lived. The sour-smelling dark pasty mess mixed with the water and the sticky going was difficult, slowing the new master as he surveyed his domain. Lothlorien, the golden city of the Elves, it was his now and he meant to stay a while.

Orcs scurried, many of them coming days ahead of him and they had built a shelter for him to live in while he considered what form his permanent local residence would be. Sauron was on tour, going through his newly won lands, languidly taking messages of resistance from abroad with only marginal interest. No one could withstand him for very long and he would be there soon enough so he delegated those cares to another part of his mind for settlement later.

Right now, there was the kingdom of Celeborn to explore, the beautiful kingdom of the Lady of the Wood. There was nothing much left to tell that anyone had lived here, all the buildings were destroyed and burned on the ground and from in the trees. Care had been taken to spare the trees and plantings but the effect was the same...utter desolation.

He was mildly perturbed and so he relegated Celeborn to a dark and terrible punishment, stored in his memory for a later date. Galadriel would be his, to kill or not, that is, if they didn't sail to the Undying Lands. They probably would, fleeing his magnificent and triumphant vengeance, but no matter about that. He had all the world, and even as he considered this, he didn't consider Valinor exempt, so filled with confidence was he in the completeness of his victory.

He entered the tent, sitting on an ornate chair, pulling a boot from his foot and tossing it aside. He felt the soft carpet beneath his toes and sighed with the pleasure of touch once more. He didn't remove his other boot, the one that cradled his wounded foot and for a moment his hatred of Elves tormented him. Then he pushed it away as servants brought him food and drink, spoils of war in the empty forest sanctuary. It was silent but for their own actions, for the forest had been vacated, from Lothlorien to Mirkwood to Rivendell and beyond. It was all his now and he savored it deeply as he sat in his tent and listened to the rain dripping off the canopy above him.

At a great house in Valinor...

The fire was warm and he sat before it, others he could count on arrayed around him. Glorfindel had arrived, bringing Erestor and other lords of Imladris, Lothlorien and the Woodland Realm. A knock on the door signaled more visitors and Erestor rose, opening the door.

In walked tall figures, one familiar and two not and all rose to greet them. Thranduil and Oropher nodded gravely, their mourning garments signaling the loss of Thranduil's son. Behind them, staring at him with dark and intense eyes, the sons of Elrond waited beside their grandfather.

Celeborn stepped forward, bowing slightly and gripped Gil-galad's hand tightly. "My Lord Gil-galad. It is good to see you again at long last although the circumstances of our meeting gives me great grief."

Gil-galad nodded, sighing deeply. "I am filled with pleasure at your company again, Lord Celeborn. Hopefully, we can do something about the latter."

He turned and gazed at the boys, grown men and strong and they stepped forward, bowing slightly. "My lord," one of them said, looking at him challengingly.

"You are? Forgive me. I have never been good with twins," Gil-galad replied as memories of other times and other eyes similar plagued him for a moment before being ruthlessly repressed.

"I am Elladan," he replied. He turned and nodded to his brother. "This is Elrohir. We are the sons of Elrond of Imladris."

There was a formality to his tone that belied his manners and Gil-galad wondered for a moment what they might know of the past. "I am honored to meet the sons of my good friend and comrade. I trust that your mother is well and settled."

"She is with our grandmother, Galadriel of Lorien," the one called Elrohir replied coolly.

Gil-galad nodded, ignoring the coldness in the youngster's voice. He gestured for them to sit and they did, mostly, in clearly drawn lines, perching near their grandfather on benches by the fire. He watched them, noting their tension and quelled his own ennui, forcing his mind back to the matter at hand. As he sat, he searched them, looking for some sign of their father and none could he find, but in the dignity of their manner. They were Celebrian's sons through and through, he considered.

Oropher watched them, sitting as he did beside his son and he wondered again how much he had missed during the years he was gone. It was silent a moment and then Gil-galad leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He gathered his thoughts and then sat back, a different expression on his face. Gone was the man, the person who was like them and in its place was the High King of the Noldor. They watched him, the transformation fascinating and they all knew that the time for personal grievances was over.

"The world is in agony and we are facing the greatest moral crisis of our people since the creation of the One Ring. We can all flee here and forget what is happening or we can step forward and stand with those who cannot against the coming of the night that will last forever," he said in a soft voice. "Of course, we do not have to. I am sure there will be many who will say so but if we are to be considered a moral people we have our obligations to others than just ourselves."

It was silent a moment and then Gil-galad rose, walking to the fireplace before turning around. "In our moment of need, the Elendili came to help us and we have to return the favor or how can we live here? It would all be a lie." He turned and gazed at the fire. "There are people dying and being harmed not far from this shore. You know it and I do. What we have to decide among ourselves is whether or not it is our business. I would not be contented living here if we decide we have no part. I would rather be there, sword in hand, standing with the remnants of the people that are left."

It was silent a moment and then Oropher cleared his throat. "You would propose that we go to their aid," he said, watching the big man carefully.

"What other moral position is there? We do consider ourselves moral beings, creatures with the ability to distinguish right from wrong. For us to ignore the suffering of others is to make a lie of what we hold most sacred. I truly defy anyone to make an argument that refutes in a meaningful way those sentiments."

"You will not get an argument from us," Thranduil replied, shifting in his chair. "You are singing to the choir, Ereinion," he said. "My own sentiments are probably less exulted. I want revenge, pure and simple, for the murder of my son."

Elladan watched them, remembering his father and then he stood up and walked to the window nearby. Staring out at the sea, he considered his words and turned to them, a look of defiance on his face. "My father is abroad, suffering who knows what. He burned the house in the valley, setting it with his own hand rather than letting Imladris fall to the Enemy. We left him in the Havens, on the dock. We would go back and kill all the orcs we can before they kill us in turn if we were in charge of our own destiny. We would do that for our mother's suffering and for the suffering of all. It is only the command of our father that brings us here."

"So it would appear that we are in agreement," Gil-galad said, nodding his head. "Now the hard part begins, convincing others until we are formidable enough to face the Beast."

