A/N: See here for recap: goo .gl / G0Ek3j (remove spaces).

The Shadow of Angmar

Interstitium: Memory Passed into Myth

The faint glow of a quietly smouldering hearth cast warm shadows across a dimly-lit room. Outside, the air was filled the the loud stillness of the broad planes at night; the chirrup of crickets, and zip and buzz of other unseen insects filled the air. The sky overhead was filled with glittering stars which spanned across the great dome, from dark horizon to dark horizon. The last vestiges of distant fire shone in a thin band atop the western mountains.

Inside, a boy listened with rapt attention as his father recounted an old story. It was one that had been told to him by his own father, and then by his father before him and so on through generations into the uncertain mists of the far distant past. Yet, while the story was an old one, the father's words rang with certainty for it was one of the oldest stories of their people, and one of the most important.

"Then he spoke great words of power in a tongue older, perhaps, than even the Elves. So old, so powerful were they that the mountains themselves trembled to hear them. A great white beast issued forth from his outstretched hand, so bright that in that moment it outshone even the rising sun."

"It was the White Hart, wasn't it father?" asked the boy in excitement.

The father nodded. "That is was. Kin, perhaps, to the greatest of stags to ever roam the woodlands of the world. The pennants and banners of our people you have seen, but none could ever do the Hart of the Wanderer justice. It shone with such terrible light that all evil was burned by its touch, and even the deepest of darkness was banished into memory while it lingered.

"The Hart made not a sound as it passed over the valley, and where it went it drove all shadows before it. Where its hooves smote the ground there was a flash of purest light, but not a sign of its passing was left. No sign at all, though as years passed, it was said that where it went the grass grew taller and greener, and the flowers bloomed more brilliantly."

The child bounced in excitement. "Where did it go father? Will I ever get to see it?"

"It goes with the Wanderer, little one," said the father with a fond smile hidden behind a full russet beard, "for they are but one and the same, the Wanderer and his Hart."

"Then the Wanderer, father. Where is he?"

The father reached over to ruffle the boy's hair, but was thwarted when the child ducked just out of range. "Where is he, father? Will I ever get to see him?" the boy asked again, youthful impatience shining in his eyes.

"None know upon what roads his travels lead him, though the tales are many. Some say he has travelled so far into the South that summer became winter, and winter became summer, and where strange stars shone upon him in the night. They say that he fought a Pirate King atop a great sea-beast larger than even Scatha, so large that a town grew up on the island of its corpse. Another story tells of his journey far into the East, beyond plain and mountain, until he came upon an endless sea of liquid gold which he sailed for years upon a boat made of bones."

"Tell me one of those stories, father!" said the boy, his excitement undiminished.

"Are you sure, my son?" asked the father, his smile returned. He knew the answer, of course. "It is late, and you must awaken early tomorrow to see to the horses as is your duty."

"Yes, yes, oh yes! Father, please. I will awaken extra early, before even the sun is over the horizon, I will!"

With a single practiced motion the father plucked the exuberant child from the air mid-jump and set him down upon his bed. "Calm down, my son, calm down. I shall tell you another story. If you promise that you will go to sleep, once the tale is done?"

The boy hurriedly shimmied beneath the furs upon his bed. A moment later he stared at his father with expectant eyes.

"Do you promise?" The father asked again.

The boy nodded urgently.

"You must say it, or I will speak no more of the Wanderer's labours," said the father, his words stern. "Words are a man's bond—"

"'And no man is he who's bond be breakit'," the boy parroted in the sing-song voice of one who had heard it many times before. "I know father. I promise to sleep once the tale is told."

"Good," said the father, and the stern visage was gone, replaced once again by a father's fond warmth. "Then shall I tell you of the Fall of the Moon Tower, or the Deepwood Strife? Hmmm…"

For a moment the only sounds to be heard were the occasional pop-hiss of the slowly dwindling fire, and the impatient shifting of the boy beneath the furs of his bed. The father stared into the embers.

"Far to the south of here," the father began, "upon the banks of the Great River there is a Kingdom, and at the centre of the Kingdom, the seat of the King himself, stands the Tower of the Sun. A great mountain that shines like white gold when the sun rises over the eastern mountains. Around it stands a city larger than any you have ever seen, and with halls made not of wood, but of pale white stone."

