"Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colors wave!
And either victory or else a grave."
-William Shakespeare, Henry VI
"Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth!" Aragorn cried upwards, at the foot of the black gate. At his sides were Gandalf and Pippin on one horse, and Boromir, who was glancing wearily at the White Wizard. Amelia sat on her horse, between Éomer and Merry and Legolas and Gimli, but she did not see that they were all looking at her for answers as to what they ought to expect when the black gates opened. She narrowed her eyes uneasily as the eerie silence. Even their horses seemed far quieter than what was normal. Denethor stood a few steps in front of them, on his own steed as well, and Amelia noticed with a twitch that his face was the color of curdled milk.
The Black Gate towered above them, dwarfing the people gathered in front of it, the small gathering of leaders who had ridden ahead of the army waiting on the slope behind them, a massive door plonked awkwardly down into a flat, barren wasteland. There was no vegetation, no gnarly roots or bushes, no birds or insects. Only grey ash and brown dirt stretching into the horizon. To the west, there was a bare hint of greener lands where the land met the sky, but it was more of a cruel reminder than a bitter comfort. The gate was black as night and dripping, dripping with what looked like oil and, at the bottom, what looked like the remains of orcs who had been too slow to get inside and avoid being crushed by the mighty gateway into Mordor.
"Let him taste the might of Gondor!" Denethor's voice wasn't nearly as impressive as Aragorn's, who commanded the respect of the armies of Rohan and Gondor with a sharp gaze and clear words. Amelia bit her lip and looked down, keeping any comments she might have had to herself. She knew, for once, that it was neither the time or place for any ill-timed comments.
She shuffled uncomfortably in her saddle, her knuckles whitening as her grip of the reins of her horse tightened.
Then, a roaring creak echoed over the wasteland and Amelia's hands flew up to cover her ears. Her horse scrambled backwards and she gripped the reins again as the doors of the Black Gate slowly swung open, scraping over the dry ground, with the painful sounds of grinding chains coming from the black towers flanking it. Goosebumbs rose along Amelia's spine as she stared at the lonely figure emerging out of the enormous doorway, unease tight in her gut. Behind the rider, whose horse was thin as bone and black, with clumps in its fur, she could see a suffering land covered in dark ash. Surprisingly, a few gnarly roots sprung up from the ground in some places, but they were dead and twisted and sick. As her horse calmed, though it was still skittish, she held up the back of her hand against her mouth as a heavy smell, akin to sulfur, smoke and rotting flesh rolled over her. Her face twisted in revolt.
The rider, whose face was covered in a metallic mask of iron plate, with a dark cloak over it and covering his entire body, had only his large mouth visible. It was oddly shaped, with spit and something Amelia didn't care to identify as anything other than "black goo" running down its pale chin, and the it split in an odd, twitchy smile as its owner stopped in front of Denethor. The Steward was leaning back in his saddle, but Amelia couldn't blame him much for it. Her eyes briefly met Aragorn's, but then she turned her attention back to the rider. The Black Gate had yet to close again.
"My master, Sauron the Great, bids thee welcome." The black rider's mouth spewed black saliva as he spoke and Amelia stared in obvious revulsion as his grin widened awkwardly, showing off long, yellow teeth, broken and with no sign of a tongue. "Is there any in this rout with the authority to treat with me?" Amelia's mind blanched as she saw Denethor open his mouth, and she swore than she could have sung to the high heavens when Gandalf swiftly spoke in his stead, cutting off the Steward's chance to ruin things further than they already were.
"We do not come to treat with Sauron, faithless and accursed." Even the wizard looked put off by the rider's odd appearance. "Tell you master this: The armies of Morder must disband. He is to depart these lands, never to return." After a pause, the rider smiled again and Amelia grimaced indiscreetly.
"Old Greybeard." Amelia saw the glimpse of something that looked like solid moonlight in his cloaked grasp. "I have a token I was bidden to show thee." Then, he unveiled Frodo's shirt of mithril and horror dawned on Merry and Pippin's faces. Amelia blinked, but all seemed to have forgotten her in their sudden shock. Gandalf caught the shirt as the rider threw it towards him. The chainmail rustled softly between his hands.
"Frodo!" Pippin murmured.
"No!" Merry choked out and Gandalf called for silence twice.
"The halfling was dear to thee, I see." The rider turned his head away, his smile so wide it hurt to see. "Know that he suffered greatly at the hands of his host."
Then, the terror and silence was broken by a loud, obnoxious rattle of a snore from Amelia. The rider's head snapped towards her and her friends stared at her with raised eyebrows and parted lips. After a time that seemed excessive, even by Amelia's bloated standards, she stopped. Then, she spoke, giving no time for reprimands or as much as a sharp word from Gandalf.
"Know that I-" She cleared her throat, having started off at a squeak, for despite her acting every inch the opposite, she felt far from humorous in the situation. Her shoulders were rigid with tension. "Know that I call bullshit." She threw her head at the mithril shirt in Gandalf's hands. "So let me tell you something." She leaned forwards in her saddle and her face twisted into an ugly sneer. "You are going to die. Your goddamn master is going down in flames and we are going to wipe the fucking floor with your army. You are going to die and I'm going to enjoy watching it."
"That is enough." Denethor snapped and Amelia reluctantly complied, glaring darkly at him as he gave her a stern look. Then, he turned back towards the rider, obviously feeling himself too lofty to deal with her at length. She didn't notice the badly hidden looks of approval that both Merry and Pippin sent her way, delighted at her declaration of their coming victory. Amelia looked over at Aragorn as Denethor started to prattle about his unnegotiable demands, each more ludicrous than the other, but then the rider turned his masked head away from Denethor in disinterest and instead fixed his attention on Aragorn, as if the plates on his face did nothing to obscure his vision.
