To each and every one of you, I thank you. You all are simply amazing.
Chapter Twenty-One: The Battle of the Pelennor Fields
As they sped down the hill, the City of Kings emerged mighty in its ivory splendor against the backdrop of the White Mountains in the bright morning light. Lothíriel blanched cold with dread and her breath ceased even as the wind from her charge whipped at her frame at the sight that was presented to her: on the precious fields before Minas Tirith a mighty and deep orc swarm had gathered to stretch from one end of the city to the next and then beyond. Touting spears and bows, swords and axes, pikes and targes, their roar of battle was more deafening than the army of Théoden's, and as it drowned out their cry it took her last vestiges of hope with it as well.
There are thousands of them. More enemies than I would ever hope never to see.
The wind slashed at her face and dirt stung her eyes, and though her grip trembled, she forced her fingers to tighten on the reins as Firebreather screeched and tossed his mighty head, as eager for battle as she suddenly feared it. His footing was sure and swift, and Lothíriel swore she could feel his heart pounding as surely as she could feel her own, though for a different reason entirely.
How can we hope to overcome so many?
Lothíriel felt horror threaten to cloud her mind as she watched smoke drift from multiple levels in the city. It looked as though the once mighty city of Men had been under attack for some time with its broken walls and shattered towers. Are we too late? As Firebreather charged, her eyes roamed the scene before her: most of the battlements of Minas Tirith had crumbled and their litter pebbled the fields. The great white city looked bleak as it burned, enemies churning through the levels with a force that could not be reckoned with. Nazgûl flew high above, blocking out the sun and laying waste to the city, their screams drowning out the cries of help from the cityfolk who Lothíriel could see scrambling for safety as she descended the hill. The field below the city boasted rows and rows of enemy soldiers, as well as tall towers wrought of wood pushed by cave trolls. As Théoden's army charged down the hill, Lothíriel watched as the majority of the enemy's attention rippled toward them, brandishing their weapons and forming ranks to prepare for the onslaught.
Although she was afraid, more afraid than she had ever been in her whole life, Lothíriel knew there was no turning back. Not at this point. She knew this was no silly adventure anymore, not something that could be taken lightly or shirked from. She was here. In the moment. Touting her own weapons and exclaiming her own battle cry. She had to put everything she had into this battle. There was no one to protect her, no one to shelter her from the worst of it, no one to save her from this awaiting catastrophe. She could not run into the shelter of her father's arms or hide behind her brothers.
And, though the feeling had always been there, she suddenly, wholly and resolutely, wanted to be no where else.
As the soldiers riding abreast with her urged their mounts with kicking heels and shrieked their way to their doom and as the orcs rallied their archers and spear-holders as she drew ever-closer to the front lines, she knew one thing for certain: she would die on these fields today.
Her heart ceased to beat for a moment before it took up a furious staccato. Yes. I will. She forced away her fear to focus on her determination. But not before I run them all to the ground!
She heard a raggedly gruff voice above the others cry out over the fields and watched in mute horror as arrows darkened the sky. She dipped low on Firebreather and turned her face to the ground, and considered herself very lucky when none met her chassis or her horse's. As the wind from her ride streaked over her skin and the dirt from the hooves of the horses threatened to choke her, Lothíriel returned her attention to the charge and found she had new targets to dodge; Rohirrim soldiers who had been hit fell to the ground, their mounts writhing and screaming as they struggled to stand. Lothíriel gritted her teeth and kept on, pulling Firebreather this way and that, as another wave of arrows brought about the same fate.
Show them no mercy to the enemy! She forced herself to focus, to drive away the incessant fear that had a hold of her spine. For the lives they so easily spent!
The first wave of Rohirric soldiers hit the enemy hard. She watched as orcs fell and her own brethren were cut down by swords and spears as Firebreather brought her ever-nearer to brandishing her own weapon. The Rohirrim did not lose their momentum and trampled those in their wake, swinging their swords or raising their shields. Lothíriel grabbed her bow from her back and looped it over her arm, knowing she had to prepare for her own onslaught.
The other warhorses around him incensed Firebreather and Lothíriel had struggle with his reins to contain him as he almost overtook Windfola and she lost sight of Éowyn. The mighty warhorse shrieked as arrows flew and swords neared his chassis, his wild eyes drawn this way or that by the screams of orcs as they as a pair finally burst into the heart of the fray. His hooves wrought of iron and madness stamped and weaved through the soldiers with little urging from her, which gave Lothíriel a heartbeat's moment to adjust to her new, more chaotic surroundings. She was just not riding to her doom now; she was in the thick of it.
