High King of the East Prologue
It has been 6 years since the Alliance had laid siege to the Black Gate. Thousands, if not tens of thousands of lives have been lost to reach where they are right now, under the shadow of the Barad-dûr itself.
The Dark Tower's fortifications are even unfathomably strong by even the greatest of the Numenórean minds, the most industrious men of Middle Earth. Even though their knowledge and number are greatly reduced after the Fall of Numenór itself, they were still able to rebuild their kingdoms within a mere century.
No, Barad-dûr was built with the power of an Ainu and nothing less will be able to bring it down.
That's only if they are able to reach the Tower at all. In front of Elrond is the great host of the Sauron the Deceiver, numerous as the sands that litter the beaches of Lindon. There seems to be no end to the Orcish army.
Briefly Elrond wondered if this is how the great Fëanor felt when he was greeted by the sight of endless Orcs at Losgar, or how his fathers felt as they marched towards Angband; to feel hopeless in the very war set out to bring back hope in this world of darkness. Elrond caught himself and ordered the shield wall as arrows began raining down towards them.
He looked beside and behind himself, columns upon columns of Men and Elves gathered to face the Deceiver, out of vengeance, of justice and of protection.
Gil-Galad, the High King fearlessly wielding his spear Aeglos against all foe that comes near. Elendil and his sons, the heirs of his brother Elros and kings of the remnants of the Faithful Numenóreans in their bright helms and swords.Thranduil, son of the late Oropher marches with his now appropriately outfitted Sindar and Nandor. Even Durin leads his folk of dwarves into battle.
Elrond does not know how long it had been since their struggle began. It could have been days, or even months since they first reached the foundations of Barad-dûr. The endless tirades of orcs, trolls and other foul creatures have merged into one convoluted nightmare that does not end. What is moreso disheartening is the fact that they have yet been able to present enough threat for Sauron to reveal himself.
A familiar trumpet sounded somewhere from their east. The sound of the Great Numenórean warhorn, echoed through the valley where they made their stand. Even te orcish captains halted their troops in confusion and to mount defence against what sounds to be another legion of the Sea Kings behind them.
'Was there another enclave of the Faithful upon Middle Earth other than Umbar?' was the question on the mind of everyone in the Alliance. But then again the Numenóreans of Umbar could also be thirsting for vengeance against Sauron for the Downfallen, Elrond reasoned.
Soon the distance horns have given way to marching and the clinking of arms. Both the Alliance and the creatures of Sauron watched in trepidation as the Numenóreans enter formation as they readied themselves for battle.
Anticipation and surprised turned to horror as three dark figures riding upon darker than black horses galloped to the front of the army. Nazgûls! cursed Elrond.
Three of his brother's descendants, great lords of Numenór seduced and corrupted by Sauron's rings of power lead the corrupted Black Numenóreans into battle against their own kin, eager to carry out the will of their master to begin another kinslaying, this time among the Men of Westernesse.
The Nazgûl in the centre of the trio raised his arm and the Black Numenóreans raised their glimmering steel bows. Thousands of arrows rained down as if in a mist upon them at once and Elrond thanked Dwarven foresight for their anti-air ballistae which saved thousands of lives.
As the arrows came raining down, the Black Numenórean infantry advanced towards their kin and soon Elrond found himself face to face with a Black Numenórean. So alike to his brother they too are. Sharing the same Ñoldo-like features: midnight black hair, steel grey eyes, fair but severe visage. At that moment, Elrond hated Sauron more than ever before, even when he was forced to mercy kill his cousin Celebrimbor who laid skinned and crucified as Sauron's battle standard a millenium ago.
No longer a mere battle of physical might, but also mentally as Elrond was forced to choose between killing the children of his brother to defend his own troops and simply giving up. He chose the former, he had been taught to do what is right by his fathers, not what is easy.
Unlike the Faithful who left Numenór only prior to its destruction, the Black Numenóreans had established colonies for centuries upon Middle Earth. Elrond wepted as he faced yet another Numenórean. Elrond wept for the Secondborn who are so easily corrupted by the discord of Melkor; he wepted for the children of Elros, who despite having witness the good of the world, still chose evil.
Amidst the clashing of the swords, another horn was sounded. It went unheeded as it was barely heard oven the screams of Men and Elves dying by the hundreds. Yet, its vibrations tugged on some distant memory of Elrond which filled him with renewed vigour.
The horn drew closer when finally, it was joined by a chorus of horns. The battleground again turned silent as the combatants faced the newcomers.
A deep melodic voice broke out into song, filled with melancholic sorrow. The voice was too far to make out its lyrics, but the music filled all who listened with grief of bloodshed.
The voice grew bolder and impassioned as the key changed, hauntingly beautiful and voicing righteous anger, justice and the ultimate triumph of good.
"Hear our voices, Eru Allfather!" the army brandished and cried as one.
Atar. Maglor.