Hello, here is the next chapter of our story. Thanks for reading, and I hope you are enjoying it. We don't own any of the characters, they belong to Tolkien, Homer, whoever wrote Gladiator. Please R/R.

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Faramir and Legolas separated at the oliphaunts. Legolas rode alongside one of the beasts. The oliphaunt did not see him really, and just as Legolas was near the back of the oliphaunt, he jumped. He grabbed hold of the hanging rope. Legolas swung onto the back of the oliphaunt and took out his bow and arrows. Quickly and swiftly, Legolas started to kill the mumaks, who all turned their arrows toward the elf, but Legolas killed three of them before they shot once.

Once they were dead, Legolas went up to the head of the oliphaunt, took out three arrows, and he shot the oliphaunt quickly. Looking down he saw his horse nearby. He yelled to the horse in Elvish and jumped from the oliphaunt as it tumbled to the ground.

He landed on his horse, and patted it, "Hannon le."

Faramir after Legolas jumped on the oliphaunt moved on. He avoided the large feet of the oliphaunt as he took out his two large swords. He skillfully slashed the legs of the big beast as he rode under it. He emerged from under the oliphaunt as Legolas appeared back on his horse. Faramir raised an eyebrow at the elf.

"What?" Legolas asked without a scratch of any sweat on him.

"Do you always have to out do everyone's performance?"

The elf smiled, "Only men's."

"Let us draw swords together," Faramir lifted the sword in his right hand. "Let us send these foul beasts deep into the ground!"

Eomer saw the cavalry off to challenge the oliphaunts. He charged off determined not be left behind. He had a spear strapped to his horse, and he took it out now. He gripped it tightly and rode up to one of the oliphaunts. Eomer threw the spear hitting the mumak right in the chest. He toppled off his seat, leaving the oliphaunt without a driver. The oliphaunt turned to its left, and slowly hit the beast next to it. Both oliphaunts hit the ground with a thundering sound.

Legolas and Faramir now faced another oliphaunt. Again, Legolas grabbed the hanging rope and taking out his white knife, he cut the rope. He let go and fell back onto his horse. The carriage fell to the ground and Faramir and Legolas rode over to it making sure all the men were dead. They then raced after the oliphaunt who had kept on going. Using their bow and arrows, they took down the oliphaunt.

While the three men worked on killing the oliphaunts, the other soldiers shot the oliphaunts and the mumaks being carried with their bows and arrows.

The battle was ending; another fight was at a close. Gandalf would have breathed a sigh of relief if he had not felt a pain inside him, a fear of doubt and dread in his heart.

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Paris was in a daze as he fought on the battlefield. He had read many tales of war and even heard them firsthand from his brother, yet now when he was on the field, in the midst of combat, he understood even less about war. It was not noble and romantic as he had once believed. The great stories immortalized the warrior and his bravery, yet here Paris saw neither, and was faced with mortality in all its most brutal forms. He was fighting while covered in blood, some his own and some his enemies.

He was numb, and both his arms hurt as he once again picked his sword up over his head and drove it into an orc that he had been fighting. He looked down at himself, at the cuts on his arms, at the slice on his leg that at first had hurt painfully, but now was a dull numb pain. His helmet that he had worn at the beginning was now lost, and his uniform which had been clean when he put it on was now a mixture of dirt and blood.

He could see the bodies of his fellow soldiers and witnessed them being hewn and slain before his very eyes. And there he was, helpless to save them. No, he thought, war is not noble.

Even with his inexperience in war, Paris found that he was in fact a skilled fighter. He was able to kill many orcs with ease and grace. He saw an orc battling with another soldier, and Paris raced over, seeing the outcome of the fight. With a yell, he took off the orc's hand stopping him from delivering the deathblow to the soldier under him. Without another thought, Paris drove his sword into the orc and helped the soldier up. Without a word, they departed and continued to fight.

Suddenly Paris was confronted with a large, rather grotesque looking, orc who wielded a large sword. However, Paris saw himself as a skilled fighter and felt that there was no orc, which he could not face. He started to fight the orc and soon found that the orc was much stronger than he was. He blocked a strike from the orc with his sword but the orc was able to trip him and he fell to the ground. Paris knew that this was the end, the orc lifted up his sword and was about to strike Paris when suddenly a figure appeared out of nowhere and blocked the blow. Paris saw that it was the brave Patroclus. Patroclus battled the orc and it appeared that Patroclus would indeed defeat the creature. Patroclus was able to wound him in the shoulder, which greatly hindered the orc's ability to wield his sword, giving Patroclus a distinct advantage. Paris felt even more helpless watching the battle between the orc and Patroclus. He wished that there was something he could do but he saw no way to help him. As Patroclus fought the orc Paris suddenly saw the orc run towards him and was about to strike. Patroclus ran in front of Paris and tried to block the blow with his sword. He managed to stab the orc in the chest and the lifeless body fell to the ground, but it was too late. After Patroclus stabbed the orc he was slashed across the chest by the orc sword, and he fell to the ground covered in blood. Paris ran over to him and cradled his head in his arms. Paris had known Patroclus only a little, and from what he had seen and heard from Faramir, he was a most noble and loyal man. He saw Patroclus struggle in pain for a moment. Then he was still.

