Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess

Author's Note:

Warning: Concepts contained in this chapter include fighting scenes, bloody scenes, and death.

This is a LegoRomance (slow-burn)

~ LXIV: Battle of the Pelennor Fields ~

Pelennor Fields, 3019 TA, March 15

The fleet of the black ships was now heading towards Minas Tirith. Xena sat cross-legged and closed her eyes. She had no recollection of merging into the ship, but she was faintly aware that she had somehow ended up inside. They were able to conquer the ships and their crew after the army of the dead pursued them. Only the party of four and the army of the dead remained inside the ships. She was aware of their presence, as well as their concerns and hopes. They feared that even if they were dead, they would be haunted for the rest of their lives. It reminded her of her own fatal fault, her inability to control her bloodlust.

Moving away from her toxic background was and continues to be her chief challenge. 'Does her want for blood outweigh her desire to serve others?' Even if she spent her entire life atoning for her wrongdoings and dying to seek redemption, the question remains. But, if she was living again, what was the point of dying to redeem herself? Maybe, just maybe, she was given one more life to make up for all the lives she took. When she considered how many lives she had cost, one life could never be enough.

The fate of time would be decided before the gates of Minas Tirith, and if the tide was not stemmed there, tens of thousands of Orcs would inexorably advance against the city walls. The massive gate opened to expose Faramir's injured horse. The horse was trailing behind Denethor's son. Both were pierced by Orc arrows. His armor protruded two arrows. One arrow entered the region between his right armpit and chest. And the following was below his right chest on his right side. Faramir was transported to the citadel's courtyard on a litter.

Gothmog was the lieutenant of Minas Morgul's Witch-King. He was growling as he passed the orc army. As his troop prepared to invade Minas Tirith, they were outside the city's gate as they approached the city. Gothmog sniffed disdainfully. The approaching storm would be of a scale that would never be forgotten. As Gothmog believed that it was time for the orcs to rise and a new era to begin, he believed it was time for the orcs to ascend.

Faramir was positioned close to his father. Denethor lingered in his mourning over the wounding of his second son. As he pronounced his son dead, the Ruling Steward of Gondor said, "My line is ended!"

"Get ready for fight!" he yelled. He mounted his horse to rally the men. "Draw them in! The gallows! Protect the wall! Come back to your posts!" The soldiers complied and returned to their respective positions. Gandalf surveyed the opposing force. It was an army whose sole aim was to destroy the human race. How could so much evil and cruelty be ignored? How could the men of Gondor endure such a battle?

Using tree butches, they hurl big rocks at the orc army. Some of the orcs were squished by the stonework. The orcs surrounding Gothmog shuffled in terror. The major gates are attacked by bombardment. The Pelennor Fields were trembling with the vibrations of drums and footsteps. Several unsuccessful attempts were made by the trolls to breach the city gates by assaulting the city's besieging towers. Gondorians showered them with arrows. The front of the Gate was defended by Gondor's soldiers, under the wizard's leadership.

Conflict resumed in Minas Tirith. Orcs chanted as they pulled and pushed a massive battering ram towards the city gates. A metallic wolf whose mouth was ablaze with fire and flames. Grond was made for the sole purpose of destroying the Gates of Minas Tirith. They advanced it to the city's outer gates. The trolls drew and dragged toward the ram, then allowed it to crash into the gates. Orcs and archers exchanged volleys above the gate. Gandalf ascended Shadowfax and roused the warriors at the gates.

Grond continued to pound the city gates like a furious demon. Gandalf and a group of troops were waiting. Moments later, Grond smashed through the gate's top. The breaching of the Gate caused waves of fear. The soldiers muttered despondently. Gandalf advised them to maintain their position. The gate shattered and fell to pieces. Trolls armed with heavy weapons jog through the gates. The Orcs were defeated, but numerous troops were also killed. The Gondorians fell back.

