Journal of Amathindon (winter campaign)
For the first time in nearly fifty years, I stood outside the gates of Minas Tirith. The great white city stood desolate and empty. Captain Faramir believed that some weapons might still exist within the vaults of the Kings or the Hall of the Stewards. We were selected, a small band of friends to venture within to find something, anything to help and arm the last armies of the Free People.
We had quartered the previous night in the ruined shell of a farmhouse on the Pelennor fields, as always Rosco had proven to be quite the scavenger; we dined that night on mushrooms and barley soup. The night for me was restive; I was plagued by strange and perverse dreams, being in the shadow of the ruined city put my mind ill at ease.
In the morning we approached the western gate, the mongrel dog that had taken a liking to Belvaren began to lag further and further behind us. The dog knew what we did, that the city had become an unholy place, Rosco and Belvaren had spotted weir lights on the walls; only much coaxing had gotten them to describe the strange phenomenon to me. Given the slightest excuse, the dog had turned back to the farm where we had stabled our horses.
Outside the walls, we spied signs of the last great battle that had been fought here, craters with detritus of the soldiers who had been killed by spells, the decades having erased any trace of whether they were Free Men or servants of shadow, with only the blasted landscape to serve as gravestones.
In time we found a solitary sign, a remembrance of fair lands and sweet grasses. A circle, perfectly inscribed, where grew green grass and tiny white flowers. I sat for a time, remembering my mountain home in the north, learning the way of the Ranger at the foot of my father. What wondrous magic, to have cast my thoughts back to a simpler time. My companions marveled at the sight of this winter grass, at the mountain flowers growing in this low, cold place. I looked up from my contemplation, and told them as gently as I knew how, that that this was the place where Gandalf the White had fallen. There was no other reason why this one place was so fair in a land so foul. I gathered a garland of eight of the white flowers, not a trophy but a remembrance.
These are times of war and shadow, we could not linger, we took up our burdens and entered the gates. Everywhere was the sign of what the orcs had done once they entered the city, I shan't describe it, if you have lived in these times you are well familiar with what orcs do when they capture a place. Everywhere I looked was the sign of the eye, graffiti left by orcish troops. Nowhere did we espy the least sign of life, no birds or vermin or even the least of crawling things populated this city of the dead.
We progressed until we reached the fourth level, our circumscribed route dictated by the very defenses that had protected the city for generations. The war machines of sauron had cast missiles even into these upper reaches, in places we were forced to detour blocks out of our way to navigate streets that had been destroyed in the war of the ring.
During one such detour, we were beset by the desecrated corpses of the cities inhabitants. Reanimated by foul magics, the cadavers attacked, Rosco's thin quick blade could find no purchase with these poor souls, and even Belvaren's elven magic found them oddly resilient. Only my heavy blade could seemingly smash our assailants apart, but we were heavy pressed.
In a move of desperation, Belvaren cast forth great waves of crushing force, scattering the attack and buying us time to escape. Rosco had been caught in one of the waves, his small frame unable to withstand the assault and had been beaten unconscious, so I gathered my dear friend onto my back and we beat our retreat.
Minas Tirith has delayed us, but we will assault the city again on the morrow. If any Free Man found this journal on my corpse in the city, know you granted me peace from I fate I did not seek. I look forward to the day when Free Men once again rule the city, when Gondor has arisen from the ashes, and Aragorn wears the star of the Crownless.
Valar protect us, we will brave the city again.
Amathindon, son of Arnethon, Ranger of the North, Captain of Mythgaulhon of the armies of Free Men.