Week 4: A compilation of our tavern posts concerning the fight with Sauron. The Tavern was a place for roleplaying the characters during the game. (And I couldn't resist to show you what happened there =))

Summary: It is short before Dagor Dagorath, and the heroes of the past returned to accomplish their part in the defeat of Morgoth. But someone else returned also... Aragorn travels to Mordor to fight against Sauron, and distract him for long enough for the hobbits (Handy and Esmeralda Brandybuck this time) to reach Mount Doom (written in the frame of the game)

A/N: co-authored with Lirulin-yirth-k'aio (unbetaed)

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In Mordor Where the Shadows Are

It is quiet. The low clouds swirl in dark spirals like dancers, driven towards one point. In that point, a ominous tower looms dark, a tower that has fallen long ago, and yet it stands now, a terrible silhouette against the sunless sky. Barad Dûr...

Two figures descend noiselessly the slopes of the Ash Mountains. One is a Man, but moves with elven grace and stealth among the sharp stones, while the other looks almost unearthly - a deeper shadow in shadows.

Aragorn stops, and surveys the barren land and dark tower ahead. "We will wait for the others here," he whispers to Daenar.

"A new Fellowship?" the vampire smiles slightly. "Of what?"

Aragorn looks at Mount Doom, flaming in the distance. "Of Hope, my friend..."

***

They waited behind a mound of debris near the Dark Tower. Daenar glanced at Aragorn with a slight smile. "Do you believe that our 'Finrod-and-Beren' trip will end better than the first one? Though there is already one difference to our advantage - instead of Luthien hurrying after us you have a male version of Thuringwethil here with you." the smile became broader. "I only don't know if Eru will return me at least my sword to fight with."

"Could you please stop eavesdropping on my thoughts?" Aragorn asked with a wry smile. "It can be useful in battle, but still it feels strange... Ah well, good that the male version of Thuringwethil is on our side!" he smirked. "But I doubt Eru would personally deliver your sword here. These will have to do..." he pointed to the quite impresive collection of weaponry that appeared nearby. "And there are many famous blades that would be a honour to wield. The others are helping us..."

"I am sorry!" Daenar smiled too, when the hobbits left. "It's just a bad habit... I hear your thoughts well, and... couldn't help commenting!"

Then the vampire glanced at numerous swords, daggers and bows. "I know, each of these is famous enough even for an ainu to wield... and of course I wouldn't wait for Eru himself to arrive here just to give me back my sword," he paused. "I am not as lucky as you were once. But my weapon was quite special. It is... in me. Like part of myself. But when my powers are restricted, I cannot... cannot get it." He felt that words were failing him in this task of explaining what seemed so simple and natural to himself. "And if our being here is meant to repeat the events of the past, then the wizard will have to use a plain sword instead of magic... right?"

"Gandalf was not allowed to reveal his full power..." Aragorn said quietly. "Maybe you have to take his place now..." He smiled slightly. "Black instead of white, but the intention is important, not the color. Come, let's fulfill that intention!"

Aragorn looked at everyone in turn, to assure that they are prepared and armed. Then he nodded to the hobbits. "Go..." he said simply. "Valar be with you..."

And he stepped forth himself, and walked to the Dark Tower. The others followed him.

***

Aragorn stopped before the iron gates of the Dark Tower. He stood there lordly and proud, with his face lifted, his hand resting on the hilt of Andúril. "Come forth!" he cried in mighty voice. "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! The King of Gondor demands that he should atone for his evils, and depart then for ever. Come forth!"

There was absolute silence. Nothing moved. There was no living thing in this place, and the very air seemed dead. High in the tower, the fire seemed to burn brighter, and illumnated the grey debris like blood mixing with ash.

Suddenly, the gate trembled, and with a sound of iron grating on stone, it opened slowly. But it remained empty for a long time. Aragorn glanced back at his companions. The twins had their swords drawn, and the arrows of Haldir and his brothers were knocked on the strings. Even Daenar has chosen a blade. Aragorn drew Andúril, and the red light reflected on the blade, but the sword shone with its own light, like the shine of Sun and Moon. But still the gate was empty, a waiting maw of darkness.

The sound of steps was heard then, heavy and reverbetating. Approaching. Aragorn clutched the hilt stronger. A figure in dark armor emerged from the darkness of the gate. Fire blazed behind the slits of the helmet, unclean and hot like the depths of the earth. Aragorn shivered beneath the palpable evil of that gaze.