"We cannot defeat him," Celeborn replied. "We cannot defeat the power of the Ring and his own innate ability. He's not of our kind," he said, shaking his head, his anger surfacing as he thought of his beloved Wood smoldering in the rain by his own command. "He is of another kind, more powerful than us and he will kill us all before we get very far. He did with the Ring and it was only chance that Isildur cut it off his hand. He has consolidated himself and only with the assistance of the Valar can we hope to overcome him without annihilating ourselves."

"We would need that kind of help and to get it we would have to enlist allies from among those here now," Gil-galad replied. "For some of us, that would mean treading on friendships and kinships. For others, that would mean going directly to the source of our hopes."

"You would go to Manwe?" Elrohir asked, surprise in his voice.

"I would go to Iluvatar if I could," Gil-galad said with conviction. "But there is one who needs be here to make connections in my stead. Elrond needs to come and make our case."

It was silent a moment and the tension from the twins was high. Elrohir rose and stood before them, staring coldly at the High King. "Our father is a married man now. He has a wife and obligations to his children."

Gil-galad stared back, his gaze unwavering. "Personal matters have no place among us at this time."

"They do," Elrohir insisted. "This matters."

"Personal matters have no_ place_ now," Gil-galad said, moving to stand before the youngster. " You have no place in any discussion of your father's personal affairs. It is his business and not your own."

The room crackled with tension as Elladan moved to stand behind his brother and then he put his hand on Elrohir's shoulder, the youngster nearly flinching from the contact. Then he turned and walked to where his grandfather sat, standing behind him with his brother at his side.

Gil-galad watched them a moment and then glanced down at Celeborn, for once the big Elf's emotions hard to read. He turned and walked to his chair, sitting wearily. "There is no time for this now."

"I agree," Celeborn said at last, sitting up straighter in his chair. "Later, in better times if they come," he said for the benefit of his grandchildren, before rising to pace back and forth across the room. He was like a tiger, his anger barely checked as he considered the destruction of the world he had left behind. "This cannot go unchallenged. What would stop him from turning his eyes to this realm and besides, there is always the question of the One whom I will not name."

"He would not be able to free him. He is in the Void."

"Can you guarantee that to me and to my family? Is it no longer a part of the hope of the world for the Valar to act in concert with us? What is the point of this sanctuary if there is injustice and terror beyond our shores? Are we not all children of Iluvatar?"

Cirdan shifted in his seat, Galdor of the Woodland Realm also as the two men frowned at Celeborn's words. Glancing at each other, Cirdan straightened, glancing at Gil-galad as he spoke. "You sound as if you are losing your faith, Celeborn. I would feel grief untold if somehow this was your fate in these trying times. We have faced many trials in our lives together. I do not recall hearing you so devoid of hope."

"Perhaps I am losing my faith, brother. How can there be hope now if there is no concerted effort by all of us, the Valar included, to turn back the night? My homeland, my realm...I burned it with my own hands . It lies in ashes and despair, no trace of our lives beyond the mounds of our dead left behind to tell the world that once in this space, in this spot , there was grace and beauty and life."

Grief suffused his expression as he stood by the window, pausing in his pacing as he thought of Caras Galadhon. Elladan watched him, this powerful force of nature and felt his despair. It appalled him in ways he had never countenanced before. "Is it only my faith I will lose, living here in this place, knowing that over the seas people are living in wretchedness because they cannot come here? What about honor ? What about obligation? If there is no hope, then there cannot be faith."

"This is all the more reason that Elrond must come here and appeal to the Valar to intercede," Gil-galad replied.

Celeborn sighed, nodding his head. "I am not the emissary to carry the message. Someone more gifted that way should do it. Elrond is the choice I would make myself."

"Then we must send a message for him to come to us," Gil-galad replied, rising and looking from one face to the next. "You must send the message, Cirdan, on one of your ships going to the Havens. It must go immediately."

Cirdan looked at him and with a sigh, nodded, rising. "I will tell him myself."

Gil-galad sighed, the first obstacle overcome and then he considered the very hard one ahead. They would have to appeal not only to the Valar for help, but also the Elves that lived here and had never left, those that had and returned and their offspring as well. The trials ahead were enormous with no hint of success guaranteed.

Elsewhere...

The rain was falling in a steady drizzle, making misery for those who had found their way this far. They had been creeping westward, heading under cover of darkness toward the relative sanctuary of the mountains. The war in the east had been lost, the great city of the Stewards falling to the Enemy and as they moved westward, they did so with deep sorrow and rage.

He led them, the big man who had gathered them together and onward they went, slipping past the enemy, hiding from his hordes and taking from the land what they could to survive. Hiding in ravines during the day, or what passed for it, they traveled by horse and on foot, jogging along behind, during the long and black evenings.

The Nazgul had been gone for some time, their night flying no longer a worry. The miles of land that melted away seemed endless but eventually they found the mountains in sight. They also found small orc patrols and those that couldn't be eluded were set upon and eliminated. He had been a pillar to his group and they had added more as they went, so by the time they reached the foothills they were a tightly knit, if rag-tag force.

Pausing on the lip of a hill, sword in hand, Boromir of Gondor searched the land ahead. They would be entering scrub trees and bushes, moving toward the high up land and its thick covering of trees. Soon they would be safer and then they would consider what to do next. All they had to do was continue and survive. Surely in the mountains there were others like him.

He didn't think of the past, of his family and his brother. It was a given that they were dead now and he had to live. He had to lead the people. He had to be the strong one and he had to exact revenge from the murderers of his world. Swallowing hard, pushing his hunger and fatigue back, he led his men down the small hillside to the mountains beyond.

In the Emyn Muil...

They stumbled along, meeting nearly no resistance as they went back through the harsh land of the needle rocks. They had stumbled through the swamp, god only knowing how they made it, if not pure luck, then Sam's indomitable will. Frodo was no help, hurt, exhausted and numbed with pain and so it fell to him to take the lead.

They were heading for the Shire, come hell or high water and even though Sam knew they would never see it they were determined to try. If they were going to die here in the end of the world, it would be surrounded by family and friends and their homelands of field, orchard and stream.

