Obviously Aragorn's speech at the Black Gate is epic but I didn't want to write it out word-for-word. I also didn't want to make something else up because it just wouldn't be as good. So I kind of bodged it so I wouldn't have to write out Aragorn's speech.
The black gates loomed overhead, jagged spikes, like shattered glass, piercing the air. Looking up at the towering curtain of fluted metal, streaked with stripes of black and grey, Eowyn felt an overwhelming feeling of foreboding. And she clearly wasn't alone. To her side, Eomer's horse fidgeted nervously, and the faces of Boromir, Gandalf and Aragorn were grim and strained. Behind them, the lines of soldiers, of Rohan and Gondor, bristled uneasily.
"Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth!" called Aragorn.
Eowyn held her breath as the black gates creaked open, uncertain as to what horror would surely emerge. A whole company of orcs, perhaps, or one of the Nazgul. Instead a tall, black figure appeared upon a miserable-looking mount, mange-ridden and sallow-eyed. He was oddly proportioned, with an abnormally elongated torso and long neck, which made him appear precariously perched on his horse.
"My Master, Sauron the Great, bids you welcome," he said, coming to a stop.
"Tell your master the armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart these lands at once, never to return!" boomed Gandalf, face twisted with disdain at Sauron's messenger.
The messenger, dark and daunting, surveyed the group with a sneer. Clad in a billowing black robe and adorned with a colossal, jagged helm, his cruel, mocking mouth was the only part of him not shielded from view. The lipless mouth barely moved when he spoke. Instead his words were forced through sharp, stained teeth, making an odd hissing noise with each utterance.
"You come here with this pitiful force to face the armies of Sauron?" jeered the foul creature. "You reek with fear. And you should be afraid. For what can the armies of men do against a force a hundred, thousand strong?"
Aragorn stepped forward, shoulders back, head held high. Faramir had given him raiments of Gondor before they'd left Minas Tirith; clad in a rich blue cloak and armour bearing the white tree of Gondor, Aragorn looked every part a King. He would not wilt under the messenger's taunting.
"And what it this? Isildur's heir? It takes more than a broken, elven blade to make a King."
Aragorn stared at him undaunted, unwilling to reveal to the messenger how his emotions roiled.
"Sauron knows why you are here; Sauron knows all. Your foolhardy quest is at an end. Did you really think a mere elf could stop the mighty Sauron? Know that she suffered greatly at the hands of her host. Who would have thought one so small could endure so much pain, so much pain."
Finally pushed to breaking point, Aragorn gave an anguished yell. With an elegant sweep of Andúril, the messenger's head was sent tumbling to the ground, his body slumping upon the mount's back.
"I do not believe it; I will not," said Aragorn to the assembled group whose faces had become drawn and sorrowful at the messenger's words.
They rode back to the lines of soldiers, turned to see the Black Gates open and the forces of Sauron march forth. Dark bodies stretched out as far as the eye could see, an impenetrable cloak of black that covered the land for miles. Eowyn felt her stomach churn, her heart stammering frantic. The overbearing anxiety she had felt before the Battle of Pelennor Fields could not compare to the sheer terror that gripped her now.
Aragorn rode the length of the soldier's lines, rousing the morale of the soldiers with eloquent words spoken with confidence and authority. Eowyn barely heard him. He said something about the courage of men, perhaps; something about fellowship; something about making a last stand for the kingdoms of the West. Is that why she was fighting? For the kingdoms of the West? For King Theoden, who for many years had been like a father to her? For herself, to prove that she was capable of great valour? Her lips curled in a gentle smile when she realised that, no, she did not fight for valour or heroism. She fought for something much simpler and far more important. She fought because her friends were walking across Mordor with a terrible burden. And if she could relieve that burden even a little, her sacrifice would be worth it.
Aragorn returned to her side, having dismounted in preparation for their final charge, and turned to her, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "For our friends."
With a great rallying cry, Aragorn surged forward. Eowyn quickly followed, Gandalf, Eomer and Boromir swift at her heels. They ran across the arid ground, the great combined army of Gondor and Rohan surging behind, bellowing ferociously.
When she reached the enemy lines, Eowyn feinted left, twisted right, and brought her spatha down on an orc's misshapen head. He crumpled to the ground with a muffled cry and she surged forward, slashing at the orcs to one side before whirling around to stab at the orcs on the other. With an astonishing display of finesse, Eowyn cut her way through Sauron's army. In only a few short weeks, Eowyn had come to see many battles, had felled many a foe. She'd learnt quickly how to spot weaknesses in her opponents, flaws in their form, oddities in their posture which suggested historic wounds not properly healed. She exploited them effortlessly, deflecting poorly controlled swings and thrusting the tip of her blade into abscessed joints.
As she fought desperately, zealously even, she knew she would not be able to sustain her pace for long, knew that the army of man was horrendously outnumbered. They could not win. But as long as they won Annamir and Nelwen a bit more time, that was enough.