"Is it a Dwarf-hold, father?" asked the boy.

"Hush, and let me tell the tale," said the father, with a sideways glance. "But no. Not Dwarves, it is a Kingdom of Men, and it is the bastion against the Great Evil. For it borders the Land of Darkness, where all dread things may find a home. Orcs, Trolls. Some even speak of great flying beasts, vultures larger than a house with only foul black leather where feathers should be.

"Many years ago, that Kingdom had not one great tower, but two. The Tower of the Moon it was, and it was twin to the Sun. A tall city of shining stone, it did not glow in the morning, but in the evening as the Moon rose into the sky it is said that it was even more beautiful than its brother.

"But as the Moon is surrounded by night, so too was that Tower surrounded by darkness. No other city was so close to the Land of Darkness as that city, and ever was it under threat from the servants of the Great Evil. One of those servants coveted it more than any other.

"The Witch-King, they call him and it is said that he is a Man, but if he be a Man, then I am a holbytla. It is said he stands more than nine feet tall, and is clad always in midnight. Where he treads, men lose heart, and his dread voice can make even the bravest of men turn coward. Terrible magic lends him strength enough to cleave a horse in two, and sustains him even through age and death. He is the enemy of all true-hearted Men, and the amongst greatest of his enemies was the King at the time, who ruled from atop the Tower of the Sun." As he spoke, it seemed as if a little of the warmth was drained from the room, and the shadows lengthened and darkened if only fractionally.

"Long enemies had they been, since the King had delivered a defeat to the Witch-King in the lowlands west of the Misty Mountains, in the time of our forefathers."

"What about the Wanderer, though, father? What about him?" the boy asked, his impatience mastering him for a moment.

"His role will come," said the Father. "You must remember, though, that there are more who fight evil than just he. We all have our parts to play, as does he.

"Now… Where was I?" He paused a moment as he thought back. "Yes, so they were great enemies and each held an abiding hatred for the other, though I think the Witch-King holds an abiding hatred for all things that walk freely beneath the open sky.

"Upon his defeat in the North, the Witch-King fled south into the land of his dark Master, and there over long years he hatched his revenge. A great host he gathered to himself, and terrible lieutenants did he raise. It is said that the host was so great that to see it marching was like watching a river of fire flow over the land, for they marched only at night, and set alight in their passing all that was green and growing.

"So it was, that long years after he had been thought defeated, the Witch-King marched from the Land of Darkness, and cast aside the paltry defences arrayed against him. Even his terrible host, though, could not break the walls of the Moon Tower, for they were protected by a power no Man, save perhaps the Wanderer, now knows. Its outer walls are taller than ten men, and made of a black stone that is said to have the look of frozen waters beneath starless skies, black and fathomless. No artifice of Man could mark them, and even the sorcery of the Witch-King could find no purchase upon their flawless heights.

"And so they laid it to siege. For two years the siege held. Two years the Men of the Tower held out against the darkness, their fastness proving too much for the terrible foes that stalked the lands below those unbreachable walls."

"It was the Wanderer, wasn't it, father, that allowed them to resist for so long?" said the boy, his eyes wide with mixed wonder and excitement.

"No!" his father responded, mirth dancing in his eyes. "Not the Wanderer, not yet. No, it was the simple courage of Men that held those walls. Though they may have been starving as their food ran low, and though sickness surely came to them to exact its terrible toll, their courage held those walls firm. Remember, my son, no matter how strong the wall, without brave men to stand atop it, it is little more than a pile of earth and stone.

"Without brave men, a sword is but a useless piece of metal, soon to rust, and a horse is nothing more than a scared beast. And no Man, no matter how mighty, can hold a wall alone.

"But I have forgotten where I was again…" he trailed off as the boy waited impatiently. "Ah, yes. For two years those walls held thanks to the valour of the defenders. Yet the King was not idle and he sent his own armies to break the siege yet the siege stood unbroken. Too great was the Host of the enemy, too cunning was the Witch-King, too terrible were his lieutenants. Even the King himself, at the head of his own personal guard, could not breach the sprawling camp, filled always with the baying of terrible beasts, that had grown up around the once shining Tower of the Moon.

