87

Chapter 87: The Darkness has comeSummary:

The company returns to Mordor after many weeks away and the shadow is deepning as the Lord of Mordor plots and schemes in his tower.

Notes:

Thank you all kindly for waiting on me, I know I've been gone for a long while but I'm back and I hope you enjoy the chapter.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Nine days later

After many days, the company departed once more, now accompanied by many wains and wagons heavy-laden with hardbread and salt beef. The breeze was kind, and the sky was grey. The land looked rather sad and forlorn, but it was, after all, the first of November and the fag-end of autumn. 

There was little cheer as they rode nor any conversation, and Galadriel knew well the reason after so long away from those cursed lands, her companions had no desire to return, not even her beloved wolf, who seemed particularly dour this morning, though she could not blame him she yearned for nothing more than to return to Osgiliath and live in comfort with Írimë and Jon. Yet as the days passed, a shadow fell upon her wolf's heart, and he seemed withered as an old stone, and she knew something terrible had happened in their absence.

"What new misery awaits us? Oh, my wolf, I fear we will discover some great tragedy when we return." thought Galadriel, glancing at her husband. 

The sadness filled her with fierce rage, yet fear filled her heart as her thoughts turned to their friends. Had they met a cruel end while they were away? Did Elrond yet live? Her heart sank at the thought of her poor daughter widowed so young, or maybe Círdan, so stubborn and set in his ways, yet he had kept their secrets all these years. He was a loyal friend and a father to Jon.

"By the Valar, please let them be safe!" thought Galadriel, "Let my love have some joy in life."

(Sometime later... along the Mountains of Shadow) 

They paused for a time to eat, soon, the company was ready to go on. They put out the fire and hid all traces of it. At last, they came past the glens of Ithilien. They had not gone far before the sun sank below the westward heights, and great shadows crept down from Ephel Dúath. Dusk veiled their feet, and mist rose in the marshes far away. Away in the east, the shadow lay gloomily upon the dim lands of distant plains and wood. Their journey had been a peaceable one with only one brief respite. Jon led them on for four more hours.

It was dark, for night had long come. Many stars were burning bright overhead, yet none could be seen over the mountains, where the black clouds of Oroduin whirled about like writhing beasts. Their company had halted once more the last respite before reaching the Black Gate. The night wind blew chill southward to meet them, and there was a feeling of dread, for they were twenty leagues from the marshes where the Silvan had met their fate.

Galadriel sat alone in her tent, nursing a strong goblet of wine. She was pensive, for tonight was the anniversary of the day she and Jon had plighted their troth almost a century ago. Much had changed since that day, particularly herself. Living among the Westerosi had left an enduring mark on her character. Even her kin had discerned the change in her, yet she hadn't the heart to care. Once, she had been as unyielding as the foundations of the earth, her heart weighed down by the burdens of a wearied life. But now, she revelled in this feeling of joy.

She chuckled as she took another sip from her goblet; by the Valar, she wondered what her family might think of her. Even in her youth, she was hailed as a paragon of their kin—wise, virtuous, and mighty, and she hadn't refuted them; indeed, she adored such praise. Yet, such things had swiftly been proven false. She had followed Feanor, her heart burning with pride, though such things faded as the pride was soon replaced by wisdom, and she found herself yearning for a simple life.

After more than a century in the company of the Westerosi, much had changed. Many of her kin might have called her selfish or childish, but she could not help it. Her love for Celeborn had always been steadfast, a vow that was familiar and comfortable. It was a love that had endured for many ages, but it had withered and died. With Jon, everything was different. Her heart beat with fiery fervour, and the love they shared was wild, untamed, and keenly powerful. Such things were wholly new, and she revelled in it. With love came a fierce jealousy; it consumed her like a roaring flame, sheltered deep in her heart. It was as if a tempest of burning embers had ignited, consuming her with an insatiable and otherworldly intensity. Whenever she beheld Jon in the company of another, a gnawing ache clawed at her essence, akin to her very soul being set ablaze.

"Like Fíriel, that upstart girl…" thought Galadriel angrily, remembering how the woman shamelessly used her servants to trick Jon into a stroll through the gardens.

She banished those troubling thoughts from her mind and looked up at the stars glinting through the pale roof of her tent, wondering if perhaps Elentari had borne witness to their love on that warm summer's night. She downed her goblet, her cheeks flushed; the mere notion that the Queen of the Valar may have spied upon them filled her with unease.

Galadriel moved to pour herself another goblet of wine and wrapped herself in a warm fur before settling into a comfortable armchair. However, just as she was about to reach for a book, she thought better of drinking and decided to pour herself a goblet of water instead. She felt a familiar presence drawing nearer.

"Hmmm, what could my love want at this hour?" thought Galadriel.

A moment later, a guard entered the tent, his countenance confused. Indeed, he seemed as if he wished to be anywhere else.

"My Lady… Lord Jon wishes your counsel," he said, bowing low. "Shall I give him leave to enter?"

"Of course, boy… and next time, let him pass without trouble," said Galadriel, smiling happily.

A moment later, Jon entered, and though a smile graced his face, Galadriel discerned that a shadow of doubt lay upon her love's heart. 

"Forgive me my star… I'm sorry for troubling you so late," said Jon wearily.

Galadriel's smile remained, and she spoke softly, "Do not burden yourself, my wolf. I shall forever find time for you, though I cannot help but wonder why you have sought me at this late hour."

Jon's brow furrowed, and he took a seat, glancing at her sadly. "You know the answer well, my beloved," he muttered. "I fear something terrible has happened while we were away."

Galadriel glanced at him; her eyes grim. "My wolf... I'm sorry, but I truly do not know," she said. "A shadow now lies heavy upon the hearts of the Númenóreans."

Jon rose to his feet, a great weariness clinging to him like a shadow. He moved toward Galadriel and embraced her. She bent and kissed him on the brow. Galadriel's hands gently cradled his face, and her ancient magic flowed forth, hoping to ease his burden. For a while, they stood there, neither uttering a word, as they took solace in one another.

After several moments, Jon and Galadriel parted and sat around the large table in the corner of the tent. Galadriel brought over more mead and a small plate of fruits, there was a fire in the wide hearth before them, and it was burning with a sweet smell, as if it were built of apple wood; Jon saw that the fire had smouldered to nought but embers and placed several more logs in the hearth before joining Galadriel.

Jon reached into his breast pocket without thinking, pulling out a long-stemmed pipe. He carefully packed the fragrant tobacco into the bowl and lit it with a match he had tucked away in his pocket. The sweet aroma of the tobacco filled the air, mingling with the pleasant fragrance of the applewood. 

Galadriel frowned, "I fear, my dear, that I shall never get you to give up pipeweed, will I?"

Jon chuckled softly, gently placing a hand on Galadriel's. "Ah, my love, you know me well," he replied. "But worry not, I shall not do so in the company of our family."

Galadriel, with a graceful snort, swiftly intruded into her wolf's thoughts, paying little heed to his insolence. This evening was intended to be delightful for them, and after a moment, she withdrew her intrusion.

