Thalion Faer, Doltha Hún

We had to stay out of sight on the ships as we approached the city, but there were windows through which I could see—although I desperately wished I had not. Minas Tirith, the glimmering city of Gondor, was under siege. Her lower levels were set ablaze and smoking. I tried to remind myself that this ended well, that this battle would be won and we would be victorious, but seeing the city, my city, so destroyed; it ripped at the very fibers of my soul.

“Late! As usual. Pirate Scum.” An orc yelled from the harbor as the ships—all being controlled by the army of the dead—slowly drifted into the port.

When I was little, my father used to bring me to this port to watch the ships come in. It was a pastime that Boromir adopted. Whenever he and Faramir were able to sneak away the three of us would sit on the wall (which was currently occupied by a dead Gondorian soldier) and watch shipments from across middle earth make their way towards our city.

“There’s enough work here that needs doing.” I stood between Aragorn and Gimli, waiting for the signal to attack. “Come on, you filthy sea rats! Get off your boats!”

Aragorn nodded to us and we jumped onto the docks, weapons at the ready. There was a host of about eighty orcs awaiting us, and seeing the four of us who were clearly not their allies from Umbar made them step back in shock. But it was a short-lived reaction, their fear quickly being replaced by smugness. They outnumbered us greatly, and they knew it. Their leader raised his weapon and took one step towards us before his face screwed up in horror.

I could feel the army of the dead, these cursed men of hundreds of years, as they pushed through my body and attacked the orcs. Each time one of them passed through was like walking through the foggy mist of an early spring’s morning. It was more than that, though. It was as if I could see the lives of each one that passed through me; snippets of the lives they had led, the people they had known. I saw the moment they decided to forsake their oath to Isildur; I felt the guilt that ate away ate their rotting flesh as they locked themselves in the mountains.

Centuries of pent up hate and aggression, of regret and sadness, hundreds of years of impermeable guilt: these were their weapons. They crashed against the enemy like the waves of a roaring ocean, unable to be tamed. Their strength, unparalleled; their abilities, frightening. There was naught that the orcs could do, save die. The army knew their business and carried it out with incredible accuracy as us four lone living souls followed after them.

The sight beyond the walls of the harbour stopped me in my tracks. The vast fields of Pelennor were dense with death and war and determination. Never had I seen such a cluster of species. There were orcs from Mordor and the Uruk-hai that had over-run Osgiliath, there were cave trolls clad in spiked armor and wargs unharnessed, but most alarming of all were these creatures, olliephaunts. Actual olliephaunts, just like in the stories my father used to tell me. They were massive creatures, their heads almost reached the top of the outer wall of Minas Tirith. They were captained by men, their faces and bodies decorated in red and white war paint.

Théoden's army of Rohirrim were already decorating the battle field: some as warriors, some as corpses. Merry was somewhere amongst them; and in Minas Tirith, Pippin. And somewhere in the deep dark of Mordor walked Frodo and Sam. The Fellowship of the Ring; together yet alone. Dispersed. Separated by our different paths yet tied together by the very same ones. We would find each other, in the end. We had to. Just one last time before I died…

The army of the dead obliterated all of the orcs who had come to the port, and we followed their green forms onto the battlefield. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. Unlike the battle at Helm’s Deep, we were completely unprotected. There were no walls, no mountains to retreat into. We were completely exposed. It was terrifying, despite how brave I tried to be. Courage was harder to come by when it was four against over ten thousand.

Théoden’s armies had approached from the other side, shifting the battle closer to us. The army of the dead stayed together, moving around in a giant mass that consumed the enemy in moments. Even with their help, though, it was a hard fight. The four of us relied on one another’s constant vigilance to stay alive and protected. I did my best to tap into the realm of the Veelathan, to immerse myself as much as possible in order to predict my enemy’s moves; but I stretched myself thin in trying to see the same for my friends.

I had never been in a place so loud my entire life. This was the last great war of our age, and I was right in the middle of it. No matter how beautiful the poetry, no words in any language could ever explain the feeling. The most brilliant painter could not get the images right. It was horrific, this obtuse clash of good and evil. This one last attempt at freedom. At a final and absolute victory.

