The dust settled in the dimly lit corridor as Khanar fell to the ground, the echo of his thick armor hitting the pavestones reverberating through the walls. Gilian collapsed, exhausted and in pain. She let out a cough as she gently touched her throat, making sure that she was uninjured. Khanar's grip had been tight, but aside from breaking the skin and leaving some painful bruises it had done little actual damage.

Gerithor, who had seconds ago been levitating off the ground, was now on his knees, his head in his hands. He was no longer the vengeful spirit that had killed the Easterling king; He was a ranger again, small and afraid. Gilian could hear his heavy breathing as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

"That... That wasn't me Gilian. It wasn't. I couldn't control myself." His voice was subdued; She could hear a hint of fear in it. She slowly limped over to him, putting a comforting arm around his shoulders.

"Whatever it was, it's over now. And it saved us both." She could feel Gerithor trembling, all strength having left him. His injuries, though not severe, were still bleeding, and his countenance was pale. Gilian was certain that she looked the same way, and with a sinking feeling she realized that neither of them would be able to go far enough to get help.

She rested her head on Gerithor's shoulder, her exhaustion taking over. She wondered if the battle outside still raged on. She could only imagine how much blood had been shed... And if it was over, who had prevailed? If the enemy had, it was only a matter of time before they were discovered.

The thought entered her mind that it was possible, however unlikely, that both sides had decimated each other, and that she and Gerithor were the last remaining survivors. It was a frightening thought, for if nobody had survived they too would eventually die in this very corridor, abandoned and without hope.

Her ears perked up at the sound of distant voices, and a chill went down her spine. Easterlings.

"Ya'wa uno su'chama na'ar," one of the voices said hushedly.

"Ger no'a?" Another added. Gilian could now hear the clank of armored boots as the two voices got closer. She gave Gerithor a fearful glance.

"It's okay," Gerithor whispered comfortingly. "Don't be afraid." He pulled her closer and drew his sword, prepared to defend them both despite the magnitude of his injuries.

Two figures rounded the corner, and they stopped in surprise when they laid eyes on the two rangers. They were dressed in mismatched armor, some of which looked Easterling in origin. It was apparent right away that they were not Easterlings, though.

"Dale?" One of them inquired, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. Gilian looked to Gerithor, confused.

"No," Gerithor replied, his voice hoarse and weak. "Dunedain." Gilian nodded in understanding. The newcomer wished to know where they were from.

"Westron though, yes?" He pointed to his companion. "Harad. Friends of Westron."

Gerithor tilted his head inquiringly. "Enemies of Sauron?"

Both warriors nodded emphatically, and the silent one hit his forearm in what Gilian assumed was a hostile gesture. "Blood enemies," the other said.

Gerithor let out an audible sigh of relief. "We are injured," he said, pointing to his wounds. "We need help."

The Haradrim nodded. "We take you to help."

=====================================

Glorfindel wandered aimlessly down the main hall, the silence almost deafening. Now that the dust had settled, he could truly see just how catastrophic the losses had been on both sides. Glorfindel had fought in many battles and had seen much death, but not like this. Countless hundreds of bodies littered the thoroughfare, and blood ran in small rivers toward the gate. Many were the bodies of dwarves, elves, men, and orcs alike, for Death was not discriminate in who she claimed.

He soon found himself outside the mountain, on the desolate battlefield that was just beginning to be illuminated with the gloomy vermilion light of a red dawn. This is what it has come to, he thought with the heavy weight of sorrow in his heart. That so many should die for a thing so small. The sun may rise, but the light of hope has forever set behind the mountains of Shadow. Like the last of royal blood, its like shall never return to this world. This world that has been consumed by hate and destruction. Is there a place for hope in a world so dark? Is there a future for a place so cold?

He came to a small hillock that overlooked the gate. Far in the distance, he could see the Misty Mountains, and he felt a longing for home. A longing to leave this place of suffering, where only the dead lingered.