"Fear. The city is full of it. Let's lessen their suffering. Let the inmates go!" He issued orders because he wished to instill dread among the men of Gondor. Fear was restrained, fear was a slowly twisted knife in the gut, and fear was a steady blow to the brain. The lieutenant of Morgul knew with absolute clarity and conviction that scaring the Gondorians would win him half the fight. The command was followed, and the catapults launched rubble over the walls. The soldiers ducked behind their shields as fellow soldiers' heads fell. Men of Gondor felt terrified as they realized they would soon meet the same destiny. Their fate weighed heavily on them, and there was no sign of hope. Orcish catapults hurled rocks toward the city.

Screams and cries could be heard across Minas Tirith.

New terrors were raising along with the white city as the army of the dead did not yet arrive to aid Gondor. Xena took a deep breath and sent her consciousness into the emptiness. There was a brief period of quiet and contentment, knowing that she was fighting evil forces in this life as well. She felt the river breeze on her cheeks, sniffed the river's inherent fishy, soil-like, and musky fragrances, and mixed them with the scents of spearmint and fall rain. Only the last few scents were too familiar for her, so she let her guard down a little longer than she should have.

She didn't want to accept she was failing, that she was losing track of her thoughts and her history. His scent had captured much too much of her attention at this point. With her eyes closed, she simply disregarded his scent and the brightness that drew her in and tried to stay as far away from him as she could. How could she be sure of anything?

Below the city, fire and smoke and stench were in the air, a heavy mist surrounded the ruined Gate of Minas Tirith. Théoden King rode along the front lines of the Rohirrim, scanning the open fields. His mind was wheeling the battle strategy he would avail, and how his troops would be placed. He rode next to Éomer "Éomer! Take your erode down the left side." he ordered.

The Third Marshal of the Riddermark agreed and turned his horse to the west side "Yes, my lord." he said and followed the command. It was already clear that they were outnumbered, however, they would fight until their end.

"Gamling, follow the King's banner down the centre. Grimbold, take your company right after you pass the wall. Forth, and fear no darkness!" Théoden King voiced up "Arise! Arise! Riders of Théoden! Spears shall be shaken, shields shall be splintered! A sword-day! A red day, ere the sun, rises!"

The Orcs prepared for the Rohirrim's arrival. Théoden rode up and down the lines, his sword clanging against the spears. They were stung by fire in the shape of water, which threatened their attack. In comparison to the Six thousand horsemen, the orcs were vastly outnumbered. However, their rage and might had reached such a level that the fifty thousand orcs appeared to be a trivial number.

"Ride now, ride now, ride! Ride for ruin and the world's ending! Death!" the king cried out, while he led the riders in a dash towards the orc battalions. The Orc's archers shoot down some of the riders. More orc archers fired, but the Rohirrim soon crashed through the orc lines. Éomer's party plunged into the orc reserves on the west side. Éowyn spoke to Merry, giving him courage. Théoden rode along the front lines of the Rohirrim. Orcs prepare for the ride of the Rohirrim. Rohirrim horns sounded the charge. The Rohirrim began to move out.

Inside the ships there was silence, enough silence for her to keep her mind busy. She was sure of one thing: Every Warrior knew that her most noble conflict rages perpetually within the boundaries of her own soul. With every breath, every fibre of muscle, and every bit of resolve, she must constantly struggle to overcome her past, make better her present, and strive tirelessly toward a more admirable tomorrow. Therefore, she would battle forever!

Though, how would someone accept their past and overcome it, struggle to make a better present, and in the end accomplish an admirable tomorrow? She would have to reach for the light, but inside her was darkness. An old and loyal companion of her, brave and smart to be part of her heart. It troubled her in knowing that she was accepted always by the balance, of light and darkness. Without her past, the shadows, her pain, and her misdeeds, she would never be the warrior she was today. A hard price to pay, but she did pay it. And she never denied her past, she accepted and learned from her own mistakes.

Inside the city, Pippin found Gandalf. The hobbit had witnessed Denethor lose his mind, thinking that Faramir was dead. Reason and logic had left the Ruling Steward of Gondor. The Lord was out of his mind, ready to kill himself and his son. Gandalf gazed through the gaping Gate, and already on the fields, he heard the gathering sound of battle. He clenched his hand. "I must go! The Black Rider is abroad, and he will yet bring ruin on us. I have no time, no time!" he cried out.