It was very dark, even in the day when they continued through the fissures, ever wending toward the highlands that seemed so far away. They continued on, not knowing that behind them a small figure and a number of men from Gondor were following. Gimli, son of Gloin, his arm bandaged from an orc arrow, grimly climbed and marched with the bowmen of Osgiliath.

They were going to the west, to the mountains where they might hide and rest and regroup with who knew who else. There was no hope in the low lands of the east and the south and so they pressed forward, climbing slowly upward. The marshes had been avoided and they had gone the long way, but they were closing the gap between Frodo and Sam. In two days they would hear Sam's voice coaxing Frodo and Gimli would run as fast as he could to catch up to them.

He would stand and stare in amazement as Frodo lay on the ground in pain, with Sam standing over him, Sting in hand. The reunion would be brief, the pleasure and joy momentary but the resolve of that moment would carry them through. In a week, they would be in the mountains, moving along trails only dwarves knew as they hurried toward a secret place only Gimli could find.

It would be three weeks before they would learn of Aragorn and Legolas and when they did, the three would set out once more.

In a cave, late one night...

Faramir sat quietly, his back to the cave wall. They had been out all day harrying the enemy. Now they were going again, down to Isengard, expecting to find anything possible there. Éomer and Legolas had returned from their hunting and brought a black bag captured in the fighting. Aragorn had studied it, the dispatches and the letters and was stunned to learn that Sauron was so confident. He was in no hurry to consolidate his power, merely dispatching messages to his field captains to regroup.

Orcs would have to be bred, Uruks made from the earth, positions consolidated and inventoried and plans laid in. For now, he would be 'on tour', taking in the sights of his new holdings and then they would put together the iron fist to end opposition. That final push could wait, Aragorn read and as he did so, a bit of his burden lifted.

He had talked to Faramir, Legolas and Éomer, discussing what to do as they ate their simple dinner. Then the two had left, leaving him alone with Faramir in the simple curtained alcove that was his private chambers.

"This could be a feint," Faramir said, studying his lover for a moment.

"Maybe," Aragorn replied, glancing up to warm eyes. "I think its likely true because who is left to be his opposition? It could be that he's waiting to see if the Valar do anything about this. It could be that he's still overcome by the fact that he has a body and he's gloating about the kingdoms that are his to rule."

Faramir nodded, sighing sadly. "Gondor included."

Aragorn reached out and squeezed Faramir's hand. "Temporary."

Faramir smiled in spite of himself and leaned toward Aragorn, kissing him softly. A strong hand slid up his neck, entwining through soft hair as Aragorn deepened the kiss, savoring Faramir's lips. "Do not despair. I need your courage."

Faramir nodded, kissing him softly. "I need your love," he whispered for the first time and Aragorn stared at him, his eyes dark with emotion.

"You have it, Faramir," he whispered softly, kissing him again and again. "Do not doubt it."

"I won't," Faramir replied, squeezing Aragorn's wrist as he sighed deeply. "No matter what happens, if I should perish, I want you to know that I love you. You are my brother, my king...my lover..." He paused and swallowed. "You kept me going after Boromir..." He stopped and leaned against Aragorn's forehead, sadness pulsing through him and then he sat up, taking Aragorn's hand. He kissed it softly and smiled slightly. "Not much courage, I'm afraid."

"More than enough," Aragorn replied, leaning over and kissing Faramir softly. "There will be another day. There has to be."

Faramir nodded, though he didn't feel it. "I will do what you ask me, my lord," he whispered and watched as Aragorn folded the papers and put them into the bag.

"I have to talk to someone about leaving for Isengard. Wait here for me."

Faramir nodded and watched as Aragorn left, walking as silently as a cat. They were inseparable now, working side-by-side, Steward and King, friends and lovers. Tomorrow, they would go to Isengard and see what was happening in the tower of Saruman. Tonight, they would lie together, holding each other and for a while the cares and burdens of the world would be gone.

In the Havens...

Cirdan stepped from the ship, the steady drizzle falling in the mournful night adding insult upon misery to the multitudes beyond. In a small shelter on the shore, he could see a light burning and so he walked toward it, entering and noting Elrond's presence. The dark-haired Elf looked up, smiling slightly, his weariness like a cloak that he wore on his back.

"Welcome, my friend," he said, nodding.

Cirdan sat and nodded back. "Mae govannan, my friend," he replied, his voice equally tired. "I bring word from Elfhome that your presence is urgently required."

"I cannot go -" Elrond began, halting as Cirdan's hand went up.

"I bring you urgent word of your need to be there. There is a desire to utilize your great facility with words to persuade the Valar to intervene in this atrocity. You are requested to come, to meet with the others and to do the bidding of the king once more."

"King?" Elrond said, confused for a moment as he considered that word.

Cirdan nodded, watching Elrond closely. "Gil-galad needs you once more."

Elrond stared at Cirdan and nodded, rising numbly. "When? Now?"

"I have come to get you."

"Then I must go," Elrond said, his heart pounding wildly. Gathering his cloak, his mind in disarray, Elrond of Imladris followed Cirdan out and in the downpour and the darkness, boarded a white ship, bound for Aman and his long-lost king.

The rain fell steadily, soaking him but he wouldn't go under shelter. He stood at the bow, spray from the waves beyond falling fresh against his face. He was wet and cold but he didn't care, so desperate was he for the miles to fall away. Cirdan was sailing the vessel, peering into the darkness at the lone figure ahead. All the others had jammed the hold, filling every step and crevasse on board. Crew labored on deck, the only others topside but Elrond and himself.

The night was deeply dark but he knew where to sail, his ship slipping through the rough water on the way to sanctuary in Valinor. But the safety there was temporary for Elrond, for Cirdan knew he would not stay and leave the world behind the way it was now. It had cost him enormously to leave Rivendell, to burn it with his own hand rather than give it to Sauron. Now he was coming home at last, to the homeland of his people and to the king that he loved with all his heart.

That Celebrian was also there along with his three children was something he tried not to think about. He wasn't looking forward to the moment when that synergy would align in the same room as the King. He, himself would be busier than before, sailing against the wishes of some to Middle-earth. There were so many waiting and his ships were ever busy taking people to safety across the sea.