This is what you asked for all along! Do not tremble and falter now!
Lothíriel gripped her bow in one unsteady hand and clutched the reins with both, leaning low on Firebreather as he plowed down orcs before they could even brandish their swords. Lothíriel was near frantic, her eyes flickering every which way though she wanted to keep a steady gaze on Éowyn so she did not lose her. The Lady of Rohan rode swift beside her, her own steed stamping as she cried out in anger and swathed a path through the bedlam, her sword held high on a quivering arm.
In that moment Lothíriel knew she had to start to defend herself or be lost to the chaos.
She slackened the reins by looping them around her wrists and let Firebreather take lead of the charge as she readied her bow and an arrow to notch. She trusted her steed to carry her true and was not disappointed when he did not stray and go crazed; instead he kept charging, his head held high as he took to the enemy lines with vigor and ferocity.
Lothíriel let loose her arrow fly and could not stop the swell of pride when she took down her first orc. A grin of triumph flitted over her features but she did not hesitate to celebrate, knew there was no time. She used Firebreather as a weapon while she notched another arrow, guiding him with her knees; and it was as if the warhorse sensed her every move and glided with her, knocking away or killing orcs with his powerful hooves. They worked in tandem with one another, clearing a path through the enemy while wails of terror, clanging swords, and the breaking of shields sounded from all around. Lothíriel struggled desperately to keep sight of Éowyn as she fought for her own freedom, her people, and her own will to live.
The enemy arrowfire had waned slightly, but Lothíriel felt the ting of an arrow every now and again on her armor. In the chaos Firebreather took one to his leather-armored shoulder, enraging the beast and causing him to almost spill her to the dirty ground in a rear. Lothíriel cried out for him to calm, reaching down with a shaking hand to soothe the beast. He calmed a degree and renewed his stamp, eyes fierce as he splashed her borrowed armor with blood and grime.
She suddenly heard the terrible roar of an orc to her left and quickly swung her bow that way, but the beast happened upon her with a long, hooked blade that took her by surprise and on her knee. Firebreather whirled around and knocked the orc off balance, giving Lothíriel time to release her arrow through the gap of his helm to meet his cheek and demise. She gritted through the pain the sword had wrought her and swung Firebreather around once more, and through the pandemonium her eyes locked on Éowyn.
I cannot lose her!
She was almost lost beneath the sea of orcs and men so very far away. The Lady of Rohan was fighting from atop Windfola with a wild intensity, and with each stroke Merry matched her on her opposite side. Still they were almost overpowered. Lothíriel kneed Firebreather that way as she notched another arrow, her hands visibly shaking.
How can we expect to defeat so many? She let loose her arrow fly and reached for another as panic threatened to constrict her throat and burn its way up to possess her mind. She was able to reach Éowyn's side and the feat helped calm her to a degree, drawing strength from the presence of her friend.
The carnage around her was nigh overwhelming. Shrieks and swords rang from all around her as she repeated the notch-and-fly to rain down on her enemies, not even wasting the time to watch them fall. Every moment was precious; if she was not diligent to those around her, it may cost her life. Orcs charged from every direction and she swung on the saddle this way and that to cut them down, working with Éowyn and Merry to keep the enemy at bay. Their strategy proved successful and thus they worked that way for a time, sweating, bleeding, aching, and breathless.
Lothíriel was glad for her extra quivers of arrows she had worked on the last couple of nights, for they emptied quickly. She lost track of the number of enemies she took down and was lucky that none got close enough to return the favor. Firebreather was sweating beneath her, his legs drenched in the black blood of his enemies.
"Have courage!" Lothíriel heard Éowyn yell as she struck an orc through the skull with her sword. She yanked her blade free and met Lothíriel's eyes for a quick nod of encouragement before swinging to attack another.
The sun steadily climbed the sky as the battle wore on, and after a time Lothíriel noticed the orcs and uruk-hai around her were dwindling. Panting, soaked with sweat, and throbbing with pain, she grabbed the reins of Firebreather and pulled him to face the way she had come across the fields of Pelennor as she suddenly realized the enemy was retreating.
Her dread was instantly banished by blinding relief as soldiers crowded around her to watch the orcs and uruk-hai turn tail and run. They are fleeing! She let out a whoop of laughter as those around her did the same, Windfola skidding to a halt beside her with Éowyn beaming beneath her too-big helm.