"But Faramir! He is not dead, and they will burn him alive if someone does not stop them." Pippin yelped getting Gandalf's attention.

"Burn him alive?" said Gandalf. "What is this tale? Be quick!"

"Denethor has gone to the Tombs and he has taken Faramir, and he says we are all to burn," said the hobbit while exhaling the last air of his breath.

"Well, I must come, since no other help can reach him. But evil and sorrow will come of this. Even in the heart of our stronghold, the Enemy has the power to strike us; in his will, it is that is at work." Gandalf continued and made up his mind, he acted swiftly; and catching up Pippin and setting him before him, he turned Shadowfax with a word "Come! Quickly!"

Up the climbing streets of Minas Tirith, they clattered, while the noise of war rose behind them. Shadowfax rounded a corner to face the Nazgûl, mounted on his fell beast. Gandalf hostile encountered the Nazgûl, on his way to prevent Denethor to burn his own son alive.

In the midst of the battle, shrill and clear come the sounds of Distant Horns. Those were no orcs Horns. Again, off the side of Mount Milldolluin, the dim echoes of the war Horn of Rohan were heard. Rohan answered Gondor. Rohan came for aid. Gothmog turned around at the sound of the Horns of Gondor. Six thousand horsemen were led by King Théoden. Minas Tirith lay less than a mile away. There were over fifty thousand orcs swarming around the base of the city. The Riders of Rohan appeared across the fields, ready to face the rear of the orc army. Everywhere men were rising from their despair and dread, seizing their weapons, crying one to another "Rohan has come!"

Darkness was part of herself always. That phrase repeated inside her head over and over again, as the black fleet was reaching the river bank. Over the years, she continued to learn, to grow. There were times, that it could beat her and she would lose into the void. It was part of her awareness, part of herself, she always fought against it. Though whenever she was into battling she opened herself up to the darkness, she reached that balanced. She became the fearless warrior, she knew she was.

Then why the despair, why the long nights of thinking of a lost past? The answer was easy because she took human lives, even innocent lives. How could someone get rid of all the red that was still dirtying her hands? Xena did not know the answer. If someone asked the same question, about someone else, she would know the answer... and she would advise them that they were allowed to forgive themselves eventually. Why could she not accept that answer for herself?

Near the Tombs, Denethor poured oil on Faramir to burn him. His psyche deteriorated after he believed that his son had died. He would commit himself and die, while his body was burned. Such sounds had not been heard in the sanctuaries since the construction of the City. It loomed in the dusk beneath its massive dome.

Gandalf and Pippin hurried along the road leading to the Closed Door. It was wide open, and the porter was lying in front of it. He was slain and his key had been seized. He dismounted Shadowfax and instructed him to return to his stable. In these circumstances, a friend is at war with a friend. In the confusion of hearts, loyalty was divided. Gandalf observed the lunacy that was for him, worrying that he had already committed a bad act, and he pushed Denethor back until he was standing next to the table within. They place Faramir's body, which was still dreaming due to his fever, on the table. No fire had yet been started.

The surviving soldiers approached Denethor with blazing torches, gazing in dismay at their lord. He picked up the torch. He threw the torch onto the fire pit. The pyre where he intended to step and be buried beside his son. Gandalf picked up a spear and charged Denethor as the fire ignited, knocking him off the pyre. Pippin leaped onto the funeral pyre and rolled Faramir off of it. Denethor, aflame, rose and assaulted Pippin.

Faramir opened his eyes and turned his gaze to his father. Denethor fled from the mausoleum as he was consumed by flames. He let out a tremendous wail, never spoke again, and was never seen by mortals again. Denethor fell off the Minas Tirith cliff.

"The assault upon Gondor has started," Legolas said while turning his focus on the open battlefield in front of them "Put aside whatever troubles your mind and follow!"

