Disclaimer: I do not own any of Tolkein's work. This is for fun only and for others enjoyment as they read.

"Ar-Pharazôn, the last King of Númenor, landed in Middle-earth with an unstoppable army… and the Dark Lord's army fled in fear…"

They were countless. Thousands of ships littered the sea as the sun began to set in the distance over the mountains. No words could possibly describe the sight of the enormous armada from Númenor as they sailed toward the shores, and then from there march on Mordor against Sauron's armies. Their ships reflected colors of silver and gold, and on each bow of every ship there was the symbol of a silver eagle and its brilliant feathers, shining proudly as the symbol of the Mightiest of Men. The ships themselves were forged from and constructed of mithril, giving them a heavenly radiance. Each ship was a decent size, and each carried at least a hundred of Númenor's most skilled soldiers. Spearmen, archers, and swordsmen alike were boarded on each ship, and every soldier was armored in the strongest of metals; mithril. For although rare, the true silver was of a great quantity in the Land of the West. Upon each head of every soldier, a tall, winged, and jeweled helm was seen.

At last when the sun was almost out of all sight, the shores of Middle-Earth were spotted.

"Yallume! Alas!" The voice of Númenor's king, Ar-Pharazôn, sounded in the silent of the rowing of the army through the waters. He was dressed much like any other soldier, but a sense of glory and kingliness seemed to radiate immensely from him.. Separating him from the others. In his left hand he gripped a mighty two-edged sword, whose blade was engraved with words of Quenya. And on his back was a longbow, and beside it, a quiver full of mithril-tipped arrows were strapped. An immense fog was settled on the shores of Middle-Earth, shielding the vision of the army.

"Be wary." Ar-Pharazôn spoke quietly to those aboard his ship. The captain under him, Addrar, looked up from his seated position and nodded. "I sense something is amiss…" The king continued.

Silently the ships anchored in as close to the shores as possible, each one lined up beside another, taking up an immeasurable distance. Rampways slid effortlessly from each bow of every ship, landing with a rather loud 'thunk' on the sand, sending sand and sea water spraying everywhere. The Men of Númenor unloaded from their ships, the ones carrying shields, of course the first line…going onshore and through the fog fearlessly. The shields were strong and broad, each forged from steel and other metals, and bearing the symbol of Númenor on its front. Behind this protection, the rest of the army marched. Swordsmen and spearmen followed behind the shields, and after them the archers. In the center and in the thick of things, their king marched, his sword held tightly at his side, his face stern and fearless.

The fog gave little slack for the first few miles, but the army's approach did not slow. They marched with a fast pace, their armor clanking together in unison, signaling their approach to their enemies. For they knew no fear. They knew no better. In their own minds, in their own personal glory… they were undimmed, unchallenged, and mightier than any that walked the earth.

Then suddenly, to their immense surprise... The fog gave way, revealing the Land of Mordor, and the Black Gates. But to their shock, they found the Dark Lord's army were waiting at the Morannon, and had begun their charge the moment the Númenóreans revealed themselves. And so openly.

The army of Sauron was tremendous. They lined the mountain walls, in countless rows and uncountable numbers--bred for this single purpose. To kill. Their prey was right at their doorstep, and the trap they set was going as planned. The beating of their iron-shod feet against the earth was steady, and they all carried vicious looking weapons. The Black Gate was wide open, and even more of Sauron's dreadful horde was pouring through.

Ar-Pharazôn called his army to a halt as they came out of the fog. And they indeed stopped, and stood silent as the night that became before them. It seemed as though they had no care for the fate that could very possibly end in a painful death, but their pride and power was too great to allow them to do that.

"At arms!" Addrar's command was loud and calm by his king's side.

Thousands of spears were set in between each shield that allowed opening, archers withdrew one to three arrows and fitted them neatly upon bows, aiming at the sky. Metal sharply sounded in the air in unison as bright, gleaming swords were drawn. Those carrying shields crouched down to a knee, firmly placing their shield out in front of them.

"Take aim!"

Archers' aims were slightly tilted down, and arrows were pulled back as they each found a target. Silence issued among the ranks, other than the commands shouted by the captain. Every soldier tensed as the enemy drew closer, their ranks splitting apart as the desire to go faster and get to their enemy quicker knocked them askew.

"FIRE!"

Countless arrows filled the air, humming over and past the ears of their allies, and disappearing in the ranks of Sauron's horde. Those orcs who carried shields found them splintered easily by the mithril-tipped arrows. Those unshielded in the first and second, and even third lines were dropped instantly, getting trampled into the ground by the lines behind them who cared nothing for their own allies. Only death to their foes. More arrows flew through the air, as if the clouds had rained them down onto the earth below.

