Verse III

Oh for the courage and glory

Like gems, glittering in the sunlight

Now burning to ashes

In the dawn of my failure

One

The pounding on the mighty gate resounded throughout the city. Small pebbles trickled down the walls of some of those houses, which unfortunately stood next to gate and wall. He steadied his horse, even if of all beasts still alive in this city, Shadowfax would be the one with the greatest heart. But still, death was knocking on the doors...

Two

Another pounding made the horse loose the grip of its hooves on the pavings. The men around him wavered, retreated, some of them even fell as the ground under their feet trembled under the force of Mordor. Gandalf did not know, what it was, that they would use to break the walls, but all that counted was, that, strong as Minas Tirith was, proud as her walls still loomed over the endless masses, that crowded the Pelennor, eventually, the city would fall. The enemy were too many. If Rohan would not come, all was lost.

„Steady!" he cried, as loud, as his frail human voice would allow him, encouraging the soldiers, fighting down his own fear, not for his person, not for his heart, but for this city and the world itself. He raced the lines of men, that, with pikes, swords and bows, stood in defense of the gate, shouting, taking the place the Steward of the city should have taken, the Steward, who had lost his very own battle with madness. With regret, Gandalf thought of those, who still were on the walls of the First Circle, of those, who inadvertedly would be cut off from the rest of the city, sacrificed, but there was no time to call them back.

Gandalf sensed the third pounding before it fell.

Three

The gate burst, revealing the snout of a horrible form, the gigantic head of a beast unknown, fire raging in its mouth, between the sharp teeth. Only Gandalf saw it as it was, a device, terrible and strong, but a device of iron and fire nontheless, no thing of flesh and blood, but of flesh and blood the orks were, that stormed the breech the monstrosity had forced.

But Gondor's soldiers had not been defeated yet, and a wall of pikes, showers of arrows, glinting swords in the light of thousands of torches, were weapons against the attackers still. High was the toll, that Mordor payed to set foot into the city, and each ork dying was rewarded with a grim nod. Where a man fell, others closed the breech. They fought a retreat, but fought nonetheless, Gandalf seemingly being everywhere at once, his voice, his presence inspiring their spirit.

But the resources of Mordor were seemingly endless, and so finally, Gandalf decided, that nothing was to be won here, in this part of the city. He shouted for a retreat, and so they raced for the second circle, civilians, that had not yet left the lower city, falling between the hooves of Shadowfax and under the feet of the orks of Mordor. The frantic run was on the brim of panic, but the thin line had not been crossed yet, and still Gandalf stood against it, rock and stone, hope and strength. It was not in him to despair, and so he would not, as much as his body called for it. For he was the White, the Hope, the Wall. And as fire consumed the first circle, his voice was the cry in the chaos, that everyone clung on to. A row of soldiers formed behind the door of the second circle, that had hastily been closed, sacrificing those, who had not made it to the barrier in time. The tips of the pikes were trembling, but like a wall they stood. A second line of men, archers, formed some way behind, aiming at the gate, while the walls were manned in haste.

At the dawn of destruction, there was no time for fear.

Gandalf closed his eyes for a second, as a foreign sound breeched the chaos outside the walls. A horn. And then another. And another. A horn of Rohan.

The Rohirrim had come. And not all was lost.