"Blades fell upon the relief armies in the dark while they were encamped. In the mornings, their scouts were dead. Some gone without trace, others left were they fell, their bodies hewn, their life-blood staining the earth. Fire spread throughout the trains, and could not be quenched. Disease spread among the food stores and claimed any who ate from them. With each night the hosts of Men dwindled, and each new dawn revealed to the King the new casualties. Casualties he could scarce afford.

"Then came a challenge, brought by one of the Men who had long been thought lost. His body and mind were broken. Pale as a wight, and little more than worn leather upon bones, but he bore the message to the King. 'Defeat me in single combat, and the siege will be relieved. Cower, as you did at Fornost, and Gondor shall be brought to ruin by my hand'. Then, even as he uttered the final word, the messenger collapsed, at last permitted to die by the Witch-King's vile ensorcellment"

"Did he win, Father?" asked the child, his face pale in the darkness.

"In a manner of speaking, I suppose," said the Father. "For a short time, at least. You see, my son, he did not accept the challenge. Much though he wanted to take up the challenge, to satisfy his long hatred, he was persuaded not to by his captains."

"But he could have ended the war then!" cried the boy. "If he but had the courage to face his enemy upon the field."

"Could he? He was but a Man. A great one, and a wise King, yes, but a Man still. In the Witch-King can be found the vile power of the Great Evil. Taller and stronger than any living man, he does not tire, nor does he need to sleep or eat. Perhaps the King could have won, but more likely he would have died, and with him would have died all hope of victory. Even if, by some chance, he had been able to win in single combat, the Great Enemy has little use of words, save perhaps as commandments to their numberless slaves. They have even less use for honour. Had he threatened the power of the Witch-King in that duel then surely the host of the Enemy would have cut him down before his own men could rescue him.

"No, he saw the truth, that his Kingdom, and all of the people within it, was worth more than his own pride and honour, and so he did not meet the challenge. Instead he took what remained of his armies, and marched them home, leaving only a small force of rangers to harry and harass the forces of the Witch-King."

The child was silent then, his face clearly showing the struggle beneath. "He fled?"

"No, my son. He retreated. There was no victory that could be won there that day, his army so wearied and harried. So outnumbered and without hope were they that the armies of the Witch-King would surely have defeated them. The siege would have been lost and who, then, would have defended the rest of his people, after he senselessly spent the strength of his Kingdom in a futile battle?

"No. He retreated, and ordered his army to fortify every town, village, hill and river between the Land of Darkness and his own. Where before the Witch-King had turned the night against the armies of Men, the King would turn the land against the Witch-King. Rangers patrolled the lands of the Moon, their arrows ever threatening any servant of the Dark Tower who travelled hence. And he returned home to govern. To protect his people from pirates to the west, to shelter them from savage Men in the East. To feed his people, and to offer them hope."

"What happened then, father? Did the Wanderer return then from his travels?" asked the boy, his previous exuberance long forgotten.

"He did not. Not for years did the Wanderer come to the lands of the King. For his travels had borne him to distant lands, where he had walked beneath unfamiliar skies. He is, for all his power, but one Man, and can only be in a single place at a time. The Tower of the Moon fell. Those few Men who survived by then were put to the sword, or shackled, and their blood used to mortar the stones of the new dark city tower that took the place of the once shining tower.

"But the Kingdom did not fall, as it may well have done had the King chosen to fight. Their Rangers bled the armies of Darkness at every opportunity, and the Witch-King grew enraged at their victories. Every force he dispatched to harry or pillage the realms of Men returned halved in strength, if they ever returned at all. He was left a prisoner within his own walls, even with no siege without.

"The Witch-King's powers, though, are more than mere blades. In those years, from his golden hall atop the highest pinnacle of the Tower of the Sun, the King oft turned towards that which he called his greatest shame. Though he did not know it, for many leagues lay between them, the Witch-King matched his gaze, and through their distant meeting, wrought his subtle sorcery.

"Injured pride festered within the King. He heard the whispering of his court, and saw the dark clouds that ever turned over the once brilliant Tower of the Moon, and he became prone to angry outbursts. More than once, he sent fruitless armies into the maw of darkness, never to return, in a futile effort to reclaim the honour that had never been lost. Surely the fires of his folly were stoked by servants of the Enemy, whether knowing or not, but he grew blind to them, as a darkness descended upon his mind.