Paris gently closed the eyes of Patroclus and kissed his forehead. Paris seethed in anger and despair. He should not have died, Paris thought, it should have been me. Paris looked at the corpse of the noble man one last time before charging back out into battle. He no longer cared about his own life. He had seen the most noble men die and now he felt that he must fight not only for himself, but also for the brave Patroclus, who gave his life in order to protect his brother.

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The orcs around King Elessar and Gandalf started to run. Gandalf straightened up; orcs running away was never a good sign. He looked around, wondering what was coming. Gandalf felt warm, like a heat wave was coming. He leaned heavily on his staff; he knew what was coming. How could they be here? But he knew that they were the creation of Melkor. Melkor, the god, he knew had thought they could be beaten, and he had sent the fiery creatures to finish off all the men of Gondor, Rohan and the Elves. Gandalf hoped he had the energy to survive.

Aragorn looked up and stared into the eyes of the Balrog. Men were running back into the city; scared to see a monster so evil that it had not even entered their darkest nightmares. He gripped his sword, the Sword that was Broken, Andruil, tight in his hand and walked to the front of the Balrog that seemed to be waiting for him, I will make this trial, he thought, monstrous though it is, even if it is my doom to die. I will not fail my country, my people, and it is for them that I fight this vile beast.

The Balrog's whip came down fast and unexpectedly and Aragorn had to move quickly to avoid its burning end. Aragorn brought his sword up above his head as the Balrog's whip came at him again. The sword challenged the Balrog, and for a moment, the Balrog was vulnerable to Aragorn's strike. Without thinking, he stabbed the Balrog with all its might. The Balrog howled in pain, and brought its whip down quickly and without unnerving speed. Aragorn did not see it until the last second, and made to move, but the long whip caught him around the middle. The king was lifted off his feet and slammed into the wall of Minas Tirith.

Faramir saw Aragorn collapse by the wall of Minas Tirith, and he ran over to him in desperation. As he came upon his king trying to lift himself off the ground, but to avail, and his eyes were glazed.

"Aragorn!" Faramir whispered to him, "Aragorn, my king."

He saw Aragorn lift his head a little, and Faramir saw the pain in his eyes. Yet even worse than that, he saw the loss of hope, and the acceptance of the inevitable.

Aragorn spoke, "Faramir... Faramir... my body is broken, it is over. I have led my men to war and not to victory... It is you, Faramir, who must lead our people to victory; it is you who must unite them."

"No, you will not die, and I desire not such power... do not lose hope!"

"I have only lost hope for myself, all my hope now rests in you, and all the people of Middle Earth, and I have faith that you will succeed... and you shall."

"I would have followed you to the end. My Captain, my king... you saved me once, with your healing hands. I only wish I had the skill to repay you, you that gave so much and saved so many..."

"Faramir, my eyes darken... where is Arwen and the light of the Evenstar? Where is she? I wish I could have seen her... one last time, for it will be long before she meets me in the lands beyond... before I can see her face... Arwen." At that, his breathing stopped, and he was still. Faramir whispered a prayer as he bent and kissed his brow. After all the suffering and sacrifice, Faramir thought, this was Aragorn's reward, death. Faramir left the body of his king, but did not enter the mindless chaos of the battle but determinably raced after the vile, fiery beast.

As he came upon the creature, he shouted, "Turn, hellhound, turn, for the sake of Gondor, and the memory of our fallen king I shall face you. And I willingly face my death to avenge so great a man!"

The Balrog responded with a crack of his whip, which Faramir agilely avoided. This continued until Faramir began to wonder how he could defeat such a creature. Then as the Balrog cracked his whip, Faramir ducked under and pierced the stomach of the creature. However, the Balrog fought as fiercely as before, despite the wound, and Faramir waited for his chance to strike again. As the whip cracked again, he again tried to stab the vile beast but was pierced in the shoulder by his sword of fire. He fell to the ground, expecting to see the fire return, to finish and consume him. He thought of Eowyn, and hated how they parted on such terms, hated knowing that her last memory of him would not be pleasant as their love had been.

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As Eowyn watched the battle from the safety of the gardens of Minas Tirith, she was reminded of a time long ago when she had been forbidden to fight and forced to endure the long hours of waiting. Waiting, she thought, what glory was there in that? To watch the home until the men returned, or if the battle went ill, to burn in the house when the men no longer have need of it. To be trapped. Caged. At least this time she could see the battle down below, which was both a blessing and a curse. She knew that her husband, her family, and her friends were somewhere out there. Whether they were safe, or even alive, she did not know. She shivered at that thought and wrapped her light blue cloak tightly around her. No, she thought, they are alive. Yes, yes they are alive.

