(AN: I've dabbled in Lord of the Rings stories on here, but this one will be my first, semi-original idea. All of the characters [save for a few of them] are created by J.R.R. Tolkien. This is about the Second Age and the Last Alliance [hence the title], but told from a rather unique point of view.)

The Siege of Minas Ithil

3429 S.A.

Ohtar was roused from his sleep by the sound of bells ringing in the courtyard of the barracks. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach as he heard their clarion call ringing in his ears: their sounding meant only one thing.

The city was under attack.

He slept in his armor – at least his shirt of mail, for such the men of Minas Ithil always dressed, even in sleep – and so had little to array himself with save for his sword. He wrapped the leather belt about his waist while he began slapping the heavy plates of armor over his mail shirt. Taking up his horn, placing in the belt that held the scabbard of his sword, he walked hurriedly over to a table that sat against the wall of his room. Thereon was a great something swathed in a black cloth.

This Ohtar took up reverently, both hands upon the beam that protruded from out of the cloth, and ran up the stairs out of his room into the courtyard.

All was in flames. The bright city of the Tower of the Moon was bathed not in moonlight, but in the glare of many fires. Hideous cries of fell creatures in the Black Tongue could be heard outside the walls of the city. Men and women ran here and there in confusion and disarray.

He turned and saw his captain was waiting for him. A giant of a man he was, the likeness of all of the great ones of the Edain incarnate - from Beren unto Elros, the father of the Edain. His men were with him, all of them armed and ready for battle. They, like Ohtar, looked up to him even as if he were king already.

"Ohtar!" Isildur called out to his herald and standard-bearer. "Come! I have a task for you."

"I'm at your service, my lord!" Ohtar said, kneeling before the giant lord of the city.

"There is a treasure here in this city," Isildur began. "A precious memento of our ancient home. I cannot let it fall into the hands of the Enemy." He knelt down and placed a hand upon Ohtar's shoulder.

"You must lead the people out of the city," he said.

"But, my lord," Ohtar continued. "We cannot risk losing you! I-I am no captain, no leader of Men!"

"You are my faithful servant," Isildur continued. "I trust none other with this great a task. Lead the people out of the valley, to the Capital on the River. The Valar willing, I will be there shortly. If not..." He sighed, but said nothing else. Neither of them wanted to envision Isildur's death.

"Quickly!" Isildur insisted, practically dragging Ohtar to his feet. "Unfurl the standard! Lead the people to safety! May the Valar be with you!" He turned then to his men and gave specific instructions to them, that they should follow the standard and guard the people as they made their escape.

Without another word, Ohtar went to fulfill his duty. The first place he stopped was the stables, where he mounted his steed and rode out into the courtyard. Pausing for a moment, he unfurled the banner he had been carrying, then held it aloft on its beam that all might see it and take hope.

A red banner, with emblems of ithildin and silver thread upon the cloth. The seven stars crowned a great White Tree, and to the side was the crescent moon. This was the banner of the lord of Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Moon, Isildur, first-born of Elendil the Tall, king of Arnor.

Hope filled the heart of Ohtar, and all the Edain who saw the banner unfurl amid the fires of war.

They were on their way out of the valley. Though Ohtar had lived in the Imlad Ithil for many years, he had never really gotten used to the strange feel of this valley. So close to the borders of the Black Land, nights of sleepless anxiety were not foreign to him. There was, in fact, a time when he wished he could be transferred somewhere less formidable: like the capital city of Osgiliath, or the fortress of Minas Anor, or his family's old home in Isengard.

Now, as the white walls of Minas Ithil grew smaller and smaller, black clouds of smoke and ash marking what had once been his home, Ohtar felt detached, suddenly, from what had become a home to him.

Even worse, he feared for his lord. No sign of his return had been noted since they left the city walls. Soon the dark mountains would pass them by, Minas Ithil would be hidden from view, and any hope that Isildur would make it would vanish with the city.

Just then, when hope seemed frail and fading, burning like the houses and buildings of the great Tower of the Moon, a lone rider rode out from across the bridge. It was now coming nearer and nearer. Ohtar's hand gripped the hilt of his sword, fearing some attack. The Lord of Barad-dur had more than orcs at his disposal: wicked men from the East, blind and ignorant half-men that worshipped him as if he were a god instead of the Valar. There were even whispers of Dunedain who had fallen into wantonness and darkness, and had established their own cult, known as the Moredain. The Black Numenoreans.

Ohtar's heart rose as the rider now came within sight. Tall he was, more so than most men, even of the Edain. He was now close enough that he, Ohtar, could make out discerning features. A long thing he had, wrapped in a bundle, carried under one arm, and another thing, also swathed in black cloth, was cradled before him, held by the hand that held the reins of his horse.

"My lord!" he shouted, waving as Isildur joined the rear-guard of the column. He sighed in relief. For now, though Minas Ithil be lost, at least its lord was safe.

(AN: Good enough teaser? I plan on making more, but don't know when. Just keep watching for more updates.)