Jon grumbled and almost let his pipe slip from his grasp, his gaze darkening as he shot her a sharp look.

"My star, must you torment me so," Jon muttered angrily.

"No, but I am still a Princess of the Noldor; there are limits to your jests when it comes to me. You've had me in your company for a century, yet you do not seem to learn? The girls and I have been lenient with you for so long."

"So, you may jest and jape with the girls at my expense whenever it pleases you, and I must simply endure it?" Jon asked indignantly.

Galadriel laughed. "Indeed, my wolf, it seems we have taught you well."

Jon frowned. "Since we are in the mood for learning, I wish to ask you something."

"Yes?" asked Galadriel in confusion.

"You seemed rather cold to Lady Fíriel; did she anger you somehow?" asked Jon, glancing at her keenly. Galadriel, accustomed to prevailing in their discussions, felt herself falter and swallowed, averting her eyes as she wished to not speak of such things.

"I do not know what you speak, Jon," said Galadriel softly, her cheeks reddening. 

Jon sighed, "Galadriel, why must you be dishonest? You regarded her as nought but a nuisance; truly, if such glares held power, you might have struck her dead."

"Forgive me, Jon, I didn't mean to be unpleasant to Lady Fíriel," said Galadriel sadly.

To her surprise, Jon laughed silently and merrily as if she had said some amusing jest, his eyes glittering in mirth.

"Of course, my star though, I am not so foolish as you might think," he laughed. "I cannot help but wonder if you were perhaps jealous of our kindly host."

Galadriel scoffed. She had known him for millennia, and he was no fool. It was true that Jon had grown wiser in many ways, especially when discerning their heart's desire; indeed, she doubted he would've survived long had he not learned to placate them as often as he did.

Her lips curled into a playful smile, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. "Jealousy, my dear Jon?" she retorted, "You give me too much credit. Lady Fíriel is a gracious host, and I am far past the age where such petty sentiments trouble my heart."

Jon looked at her with a kindly sweetness. "Bah... I may not fully understand the minds of women as that is a mystery few may wish to unravel, yet I can read you like an open book, my sweet star."

"Your words fill my heart with joy, my wolf. It has been days since I have seen your smile... and it saddens me to see you so troubled," Galadriel said softly and sadly.

"I know my star... forgive me for making you worry so. I have acted foolishly these last few days; my heart is heavy with fear and sorrow whose meaning eludes me. I dread our return, for I know only pain and suffering await us," said Jon gloomily.

Galadriel frowned, her eyes filled with concern, as she gently caressed Jon's hand. Her heart ached for her love, for she could sense the weight of his unease and the darkness that seemed to cloud his heart.

"Jon," she whispered sadly. "There is no need for forgiveness, for we all carry our burdens, but you need not face them alone, my wolf... even the bravest souls can falter. It is the strength of your heart that I have always admired."

"Your words bring comfort to my troubled soul, my star," said Jon and sighed as if some memory stirred in him. "'Alas! that these evil days should be mine, and should come in my old age instead of that peace which I have earned."

Galadriel smiled softly. "Remember, Jon, you are not alone in this. Rhaenys, Daenerys, and the girls are here for you as well. We will stand by your side and face whatever the future holds together as a family."

Jon smiled. "Though I appreciate your kind words, that does not change the fact that all the girls treated Lady Fíriel scornfully, and she even asked me if she had offended you somehow. While I would forgive such acts if it were but a single happening, each of you goaded her in your own ways. Do not think I did not notice your subtle japes, my star. I had to spend many an evening consoling the woman, for she was sick with worry."

"If you know as much as you claim, then you know well why I treated her thusly," said Galadriel, yet to her vexation, he regarded her with a bewildered look and for a moment, she thought to assail his mind.

"Alas, it seems I was unduly hopeful after all these years," Galadriel mused angrily.

"My star... Fíriel treated us kindly, and truly, she deserved neither your scorn nor that of the others," grumbled Jon.

"My foolish husband, she was indeed kind..." said Galadriel, looking sharply at Jon, "Yet for all your supposed wisdom, you did not glean her true intentions; otherwise, you might share my sentiments on the matter."

"Are you implying that Firiel is in love with me?" asked Jon in surprise. 

Galadriel laughed. "Ah, at last, you learn the truth, though perhaps too late, Jon? Have you learned nothing of the hearts of women, even after these long years… or mayhap you wish to play the fool?" 

"Forgive me, but I cannot bring myself to intrude upon the minds of women without their consent. I do not believe it to be right," Jon admitted, his cheeks reddening.

"That is a poor excuse, my wolf. Nevertheless, I see in your heart no ill intent, only sincerity, my Wolf, though it offers me little comfort, "chortled Galadriel, hoping to fluster her husband. 

"Don't be a fool! Though I know not the reason for her fondness, you are not so blameless as you would have me believe!" exclaimed Jon. "Indeed, I found your childishness most unbecoming, though I held my tongue. But if you wished to drive me mad with jealousy, well done!"

"My wolf, whatever do you mean?" asked Galadriel, her eyes agleam with mischief. "I merely wished to foster good relations with the Númenóreans, or do you think me too thoughtless to speak otherwise?"

Jon frowned. "Ah, forgive me. It seems help means ruin, and saving means slaying; I must have imagined those spiteful glares that those foolish princes cast upon me whenever I was in your company," he said. You charmed them as one might a serpent, and I was the subject of their ire."

"Oh, I did not think you were so jealous, my dear husband," answered Galadriel cheerily.

Jon grunted angrily, and she laughed once more. She hadn't thought her wolf would be so angry. In truth, it touched her heart how bold he was. Indeed, had it been but twenty years past, Jon would've held his tongue, but it seems she had wakened the dragon; alas, the relationship between her wolf and the prince has swiftly soured. Ciryon, though amiable, bore fierce jealousy for her love. Truthfully, she deemed him a spiteful, foolish boy, yet he was amusing to tease. As cruel as it may sound, he and his brother were perfect puppets to provoke her foolish wolf.

"Don't play the fool, my star! You had those simpering louts dancing to your tune... merely to amuse yourself," said Jon angrily. "By the Valar, you know Ciryon loathes my company at the best of times, and you stoked his ire rather ably."

"Oh, Jon, it was a mere game; must you act such a brute?" said Galadriel, eyes sparkling in mirth.

She smiled; even after all these years, it was still so easy to rile her wolf. Honestly, it had been her favoured pastime since their days in Dorwinion. Although, at times, he answered in kind, stoking the fires of jealousy within her. 

Truly, before meeting Jon, she hadn't imagined herself capable of such passionate jealousy. It was because of this jealousy that she treated Firiel like a beggar. Sansa and Arya had aided her in preventing that impudent woman from getting too close to her husband. Still, perhaps she was too cruel to the girl. Certainly, Firiel knew nothing of the marriage between Jon and herself, and many Dúnedain considered Írimë to be Jon's lawful wife.

Indeed, she felt no remorse for thwarting the girls' plans. Though her impudence was something to admire, openly lusting after the husband of a Noldorian princess was foolish. Yet, it would do her no good to mention Arya and Sansa's part in her plots, so she pushed the thoughts from her mind.

