PART ONE: ANACHRONISM

LXV: The Heroic Deeds Done That Day

The Battle of Pelennor Fields would go down in the history of Middle Earth as the turning point of the war. I beg to differ. Calling it a "turning point" means that everything after the Battle of Pelennor Fields was our overwhelming victory. That's a lie. The March on the Black Gate was in no way an overwhelming victory. Humankind just got lucky.

I'm not trying to demean the Battle of Pelennor Fields, but I refuse to call it a "turning point", that makes it sound like a good thing. It wasn't a good thing. To this day, that was the most gruesome and terrible battle I have ever witnessed. So many people died. Some died in ugly ways. Some died in heroic ways. Some died in ugly heroic ways. But most, the ones remembered and the ones forgotten, died choking on their own blood while they sunk to the ground and their eyes rolled back—

You know what the battlefield is like, and you probably know that I didn't handle it well. I tried the best I could, but sometimes, you know, it's too much. I'll try to describe to you what I can, but you'll have to bear with me on this one. My memory isn't perfect.

Now, I think I left off somewhere around here:

I held onto the spear for dear life as Éomer steered his horse underneath the oliphaunt's thick, gray belly. I was convinced that the oliphaunts was going to step on us. Its feet were thick and huge, like moving tree stumps, and all it took was one step, and it would be the end of me, Éomer, and Firefoot.

Of course, Éomer, being the expert horseman he was, steered us easily past the oliphaunt's legs and free of the danger. Momentarily. We were in the middle of a battlefield, and danger was never far away. An orc tried to slice open Firefoot's neck, but Éomer took of his head with Gúthwinë before the orc could get close to the horse. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to use the spear Éomer had given me or not, so I just sat there and clutched the spear, hoping that I wouldn't drop it.

Thankfully, Éomer then snatched the spear out of my hands and replaced it with the reins.

"Wait!" I cried. "I thought we agreed that you were going to steer!"

"There was a change in plans," said Éomer. He drove the spear through a Haradrim soldier's throat and the said, "Turn the horse a little to the left."

I did as told.

"Stop," he said. "Face that oliphaunt."

I shifted Firefoot, who thankfully understood my orders with ease, until the three of us were face-to-face with a particularly mean looking oliphaunt. It was one of the ones with a spiked, wooden mean connecting his two ivory tusks. The oliphaunt, I learned, used the pole to mow down any Rohirrim that rode in front of it. On top of the oliphaunt's head was the driver, a Haradrim man who was completely bald with red, black, and white paint covering his body. He laughed a lot, particularly when he killed people with the oliphaunt. When he caught sight of us, facing him on the back of Firefoot, his eyes widened a little. Then, a grin worked its way onto his face, and he leaned forward, bearing his teeth.

"Who is that?" I wondered as Éomer shifted on the back of the horse.

"He is the leader of the Haradrim."

"How do you know that?"

"He rides the largest oliphaunt."

"Makes sense." Then, in a small voice, I asked, "So…why are we having a glare-off with the leader of the Haradrim?"

"Because I am going to kill him," said Éomer.

I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Éomer was standing in the stirrups, holding the spear in his right hand. His dark eyes were fixed on the leader of the Haradrim. He didn't even seem to notice that the oliphaunt was headed straight for us, the spiked pole drawing closer with each passing second.

My grip on the reins tightened.

"Don't you dare miss," I said.

Éomer leaned back and then hurled the spear. I didn't see him release it, but I saw the spear fly past me and soar through the air, over the oliphaunt's hear, into the chest of the leader of the Haradrim.

At first, the man looked surprised. His lips pulled back into a grimace, distorting the paint that covered his cheeks, nose, and forehead. He looked down at the spear to be protruding from his chest. Then his eyes rolled back into his head, revealing the whites, and he toppled over the left side of the oliphaunt's head. The reins tightened around his foot, the man dangled from the oliphaunt's ear. The oliphaunt let out a screeching trumpet from his long nose as his head jerked to the left. The reins were being pulled by the hanging corpse, and the oliphaunt was forced to steer left. I watched, horrified and fascinated, as the oliphaunt slammed into the side of another oliphaunt and soon, the two collapsed on the ground in a tangled mess.

Éomer dug his heels into Firefoot's sides, and the horse charged forward. As we cantered across the battlefield and the horror of seeing the oliphaunts fall faded from me, I muttered, "Lucky shot."

"Lucky? That was skill honed from years of training," said Éomer. "Luck has nothing to do with it."