It was never intended that he be able to sail back, the Valar decreeing that the trip be one way. But they had not hindered him oddly enough, his ships coming and going, making their mercy runs without any trouble. He had wondered at that, why they hadn't stepped in but he didn't question too long their inattention to his work. Ulmo was his lord and he could feel his presence even as he sailed his ships across the stormy seas.

Perhaps they were being given a grace period, a slacking of the rules. Perhaps they were and maybe not. Celeborn might not think so, if he even gave it thought anymore. The big lord's doubt haunted Cirdan. He was losing his religion if you will, of that they were all clear. Celeborn, a traditional and very tough man was falling away somehow from their most deeply held beliefs and customs. That was troubling in the extreme for him. What would be the ultimate cost of their retreat into safety? A loss of faith that peace would not be able to restore?

The wind picked up and he bent to concentrate, compensating for the headwinds that slowed their progress. During the length of their rescue, the seas had been high, almost as if in protest of their return to Middle-earth. Concentrating on his task at hand, he steered their ship forward, heading toward that unknowable spot in the ocean that would be their sanctuary from war.

Early morning...

They had been traveling all night, avoiding trouble and looking for signs of the enemy as they passed ever closer into the lands of the Isen River. There was surprisingly little sign, most of their reports of orc and Uruk activity coming from the eastern side of the mountains from deep patrols and fleeing refugees. Jogging on foot, they hurried southward, moving toward Isengard and the tower of the wizard. Legolas and Éomer had gone east, searching the forests for stragglers. Aragorn was going with Rangers and Faramir to Orthanc to see what could be found there.

Not much activity was happening at the ford and who was there, that had to be determined. They would be searching throughout the tower, rumored to be empty, looking for whatever they could, including the whereabouts of Saruman. The sun was beginning to rise and so they paused, looking into the distance at the still smoldering remains of the fortress grounds.

The Ents had retreated, falling into the forests nearby, leaving behind incredible destruction and disarray. Saruman had been trapped in the fortress, unable to defend it while the army of the huorns had passed by, heading for Helms Deep and the violence there. They had won the battle, erasing a huge contingent of warriors from the Enemy's slate. It was giving them time, the replenishment of these forces. Even though the Battle of Pelennor Fields had been a bloody one for Sauron, he had at last gotten the Ring. He would need time to form a new army, that was in their favor, but in the end without divine intervention, they would all be lost.

Aragorn considered this, as he always considered it, peering over the hill, Faramir ever at his side. They glanced at each other and then rose as one, moving with their people stealthily toward the road that would take them to the gates of Saruman's home.

Far away...

They reached the docks in the early morning, a weak light breaking through the dark and cloudy sky. He walked across the slippery decks, suffused with fatigue and anticipation as his eyes scanned the cliff side and the buildings above the harbor. It was hard to tell what was land and what was constructed but there was a lone figure standing at the top of the staircase, silhouetted by lights from the buildings behind him.

Elrond paused, his heart in his throat and then continued forward, hurrying toward the steps. He climbed them by twos and threes, reaching the top landing before pausing to stare at the figure who was waiting. He was big and broad shouldered, a dark cloak covering his clothing and his hands were gripping the railing next to him. He reached up and pulled back his hood, revealing his face and his jet black hair.

Elrond felt emotions wash through him, emotions so vast and complex that he stumbled, unaware that he was even moving until big hands gripped his arms. They stared at each other, two bound by love and honor and then they embraced, holding each other tightly as the rain fell softly.

Cirdan stood below, watching them as the ship unloaded and felt years falling away at the touching sight. It had been centuries upon end that they had been parted but now they were together at the end of times. He turned and looked at the people moving slowly off the ship and he knew in a few days he would have to go back. For now, they would talk, all the friends and comrades together as they assembled their case for the Valar to hear.

Isengard...

They crouched in the bushes, staring at the tower, the gleaming black symbol of their almost annihilation. No one was around, at least there was no sign of activity and so Aragorn rose and boldly walked forward, sword in hand. They watched him, archers with arrows fixed, Faramir's eyes never leaving Aragorn's back. Then he paused, the big man staring up at the windows and turning, signaled the others to come.

Faramir rose, bow in hand and joined Aragorn at the steps of the tower. "What does this mean? That the tower is abandoned?"

"Saruman is on the run," Aragorn replied. "He must be afraid that the Beast will kill him for I am sure that he would know Saruman tried to get the Ring."

"I hope he does," Faramir said bitterly. He looked at the tower, his eyes traveling up its sleek sides, finding nothing to indicate that it was still occupied.

Pools of water stood around them, drowning the caverns below and it was slowly receding as the fires were quenched. The stench was strong, of rotting flesh and drowned foundries, the haze of smoke, punctuated by flumes of hot steam, hanging lazily over the grounds.

They climbed up warily, pausing at the door, listening to the silence that was nearly physical. Aragorn stepped forward and pushed on the door, half open as it was and as it swung backward, he stepped inside, looking around the great anteroom, ready to fight should even the smallest thing move. There was no sound and so they went in, posting a sentry by the door. Walking to the middle of the great room, they looked upward, toward the top of the tower hundreds of feet above them.

Winding all around the inside of the tower, a staircase ascended, showing rooms that hugged the outer walls and landings. Moving swiftly, Aragorn crossed the floor, entering Saruman's study sword in hand. Behind him, silent as a cat, Faramir followed, bow at the ready as he looked around. Aragorn walked to the desk, rifling through books and papers and then systematically checked the room, finding nothing of import.

They exited and then began the long climb, heading toward the top of the tower. As each room was passed, they peered inside, looking for anything that might help them in the long defeat ahead. Nothing seemed promising until they reached a room high up, with a balcony that opened onto the courtyard beyond. There was a single plinth, a pedestal upon which an object sat, covered in cloth.

