The Silver Flame (LOTR)

The Darkest Hour

The steady beat of drums and the rhythmic clinking of armor echoed as the Host of the West marched forth from Minas Tirith. The army was an awe-inspiring sight: a wall of strength, hardened faces set in grim determination as they prepared to face the forces of Mordor. Aragorn rode at the front, his gaze fixed on the horizon, Andúril gleaming at his side like a silver flame. The line of soldiers stretched far behind him, warriors both young and old, each driven by the knowledge that this march might be their last.

Beside Aragorn, Gandalf's eyes were sharp, a steely glint beneath his white hood. Pippin clung to the back of Gandalf's horse, wide-eyed but resolute. Nearby, Legolas rode silently, his gaze scanning the land with elven precision, while Gimli rode just behind, his broad shoulders squared, axe resting across his lap. Éomer, with Merry beside him, led his men from Rohan with the same pride and strength as his forefathers.

As they approached the plains that spread before Mordor's Black Gate, an eerie silence settled over the Host of the West. No dark figures patrolled, no orcish drums echoed from the mountains, and no signs of resistance stirred. The Black Gate loomed ahead, silent and imposing, yet deserted, as if taunting them to enter.

Pippin, shifting uneasily on Gandalf's horse, glanced around nervously. "Where are they?" he murmured, the words falling softly in the silence.

Aragorn rode forward, eyes hardening as he studied the gates, unwilling to believe the emptiness was anything other than a cruel jest. Without another word, he urged his horse forward, moving closer to the gate, Andúril's blade shimmering in the dim light. Gandalf, Éomer, Legolas, and Gimli rode alongside him, their presence like silent pillars of strength at his side.

The great gates loomed closer, stretching high above, dark as night, stark against the ashen sky. Aragorn could feel the pulse of evil behind them, a coiling darkness that seemed to breathe like a living beast.

He raised his voice, letting it carry across the barren plain. "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth!" His words resounded, a challenge hurled into the maw of darkness. "Let justice be done upon him!"

For a tense moment, nothing happened, the silence thick and unnerving. Then, slowly, with a deep, resounding creak, the Black Gate began to open. Shadows poured forth from within, twisting like smoke around the iron bars, and a figure emerged from the darkness.

A single rider, clad in jet-black armor, stepped forth upon a dark steed, his appearance sinister and grotesque. He wore a helmet that obscured his face, save for a twisted, ghastly mouth that grinned with sadistic glee as he surveyed the Host of the West.

The Mouth of Sauron. His voice slithered through the silence, heavy with disdain. "My master, Sauron the Great, bids you welcome," he drawled, his words filled with mockery. "Is there any in this rout with the authority to treat with me?"

Gandalf's voice cut through the air, calm yet laced with contempt. "We do not come to treat with Sauron, faithless and accursed," he said, his tone as unyielding as stone. "Tell your master this: The armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart these lands, never to return."

The Mouth's laugh echoed, a hollow, cruel sound. "Old Greybeard," he sneered, his tone dripping with scorn. He raised one hand, revealing a small, silvery object that glinted in the murky light. "I have a token I was bidden to show thee."

He held up Frodo's mithril shirt.

For a single, agonizing moment, silence fell over the army. The world seemed to stop, horror etched into every face as the shirt, so small and familiar, dangled from the Mouth's hand like a captured prize.

Pippin gasped, a strangled cry escaping his lips. "Frodo..."

Gandalf's face turned white with shock, but he silenced Pippin with a warning look. Merry, his eyes wide and glistening with disbelief, could only whisper, "No..."

The Mouth of Sauron's grin widened as he watched their horror unfold. "The halfling was dear to thee, I see," he said mockingly, his voice twisting into a gleeful hiss. "Know that he suffered greatly at the hands of his host. Who would have thought one so small could endure so much pain?" He chuckled, a sinister sound that hung in the air. "And he did, Gandalf. He did."

As his wicked laughter rang through the plain, Aragorn, without a word, began circling his horse around the Mouth, his eyes fixed on the man's twisted face with a look that promised retribution. The Mouth seemed to notice him only then, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and contempt.

"And who is this?" The Mouth's grin widened with cruel amusement. "Isildur's heir?" He chuckled mockingly, eyeing Aragorn with scorn. "It takes more to make a king than a broken Elvish blade."

Without warning, a shadow swept across the battlefield. A massive form streaked through the air, wings stretched wide and powerful, blotting out the dim light as it descended. In a blur of motion, Visenya's dragon landed beside Aragorn with a thunderous beat of wings, dust swirling around her and the Mouth of Sauron. Her figure, cloaked in darkness and fire, seemed almost otherworldly, and her piercing gaze fell upon the twisted creature who dared mock the heir of Isildur.

The Mouth of Sauron faltered, his mocking smile fading slightly as he took in the sight of her, his eyes narrowing in confusion and resentment.

Aragorn's lips tightened into a line, his gaze flicking from Visenya to the Mouth, and in one swift motion, he raised Andúril, his grip sure and unyielding. The Mouth turned just in time to catch the glint of the blade as it descended. There was a flash of silver, a cry of terror, and then silence.

The Mouth of Sauron's head fell to the ground, his grotesque grin forever frozen in shock.

Gimli let out a grim chuckle, hefting his axe with a nod of approval. "I guess that concludes negotiations," he muttered.

But Aragorn's face was grave, his eyes dark with anger and grief. "I do not believe it," he said, his voice low, as if speaking to himself. "I will not." The sight of the mithril shirt, Frodo's shirt, still haunted him. He could not believe that Frodo had fallen, not while there was still hope.

Before he could dwell further, a rumble echoed from within Mordor. The air grew thick and oppressive, an unnatural silence stretching across the land before a low, thunderous growl shook the ground. Slowly, the Black Gate began to open wider, groaning and swaying on its massive hinges.

Beyond the gates, a vast army emerged—hordes of orcs, trolls, and other dark creatures spilling forth in endless waves. Their armor clinked and rattled, weapons gleaming in the dim light as they flooded the plain, filling every crevice of the land before them. Above, the Eye of Sauron blazed from Barad-dûr, its gaze fixed upon Aragorn with malevolent intent, a seething hatred burning through the air.

Aragorn's chest tightened. He raised his voice, commanding his men with the authority that came from his ancient lineage. "Pull back!" he ordered, his voice strong and steady even as the darkness pressed closer. "Pull back!"

His company obeyed, retreating to join the rest of the army behind them, the men shifting into formation as they prepared to meet the oncoming tide. The tension thickened, the air humming with an unspoken energy, a stillness before the storm that would soon break upon them.

The armies of darkness loomed closer, a wall of shadows advancing, their black armor glinting with each step. Visenya's dragon snarled, the ground trembling beneath her, and beside him, Gandalf tightened his grip on his staff, a steely glint in his eyes.

Aragorn looked once more to the mass of creatures before him, the Eye still glaring with a relentless fury that sought to consume all in its sight. His heart beat steadily in his chest, his hand firm on the hilt of Andúril, and he knew, with unshakable certainty, that this battle would decide the fate of Middle-earth.

The stage was set, the armies gathered. And in that breathless, ominous silence, the Host of the West prepared to meet their doom.