Disclaimer: In regard to rights to characters and such, here's the current score-- Ithilien 0%, Tolkien 100%.

A/N: The rating went up to PG-13. Should it be R? I really don't know how rating systems work, and some of you may think this is may be too bland for a rating that high, but I would hate to be confronted by an irate parent claiming I corrupted their child by not putting out appropriate warning. So let me say it now, there is violence and blood contained in the next chapters. Beware.

Chapter 5:  Of Rage and Fallen Warriors

Any man who has looked into the eyes of another and seen blind fury can attest to the power of it. Fear is the natural product derived from such witnesses and the wise know the smartest course is one of flight. Those not so wise would stand to fight, flailing weakly at an overpowering foe. And those most foolish will cower and wail, ultimately surrendering to death in their indecision to do anything else. Such was that that came of the assault created by the whirling storm of long-pent rage. It was launched upon the army of invaders allied to the Dark Lord on the fields and shore of Pelargir.

The gathering of dark forms that had begun five days hence had taken on new shape. While it had stewed in its malice and black foulness over the course of the journey, it had remained as one of multiple souls, each crying out his lament and plight. But the mire had deepened as the destination loomed near and more haunting forces conjoined into a massive shape as it took on demonic form. The collected mass united itself into a creature of monstrous proportion. In its final state, before its unleashing, it became a being so fearsome that none but the purest of men could look upon it. Each part of it was enough in itself to paralyze the bravest and in its full it was a weapon beyond any ever constructed by evil forces. Its eyes were an interminable fire stoked with hostility and vile contempt of past betrayals. Its body was an ever-changing whirl of chaotic tumult made up of human bodies manipulated into grotesque deformities. And its voice, the most perilous of all, was the rising wail of a thousand deaths screaming in unison in their torment. Such was the weapon released by the Heir of Isildur on that unholy day and he was judged mighty, for his power to control such fury was likened by none.

Once released from his spell, the monster launched itself skyward in its final transformation. It divided itself, and divided again, and again and again until it has dissipated into a host of infinite specters filling the air from horizon to horizon with their girth. And then they soared from their heights, swooping down onto the unsuspecting forces that had rent the field and river plains with sorrow. Each part was equally as terrifying as the whole and they swept like a cyclone creating circling waves of madness in their path. Each demon possessed nightmares of death as their weapon and their voices screeched louder than their victims, bellowing the deafening sound of agonizing pain and suffering. They fell upon the hated forces, bludgeoning and hewing and ripping limbs from sockets, as the enemy in turn ran or fought or cowered. And returning from behind they wielded invisible swords and scythes, decapitating their foes as they passed. Blood sprayed the landscape, covering it in gore as no fell soul was left unspared.

The men who remained standing were of South Gondor; valiant men who had fought to save their families and homes. They were not warriors, but simple men – farmers, merchants, tradesmen, innkeepers, and such. Their lives had been uncomplicated, existing by their means, raising their children, bequeathing their wisdom to the next generation. But then the dark forces of Sauron had entered their sleepy villages and demanded tribute. At first they refused to pay, and for their reward they found their fields burned, their goods stolen, their livestock killed. And when the demand came again and still they refused to pay, they found their children missing, their womenfolk raped, and their homes destroyed. And when there was nothing more that they could lose, the demand came for a third time. And though they refused again, this time it was done with an ire of fearsome resolve, and they vowed to fight to their deaths.

They had not expected to live. Indeed many had died this day. But the salvation that was delivered to those that survived was beyond their imagining. They had been outmanned and outweaponed, yet they saw the destruction of their enemy. New hope filled their hearts as rumor spread from the hills to the river plains that the instrument of their deliverence was the heir of Isildur. The king had returned! And now looking upon their fell rivals they vowed to fight by his side until they could fight no more. So they took up their weapons and played the offensive for the first time, hacking and pummeling as those of evil intent tried to escape the whirling onslaught. They found renewed strength rejoicing as they saw their numbers increase with the fall of their foes.

But all the enemies were not slain. There were some who were passed up by the evil cloud. They were of Southron tribe and they wore talismen to ward off such evil, for they were practiced in the art of witchery and voodoo. Though now becoming quickly outnumbered, they laughed at the receding form of fear.

They were large for men. Some would call them giants, for they stood several heads taller than the normal mortals about them. They bore strange weapons – lances and barbed staffs, as well as an assortment of knives and daggers – and they handled all with agile skill. Their leader was fierce in appearance bearing a headdress of skulls, and his face was painted into a gruesome depiction. His men wore an armor constructed of human bones that covered their chests and trunks and but for the swath of cloth that concealed their groin region, they were naked.

Their leader was shrewd and he saw the change in their fortune. But he would not flee, as the lives of he and his men had been devoted to destruction and ill-will. He had no fear. His religion was dark and he drank the blood of men as a part of ritual. He did not quake at death, and worshipped its onslaught believing it would make him stronger still in his next life. He ordered his men forth to the source of the new weapon. The Dúnedain were far off in the field, but the savage had keen eyes and spotted the source of their ill-turn. He saw in their ranks a noble man riding under the banner of a white tree on a black field. He determined that this was their master. Moreso, he decide, this one should die; for if the Southrons were to fall in battle, so too would the leader of these northern men. He knew his people had little time: soon the fields would be clean of Sauron's might and all that remained would descend upon his tribe. He made his orders in their strange tongue and his men dispersed in a staggered line near the road that led to the shore. And then they all seemingly died, their bodies flung to the ground, mixing with the mud and gore.

