June 20, 3018

Fire.

It engulfed him, invading every breath he inhaled, the smoke and ash coating his lungs. The angry, brilliant, and damning red and orange flicker forcing him to narrow his eyes, sometimes even closing them completely against the blinding light that swallowed him. The roar of it as it consumed building and man alike proved deafening, leaving him with little sense of direction, cutting him off from the rest of his forces, condemning him to certain death by flame.

It would be a terrible way to end. He would not wish it on even the worst of his enemies.

Only Sauron himself would dare use such a destructive force against the magnificent city of beauty and light, built by the great Elendil and his sons, a shining star in the universe of men. But then again, they were fighting Sauron himself. Or at least an extension of the Dark Lord in the form of the Orcs that launched the surprise attack, their leader, the deadliest of enemies no man could even begin to hope to kill. Even now, the screams of the wretched Witch-king filled his ears, invaded his brain, tore at his heart, made his blood run cold even as he forced his body to move forward.

Looking back, he still could see nothing, hear nothing, do nothing. He stood helpless against the onslaught of fire and the terrifying shrill of a king of old turned wraith, sinister and deathless, seduced by the power of a dark and seductive Lord. He tried to move forward but the hideous sound held him in its sway, as though it reached out and physically bound him immobile. Suddenly a voice, steady and clear, but most importantly, loud, called out his name. It called for retreat, to fall back, for the bridge was the last obstacle, and even now, that avenue of escape was fading fast.  But still he did not come. He had to make sure his men were safe, that all who could leave were across that bridge. He refused to abandon them…the voice immediately called there were no more that could retreat, as though it could read his mind, see into the very core of the loyalty that motivated him. Normally, he would not trust such echoes he heard on the wind, worried they were the result of some twisted hallucination. But he knew this voice almost better than he knew his own, trusted it beyond anything else within the circles of the world.

And so he marched forward, willing his body to move away from the flame and the hideous scream that wrenched the air into shards of death. He saw no more of his precious men, and allowed his heart to be light, if only for a quick moment. This time, as always, he would keep to his Captain's promise; first to enter, last to leave. He loved his men, and he'd be damned if he left any behind. Such devotion proved a lesson learned early in life from the elder one who protected him, putting such fidelity into practice from as far back as he could remember. It was now the elder one that called out to him, refusing to leave until he too was across that bridge.

He finally reached the ancient stone overpass, whether in minutes or hours he did not know. There was no time for embrace or words of greeting, only a simple nod of appreciation and a quick check for any mortal wounds on him by the three men who stood there on the eastern shore of the Anduin. The first of the men, a ruggedly handsome soldier dressed in the fine armor of the Captain of the White Tower, gave him a quick grin of relief as his grey eyes glittered with light of battle. He sheathed his sword and nocked arrow on bow in preparation for the fell beast bound to be on the heals of the younger man who had just arrived. The Rangers behind him followed suit, arrows already nocked and at the ready in their own bows. Long ago, they swore to protect their lords, no matter how high the cost. Such a price proved fitting, for their love of the two men in front of them knew no bounds, and they were willing to make the trip to the Halls of Mandos to ensure their lords' safety.

Dark and fell, its massive body rose from the flames, as though some evil, fiery servant of Melkor from the ancient Wars of Beleriand. On it sat, in all his arrogance and wickedness, the Lord of the Nazgul. Foul was its very air, black was his purpose, terrible was his wrath. For what right did these pathetic men have to deny the will of his dark master? They would wither, all four of them, screaming for death before the end, their minds torn asunder by sinister dreams of defeat. And he made ready to undertake such terrible actions, mercilessly drawing the reigns of the fell beast he rode, causing him to rear.

