His name was Trageth. Though, that was hard to remember sometimes, when he was surrounded by thousands and thousands of armed men. There was very little to make him stand out in that crowd, and truly the only way to identify other soldiers was by the look of their eyes half buried under the helm. But in that mass of armed men, in the clouds of dust stirred up by constant marching, it was very hard to see eyes. Blue, green, brown all looked the same, even if they were the only thing that could tell one solider from another. So more importantly, his name was Trageth, and his eyes were brown.
Delmorth had amber eyes with flecks of gold. Edorian; light blue framed by dark. He had a list of hundreds of men in his mind. He knew it was silly, forming identities with what was visible between the helm and noseplate, but it was really the only way. Garndon with hazel-gold. The last few days had been tense in anticipation, helms had not come off even in sleep. No personal insignia decorated their armor or shields. They had been rallied too quickly, called to meet the enemy under the shadow of Mordor's mountains.
Trageth, that was his name after all, even if he had to remind himself of it every day, strode along the tents and watched as the men packed them up carefully. Cookpots were thrown into bags, clanging loudly in the dry air. Beds were rolled up and stuffed into sacks. Fires were doused and buried. There was not much else to do. The soldiers had very few personal belongings, not for a campaign of this kind, and they had only brought what was needed to survive. Armor, spears, water hides. Whatever could be carried and still allow room to fight in case of an ambush while marching. Ordan with his green-yellow irises shouldered his pack, and Thomgal with eyes nearly black, so deep and sincere, assisted him.
A shrill cry pierced the sky overhead, and instinctively Trageth ducked. Nazgul on their flying beasts. He could see it up in the clouds, far beyond the reach of an arrow. Most likely sent out to scout. The final battle was coming, he could feel the tension and anticipation in the air. A pain shot up through the length of his arm, and he looked down at the hand tightly holding his spear. Too tightly. Though every inch of skin below his elbow was covered by a gauntlet, he knew it must be white, and he relaxed his grip. Shuddering, he scanned the sky again, but the black shape was gone. That cry could put fear into the bones of any man.
He was dusty and tired, and his feet burned, but he knew it was coming. It would be over soon enough, and perhaps he could go home at last. It had been a long march, bloody battles on either horizon. Glancing around again revealed men shouldering their packs and taking their spears up in hand. No cavalry among this group, they were foot soldiers one and all. His division of a few hundred men were like family to him, even the ones he did not know. They had to be family, because his was far away, safe from harm. His wife and two daughters, they had names too. But they were lost among the clanging of shields and swords and armor, among the dull roaring of Orodruin in the distance. So close, so close. And then he could go home to them. Maybe start over even, get away from any thoughts of this war and begin a new life.
But he knew that was impossible. He had been a solider all his life, and he had to admit that he enjoyed it. Oh, not every minute, of course. But the thrill of battle, the bloodlust that rose in the back of his mind and consumed every thought and desire, it became a passion he could not deny. He could not live without that. He could not imagine life without a spear by his side, his comrades standing in ranks beside him.
The air was dry and dusty, yet cold. Every banner hung limply against its staff, hiding all emblems and colors. There was no wind to give them life. The shadow of the mountains fell upon them as the morning sun beat down. The world here was an empty desert, the land just outside Mordor. He could be glad to get away from the black mountains, away from the fires of Orodruin.
Horns blew suddenly, and men stood in attention listening. The enemy is coming! Be on alert! they said. Trageth's fist tightened once again around his spear. The enemy. The reason he was here. They would fall beneath his hand. The final battle was coming, the War for Middle-earth was about to be completed. They would take back what was theirs. The Battle of the Morannon, it would be called, fought outside the Black Gate of Mordor, under Sauron's eye.
Trageth looked around as his company grouped together, studying the faces and trying to tell the difference. A queer gleam overtook the eyes of every man in formation as the horns called. Gold, green, blue, brown… All became red as though highlighted with the light of the sun. Despite all the colors swirling in thousands of irises that morning, it was the Red Eye that identified them all. The Red Eye of Sauron, Lord of the Earth, would prevail. The wind picked up just then, and the banners flew forth, showing their emblems to the world. The Red Eye.
 Letting his eyes squint in the sudden sunlight, the future scent of bloodshed fill his nose, Trageth watched as his fellow Easterlings lined up in marching order. The Red Eye rose above the heads of the men carrying it. The trumpet of Oliphants bugled behind him. Gondor and the Horse-lords would fall, destroyed by this ambush that lay hidden under the shadow of Ered Lithui.
A new world would be created. All eyes would turn red this day.