The man laid there, glassy eyes open, as the dark-haired ranger kneels beside him and the elf and dwarf stand back, their heads bowed. I descend among them, unnoticed. He resists me—they all do—but I pick his soul up anyhow.
"I failed them," he said softly, staring down at his companions.
"No," I said. "You did all you could."
"I was weak."
"Was Isildur weak?"
"Of course not."
"He was felled by one arrow as he tried to flee, abandoning his comrades. You, on the other hand, were felled with many while defending yours. That is strength."
He laughs bitterly but does not reply.
I collect many souls.
Most of them are orc. They curse me, fight me tooth and nail, but I feel nothing.
The other souls belong to the horsemen. They are less resistant, ready to meet me when I come.
None of them belong to the two halflings. They run away, into Fangorn forest. I take no notice of them.
The horsemen burn the orc bodies, piling them up like garbage.
War is not my friend.
War is the constant nagging at the back of my mind. Get it done; get it done…Always demanding more lives, more souls.
The elf and dwarf treat it like a game. They count how many orcs' souls they send to me, and the dwarf wins by one.
Some of the souls belong to boys who should not be here. So much waste. Most of them are afraid when they see me, and I wish I can comfort them, but I cannot.
The sun is rising as I move through the army. So many souls to collect. So much to do.
The wizard looks out above the trees and thinks of the hobbits, wondering if I have seen them.
The once-proud steward throws himself into my arms. He is eager to leave Middle-Earth and see his son.
I pity those who seek my comfort.
The ones I have rejected, that Isildur would not let me have, they are at peace. They come to me gladly, no longer horrific ghosts but the proud warriors they once were.
The King of Rohan does not fight me when I come. He is not eager to leave, but he knows that his people are in good hands. He greets me like an old friend.
The Witch King, however, curses me. He spits at my face, once again a man. I pay no attention to it.
The new King of Gondor weeps for his uncle. He shakes his fist and curses me, calling me a thief and a murderer. He weeps for his sister as well, but her soul was not collected today.
Out of all those who die that day, one sticks out.
His soul rises from the lava of what was once Mount Doom—no longer Gollum but Smeagol. Gollum is gone, but Smeagol is waiting for me.
He shrinks back when he sees me. "Deagol?" he says slowly.
I shake my head. "No, but he is waiting for you."
"Waiting for his revenge."
"The dead do not care for revenge. Deagol has put his past grievances against him."
"No more Precious," he murmurs.
"No. The Ring is gone, and you are free."
As we ascend into the sky, Smeagol smiles.
The world is at peace.