Galadriel smiled. "My dear husband, let us speak no more on this matter. There is no wisdom in redressing whatever grievances, real or fancied, between us," she said lustily. "Mayhap I could slip on my silver dress and dance for you as I did all those years ago."

Jon reddened and forgot his sadness, and it filled her with joy, knowing she could leave him speechless even after all their long years together.

Jon smirked and caressed her hand. "Ah, my sweet Galadriel... I shall hold you to that promise, but you must learn to control your jealousy," he said. "I know it is much to ask, but I love all of you dearly, and no foolish plots shall keep me from you... so please do this for me—no more schemes nor tricks."

Her eyes softened as she met her wolf's gaze, and his eyes gleamed like stars that shone the brighter as the night deepens, and she smiled as he kissed her forehead. His words, filled her heart with a fierce joy, and for a moment, they could forget their troubles. For a while, they did, spending the better part of the evening conversing as they used to until the tent had grown dark as the fire sank to a few embers. A splash of white on the floor came from the high moon peering down through the canopy of the tent.

Jon rose to his feet, glancing at Galadriel. "We should get some rest," he murmured. "It will be morning soon, and I'd rather we not be weary and agitated."

Galadriel nodded in agreement, a soft smile lingering on her lips. With a gentle breath, she extinguished the last embers, bathing the tent in the silvery pallor of the moon. They disrobed before slipping beneath the bearskin covers, finding solace in each other as sleep swiftly claimed them.

(The following Morning, Camp of the Last Alliance)

The next morning, they set out again soon after sunrise. There was a frost in the air, and the sky dotted with greying clouds; after a short breakfast, they set off again. They went openly but warily, with Loras accompanying the scouts ahead and others on foot upon either side, especially on the eastern side; for there lay shadowed thickets, and a tumbled land of ghylls and crags, behind which the grim slopes of Ephel Dúath rose like many spears. 

Now, near loomed the great rampart of Cirith Gorgor, and the Black Gate amidmost, the two vast iron doors of the Black Gate were thrown wide. Soon, the company rode through the gap into the ashen wastes beyond. As they drew nearer to the borders of the camp, the air seemed heavy with anguish. The soldiers avoided them as if they brought some malaise. Even as they approached, it seemed like a gathering of phantoms. Galadriel glanced about, noticing the Dúnedain seemed stricken down by sorrow and despair, and in the distance, they heard fair elven voices singing a lament for one lost.

"Something truly terrible has happened," thought Galadriel grimly. There was something else at work beyond the shadow of Sauron; it seemed a dread so heavy that she could scarcely think. Yet, she cared little for the anguish of the Dúnedain; she feared for her love. He had suffered needlessly, and her heart ached at the thought that he would suffer even more. She glanced at Jon, who was chatting happily with his aunt; both were blind to the sorrow of the Dúnedain and the Elves.

"By the Yavanna... why must we suffer such misery? Has Jon not suffered enough, have the Dúnedain or my kin?" Galadriel thought bitterly.

Some soldiers took notice of their return, doffing their caps and iron-rimmed helmets as they cantered past. Soon after, they reached the wain where all the baggage was held. Jon dismounted, and as a groom led the horse away, she heard approaching footsteps. Turning toward the sound, she saw a soldier with a great mane of red hair striding towards them. She remembered him; his name was Sûlchanar, and he had faithfully served Jon during his stewardship of Emyn Arnen."

"Welcome Prince Jon…Lady Galadriel" said Sûlchanar grimly.

Sûlchanar…" Jon said, turning and offering his hand to Galadriel, who smiled and slid off her mare. Next was Rhaenys, followed by Daenerys, and lastly came Arya, who frowned displeased at being helped last.

Damned fool," Arya grumbled, eyeing her with envy. Galadriel merely smiled at the girl's discontent, unworried by the brewing storm in Arya's gaze.

"Thank you, Prince Jon," Galadriel said, feeling a bit mischievous. She stooped and kissed Jon softly on his brow, fighting the desire to embrace him, as was her want, as a murmur of surprise arose among the soldiers.

Jon flushed and forgot all else. "You're welcome, my…Lady," he said. "I am pleased to be of service to so noble an elf."

Her boldness verged on folly, yet it filled her with quiet delight when she glimpsed her companions' displeasure. She allowed herself a careful smile. Although she knew Círdan would be displeased when word of this reached him, alas, those moments of joy were soon forgotten as the despair of the Dúnedain was terrible beyond measure.

Suddenly, she was struck by visions: at first, she could see little; there were only shadows, fire glowed amidst the smoke. She heard yells and the fierce cries of men. Unwilling, her eyes were drawn towards the dark tower, and she saw a great boulder hurled from on high. A howl of anguish echoed as the mist gave way, and she saw Isildur weeping, cradling the broken body of his brother. And as she glanced at her husband, it seemed he had discerned her thoughts. His eyes, glittering like the dawn, were hard and fell, yet tears adorned his cheeks. He sank to his knees, borne down by the weight of his grief.

"Jon!" Loras cried, rushing to his side.

Robar knelt beside Jon, wrapping his arm around him. "Brother, what is wrong with you?" he exclaimed. "Is it some trick of Sauron's?"

"Brother? Brother? What has happened?" Rhaenys asked nervously, fearing her brother had been bewitched by some foul sorcery.

"Jon..." Daenerys murmured, uncertain of what to do.

"Answer, fool!" cried Arya in dismay as Jon struggled to collect himself, and Ser Loras helped him back to his feet.

"By the Valar Jon, what is wrong with you?" asked Loras, bewildered. 

Jon returned her gaze but said nothing when she looked at him, her heart rent asunder, seeing the grief of her beloved as it consumed him, a bitter poison welling in his heart. Without thought, she embraced him, caring little if anyone saw them or the whispers of idle tongues.

"Hush, my wolf. We are here for you—all of us. I know your grief is great, and your loss cannot be mended. But please, don't give in," Galadriel said.

"What troubles Prince Jon?" asked a soldier in confusion, as he saw so proud a prince surrendering to sorrow, though no doubt the sight of her embracing Jon surprised them even more.

"My Prince has in a measure the foresight of the High Elves and can read the hearts of men as shrewdly as they might. No doubt, he has learned of what has happened in his absence," answered Sûlchanar sadly.

"Must we speak in riddles! What has happened?" grumbled Daenerys angrily.

"My Lady, it grieves me to tell you that King Anárion has died," said Sûlchanar, and passed his hand over his eyes, dashing away the tears, and for a moment, no one spoke a word.

"How did he fall?" asked Robar in a hoarse whisper.

"King Anárion's helm was crushed by a stone hurled from the top of Barad-Dûr…" said Sûlchanar, half chanting the words, shaking his head sadly and solemnly.

"Have they battered the Dark Tower in reprisal?" asked Rhaenys grimly, placing a comforting hand on Jon's shoulder.

"Yes, it is a new strategy that was decided recently in the last War Council; it is to force the Dark Lord out of his fortress," Sûlchanar said.