***

Legolas raced to the field with the host of the Ranger forces at his side. He had slowed only momentarily, to let Gimli drop and take the rear march. Arod had quickly returned to his pace, knowing from experience as a Rohan horse the course of his rider. The horse snorted as he charged into the thick of battle, free to run openly now that they were off the confining road. Legolas reached and raised his bow, letting arrows fly as they reached the target of fleeing adversaries. He turned his steed to make another loop into the falling army. It was easy work.

A glimpse of something misplaced appeared in the corner of his eye and a feeling of apprehension hit him with sudden force. 'Something is wrong,' he thought. His eyes darted, side to side, trying to locate the source of this sense of foreboding. The horse teetered in its direction unsure of where its master was guiding it. There was something wrong here, but Legolas couldn't place it. He scanned the horizon to determine if there was something that had escaped his attention. The spectacle before him was a chaotic maze and he focused now to catch the details as they revealed themselves.

All before him were the fighting and fleeing warriors of Sauron's men, cast now in a fashion that was truly out of character, their usual muster and bravado gone, replaced with simpering, sullen men, fearful and crying in shame. They ran from the ghostly apparitions that encircled them and some lay down on the field, quaking as their knees gave out. The men of Gondor, fearless now as they saw the gray forms' oblivion to them, ran among them, killing those that fled and gathering those that quailed. Weapons were flung to the ground, littering the field that was covered with torn and rendered bodies. The ground was strewn with carcasses and corpses and other men stealthfully moved about them, seeking out the injured and carrying them away to make-shift hospitals. Further on, riderless horses skittered about, panicked by the deadly cloud, and the plainsmen of Gondor worked to rope and calm them before the beasts could do harm to themselves or others. In the sky above, the last of the shadow host careened, weaving in and out among the gray and black clouds that hung there, whirling in a great spiral as if waiting for its next command. And at the river basin, men ran to and from the array of ships anchored and moored there. Some, immersed in flame, leapt off their ships, attempting to extinguish their burning bodies. Others still moved about, buckets and blankets in hand as they labored to suffocate the fires that overtook many of the tall ships. Smoke from the singed carcasses of smaller craft filtered upward into the still air, drifting onto the field. It was the last of a bloody battle and it was gruesome to look upon. Legolas searched the field and river about him, seeking out a clue in every face or body. But he could not see what it was that worried his mind.

A horn sounded. It was the call of victory. It was repeated again further down the field. Legolas turned, with all the men on the hilly plain that day, to register the source of the sound and his eyes beheld the face of their captain, their king. Aragorn sat on his mount on the highest ridge facing east, looking out on his troops. Behind him was the banner of Gondor, a black flag with a white tree and seven stars and crown. And as if by wiil, for the first time in several days, the clouds broke on the western horizon, and remnants of the setting sun filtered onto the land before him. All who looked on were struck by the majesty of the Dúnedan king, and many cried out their gratitude, tears filling their eyes as they pledged their undying love to him. Aragorn raised Anduril into the light. The sword gleamed red and a mighty voice arose from the throats of all men present as they cheered their new king.

***

The party descended the peak of the winding road, following it as it twisted its way to the river basin. The king was accompanied by all the Rangers of the north as well as Gimli the dwarf, Legolas the elf, and the fair Eldar brothers, Elrohir and Elladan. The horses snorted their appreciation of the slower pace as their fatigued muscles tensed against the sloping road. As the party rode on, they were greeted in places by small gatherings of men eager to set sight on their new king. The fields were busy as larger groups camped on the hillsides, laboring to bring right to their small end of the world. The sky was pitch, and with no moon to guide them, some among Aragorn's party carried torches and lanterns to guide their wary steps. The still air made the scent of blood and smoke linger on the field, and the uneasy horses' ears flicked as wafts of the smell floated past them at each turn in the road.

The long and miserable day was spent and the riders and their horses were taxed. The last mile to the shore seemed almost as an endless journey to them and they longed for this road to end so they could rest and take nourishment at last. The remaining order of the day was to sustain a ship on which to sail. Aragorn made orders to secure their place and he ordered as many ships manned as there were men who volunteered to go forward. He was clear to assure that they would depart at the sun's rise, lest any man be left behind.

Aragorn's eyes were dark as he brooded what lie ahead. True to his pledge he had released the shadow host from its oath and dismissed it as the men of Gondor looked on. It had been a deadly machine, and Aragorn was pleased, and secretly amused, at the turn of fate. For the role of the dead on this fearsome day was one he would have reserved for his enemies arsenal, not his own. Grim satisfaction there was in seeing Sauron's might fleeing in fright. Looking north, he sensed the prevailing battle that loomed over Minas Tirith. He tried to gladden his heart – he was encouraged by the number of men who enlisted their support this eve and made haste to join Aragorn and his men in the final leg of this journey. 'Alas, I fear it will not be enough,' he thought. 'Perhaps, though if only we can make it there before time runs out.' Aragorn frowned. For as much as this day had been good to him, his spirits would not be lightened.

