Disclaimer: All stories, songs, plots, characters, places, poems, etc. that you recognize in this story from any of J.R.R. Tolkien's works belong strictly to J.R.R. Tolkien. I do not own any of them.


A small breeze blew past, picking up dust and debris as it made its way across the massive field. The dead carcasses of men, horses, Haradrim and Easterling war mounts, orcs, goblins, trolls, and beasts stretched out for miles and miles upon end, the dirt slowing covering them as wind moved onward. Bright sunlight shown down upon the dead, a cloudless blue sky finishing the almost serene picture. Almost.

A great battle had been fought for hours without end, until suddenly, it ended. The Hope of Men had been crushed under the weight of a sudden onslaught of thousands of Mordor warriors rushing onto the battlefield. As quickly as it had begun, the war was over. Hope was lost. One moment, swords were clanging and scraping, arrows were flying, bows twanging, horses screaming, and suddenly—it was over. So quick, so fast.

The Dark Lord had allowed the darkness to cease for a few days, only to mock the dead who now lined the field and the city. Minis Tirith was a white tomb, glistening brightly against the surrounding landscape. Dead bodies of children, women, and men were carelessly discarded in the crumbling and ruined streets, Sauron's temporary memorial to his triumph. Or perhaps he would use the Ring to lock their soulless shells within the walls, so that all who passed by would be forever reminded. It was hard to tell. For now, though, he wanted the sun to shine—and brightly at that, for the grass to remain green a little while longer, and for the sky to be a startling blue. A cloudless blue. To remind those left alive that their existence would be a living death for all eternity. Or for as long as time permitted them to live.

Hundreds of miles away, the Grey Havens were burning. Deserted, desolate. The elves were trapped. And they would be the first ones to die. But it won't be long now, will it? a dark figure mused, helmed-head turning toward the field again, away from the bright sunlight. No, it will not be long. He urged his mount to move, and it descended onto the bloodied grass, wings flapping and tooth-filled beak screeching. Its black, glassy eyes surveyed the bodies hungrily, as its master made his way to a particular corpse.

A young woman rested stilly in the grass, pale skin having longed turned white from death. Golden hair spilled over her neck as she gazed upward, unseeing, unmoving. Stormy gray eyes greeted him as he looked downward, cocking his head to the side. Their tempest had never been driven away. Instead, it was locked there for as long as time and decay allowed.

The Witch King of Angmar turned away slowly, leaving the dead body of Eowyn, the White Lady of Rohan behind. He had wanted nothing more than to mutilate and desecrate the dead body of the woman who had dared to defy him, of all beings. But, as his master had explained to him, leaving her there to rot, to be food for vultures and birds was desecration enough. As he stepped back toward the flying reptile, he thought, Perhaps he is right. Without another musing, he climbed onto the creature's back, and flew into the air, toward a large mountain shooting up burning fire.

Behind him, the young woman stared into space, bleak as the darkness that was beginning to cover the sky. For always.