Part One

A Meeting on the Battleground

This is the story of how we begin to remember

This is the powerful pulsing of love in the vein

After the dream of falling and calling your name out

These are the roots of rhythm

And the roots of rhythm remain

Paul Simon "Under African skies"

The dark, sombre sky sent ominous shadows over the wide plain of the Pelennor Fields, yet it was only midday. Before me, lay the blazing ruins of peasants huts, huddled like blasted beehives against the harbour-wall. As I advanced I made out the grotesque silhouettes of Orcs, swarming like ants over the village; devouring anything in their path.

Somewhere among the ruins, a woman screamed, but her cries quickly ended in a gurgled wail. The Orkish horde vanished as quickly as they had come, joining the main force that spread like a black sludge beneath the city walls.

I moved forward, blindly, towards the village, my eyes stinging from the stifling smoke. I reached the smouldering remains of the village-gate, the squat posts forced to the ground by the power of the enemy, crushing those who had vainly tried to defend it. Charred corpses of old men and boys blocked my way, the only defenders the feeble settlement had. I stumbled through their mass, wincing as my foot crushed brittle bone, with a noise like a snapping twig. Passing through the gate, I stumbled into the village square and stood frozen to the spot, horrified by the sheer carnage that surrounded me. The beaten earth ran red with blood, which splattered wattle walls and congealed in foul pools; pouring from horrific wounds of the corpses sprawled on the ground. Women, old men and children lay scattered and broken, infants still clutched to their mother's dead breasts, heads lying loose on piles of dismembered limbs. The place stank of death and the sickly smell of roasting human flesh poisoned the air. The houses all around lay ruined and smouldering – doors hanging precariously, precious possessions scattered in the mud.

Steeling myself to the horror that surrounded me I ploughed on, through the village, searching for survivors, although I knew there would be none; the Orcs left none alive. Yet I couldn't turn my back on the desolation, I couldn't give up hope that someone still lived – for then I would give up all hope that this battle against evil could be won.

I reached the tiny harbour on the wide banks of the Anduin and stopped; I had crossed the village from end to end and had found no sign of life. Even the animals had been slaughtered and lay in stinking mounds in the gutters. I turned around, walking wearily back the way I had come. A shrill shriek stopped me in my tracks – I had distinctly heard the sound of a human voice. I followed it quickly, praying that the screaming would continue – that whoever it was would still be alive when I reached them. As I drew closer, the screaming became the clang of swords, echoing around the fallen gates. I dashed round the corner; notching an arrow to my bow, and fell sprawling to the ground, face down on a corpse. I winced as I was buried up to the arms in gore, as I struggled to my feet. I slipped again on the pools of blood as a few Orcs peeled away from the grotesque mass towards me, howling manically and waving axes and swords. Quickly dropping to my knee, I notched my bow, and drawing back my arm, fired it towards my attackers. I gave a grunt of satisfaction as two of them fell, pierced by the same shaft. I shot Arrow after arrow into their mass, until a scream from the centre reminded me why I attacked. I slung the bow over my shoulder; frightened I might hit their quarry, and drew my sword, dashing into the melee.

The bloodlust welled though me as I saw, at last their victim, a slender, dark-haired human maiden, forced back to the wall by the baying, howling mass, defending herself bravely with a rusty sword.

The Orcs parted on either side, mown down by my scything strokes, no match for the anger that surged through me. I saw the girl falter and I pressed further forward – all but three of our oppressors remaining. A single ray of light pierced the clouds, shining copper in her raven hair. The Orcs faltered momentarily, and, hope rekindled, I quickly despatched them. I leapt forward just in time to catch the fainting maiden in my arms.

The girl blinked and looked nervously into my face with troubled blue eyes. I was amazed at how young she looked – scarcely seventeen, her black, tangled hair and pale, smudged face making her look even younger. I sat her down gently and she vomited on the ground, whimpering in fear and relief. She quickly recovered herself, and looked gratefully at me at me "Who...What are you?" she stammered giving me a searching, worried glance. "Do not be afraid, I am a friend. My name is Osellë, an Elf of Rivendell." I replied, trying to keep my voice calm, though I felt like weeping. "An Elf, from Rivendell?" she enquired, smiling wanly, my identity giving encouragement "I knew of an Elf from there... My name is Vénea... Thank you for saving me."

I took her by the hand and helped her to her feet. "Come, we can't stay here, the Orcs'll come back to find out what happened to their kin – and we don't want to be around when they do. Let's go down to the river." I walked on, and she followed dumbly, still dazed and confused from her ordeal. She moaned as her eyes fell on the sprawled corpses that surrounded us. "I shouldn't be alive – why should I live when so many of my friends have died?"

