The standard bearer (Elrond x oc)

24. Strength and Weakness

Isildur's party was waiting at the North road as the Herald rode up.
Elendil's banner danced in the weak sunlight, seven stars on a blood red
field, and the High King of Arnor and Gondor stood with his son. Prince
Isildur was arrayed in his battle armour, the silver plates gleaming, and
on his head shone the royal helm of Gondor, adorned with gold, the crimson
plume proud in the wind. The scabbard of his great sword was empty,
however, and the caparison of his mighty war horse was white. His squire
Ohtar was mounted on a pony, the standard of his king tight in his grip.

"Well met, Lord Elrond." The Prince of Gondor welcomed the Elf, raising an
invisible sword in salute.

"Greetings, Prince Isildur." returned Elrond, as he halted, "And to you, my
Lord." He bowed to Elendil.

The King of Men dipped his sober head in acknowledgement, his once joyful
face tired by years of battle, and dulled by sorrow. "You are welcome,
Master Elrond." He looked at both the envoys, his voice grave but strong,
"May you go forth in wisdom, and return with peace." He lifted his hand in
blessing, and the party turned their horses towards the gates of Barad-dûr.

It was a goodly distance from Elendil's camp to the gates of the Dark
Tower. Along the north road, its surface bearing many marks of battle, the
ground to either side broken and torn, littered with discarded weapons.
Their approach sent carrion birds flapping heavily into the air, returning
lazily after they had passed, picking at the bones of the dead. Ahead of
them the citadel loomed blackly, obscuring the late afternoon sun as the
sharp shadows of the spires and crenulations reached along the road to meet
them.

"So, Elrond." Isildur's voice was friendly, but it masked the strain that
they both felt. "Do you think he will offer a surrender?"

Elrond looked round at the Man, meeting the intense eyes with his own quiet
ones. "I hope so, Isildur."

The Prince nodded in agreement, his black stallion prancing and
sidestepping, the hooves raising sparks on the stones. "I do not see how he
can last much longer." He controlled his restive mount easily, "Surely he
must see that he is vanquished?"

"One would expect it to be so, and yet I fear he may still have surprises
for us."

It was colder now, deep in the shadow of the terrible fortress, the blank
walls rising to tower above them, black and forbidding, dark slits and
shadowy windows scattered along the upper reaches. In front of them they
could see a faint orange glow, from the fiery pit that surrounded Barad-dûr, and at the head of the road, the North Gate. Shut fast, the drawbridge
raised.

The sound of the horses was loud on the roadway as they approached the dark
gatehouse, all around was an unnatural silence. Even the wind had fallen,
the air eerie and still, the banners limp over their heads.

Just short of the end of the road they halted, waiting. In front of them,
the deep moat seethed heat far beneath, fumes and foulness rising slowly.
Facing them across it, the blank face of the raised drawbridge.

"Now what?" asked Isildur impatiently.

"Now," returned Elrond, his face composed, "We wait. I doubt it will be
long."

Indeed their approach must have been watched, since it was no more than a
few minutes before an ominous rumble signalled the slow descent of the
heavy drawbridge. Gradually, inch by creaking inch the huge timbers
lowered, till they slammed into place over the foul chasm, causing
Isildur's horse to rear and snort. Now with an iron shudder the massive
studded doors opened, their hinges deathly silent, the gatekeepers
invisible. Behind them the huge grate of an iron portcullis raised its evil
teeth, and from the dark mouth revealed, an unwholesome wind sallied forth.
In its foul embrace, four horsemen rode, two abreast. Three were Men,
cloaked and hooded, and one was a thing that once was a Man. Now an
immortal shadow, bound for all life, for his very life, to the Dark Lord,
held in thrall by the terrible treasure that adorned his hand.