"If you say—"

The pink orc appeared in front Firefoot. One moment there was a clear path ahead of us and the next, there was an orc with a distorted face, trying to take off Firefoot's head with an axe.

Éomer shouted something. I don't remember what. The orc swung his axe and the blade slammed into Firefoot's ne—

This is one of those hazy spots blank spots, one of those places that at the time, my mind had decided to wipe blank. What I do remember is screaming and losing my grip on the reins. I toppled backwards, crashed into Éomer, and sent us both tumbling down to the ground.

The dust choked me. That's what I remember. My body was trembling with the pain of the impact, and my lungs were filled with dust from the plains. I lay with my right cheek pressed against the dirty, blood-stained grass. Then, coughing, I pushed myself into an upright position. An axe slammed into the ground where, moments earlier, my head at been.

"Ana, look out!" someone screamed from behind me.

I crawled backwards on the ground, trying to escape the orc.

Another orc swung his sword at my head. But Gaenry stopped the blow before I could be decapitated. He stepped in front of me, his armor and beard stained with blood, and the sounds of sword meeting sword repeatedly rang through the air.

"Get up!" shouted Gaenry through gritted teeth. "Do not just sit there! On your feet!"

I scampered to my feet, trying to figure out where Gaenry had come from and where Éomer had gone. But I didn't have much time to think before a Haradrim soldier attacked.

I saw the soldier's blade and somehow managed to throw the Sword Breaker in front of my face. The Sword Breaker was knocked from my hands, flying through the air and disappearing behind the body of an orc.

The Haradrim soldier grinned at me, revealing yellowed teeth. I turned and ran. I jumped over the corpse and tried to grab the Sword Breaker. The Haradrim soldier grabbed me by the back of the shirt and threw me to the ground far away from my weapon. I landed with a heavy crunch.

"Wait!" I cried. The Skip had to come at any second now, right? It always saved me seconds before I was killed. "Wait!"

The Haradrim soldier didn't listen.

Thankfully, Gaenry cut off his head before he could kill me. I have such great friends.

"You are hopeless," said Gaenry, helping me to my feet. "Who allowed you to join us in battle? Should you not be in the city with the women and children?"

"No one allows me," I said. "I don't even allow me. Do you think I want to be on the battlefield fighting? Besides…" I glanced at the pillars of smoke rising from the White City, "I don't think it's much safer there either."

"Perhaps you are right." With a grim smile, Gaenry handed me back the Sword Breaker. "Do not lose this again, Ana."

Our conversation came to an end at that point since another round of Haradrim soldiers charged at us and Gaenry really needed to focus on fighting them. The sound of thunder filled the battlefield, and I looked over my shoulder just in time to see six riders gallop past me. The hooves, loud and dangerously close to me, sent shivers of fear up my spine.

I didn't have a lot of time to be afraid, however, because an orc wielding a spear attacked me. I did what I did best—screamed and ran away.

"Ana, quick!"

I spun around to see Taysend on a horse, racing towards me. He slowed the horse and held out a hand to me as he neared. When I took it, he scooped my up on the back of his horse. I latched onto his back as we galloped across Pelennor Fields.

"Where is Éomer?" asked Taysend. His voice was loud so I could hear him over the hoofbeats, but if I wasn't mistaken, there was a hint of fear to his words. "He said he would protect you."

My grip on Taysend's back tightened. "We got separated."

"He will survive," said Taysend. "He is Éomer. He likes to go where the fight is thickest, and somehow he still survives. He always survives." I don't know who Taysend was trying to convince, me or himself.

"He brought down two frigging oliphaunts with one spear," I said.

"It is you I should be worried about." Taysend glanced over his shoulder and grinned at me.

"Hey," I said, poking him in the side. "I survived the Battle of Helmsdeep, didn't I? I think that ought to count for something."

He laughed. Then, suddenly, he was focused on the battlefield. He gripped the reins and steered the horse to the left, charging towards a Haradrim soldier. An orc shouted something in the black speech to my right, and then there were a flash of metal.

What happened here was a haze at the time. I fell to the ground. Every inch of me was in pain, and it took me a minute to gain the energy to move. I threw up on a patch of dead grass and then dragged myself away from Taysend and his horse. The sounds of the battlefield—clashing swords, trumpeting oliphaunts, dying screams—surrounded me. My left leg was in pain, and when I looked down, the woolen pants were darkened with blood. I hoped it wasn't bad. I didn't have time to stop and check, so I just limped onward.