Beyond the road to the south, the Haradrim's main force and their Mûmakil were gathering around their chief's standard. The drums increased in volume. The fires erupted. Mounted on the Mûmakil, Haradrim blew horns. The Mûmakil outran the fleeing Orcs. The King of Rohan lacked reluctance. Théoden urged his party to reform and be combat-ready "Modify the line! Modify the line! Sound the signal! Rohirrim! Charge!" The Rohirrim collided with the Mûmakil head-on. Rohirrims were able to hit the creatures with arrows and spears. The Haradrim fired arrows at the Rohirrim. They crushed several Rohirrim.

But it was no orc-chieftain or brigand that led the assault upon Gondor, but the witch-King himself. The darkness was broken too soon, before the date that his Master had set for it. He was in command, wielding great powers. King, Ringwraith, Lord of the Nazgûl, had many weapons. And tales said he could not be slain by any men.

Théoden gathered his remaining army. "Rally to me! To me!"

Théoden turned and saw a Nazgûl flying towards him. The King of Rohan was aware of him, and would not wait for his onset, but crying he charged headlong to greet him. Great was the clash of their meeting. The great shadow descended like a falling cloud. A creature of an older world it was, whose kind, lingering in the forgotten mountains cold beneath the Moon. The dark Lord had found and nursed it himself. The beast grabbed Théoden's horse in its teeth and threw Théoden across the ground. Théoden was not utterly forsaken.

Éowyn watched on in horror. The Nazgûl's mount approached the wounded King, who was pinned under his slain horse. Éowyn moved between the beast and Théoden.

A sword rang as it was drawn "I will kill you if you touch him." she threatened the Nazgûl.

"Do not come between the Nazgûl and his prey," he responded with an eerie voice.

The fell beast bit at Éowyn. She dodged the attack and decapitated the monster. The Nazgûl dismounted. At his full height, he loomed over Éowyn. He attacked, eventually striking Éowyn's shield with his mace, shattering it. Éowyn cried out and fell. The Nazgûl opened his arms, taunting his foe.

The Nazgûl grabbed Éowyn by the throat. He spat "You fool! No man can slay the Lord of the Nazgûl! Die now!"

Merry, crawling up from behind, stabbed the wraith's knee with the dagger of the Noldorin given to him by Galadriel. Éowyn stood before the now vulnerable Nazgûl and removed her helmet, revealing her true form a shield maiden of Rohan. The King's niece of Rohan.

Éowyn shouted "I am no man!" and stroked down the Nazgûl. Still, she did not blench: maiden of the Rohirrim, child of kings, slender but as a steel blade, fair but terrible. A swift stroke she dealt, skilled and deadly. The outstretched neck she clove asunder, and the hewn head fell like a stone. Backwards she sprang as the huge shape crashed to ruin, vast wings outspread, crumpled on the earth; and with its fall the shadow passed away.

The wraith crumbled into a heap. And became nothing more than dust. Théoden was saved by his own kin, Éowyn. The knights of his house lay slain about him, or else mastered by the madness of their steeds were borne far away. Yet one stood there still and injured, it was Éowyn. The king and his niece managed to share a moment of farewell before Théoden was no more.

The darkness was breaking too soon, fortune had betrayed them, and everything appeared gone; the world had turned against them. The forceful tugging of the fleet of black ships along the Anduin River. The ships seemed to be empty. Suddenly, the four companions sprang from their own ships and landed on the dusty ground. Legolas was now in plain view, and a brilliant brilliance was observed. Four individuals rushed to confront the orcs. The Orcs were amused by the little attack. How could four even pose a threat? However, they quickly found the answer. Behind them, as they attacked, the dead army materialized. The army of the dead overran the Orcs. Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Xena fought against orcs alongside the ghosts.

In contrast to his delicate appearance, the Elf's assaults were particularly ferocious. And how could such a magnificent creature be so merciless? Was a pressing inquiry. He assaulted the adversary like he always did. His bow and blades were available to help him. He was counting the number of enemies he had killed since it was a game he played with the dwarf. "Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen."

"Twenty-nine." the dwarf said casting a fast glance at the elf wanting to share with him the new challenge. However, in this challenge they were not alone, Xena invited herself in. "Thirty-one!" she counted as she rushed into battle with her chakram to follow.