The leader of this charge was an immensely large and strong creature of Sauron, whose name in the Black Speech was Yrchtig. He calmly stood on a boulder, watching as the first of the lines were taken out with ease. But that was to be expected of course. In his hand he carried a scimitar, and he was heavily armored, but moved still with the grace of any other orc, possibly even faster. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to pick out the leader of the opposing army. His eyes would be searching for a while.

It was a bloody massacre as the orcs slammed into the shields of the front lines of the mighty army of Númenor. Hundreds were skewered on the spears that they did not see until the very last second-- and hundreds more were either beheaded or cut in half as they collided straight into the sharp-ended sides of the mighty shields. Those that did manage to get past the shields, used the bodies of their fallen comrades as a spring to leap over the shields… only to meet flashing swords. Heads and limbs flew in the air, spilling blood onto the soldiers and painting the blackened ground. However many still managed to break through the lines, and by sheer numbers alone busted through the spears and shields set against them. There they found even more arrows zipping through the air, finding their mark quite well. For each archer seemed to be an expert; and you could expect no less from the army of Númenor.

The swordsmen went to work immediately, their blades flashing brilliantly in the dark night, slicing through limbs and the soft flesh of the orcs. They pierced armor easily, cutting right to the bone. Once silver blades were now streaked with the black blood of the orcs, and the ground bubbled with orc and man blood alike. For even though great, the Númenóreans suffered losses, though extremely few. The insides of creatures that had been cut open were splayed about the ground, blood running in streams along the ground… mostly black.

Still, despite their terrible loses, the orc army was continuous and pressed on as if the will of their master was behind them at their heels.

"CHARGE!" Addrar and the other swordsmen poured past the shieldmen, colliding into the orc ranks. Surprised, the orcs tried to continue to press on, but were violently beat back by the soldiers. Thousands of swordsmen continued in behind their fellow comrades, coming to their aid. Among them was Ar-Pharazôn, who was perhaps the deadliest of them all. So fluid was his movements, so quick they were… so precisely timed, that the orcs fled in fear before him and his sword. His entire whole was covered in orc blood, it ran down his face, mingling with sweat and tears. His sword he gripped with both hands that each were vice-like, their grip never letting go. He was so caught up in the midst of battle, that he did not pay heed to the bodies that lay around him. He was so caught up that he did not notice the orc on the ground, who was ran through by a spear, pick up his dagger in his death throes… raise it, and bring it down upon the king's turned back.

A sword flashed, and the dagger, and the orc's hand was severed from the body… vanishing somewhere in the air. Addrar appeared behind his king, twirling the blade once expertly and following up by bringing the near tip of the blade across the orc's neck, decapitating it. Blood gushed forth in a puddle on the ground.

A boot splashed in that very puddle of blood, the man shouting at the top of his lungs. "FIGHT ON! FIGHT ON!"

A volley of arrows streaked through the air, over the heads of the swordsmen, landing in the oncoming ranks of the newly regrouped force of orcs. Yrchtig snarled, barking out orders in the Black Speech of Mordor. "REGROUP! Focus on the center and drive them BACK YOU COWARDS!"

He watched as an orc came running up toward the boulder, in direction of the Black Gate. A deserter. Jumping down, he brought his blade up from the ground… slamming it up the orc's backside, up, and through his head, slicing him in half. The orc gurgled once, falling apart in two separate pieces. Yrchtig would not take kindly to deserters. Not kindly at all.

The orc chieftain moved quickly through the ranks, pushing aside those who stood in his way. He had spotted Ar-Pharazôn.

Meanwhile, in the midst of battle, more orcs were seen fleeing from the fury of the Númenóreans. Each one seemed more deadly than the next, and more eager to kill their foes. It was then in that moment that the King of Númenor would face his most deadly foe in that battle.

The scimitar came out of nowhere. It was swung from overhead, and the king barely had time to bring up his sword to parry it, and then stumble backwards from the sheer force put behind the blow. Trying to regain his footing, he gritted his teeth as he watched the orc chieftain charge forward.

And indeed he did. Yrchtig came running forward, swinging his deadly weapon from the left at Ar-Pharazôn's shoulder.

But the king would not be caught off guard so easily. Digging his heel into the mud and blood caked ground underneath him, he pushed forward and brought his blade in from the right, parrying the orc's blade with ease and placing a kick into the chieftain's armor-plated stomach. The kick hardly moved Yrchtig, and he put his brute strength to use by pushing that arm that held the scimitar forward… pressing both blades back at the king's face.