"How is Prince Meneldil?" asked Jon grimly.

"Alas, no tidings have been sent to the prince," Sûlchanar sighed wearily, "nor shall they be, for dread lingers that Meneldil might forsake Minas Anor in the hope of vengeance against Sauron."

"Lead me to Elendil; then, we cannot delay. Sauron shall pay for this, I swear it!" Jon said suddenly; he pulled away from her. Turning away as his tears threatened to flow anew, and a cold dread filled her heart, as she feared that her beloved would be consumed by his sorrow, or worse still, malice and revenge.

"Jon... I think you should..." Loras tried to say, but Jon paid him no heed. 

He turned to Galadriel, and took her hand and kissed it. "Thank you for kindness, my Lady," he said, glaring at Sûlchanar, "Now to take me to our King..." 

Several of the gathered Númenóreans scoffed, grumbling under their breath about his rudeness, and Galadriel frowned, knowing the day would no doubt turn sour.

"Foolish children…" Galadriel thought as she offered her arm, and Jon took it much to the ire of her companions, but she cared little as they would have their time with Jon tonight, and so they set off towards the King's tent.

It took them some time to reach the great gathering of tents. Indeed, it would've been swifter to ride, but after so long a journey, Lòmeroccoo and Calithiliel were weary and quite pleased to be left in the care of the squires. Thus, arm in arm, they strolled through the camp amidst the Númenóreans who mourned their fallen king.

"At least one of us shall know peace this day," Galadriel thought, as she heard the dirge of her kin ringing out through the valley.

She frowned as she felt the anguish of her wolf. Anárion had been dear to him as his own brother, and now a friendship that had endured since the days of his youth had ended because of the cruelty of the dark lord.

"We have arrived…" said Jon, glancing gloomily at the banners of his own tent.

He pushed aside the tent flap, revealing his home was much the same as he left it. The warm glow of candlelight welcomed them, and the air was filled with the scent of flowers, old leather, and rich woody smoke billowing from the hearth.

In the centre of the room, there was a great oaken table strewn with maps, as well as a decanter of ale and silvered goblets. On either side, a pair of armchairs awaited them. Jon strode towards one of the chairs, weariness conquering him as he sank into its soft embrace, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth.

Galadriel strode over and took Jon's hands, placing them together, palm to palm. She kissed them and then gently held them between her own. "I will always be here for you, my wolf," she said. "Mayhap we cannot share our love with the world, but here in our little home, it shall ever be yours."

Amid those happy thoughts, she suddenly recalled one such day in Imladris. Having quarrelled with Arianne regarding Jon's choice to dwell in Khazad-Dûm, she and her aunt were at their wit's end with the girls, and Írimë thought it best to make peace for Jon's sake. So, they extended invitations to everyone for morning tea, though the truth of the matter was she wished to know more about her dear wolf.

In those days, her beloved rarely spoke of Westeros, so hearing stories of his boyhood and early days was alluring. However, the mood soon turned sour as their conversation shifted towards her beloved's family and the tragedies that befell them after the death of Lord Stark and the betrayal of the Tyrells. 

She had learned the fate of Jon's uncle when they had first visited Harlond, but crueller still was the fate of her beloved's cousin Robb. She wept for that poor boy to be crowned so young and forced to lead his kingdom to war, only to be slain by those same men. Indeed, Arya wept when she spoke of how they defiled her brother's corpse—the proud King in the North, nought but carrion for want of a pretty girl.

"Alas, fate is cruel as my husband bears the burden of happenings beyond his control," Galadriel thought bitterly. "By the Valar, I wish I could make this right."

"My star," Jon uttered hoarsely, and as his eyes met hers, Galadriel glimpsed a sadness marred with a terrible bitterness, and she knew her love blamed himself for what had happened.

Her heart broke to see him so miserable, and she gracefully seated herself in his lap, and he, ever gentle, welcomed her. Suddenly, she stooped down to kiss him with all her love, hoping to offer him help from his pain and sorrow. Slowly, he returned the kiss, and she pulled him close, enjoying her beloved's warmth.

"Although I adore your kisses, my beloved Star, do you think our absence shall not be noticed?" Jon asked worriedly, yet she only laughed and kissed him again.

"No, my love, I am certain that Elendil and the others can wait a bit longer... nor do I think they would begrudge you a few moments to ourselves," Galadriel said tenderly, her thumb gently tracing the line of his beard.

"What are you planning my star?" Jon asked grimly, and Galadriel was saddened to hear that there were no glimmers of joy in his voice.

"Calm yourself, my wolf. I am here for you, and though you are grieving, you should not have snubbed your kin as you did," Galadriel said, caressing his hand gently.

"I know you're right, but…"

"Hush, Jon. I know your pain, but you mustn't shun those who love you. Remember, my love, this loss is not just yours, and Anárion would not wish for you to give in to despair," said Galadriel. "Despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not, though as folly it may appear to those who cling to false hope. But hope endures so long as we hold true to each other."

Galadriel kissed him again, and it was then that she sensed a subtle change, a flicker of hope kindling in the depths of Jon's troubled heart.

"In the midst of sorrow, find solace in the love we share, my wolf," she murmured, meeting his eyes. "Anárion's spirit lives on in the love that surrounds us. Embrace it, for it shall be thy guide through the darkest days."

"You speak truly, my star… Anárion's death was not in vain. Nor would he have me give up hope," sighed Jon, kissing her sweetly. "Forgive me for being selfish, my star. I was wrong to despair, and I will make things right with Loras and the others when they arrive."

"Oh, my Fool Wolf, you are far from selfish; indeed, there are few I have met whose hearts are as pure as yours," Galadriel said softly, and she felt his heart lighten in joy.

Jon smiled happily. "You always know what to say to lift my spirits," he said. "Even after all our long years together, our love still blooms bright… and I often wonder if I truly deserved your love or perhaps this is some beautiful dream, and if it is, I pray I do not wake."

"It is no dream, my beloved wolf. Though I do hope the others shall not be long, I know I have kept you from them, and it would be cruel of me to do so now; they love you as I do, and we shall share your burdens," said Galadriel, kissing him sweetly. They sat in the chair together, awaiting the arrival of the others.

"I haven't been the best husband...have I?" he asked, sure of the answer.

Galadriel frowned, and for a moment, he thought she might slap him. Then, he felt a sharp pain that was all too familiar, as if he had been struck by a bolt of fire. 

Jon groaned, clutching his head in pain, and glared angrily at Galadriel. However, to his disbelief, instead of an apologetic expression, he saw her smiling as if she had just told a humorous jape.

"My star… why must you curse me so?" groaned Jon. "I am not so blessed as to be unaffected by your magics."

"For not heeding my words, my beloved fool," Galadriel said gently. "You are a good husband and a devoted friend, and I have no doubt you will be a good father. We will help you bear this burden, as long as it is yours to bear. But do not wallow in misery, as you have done; my wolf Anárion would not wish that on you. Mourn him, my love, mourn him, and know that Anárion loved you as a brother. He would wish for you to live a long, happy life. But do not push us away, my love, for in your own suffering, you shall bring suffering upon the rest of us."

