My name is Beleg.

I suppose it means something in the tongue of the Elves. I don't know; I've never had a chance to learn Elvish.

All my life I've been fighting. From the day I was born, I was told to be like my father and become a soldier of Gondor. As a kid, I was given a sword and shield to play with.

And so I did become a soldier. Not just any soldier, but one of the company that guarded the border. It was their blood that paid for the freedom of the White City from the hand of the Enemy. I remember how proud I was the day was first given my armor. My new sword glistened in the sun, the mail shone like the stuff crafted by the dwarves of old...

Then reality hit. Battle was not the glorious thing it was supposed to be. It was horrible. The inhuman screams, the terrible stench, the sight of bodies being hacked apart... After the battle, my arms and legs were covered with blood of my allies and enemies alike.

But I chose to keep fighting. I couldn't quit: I felt a grim sort of pride for surviving the battle and helping defend Minas Tirith. Maybe I even felt a kind of hope.

If I had ever known hope, it quickly faded. With each engagement against the forces of Mordor, our forces lost more and more ground. For ever one of our Men that died, the Orcs gained ten. I watched as friends I had grown up with were torn apart by Orcs.

I watched as my father died.

We never knew victory. The closest thing we did was temporarily drive back the enemy so they could regroup and come back even stronger. There was no victory, until the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. It was by no means an easy battle, but we won. For the first time, the forces of Mordor were utterly defeated. Minas Tirith was saved.

But now we are asked to go back into battle once again. The returned Heir of Isildur, who calls himself Elessar, wants us to go and attack the Black Gate of Mordor itself. Never before I seen such madness.

Does he have any idea what is it like to battle the hordes of Mordor? On the Battle at Pelennor, we were at least on equal ground even if we were outnumbered. In Mordor, there is an evil, a Shadow, that never sleeps. And the Eye... It makes a Man want to run in fear. A Man who has not been through that cannot understand.

Still, by sheer numbers it would be hopeless. The Enemy's army is of Orcs, and monstrous Trolls, and the evil Men of the South and East. There are more of them than I want to know. Even if all the Men of Gondor, all the Riders of Rohan, and all the Elves and Dwarves allied against them, I doubt it would be even a third of their number.

What good what it be for me to go to battle and die? I have a wife and a child. What good will it do for us to all go and die to leave Gondor open to be raped and pillaged?

At Pelennor, we had only a fool's hope of winning. Yet not even a fool would think my going could help turn the tide of battle at all.

I am no hero. I am not like King Elessar. Somewhere within me the blood of Númenor flows through my veins, but it has long since been diluted. I may be a few inches taller or live a few years longer than a Man of Rohan, but I am no hero. What's more, I am getting old. I'm not as strong or swift as I used to be, and even then I was no champion of battle.

I hear rumor now of the reason for the battle. The whole purpose of the assault is to provide a distraction. The lives of tens and thousands of Men and Elves, all for a distraction? I am told that the Last Alliance of Elves and Men did not complete its work three thousand years ago. The One Ring of the Enemy survived. Now, a halfling, a creature I thought only existed in the children's stories my mother told me, is taking the Ring to destroy it in the fires of Mount Doom, breaking the power of the Enemy forever. The purpose of the battle is to draw the forces of Mordor away from the halfling.

So there it is. A fool's hope. What can one little halfling do? What can I do? Eru save us.

Did I say Eru? All my life I've been told He is good and He created the world. Where is He now? Where are the Valar, his angels that destroyed the evil god Morgoth in the legends I'm told? If He created us and cares about us, why doesn't He intervene now?

My minds drifts back to a bedtime story my mother once told me. The story of Beren and Lúthien, two mere mortals who went on an impossible quest to steal a jewel from the Crown of Morgoth. It was impossible, absolutely impossible, and yet they did it. Common sense says that the story can't possibly be true, and yet...

Yes, this battle is impossible to win. Yes, it's impossible for a halfling to make his way alone through Mordor and destroy the Ring. Yet many impossible things have happened. Beren and Lúthien stole a jewel from the Crown of Morgoth. Isildur slew the Enemy with a broken sword in the Battle of the Last Alliance. Just before I was born, a Man of the North killed a dragon with one arrow. The royal line of Gondor, through long to be extinct, reappeared. A Dwarf and an Elf are fighting side by side. We defeated Mordor in battle.

I choose to go to battle under Elessar. Chances are I won't make it home alive. I want to see my wife and daughter again, but even more I don't want them to have to have to live in fear of the Enemy anymore. I will fight with a fool's hope, for that sort of hope is the most powerful force there ever was.

And as I lie here dying, impaled by the blade of an orc, I can say I have no regrets.
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Thank you for reading my little fic. I realize there are a few factual errors, but most of them I intended because I don't believe a mere soldier of Gondor has 100% correct knowledge about all of Middle-Earth and its history. I'd appreciate any feedback, especially constructive criticism.