It was a weak spot he was in, but Ar-Pharazôn was quick to react. With his free hand he unsheathed a curved elven dagger, pushing left with the sword against the scimitar and knocking it aside. With a roar of challenge he leapt forward, piercing the armor of the orc and burying the blade deep within his black flesh. His blood forced itself out of a new open wound around the blade, trickling down his chest plate. But he just laughed in mockery, continuing forward once more, the blade still sheathed in his body. The King of Númenor once again found himself in a desperate situation. He ducked and weaved to the side each time the blade of the orc chieftain was swung at him. He was running out of time and he new it… it would only be a matter of seconds before Yrchtig would slay him.

Then, as he turned around, the scimitar was swung directly at his neck, aimed for a decapitating blow.

The king's reflexes were too fast. Another advantage of being the Mightiest of Men. Ducking under the blade, Ar-Pharazôn saw his opportunity like a shining star before his very eyes; even blind he could have sensed it.

Yrchtig brought the scimitar above his head for another blow, but halted suddenly, blinking as he felt a searing pain in his chest. Looking down, he faintly saw the king's blade had driven him through, and the tip of the sword was seen protruding from his back.

With a grunt the orc fell backwards, the sword removing itself from him as he landed in a puddle of his own blood. Unscathed from the battle with the orc chieftain, Ar-Pharazôn the Golden stood up straight and looked towards the Black Gate. The orc army was no longer coming forth from the gates… but now it was headed in all different directions. Away from the army of Númenor.

In pure terror Sauron's horde fled. Too great were the Númenóreans; too mighty were their numbers. They had slain so many of them and had suffered so few losses themselves.

The once steady beat of iron-shod feet against the earth was beating ever faster as the horn of Mordor sounded in retreat.

Addrar, beaten and bloodied… but victorious just as the others, came up beside the king, trying to regain his composture. "What are thy orders, my lord?"

All Ar-Pharazôn could do was smile as he sheathed his sword. "Send half of our force over the hills, capture their army… and crush them. Send the other half with me, the Dark Lord is now defenseless and vunerable in the Dark Tower."

And so it ended, the great battle between the army of Númenor and the Forces of Sauron before the Morannon. But there was an even greater dark power to deal with now.

Addrar led several thousand of the forces over the hills, circling around the retreating horde and slaying every servant of Sauron, down to the last orc. Even more so followed Ar-Pharazôn the Golden through the Black Gate and past the plateau of Gorgoroth, to the tower of Barad-dûr.

All was silent around the Dark Tower as they approached and encircled it. The king stood out in front of the army, unsheathing his sword and aiming it up towards the very top of the tower.

"Maia of old, come forth! Your horde has been lost, and your time here has ended! The days of darkness shall end and so shall your reign. Come forth!"

Ominous silence hung upon the air as heavy as death. The sudden clang of doors signaled the Dark Lord's arrival as he exited through the great doors that barred the entrance into Barad-dûr. The sudden presence struck each soldier mightily. They each became unbelievably nervous, some even frightened. But the king was calm. He had strength in numbers and was strong in belief that they were the greatest army that walked the earth. Even the Dark Lord Sauron could not overcome them.

Sauron slowly strode forth into the center of the army, so calmly, so… unafraid. Bows were immediately trained upon him, and spears and swords were at the ready. The Maia stood before the King of Númenor, well aware of the vast army that surrounded him.

"Your numbers are vast. Your strength immense. I am beaten, it is something I will not deny."

His voice boomed through the air, strong and demanding attention. Words cannot describe the overall overwhelming presence the Dark Lord gave off. Yet the king stood unmoving, unaffected. Perhaps his pride was too great to be altered even by Sauron himself.

For a long while Ar-Pharazôn stood there, staring up unblinking at the Maia. Until finally he spoke.

"Bind his hands. He shall be a prisoner of war and travel back to Númenor with us."

A guard of at least one hundred soldiers strode forth from the army, surrounding Sauron. Archers aimed carefully as two soldiers tied Sauron's hands in a certain steel-like rope bind that was as strong as mithril. Perhaps it was wrought of it. The soldiers shaked and quivered, their simple task taking fifteen minutes or more to accomplish, which would regularly be less. Much less. When they were done they backed away quickly, vanishing in the army.

The army shifted, moving after their king as he moved to the gate. The guard encircled the Dark Lord, eyes not moving from their target for even a second. Something was strange and unmoving about how the Dark Lord presented himself before them so willingly.

Addrar was perhaps the most cautious about this, and he figured Ar-Pharazôn knew.

But he didn't. No, he indeed did not. So caught up in his own glory of his race that Ar-Pharazôn the Golden was blinded by the truth, by what was soon to happen. And be his downfall.

The End.