A/N: As I promised: 11th chapter is up, and, as you'll see, we're finally getting to things. The fight in Minas Tirith is to be decided, and I've already made my mind up about the things happening in the next two or three chapters. But, I'm sorry, I must tell you that I won't be able to update until April 6th, since vacations have finally started and I'll be visiting a friend of mine for one and a half week. Nevertheless, enjoy this chapter and wait for the next coming on April 7th at the latest (it is half finished already)

Disclaimer: Bla,bla,bla… see chapter 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10 and decide which text you like best!

To all my reviewers: A huge, huge thanks!!! (And, Snitter in Rivendell, I haven't forgotten to read your story, but as I wrote above, I won't be at home for some time!)

Doom is close at hand

The thunder of the steps of many hundred men woke Legolas during the night, some hours after he had gone to sleep. It was loud and rang in his ears.

'I wonder what has happened. Not many things would be able to cause such turmoil among the warriors of Minas Tirith. Are the Orcs already here? Alas, that would be evil! Far too less men are in the city and the Rohirrim will not arrive until night will have fallen another time!'

Dressing fast, the Elf left his room, only to find Gimli, the Hobbits and Gandalf standing around the table. Gathering sword and bow, the wizard and the Elf left their house to see what was going on.

Warriors were running by, hastily dressed and armed. The night was still completely black, the waxing moon, hidden behind clouds full of snow, was not able to light the world. The stars had vanished from the sky and Legolas shivered. The Elf had never liked the darkness, but never before night had been filled with such terror. Every breath you took seemed to poison your body with new fear.

Quickly Gandalf and Legolas made their way over to a spot in the wall wherefrom they could look across the Pelennor Fields. Both were thinking about the Orcs and that battle had finally arrived. For long they had expected it, and Faramir's tidings from the day before had only confirmed their opinion. The Dark Lord would not delay much longer, the time for an attack could never be better. The Rohirrim were still far away, the bridges at Osgiliath had fallen, and many men had been slain defending them. Many good men, whom the Gondorians now lacked.

A chill wind was blowing through Gandalf's long white beard as he was leaning forward to get a better look. At first he could see nothing, the Fields were as dark as the surrounding night, he could not even make out the Anduin in its wide bed. But then the wizard frowned and he beckoned Legolas to step beside him.

The Elf gasped. To him the things Gandalf had only seen as small red spots at the far end of the Fields, were as clear as if they had been right in front of him. Thousands of torches were approaching there, being carried by even more Orcs whose faces glittered in the red flames. Yelling and shouting, they looked cruel and ready to fight, their thundering feet causing the ground they were walking on to groan. Never had it been their purpose to come in secrecy, under the protection of the night, they were too loud, too self-confident of their victory.

A great host was marching towards Minas Tirith, more Orcs than men who could have been summoned to the city. Most of them were armed with swords, but some had even bows and spears. They bore no helmets, their dreadful faces clearly visible. The torches cast a red shine onto them and in their eyes stood great bloodlust. Their only purpose was to kill, their master's wish was to conquer Minas Tirith, and his servants were eager to fulfill it. None of them wanted to become a victim of the Dark Lord's wrath.

"Battle has come," Gandalf softly sighed. "It would have been better, if this day had passed in silence, so that the Rohirrim would have been able to come to our aid. But now we have to see for ourselves. Get the others, Legolas, they shall not be spared, for hope lies in many strong warriors! Either we shall succeed and then the dead will be mourned in tale and song, or we shall die and then no one cares anymore about those who have died in a useless war."

The Elf nodded slowly. "As always you are right, Mithrandir," addressing the wizard with his Elvish name, "now great plans have lost their importance, and only courage and the bravery of each man – or Elf, Hobbit, Dwarf – counts. I will get our friends. You will go down to the great gate in the meanwhile?"

"So I shall do, for I want to see what tactic the Orcs will chose. Also I want to get Shadowfax, for the city is wide and its roads are long. Maybe the courage a wizard can give will be needed at more than one place!"

With these words the wizard and the Elf parted and none knew whether he would see the other again. Too uncertain was the fate of Minas Tirith and even if victory could be achieved, many would be slain, and fathers and friends would be lost.