Orcs were killed, blood was shed and the fields were coloured with red and dead bodies. Men clashed spears upon shields. The Rohirrim and the Gondorrim fought against the enemy; victory was slipping from their grasp even if they have fought with all their might. River like herds before the hunters; and the Rohirrim went hither and thither at their will. Many foes were slain and many more stood before them.

Northward the white crest of Éomer led the great front of the Rohirrim which he had again gathered and marshalled, and out of the City came all the strength of men that was in it, and the silver swan of Dol Amroth was borne, driving the enemy from the Gate. Death they cried with one voice loud and terrible and gathering speed like a great tide their battle swept about their fallen king and passed, roaring away southwards.

Aragorn's party fought towards the city, as Éowyn wounded, crawled away from a snarling Gothmog. Aragorn and Gimli approached Éowyn. Gothmog raised his mace to strike her. Éowyn reached for a sword, but it slipped from her grasp. Just before Gothmog's stroke, Gimli and Aragorn slowed him down.

Aragorn called at the elf "Legolas!"

Legolas turned only to find out a Mûmakil was running toward him. He tilted his head, in awareness of his weariness. The elf leapt on the beast, and climbed towards the top, shooting off enemies as he stormed through it. He cut the saddle rope. The platform slit off the Mûmakil. Legolas walked to the head of the creature and released three arrows into its skull. As the slain beast fell, Legolas gracefully slid off its trunk. He landed softly on the ground, with a smirk, right in front of Gimli.

Gimli blinked in awe, and noted "It still only counts as one!"

A few yards away, appeared Xena who seemed to have already leapt on a Mûmakil with her unique flipping skills. "Alalaes" came to her battle cry more than once as she cut through the men sitting on Mûmakil and dodged as many arrows as she could. This time her approach was much more brutal as they were facing a greater army than usual. She sounded more of her own self as her battle cry and her chakram cut through the gory sounds of the battle.

The army of the dead began to swarm through and up the city, destroying the orcs. Elsewhere on the battlefield, Théoden lay under his dead horse. Blood flew from his mouth. Éowyn cried to his side.

The Men of Gondor, the Rohirrim, and the army of the dead exploited this tactical advantage to the fullest, utterly routing the enemy with prolonged infantry charges and cavalry pursuit. The tactical and moral advantage was effective in turning the battle into a rout of the Mordor host. Most of the Mordor-host were slain and the rest fled back toward the Land of Shadow, many drowning in the Anduin. The army of the dead fought through the Pelennor Fields and through the white city that every foe was slain and Gondor was free.

All fell quiet. All was silent. The battle was no more.

The King of the Dead stood before Aragorn. He demanded, "Release us." They honoured their promise, fought, and won. Now it was time for them to be released.

"Bad idea." said Gimli "Very handy in a tight spot, these lads, despite the fact they're dead."

"You gave us your word!" The King of the Dead reminded him.

Aragorn said "I hold your oath fulfilled. Go, be at peace."

The dead army dissipated into the wind. Survivors surveyed the scene of the battle and tended to the wounded. Pippin found an Elvish cloak and a brooch. He started looking for Merry. Éomer spotted his wounded sister and ran towards her. Aragorn saw the two. And run to their aid. Gimli paused at the sight that lay before him. Behind stood silently Legolas and Xena, at the horror of this battle they knew it was now time to find the wounded and aid them.

During the battle of Pelennor Fields, the Dark Host was nearly annihilated. Few ever reached Mordor, and even fewer survived the Haradrim's forces. However, they represented only a small portion of the Dark Lord's forces. Sauron valued the loss of his most powerful servant, the Witch-king, the most. The loss of Sauron's chief servant was a devastating blow, despite the fact that he could afford to lose many times as many men as his enemies.

The West also suffered significant losses. In addition to the lost commanders, Éomer later stated that none of the four-thousand Riders was combat-ready and that the losses among the other forces were likely substantial as well. Nevertheless, with the newcomers from southern Gondor and more arriving by Aragorn's command, and despite all the battle's losses and the seven-thousand heading for Morannon, it was estimated that the city was better defended than before the battle, excluding the destruction of the Great Gate.

((Upcoming Chapter Sixty-Five)

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