Then, as she looked down, she saw it. She had only heard of it in legends because they were all believed to have perished from the world or were trapped in the darkness of distant caverns. Yet there it was, a Balrog of Morgoth, a demon of the ancient world. And at that moment, even in the gardens high above, she did not feel safe. She watched in terror as the demon felled many men, seemingly without effort. She wished that she could see closer, to see where her husband was. She wished she knew if he was safe. She now forgave him for everything that happened because she understood why he did not let her go. She now would give anything to have Faramir beside her now, safe. Yet she knew that that was selfish, Gondor needed him in this great battle, and much must be risked in war. She only wanted her husband to be safe, to return to her.

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And suddenly Faramir saw a white light, and he thought; 'now this was the end'. Yet it was not the end, he saw that the white light emanated from something, rather someone. Mithrandir, who was both father and mentor to him. He could see Mithrandir battle the great beast with the skill and grace of a wizard, and after the encounter, he defeated his enemy and smote his ruin upon the battlefield. Mithrandir knelt beside his pupil, his son.

"I failed, Aragorn is dead, and I tried to avenge him yet I failed... I never thought it would end this way."

"End?" Gandalf said. "The journey doesn't end here, death is but another journey, one that we all must take, the grey rain of this curtain rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it white shores and a sweet sunrise."

"Well that isn't so bad..."

"No, no, it isn't, but it is not your time to die, you have much left to do and become. You will be needed here for things other than war. Your shoulder was only pierced, and though the pain is great and you feel unconsciousness creeping, it is a but a wound, which can be healed through Elvish medicine. Come now, the battle is ending, Shadowfax shall bear us into the walls, and to the House of the Healing."

Though the pain was great, both in his shoulder and in his heart, he felt safe under Mithrandir's care and was glad to go to the houses, where he had many pleasant memories.

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Eowyn could see the Balrog fell one man after another, and suddenly she saw a flash of brilliant white light as the White Rider battled the Balrog. After a long encounter the white rider prevailed and she saw him ride back to the city on Shadowfax, bearing the body of a wounded soldier. She ran as fast as she could down each level, she did not know whose body Gandalf bore, and that was the thing that frightened her. Soon she saw him, and her heart fell. Gandalf's face was serious, and he was bearing the body of Faramir, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien, Husband of Eowyn. Her whole world was spinning, and it was Gandalf who had dismounted his horse and put his hand on her shoulder who brought her back.

"Eowyn, he was wounded by the Balrog; his condition is not as serious as it looks. But he needs healing quickly. He must be brought to the Houses of Healing immediately, but the battle goes on and there are still many to fight. I am needed there. Take Shadowfax, he is swift and will bear you well. You shall have much praise for this great deed."

"No longer do I wish for praise, I only wish for the return of my husband. Look at his face, so pale..."

"He will survive, but there are others who may not. My place is at the gate, yours is with your husband. Ride now, Shadowfax will show you the meaning of haste!"

Gandalf watched as Eowyn rode off. His gaze still lingered at the place after she left. He knew that Faramir needed healing on the threshold of death, and the one whose hand had brought him back before was now gone. He did not know what was to happen. He had seen the greatest men of their time fall, and he could see machinations and chaos following them disquietly to their graves. Yet now was not the time to despair. There were still many men, noble and great, who were still fighting. And with that thought, Gandalf went back into the battle and fought with a new intensity and ferocity.

The battle raged on without three of Middle Earth's greatest heroes. Legolas and Gimli continued to fight side by side killing the orcs and making sure that those wounded did not live.

Maximus stopped fighting. He looked around, observing the battle. He raised his long, heavy sword into the air and called out for all to hear, "Victory! We have victory!"

Eomer took his sword out of a fallen orc. He straightened up, sweat poured down his face. He heard Maximus' yell of 'Victory'. He sighed deeply, looking at his men, few deaths for Rohan. He was glad; he had seen too much death in his short life.

Merry, Pippin and Sam were by the city gates. The excitement of the battle was still flowing through Merry's veins. His sword was blood stained, and his armor was heavy on his weary body, but his heart was light. They were alive again, and they had won.

A group of elves were walking by, and in the lead were Legolas and Gimli. Merry had seen the elf sad once, after they thought Gandalf had died. The elves were carrying the king, Merry observed. The three small hobbits backed out of the way, and bowed their heads to the valiant, yet fallen king. Merry closed his eyes; his eyes had seen too much war and darkness. Would it ever end?

They continued to stand there even after the procession of elves had passed. Merry now looked up trying to find hope in the world. He looked up at the sky and at the lands beyond, but found nothing. It was then that he noticed a group of men, lead by Gandalf and Eomer, making their way to the city. Merry wondered who they were carrying, and why was the King of Gondor not also leading them? Merry looked at Gandalf's face and was surprised to see a tear in his eye.

"No." Merry whispered. He shook his head, "No!"

They came closer now. Merry stood on his toes, he needed to see, and he needed to know. He saw a scarlet cloak, a tall sword, and as the head of the fallen soldier passed, he saw a crown. "ARAGORN!"

Merry fell to his knees, how could the king die? Who could conquer such a stout and brave man?

Gandalf turned to look at him, their eyes meant, what evils lay on the city this day?

Merry put his head in his hands weeping openly. How could it come to this?