Aragorn paused, hoping against hope that it was what he wished it to be before he stepped forward. Faramir caught his arm, stilling his progress, his eyes anxiously flitting from his lover to the object. Aragorn nodded reassuringly and moved forward, removing the cover from a great glass-like ball. It sat silently, yet there was great energy exuding from it and Aragorn smiled for a moment. Then he covered it again and picked it up, tucking it under his arm. They continued on, finding more dispatch bags that were unopened by Saruman. He had left before they were delivered and Aragorn read them, coaxing letters for Saruman to come to Sauron. They suggested a leisurely consolidation of the world, a time of celebration before the final blows would fall.

Aragorn considered them, the respite they might give and the very real belief that their battles, all of them, had made an impact on Sauron's ability to wage war. He would have to regroup, grow an army and focus his forces. In the meantime they would have just that much more space in which to maneuver.

"Let's go," Aragorn whispered, Faramir nodding and by the time they cleared the tower, the sun was straight up. They melted into the bushes, heading for the mountains, Aragorn's acquisition carefully tucked in a pouch.

In a quiet room...

He sat in his chair, wrapped in a silken robe, a cup of hot tea in his hands. He was chilled, a lingering affect of his human heritage and he was glad for the respite before the heavy emotional sailing began. Gil-galad sat next to him sharing the space, staring at Elrond's profile, memorizing its lines as memories surged. It had been so long, he had almost forgotten what it was like to sit quietly side-by-side with the most interesting and intriguing person he had ever met.

"Are you warm?" he asked, falling into silence as dark eyes filled with passion met his own.

Elrond nodded, not trusting his voice as he put the cup down and sighed deeply. He swallowed hard, gathering his thoughts and then looked at his lover once more. "I have despaired of ever seeing you again."

Gil-galad nodded, his expression filled with love. "I never hoped we would be together," he said. "Things have conspired, my brother. We are on the cusp of a tragedy so vast that it beggars the mind to put words to it."

Elrond nodded, sighing. "I know."

Gil-galad reached out, his hand cupping Elrond's cheek and then he pulled his herald to him, all thought of other things falling away. For centuries he had waited for this moment and now it was here, all that he had dreamed and hoped for. He kissed his lover with a passion he had forgotten, pulling him to his feet and holding him tightly.

Elrond capitulated, any reticence he even thought he had melting under Gil-galad's raging need. Hands fumbled and then slid past his dressing gown, clutching his naked body and roaming at will. He stood pinioned, unable to even articulate how much he had dreamed of this moment when the lord of his life claimed him once more. His arms circled his lover, his mouth surrendering to the insistent lips of his king as Gil-galad issued his possessive claims.

"I need you," Gil-galad whispered hoarsely. "Do not deny me, Elrond."

"I can deny you nothing," Elrond whispered.

"Go to the bed and wait for me," he said, gripping the sleeve of the wrap Elrond wore. "Do not cover yourself from my eyes."

Elrond nodded and walked to the bed, his gown falling away as he did. He pulled open the covers and climbed in, lying on his back as he watched the King. Gil-galad stood staring at him, his eyes raking Elrond's body and for a moment a surge of pleasure nearly overpowered him. He licked his lips, dropping the gown in his hand and then tugged at the belt of his tunic.

He pulled it free and tossed it on the floor, his eyes never leaving Elrond for a moment. He pulled his own tunic off, throwing it aside as he felt the heat of Elrond's eyes on his body. He was muscular and taut, his scars and tattoos visible and he knew that the Peredhel was as needy as he. He sat on the chair, pulling off boots and socks and then he stood, tugging at the cords of his trousers.

He did so slowly, drawing out the moment before pushing them down and freeing his body. He stepped out of his clothes and stood before Elrond, the light of the fire and candles shadowing the curves and muscles of his big solid body. His black hair hung over his shoulder and he moved it away from his face with the flick of a hand. He stood, breathing heavily, his hand stroking his cock and as he came toward the bed, Elrond shifted with need.

"It has been so long, Peredhel," he whispered, his eyes narrowing in his growing lust. "I love you, Elrond," he said, moving forward. "Let me show you how much."

Elrond sighed, nodding as the king moved to lie beside him, his hand gripping Elrond's chin. "Show me," he whispered, sighing with pleasure as Gil-galad covered his mouth with his own.

It was a tidal wave of sensation, of pent-up emotion, his need blazing through him as it came back in a rush. Gil-galad moved on top of him, taking his time and his pleasure while giving it back in equal measure. His King was a dominating figure in all aspects and Elrond was the canvas upon which he poured out his private needs. There was nothing for him to do but surrender to his lover, something he never could do for anyone else.

Elrond moved onto his stomach, the familiar and deeply longed for sensations at last commencing and when Gil-galad pulled him to his knees, he was ready. Invasion so sweet, pain ever so slight, he absorbed it with relish as his king made his way. He gasped and winced, so long had it been but by the time Gil-galad stilled, Elrond was ready. He nodded, his head resting on his arms and so it began.

He didn't make a sound, so intent was he in absorbing all the sensations he could. Gil-galad took him, forcefully and possessively and when he came, he cried out, falling onto Elrond's back. They lay together, connected and exhausted, some small part of their emotional need paid for in full. Gil-galad covered his lover, nuzzling his neck, his sense of anxiety partially assuaged. He should have moved off but he didn't, so warm and comforting was the contact and so they lay together for a long while in silence.

At last, he moved, rolling off to one side, sighing as he lay rubbing his chest with his hands. Elrond didn't move, unwilling to end the relaxation that had overtaken him. Gil-galad sighed and looked at Elrond, memories of other evenings filling his mind. "You are as beautiful as ever."

Elrond smiled, opening his eyes, moving slightly to lay on his side. "You have not lost your touch."

Gil-galad chuckled, turning on his side to face his partner, pulling him closer until their bodies aligned. He draped a muscular leg over Elrond, holding him in place as he leaned in and began to suckle on the pale throat of his lover. Elrond sighed, closing his eyes in pleasure.

"You called for me. How long have you been here?"

"Too long alone," Gil-galad replied, brushing Elrond's dark hair out of the path of his lips. "For eons, I think."

"Things have happened, they have changed," Elrond began before a firm kiss cut off his remarks.