"It was then, once his mind was filled with anger and despair, that the Witch-King challenged him once again to single combat.

"What loyal advisors he had counselled against the folly, for they had seen the wisdom of his decision the first time, but he would not hear them. He heard only the screams of the Men he'd failed; saw only the heads of the soldiers that had been delivered to the doors of his city in the night.

"Against their wishes, he rode out to meet the Witch-King.

"Two days after the King rode out, The Wanderer returned at last to the Kingdom, to find it already mourning its last King. The Royal Steward, in whom the King had left his authority until the day of his return, rode to meet the Wanderer at the gates, and spoke to him the extent of the King's folly. For he had ridden forth with but a token guard, only a dozen Men to provide for his protection as he rode through the lands of the Enemy.

"So the Wanderer rode too, with greater haste than any mortal horse should possess, perhaps greater even than the Mearas of legend."

"Did he get there in time, did he stop the King? Did he defeat the Witch-King?" All thought of sleep was gone from the child's mind.

"He reached the King's company in the very vale where the armies of the Enemy had once put the Tower of the Moon to siege. Gone were the once green pastures, and the distant sounds of birdsong. After years beneath the gaze of the Witch-King there was only the silence of the grave, bones littering a once fertile land, the very air choked with smoke and fume.

"But the King was not there, for he had not paused when he had commanded them to wait. He had ridden on to the Black Gates wherein his certain doom awaited with all the patience of a tomb. As the Wanderer crested the next rise, flanked by the King's guards, he saw the King standing before the Gates. Upon the wind they heard the King issue his challenge. They felt the ground rumble and shift as the great Gates started to open inwards.

"The Wanderer then threw back his long travelling cloak to reveal maille and plate of shimmering silver, and he held his great staff aloft as his power was put forth. Suddenly, great chains wrought of light appeared and held fast the Gate before it could truly open. The voice of the Wanderer echoed then between mountain and Vale, a command and a plea to the King, to step back from his folly.

"His power, great though it was, was not enough. With a surge of his own vile power, the Witch-King broke the bindings of the Wanderer, and rode beyond the Gates of his terrible realm. He passed the King with not even a glance, and before the King could raise his sword, he was dead, pierced by a dozen arrows or more. Instead, the Witch-King upon his misbegotten steed, rode out to meet the Wanderer.

"What passed between them, then, no-one knows, for the Wanderer sent the the guards to retrieve the Kings body from beneath the black walls, and it is seldom, now, that he tells his own stories. What is told, though, was the battle that followed. It is said that the hills themselves shook to behold it, as the Wanderer put forth the greatest of his powers. Their swords clashed, and with each meeting of their black blades, a great flash of light and flame surrounded them.

"Much greater than the meeting of their swords, though, was the meeting of their minds. Great serpents of pure starlight struck at the Witch-King, only to be thrown back and impaled by spears of dark fire. The earth itself rose up at the Wanderer's command, to rip the Witch-King's steed from beneath him, yet darkness had crept even into the bones of the earth, so close were they to the land of the Enemy. In moments the Witch-King turned the earth back against the Wanderer and he too saw his horse killed beneath him as he was thrown to the ground.

"So the battle continued, the darkness of the Witch-King, and the light of the Wanderer. Great roaring beasts appeared and moments later were slain, dark fires rose up and were doused, trees became lumbering creatures, before they were set to flame. Their burning limbs became burning swords, and flew at the Witch-King, only to be turned aside by a flaring of dark power. Light and shadow, fire and ice, lightning and earth did battle that day, and steel rang against steel.

"Their battle continued so long that soon the sun was setting beneath the Western horizon, and in Darkness surely the powers of the Witch-King would be multiplied. The Men had long since fled with the body of their King, and soon the Wanderer would be surrounded on all sides by the foul dark-dwelling creatures of the Great Enemy. Then from the growing gloom, an arrow struck out, and pierced the Witch-King! Two of the King's guards had turned back to aid the Wanderer, and moments later they joined the battle alongside him, their war-cries echoing through the dusk.

"In seconds, one had lost an arm to his elbow, and the other had been thrown to the ground by the Witch-King's inhuman strength. They gave the Wanderer his opening, though, and like the swiftest viper he struck, twice, thrice!