With those words, Galadriel gently rose from Jon's lap and seated herself on the bed. "Join me, my love," she whispered sweetly. "It will be some time before the others join us, and it would do us no good to greet them with heavy hearts."

He smiled warmly and joined her on the bed. Soon, she began to feel weary and rested her head in Jon's lap. She smiled as he gently stroked her hair. Soon, the tent was filled with the sweet sound of her wolf's voice. Her eyes began to droop, and the last thing she heard was the beautiful voice of her beloved singing sweetly of the spring.

(Sometime later)

"My Star... My star... you must wake up," Jon said softly.

"What?" grumbled, Galadriel opening her eyes.

"It would not be appropriate for the Lady of Edhellond to be seen using her dearest aunt's husband's lap as a pillow," Jon said mockingly; her eyes widened, and she shot up.

"What happened?" She said sleepily, and Jon helped her up.

"You fell asleep... near two hours, I think," Jon said, embracing her, and she could still smell the delicate scent of pipeweed and whiskey. It was comforting, and for a moment, she almost went back to sleep in his arms.

Galadriel smiled. "Only you, my love, could give me peaceful sleep in a horrid place like this," she said, standing up. "Though we had best seek out Elendil now, no doubt he wishes to speak with us."

Jon nodded in agreement, and together, they swiftly departed from the tent. Yet, as they were on the verge of seeking out the king's tent, Galadriel saw a shock of silver hair among the soldiers. It appeared their companions had found them, with Rhaenys in the lead, followed by Arya and Daenerys, who glared at her with unmistakable jealousy, while Jon was met with looks of anger and reproach.

"Alas, I fear they are just as angry at me as they are at him. We shall have to make this right somehow, but for now, let us hope Rhaenys isn't too angry," thought Galadriel and a glance at her beloved told her that he felt much the same.

Jon glanced at her before approaching Rhaenys, yet as he tried to speak, his sister's glare quietened the words, and for a moment, he thought she might smack him. Instead, she addressed him with a cold disinterest that clove through the air like the bite of winter.

"We shall rest a bit then; I shall speak with you, dear brother," snarled Rhaenys.

With that, she pushed past him, no doubt, to find her tent and freshen up. He thought to follow her, but then he felt a hand on his shoulder. When he turned around, he was met by the stern countenance of his aunt, her bright eyes glittering in anger.

"Leave her, Jon. She's not angry, nor am I, but you are a fool, wholly and utterly," said Daenerys angrily. "Even after all these years, you're still that grim and dour man I met in Essos. You do not need to push us away; I am your wife. Your burdens are mine, and though I may not be an elf, I love you all the same."

With those words, Daenerys swiftly followed after her niece. Jon glanced at Arya; his cousin's countenance held no pity nor even anger—she seemed as stone.

"Arya, I…"

"Quiet, Jon!" growled Arya. "There is nought you can say that will make this right. I know your pain, my love. Anárion was a good man, but I will not see you give in to sorrow as you did when you learned Robb's fate." 

Galadriel was surprised by her strength of will since the girl still had a hard time talking about her older brother after witnessing the monstrous insult that his corpse received from those perjurers.

"Arya…" Jon's voice was no more than a croaking whisper, and she swiftly moved to envelop him in a tight embrace.

"Fool… You're a fool, Jon. We shall bear this burden together!" Arya exclaimed, holding him fiercely as if she could shield him from the burden of grief alone.

With that, she followed after Rhaenys. For a moment, his thoughts drifted to Robb, and he knew he would be disappointed. Alas, he had little time to ponder their words as Loras and Robar approached, both looking wholly disappointed in him.

"Hello, Jon... My Lady Galadriel," said Robar, bowing.

"Ser Robar..." she answered.

Robar nodded and brushed the sweat from his brow. As he did, Loras came last, his countenance grim and sad. 

Jon frowned, "Hello, brother. Have you come to shame me as well?" 

Loras made as if to speak, but no words came out, and his eyes darkened.

"No," said Loras, his voice full of sadness.

"Loras..." Jon began, but his words trailed off when his brother-in-arms swiftly drew his sword, pressing its gleaming blade to his throat, rage, and sadness in his eyes.

"Fool…Anárion was our friend as well," he snarled. "I Know well your pain, you have the same look about you as I did when Renly died but I shan't let you give into to your grief, we shall mourn him together or if I must I'll knock some fucking sense into you!"

"Thank you, brother," Jon said.

"Your brother is right, Jon," said Galadriel after a time, glancing at Loras. "Even if his methods are questionable," 

At her words, Loras face went pale as he realised that Galadriel was standing beside him, and he hadn't thought to greet her.

"By the Valar!" gasped Loras, his eyes widening with fear. "Forgive me, my Lady; I forgot you were standing there. I beg your pardon for any offence," he hastily added, stumbling over his words and glancing around, perhaps wondering if an elvish arrow would snuff him out like a candle.

Galadriel smiled, her eyes glinting in amusement. "Hmm, a poor showing on your part, Lord Loras, but I shall forgive for your blunder just this once," she said. "Though I would greatly appreciate if you did not draw your blade in my company again."

Jon howled with laughter, thoroughly enjoying his brother's blunder. Loras, his face flushing with shame, then, without warning, tackled Jon to the ground. The suddenness caught him off guard as the two tumbled in the ash, and soon, the air was filled with the sound of cursing and fighting as the brothers settled their differences the only way they knew how.

Loras landed a solid blow to Jon's chest, and he swiftly retaliated. Soon, they drew a crowd of onlookers, men and elves alike, who bore witness to their commanders rolling around in the dirt like a pair of squabbling children fighting over a bauble.

"How could I have fallen in love with a fool like Jon?" thought Galadriel as she watched her husband brawling with his brother. She knew it wouldn't do, and they were drawing a large crowd, so she swiftly hoisted Jon to his feet, glaring down at him with silent admonishment.

Once it was apparent the brawl was over, the gathered soldiers began to disperse. A soft murmur spread through the crowd as they exchanged bemused glances, remarking on the peculiar customs of the Westerosi, while the elves grumbled about how men of such standing should not behave like children.

"My star, why—" Jon tried to say more, but she pinched his cheek hard and frowned.

"It seems, my love, you can't help but embarrass me as well as yourself when we are in polite company. Mayhap my aunt Írimë enjoys this foolishness and will humour such madness, but I'm afraid, my love, that I am not such a woman, and I have little patience for fools," said Galadriel angrily.

Loras laughed as his brother's face reddened in embarrassment, but it was swiftly silenced as Robar cuffed him hard on the back of the head.

"By the Valar, you bronze bastard, that hurt!" Loras cried angrily, shooting a burning glare at Robar.

"Spare me your witlessness, you preening rose. Even after all these years, you and Jon act like spoiled children. Perhaps that may be allowed in private, but not in front of our men. You're princes now act like it!" Robar growled. 

Galadriel wished to come to Jon's defence, but she knew Robar spoke truly. Despite being great lords, Loras and Jon often acted like squabbling children. Indeed, it was a wonder they hadn't gone grey before their time, but still, she loved him all the same.