There was a fallen oliphaunt in the middle of the battlefield. The wooden platforms on his back, which had been used to hold the Haradrim archers, had collapsed into nothing more than a pile of wood, fabric, and dead bodies.

Blood dripping from my leg, I crawled under a broken piece of wood. I pulled a maroon cloth down in front of me and found that I was hidden from view. If I peered out through the crack in the cloth, I could see a good chunk of the surrounding battlefield. Not that I wanted to. I'd rather pretend the battle wasn't happening if I could help it.

Tears were trickling down from the corners of my eyes. I wiped them away with the back of my left hand and instead focused on my leg. With all my medical expertise (which came from watching TV dramas), the wound didn't look bad. A nice bandage would be enough to hold it together. Unfortunately, I didn't have any bandages.

My eyes were burning, pricking at the edges as another tear trickled down my cheek. I took two gasping breaths, trying to stop myself from crying. I wasn't allowed to do this. I had to keep it together—the was a frigging battle going on outside.

Someone gasped.

My head jerked up, and then I reached for the Sword Breaker. I was face to face with one of the Haradrim. He had black hair, large nose, and puffy red eyes. It was the eyes that made me pause and look more closely. The boy, for he was little more than a boy, was curled up under a bundle of red cloth. His face was covered in a layer of sweat, and his maroon clothes were darkened with blood. He was a mess. A terrified, sobbing mess. It was as if I was looking at a reflection of myself.

"Hey," I said, lowered the Sword Breaker slightly. "I thought I was alone in here."

The Haradrim boy stared, and it occurred to me that a different language was spoken in Harad. Then, slowly, he moved his lips and, struggling with the words, he said, "I do not wish to harm."

So many questions were running through my mind. Who was he? How did he speak the Common Tongue? Why wasn't he trying to kill me? But when I looked at the boy, I couldn't bring myself to ask any of them. I simply said, "I don't either. I just want to sit here and cry. Is that okay with you?"

The Haradrim boy thought this over for a second, perhaps trying to decipher my words. Then, he said, "Yes."

I was insane. Absolutely insane. For what felt like hours, I'd been running away from the Haradrim soldiers. All of them had tried to kill me and my friends. Still, as I looked at this frightened Haradrim boy, I couldn't feel any fear or anger. I patted the patch of ground next to me and said, almost lightly, "We can sit and cry together. It'll be a bonding experience."

The Haradrim boy sat down, pulled his knees up to his chest, and shuddered. I glanced sidelong at him. Even if he was almost two feet taller, he was younger than me. My guess was around sixteen or seventeen. He shouldn't be in this war was what I thought. He should be back in Harad, crushing on some girl who wouldn't give him the time of day. Maybe he would dream of war and of the valor it would bring, but he wouldn't ever actually be a part of a war, and certainly not fighting on the side of Sauron.

"I'm taking a vacation after this," I said suddenly.

The Haradrim glanced at me, his black eyes wide.

"I'm going to the tropics, and I'm bringing all my friends with me," I said. "Maybe Hawaii. I've always wanted to go to Hawaii. I can teach the dwarves how to hula. I'll buy everyone grass skirts and leis and those stupid flower-print shirts. You're welcome to come too, by—"

The piercing scream of a fell beast cut my words short. I clamped my hands over my ears, and my head felt as though it was splitting.

When the sound of the fell beast faded, I opened my eyes. The Haradrim boy was crying again. I awkwardly patted him on the shoulder. He opened his eyes just enough so he could squint at me, and I managed a weak smile. That was all the comforting I was capable of right then.

Then, I inched forward and peered around the maroon cloth to the battlefield outside. For a moment, my vision was filled with the beating wings of fell beast. Its head snaked from side to side as it landed on the battlefield. riders of Rohan and Haradrim soldiers alike fled from the fell beast and the black cloaked figure with a metallic crown that sat on the beast's back. The Witch-king of Angmar had landed.

I released the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. It didn't matter that I knew I would Skip away before the nazgûl could harm me, but still, I couldn't stop the trembling fear that seized my body whenever I saw one. The nazgûl's face was not visible beneath the crown even in the thin light of day. It was almost as if he did not exist in this world.

The fell beast shifted on the ground, and finally I saw what had caught the Witch-king to land. The body of a horse lay on the ground, blood dripping from its sides where I guess the fell beast's teeth had broken the skin. Beneath the horse was a Rider, struggling to escape. His crooked arms thrashed against the ground, pitifully trying to escape even as he bled over the brown grass.