"I know about Celebrian," Gil-galad replied. "I met her when she first came here. I visited her out of respect for her family and found out about the two of you."

Elrond looked at him, his eyes haunted as he searched his lover's face for any sign of reproach.

"You married her and had children," Gil-galad replied, kissing Elrond over and over again. "I have met your sons. They hate me fiercely, something I expected from the first."

"I -" Elrond began before he was cut off with a kiss. Then a smile as warm as the sun formed on the lips of his king.

"Do not even speak of it," Gil-galad replied. "I would too, in their place. They are loyal to you and their mother."

"But you are a part of who I am," Elrond protested. "I loved you before Celebrian."

"You love her?" Gil-galad asked, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Elrond swallowed and sighed. "In my own way, over time... after a fashion." He shifted and pressed Gil-galad to his back, covering him and settling his own body over the king. He gazed down at the handsome face of his lover, a face that had haunted his dreams forever. "I love many things, Melme. I loved my home, Middle-earth, books, beauty...but they do not come into the same realm of thinking as you."

"Celebrian was your wife. You had children...you were intimate. It was more, at the time I recall, than I thought you capable of achieving. You were most certainly my lover in all the ways that encompassed."

Elrond smiled, shaking his head. "You always were for exclusivity."

"Of course. You are property of the King. Or have you forgotten that?" Gil-galad proffered, half earnestly, half facetiously.

Elrond paused, his expression gentling. "I have forgotten nothing about you, my lord. I have every memory of every moment stored against the grief of your loss."

Gil-galad reached up and gripped Elrond's neck, pulling him in for a searing kiss. He moved and they rolled over, Elrond pinned beneath his body as he gripped Elrond's wrists in his powerful hands. "Do not speak of things past, Melme, of moments we cannot change. I have loved only you for the entirety of my life. What comes next, we cannot determine but I will put it aside until better days come. I only ask of you one thing."

"Whatever you will, my lord," Elrond whispered, sighing against the lips that were so close to his own.

"Come to my bed," Gil-galad requested, kissing Elrond softly. "Come to my bed, be with me when you can. That is all that I ask for now."

Elrond sighed, his mind a whirl of emotions but he nodded, swallowing hard. "I will."

Gil-galad smiled, his relief immense and then he gave himself to his lover, his complete attention. The fire crackled nearby, its weak light barely illuminating the corners of the room. On the bed, consummating a lifetime of friendship and shared experience, Elrond and Gil-galad sealed their devotion.

In the mountains...

They found the going swift, following trails only they knew and by the time they made their first camp, they were deeply in the woods. Small fires heated food and then illuminated quiet conversation as they settled in for the night. Faramir sat beside Aragorn, talking in a low voice as his lover considered the prize they had captured. It was in a bag next to their bedrolls, waiting for scrutiny and Faramir could feel its malevolence from where he sat.

"I am uneasy with that thing," Faramir said, nodding to the bag.

Aragorn nodded as well. "It is mine," he said, leaning against Faramir's shoulder. "It is mine by rights and no one else may use it."

"A seeing stone, Aragorn," Faramir said, his voice strained. "What if he can see you too?"

"That would assume he has a stone with him. I am wagering that he will no longer be using his, considering it of no real use now that the world has fallen. I can assume from the arrogance of his letters that his guard is down and he is unhurried. That means that I can look and he will not know, since I wager that his palantir is at Barad-dur."

Faramir sighed and nodded, gazing at Aragorn with worried eyes. Aragorn smiled and leaned forward, kissing his lover on the mouth. Faramir kissed him back, the warmth soothing and watched as Aragorn rose and walked to the bag. He picked it up and stepped into the shadows, going to wrestle the demons of the world beyond their camp.

Faramir bit his lip, shoving the shadows back and concentrated on the flames of the small fire before him. For three hours he would wait, his anxiety ever rising before Aragorn would step back into the clearing. He would put the bag down, moving to lay out his blankets and patting the ground for Faramir, wait until he lay down. Spooning behind him, his arms wrapped around him, he would hold Faramir all night, sleep a longed for wish that would not be fulfilled.

He stood in the library, dressed in borrowed clothing, pacing back and forth nervously. Gil-galad had left reluctantly, leaving with the promise of a shared meal later in the day. He had gathered his wits and made himself presentable, sending word to his family that he was near. He bit his lip, pausing at the sound of a soft knock on the door and turned, exhaling a deeply held breath.

"Come in."

The door opened and a woman stepped in, his daughter, Arwen. Smiling, with tears in her eyes, she ran to him and flung herself into his arms. He held her, his beloved daughter and watched as his sons joined him and then, lastly, his wife. Celebrian stood half into the room, her eyes watching him with deep emotion.

Elladan turned and held out his hand, taking his mother's and tugged her gently into the room. Celebrian entered, her face pale and a hopeful smile on her lips. Arwen glanced from her mother, to her father and back again, her eyes hopeful as well. Celebrian hesitated, then walked to Elrond and into a waiting embrace.

Elladan let out a deeply held breath, his brother's hand squeezing his own. "Do you wish us to leave you to talk?" he asked, glancing at Arwen and Elrohir.

"No," Elrond said, shaking his head. "You do not have to, Elladan."

"We will, though," Arwen said, taking her brothers' hands. She walked to the door and they departed through it, closing it softly behind them. Elrond watched them go, desperately thankful for their presence here in safety and then he looked at Celebrian, at her lovely face and tear-filled eyes.

"You look wonderful," he said, smiling slightly. "I was worried that you would not be able to find peace."

"I am well, Elrond," she replied, smiling, turning and walking to a chair nearby. She looked at him and he joined her, sitting beside her, waiting as she composed herself. "I never apologized to you."

"For what?" he asked, taken by surprise by her remark.

"For leaving you alone," she said, her gaze fixed on the fireplace.

"You have nothing to apologize for. You were ill. Nothing could be done about what had happened to you, not by my hand and not in Rivendell," Elrond began before she raised her hand, stilling him.

She looked at him, her eyes filled with sadness. "Perhaps that is true but it does not excuse leaving you and the children. My place was by your side and I left you. I am sorry for that, Elrond."