"Though perhaps I have made a mistake," mused Galadriel. She gently took Jon's arm, and together they turned toward the camp. Behind them, Loras and Robar followed, engrossed in a spirited argument about some foolish topic that would no doubt take the better part of the evening to settle.

(Camp of the Last Alliance)

As they drew nearer to the King's tent, they saw that the many bright banners of the Númenoreans had been taken down and replaced with banners of sable, the colours of mourning.

It seemed that the elves of Edhellond had received tidings of their ladies' coming and hastened to welcome them.

Soon, a Silvan stepped forward to greet them. Tall and clad in fine leathers, his eyes were green as grass in the morning sun, he carried a bow and a quiver and at his belt a long white knife.

"Welcome and well met, Lady Galadriel!" the elf declared, bowing low. He then offered his arm to Galadriel, seemingly uncaring of Jon's presence.

Galadriel regarded him for a moment. "Thank you kindly… but I have an escort already, and I imagine you are far too busy to waste time on the matter."

The elf frowned. "My lady, it would be more proper for you to be escorted by an elf," he said. "It is only right when attending a council that we show such unity, and I'd wager that I may be a more respectable company."

Jon scowled. "And what, pray tell, is your meaning of respectable company?" 

The elf sneered at Jon, a disdainful curl forming on his lips. "Perhaps men who don't roll around in the dirt like a dog," he said. "Tis a shame that the lady Írimë might give her hand to one so boorish."

Jon scowled, untangling his arm from Galadriel's. His hand closed firmly around the hilt of his sword, and his bright eyes flashed.

"Be silent," Jon snarled, his voice cruel and cold. "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth, or I can have you returned to the dirt this evening, if you like. The worms might find you better company."

Slowly, the elf rose. He looked at Jon and opened his mouth as if to speak. Then suddenly, he drew himself up. His hands worked, and his eyes glittered. Such hatefulness was in them that others stepped back from him. He bared his teeth, and then, with a hissing breath, he spat at Jon's feet. Darting to one side, he fled back into the camp, no doubt to lick his wounds.

It was then that another elf came forward, far older than his companion. His face was gaunt, etched with heavy wrinkles and lines. He was clad in silvered plate, its once-gleaming surface now dulled and tarnished by the ashen air of Mordor. He regarded Jon for a moment, then bowed low.

"I beg your pardon, Prince Jon," he said. My son is young and foolish. For many years, he had harboured hopes of marrying Lady Írimë himself. Alas, he does not see what others see, and I know such a union would be miserable. We are honoured to see you and your companions again, and I hope you shall not let this tarnish your opinion of us."

Jon nodded. "Fear not, old one, I have dealt with far worse than your son," he said. "Though may I ask Who are you? Whom do you serve?"

"Tinwendur, servant of King Thranduil," answered the elf, "I serve his grace as the Master of Arms of Amon Lanc and warden of the southern glens."

"Ah, Tinwendur," added Galadriel, "I remember your father well from his days as a march warden of Doriath. It is heartening to see that you have kept up the family tradition."

Tinwendur smiled graciously. "Thank you, Lady Galadriel," he replied. "My father spoke fondly of you."

Galadriel smiled. "He was a good man and a good friend; indeed, he was the one who introduced me to Celeborn," she said. "It broke my heart to hear that he was slain at Serech."

Tinwendur nodded solemnly. "Indeed, I miss him dearly," he replied. "Though it is best we don't dwell on such unhappy memories."

Though as they spoke, they spied a troop of horsemen riding past, escorting a line of wains. They were filled with wounded men, all that could be saved from the last sallying of the Trolls.

Jon frowned in sadness. The words he was about to speak left him as a third elf rushed forward; a sheen of sweat covered his brow, and his face flushed. It seemed he had come running as if a dragon were on his heels.

"My Lady... you've returned!" he gasped; his breath ragged. "It brings me joy, though I regret to inform you that terrible things have happened while you were away."

Galadriel's eyes briefly fell upon the young elf, clad in silvered mail and scarlet tabard. Remembering him as one of her footmen, a frown creased her noble features, for she knew all too well the tidings he bore.

"Indeed, young one, I already discern much, and I can read more in your face and the unspoken grief behind your eyes," said Galadriel. "The passing of Lord Anárion is a great tragedy, yet we must stay true to ourselves and harbour hope that we may witness the end of this war."

The elf bowed gracefully. "I am Cúndur, at your service, my lady. Allow me to escort you and the Prince of Osgiliath to King Elendil's tent. Our lords have gathered to discuss our plans for the coming years."

Galadriel glanced at Jon, who shared her look of surprise before offering his arm again. She took it gladly.

"Very well, Cúndur," spoke Galadriel, though she caught a flicker of confusion in the young elf's eyes at their closeness. For a moment, a worry lingered that he might question them, but he chortled and led them towards the largest gathering of tents. 

At last, the company arrived at the King's tent. It seemed the soldiers who accompanied them had learned of the unhappy news. Many were stone-faced, though a wave of fresh grief swept across the camp as the soldiers busied themselves with other tasks or sought out their commanders for new orders. It was truly sad to see the proud Númenoreans brought so low, but there was still much to do.

Cúndur turned to them, bowing respectfully. "This is where I take my leave," he said before turning and departing.

On either side of the tent's doorway stood two elves clad in silvered plate, their bright blue surcoats adorned with embroidered stars, in their hands were great broad axes. Upon noticing them, the rightmost elf slipped inside the tent, leaving the other to stand guard outside.

"The Lady Galadriel and the Prince of Osgiliath," they heard from within the tent.

"Let them enter," said another voice in answer.

A moment later, the guard reappeared and beckoned them to enter. Galadriel and Jon passed through the opening. Galadriel felt a heavy weight upon her heart; the air was thick with melancholy.

Elendil and Gil-galad stood side by side, grim and silent, as they glanced at maps and missives. Nearby, Thranduil sat in quiet reflection, nursing a goblet of wine. Durin sat close by, puffing on his pipe while running a whetstone down the blade of his axe.

Magni, Círdan, Elrond, and Glorfindel were seated around the large table, debating plans for the coming skirmishes and the various news from their spies abroad. Meanwhile, Isildur and Elendur sat away from the council, their countenances stony and grim.

"I am glad to see them all, yet I long for a more joyful reunion," thought Jon. Galadriel felt a stirring of hope within her, hope that soon the war would end, and they could return to Osgiliath to live in peace for the rest of their days.

"Lady Galadriel," said Gil-galad solemnly.

Galadriel felt vexed as she reluctantly parted from Jon but bowed courteously before taking her place at the table.

"My King... We have returned," Jon said hoarsely as he and his brothers knelt before Elendil, their countenances grim.

"Rise, Jon, on your feet, lad... I'm glad to have you back with us so soon after," Elendil said, his voice hoarse and strained, as his son placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I know, my King... I should have been here," Jon said, and tears started in his eyes. "I shouldn't have left my place here with my men."

