Upon hearing Aragorn's words, the Ghost King, who had been poised to strike, suddenly halted.
"Sylas?" he rasped.
"You have come at Sylas's behest?"
In an instant, the Ghost King appeared before Aragorn. His hollow skull eyes burned with eerie green flames as they locked onto him.
"You claim to be a descendant of Isildur?!"
Startled by the sudden movement, Aragorn instinctively raised his sword, his posture guarded and alert.
The Ghost King ignored his vigilance, circling him slowly, studying him with unnatural focus. His voice, hoarse and cold, carried a trace of suppressed excitement.
"Indeed… the blood of Isildur runs in you. Your bearing, your presence, it resembles him."
His gaze dropped to Aragorn's sword, the green flames in his eyes flaring brighter.
"That blade… is this Narsil?"
"Was it not shattered?"
Aragorn answered without hesitation.
"Narsil has been reforged. It is now called Andúril, Flame of the West."
For the first time, the Ghost King's composure cracked.
Narsil was the true symbol of Gondor's kingship. One who wielded it could only be the rightful heir of Isildur.
Their long-awaited chance for release had finally arrived.
So the wizard Sylas had kept his word after all.
Suppressing his excitement, the Ghost King straightened, his tone returning to its usual chilling calm.
"Aragorn, heir of Isildur. Sylas should have already told you our terms."
"Speak your request."
"If you swear upon the Black Stone of Erech, that once this task is done you will free us from our curse, then we shall serve you, once."
Aragorn nodded immediately.
"I swear it."
"Gondor is under attack by Mordor. Aid us in this battle. Fulfill the oath your ancestors broke."
"Do so, and you will be released, allowed to rest in peace forever."
"It is agreed," the Ghost King said.
Not long after Aragorn departed, Mordor launched another full-scale assault.
Outside Minas Tirith, massive trolls dragged towering siege engines toward the walls. Catapults roared endlessly, hurling boulders that smashed into the city, crushing stone, and men alike.
Some Gondorian soldiers were buried beneath the falling rubble.
Yet more stood firm.
From the walls, Gondor's catapults answered back, shattering enemy siege engines. Arrows rained down without pause, cutting down any Mordor soldier who dared approach.
The air filled with screams, steel, and blood.
Within the city, Regent Denethor II remained at his post, stabilizing the morale of soldiers and civilians alike.
Though he held little hope of victory, and doubted Aragorn's journey into the realm of the dead, Denethor did not succumb to despair.
Perhaps because both his sons still lived.
Instead, he resolved to fight until the very end, even if Gondor fell with him.
Having recovered from his injuries, Faramir once more led the wizarding commando unit out to the battlefield.
Legolas and Gimli joined him.
The two armies clashed again on the plains before the city gates.
"Oi, pointy-eared one!" Gimli shouted, swinging his axe and severing an orc's legs.
"Let's see who kills more!"
Legolas smirked. "Very well."
Gimli grinned and brought his axe down, cleaving the orc's head clean off.
"One!"
Legolas twisted aside from an incoming arrow and hurled a dagger.
An orc screamed as the blade pierced straight through its eye socket.
"One as well," Legolas replied calmly.
"Ha!" Gimli roared, charging into another cluster of orcs.
"Come on then, you ugly bastards!"
Though barely half an orc's height, Gimli fought like a storm. He hacked low, chopping legs out from under his foes, then finished them with brutal precision.
"Two!"
"Three!"
"Four—!"
Legolas was no slower.
His twin daggers flashed in his hands, each movement precise and elegant, deadly yet almost beautiful. Wherever he passed, enemies fell in silence.
Then his eyes caught something that made his expression harden.
A dragon was charging straight toward the Gondorian ranks.
If it broke into the formation, the army would collapse into chaos, and countless soldiers would be trampled to death.
Legolas abandoned his contest with Gimli at once.
He slung his daggers away, drew the longbow from his back, and aimed.
Magic surged through the bow. Light gathered, condensing into a single blazing arrow.
The shot was released.
The arrow crossed the battlefield at near-light speed and struck the dragon directly in the eye.
An explosion tore through its skull. One side of its head was blown apart in a spray of blood and bone.
The dragon did not die immediately, but the pain drove it mad.
It roared deafeningly, its charge breaking as it thrashed wildly. Mordor soldiers caught nearby were crushed under its bulk or swept away by its tail like insects.
Before it could recover, Legolas moved.
He dodged the lashing tail, leapt onto the dragon's back, and plunged his elven longsword deep into its skull.
The dragon shuddered, then went still.
Dead.
Gimli, in the middle of cutting down his thirty-fourth enemy, froze.
Then he roared indignantly,
"Hey! Pointy-eared! Even if yours is bigger, it only counts as one!"
Legolas didn't respond.
Standing atop the dragon's head, he calmly raised his bow again and began firing.
Arrows of light rained down, each shot precise, each impact explosive.
"Twenty-one."
"Twenty-two."
"Twenty-three…"
He drew again.
Three arrows appeared on the string at once.
They flew, and three orcs fell simultaneously.
"Thirty-four."
"Thirty-five."
Gimli stared in disbelief, then chased after another orc, shouting furiously,
"That's cheating! You've got an artifact! How's anyone supposed to compete with that?!"
Legolas didn't hear him.
His gaze was fixed on the sky.
In the distance, the Ringwraiths circled atop their dragons.
His expression grew grave.
He drew again and loosed a powerful arrow of light toward one of them.
The arrow reached its target in an instant, but the Ringwraith raised his massive black hammer and blocked it.
The resulting explosion rocked the air, wounding the dragon beneath him, yet the Ringwraith himself emerged untouched.
Legolas fired again.
And again.
Explosions followed one after another, but none could harm the Ringwraith.
Red eyes burned beneath the hood.
A cold, mocking voice echoed in the Black Speech: "Elf. Your magic is meaningless before me."
The Ringwraith urged his dragon forward, charging straight at Legolas.
Then;
CRACK.
The sound of Apparition split the air.
A figure appeared atop the dragon's back.
Aragorn.
He raised his sword and struck.
The Ringwraith spun instantly, blocking the blow with his hammer. As he prepared to counterattack, his gaze fell upon the blade in Aragorn's hand, and froze.
"N—Narsil?!"
The scream that followed was sharp, shrill, and filled with terror.
Black mist erupted around the Ringwraith as he recoiled violently, retreating at once.
...
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