Elrond sat back, his expression gentle. "I do not begrudge you going, Celebrian. You were so hurt, I could hardly bear your sorrow. I knew it was not a decision you made lightly. We have gotten by."

"The world is at an end," she said, reaching for his hand. She took it, touching the Ring that was still on his finger. "You wear it yet?"

"I do here and only here," Elrond said, sighing sadly. Her hand was small and pale, as soft as satin and he squeezed it gently. "I do it for courage and the memory of my obligation."

"To the people of the world...you have never lacked for courage," Celebrian posed. She watched his face, knowing there were other loyalties, ones she had encountered from the day of her return.

"For many reasons, Celebrian," Elrond finally replied with a sigh. He looked at her. "You look as lovely as ever I remember."

"You look tired, Elrond. Tired and strained. The burden of your responsibilities plays on your face." She reached out and touched him, her hand cool against his skin. "You are a good and true soul. I love you still."

He felt pangs of regret and compromise fall through him as she leaned forward, pressing her lips against his. He kissed her back, feeling little but confusion as she moved closer, sliding her arms around his waist.

"I have dreamed of this moment, when we could be together again," she said softly, sliding her hand into the folds of his tunic. "I know you will go as soon as you can but for a moment, let it only be you and me together."

A memory came to him, a tentative Celeborn, talking to him the day they were wed. He had come to him, pausing awkwardly, gathering his courage and then he broached the subject that lay between them so clearly.

"I know that you loved another," he began, pausing as an expression of pain passed over Elrond's face. "I know this, Elrond, but I know what a good man you are. My daughter is safe in your hands. This joining of our houses, it seems cold and calculating but I believe that you will love her given time."

Elrond stared at him, his face burning as they broached painful and private subjects. "Your daughter will be my wife and I, her husband. I will do all that I can to make her happy."

Celeborn nodded, sighed deeply. "Yes, this I know. I can think of no one else that I would give her to that would make me feel the confidence I have. I also know that your first and foremost love was the King and for me to not tell you that would be to deny the truth. I hope and pray that your life with Celebrian will bring you happiness, children and hope. I hope and pray that you will love her enough to put aside what cannot be retrieved from the ashes."

Elrond nodded, his heart in despair and when he took Celebrian to wife, it was with sorrow and pain. They had gone to his chamber and he had claimed his husband's rights, but the passion that his King could get with a mere look would never be shared between them.

He grew to love her as a friend and companion, as a confidant and ally and the mother of his children. He gave her such respect, affection and attention that it became clear to him early on that she believed he truly loved her. He did in some way, but not as a husband should love a wife. He could not love her as a woman should be loved, for some part of him could not embrace her totally, not as a diligent lover should. For reasons he would not articulate, her great beauty was an abstraction to him in the way that art or a book could be. He loved her for her goodness, her kindness and her laughter, her beauty and her insight but nothing more.

She sat next to him, her lips nuzzling his neck as she sought from him that which he could only give in measured helpings. He sighed and pulled her close, stroking her hair as she whispered to him her need and her loneliness.

"You have been gone so long," Elrond said, his voice gentle. "I am overcome by your presence, Celebrian."

She sat up and smiled, tears in her eyes and nodded. "As am I," she said. "Come to me tonight when all the talk is over. I need you, husband. I need you."

He nodded and she kissed him, her fingers threading through his thick black hair, pulling him into her embrace. He kissed her tenderly, guilt suffusing him and when she rose, she was smiling. He rose as well and she took his hand, bringing it to her lips. "Come to dine with me," she said.

He nodded and she took his arm, the two walking to the door and out into the hallway where three others stood. Arwen smiled, glancing at her brothers and taking their arms, they walked to the stairs. They would descend together, eating their meal as a family and then Elrond would leave to meetings elsewhere.

Arwen watched him go, glancing at her mother. Celebrian stared at him with a loving expression and it warmed her heart to see her so happy. She felt happiness even as she felt foreboding, for she had seen the King that morning standing at the dock. He went every day, watching the ships come and go, giving his strength and dignity to every refugee who disembarked. She knew her father had loved him in some past age and she wondered as she watched him if they still shared that passion.

She turned to her plate, smiling at her mother who was engaged in jokes with her sons. She would talk to her grandmother later, she thought, as she sat and enjoyed her mother's happiness once more.

In a cavern in the Misty Mountains...

He lay on the bunk, a blanket giving him warmth and watched as water dripped off a colorful rock. Nearby, fussing with a errant leather strap, Sam sat ever watchful. He sighed and Sam's eyes came up, looking at Frodo with his usual intensity. "Are you all right, Mr. Frodo?"

"I'm...I need to sit up," Frodo said, struggling to rise.

Sam jumped up and helped him sit, sitting himself on the bunk as well. "How do you feel? Are you hungry or thirsty?"

"I'm...I think I could use some water," Frodo said, closing his eyes wearily, holding his bandaged hand against his chest. "Where are we?" he asked, watching as Sam went to a barrel and dipped a dipper into it. He returned and Frodo drained the cup, sighing with weariness as he did.

"We're in a cavern," Sam said. "Do you remember anything?"

"No, not much. What has happened?" Frodo asked as in his head a kaleidoscope of images lay scattered like shattered glass.

"We came upon Gimli," Sam said. "He was in the Emyn Muil and we came upon him. He was with others, men of Gondor and Rohan, I think. They brought us here, to a Dwarf sanctuary that only other Dwarves know about. We're in the Misty Mountains."

"What about the Ring?" Frodo asked, fixing a sickly gaze on Sam.

Sam's expression fell. "You don't remember, do you."

Frodo shook his head. "No. Tell me."

"That Gollum ! He came up the mountainside with us and when we got to the top, you couldn't throw it in. He pounced on you and bit off your finger."

Frodo started and looked at his bandaged hand, tears coming to his eyes. Sam took it gently and laid it in Frodo's lap, Moving closer and pulling him down. Frodo stretched out, his head in Sam's lap and he felt the hot tears falling down his cheeks. Sam stroked Frodo's hair, tears in his own eyes.

