FROM OSGILIATH TO THE END OF ALL TIES

A/N: God, I've been so bogged down by exams recently I haven't had time to breathe, let alone finish the game and write. Anyways, just finished the game a couple of hours ago! The final boss battle was pretty lame though, I mean, how the hell did they manage to get up to the top of Barad-dûr anyway? Well, I hated what happened on Pelennor Fields. I was half yelling at the screen, "Yes, Morwen is going to die!" and then of course, Aragorn just had to step in and heal her. Darn you, Aragorn.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with LOTR. If I did, Idrial and Berethor would be together, and Morwen would be several feet under the ground.


THE THIRD AGE: FALLEN WARRIOR

The Battle of Pelennor Fields was drawing to a close. Some meters away, the greenish glow emitted by the Army of the Dead could be seen, where the dead warriors swarmed over the remaining Orcs like maggots and flies. Slaughtered Gondorians, Rohirrim, Orcs, Wargs, Easterlings and giant Mûmakil scattered the barren plains which were splattered with blood; the earth was now permanently scarred by the tracks of machines of war. The sky was blackening - no longer did the Sun cast her rays across the devastation; no longer would she drive away the dark. Night had come out to play, granting evil a share of his power, so it may execute its terrible will. In sight of the Mountains of Shadow a doomed fight had taken place, where a band of six warriors had struggled against the Nazgûl. Evil's will had been done, and now five of the company gathered around the fallen Maiden of Rohan.

"Morwen!" Berethor cried out in anguish, armour squeaking as he dropped to his knees next to his injured friend. She looked lovingly up into his brown eyes, her breathing ragged. The light in her eyes was fading. Her life was failing. Every second brought her closer to death; every second took her further from him.

Hadhod hung his head, and leant on his axe, letting out a great sigh. So far they had come together, so close were they to the end of their quest, and one of their party were to be torn away from them, mercilessly. The dwarf hadn't been particularly close to the Maiden, preferring the company of Elegost the Ranger. Yet, as she slipped away, he, normally so stout, felt drained and weak. Eaoden, behind him, was shifting uneasily upon his feet, respectfully silent. And Elegost, the resourceful ranger, stood stiffly by Hadhod's side, numb, and at a complete loss of what to do. Idrial, meanwhile, stood a good distance away, eyes fixed upon the events unfolding before her. She wondered whether she should interfere; yet she knew her magic was limited, her last energy spent on battling the Nazgûl. She would only succeed in adding a few minutes more to Morwen's life, and those worthless seconds would be spent in pain. The power of greater Elves was too far away to call upon, and the King had departed westwards towards his City to make counsel with Gandalf and his comrades (1).

"Berethor..." wheezed Morwen, as she attempted to raise her hand to his face. The Gondorian wrapped his arms around her, and tenderly cradled the woman as though she was but a babe.

He turned his head to the others. "Is there nothing we can do?"

Elegost shook his head regretfully, approached the man and set his hand upon his shoulder. "The King would have been able to save her. It is said he is a great healer. Yet Aragorn has already made his way across the Fields towards Minas Tirith." One solitary tear made its way down his face as he squeezed the other man's shoulder.

"I won't allow her to die," growled Berethor. "We cannot just give up on her. Idrial, you saved me from the Nazgûl once before, when we first met. Please, do the same for her. I beg it of you."

Idrial knelt by Morwen and took her calloused hand in her smooth one. There was nothing that could be done. Her wound was grievous, and the elf was too fatigued to call upon her elven magic. She felt so powerless: never before had she felt so exhausted, and she hated it. Idrial could do nothing, and she detested herself for it. Foolishly had she wasted her strength on countless orcs, and then to be weakened by the shadow power of the Ringwraiths. Idrial cursed herself. She was an elf! Why had she tired so quickly? "I cannot." Often had she quarreled with Morwen, out of jealousy. She regretted it now, when it was too late to make amends.

"At least try!" he begged, in a despairing voice. "I did not come this far to lose one of you at the last test. There has to be something – anything - that we can do!" Berethor's company was silent as his eyes scoured each one of them for an answer. Their eyes flickered to the ground, unwilling to meet his. So fierce was his hope they had not the courage to quash it. Yet the Gondorian was no fool; he gained his answer quickly from their silence, and was crushed by it. "There is...nothing... I can't just... I..."

Morwen was still where she rested in Berethor's arms. She had left Middle-Earth to join those of the Otherworld. There she would find her family, who were unduly ripped from her life not so long ago. Her eyes, once so full of fire, were blank. All the sorrow and pain had disappeared from her face, which was now peaceful. She looked so, so young.

"God, no…" groaned Berethor.

Idrial released the dead woman's hand, and stood suddenly. She turned from them, before they could witness her tears. The ties that bound the group together ran so deep it overrode her dislike of Morwen, and she shared Berethor's sorrow. Without a word she took her leave, and began her journey across the plains to the City of Kings, which still dominated the surrounding landscape, standing proud despite its many hurts. There she could escape the stifling silence; there she could disappear into the hordes of people, and remain unseen in her grief.

The Great Darkness which had overshadowed the Fields of Pelennor was retreating over them, returning to the land whence it came. Yet the Sun did not shine, for it was night, but the work of Evil was stalled for now. The battle was won, although none of Berethor's band felt like celebrating. Five remained, and the War of the Ring was not yet over. How many of their party would endure till the end? Aloof from death had they remained, until today. Now it seemed so close, so real.

Eaoden broke the silence, and said with a wavering voice, "I now must make my way to the City, for I have to find Éomer." When nobody replied, he left the three and followed the path Idrial had taken minutes before. Hadhod and Elegost, lost in their own grief, waited for their friend who still kneeled upon the ground, still clinging to Morwen. She was so cold, already.

Finally, Berethor stood, with Morwen in his arms. He turned to them, and said, "I will carry Morwen's body back to the City. My quest is still not over: I set out to find Boromir, yet without knowing it I started out upon another journey that has lasted for almost a year. It is coming to an end, and I still have one last errand, and that is to serve the King until the end of the War. I do not demand that any of you follow me."

Elegost shook his head slowly, and told him, "I joined your quest third, my friend, and I shall not end my part prematurely. I will journey with you till the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth win this war, or perish."

Hadhod straightened and added, "Aye, count me in."

Berethor smiled his thanks. His lips did not smile joyfully, but sadly. For many days yet neither smile nor laugh would be of mirth: the wound of loss was too raw. He then said, "We must off, to the City of Kings."

And so the three made their way to Minas Tirith together, where they would set out with the others of their company, on the last stage of their quest, and to the ruin of Sauron.


(1) For the sake of this fic, Aragorn did not fight against the Nazgûl alongside Berethor's company.

A/N: Can't make any promises about the next (and final) chapter. Should be up sometime in the next month!