"It availed him not at all, for the Witch-King merely laughed as he dropped his burning blade and caught the black blade of the Wanderer in his gauntleted hand. The ancient sword bit deep into iron and steel, but there is more than sinew that binds the flesh of the Witch-King. No mere flesh could have stood against the blade of the Wanderer. Spells both ancient and terrible and unbreakable by mere steel knit together the bones and flesh of the Witch-King, spells left unbroken by even the Wanderer's shadow blade. The Witch-King pulled the Wanderer close, and gripped his head in is other fist, and spoke words of such dark terror that no man has ever willingly repeated them."

The father paused for a moment, savouring the tension. "Perhaps I should leave the rest of the story for another night?" he said as he fought to conceal his smile. "It is, after all, very late indeed, and you gave your word that—"

"Father!" cried the boy, with all the wronged indignation a child could manage. "You cannot leave a story unfinished!"

"Hmmm…" He ran his hand through his beard as he pretended to take his time thinking it over. "... Very well then. Now, where was I?"

"Words of dark terror, father! How could you forget?"

"Ah, yes. And the Witch-King spoke to the Wanderer words of dark terror that may fill even the bravest man with dread, and which have never been spoken by any man since. The Wanderer, though, did not flinch, and held the terrible gaze of the Witch-King. He spoke, in the same dark tongue used by the Witch-King, a single word though none now save he and the Witch-King know what that word was. Then the White Hart burst forth from the Wanderer, and with it came an explosion of light so bright that the Witch-King was driven back.

"Long years had it been since the Witch-King had known any human ills. No hunger, nor thirst, no pain of any kind had ailed him since he had become a servant of the Darkness. On that day he knew pain again, for his scream rent the very heavens and drove the stars themselves to flight. All around him, his creatures burned in the light that shone upon them, and they broke, scattered to the winds like ashes. So too the Witch-King, until all that remained was a waning shadow amidst the light, which fled before the Wanderer into the shadows beyond the mountains where his Master dwells."

"So, he is dead, then?" asked the boy, as fear warred with awe in his wide eyes.

"Perhaps," said the father, his gaze distant. "Many say he is, for how could he not be dead after the Wanderer struck him such a mortal wound? Yet the stories that come from the South still speak of a shadow of malice that rules over the Tower of the Moon. They speak of a dark and terrible King, taller than any man, with a sword of dark flame and a hatred for all who walk freely beneath the sun.

"Perhaps such evil as the Witch-King cannot die, or perhaps it is some new lieutenant of the Great Evil, again empowered by their dark master as was the Witch-King. In truth, it matters little whether he died, or if he is yet bound to life. All we must know, my son, is that evil can never be truly vanquished, only diminished in its power, but that is no less reason to fight it."

"I will fight it, father," said the boy, his gaze more serious and firm than a child's had any right to be. "No greater enemy will it have than Eorl, son of Léod."

Léod ruffled Eorl's hair proudly. "I believe you, my son."

o-o

"This cannot be borne!"

The cramped earthen hall fell silent as Thráin II, King of Durin's Folk, spoke at last.

Not a word, not a sound had passed his lips for seven days, no food either. He had not slept, and he had not wept, in the seven days since Nár had brought word of his father's death. Instead, he had sat, his eyes locked upon the small purse of gold coins held within the palm of his hand..

Thrór, King of Durin's Folk, the last King under the Mountain, had been killed within the very halls of Khazad-dûm, his head severed from his body and thrown out to Nár where he had waited. Upon his bloodied brow, a name had been hewn into his very flesh. Azog. The same Azog had then thrown the same purse of coins that now rested in the King's palm. Weregild for the beggar King.

"This… this insult. This affront most vile. This murder." The King set aside the purse and stood up slowly, with all the implacability of continents. "Orcs, beasts in all but name, sully the halls of our fathers, and grandfathers. Their filth runs across our floors, over the floors once walked by Durin the Deathless himself. But that, even that, can be borne, and we have borne it, for our sons. Or our sins."

He looked out over the ragged few of his people who still managed to fill the dark chamber that had been scratched out beneath one of the boneless hills of Dunland. "But this? This cannot be borne."