Before long, the four remaining comrades were also on their way down to the uttermost gate. The Orcs had attacked as soon as the first had reached the city, but by now the Men could still hinder them from climbing over the walls or breaking the gate. Many arrows were shot from some elevated parts in the first and second circle, and they did not even need to be aimed for the Orcs were standing shoulder to shoulder and each hit. Hundreds of the cruel creatures had already fallen, but ever and ever new ones came to replace the dead. Thousands were streaming across the bridges, and by dawn the once green Pelennor Fields were a black mass of Orcs.

It was almost a miracle that no one had managed to break the gates so far, but the Gondorians were fiercely defending themselves. Although many men had to be mourned by now and they could not be replaced, the fight ever went on. Gimli's axe had already beheaded more than thirty Orcs who had tried to climb over the walls and Legolas' bow served well. Each time the Elf bent it, an opponent fell into the dust and ceased to move. Even the Hobbits were not useless for they were able to cut many ropes the Dark Lord's servants had thrown over the wall to support their climb.

On Shadowfax Gandalf rode from wall to wall to give new hope to the defenders and with seeing the old wizard, sitting proudly on his gray steed, courage returned to the at times despairing men.

Morning had come and passed again, but on this day the sun did not see the fighting men, for it stayed hidden and no real light passed through the clouds. Ever a gray shadow seemed to lie above the earth, and all the warriors who had hoped for a weakening in the Orcs' strength, were disappointed. No real difference could be made between day and night, and while Men got tired, the Orcs' attempts to break down the gate became fiercer and with each passing hour, it was more difficult to keep the walls free from the Enemy's creatures.

At length, after hours of desperate defense, the first gate was finally broken down and hundreds of Orcs swept into the city and started burning each house they saw. The bodies lying in the streets, those which the survivors had not been able to take with them, were humiliated, often beheaded or being dragged through the city. This sight was horror for the Men of Gondor, of which many had lost friends or kinsmen down there.

Orcs were yelling with their cruel voices in the frightening tongue of Mordor, and not seldom the defenders wished that they would be dead already. The entire situation seemed too hopeless, and at the end most saw only death. It would not matter whether they died now or later, after all no one would survive, for the hosts of the Dark Land were far too numerous.

The Orcs ever grew weary and for each fallen two came forward to replace his gap. Ever and ever they tried to break down the second gate, and everyone knew that their attempts would be successful in some time. The uttermost one had been the most difficult to overcome, and the second and the third had not been made to defy such enemies. Only the fourth and the sixth showed real strength again, and, of course, the seventh. But each man knew that all the gates had to be defended, not only the ones that might be able to withstand for a longer time. If they would now withdraw behind the fourth, most the Orcs would be able to float into the city and then everything would be lost. Houses would be burned, animals slain and any supplies would be taken away.

Slowly the hours were passing and finally night again began to settle over the city, but it got not much darker than it had been before. The sun had never appeared during the whole day, and the moon and the stars preferred not to witness the battle that would decide the fate of whole Middle-earth.

Many men had been slain and even more were injured. But only those who might recover could be tended to, the others were only carried away from the place where they had lain and were brought to the sixth ring where the city's dead were to be buried. Many people died that night, and there was none in Gondor who had not lost one of his dearest. Tears, uncounted, were shed in these hours, and if there had not been the loud noise of the fight, the entire city would have been filled with wailing.

The steward, however, did not leave the White Tower, although Minas Tirith was about to fall and his people were dying. In grief and madness Denethor sat upon his chair, mourning his son Boromir and did take no interest in the battle. Naught would it have mattered to him, if lightning had stricken in this very moment and had killed him.

His younger son Faramir, on the other side, was the complete opposite of his father. But even being one of the bravest warriors, he alone could not withstand hundreds and thousands of Orcs. His sword slew many, and if his people caught sight of him, new courage filled their heart. He fought passionately, and his fury and wrath were great. During this day and night he earned great honor, greater than the one of any of his fathers before, and he was looked upon by each man with pride.

"He is one of us," they laughed within all those sorrow and grief, "not one of those spoilt lords that other realms are said to have. Faramir, by your side we will fight and no Orc will manage to frighten us!"

And indeed, where he was, the Orcs were driven back and some fled in horror of this powerful warrior of Men.

