Hey, everybody (however many of you there are)! As you may or may not know this is the second thing I've ever posted to Fanfiction – the first is a single chapter of a story I don't intend to finish. Sorry to the three reviewers who commented on it, if you even remember it happening. I know this isn't long, but please do enjoy it. If you hate it, go ahead and tell me. If you don't, I appreciate feedback – as I'm sure anybody else does when posting fanfiction of any kind. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings

Gondor staggered on.

He was old, now - his head grey and his limbs heavy, and he used his sword as a cane more than a weapon. If only his enemy was as weak; but as Gondor aged, his enemy never seemed to change, save for to grow stronger.

Of course, Gondor had been able to meet that enemy on its own terms once, long ago. Back when he was Numenor, and when Valinor his uncle came to fight by his side. But he had made mistakes since then. He had rejected Valinor's help for a time, allowed Sauron to whisper lies into his ear, and had even tried to attack his uncle. The move failed.

But when he was Numenor his faith in Valinor had never quite faltered completely. He had devoted much of his strength to the attack and lost it, but some of that strength and much of his knowledge had been spared as he moved to a new land.

There he was far happier, with his strength renewing to the point where he even seemed to have a brother to fight alongside - and his long - distant cousins Imladris and Lorien had come to his aid. And when Sauron attacked again, he was ready and he drove him back. Though he suffered a mortal wound, it never seemed enough to fully kill him. Now Gondor realized, with the clarity of hindsight, what a fool he'd been.

Oh, he fought on. Enough of his strength still remained for that. But too little, far too little, still rode in his blood now to fight this latest minion of Sauron. Gondor did not despair at the prospect if his death - he was a warrior, and he had known that it would come one day – but he did mourn for those that he protected.

Hobbitton, with his jovial laughter, innocent cheer, and a steel buried so deeply that the youth didn't know it. Rohan, who thought himself ready for battle but was still but a child. More, lost to the misty corridors of memory slowly abandoning him these days.

But as Gondor drew up his ancient blade to do battle one last time, with his weathered face set to his foe's roar and his feet planted in a resolve not to give ground without a king's ransom of blood, his own and his enemy's, he heard a sound.

Allies drew up beside him - Hobbitton, with his wide face set in determination, and Rohan, astride a mighty horse. Rohan was not so weak as Gondor had thought. With both were the tokens of what support Erebor and Greenwood could send, and at their arrival Gondor's head began to clear and his wound began to heal.

He was ancient, yes, but not weak for it. Imladris and Lorien were older than he and still fought in their own ways. His blade was still sharp, and his mind was sharper still. His arm was strong. And though Sauron still stood in his way, Gondor realized now that Morgoth's lackey could still be defeated. Gondor, who was Numenor and Arnor, surrounded by allies and the renewed strength that had come with the healing of his wound, charged into battle once more.