Another in the party was grim. Legolas Greenleaf rode at the head of the company, searching for some sign in the dark. He shook his head, scolding himself. The dread he had felt before had not left him. He felt himself growing darker as the tension drew over him. He reasoned with himself, 'It has been an especially tiresome day. Perhaps our labors wear on me,' he pondered and then immediatley dismissed the ill-conceived thought. Legolas twisted around in his seat to look at Aragorn. His friend's face was lost in thought, worry lines creasing his brow. He had considered telling the Ranger of his fears, but seeing his face he did not want to add to his friend's troubles. It was not something that would aid him, especially since Legolas was so vague on detail. The notes played in his head and the distraction irritated him. 'Then again, this tenseness may be just another symptom of the sea-longing. And if so, will I always feel be burdened with this tension and apprehension? I do not know how I will adjust to that,' he thought dreading the idea of living like this for even another day and feeling shame if this in fact was what was causing his distress. Legolas cursed himself for this mental lapse playing it again in his mind and concluding that his initial impression was right. 'There was something there. I know I saw something. But what?'

Legolas looked now at Elladan and Elrohir. The twin elves took the rear of the pack and Legolas wondered if they had done it intentionally to match his might at the front. Clever they were, for Legolas' spot at the front of the company was by design. While this mood was on him, he reasoned, it would be wise perhaps to take on the role of protector. He wondered if the other two elves in the company perceived the same apprehension he did. He weighed the idea of slowing his horse to match their place in the line, but then opted to pass as a shudder fell over him again.

The sound of Gimli's grumblings at his back broke through Legolas's dark thoughts. The dwarf took his usual seat at the rear of the horse and seemed too to be pondering the day's events. And indeed the dwarf did deliberate, though his thoughts were focused on the somber frame of mind of his companion. He had rejoined the party shortly after the horns had blown, but the elf had shown no signs of rejoicing. As Gimli's sense of something amiss grew, he began to fear again his friend's ailment. The elf was not right, he knew, but he was assured at least that the prince had not fallen back into that other place. If anything the opposite was true, as Legolas seemed more preoccupied and agitated in the present than ever before. Gimli had quietly waited out the elf, knowing that to press him would be to meet with stone silence, or worse yet, an elusive comment that would steer him away from the original inquiry. Gimli had fallen into the trap of the latter many times, meandering for hours in conversational territories of the elf's choosing rather than the place the dwarf had intended to go. It had taken the dwarf a long time to realize the elf often took this tactic when Gimli hit a place close to his emotional core, and he wondered that he had not realized it earlier in their travels as it was plainly obvious to him now. But as the elf's mood was unflinching and the dwarf could not seek Elladan and Elrohir for counsel, Gimli chose to speak. "Legolas, I find I can tolerate your nervousness no more. If you are about to partake in hysteria I am ready to observe it. But in case you have not noticed the battle has been fought. And won, I might add. You can rest now, elf."

Legolas sighed, "I apologize, Gimli. I am troubled and I have not thought much on hiding it." He had not ceased his furtive search.

"You appear to be fighting still, if not on the field, then in your head. Will you not tell me what troubles you, my friend?" Gimli said with due concern.

"I sense not all is right about us. However, if you ask me to tell you why, I will be unable to do so as I can not trace my fear's source," Legolas answered, shaking his head in his frustration

"What do you know?" asked the dwarf, having no reason to doubt his friend. It was his experience that Legolas was nearly always right in matters of sixth sense.

"I know there is more danger ahead. Of that I am most certain."

"Should we alert the others?"

"No, for I cannot perceive when the damage will come. I fear my injury today hinders me in this. The danger could be just before us or days away. I cannot tell. I only hope that diligent eyes will see it in time to make adequate warning," the elf uttered, his voice carrying little in the dark stillness of night.

"Then I will try to aid you to find this hidden danger," Gimli replied. He said no more, but kept his eyes alert to the dark road ahead. From Legolas' back he could feel the dwarf adjusting his weapons.

****

The savage leader now heard their approach. He had been lying in this lifeless pose for hours without so much as moving an inch. It did not bother him. On the arid savanna where he and his men hunted, they could lay in ready for a whole day without taking a drop of water as they awaited their kill. They were trained in endurance and this was small trial. Inside he smiled as the king's horses drew near.

He had been calculating their success for this final assault. They would not have much time. A fleeting moment at best before all the men of Gondor would be upon them. Though his tribe was greatly outnumbered, they were still of a greater number than this troop and their king. He counted the sound of the horses' hooves and judged there to be thirty men in the party. They would overpower the weak northerners, if only for a moment. The savage chieftain knew much could happen in a moment. If fortune was with them the kingly Gondor chief would be dead before it had passed. And now, they were coming!