'Andúril would have been of great use now,' Gandalf pondered while riding through Minas Tirith. 'Faramir is having an unexpected effect towards the Orcs, but what would have been, if they had seen Anduril? The sword that once killed their master and that has been reforged again. Aragorn, this should have been your war and the hour of your victory! As a great leader you could have frightened the Orcs beyond believe. Alas, that we are on our own!'

But in the middle of the night, suddenly different hope filled the hearts of the Men. Loud trumpets were ringing from the north and the thunder of hundreds of hooves could be heard.

"Rohan," it went through Minas Tirith in one cry, "Rohan has finally come!"

Three thousand warriors King Théoden had brought with him, and with wrath they rode into the host of the Orcs. Sauron's servants were falling like flies, they were not trained in fighting with horsemen and the riders towered the Orcs by far. The swords of the Rohirrim had no difficulty to behead the dark creatures, only few of them suffered injuries.

Victory suddenly seemed to be close again, and with faith the men on the walls began to attack the Orcs themselves and more of the Enemy's servants than warriors were slain. The Rohirrim raged against their foes and they knew no mercy. Even King Théoden himself took part in the fight and many enemies fell from his hand. Legolas had been right in Edoras: The lord had risen out of the shadow to a fair morning.

Afterwards, though, the Elf would have liked it better, if he had been wrong. It was, as if he had had a premonition, since also the second part of his earlier sentence became true: Indeed the ride to Minas Tirith was the King's last deed and never would he return to the Golden Hall.

Before December the 8th was dawning, unexpectedly a tall Orc was leaping on Théoden´s horse and, coming to sit right behind the king, he cut his throat with a long knife. None of the lord's surrounding guards had been able to hinder the Orc and with a loud triumphant cry he wanted to run away. Éomer, Théoden´s sister-son, though, would not tolerate such, and with great fury in his heart he pierced the Orc with his sword. Dead he fell down to the ground and would neither return to his home, wherever it was.

Great grief arose among the Rohirrim and in these moments, when their attention had turned to their lord, many were slain. The king's guard placed themselves around the fallen ruler and tried to protect his body from his foes. Never would any Orc be able to humiliate their king.

"Théoden," they wailed, "great lord. You encouraged us to go to war and now you were among the first that were slain! Alas! Alas!"

And so it continued. With the death of their king, the Rohirrim seemed to have lost their luck in war, and in the following hours many of them fell. They were dragged down from their horses, and lying on the ground, their throats were cut or axes split their heads. Of three thousand brave riders which had arrived in the night, only five hundred came to see the next dawn. The sun sent its rays upon a battlefield where blood had colored the grass red and thousands of mingled bodies of Men and Orcs were covering the former green.

Horses were running around madly, sometimes with their dead riders caught in the stirrups and horror befell everyone who had to see this. Never before had more men been slain than in this night. Two thousand and five hundred of the Rohirrim would not return to Edoras, and only little less had fallen in the Minas Tirith itself. By now the dead could not even be buried anymore, those who could be found, were gathered, and burned in a great fire. Their ash was blown away by the wind, and so they are still journeying across the lands they tried to save but found only death therein.

The survivors fought on, not because they had still hope left, no, their only reason was that they did not want to give in to the Enemy. Each of the Men preferred dying in battle to be enslaved by the Unnamed and to live on as a shadow of their former being. Their expressions were grim while they were defending the third gate, the second had been lost shortly after King Théoden had fallen. The certainty of nearing death stood in their eyes and even Faramir and Gandalf knew that the siege of Gondor would soon come to its end – certainly an evil one.

The third gate was broken down just as the sun had reached its highest point and with it, half of the city had fallen. Only about one thousand men were still alive, but new hosts of Orcs were still streaming onto the Pelennor Fields. The Enemy seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of his warriors who did not care for their lives. They were focused on killing and none would have hesitated to die when he could take some of his opponents with him. With the passing hours the war-cries of the Men ceased, more and more replaced by yells of victory and some intelligible shouts telling of pain and death. The tongue of Mordor overcame the fair speech of men.

Suddenly, it was the first hour after noon, a shrill cry reached all ears and each, Man and Orc, lifted his head up into the air where it had come from. Piercing was its sound and filled the heart with despair. Shuddering, many fell down on their knees and would not get up anymore. Fearful were their whispers and grown men began to weep.

