Disclaimer: Buffy and all related characters are property of Joss Whedon and some other people. All Lord of the Rings characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkein.

(Okay, this used to be on BSC, but due to it's not-workiness, I'm posting it here too. It's my first and only fic, so let me know what you think.)


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Prologue

A rustling of leaves.

A treading of feet.

The army moved stealthily through the thick underbrush, barely making a sound. He paused for the first time since their arrival, surveying their surroundings with increasing contempt. This world, inhabited by humans and other filth, was the epitome of pitiful. These lands were soiled by the weakness of men, the incompetence, the emotion. He pitied them, though he chuckled at heart. Their lives were meaningless, annoying flies on the backs of true warriors like himself. Yet here they were, rulers of this vast land, controllers of themselves. He would have been impressed, had their fate been anything but defeat. Yes, their time had come.

“Night is falling.”

He turned towards the soft voice behind him. “Indeed it is, my sweet. Indeed it is.”

“We’re behind schedule.”

“I know,” he said, sighing. “I’ve been trying to get them to move faster, but they won’t listen.” He almost whined, an action one would never expect from him. “It shouldn’t make too much of a difference, though.” He waved his hand as if dismissing the idea.

“We’re behind schedule,” she repeated, moving to stand beside him.

“Don’t worry, my love. We’ll vanquish all that walk this land, and men will cease to exist.” He smirked at the thought.

“They had better, because if you fail me, I shall be upset.”

He took the hint immediately, promising again and again how well the plan would be carried out. He could only hope it would work out in the end, for her sake… and his own.



Chapter 1: A Call to Arms

Aragorn sat at the head of the long table, his expression weary from all of the stress he had been experiencing. He had put together a council, who currently sat before him, and now he was thankful that he had. At the beginning of his rule, things had been easy. Everyone’s efforts had been focused on rebuilding all that had been destroyed during the war. But now, five years later, there was yet another stir in the air.

“You’re probably all wondering why I called you here,” he said, addressing the small group. There was a small murmur of agreement. Aragorn sighed. “The problem is I’m not so sure. I expect you’ve heard of the new threat that currently takes residence on our borders.” Another murmur. “We cannot allow them to scourge our towns as they are doing now. We have to decide on a plan of action.”

A young man, probably only about 18 years old, stood up asking for permission to speak. When he received a nod from Aragorn, he jumped right to the point. “Who are they?”

Aragorn sighed in mild frustration. “We aren’t sure. Some of our sources seem to think they have sailed here from the south, but no one has ever seen anyone quite like them. I have spoken with a few survivors from the attacks, but their descriptions seem too farfetched to be true. However, if they are indeed correct, we are dealing with smaller versions of trolls with twice the strength.” A collective gasp filled the room, then turned into urgent whispers. Aragorn waited a moment before silencing them with a raised hand.

“We cannot be sure until we see them for ourselves, although, that does not seem wise at the moment.”

“What should we do for the time being?”

Aragorn pondered the question for a moment. “We have sent small armies out to defeat them, but none have returned.” That was not entirely true. Every single soldier had come back, but their manner of return had not been of the living. Whoever this new enemy was, they were taunting them with their strength. “I fear we may be in over our heads. It seems fit that we should call for aid.”

“From whom?” one man called out. “The Rohirrim have troubles of their own, and we have few other allies.”

“I’ve sent word of our situation to and old friend,” Aragorn replied. “He has agreed to come and help us fight. I also understand that he’ll be bringing along a few friends.”

“A few? How will that help us? We need an army!”

Aragorn regarded the young man who had spoken earlier. “We will need much more than an army, Hallas. I am confident that my friends will have enough strength and cunning to help us. Have faith.”



Gandalf stepped off the boat carefully, his staff in front of him as he descended down the ramp. This place was as he remembered it to be so very long ago, before the time of war with the ring. New walls had been erected around Osgiliath, helping it relive its former glory. So much had changed since Frodo’s trial with the ring and, for the most part, life in Middle Earth had been better. Gandalf had been in contact with Aragorn for quite a while, keeping tabs on everything that had been happening of both sides of the sea. It had been a while since Gandalf had felt needed by those who lived on this land, who looked to him for guidance and support. Whether he would admit it or not, he had begun to feel a bit insignificant. Yet here he was, answering a call sent specifically to him. Despite the circumstances, he was glad to be back.

People looked upon him and bowed as he and his companions traveled through the city. Many were shocked to see his face again, but even more had never seen it. Since the number of soldiers had been depleted some years ago, there were a great many new recruits, most no older than eighteen. He was glad now that they did not have to fight, but with the looming shadow he knew that was not true. They would soon face that of which they could not begin to fathom, begin to grasp. It was one of those things he could not prevent, and he just hoped he was there to help them when the time finally came.

When they reached the border of Osgiliath, Gandalf could clearly see the white kingdom of Minas Tirith. To see it again, the place of a great struggle, stirred up something inside of him. It was almost a reluctance to be so close to where thousands had died, because that was what it had been, a graveyard of those he knew and cherished. But everyone needed him to be strong now, so he walked over to the horses without a word.

Gandalf and Shadowfax looked upon each other like old friends reunited once more, and in truth they were. They nodded to each other in acknowledgement before Gandalf mounted him ceremoniously. The others had all gotten on to their horses as well and were now looking to him for the command. With a finalizing sigh, he gave Shadowfax a quick pat and bound forward.



Staring out the window had become her number one activity. Since their move to Rome, Buffy hadn’t done much besides. She was left alone with her thoughts as everyone around her busied themselves with the reconstruction of the Watcher’s Council. Taking part in it had at first been her intention, but it seemed like she was being swept to the side. She was a Slayer among many, so what use was she now? Sure, having others who knew what it was like to be a Slayer was nice, but it just didn’t feel right.

Nothing was right.

Everyone around her seemed to leave, bouncing from place to place, visiting her only when it was convenient. Dawn seemed to be the only one around these days. She had been there for her through everything that had happened since the destruction of the hellmouth. She had been there when the loss of Spike had turned her world irreversibly upside down.

Spike.

Lately, he was all she thought about, all she dreamed about. She hadn’t let him go yet, and she had no plan to. It was like he had never left, but she was painfully reminded of his status every time she went to tell him something. Every time it would hit her like cold rain; Spike wasn’t here, and he wasn’t coming back. Then she’d feel like crying, but it seemed like she was beyond tears, beyond grief. No, she had not cried for him because that would mean he was really gone, and she wasn’t ready for him to not be there. In her mind, he was with her always, holding her tight when she felt like shattering into a million pieces. He kept her going, even though he was the reason for her sorrow. He had been right all along. He was always there when she was miserable.