The Siege of Minas Tirith
Aranel; 2004
The fire and ash rain profusely from the sky, while the projectile debris collides with the buildings rising eminently above the rest with a tumultuous roaring of flames and the rending of stone. The reddish glow lights the city and gleams eerily in the black shadows that dance upon the white stones of Minas Tirith. They dance frenziedly this way and that, portraying women and children fleeing, Gondorian soldiers standing to face the foe. They depict the forces of evil beating back the good, trampling them underfoot, stampeding over their bodies, hewing them even as they lay. The screams of children fill the air, the cries of babies being shushed by their mothers as they endeavor to conceal themselves within their homes, but are eventually found and slain mercilessly. For it is evil that cares for nothing, stops for no one, be they men, women, or even the smallest of children. It wishes only to advance its own ambitions and fill the earth with its gluttonous all-consuming domination. Those that oppose this agenda are removed. And the women and children of Minas Tirith are such a threat! Husbands are slain defending their wives, wives are slain shielding their children, and children are slain wailing in the street. Still the pawns of evil press on, not content to have the first level. They must have it all, to the very top.
The fire rises, consuming all in its path. It, like the evil, lusts only for more fuel, more victims. It will not be satisfied with the death of few. The women watch in horror as their children are slaughtered. It is useless to resist; futile to flee. Evil will have its way. The world of Men will fall.
As the shadows and flames devour throughout the night, the servants of the Abhorred One kill and destroy, never content until the last soul has fled from its body; the last dwelling becomes a pile of smoldering embers.
The fire will obliterate everything it encounters, the white of the stones will be tainted black, and all will come to darkness. There is little light remaining in the world.
The children weep over their mother's bodies, only to be trodden underfoot, their blood staining the cracks of the stones, as the evil pushes ever on.
The shrieking of the Nazgûl overhead is like demons of the abyss; screaming, jeering, taunting, calling out your name. The piercing cries send the hands of even the most valiant of warriors to his ears.
The sense of evil is overwhelming. Minas Tirith will certainly not last the night. A Fell Beast circles above, indiscriminately selecting out four men to clutch in its hawk-like talons. It sends them down to fall like stones upon the city below. One of the men narrowly misses a young girl as he smashes brutally to the stone street with a sickening crunch. The girl notes the man's bloodied features and begins to cry. "Daddy!"
All now seems lost. The evil below presses onward; the evil above soars downward. Minas Tirith is ensnared between two terrible evils.
And in the midst of the turmoil, Mithrandir, a servant of the Light, bids the men, "Stand and fight!" To this end, they endeavor. However, they cannot win. They will die like men of Gondor; defending their wives, their children, and their country. It truly is the end of all things.
As the dawn creeps slowly nearer, and the first light is seen, a horn call is heard. Loud and strong, it rises above the rest. All eyes, good and evil alike, turn to the horizon. The forces of Mordor halt their advance. The gleeful smile of the enemy vanishes. The entire ridge beyond is black with horsemen. Rohan has come.