"Nazgûl," they cried, "now death is near!"

And indeed, eight birdlike forms – but black, completely black – were flying across the sky. Cruel as death, darker than the ultimate night, they took away all of courage that had been left in the defenders, even some of the Orcs pressed their hands to their ears and fled. Too great was the terror the Black Riders caused in their hearts, and in the air there was a sudden foul smell as if the doors to Hell had opened and the dead had come out again. Each breath that was sucked in hurt in mouth and lunge burned like fire but brought no heat. Coldness enclosed the men's hearts and if they had not felt it beating, they would have believed that it had turned to stone.

"Nazgûl," the very sound of that word made warriors leave their posts and flee to the higher circles. The fourth and the fifth gate were left departed, and by the sixth only some of the bravest were still gathering. Most had fled up to the seventh circle where the White Tower stood, still unharmed but there still was no sight of Denethor. The steward had chosen to stay inside, despair had overcome him long ago. Most of his men just crouched in some corner, too great was their terror of the Nazgûl. A few warriors, though, demanded Denethor to come out, to fight with them, to die with them, but their leader did not pay heed. In this dark hour he cast himself onto his sword and killed himself. Dead was his son Boromir, the other would follow him soon and Gondor would fall. The last of the stewards had failed. Life meant nothing for him anymore. Death was equally well

.

His younger son, though, did not think about giving up. Never would he flee into death to escape peril and torture. He would fight bravely until the end. Faramir was among those who had remained at the sixth gate and with upcoming fear in his soul, he watched a dark shadow moving through a street below. It was riding on a high horse and bore a staff in his hands.

"Gandalf," he shouted, "Gandalf, come up! There is no need in sacrificing yourself! Alive you are of greater use!"

But the wizard paid no attention to the young man. Sternly and determined he bade Shadowfax go over the place just opposite the third gate and wait there. Faramir could not avert his eyes from his old friend. He seemed changed, mightier and more powerful. The strength there was in him had finally surfaced, and quietly he sat on his horse to welcome the intruders.

For a long time no one came, and an expectant silence settled upon the city. The defenders could only hear the hammering of their hearts, and when after more than half an hour finally another sound came up, at first no one could tell any difference. Merely Shadowfax lifted his head and pricked up his ears. Gandalf did not move.

In through the gate, the ninth Black Rider rode. A great black shape against the fires beyond he loomed up, grown to a vast menace of despair. The Lord of the Nazgûl came in under the archway, that no enemy ever yet had passed, and most men on the sixth wall fled before his face.

"You cannot enter here," Gandalf said, and the huge shadow halted. "Go back to the abyss prepared for you! Go back! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master! Go!"

The Witch-king of Angmar flung back its hood, and behold! He had a kingly crown and yet upon no visible head it was set. The red fires shone between it and the mantled shoulders vast and dark. From a mouth unseen there came a deadly laughter.

"Old fool!" he said. "Old fool! This is my hour. Do you know not Death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!" And with that he lifted high his sword and flames ran down the blade.

Now even the last remaining men fled from the wall and ran to the highest ring. Great wailing was among them, no one hoped that Gandalf would be able to turn down their enemy.

"He is a wizard of old," they cried, "but who can withstand this dreadful wraith? None! Alas, death is near! Gondor will fall!"

In some warriors' eyes, though, no emotion could be perceived anymore. Neither fear nor hopelessness. Life had left them, overcome by terror, and they as well cast themselves down on their swords. Blood poured out of their chests and running down the streets, it mingled with the one of those who had died earlier. A red stream was washing away everything that once had covered the ways of Minas Tirith, and within this blood there lay hope and laughter, merry and joy.

Gandalf, however, did not pay heed to the things going on. He stared at the invisible eyes of the Witch-king and their wills dueled. Neither wanted to make the first move, for still the Black Rider knew what might lay hidden in the old man, despite his challenging words. The wizard felt no fear and a strange certainty had won the better of him. 'Either death or victory', he had once said, in a time that seemed to have been ages ago, but in reality merely two days had passed since.