I squinted at the Rider. The golden hair. The horse-emblazoned armor. The weary face. King Théoden of Rohan was at the mercy of the Witch-king of Angmar and about to be eaten by a fell beast.

If I were anyone else besides me, I would have rushed out there to save him. If I was just a little bit braver, I would have stood between Théoden and the Witch-king. I would have dared the Nazgul to attack me. I would have risked my life for to protect the king of Rohan and the fate of Middle Earth. But I wasn't anyone else. I was me. And I remained in place, crouching behind the maroon cloth, too terrified to move. Heroic deeds may have been done on Pelennor Fields that day, but they weren't done by me.

Thankfully, not everyone in the world is like me. One brave soldier worked up the courage to step between Théoden and the Witch-king. I remember the soldier well. He was not strong or tall like you might imagine this hero to be. In fact, he was slender and pale, with long blond hair and trembling hands. And yet, despite all this, he stood before the Witch-king, proud and resolute.

That was all I wanted. Right then, at least. I wanted to be that soldier. I wanted to be able to stop cowering with this Haradrim boy. I wanted to be able to walk across the battlefield—afraid, yes, but stronger than my fear—and face that nazgûl with my head held high.

I remained rooted to the spot. Wanting something and actually doing it were two very different things.

"I will kill you if you touch him!" That voice. The voice of the soldier… That voice did not belong to any man. The rider was a woman. But who?

The Witch-king's empty head turned, and he said in the Common Tongue, "Do not come between the nazgûl and his prey." The nazgûl's voice didn't sound like it belonged to any man either, but it also didn't sound like it any human had made it either. The voice cut through the battlefield like nails on a chalkboard.

The fell beast leapt forward, jaws open and teeth flashing.

I screamed, willing the woman to get out of the way. She dodged at the last second, side-stepping the wriggling head, and slammed her sword down on the beast's neck. Once. Twice. Three times she swung the sword, hacking away until the fell beast's head was severed completely from its body. The fell beast's headless body reeled backwards, thrashing and struggling, before it collapsed onto its stomach and died.

I gasped. The Haradrim boy was watching me curiously, probably wondering what was so interesting on the battlefield that I couldn't tear my eyes away.

The woman stood there, panting beneath her armor. I could see her shoulders moving with the weight of each breath.

She didn't get long to rest, however. Though the fell beast was dead, the Witch-king remained, and as you can probably imagine, he was not happy. From the twitching remains of the fell beast, the Witch-king rose…and he was holding a mace. A frigging mace with metal spikes and a thick chain.

"Run," I whispered to the woman. "Turn around, run away." But even as I said it, I hoped that she would stay.

The Haradrim boy inched to the edge of the shelter. I scooted over so that he could watch as well.

The fight one-sided. The woman was no match for the Witch-king. With every move he made, she retreated a little more, taking staggering steps backwards, until finally his mace shattered her shield and broke her arm with it. With a cry, she collapsed in a heap on top of Théoden's horse.

With his right hand, the Witch-king grabbed her by the neck and lifted her from the ground. "Fool," he said, his voice grating against my ears. "No man can kill me."

The Rider was helpless in the nazgûl's grasp. Her body was limp, and she didn't even try to free herself.

My hand flew to the Sword Breaker, and without thinking, I started to crawl out of the shelter. I couldn't let the woman die. She had fought so hard and so bravely to protect her king—she didn't deserve to die at the hands of the Witch-king.

Before I could duck under the maroon cloth and step out onto the battlefield, I saw a small figure dart out from behind a pile of corpses. There was a flash of metal, and then the hobbit buried the blade of his dagger into the Witch-king's back.

Only in my wildest dreams could I ever be as brave as Merry.

He let out a scream of pain as his arm broke. I don't know what caused the bones to break exactly, but as I watched the Witch-king writhe in pain, it occurred to me that not mortal could stab such an unnatural creature and not feel pain for it. Merry collapsed on the dusty ground, twitching and shuddering as he cradled his broken arm to his chest.

As the nazgûl writhed with pain, Merry's dagger still embedded in his back, the woman got to her feet.

I watched, unable to move, unable to breathe, as she grasped her helmet and pulled it off her head. Long blonde hair tumbled down past her shoulders, and her blue eyes stared down at the Witch-king. Éowyn. I probably should've known. She loved her uncle and her brother too much to let them go off to war without her. And now here she was, fighting the leader of the nazgûl to protect Théoden.