Lothíriel pushed back her own as she turned a grin to her friend. "We have driven them back!"
"We will see victory before the day is over!" Éowyn agreed with a laugh of her own.
Lothíriel could not believe it! Their small force of brave soldiers had actually, in such a short time—
A terrible sound rent the air then, a cry that Lothíriel had never heard before but one that caused her blood to run cold in her veins. Her smile faltered and she turned her grey gaze from Éowyn to the last of the trailing orcs as Firebreather sidled nervously beneath her. He snorted and tossed his great head as Lothíriel watched the dust from the orcs' retreat swirl this way and that and then begin to twist into a new shape, one that Lothíriel did not want to believe was real.
"Mûmakil." Though her breath was a whisper Lothíriel heard it as if Éowyn had shouted, and her spine curled with fear, a fear so deep and so thick that she almost let the panic that had been threatening her consume her.
"Reform the lines!"
"Make haste! Reform the lines!"
Soldiers spurred into action around her and Lothíriel belatedly did the same with Firebreather, though her conscience screamed at her to run. Run for safety, run for cover, run for survival.
Mûmakil… Now that was a foe they could not overcome. And as she squinted through the settling dust and wiped the sweat from her eyes, Lothíriel noticed it was just not oliphaunts; with them came new leagues of orcs and scores of Haradrim, riding hard and running fast beyond the thundering steps of the beasts of legend.
Lothíriel shifted in her saddle, glancing to make sure her extra quivers were still attached and her bow was still strung tight. Prepare. Fight. Win. Her palms sweated through the heat of her gloves and the sun beat down unmercifully to soak her tunic and plaster it to her dirty skin. She tried to swallow the lump that had been in her throat for the past three days but was unsuccessful, and her trailing gaze brought her to Éowyn forming rank next to her, Windfola leaping forth and then drawing back in nervousness.
Éowyn looked at her then, her eyes hard with resolution as she clutched Merry with one hand and her sword with the other. Merry had the reins to Windfola in his trembling hands and Lothíriel could not help but think he looked positively terrified; but yet he sat tall and remained brave, his sword brandished tightly in his hands as well.
"Remember why we fight!" Éowyn called to her.
Merry looked up at Éowyn and adopted a toothy grin, before turning his eyes to Lothíriel. "It is for them that we are here!"
It was only then that the lump dissolved and her fear abated somewhat, and Lothíriel curved one hand around the reins and her other around her bow with renewed force.
For my family.
The piercing screech of a nazgûl suddenly rent the air and Lothíriel ducked and covered her ears, whimpering at the sudden pain rattling her skull. The winged shadow of the creature passed overhead, its long neck and body eclipsing the sun and causing horses to rear or buck in terror, sending many Rohirrim into a frightened fluster to calm their charges and face this new foe.
"Charge!"
All around her soldiers bellowed and leapt forth on their trusty steeds, and Lothíriel could not control Firebreather when he did the same. His long legs ate up the distance between her and the new foe, and she soon found herself bearing closer and closer to a beast she knew she could not win against.
But I will try!
She let out a scream of war as she charged, dropping the reins and letting Firebreather take the lead once more. She strung her bow and began to take out Haradrim and orcs, one after another after another. Her panic evaporated into sheer survival and she emptied an entire quiver before the oliphaunts got close enough that even Firebreather grew slightly nervous. His big head tossed this way and that, his steps faltered, and Lothíriel quickly tossed the quiver to the ground as she took up the reins and pulled hard to the right. Firebreather veered so much that he almost threw her, but she squeezed tight with her knees and kicked him into a hard gallop, riding side by side with Éowyn as she slashed at any Haradrim or orcs that happened to get in her way.
Lothíriel focused on leading Firebreather through the fray and regaining her own composure before she reached for another quiver of arrows. The oliphaunt closest to her on her left had a string of tight twine woven between its tusks that had spikes driven through at intervals, and those that did not get out of the way were plowed down. Lothíriel grimaced as she slung her quiver over her back and quickly notched an arrow, Firebreather's reins forgotten but the animal taking the lead nevertheless.
I will not be one of them! She aimed her bow high and shot for the head of the mûmakil, pleased when the beast roared and tossed its great head. She kneed Firebreather to the right to avoid the creature's clumsy feet as someone suddenly shouted across the field, "Aim for their heads!"