The Nazgûl opened his unseen mouth to let out another cry. It piercing his heart, the wizard tightened his grip onto his old Elven-blade. Glamdring had brought death to many foes and it would not fail him this time.

Spurring Shadowfax, Gandalf suddenly rode forward, attacking the Witch-King and a fight began of which would be told in tales and songs in generations long-after.

They battled long, their horses prancing, their swords seeking to wound the other. Strong were their wills, and none could gain advantage. Their blades got split, but did not fall from their hands. Cries were uttered and silent curses, and the Witch-King was the most difficult opponent Gandalf ever had to fight against. So cruel was he and death, that could pierce each heart, lay in unseen eyes. No man would have been able to resist the Nazgûl, and long ere the Witch-King had unsheathed his sword, he would have fled and crouched in a dark corner, hoping that the other would never find him. Only Gandalf the White, highest in his order, could summon enough strength to withstand the Nazgûl, and even wake a shadow of fear in the other's heart. The sky became dark, thunder was in the air and lightning stroke.  The steel crown of Angmar gleamed in its light, but not as a mortal crown would do. Its light was cold and could not illuminate the world around. Instead it seemed to create deeper darkness, coming right out of the Barad-Dûr.

Stroke by stroke their blades crashed, but for long none was failed by his strength. They ever fought on, an age seemed to pass, in which generations of kings had died and lived again. The gray day turned into evening, and still no one appeared to be close to success. Evil, though, the passing of time was thought by some courageous men who had dared to come down again and watch. Night draw near and night brought darkness. The Nazgûl would gain strength from it, for it was its greatest source and Gandalf was an intruder. Darkness tolerated no strangers, and the White would fail ere the next dawn would wake the world from its sleep. Even if he gathered all his power and might, he would not last until the first hour had passed. Doom was at hand and everyone knew it. All that could have been done had been tried, but success had not come. Gondor was about to fall and the Dark Lord would gain rule over the world. Evil had overcome the good and not even the mightiest among the White could turn down the Shadow anymore.

Night came, and indeed, as soon as complete darkness had fallen, the Witch-King at once gained advantage and Gandalf was hit by a stroke from his blade. Shadowfax stumbled, whinnied and soared. Some effort was needed by the wizard to stay on horseback, and for a moment he paid no attention to the Nazgûl. A dreadful cry came from the Black's unseen mouth and he plunged forward.

His blade of fire and flames stroke the wizard across his chest and he fell. A dull thud was the only sound as Gandalf's body hit the ground, but a high clink was heard when Glamdring fell from his hand and landed on the road.

The Witch-King dismounted, laughing cruelly. Shadowfax stood nearby, but Gandalf had not been able to jump up him again. Deliberately slow, the Nazgûl drew closer to the fallen wizard and lifted his blade. Helplessly Gandalf lay in front of him and could do nothing to prevent his death. No spell would be able to hinder the Black Rider to kill him and then, with his life, the Third Age would abruptly come to its end.

After his fall at the end of the Second, Sauron had now been seeking to regain rule over the world for more than three thousand years – first secretly, then with an open display of power. The Fourth Age would become the darkest and most grievous, never would the sorrow leave Middle-earth again.

Not wanting to stare at the invisible face, Gandalf closed his eyes and waited for the final blow.

It came never. Instead of killing the wizard, the Nazgûl suddenly let out a shrill cry, his cruel voice filled with fear and dread. His sword fell to the ground, while its owner kept on yelling, and sudden hope returned to the heart of Men. Some peaked around the corners, seeing the Witch-King bent over in agony.

The moon came out of the clouds and sent his light to Minas Tirith. No longer did it seemed cold, but was welcomed by all warriors. Stars appeared and the sky lost its total blackness, turning to a dark blue.

The Nazgûl black cloak faded to gray and the steel crown glided from his head. The flames running down the blade ceased and with them the sword vanished into thin air. Still crying, he leaped onto his horse again and righted himself in his saddle. Whinnying, the black steed tried to get rid of his master and soared high. The Nazgûl, though, spurred it into a quick gallop and rushed out through the open gate. However, the sound of hooves ceased ere it had reached the uttermost ring and never was such an evil creature seen in Middle-earth again.

A/N: Anything that I should know? Please leave a review, despite you know that the story will continue!