Epilogue
Aragorn watched absentmindedly as the ash drifted from his open hand. Scattered by the wind, the dust mingled with the rocky terrain, blending seamlessly with the volcanic rock beneath.
An army of Orcs had undoubtedly left their mark on this desolate ground.
Aragorn and his companions had made this grim discovery during their perilous journey through Mordor. Whispers of local shepherds and farmers had reached their ears, tales of shadowy figures spreading like a dark tide across the hills.
Initially, such stories had been dismissed with a wave of the hand. The Orcs, remnants of a dark era, seemed no more than echoes of the past. After Sauron's fall, the idea that these vile creatures could persist, lacking a master to guide them, was nearly inconceivable. The Rohirrim, loyal riders of the king, had hunted and eradicated these beasts to the last, or so they thought.
Yet, in this desolate place, the evidence was too abundant to ignore. Abandoned scraps of hastily devoured meals, fragments of shattered weapons, and finally, the deep marks left by carts and hundreds of footsteps relentlessly treading the wounded earth.
Aragorn knew the situation was dire. The wind whispered warnings, and shadows from the past seemed to awaken to haunt the once pacified lands once more.
"Captain!" called one of his men, briskly approaching him.
Aragorn diverted his attention from the landscape, his dark eyes settling on the newcomer.
"We have found something!" the Rohirrim informed him.
Without hesitation, Aragorn followed the soldier, who led him to a place where the ground bore peculiar signs.
There, spread before his keen eyes, were the hoofprints of a horse. The size of the hoof would undoubtedly have astonished anyone who beheld it, but what gave a disquieting hue to the scene lay more in the number of imprints on the rocky ground.
As a seasoned tracker, Aragorn left little room for doubt in his judgment. The facts were irrefutable, even if their peculiarity plunged him into deep perplexity.
This equine creature, if it could still be given that designation, displayed a unique physiognomy with eight limbs. Despite its stark difference from the monstrous dragons, its presence amidst an army of Orcs raised concerns.
A few scarce clues suggested the presence of Wargs, but the unusual silhouette of this strange equid decidedly set it apart from the rest of the army. The evidence was clear: this unusual creature stood as the mount of a leader.
Aragorn knew he must urgently return to Minas Tirith to warn the king.
In an alternate destiny, he might have seen himself seated on the throne instead of Faramir, with the noble Éowyn as his companion. Yet, he had not desired to claim that inheritance. Perhaps he would have considered such a path if Arwen, the radiant star of his thoughts, had remained by his side. However, the young elf had chosen to embrace the veil of immortality.
A melancholic glimmer crossed Aragorn's eyes, revealing the weight of choices and sacrifices he had faced throughout his long life in Middle-earth.
Suddenly, a white horse galloped forth, carrying Legolas and Gimli on its back. The two companions had joined the ranks of the Rohirrim when Aragorn expressed his desire to protect the land of his forebears.
"It's beyond comprehension!" grumbled the dwarf as he dismounted heavily. "One would assume an army of this magnitude would be visible for miles around. Yet, we haven't encountered a soul for days!"
"Almost as if we were dealing with ghosts," added Legolas thoughtfully.
The words of the dwarf and the elf seemed to dissolve into the air, amplifying the charged atmosphere that surrounded them. Aragorn exchanged a glance with Legolas, a silent understanding passing between them.
As he prepared to sound the call to his fellow warriors, a rumble suddenly tore through the air, shaking the ground beneath their feet.
The realization struck Aragorn like a lightning bolt. The seasoned warrior, usually adept at deciphering the clues left by his enemies, had been imprudently ensnared in a cunning trap.
In a whirl, the orcs emerged from the mountains, ruthlessly encircling Aragorn and his companions.
Yet, these creatures stood apart starkly from their counterparts of two decades past. The orcs appeared draped in delicate fabrics, adorned with gleaming mithril armor. Their faces, far from being deformed and tainted, bore instead a well-groomed appearance, enhanced by subtly etched war motifs. Their skin, instead of reflecting an unhealthy grayish hue, displayed a deep midnight blue that harmoniously blended with the moorland landscape.
This striking contrast baffled Aragorn, underscoring the surprising evolution of the enemy's forces over time. The orcs seemed to have adopted a new way of presenting themselves, adopting an appearance that was both more sophisticated and sinister.
Weapons in hand, the ranger and his companions stood ready to confront the enemy, whose ranks continued to swell around them.
Aragorn was aware that they stood no chance against their numbers. However, the orcs did not rush to attack. Instead, a corridor of honor formed, allowing passage for the largest horse ever seen. Its coat was a deep black. Its fiery eyes scanned the surroundings with a feverish gleam.
As Aragorn had predicted, the creature measured at least ten feet tall, carried by a body with eight legs. However, it was its rider who was the more terrifying of the two.
The creature astride the equine had skin as blue as the sky. Two curved horns rose from its forehead. Its face was partially obscured by a fringed mask, concealing its eyes. Unlike the other shadowy creatures surrounding it, the man was simply draped in a rich loincloth, revealing intricate arabesques that stretched across its naked form.
"Adar!" the orcs shouted in unison.
The one who seemed to be the leader of this army was greeted with resounding cheers. The orcs bowed before him, their gaze filled with an almost fanatical admiration.
"Adar," they repeated, chanting the title like a grim hymn.
It was evident that this creature was much more than a mere troop leader. It seemed to be the mastermind behind this new form of army, skillfully orchestrating these surprising changes within the ranks of the orcs.
Aragorn's companions tightened their grips on their weapons, ready to face this new adversary. The air crackled with electricity, vibrating with tense energy as the enemy forces seemed to await a signal to unleash their fury.
The leader of the orcs made a sweeping gesture with his hand, and a heavy silence enveloped the area. In an eerily unsettling voice, he spoke:
"Well... what do we have here?" the creature inquired, revealing its fangs behind a sinister smile.