"So you come to fight me again, Heir of Isildur?" the voice was cold like iron, and mocking.

"I will fight you until all lands are free of your will!" Aragorn replied steadily. "For Frodo..." he whispered then quietly, words that only he could hear. With those words, he attacked.

***

For the entire night they fought the figure in dark armor looming above them. The black mace swinged through the air like a deadly mass of iron. His shield was shattered soon, and Andúril could not block it. Aragorn didn't try to. He threw away the useless shield, and grasped Andúril with both hands. He moved like a dancer, avoiding the mace, and trying to reach his opponent.

Hours passed, and he was tripping with exhaustion, but he forced himself to move as quickly as before - slower would mean his death... and maybe Sauron's victory in changing the past...

He saw a chance! A gap in Sauron's defence. The Dark Lord was getting too confident... Aragorn thrust Andúril into the joint of the black armor. The scream was deafening, like the shriek of a Nazgûl, but even more piercing. Andúril grew red-hot in Aragorn's hands. He staggered back, but didn't let go of the sword burning his hands.

Sauron recovered sooner then they would all like. His movements were slower, but equally deadly. Aragorn was panting, and sweat dropped into his eyes. Every movement with the sword was painful, but he clutched it with all force. He tripped again, and in that moment, something knocked the air from his lungs, and made his chest burst in pain. He was flying through the air. Everything blurred. He tasted blood...

***

Daenar, who was not so exhausted like the others, continued attacking the Dark Lord, hissing and growling like a wild beast. Glamdring in his hand – he chose it deliberately, according to Esmeralda's theory - crushed against Sauron's armour from time to time, but without much result. And he felt being lucky not to be wounded himself so far. He was quick enough, but what was the use of staying safe if there was no progress in the fight?

Then there was a scream… and Daenar realized with some odd calmness that their opponent was wounded. Finally… It gave him time for a new attack – but in the next moment he understood that he had to choose… He could give the maia a blow, but it would be too late to stop his mace. Or he could throw all his strength to soften the blow, meant for Aragorn.

Moments became eternities…

…too late… no, no I can't let him die… late? No!

…sound of metal crushing metal… an impact…

… and the mace continued its way, but the might of the blow was more than half reduced. Daenar glanced quickly at the twisted blade in his hands. Maybe it would be restored later, but for now it was useless. And all he had were his claws – and rage.

Without any further hesitation he jumped forth, hitting the Dark Lord's face, covered with helmet. Stripes of metal flew off it with each hit.

***

Moving was pain... Breathing was pain... Andúril burned in his hands, but he did not let go of it. He knew he must get up and fight... Where are the hobbits now?, he wondered. He had to get up... but his body refused his command, flooding him with a wave of pain that made him almost cry out. He saw Daenar fighting Sauron with bare claws, but he had no strength to help anymore...

Do you believe that our 'Finrod-and-Beren' trip will end better than the first one? No, it's not going to end better, it seemed... Finrod-and-Beren... There was an idea, circling in his mind, but he could not grasp it. It avoided him, sank under the surface of pain... Finrod and Beren...Finrod...

The harp! He had the harp still! He remembered the song he has played once already... With a hiss of pain he let go of Andúril, and reached for the harp. The strings cut in his burned fingers, but he gritted his teeth, and began to play. He did not think about what he is playing. His fingers bled, and blood covered the strings. But from the harp, a song streamed.

He chanted a song of wizardry,

Of piercing, opening, of treachery

The lidless Eye

The evil lie

To quench the hope in misery

*

But in the darkness Hope rose swaying,

And sang in answer song of staying

Of faithfulness

Of Western seas

Of the light deep in the soul laying

*

Resisting, battling against power,

Of secrets kept, strength like a tower

Like hardened steel

The strength of will

Before the Eye there is no cover

*

The chanting swelled: Elessar fought

And all the hope and light he brought

Into his words

Like mighty swords

To guard the secret that the Eye sought

*

The song echoed over the battlefield, and the darkness of the armored figure seemed to shrink a little. But another song rose from it, dark and violent, and wrestled with the tunes from the harp. Aragorn felt like being thrown into that evil fire that burned behind the slits of the helmet. He burned... His hands trembled violently, but he continued to play. He played until he had no strength left, until there was nothing left, and he was naked in the devouring flames.