At once a cascade of arrows darkened the sky and the mûmakil not more than ten yards from her was assaulted by the sting of arrows. The beast reared, toppling his handlers and sending Lothíriel rushing Firebreather in the opposite direction as bodies rained down from the sky. She was glad the sound of crunching bones was lost under the scream of a nazgûl and the roar of the mûmakil, but the shrieking of dying men would forever haunt her dreams.
From the corner of her eye, Lothíriel watched Éowyn bring Windfola to a rearing halt, and she did the same to Firebreather as Éowyn extended an arm to point her sword to a mûmakil still some hundred yards away to their left.
"That beast is ours!"
The grin on her face invigorated Lothíriel to dig her heels into Firebreather and she took to the path that Éowyn swathed through the enemy troops, quickly gaining on her friend.
"Follow my lead!" Éowyn shouted and Lothíriel barely heard her over the din of the battle, but followed her nonetheless.
Wishing she had a sword to cut those down that Éowyn missed, Lothíriel did not stop Firebreather from plowing down the bodies of orcs and Haradrim alike. She clutched her bow tightly and reached to ready an arrow, for the mûmakil trundled ever closer in their chosen path. She rode abreast with Éowyn now, the lady slashing mightily with her short sword, crying out with every thrust. Merry had the reins to Windfola and suddenly jerked the steed to a stop, and Lothíriel pulled Firebreather to do the same, both rider and horse panting their exertion.
"My lady!"
Lothíriel glanced over at Merry to see him pointing up to the mûmakil, its great head tossing this way and that as it plowed directly toward them, its path decided.
"The eye! Think you can hit it?"
Lothíriel barked out a laugh at Merry's challenging words and Éowyn's raised eyebrow. "With pleasure!"
At once she yanked Firebreather's reins to the left and the horse shrieked at the sudden change of direction. Éowyn lagged behind as Lothíriel sped Firebreather into a hard canter to cross before the charging mûmakil. The great beast of legend let out a mighty roar and lifted its six-tusked head to run her down, but Firebreather was too fast and Lothíriel laughed as the beast missed, its large feet clumsy with the weight of its movement. She pulled Firebreather to a screeching halt as the mûmakil charged on, quickly forgetting her and intent on taking down as many of her battle kin as it could.
Not while I am still breathing.
She notched an arrow just as the mûmakil drew abreast with her to her right, and she wasted not a single heartbeat of time in taking the angle of the sun, the tide of the battle, and the gusts of wind from those around her into account. With both eyes open and a wide grin on her face Lothíriel watched as her arrow sailed through the air and promptly fell short of the great beast.
Damn!
Lothíriel whirled Firebreather around and kicked him into a hard gallop as she took up her bow once more. She gritted her teeth as his big horse body took down leagues of Haradrim, their swords merely glancing off her armor and Firebreather's leather coverings. She placed her bow up to her shoulder and squinted against the bright light of the sun as she galloped hard next to the mûmakil, Haradrim from its back shouting and pointing down at her. Lothíriel did not give them a moment more to contemplate her actions; she let loose her arrow and watched with much satisfaction as it hit its mark square in the center of the oliphaunt's eye.
The mûmakil instantly slid to a halt and reared mightily, sending the bodies of its riders falling. Lothíriel quickly kneed Firebreather away from the desolation, though she grinned when she caught sight of Éowyn and Merry heading straight for the mûmakil up on its hind legs. Laughing, her panic and fear and dread forgotten for a mere moment, she watched as Windfola soared beneath the belly of the beast and together Éowyn and Merry sliced at its hind legs with their swords, causing the animal to let out a howl of absolute pain. Lothíriel pulled Firebreather to a stop and rounded him, watching as the mûmakil stumbled, stumbled, stumbled back on weakened legs before finally crashing back onto its rump to the ground, shaking the last of its riders to meet their doom in the dirt and melee of battle. A great cloud of dust rose up as the beast gave one last great cry of torture before collapsing fully in defeat.
The shriek of a fell beast suddenly split the air, causing Lothíriel to duck instinctively and cringe against the sound. Firebreather neighed his own response and jumped this way and that, not even calming at Lothíriel's pull on his reins.
I must look for Éowyn!
Desperately Lothíriel tried to calm him as she sat straight in her saddle once the threat had passed, and her frantic eyes searched for Windfola to ensure that Éowyn and Merry had made it through their feat unscathed. She looked left, right, left again, the blood draining from her face as panic threatened to overtake her. A swirling cloud of dust momentarily obstructed her view and sent Lothíriel into a fit of violent coughing, and she gasped for air and waved away the tendrils as she searched frantically for Éowyn and Merry.