"Gollum took the Ring and we have been on the run ever since, headinback to the Shire by shank's mare. If I ever get my hands on that little devil, I'll cut his throat, I will."

Far away...

He had been dumped in the tunnel of the lair of the monster and he had groped along the wall, his sightless eyes no help. He could smell her and sense her, an unfathomable rage suffusing the shadows as he stumbled along, seeking a way out.

When she came upon him, draggling along in her rage, she didn't consider that he had been her acolyte. She bit him and bound him, moving into the shadows with him, fastening him to the ceiling of her larder along with the others. Orcs and Uruks, themselves victims of her wrath, watched as he struggled in his web of doom. They were her meat, her dinner for the duration as she nursed her terrible wounds against the day of her vengeance.

It would come, she reasoned around the horror of her wounds. If she survived, she would take out the one who had harmed her. She had never been defeated and she had never been afraid, this daughter of Ungoliant. Even Melkor had feared her mother, the two falling apart in the beginning of the world and she carried her mother's contempt for everyone and everything. Sauron didn't frighten her and neither did the Nazgul, none of them matching her sheer malevolence and hate.

She sat in the gloom, her wounds tearing at her and watched as her dinner shivered and squirmed. He wasn't much to look at but he was better than nothing and she resolved to eat Gollum last of all. Moving once more, she grasped an orc, his cries of terror and rage disappearing with her into the darkness.

In the woods above the Old Forest Road...

They knelt together, their heads nearly touching as they watched the enemy move stealthily along. They were heading for the gap that led through the mountains, pulling heavy carts toward Rivendell. They were the advance team heading for Imladris to prepare a shelter for Sauron when he deigned to go there.

"They are going to defile Lord Elrond's house," Legolas said, his voice filled with hatred.

"No they won't," Éomer said, squeezing Legolas' shoulder. "Let them get into the mountains and then we shall teach them the error of their ways."

Legolas nodded, glancing at Éomer, images of Rohan filling his mind. They rose and melted back into the trees, disappearing from even a happenchance discovery by the enemy.

Wains were moving northward, heading for Mirkwood, advance teams determined to prepare their lord's accommodation. He was lounging in Lothlorien, taking in the grandeur of his actions against the Elves and the fall of their wood. They labored onward, heading ever upward until they came to the narrowest defile on the road. They were halfway through it before the first arrow landed, piercing the throat of an orc commander.

There were shouts and screams, bitter, terrible moments of fighting and cursing but in the end it was a forgone conclusion and Legolas stood among the dead, his face filled with grim satisfaction. Éomer knelt beside the commander, rifling his bag as around him the rest were looting and burning. Things were confiscated, others were heaped up and soon a blazing fire signaled the traveler's doom.

"We better press on," Éomer said, watching as Legolas stared at the fire. His face was cold, like carved ice and Éomer felt concern as they stood together. "Legolas."

Blue eyes turned, meeting his and for a moment they were hate-filled and bitter. Then Legolas sighed, nodding as he turned, looking down the trail to the plains beyond. His father's house lay that way, hidden in the forest, the home that had been his for the length of his life. It was burned now, destroyed and forsaken but for the Beast who would be there soon enough.

He quashed his hatred and moved with Éomer, melting into the forest on trails unmarked. Soon there would only be ashes and bones, nothing but refuse. It suited him fine as he marched along grimly, searching for more orcs to kill. There could never be too many, he considered. Behind him, his eyes filled with concern, Éomer of Rohan followed in silence.

Later that night...

They camped in the shelter of an overhang, their fires unseen by anyone. Legolas stood on the edge of the shelf that they camped upon, staring into the darkness beyond them. Éomer sat by a small fire, listening to quiet conversation as he stared at Legolas. The Elf was becoming introverted and it worried him, so he rose and walked over, stopping beside his silent partner and sighed deeply, his own weariness suffusing him.

"It is very dark tonight. Even the moon has forsaken us."

Legolas nodded. "The gods have forsaken us."

"You can go," Éomer said, considering Legolasanger. "It only means taking a boat from these shores."

"I cannot do that," Legolas replied, glancing at Éomer with dark intense eyes. "How could I leave?"

Éomer shrugged slightly. "There might be those who wonder why you stay."

He shifted, staring directly at his partner. "You are here for vengeance. This I can understand. Those of us with responsibility for kingdoms and their people do not drop that easily."

"No," Legolas agreed, sighing slightly. "How can we go from here, this place that has been our home since the Awakening?"

"Your kind have always been called home," Éomer replied. "You have another home to which those such as I are forbidden. It must give you comfort knowing that this does not have to be your fate."

"It gives me nothing," Legolas said, moving to sit on a fallen log. Éomer sat beside him, waiting patiently, hoping the taciturn figure would talk and become less burdened. Blue eyes looked at him as a handsome face appraised him. "You have no hope, do you."

Éomer shook his head. "No, I do not. That burned with Meduseld when the world fell."

"I have none either," Legolas replied, turning his gaze upon the darkness once more. "I know my father's kingdom lies in the grasp of the monster and all that I love will be defiled. I pray to Elbereth that my family got out and took our people with them but I am not sure she hears me. I fear that my faith along with my hope is a faded thing."

"I am sorry," Éomer replied, sighing deeply. "What is there left after the death of hope?"

"Vengeance," Legolas said quietly. He looked at Éomer. "Your uncle and your sister, your cousin and your country...you cannot have hope for them."

Éomer swallowed, looking away. "I try not to think on it. That part is over. There is only what we have now."

"And what is that?" Legolas asked, his eyes never wavering.

Éomer met Legolas' gaze, all the misery of his life welling up in his eyes. Rising, he gripped Legolas' arm and moving swiftly, stepped into the shadows, the Elf in tow.

Continued...

Send Arctapus feedback
Visit Arctapus' website

The characters belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema. No profit is being made by the authors or the archivist and no disrespect is intented.

Do not post this work elsewhere without the author's consent.

Home

~~~~~~~~~~~ Crusade by Arctapus ~~~~~~~~~~~

~
Crusade
by Arctapus
~