I glanced around the battlefield, trying to find Éomer amongst the Rohirrim, the Haradrim soldiers, and the orcs, but he was nowhere to be seen. His uncle was dying and his sister was battling the Witch-king. Where was he? Éomer needed to be here. This was his family.

Éowyn drew back her sword and stared down at the nazgûl. There was so much flashing through her eyes—hate, pride, sorrow, exhaustion—as she said, "I am no man." And then, she drove her sword through the Witch-king's head.

A piercing scream filled my head, and I wrenched my eyes shut, trying to block out the pain. When I opened them again, I saw a pile of black cloth and a broken crown that had once been the Witch-king of Angmar. Merry and Éowyn lay beside the remains of the nazgûl, their bodies broken and weary.

The Haradrim boy said something in his own language, his voice filled with awe.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from Merry and Éowyn. I watched as, teeth gritted in pain, she dragged herself across the ground to her uncle's side. In the distance, I spotted a group of three orcs were making their way across the battlefield, probably to see wat had happened with the nazgûl. To my surprise, there were no more tears in my eyes. Instead, I realized that I was about to do something incredibly stupid. "Oh shit."

The Haradrim boy looked at me curiously.

I took a deep breath, and then with a wry smile, I said, "I might not be as much of a coward as I always hoped I was."

Clutching the Sword Breaker in my right hand, I crawled out of the shelter. I couldn't leave Merry and Éowyn alone on the battlefield, not after they'd risk so much. I had to try to protect them. Of course, I was probably going to die or Skip in the process, but I still had to try.

Almost instantly, an orc was upon me. I screamed (was it too late to run back to the shelter?) and dodged his sword by stepping backwards. Stunned that I had actually managed to survive as long as I had, I was barely thinking when I drove the Sword Breaker into the orc's neck. The blade broke the skin easily, and purple blood coated the blade. For a second, I was too horrified by what I'd done to even move. Then, I pulled the Sword Breaker out. Blood sprayed over my wool shirt. The orc grunted once, and then he collapsed to the ground.

"I did something," I said. The words sounded strange and unfamiliar. "I actually did something."

The other two orcs had been run down by riders, I saw to my relief. I didn't think I had to strength or skill to kill another one.

Hands trembling ever so slightly and trying not to look down, I stepped past the orc's body. I could see Théoden's fallen horse not far away, but I couldn't see Merry or Éowyn. So maybe they were both okay. As I approached the horse, I saw that Éowyn had crawled to her uncle's side. They both lay motionless on the ground. Éowyn's chest was heaving up and down, making a sincere effort to live, while Théoden's chest was still—

My mind went blank. Théoden was going to survive this war. He needed to stay on the throne a few more years, while Éomer trained to be a proper king. Théoden needed to praise Éowyn's swordsmanship and see her wedding to Faramir. Of course, Théoden would approve of Éowyn's marriage with Faramir (who wouldn't approve of Faramir?). He would grow old enough to abdicate the throne to Éomer and see him restore Rohan to its former glory. When Théoden did die, it would be quietly in his bed, knowing that his nephew and niece would live long, happy lives.

I remember that I didn't shed a single tear as I stood over Éowyn and Théoden. I had left all my tears behind with the Haradrim boy.

"Tug ash kurv."

I spun around just in time to see two orcs standing behind me, one wielding an axe and the other a scimitar. The orc lifted his axe. Something shimmered in the air behind him, and my eyes widened as I realized who it was a fraction of a second before Ráoulidor broke the orc's neck. The other orc turned, but before he could even react to the ghost king, Ráoulidor drove his sword through the orc's stomach.

"Greetings, Ana."" Ráoulidor's broken jaw stretched to an eerie smile as he let the orc slide off his sword and fall to the ground. "I have found you again."

I gawked at the ghost king. I mean, I should have expected him to show up—Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli had gone into the White Mountains with the express purpose of recruiting a ghost army for this very battle. But still, I hadn't in my wildest dreams pictured my reunion with the ghost king to take place on Pelennor Fields When I looked around, I saw the army of ghosts, like a swarm of green locusts, washing over enemy forces, consuming and killing as they went.

"Uh, hi." I managed a little wave for the ghost king. The last time I'd seen him, he'd almost killed me with an avalanche of skulls. "It looks like Aragorn managed to get you here after all."

"As a king," said Ráoulidor. "I have a duty to my people. We have been bound to the mountains long enough. The heir of Isildur vowed to release us from our prison."