"My father is slain. Your King. Murdered in the very Halls of Durin by an Orc. His body consumed by them, and his head defiled and left for the crows to squabble over." The King began walking towards the centre of the room, leaving behind his petty throne. "It is too much. Too much has been lost to beasts. Too many holds, too many lives. Erebor, lost to the fire and flame of Smaug, Gundabad, long overrun by Orcs, and Khazad-dûm, defiled, and reduced to a black pit, crawling with filth. I say enough. I say it cannot be borne."

He reached the hearth, his axe resting against a bench that ran alongside. It was a simple thing, and by its look it did not seem that it would belong to a King, but the Kings of Durin's Folk knew the worth of a weapon without undue ostentation. "The world thinks we are spent after the loss of Erebor, that we cower here in our ignoble halls, content to let the slow death come for our people.

"But we are not spent." His fingers closed around the axe's familiar hilt.

"Let the word go out," he said, his voice gaining strength with every word. "Let the Broadbeams and Firebeards know this insult. Let the Ironfists and the Stiffbeards hear that a great council shall be called, as it was in ages past. Let the Blacklocks, and the Stonefoots see that the Misty Mountains will run with Orc blood."

With each statement, the Hall shook with the returned cries of those gathered there. Thráin raised his axe high, its blade glinting red in the firelight. "Let all the Houses of the Dwarves know that Durin's Folk will march! The axes of the dwarves will cleanse the halls of our forefathers! "

All those present roared their approval. Fists, axes and tankards, all were held aloft, and dust and earth fell from the ceiling so loud were their shouts.

Thráin waited for the shouts to quieten before he continued. "Let all who have heard this go forth from here with a message. Bear it to any among our Kin whom you can find. Bear it to the Horse Lords of the Broad Valley. Bear it to the Dúnedain of the North, and the Green-men of the South. Bear it even to the realm of Gondor by the Shadow. The Misty Mountains shall be scoured clean. No hall will be left unclaimed. No cave be left unpurged. No dark hole unlaved. Not a crack or crevice will remain to Azog, the defiler, and his ilk. Then our people will be avenged, and our fathers might finally find rest."

Then, from the shadows near the edge of the hall, a man stepped out. He was much taller than any Dwarf, and yet he had passed unnoticed among them, and unremarked. About his shoulders was a heavy travelling cloak of Dwarvish make, muddied and frayed at the edges from long journey through the wilderness. His head and face were hidden by the hood of his cloak, but all who looked upon him knew who he was.

For in his hand was the fabled staff of silver and stone, and upon his hip hung a black sword, which it was said would suffer no sheath.

"Thrór was long a friend to me," he said. His voice was soft, quiet enough that it had no business being heard in the busy Hall, and yet there were none who did not hear it. "His death is a tragedy. But it is only the most recent of many. The Misty Mountain passes are no longer safe, even for well guarded caravans. With each year the number of raiding parties increases and few places in the North are safe now.

"This war, when it comes, will not be a war of just Dwarves and Orcs. No, the Éothéod will surely join you if you would have them. The Dúnedain too, for Golfimbul is still recent in their memory. Even the Elves have been wronged. If not for blessed luck, the Lady of Imladris might have been felled by the blades of the Orcs." The figure then drew his black blade, which he thrust into the earth.

"And I. If you will have it, King Thráin, I will lend you my sword too, until the Orcs are driven from your homes."

Another Dwarf stepped forward, and bowed so low that his scraggly gray beard brushed the loamy floor. "Where are we to muster our forces, my King?"

The King was silent for a moment, before his eyes returned to the cloaked figure, though he raised his voice to address all those who were gathered in his hall. "Dubanu-id-durj. From there, once our might is gathered, we march on Gundabad."

A/N: This chapter represents a very significant time-skip, and separates the first and second primary arcs of the story. The time skip takes us from around the year 2000 to 2790 of the Third Age, and the first stirrings of the War of the Dwarves and Orcs.

There's really nothing that needs to be pointed out at the moment, I think. Only that the stories being told by Léod to Eorl may have some amount of artistic license added in their retelling. After-all, nearly 500 years has passed since the events in Léod's story.

All characters are canon. Eorl is, in the canon timeline at least, the founder of Rohan, and the reason why they are often called the Eorlingas.

Thráin is the son of Thrór, and the father of Thorin of 'The Hobbit' fame. We're finally getting into some more familiar territory... but how familiar is it with the changes Harry has unknowingly wrought?