It was then that they heard a rustle of fabric as the tent flap parted, and Arya, Rhaenys, and Daenerys entered. Their eyes alighted upon Jon, and they frowned, knowing perhaps they were too cruel. They exchanged knowing glances, and Arya stepped forward, gently taking his hand in hers.

"Yes... You should have," Isildur whispered, his voice cold and lifeless yet laden with sorrow. His eyes now gleamed bright with hate as they fixed upon Jon.

Isildur's stood glowering over him. "Where were you?" he snarled. "Where were you when our men were slaughtered like pigs, their lives taken by a relentless hail of arrows and stones? Where were you when Anárion's helm was crushed?"

Arya's eyes glinted, and then, swift as a serpent, her hand darted to her side, seizing the hilt of her sword. In an instant, the blade was unsheathed with a metallic hiss, gleaming in the dim light as Arya pointed it towards Isildur's throat in challenge.

He looked at her in astonishment, his countenance flickering with shock before hardening into a mask of defiance. Yet Arya did not cower; rather, she looked ready to slay the man for his cruel words.

It seemed the two would come to blows, but Elendil stepped between them and raised his hand.

"Isildur... Enough," his voice thundered. "You know well that Jon's absence was by my orders, not his cowardice. Do not stain your brother's memory with such cruel words. It was I who commanded Jon's path to Minas Ithil. If blame must be laid, let it rest upon my shoulders."

Arya glowered at Isildur. "It would be wise to heed your father's words, Isildur," she cautioned grimly. "Accuse Jon again unjustly, and you will find me far less forgiving."

With that, Arya sheathed her sword and cast one last stern glance at Isildur before turning on her heel and rejoining Jon.

Isildur looked at them doubtfully, but he bowed his head. "Forgive me, Jon, for that was unjustly cruel," he sighed. "I loved him dearly, and now he is gone."

"I know, old friend," Jon said grimly. "I will help you bear this grief so long as you wish."

For a few moments, none said a word until Glorfindel smiled and embraced him, filling him with hope as they exchanged pleasantries. Grief gave way to camaraderie, and their hearts were lightened, if but a little. Even Círdan embraced him, much to his happiness, as he thought of the man as a father.

"My king," said Robar, turning to Elendil, "May I ask where Anárion's body is? We did not see any wain nor retinue when we arrived."

"My son's body is being guarded by my grandson Meneldil, preserved by ancient magics so that you might bid him farewell. Then he shall be taken thither to Minas Anor and laid to rest in Houses of the Dead," Elendil said sadly. 

Upon hearing these words, sombre gratitude swept over the Westerosi, especially Jon, who wished to bid his old friend farewell.

"Thank you for your generosity, my King..." Jon whispered solemnly, and Galadriel wished she could embrace him, but a knowing glance from Círdan stopped her.

"There will be a time to mourn for Lord Anárion...But unfortunately, today is not that day..." said Thranduil, 

"Thranduil is right, so let us turn back to the issue of our strategy; it has gone well so far, though not as well as we could hope," Gil-galad said.

"I spoke with the guards at the baggage train, but they told me little of what you had planned," said Galadriel.

"We thought it best to trap the orcs inside Barad-dûr, hoping that the beasts might turn on one another and force Sauron to take the field", Gil-galad replied to the surprise of her and the others.

"It is a sound plan, but it seems rather—" Jon began.

"Wearying? Yes, I'm afraid so, my friend, but alas, we have no choice; for six years, we have laid siege to Barad-dûr, but we are no closer to breaking down the gate than when we first began. The walls of the Dark Tower are redoubtable and cannot be undone even by the siege craft of my kin." Magni growled, drawing thoughtfully at his pipe.

"It has worked well so far, though we should not underestimate Sauron," Gil-galad said wisely.

"The orcs will be driven to such madness even Sauron will be forced to come forth lest he loses his army," said Amroth, but doubt was in his eyes.

"Sauron is now greater in mastery of those beasts than even his own master; they will kill themselves for his amusement if he orders them to... we may avoid bloodshed, but it shall take many years," Galadriel said calmly.

"Yes, my Lady, but we've no choice… we must force Sauron to leave his tower, or we leave his lands, and if we do, the sacrifices of our friends shall be in vain, and I doubt we shall have another opportunity… the end of this war is near; we merely have to deliver the final blow," Círdan said wisely, and for a moment, they were filled with hope, and Galadriel couldn't help but smile as she imagined her life in Osgiliath with Jon.

"But alas, our happiness shall come at a steep price; the loss of the son of Elendil was the first of the many sacrifices that will have to be made to win this war" Galadriel thought in dismay.

"I know it's not the time, but...how are my sons Jon?" Isildur asked with a faint smile, and instantly, Jon's face hardened.

"They were in good spirits, my lord, when last I saw them, and Minas Ithil is well cared for; little by little, we are rebuilding," Jon said in a kindly manner, yet Isildur glimpsed a flash of anger in his eyes.

"It does my heart good to hear that, but I'm not foolish enough to forget that my youngest doesn't hold you in high esteem… I hope they didn't cause you any trouble?" Isildur asked wearily.

"Both were courteous as expected of two Princes of the Dúnedain, and we wanted for nothing during our stay," said Jon kindly.

"That pleases me greatly," Isildur said, frowning as he spoke.

"I think once the war is over, I shall talk with my grandchildren, especially with Ciryon," Elendil said, frowning.

"Ah, foolish child… it seems he shall deal with the folly of his jealousy," thought Galadriel. "The unions between our peoples were ordained by the will of Illúvatar, with divine purpose guiding them. Though the first unions of Eldar and Men were made with courage and ignorance of consequence, they bore children of great destiny. But not all are destined for such unions. I see no doubt that my aunt and I will join our blood with that of my beloved Jon. But that fate is not yours, Ciryon Son of Isildur."

"In that case, let us proceed with the Council of War, for we have the wisdom of the Westerosi and the daughter of the High King," said Lord Glorfindel.

"It will be an honour," Galadriel replied, gracefully taking a seat to the left of Elendil. With a subtle glance, she told Daenerys to sit beside Jon. She had been rather cruel to them as of late, and now she must make amends.

As Daenerys settled next to Jon, Galadriel silenced any passing thoughts of jealousy and steeled herself for talks of war. When her husband took his place beside her, she took his hand into her own, and the council began earnestly.

"Let us pray that we may end this war swiftly, and no more hurt shall befall my beloved." Galadriel thought tiredly.

(1 year later the black lands of Mordor)

A year had passed since Anárion's death, and it seemed fortune had turned against them; thousands had perished before the Dark Tower. Indeed, such was the death that the soldiers had taken to Mordor, the red land stained with the blood of noblemen and fair elves.

As Jon sat there drawing thoughtfully at his pipe, memories of his youth filled his mind. Often, he would pretend to be Daeron the young dragon or even the dragon knight, wishing he could be a great hero in his own tales, yet as he now faced his own battles, such dreams rang hollow such was the death of this war that even the rebellions of Westeros seemed worthless, indeed despite their labours to keep the orcs locked inside the tower the siege seemed without end and the valour of westernesse had been sorely taxed, by the cruelty of this cursed land.