"Éowyn!" She called, the cloud of dust from the oliphaunt finally settling. Lothíriel felt her panic return and then multiply exponentially as her eyes locked on Éowyn and Merry and the next paces of the battle unfolded before her.
The fright of Windfola brought on by the fell beast caused the grey horse to rear, sending Merry and Éowyn to the ground. Merry rolled away quickly enough but Éowyn lay still as Windfola took off, becoming lost in the tides of battle.
"Éowyn!"
Lothíriel jerked hard on Firebreather's reins and kicked at his sides to urge him to Éowyn's aide. A familiar voice suddenly cried, "To me!" but Lothíriel did not heed the sound, suddenly too desperate to reach her dearest and most beloved friend.
And then there was a spear before her. Lothíriel let out a ragged half-gasp, half-scream as the side of the weapon thwacked against her chest and unsaddled her from Firebreather. The horse kept his running pace as she hit the ground so hard that it knocked the wind out of her and sent black spots to dance before her vision. Her helmet careened into the abyss of battle, causing her hair to stream out from under and fall in sweat-soaked locks around her face and down her back. She shrieked from the pain that lanced up her spine to rattle every bone in her body but knew, knew with every shred of her being that she had to move. To lie still would mean death, and though she had come to terms with the fact that she was to die here today on these fields, she had to make sure Éowyn was all right.
She rolled onto her stomach and thrust herself up onto her hands and knees as nausea churned her stomach. The black spots spread into a haze that threatened to take her, and Lothíriel gritted her teeth as she forced herself to clamor up to her knees.
I will not lay here and die like a stuck pig.
She did not make it to her feet, however. A fat fist wrought of iron smashed against the side of her face, opening up a large gash on her cheek and immediately swelling her left eye. Lothíriel bit her tongue on impact to the point of blood as she fell to the ground once more. Her limbs were shaking, her head was swimming, yet she forced herself to roll onto her back to meet her assailant. The sun nearly blinded her as she did so and she lifted a gauntleted wrist to shield her gaze only to meet the snarling jowls of an orc holding a spear and a sword high above his head.
He gave no warning; he swung his blade down at her and Lothíriel instinctively rolled. She pushed herself to her feet and stumbled away as searing pain assaulted her from every limb, every bone, every muscle.
I will not die here!
Though I am useless at hand-to-hand combat, she thought as she swung around to find the orc advancing on her with a howl and his spear pointed directly at her head. The only thing she had left for a weapon was her dagger and she clamored for it then as she staggered back, tripping over her own feet to send herself sprawling as she tore at the chinks in her armor to get the—
A spear suddenly sprouted from the orc's neck and Lothíriel found herself sprayed with black blood as the creature fell dead to the ground. She watched with a gaping mouth as the spear was retracted back to its wielder, and she lifted her stricken gaze to meet the flashing eyes of Gamling.
Time seemed to slow then as he pulled his mount to halt, his face contorting into a look of sheer and utter disbelief. Lothíriel could do nothing but stare as he opened his mouth and turned his horse to face her.
"To me!"
Lothíriel jerked her eyes to the frantic plea for help just as the scream of a nazgûl sailed low overhead. She watched in mute horror as troops both enemy and ally parted to reveal to her Théoden atop the mighty Snowmane not twenty paces from her for whom the nazgûl was heading directly for. Théoden could do nothing; Lothíriel let out a scream of her own as she watched the ringwraith's fell beast fall upon Théoden.
Snowmane took the brunt of the attack; the ivory horse turned a sickly, bright red as he fell upon his master, crushing Théoden beneath his big warhorse's body. The nazgûl brought his fell beast to land before Théoden, the long neck of the creature arcing high as its wings created a hurricane of dust and blood. Lothíriel shielded her eyes from the onslaught as terror took her body, rendering her completely and utterly unmoving. Gamling let out a roar of defiance at his king falling and charged for him, but was waylaid by a pair of orcs as Lothíriel watched helplessly on.
It was then, and only then, that Lothíriel realized the nazgûl before Théoden was the Witch-king of Angmar himself; it was his black armor, high helm, and the chillingly vile sense of fear that oozed from where he sat on the back of his fell beast that gave him away. There was a wide circle around him and his prey, for none dared to encroach, and Lothíriel lay far enough from the fray and slightly behind the Witch-king so that he paid her no mind as he addressed the King of Rohan on his deathbed.