At one point I branched off with Gimli, managing to tell him that yes, he could claim my kills as his if the Elf asked. I knew not how he managed to make humour in our situation, but it put me at ease more than any elvish chant could. We worked together as packs of orcs came at us, and he saved me from having my neck slit open at least twice, cutting the offending orc’s legs from under them.

Aragorn called out to Legolas and I looked to where the elf stood. One of the olliephaunts was charging right for him. I watched him take a moment to size up the enemy and make a plan. When the beast came close enough he jumped onto its leg, crawling up the beast with the aid of all the arrows that had been lodged into its leg. The men atop tried to shoot at it, but clearly had never dealt with the agility of the elves before. He managed to kill a few of the men before cutting their entire saddle off of the beast.

My attention was brought back when an Uruk growled and lunged towards me. He managed to get in a couple of good hits before I finally put him down, being drawn back into the battle. Some of the Uruks had more advanced weaponry than the others, and they often were the ones with better strategy drilled into their heads. I could feel the stinging of cut flesh on my arms and torso, but there was no time to stop and survey the damage. The ground vibrated nearby and I watched as the olliephaunts Legolas had been atop crashed into another, dead. The elf slid down the beast’s trunk and smiled smugly.

“That still only counts as one!” Gimli roared as the elf rejoined us.

Something inside of me was pulling me forwards; a feeling I’d learned long ago to trust. I caught sight of Aragorn, fighting off four Uruks at once. Without hesitating I pushed forward and tried to take them down. I’d gotten through two, the third falling to the ground. When I turned around the last Uruk had grabbed hold of Aragorn’s hair, pulling it backwards and exposing his neck. He raised his arm and my body bypassed my mind, reaching backwards for one of my daggers and sending it flying into the Uruk’s head as his blade made contact. The skin on Aragorn’s neck had been cut, but not enough to draw any dangerous amount of blood.

We sort of stood there for a moment, both in awe, before snapping back into it. He ripped the dagger out of the creature’s head and tossed it back to me, urging me onwards. I got caught up fighting a warg and internally mused at the fact that finally I hadn’t been the one to need help in battle. For the first time, I’d repaid the favour.

I stopped in my tracks when I came upon a Nazgûl. My feet started to retreat before I realized that its head had been severed. It was dead: and a few metres away sat a crumpled heap of black fabric, twisted metal, and a flail. The fabric looked familiar, like the garb that clothed the ring wraiths—but they could not be killed. I didn’t know what it was; all I knew was that we had one less Nazgûl to worry about.

Ahead of me I caught sight of Éomer who, like Aragorn, was being attacked by a horde of orcs. I nodded to Gimli and we joined the horse master, aiding him in the slaughter. One of the orcs had bled all over me, the sticky black blood saturating my clothing and staining my skin. Éomer nodded in appreciation before disappearing off to continue fighting.

The four of us made our way towards the front doors of the White City where the forces of Mordor were slipping in, attempting to quell the incoming tide of enemies. A group of Rohirrim had joined us and together we worked back those remaining who were still attempting to enter. I prayed it would give the Gondorian guard some form of help.

When the number of those approaching (and on the field as well) began to dwindle I risked a look around. My heart lightened as I realized we were coming to the end of it. The army of the dead was sweeping over the field in one giant cloud, and the enemy feared it greatly. They chose their death: either by the sword of man or the wrath of the departed. When few remained on the fields of Pelennor the army moved into the city, climbing up all of the levels and putting an end to the war.

For what felt like the first time, I stopped to catch my breath. My lungs, my entire body ached from exhaustion and pain. My muscles were ready to give out: but there was still much to do. I looked around at all the dead that would need to be buried, but more importantly the wounded that would need tending. The house of healing in the fourth level of Minas Tirith could never hold all of the wounded; a makeshift facility would have to be set up, likely on the fields.

Aragorn was at my side and I smiled weakly, placing my hand on his cheek. He took out his dagger and cut a strip off of the bottom of his cloak, taking my arm and bandaging up the worst of my injuries. I wanted to hold him, wanted to close my eyes and forget this place just for a while, but this battlefield, this graveyard was no place for tenderness. It would have to wait.

If I still had time.