"You could defend yourself, they could not," I said sadly, pulling her faster from the sight of death. Suddenly she let out a scream and froze to the spot, pointing a trembling finger to the ground. "My mother, oh God, my mother," she screamed, and fell upon the body at her feet. I knelt down beside her as she took the dead woman's lolling head in her arms, covering it with kisses. The corpse was of a tall, fairly slender woman of about thirty-five, her long black hair streaked with grey and falling over her pallid brow. Her brown eyes were glazed and blank, her brown skirts tangled and stained with blood from a deep wound above her heart. I wrapped my arms around Vénea's shoulders, "She would have died quickly, with little pain," I said reassuringly, lifting her to her feet. She struggled, dropping to her knees, unwilling to leave the corpse. "Come, we cannot stay here." I pointed to the leaden sky filled with circling carrion crows, and other, large black shapes even more terrifying. The cold hand of fear crept down my spine as the creatures let out a chilling, eerie cry. "Nazgul" I cried, forcing her down to the ground as the black, naked, stinking creatures swept overhead, their claws raking the rooftops. I caught a fleeting glimpse of its menacing rider, before they hurtled back into the sky.

Vénea crouched, frozen with fear, too petrified to protest when I pulled her to her feet and ran, half dragging, half carrying her, towards the relative safety of the riverbank. She collapsed to the ground and stared at me, her pale face stunned. "What… What where they?" she stammered.

"The Ringwraiths, or Nazgul," I replied. "They are the Dark Lord's greatest weapons. They were men once, but lured by greed and lust for power, they became servants of Sauron. Neither dead nor alive, they exist with no thought or desire save that of the Dark-lord himself. Their fell beasts were bred and tortured by the Dark Lord for them, to instil the maximum amount of fear."

She nodded dumbly, "And the Orcs?"

I shivered with disgust as I said; "Those horrific killing machines were once my kinsmen, Elves. They were corrupted by Melkor, the first Dark Lord and became the foot soldiers of the Enemy"

She nodded again sighing bitterly, "How can something so beautiful and good become so evil?" she sighed again, then something within her cracked and she burst in tears, as if her poor, tired heart would break. I put my arm round her and she wept on my shoulder, her body wracked with sobs. Suddenly, I sensed black shapes on the horizon, a host of black sails, bearing down the great river towards us that could only be more enemies. "Quick, get up." I hissed, seizing her by the wrists, forcing her to calm down. "We cannot stay here, grab your sword, we will fight." She looked at me, confusion in her tear filled eyes, yet gradually she set her face and they blazed with resolve instead. "Yes, we will fight, I will revenge my mother."

We ran together towards the jetty where the boats would moor, determined to slaughter our foes one at a time as they stepped off the boats, yet we had no need. For instead of the dull glint Orkish blades I espied the luxurious glint of gold, of Elven hair.

"They are Elves, we are saved," I cried as the head of that golden hair grew into view. My heart missed a beat as I saw the high cheekbones, the deep blue eyes and the smiling mouth that could only be an Elf, and Legolas at that.

Howls behind me revealed that the Orcs had seen the ships too, and I pulled Vénea behind a building as they jolted towards them. "About time too," their leader croaked, only to fall gurgling to the ground with an arrow through his throat.

The boat touched the jetty and Legolas leapt off, followed by a man and a dwarf. Together they dashed into the fray as the deadly Elven arrows hit their mark; and behind them grew hosts of the spectres of the undead, with swords and axes, looking for blood. We ducked down as the ghoulish army passed over our heads, life leaching from us, until we were rescued by the ill matched trio of elf, dwarf and man, and the darkness leapt from us like a shadow from the sun.

" Prince Legolas, Estel," I sighed as he two grew close, bringing so many memories of happiness and pain that I thought I would drown in my own nostalgia.

"Osellë," Legolas replied, "Why are you not safe in Rivendell? And who is this woman?"

"There is no time to talk," Estel replied, "come, we are here to fight, and so are they."

"Fight?" the dwarf scoffed "They're nobbut women"

"At least we have the advantage of height" Vénea retorted, silencing him with a withering look.

"Stop arguing and fight," I cut in, drawing my sword and dashing in the wake of the ghostly army.

Swinging my sword, I sent an Orkish head clattering to the ground, and I felt the bloodlust return. I advanced towards the confused mass of Orc and Wildman that parted in front of us, seemingly terrified at something that lay behind. Loud, trumpeting calls split the air, and the ground shook as I at last saw what the Orcs were running from. A huge grey beast pounded towards us on legs large as tree-trunks, its vast ears flapping, massive tusks raking the ground, while on its towering back perched a small tower from which arrows poured.

Swift as lightning, Legolas scaled its massive leg, and I watched in wonder at his figure gained its back, and single-handedly slaughtered the men that clustered its back like ants. The beast tottered, hundreds of arrows piercing its red eyes, swaying drunkenly. I could just make out Legolas' golden hair as he drove a sword through its head.

I gazed up at him in amazement as he leapt, lightly as a cat, off the stumbling beast, only to feel the hard bite of steel through my shoulder and the pain like an engulfing tide before I collapsed in to oblivion, fainting into the Prince's arms.