The sun was rising over the field of the Dagorlad – but it was a sullen, dark red sun, obscured by the choking smog of Mordor and bringing no joy to the hearts of the armies under Elessar's banner.
Gandalf stood his ground, not lowering his staff. Pippin gripped his sword, a strange expression on his face. Men and elves stood ready, weapons drawn, bows strung. Aragorn's face was unreadable.
The Black Gate opened.
Hundreds upon thousands of numbers uncountable swarmed forth in a great black flood, and the Unblinking Eye burned red on every banner. Drums were beaten, and greedy flames roared into life; smothering dust rose, and mocking shrieks were flung across the field at the armies of the West. A harsh wind blew up, whipping the dust into unearthly shapes. Arrows screamed to and fro; steel clashed on steel.
Then out of the smog and murk came a fell shrieking that sent frozen spears into every heart.
The Nazgûl had come.
Pippin gasped in fear as the dark shapes wheeled out of the air, almost dropping his sword from numb fingers. He wished Merry was there.
He pulled himself up, only to have to duck again hurriedly as a massive hill-troll swung its hammer in a deadly circle. It caught Beregond a sickening blow to the side of his head, sending him crumpling to the ground, and the troll lowered its fanged jaws to the man's throat.
Desperately, Pippin stabbed upwards, into the troll's gut. The blade of Westernesse sank deep into the scaly hide, sending vile, stinking black blood oozing down. The troll swayed and, almost in slow motion, collapsed onto the small hobbit.
Pippin felt a great crushing pain, followed by a kind of peace – almost happiness, to be leaving cares and hurts far behind. As the darkness closed over his head, he thought he heard a joyful cry. "The Eagles –"
But it was almost immediately cut off, one more scream in a multitude, and Pippin supposed he must have imagined it as he closed his eyes to a bright shore.
The fighting had forced Aragorn and Gandalf practically back-to-back, a two-man island in a sea of enemies.
A cry rang out across the battlefield, and Aragorn glanced up to see a flock of Eagles winging their way towards the fighting. But as quickly as hope flared wildly inside him it failed, as the Nazgûl brought their mounts around to rake them with claws and teeth like knives –
A deafening silence spread across the battlefield.
Orodruin had erupted.
And, rising from Barad-dûr in a great shadow, seeming to suck the light and hope from all around, soared a dark figure crowned with lightening. The very earth shook violently, and the shadow filled the sky, dragging the very warmth from the air.
Aragorn felt the breath catch in his throat, and a chill in his chest. He turned to Gandalf. "What does this mean?" he asked, though he was afraid he knew the answer.
Aragorn had never really pondered Gandalf's age, though he knew he must have many years behind him – but now the wizard looked old; old and tired. He was looking up at the Shadow, his eyes suddenly devoid of their usual sparkle, and Aragorn realised with a shock that the ancient wizard was really afraid.
At last Gandalf replied, his voice hollow.
"It means we have failed."