He turned away, overcome with sadness, but his eyes landed upon a sight that only filled him with more sorrow.

His dark armor was stained with blood, though whether it was his or that of his enemies Glorfindel could not tell. His sword was still in his lifeless hand, and his pale jade eyes were cast skyward. At his side was Taliel, her head still resting on the other elf's shoulder. She too was blanched in death, but her eyes were closed and an expression of peace was on her face.

Glorfindel knelt beside them, head lowered in a moment of silent respect. Caledorn had been a mighty warrior and a steadfast counselor and friend. In many ways, he was the exact opposite of Glorfindel. Where Glorfindel was outspoken, he was reserved and silent. Where Glorfindel was joyful, he was often dark and spoke of doom. But despite their differences, they had been good friends, complementing each other's weaknesses and fighting with an almost unnatural synergy in battle. Glorfindel would miss him.

"Caledorn... idh di sidh, hanar nin," Glorfindel whispered, gently closing Caledorn's eyes. He quickly wiped a tear from his cheek and rose, nodding slowly in finality. This war had claimed too many... He would do everything he could to make sure it didn't claim more.

=======================

Dol Guldur

"Fool!" Khamul hissed, landing a hard slap across Zaskia's face. "We failed because of you."

Zaskia nursed her stinging cheek, violet eyes glaring at the wraith. "We failed because of a lack of information."

"That was your responsibility, witch," Khamul replied harshly. "But you were so blinded by your desire for glory that you let our entire army fall, and now Khanar is dead as well. The master will not be pleased."

"If he's alive much longer," Zaskia muttered under her breath. This defeat had been decisive, she knew that.

"What did you say?" Khamul asked.

"Nothing at all," Zaskia replied, smiling sweetly. "But we are wasting time. We need to ready ourselves to defend against the enemy. They will surely strike now that our forces are depleted."

Khamul laughed, a wheezing, altogether miserable sound. "With what? We slew most of them. We could destroy what's left with half of Sauron's legions."

Just then a orc loped in, a folded parchment in his knotted hand.

"A message from Mordor, m'lord," he said, clumsily bowing before handing the letter to Khamul. The wraith unfolded it slowly, then hissed in anger.

"Impossible!" He grabbed the orc by the neck and threw him, screeching in rage.

Zaskia backed away, knowing better than to interrupt the wraith. The orc slowly gathered himself up and bolted out of the room, fearfully looking over his shoulder as he ran.

"Minas Tirith repelled the attack," Khamul said, voice trembling with barely controlled hate. "The Gondorians were victorious."

Zaskia's eyes widened. "How? How is that possible?"

"A self-proclaimed 'king' from the north summoned an army of undead wraiths, it would seem."

Zaskia laughed incredulously. "And I'm an elf."

Khamul shoved the parchment at her. "Read it yourself."

She took a moment, not entirely believing what it said until she saw the signature at the bottom.

"The Mouth himself wrote this. It must be real."

Khamul nodded. "Disaster has befallen us."

Zaskia shook her head. "Not necessarily. I received word from my spies that the One comes ever closer to our Master. Even now it lies within his reach. And when it lies upon his finger once more... None will stand in our path."

=========================

Two Days Later - Battle Camp Outside Erebor

"We must move quickly," Gerithor insisted, pointing to Dol Guldur on the map. His torso was bandaged tightly, making it somewhat difficult for him to make the gesture. "They can't have many more soldiers left. With Prince Rukil's men we could storm the castle and take it."

Rukil sat up from his bed slowly. "I agree, though I fear I will not personally be able to accompany you. Hadar will be in charge."

Glorfindel shook his head. "Slow down. We were barely successful here. What makes you think we could win on the offensive? Our men are tired, and many of them (the two of you included) are injured. We need time to recover."

Gerithor gave the elf a meaningful glance. "What time do you think we have? We do not yet know what has taken place to the south. Sauron's forces could be marching north as we speak. We must strike before they have a chance to reorganize."