"Aragorn's honorable," I said. I took a tentative step backwards, wondering if now was a good time to flee from Ráoulidor. However, the idea of me escaping a ghost was laughable, so in the end, I just stayed put.

"There is another enemy," observed Ráoulidor.

I turned around and saw a Haradrim soldier charging towards me. His shadowed eyes were glazed over, and I wondered if he even realized I had a ghost king standing behind me. I lifted the Sword Breaker and caught the sword between the comb teeth. The Haradrim soldier's eyes widened and he jumped backward, freeing his sword.

Ráoulidor stabbed him in the back.

I let out a small shriek when I saw the blade slide through the soldier's ribs, Ráoulidor grinning through his rotten, transparent teeth. The Haradrim soldier crumpled to the ground.

"No one will harm you, Ana," said Ráoulidor. He smiled at me as if the idea of him following me around was supposed to be a comforting thing—I could never feel comfortable with those empty eye-sockets looking at me.

"Ana?"

At the sound of my name, I turned around and saw Éomer standing near the head of the fallen oliphaunt. The ghost army swept through the battlefield behind him, but I could barely see them. Éomer was alive. There was a wound on his forehead, blood dampening his right eyebrow, but other than that, he seemed fine. Alive and whole.

He seemed just as relieved to see me as I was to see him, and a smile crossed his face when he realized that I too was unharmed. "You are still here."

"I know, right? I managed to make it through an entire battle without Skipping," I said proudly. "I admit I might have hid for a while, but I came out at the end, and I actually managed to kill an orc—aren't you proud of me?"

Éomer smiled. "I am." But then his gaze slid over to the beheaded fell beast and the black robes of the Witch-king. "What happened here?"

"Who is this?" asked Ráoulidor before I could answer. The ghost king appeared next to me, his empty eye sockets focused on Éomer.

My heart sunk. I had completely forgotten about the ghost king and his jealousy. The good news was that if my love life failed miserably, I would always have a terrifying ghostly boyfriend. The bad news was that said terrifying ghost had a tendency to try to murder anyone who got near me—friend or foe.

Éomer had caught sight of the ghost king as well and had stopped in his tracks. He shot me a puzzled glance, and I made an X signal with my hands, hoping Éomer would get the message and stay far away from Ráoulidor.

"Just a friend," I said, turning back to Ráoulidor with a smile. "I—"

"Éowyn?" Éomer's voice was so small and afraid…I'd never heard it like that before. In my desperation to keep Éomer away from the ghost king, I'd completely forgotten that Éowyn and Théoden lay only a few yards away from me.

"Who is Éowyn?" asked Ráoulidor. He sounded merely curious, nothing more, as if death didn't faze him in the slightest. And I suppose it didn't. He'd been dead for an age after all.

But Éomer and I were very much alive. We felt the pain. I watched, my heart pounding in my chest, as Éomer staggered forward to his sister and uncle, his only family left in this world. At first, Éomer made no sound. He only stared down at the motionless bodies. Then, slowly, his legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed on the ground next to his sister, sobs wracking his body, his shoulders trembling.

Of course, I knew that Éowyn would live. I would meet her in Houses of Healing after I was shot in the gas station, and she would meet Faramir, and they would fall in love. This was not the end for her. Éomer had to know that. But right then, I couldn't bring myself to take the steps forward to tell him that. Because next to Éowyn lay her uncle, and his lifeless eyes stared at the overcast sky.

I couldn't do it anymore. As much as I tried to forget, as much as I tried to wipe the pain from my mind, I knew that they died. Théoden, Taysend, Firefoot, most like that Haradrim boy as well—they'd died, and in brutal, horrible ways. But I couldn't pretend that their deaths didn't happen. I shouldn't have pretended. They died in this war of the fate of the world, they died fighting for the people of this world, and their deaths, their sacrifices, shouldn't be erased just because I didn't like to think about death.

If it is your fault, then they are not meant to die. I tried to come up with a reason, any reason, why Théoden's or Taysend's deaths were my fault, so that I would have an excuse to try to fix it. But there was no reason. I hadn't even seen Théoden be attacked by the fell beast, and Taysend had made the decision to attack the orcs on his own… They were meant to die, and I couldn't save them.

My shoulders trembling and my throat burning, I left the ghost king's side to limp towards Éomer. He looked up with tears in his eyes when I reached him, and I wanted nothing more than to give him a hug, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "I'm sorry I couldn't…can't save him."