So the months passed and at first, there was much hope and song in Rivendell. But soon, a darkness began to grow and spread across the sky so that the elves stopped their singing and clutched each other. Time went by and the darkness grew stronger. Yet, it could not fully penetrate that lovely valley where people of all races may walk free and happy. Ithildin spent many days with Arwen and the other elves, taking joy in the simple pleasures of life: stories, friendship, good food, warm clothes. It seemed that there was naught else they could do.
Then, finally, word came of the Fellowship. A war was brewing in the country of Gondor, the land of Men where great kings of old, Numenoreans they were called, once lived. The Fellowship was sundered: Sam and Frodo had departed from the rest and gone off to the East to complete their mission. Meanwhile, the rest of the Company had made their way to Gondor. The enemy was not taking any chances: All its force it poured forth to destroy this country and here it would be fought the greatest battle of the Third Age of Middle-earth.
Arwen, upon hearing this, prepared immediately to journey south. Her beloved Aragorn was there and she desired greatly to be with him in this dark time. Ithildin decided also, that she would journey with Arwen since there was not much she could do in Rivendell. So together, the two made the perilous journey southeast heading ever closer to danger. Arwen carried with her a banner and other things to bring to Aragorn and along the way, told Ithildin much about the history of Men. Gondor had not seen a king for many, many years. The time would soon come, Arwen said, when Aragorn would claim his kingship in Gondor and the White City of Minas Tirith would once again have a king.
Then they arrived at the White City after many days and dangerous roads but the city was no longer fair as the elves of Rivendell had remembered. The shadow of the East had stretched over the white city and already, its people had been assailed by the fell monsters and armies of the Dark Lord. Darkness here was strong and the days were cold and dreary. Everyday, messengers arrived at the city bearing ill tidings of friends and kin who had fallen while battling the hosts of the East. Then, a day came when the sun rose not and the whole city was shrouded in black. Soon, across the vast fields of the white tower, watchmen took up a cry. Armies, black and deadly were making their way to Gondor from east and south. The siege of Gondor had begun.
Much of what happened during those dark days is not necessary to recall. Indeed, Ithildin herself wished to wipe the memory of those days from her mind. When she arrived at the northern gates of Minas Tirith, she was allowed to enter only because the guards trusted Arwen. But she was forbidden to move freely in the White City and was taken to the Houses of Healing, where she was told to remain until they decided what to do with her. For many days, she wandered the gardens about the house, befriending the people within, feeling much as a bird trapped in a beautiful, but still isolated prison cell.
Then the war broke out. There arose in the distance cries of battle and noise of confusion and chaos. Ithildin wanted desperately to take up arms and join in the battle, but she was forbidden and told to remain in the house. The battle outside waged on and seemed to have no end. And ever the news became more hopeless. Gondor did not have the strength to fight this vast an army and day by day, brave men fell to the evil of the Dark Lord. The men desperately needed the aid of the men of the north, the Rohirrim, the Riders of Rohan, great horse-lords of the country of Rohan where Ithildin herself had journeyed many moons ago. But naught was heard from the north and there was great anguish in the city. Where were the Rohirrim? The hours grew long and dark and the Houses of Healing began to fill up with bodies of the wounded and fallen.
Then came a moment of silence in the midst of the battle. The Lord of the Nazgûl, along with his eight other fell servants, arrived at the great gates of Minas Tirith. All who beheld him quailed and even the bravest cowered in his shadow. The Witch King of Angmar he was also called and his terror cannot be described in words. All who battled stopped and it seemed that the very earth stood still in that moment. For the men of Gondor saw the end of their great city. The Witch King was here and led an army vaster than any had before been seen. Who would challenge him?
Yet, someone did step forth. One brave soul stood forward and rose to meet the lord of whom even the Orcs quivered with fear. Mithrandir, it was, who went to meet him; the grey wizard Gandalf, friend of friends and foe of foes. Gandalf stood before the great white gates of Minas Tirith and forbade the passage of the Witch King. But the Lord of the Nazgûl only laughed, for he was powerful and evil and no creature of this earth could hinder his entrance. Then the hearts of the men fell and they knew that Gandalf alone could not stop him and there was no strength left for resistance. Evil would win and all Middle-earth would fall to the power of the Dark Lord.
In the moment when all hope failed, there arose a great and glorious sound. It was the song of a thousand silver trumpets and victorious it was, ringing and echoing across the walls of the White City. Then the men were filled with hope renewed for they knew that that sound could mean only one thing: The Rohirrim had arrived.