Just then a ranger entered the room and quickly strode to Gerithor. The two spoke in hushed voices for a moment and then the ranger exited as abruptly as he had entered.

"What was that all about?" Gloin, who had until now been silent, inquired.

"A messenger has come from the south, as well as one from the Iron Hills. Both bear good tidings from the sound of it," Gerithor replied, nodding to the guard at the tent's entrance. A moment later a young ranger entered, his clothing covered with dust from what had clearly been a hasty ride. His blonde hair was unkempt and ruffled, his clean-shaven face flushed with fatigue.

"Alif!" Gerithor exclaimed, smiling and moving to embrace the younger man. Alif clapped Gerithor on the back and grinned widely.

"It is good to see you alive, uncle," Alif beamed.

"What news do you bring?" Gerithor prodded, motioning for his nephew to take a seat.

"Well... I would say some of it is good while some ill," Alif replied, growing serious. "The attack on Minas Tirith was repelled. Lord Aragorn managed to stir up an undead army in the mountains against Sauron. It was quite a sight! Few of the Dark Lord's minions survived, and those that did were reported to have fled back into Mordor."

"And I say good riddance to that, lad!" Gloin chimed in. "Where's the ill news, then?"

Alif looked down for a moment, seeming to gather his courage to speak. "Halbarad... He and the rest of the Grey Company... They did not make it. I am sorry uncle, to be the bearer of such tidings."

Gerithor nodded slowly. It wasn't that he was unaffected by the news, but he felt strangely numb to it. He had lost so many people at this point that it was almost as if he were growing used to it. Even hearing of Caledorn and Taliel's deaths hadn't affected him as much as he thought they should have.

"They will be greatly missed," he replied. He had known most of the rangers who had rode with Halbarad. He had been close with some of them. "They were valiant warriors all."

After a moment of reverent silence, Alif continued. "Lord Aragorn has mustered the armies of Rohan and Gondor and plans to lead an attack on the Black Gate."

Glorfindel rose from his seat in astonishment. "Is he mad??? Sauron would have still kept most of his army in reserve. They march to their deaths!"

Alif shook his head emphatically. "No, m'lord. Aragorn does not plan to win. He wishes to buy time."

A look of realization dawned on Glorfindel's face. "I see now. Then you are right, Gerithor. We must march on Dol Guldur with what strength we have."

"You might want to speak with the other messenger as well," Alif added. "I spoke with him at length outside."

"Bring the other messenger in," Gerithor called to the guard. He nodded and a moment later a stocky dwarf clad in leather armor strode in.

"Buli, at your service," he said with a sweeping bow.

"Gerithor, Glorfindel, Gloin, and Prince Rukil at yours," Gerithor replied as they each bowed in turn.

"My lord, Thorin III Stonehelm, marches west with a thousand axes. I see now that the battle is over. Do you still wish for his aid?" The dwarf watched Gerithor expectantly.

"Aye, whatever aid he can lend would be greatly appreciated," Gerithor replied, smiling slightly. "We plan to march on the enemy stronghold of Dol Guldur."

The dwarf gave a curt nod. "Then we shall be more than willing to march with you."

Glorfindel rose an eyebrow and gave Gerithor a wan smile. "It would seem, Gerithor, that you have your army."

Hey yall! I hope everyone's doing good, I know finals and tests and stuff are going on for alot of you so I wish you the best of luck with those!

As this story draws near its end, I just wanted to thank those of you who have read all the way through. It's been a long journey (with more than a couple really long breaks) and I'm sure some of you questioned if I'd even get around to finishing this. Thank you for the encouragement and comments, those are what kept me going. :)

Translations:

Ya'wa uno su'chama na'ar- Roughly translates to "I wonder who's winning the battle"(Haradic)

Ger no'a?- "Who knows?" Or "I don't know" (Haradic)

idh di sidh, hanar nin - Rest in peace, my brother (Sindarin)