Smoke.
Smoke rose from all of Mordor, hiding most of it from view. The darkness there seemed alive, pulsing viciously and greeting Gandalf with angry whispers. He paid no heed, urging the eagle onwards.
Arrows were shot at him, but they fell back to the ground. He was still Gandalf the White, and no mere arrow would slay his form.
But the darkness was greater now, and even his white garments seemed dark.
Beyond all hope, he was looking for Aragorn, to bring some light to the men. There had to be hope. There had to be something but darkness. There had to be. The Valar could not let this come to be… Could they?
Some of the Nazgûl were probably near, and he scoured the darkness intently. Below him, orcs in the thousands were charging onwards. They would soon sweep over Middle-earth like a black tide, washing away all that held beauty.
"Oh Frodo," he whispered. They should not have given the young hobbit that burden. Foolish, foolish plan. Yet it had seemed so.. Destined. What had gone wrong?
Something came flying at him, and it took him a moment to realise who it was. Riding a winged steed like those of the Ringwraiths was Saruman, speeding away from Mordor.
"Saruman!" Gandalf cried out, torn between anger and despair. The Ents must have fallen. The Shadow had come to Fangorn. One more battle lost. One more wonder of the ancient world lost.
Soon it would all fall to Sauron and be gone and he would have failed.
He lifted his staff at the very same moment Saruman lifted his eyes and their gazes met. There was something in Saruman's gaze – desperation, anger, grief? Or was it... Regret?
Fire shot out of Gandalf's staff, striking the steed. The fire lit up in the darkness for a brief moment, and Gandalf saw suddenly that the steed carried not only Saruman. There were two men on it, one huddled in front with an arm hanging limp. A dark shape, but oh, so very familiar.
Aragorn. For a moment, Gandalf only stared, everything suddenly so clear. His old friend and leader of the council had not been beyond redemption. There was hope. Saruman had saved Aragorn! In the darkest moment there was a ray of light, unexpected and unlooked for.
The fire struck its target and the steed fell, screeching. Gandalf urged the eagle onwards within seconds, and it dove to make the catch. The air rushed against him, but he clung on, willing the eagle to go faster, faster, faster.
He had to make it.
Down they went.
******
Legolas was not sure what time of the day it was when they finally made their way out of the cave. The darkness offered no answers, and nature was silent, fearful and cold. It could be night, it could be day, it did not matter.
The orcs had moved further north, leaving a telltale sign behind. There was only destruction and death in their wake.
Smoke rose from Lothlórien still, and it was enough to bring tears to his eyes yet again. So many elves, so many trees, so much beauty lost forever.
But not the Lady of Lothlórien. Even grieved and silent, she was beautiful. A morning star heading into the darkness of Mordor.
Mordor. They were heading for it, not fleeing from it as would have been wise. The mere name was terror and evil. Mordor. All that left it did so with evil in their hearts. Yet she did not seem afraid, nor did Gimli.
The dwarf was walking so close to her she nearly tripped over him a few times. His eyes watched the forest, as if he was daring the orcs to come. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he too felt like Legolas did, that fighting made the pain seem less. There was no time to think then, only react.
But here in the dark, silent landscape, there as no escape from memories, no hiding from pain.
Aragorn.
The elf lifted his glance to Galadriel, seeing in her face only understanding. It would almost be better if there was blame, not more sadness for her feeling with him.
He shivered at the intensity of her glance, so keen and caring and old even now.
'I will not let you fall, fair light of Lothórien,' he swore to himself.
'And you, brave spirit of Mirkwood? Will you fall?' she replied in his mind, and he looked startled at her. Her voice sounded so soft, like the trickle of gentle rain on leaves. It made him think of Mirkwood in the autumn, and for a brief second the pain was gone.
It came back with such force he nearly stumbled. Mirkwood would be run over by orcs. Never again would he stand in the autumn rain or walk through dewed moss in the great forest.
"What else is there but death now?" he asked, and Gimli looked up, frowning.
"Dying for the right reasons, Legolas Greenleaf," she replied, her eyes never leaving his. "Aragorn would expect nothing less of you both."
"The only dead here will be orcs," Gimli broke in, "Each fallen elf shall have ten orcs felled by me, lady Galadriel. You will be our light."
"And you, Gimli son of Glóin, will be our courage," she said softly. "Without hope, we must rely on courage. Courage and.." It seemed as if she would say more, but her voice faltered.
They spoke no more, picking up speed through the silent landscape. Onwards they went, the shadows engulfing them, but a faint light shone about them still.