"You die here, Tûrac; know Death when you see him."
Lothíriel heard the galloping before she saw the frenzied rider; a streak of brown brought her head whipping to the left before her eyes locked on and then trailed the figure speeding directly for the fell beast. It took Lothíriel a moment to realize the rider was Éowyn with Merry! The horse that she had taken was crazed, its eyes wild and flashing as Merry drew the mount to a rearing stop and Éowyn grabbed her sword with both hands and raised the blade above her head. With a scream that would forever ring in Lothíriel's ears, she watched as Éowyn sliced once, twice with her sword and beheaded the fell beast.
Spraying blood and teetering dangerously on trembling feet, the fell beast smashed to the ground and sent its master sprawling in a tangle of wings and robes. Éowyn jumped from her horse and smacked him into retreat after Merry had dismounted as well and then disappeared behind the body of the writing fell beast as the Witch-king of Angmar rose high and mighty, a chain-and-mace dangling from one, large gauntleted hand. Éowyn, wielding a shield and her sword, stood tall before him to create a barrier between he and her uncle, her lips curled in distaste and her face, streaked with gore and dirt, snarling.
"Begone foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion!"
His voice was cold, so very cold, though the Witch-king laughed as he answered, "Come not between the nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured and thy shriveled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye."
Éowyn thrust her sword at him, refusing to back down from her stance before the fallen Snowmane and her beloved uncle. "Do what you will; but I will hinder it if I may!"
Lothíriel watched with only one eye now, for the other had swelled shut, from her position on the ground as the Witch-king lifted his mace and began to swing it in a terrible arc. Éowyn faltered back but lifted her shield, her eyes locked on her enemy as he brought the great weapon crashing to the ground. Éowyn dodged to the left and the Witch-king swung his heavy mace in a circle this time, causing Éowyn to duck from his blow. She righted, but too quickly, and Lothíriel let out a hoarse cry as Éowyn barely lifted her shield in time to block the blow from taking her life.
"Éowyn!" Lothíriel shrieked, struggling to stand on weakened legs as blood streaked down her cheek, mingling with her dry and cracked lips.
Éowyn fell back onto the ground cradling her arm, her shattered shield forgotten. The Witch-king took one step, and then another, his fearsome mace trailing next to him through the dirt.
"Hinder me?" Lothíriel cringed at the laugh that followed. It was so evil, so vile that it threatened to drive her mad. "Thou fool! No living man may hinder me!"
And then Merry appeared from his hiding place somewhere around the wreckage that was the dead fell beast. Lothíriel watched in dim fascination as the hobbit gripped a blade in two shaking hands from behind the ringwraith and pulled it high over his head before shouting a battle cry and driving the weapon into one of the legs of his enemy. He fell back almost instantaneously, gripping his hand and crying out in pain, but it was the Witch-king's shriek that rippled through the air in waves of distress. He fell to his knees, dropping the chain to his mace, and threw back his head as he roared his pain, never once noticing the rise of Éowyn before him with her shining blade.
She ripped her helm from her head and her hair spilled down her back in bright waves of gold, shining in the blinding light of the sun.
"But no living man am I! You look upon a woman! Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you if you touch him!"
She drew back her sword and plunged it through his skull, twisting it unmercifully with a battle cry to shake the heavens. The ringwraith began to crumble and Éowyn withdrew the blade, sending the sword falling to the dirt as she fell back herself, suddenly very pale.
"Éowyn!"
The Witch-king of Angmar collapsed in on himself, falling into a pile of armor and black bedraggled robes. Lothíriel lurched to her feet with tears streaming down her face, running as fast as her battered body would allow her.
"Éowyn!" she shrieked through her tears, her feet faltering to bring her to her knees not ten paces from the fallen lady.
She cannot be dead!
A shadow overtook her then, and Lothíriel looked up with unabashed fear as a rider and his mount obscured the sun from her gaze. Lothíriel fell onto her back, trembling and whimpering in fright as she tried to scramble back on shaking limbs from the mounted warrior, his big body taking up nearly all of her vision.
But then recognition struck.
A pair of grey eyes that matched her own held captive her gaze and Lothíriel's jaw fell open as her father stared down at her with the same astonishment Lothíriel herself felt clutching at her heart.