The Hobbit's blood splattered his blade. All other thought banished from his mind, Khamûl struck the screaming mound of flesh again. And again. Blood flew across his robes as he thrust his sword into Frodo Baggin's heart, finally ending his suffering. His companions were doing a similar activity with Samwise Gamgee, eventually beheading him. Khamûl rose the One Ring into the air and screeched in triumph. His robes billowed behind him as he exited the platform, leaving the Sammath Naur. He mounted his Fell Beast and flew off to Barad-Dûr, his companions screaming in victory alongside him.
Aragorn looked up from the battle momentarily. His meagre force was surrounded, completely flanked. Retreat wasn't an option. He saw the Nazgûl fly to Barad-Dûr, and felt the ground shake. The Orcs and trolls began to chant, uttering their war cries. Aragorn knew that Frodo was dead. He knew there was no hope for the West. Not now. He was going to come back. This was the end for Strider and his friends. The fellowship gathered around him: Gandalf, Meriadoc, Peregrin, Gimli and Legolas. All that now remained of the Nine. His thoughts turned briefly to Arwen. At least she would be safe. Elrond would take her and flee to Valinor, where Sauron dare not go. At least she could survive. She had to.
Suddenly, he heard a sound above his head. He looked up as the Orcs scattered somewhat, momentarily disorganised. Next thing he or any of the fellowship knew, he was flying, soaring above Dagorlad. He yelled at the eagle to stop, to return him to the battle. But he was ignored, and was flown away, far away. He was taken to Osgiliath, where he immediately succumbed to his wounds and to his fatigue, passing out. During his slumber, he was returned to Minas Tirith, to the Houses of Healing.
Meanwhile, Eómer lay stricken on the field. His hair was matter with blood and sweat and dirt, and he felt utterly exhausted. His muscles ached, his horse was dead, his sword lay broken. His helmet was cracked where an axe had made contact with his face, almost slaying him. He tried to remember what had happened. A great black shadow, and then... An epicatastrophe. For the fellowship, anyway. Éomer was always forgotten. Left behind. Now he was left here to die. Typical. He struggled to his feet and looked desperately at the surviving men. Few remained now. The men of Gondor lay hewn like old trees and only four dozen Rohirrim were left standing, dismounted by the Enemy. Éomer picked up a sword from a fallen comrade, and with bitter determination slew a dozen Orcs, before he was eventually put down by a large black Warg, with blood in its mangy fur. As his eyes closed, he watched his final allies being cut down. How could it have come to this?
And so ended the War of the Ring. Sauron returned in his full majesty, and the Witch King of Angmar was resurrected by the Dark Lord. So begins a new War. The War of Hope. The hopeless war.