Even in his mind, thoughts took shape, like a shadow of doubt, as it seemed their plans had failed. It had been a year, yet the Dark Lord seemed in no hurry to break the siege, and day by day, he could see that the soldiers succumbed to the misery and death that hung heavy in the air with each passing day. Their thoughts turned to home.

But perhaps that was Sauron's plan to outlast them, just as his master had done against the elves many centuries ago.

"I cannot give in to despair," thought Jon wearily.

"Are you well, Jon?" said Loras, drawing him from his thoughts.

"Aye, Loras, I'm just weary," Jon said, glancing at his brother, and couldn't help but notice the change in him.

The years had indeed been kind to his brother. Now, he stood taller than Garlan and broader still, with a beard as coarse and dark as the boughs of an oak. Though his right cheek bore a cruel scar taken in defence of Elendur some four months past, Loras now seemed his brother's twin, which vexed him to no end.

"Aye, 'tis no wonder. We've been in this damned trench near a fortnight, waiting for an attack that seems no closer. Valar spit upon Sauron for his cowardice." Loras grumbled, drawing on his pipe, and Jon nodded, though he was restless as if the days had grown longer like the deep breath before the plunge.

"But the battle will come…" Jon thought, casting wary glances at the dark tower.

At that moment, Jon reached into his pack and fished out a packet. The cakes were broken, but good, still in their leaf-wrappings. He broke off a portion of a wafer and handed it to Loras on its leaf-wrapping; his brother took it with a smile, and they munched their lembas in silence.

They sat in silence for some time, the taste bringing back to them the memory of fair faces, laughter, and wholesome food in quiet days now far away. For a while, they ate thoughtfully until Jon spied Robar walking towards them, a crate nestled under one arm and a pipe clenched between his teeth. With purposeful strides, Robar approached and set the crate down before settling himself upon it, the pipe emitting wisps of fragrant smoke as he joined them.

"A gift from your fair lady?" Robar said, blowing several large smoke rings, and Jon handed him a waft of the hard bread.

"If it had been one of his wife's cakes, he wouldn't have given us anything," Loras snorted.

"You both would do well to keep silent... Galadriel gave it to me in secret, and I'd rather not explain to the men why the Lady of Light gave some Lembas only to me." Jon grumbled, his brothers nodding in agreement as they swiftly devoured the bread. Casting a glance at Robar, he couldn't help but notice the change in his brother.

Many had described his brother as rough-hewn in their youth, and it seemed the years had finally hewed away that boyish charm. His face was stern and hard as stone, his once dark hair now flecked with grey, and his pale eyes keen as swords. Indeed, Jon thought he looked like his father, but it had been so long since he had seen Lord Royce that he couldn't rightly remember.

"Bah, it looks like we'll be stuck here for another fortnight…by the Valar; I am sick of all this waiting; Andreth is no doubt furious with me for being away so long," Robar grumbled, taking another draw of his pipe.

"Aye, brother, I'm weary of all this fighting. I'd like to return to the North; we roses don't do well in ashes," Loras said.

"My boy must be near seven now, and I haven't even met him," Jon said sadly, "Once this war is over, I'll bring Arianne and my grandmother south and Valar willing spend the rest of my days in Osgiliath, maybe I'll take up shipbuilding."

They stared at him momentarily before Robar placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Jon, sometimes I forget that you don't really know your son; damn, it's not fair that you've missed so much of his life", Robar said kindly.

Jon smiled. "Mayhap, I missed his childhood, but I'll be there for all the rest…Even if I have to tear down that damn tower, stone by stone," he said. "Still, I am glad we may share this, Robar."

Robar smiled. "Aye, and I'll be there to see him become a man," he said. "We've followed you through all else; fatherhood shall be our next great adventure."

"Likewise, we are brothers now and always," Loras said, and Jon smiled and embraced him.

At that moment, the ground quivered and trembled beneath them. The great rumbling noise, like the boom of thunder, rolled in the ground and echoed through the mountains. Oroduin spewed forth flames, then with a searing suddenness, there came a great red flash. It leapt in the sky and stained the clouds with crimson. And Barad-dûr answered. There was a flare of livid lightings: forks of red flame crept up from the tower… The earth groaned, and the great gate opened like a cavernous maw. And out of the gate, an army came.

"It seems that Sauron has grown tired of us lingering at his doorstep," Loras said, drawing his sword.

Jon lifted his horn to his lips and blew, and the blasts of it smote the hills and echoed like thunder. Straightaway, it was welcomed by many in return as the men of the West girded themselves for war.

"Be on your guard. The worst is yet to come," Robar said fearfully. 

Jon said nothing as he drew Ringil and shouldered his shield. Terror gripped his heart as he beheld the great army pouring forth from Barad-dûr. 

Rank upon rank of plate-clad orcs, their black eyes glittering with keen malice as they marched forth. Behind them loomed great trolls of Gorgoroth, some wielding massive hammers and bucklers, while others beat upon great war drums. Their eyes were filled with a savage hunger for battle as they bellowed and roared, leading their brethren to war. Yet among the orcs, there were also many men of the south and east, clad in the black and crimson of Mordor. Their cruel jeers and curses rang out over the beat of the drums. Lastly came the dwarves, plated in burnished armour of heavy plate and jagged scales, crowned with tall helms crested by black horns and cruel spikes. They exuded an aura of dread. Their livery, bright and bloody, fluttered in the wind, a stark contrast against the darkened sky. Their faces looked bestial and twisted with deathless eyes that held nought but fury and rage. They marched in lockstep like the cogs of some great war engine, bellowing curses in the Black Speech and banging upon their bright, blazoned shields.

"By the Valar! They're akin to a swarm of locusts!" Loras cried out in dismay, his heart heavy at the sight of the great horde.

"It seems all of the pits of Mordor have been emptied," Robar said, and the air grew chill as a hidden menace passed over them.

"The Nazgûl have come!" Jon exclaimed, and in that moment, he felt as if the weight of the mountains was placed on him, horror and dread filling his heart; he staggered, his legs buckling beneath the weight of the encroaching darkness as if the air had become malice.

Toiling to hold his composure, Jon battled against the rising tide of fear that threatened to consume him. With each step he took, it felt as though the very ground quivered beneath his feet, the earth trembling in fear at the approach of the Nazgûl.

"By the Valar, it's him!" Loras exclaimed as the orcs parted ranks, and Jon's face went pale as he saw him walking amongst the troops, flanked on either side by the Nazgûl, their dark forms casting a pall over the land.

He loomed over them like a tower, iron crowned, clad in armour black as stormclouds in one hand; he carried a great mace, gleaming like flame, and in the other a vast shield, sable unblazoned and soon the air grew hot as the breath of a dragon and its terror was far greater: it pierced them with cold blades of horror and despair, stopping heart and breath.

Sauron, The Lord of Mordor and the Lord of the Rings had come at last to break the siege of Barad-dûr.

"Eru, give me strength," Jon whispered.

Notes:

thanks to great_red who checked on me and made sure I got it done