Tens and thousands of brave warriors had assembled in front of the Black Gate, to challenge the armies of Sauron,in a desperate attempt to save their world from evil. Most men who could pick a weapon were here to fight for their family. The leaders addressed their armies a final time, before they marched into battle. Even against such dark forces, their army was a formidable one. After all, they had the elves and wizards on their side. Yes. Wizards. In fact, Gandalf had returned just in time for the battle, and he was not alone. He had brought the Eagles along too. Even Beorn was fighting on their side. The elves were stretched thin between guarding their own lands as they fought alongside the other races that still roamed Arda. The three rings could not be trusted for it was suspected that the One Ring had been returned to its master. As for the dwarves from the Iron Hills, they would give their all for this one battle. They had a score to settle. The lives of their kin, to avenge. If anybody could fight the darkness, it was them. With one fierce battle cry elves, men and dwarves drew their weapons, and charged. The battle had begun. Saruman and the Nazgúl were there too, causing much damage, and death. Soon, corpses of the fallen warriors lay strewn across the battlefield. The land was covered with blood. Orcs were being killed, but many more took their place. Very soon, they witnessed the site they had dreaded. The Dark Lord himself, overlooked the battle, and that was not all. He had it with him. The One Ring.
One by one, the men fell to his power, along with their leaders. They fought with courage and honor, and yet, none would live to sing of their valor. First, it was the riders of Rohan. Led unto battle by King Théoden, and the Third Marshall Éomer, they faced the darker forces valiantly, yet their courage was ebbing away every second. Their men were heavily outnumbered, both in numbers and in strength, for it wasn't fair to pit mere men against the Nazgûl, yet, nothing is fair in war and game. Soon, the outcome of their struggle was all too vivid...it was a losing battle. No man could kill the wraiths, and so, the wraiths would kill them. King Théoden was crushed under his horse. None too soon, Éomer too met his end, and it wasn't any less gruesome. A malady already lay upon him, from attacking the ring-wraiths. Now, it wasn't the wraith he fought. It was the rest of the army. Orcs and Uruks alike. His steed had been felled, and he was alone, against a sea of many others. Soon enough, death knocked at his door. He had failed his duty by failing to save his king. He had but one thought in his mind. Éowyn. His sister. One last time, he sent a final prayer to keep her safe from further harm, and then, he left Middle-Earth one last time. Never to return.
On one hand, Éowyn and the two hobbits that had stubbornly tagged along with Aragorn had made a deathly escapade to the battlefield. Only one of them fought for the glory of being a warrior. The other to had a bone to pick. Two of their own had been cruelly snatched away by those they now fought against. Merry and Pippin weren't skilled enough to escape the battle unhurt, but with the little knowledge that they had gathered over their journey was enough to get them out alive, for they had an advantage of smaller size and a strong sense of survival and determination. Aided by one of them, Éowyn had managed to put an end to the Witch King of Angmar. They each came to possess wounds that day. Both seen and concealed. They would never recover completely, but that was a price they were willing to pay. The riders who had been the cause of her brother and father's deaths would no longer stay to kill another. They had been vanquished by a woman and a hobbit, just as foretold.
On the other side of the battlefield was Aragorn, and he had taken on the most dangerous of them all, Sauron himself, just as his forefather Isildúr had. There was no one else to aide him, for Gandalf had to counter Saruman, the traitor. Some of the Nazgûl were taken on by Gwaihir,and the other eagles. As for, Beorn, he wreacked havoc wherever he could. He couldn't depend on the elves, or his own rangers either. The Ring of Barahir was his to keep. He was the heir of Isildur, and it was his choice to make. He had to embrace his identity now, for the welfare of Middle-Earth. He gave hope to the people of Middle Earth, when they knew there could be none. He was weary from fighting with the dark lord himself. He lacked enough power to face him all alone. He could wound Sauron, but could never kill him, for the ring had not been destroyed, and the ring was what stood between freedom, and death. Yet, he fought like one possessed, for he had just witnessed the sacrifice of a prince's life. For him. Legolas Thranduilion, the one who, over such a small period of time, had become a brother to him in all but blood, fell to defend him. The King. Like a true king, Aragorn fought for his people, with his people...and died with them. He had fulfilled his duty, but Isildúr's heir was gone...so was his steward...and his people.