His song wavered. A string snapped. The darkness enveloped him, enveloped everything...

And suddenly, it disappeared. The fires around him were extinguished, and he felt that the earth had been cleansed from a great evil. The realm of Sauron is ended! The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his Quest... Handy and Esmeralda were successful... A great peace washed over Aragorn. It's over… He closed his eyes tiredly, and knew no more.

***

Daenar fell on the ground. For some time he just sat there, blinking and trying to understand why everything is so reddish and blurry… Then he realized that it must have been blood. Yes, Sauron hit him several times… how many? He didn't remember right…

He stood up slowly, wiping the blood off his face and looking around. Aragorn should have been somewhere near. The vampire heard him sing and play the harp – and it was that tune again. He smiled, but this simple movement caused pain… Frowning slightly he limped towards the ranger who seemed to be unconscious but alive still… so far.

Daenar knelt near Aragorn, clutching his shoulders:

"Don't even dare die, do you hear me?" he whispered. The whisper turned into hiss as he felt incredible pain in his hands. Slowly, as if not quite believing yet, he let Aragorn's shoulders free and looked at his own hands. They were burned almost to bones. He hadn't noticed it in the fight, but now… now the wounds didn't heal.

He didn't dare look at the elves, standing in a distance. It was too much for them, he thought. Burned hands, scratched face… and no sign of healing. An omen. He glanced up, into the clearing sky. There should be an eagle. There could be… The vampire called for any of them mentally, and turned his glance to Aragorn again. "Soon we shall return… home, if it can be called so."

***

The door of the tavern opened with a bang and someone, almost completely black from soot and blood, entered, limping and carrying another one, not less dirty, but still recognizable as Aragorn.

"We've... won!" he breathed out, as he had no more strength to speak. "We've won..." he repeated, laying the ranger on the bench near the wall. "But he needs help... we both need." he finished helplessly, trying not to raise his head.

"Estel!" the twins called his name, but Aragorn did not stir. After they tended to his wounds, their faces were grave. His burnt hands were still clutching the harp, and when they wanted to gently pry his fingers away, he moaned and clutched it even stronger. They ceased immediately.

"Aragorn?" Elladan whispered.

"Fire... Eye..." he muttered, breathing heavily, but he didn't open his eyes.

The twins looked at each other worriedly. Then Elrohir nodded slightly, and went away, while Elladan stayed with their brother. After a while he returned, carrying a vessel of cold water.

They washed his face with it, and continued to his hands. Under the soothing coolness, their grip relaxed slightly, and they were able to take the harp away. The strings released a weak tune as they put it down, and Aragorn stirred slightly, but didn't awake. He was still unconscious as they tended the burns, and bound them with clean cloth. Then they could only wait.

Elrohir shook his head helplessly. Aragorn's breathing was getting more difficult, and there was nothing more they could do. "If we only would have athelas..." he sighed.

"Athelas..." Elladan bit his lip. Then he slued round. "Aragorn is a healer himself! Maybe he has some!" Hastily he rummaged through Aragorn's pack, putting aside a pipe and some ropes. There! He found a small, crumpled package, and the unmistakable scent told him what it is even before he opened it enough to look at the leaves. He sighed with relief. Elrohir went to heat the water quickly, and then Elladan put a few leaves into it. A fresh scent streamed from the bowl, like the memory of mornings in Rivendell, and all who were nearby felt refreshed.

Aragorn's breathing evened too, and both twins sighed with relief again. But suddenly his breath hitched, and his eyes opened, looking around wildly. "Fire... Burning... everything..." he panted, writhing in pain.

"Estel! Estel, we are safe! We're back in the tavern!"

But Aragorn didn't perceive his surroundings, he seemed to be still fighting Sauron in his mind.

Elladan looked around desperately. He couldn't even take his hand to reassure him. The hands of a healer... he thought sadly. His sight fell on the bloodied harp, and in a sudden inspiration he picked it up. He wiped away the blood, and began to play quietly.

After a moment, Aragorn's look seemed to focus a bit. "El...?" he whispered hoarsely, his sight too blurry to recognize which twin is leaning over him.

"Yes, little brother..." Elrohir smiled, while Elladan continued to play.

Aragorn moaned in pain, but he hold his brother's sight. "The...hobbits?" he asked.

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The song is from my story The Song in the Darkness (where Aragorn faces Sauron also, but in different circumstances...)