He dove past them, and they let loose arrows, all hitting their mark. But the hide was too thick, their arrows barely piercing the hard scales, inflicting little injury. They quickly reloaded, the younger man nocking his arrow on his bow along with them this time as the Captain yelled to the rangers to fall back and cross the bridge to safety. But they simply nodded in disagreement, remaining steadfast, smiling their grim smiles as they focused on the task at hand. The younger man could not help but return their smiles, determination on his face despite the slim odds as he quickly turned back around to face their shared enemy. They shot again, this time, one of the ranger's arrows hitting the beast in its foul mouth as it tried to snap at him and break his body in two. In shock and pain it dove towards the bridge, its frenzied movements forcing them all to duck low. Its massive body hit the bridge with a pounding thud, causing the ground to shake as though Eru himself pulled at the roots of the earth.

While the beast was only injured and not near death, its master's deadly rage was fiercely evident, the air around them all dropping to an icy temperature, its malice invading every atom of existence. He swiftly drove the beast towards them again from behind, his screams wrenching the air, causing the men drop their weapons, their blood running cold as their hands covered their ears and they fell to the ground. Had they not collapsed to the hard earth, their fates would have sealed, their days ended by the snapping jaws of the beast. The Lord of the Nazgul flew over them, his beast's body hitting the bridge as he drew his sword. He slashed at the bridge, once, twice, three times, casting down the great structure. His actions were helped along by the fell animal, its enormous flapping wings causing the great stone bridge to split completely in two. Then, without warning, a slew of arrows from the men on the west bank pierced its hide, tearing the flesh at the side of its neck. Black blood sizzled forth, falling into the water as it screamed in agony, wings flapping to propel it upward.

The younger man shouted, ordering everyone to drop any unnecessary items and weapons that would weigh them down. They did so without question as he dropped his sword and ripped at the strings tying together his leather jerkin. Getting the first ties loose, he was in the midst of shrugging out of the heavy garment when his brother grabbed him by the arm and pushed him into the river behind the other Rangers. They had to swim across, make it to the west bank, or face being trapped on the other with this nightmarish servant of Sauron. More arrows from men on the west bank zipped over them, hitting the beast again. Hope was renewed, if only for a little while.

The shock of hitting the freezing water proved overwhelming, his limbs going numb as he sunk like a stone. He turned his head upwards, looking up past the glittering surface of his liquid prison. It was dark overhead, the night inky black, the stars glittering within the velvet cape of the sky.

…A Fortress of Stars to protect the greatest treasure of men. But that treasure has been lost long ago, cast into the river during one of man's darkest moments in history, a moment when men turned against each other to claim a lost throne. Kin-strife they called it. A small word that did little to explain the bloodshed and havoc Eldecar and Castamir wrecked upon each other's forces in their desire to claim power. Of course, the rightful heir won, but that great treasure, the greatest of the seven palantíri, too great to be lifted by one man, was lost into the dark, swirling depths of the Anduin in the chaos of the sack of the city…

Odd, how the tales of old would come to him at the most peculiar of times, when they served no purpose but to blot out the chaos that reigned about him…

The river.

His fingers gripped the dagger as he frantically cut at the last strings of his leather jerkin, finally tearing past the ties, allowing him to shrug out of it. But he'd already reached the bottom of the river. It was not terribly deep, yes. But regardless, he was still trapped at the bottom, some feet of frigid water between him and the freedom of surface, to the air he was so desperately beginning to need. He tried to pull the hauberk over his head, but it was too heavy, the fine chain mail made infinitely weighty in water. He hunched down, to let the hauberk move up over his head, but again, it was too heavy, for moved but a little. But at least it moved. He ducked down again as he pulled the mail upwards, finding if he pulled hard enough, it would be over his head. It was now, but he could not see. So he pulled harder, wrenching at the mail, willing himself not to panic, not to scream and let out the precious air so necessary for his survival. Using the last of his strength, his muscles aching, he pushed his way out of the mail and threw it to the bottom of the river as he kicked upwards. Paddling up, his vision blurry from the lack of oxygen, his lungs on fire, he only knew that he must keep moving, salvation above him, darkness below…

Darkness.

He would not fall into darkness, nor let his people do so, for the responsibility of their safe-keeping fell to him, a Son of Gondor. And if he failed, all hope would be lost, for hope was all that was left to him.

He would not fail.