"Isildur's Heir. A broken elvish blade in the hands of a son of a broken line. It takes more than that to make a king." The rider looked back at Denethor, who had bristled and whose mouth was twitching oddly. Amelia couldn't make out his face beneath his helmet. With an odd feeling clenching in her chest, she looked upwards and saw the shapes of orcs up on the walls of the Black Gate. "I taste the might of Gondor… the might of men…" The rider sneered, his posture changing for the derogatory, "And thus, I am not impressed. And no matter the outcome…" Aragorn rode forwards and around the rider, disgust evident on his face. "The halfling certainly suffered and will continue to suffer."
In a smooth motion, Andúril was unsheathed and the rider's head was separated from his body, tumbling down into the dirt and rolling away. His body slumped and fell, landing heavily. The black horse screamed and turned, kicking it legs, and fled back into Mordor, kicking up ash and dust behind it.
"Guess that concludes negotiations." Gimli mumbled wryly. Amelia glanced up again and then, her mouth opened and her eyes widened.
"I do not believe it." Aragorn exclaimed at them, but Amelia paid no mind to his words. "I will not!"
"Get down!" Amelia snapped loudly, turning her horse back in the same second the archers up on the walls let their arrows fly. The small gathering in front of the gate scattered, their horses whinnying and sprinting wildly away from the sudden hail of black arrows.
"I certainly don't remember this from the-" Amelia's words died in her throat at an arrow lodged itself in the throat of Denethor, who had been too slow to turn his horse and her face filled with horror at the grisly sight. His grey eyes widened, looked like twin moons for a second, and he coughed on the blood welling out of him. With a gurgle, he fell from his horse and his armor clanged as he fell to the ground. His right foot was still lodged in the stirrup, resulting in his flailing form being dragged gruesomely back towards the army they had gathered from Gondor and Rohan. A trail of blood was left in his wake and even from a distance, Amelia could see the long arrow planted in him, standing as upright as a standard.
Amelia steered her horse to the left and to the right, knowing that riding straight would only make her more of a target for the arrows that were still flying. One whizzed past her ear and Amelia felt the sting of pain when it grazed her left ear and took a few of her hairs with it. She saw that Boromir was riding hard after his father, but because he was in front of her, she couldn't see his face, nor catch his eye.
Two men from Gondor, one on horseback and one on foot, grabbed the horse and pulled Denethor's foot out of his stirrup, talking in high voices to each other, gesturing wildly at each other and the dying Steward. Then, Boromir reached them and all but jumped off his horse, taking a knee beside his father, who had gone still at last. Amelia considered it no moment to be mourned, but she knew that others felt far differently than she and thus, she said nothing as she reached them and slid off her steed quickly, taking running steps and then crouching down at Denethor's side. Aragorn, Gandalf, Legolas and Éomer were still riding towards them, having had to swerve widely to avoid the same fate as Denethor.
"Shit, shit, shit, piss and fuck." Amelia chanted to herself as she crouched, but no one paid any attention to her.
"Father…" Boromir called out, grasping his shoulder, but Denethor's eyes were blank as glass and staring upwards, seeing nothing and no one any longer.
"Boromir." Amelia said it loudly, perhaps a bit harsher than what was necessary, but she got no reaction. "There'll be time for that later." When she still got no response, she looked away, allowing him a moment while she rose to her feet and looked at the rider and the horseless man who had calmed Denethor's panicked horse. With the panic and adrenaline rushing through it, it hadn't feel the pain of two arrows burying themselves in its rear, but it definitely felt it then and whimpered, looking dangerously close to collapsing. Making a quick decision that she would surely later be berated for, Amelia snapped her fingers at the footsoldier. "You. Take my horse. Take the Steward…" She threw her head at Denethor's still body, "Back to Minas Tirith. You can put him on the injured horse if you like or drag it with you or whatever. Just get him out of here." For a moment, the man looked doubtful of her authority, but then the man on the horse hummed a bit.
"As you say, ladyship." He grumbled and Amelia heard a few mumbles around her, most of them discontent and jealousy at the two men's permission to return to Minas Tirith alive, with no fighting having been done. Without looking to see if her order was followed, she turned and lowered herself to Boromir's level once again, attempting to pull him away from his father's body with a firm hand, but a gentle intention, while she mumbled softly into his brown hair. He only stood up when the two men assured him that they would handle the Steward's body with the utmost care and that they would see it safely back to the white city. Feeling out of place, Amelia awkwardly placed her hand on Boromir's shoulder, in a show of silent support. She had nothing else to give him but that and she didn't know whether it would ever be enough, but she would readily give it without question.
"Lord Denethor?" Gandalf reached them first, with Éomer, Legolas and Gimli, and then Aragorn following, and didn't spare any time for condolences. Amelia looked up and shook her head, seeing as Boromir was still looking at his father, who was rapidly being taken away from the rapidly coming battle. He dismounted his white horse, Shadowfax, and Legolas and Gimli follow suit, while Aragorn stayed on his horse. Instead of a verbal answer, Amelia shook his head, tightening her grip on Boromir's armored shoulder. Gimli glanced back at Aragorn, who was pale, but whose eyes burned with a fire that Amelia had never beheld before that day.
"Boromir." Aragorn said and Boromir's grey eyes snapped to him. For a moment, it looked like he was going to fight, but then, something passed between Isildur's Heir and the Son of Gondor and he squared his shoulders, set his jaws and nodded sharply. Amelia's hand dropped and she drew Aeglos with the other was a distant stomping reached her ears. The men of Rohan and Gondor had already noticed it, muttering amongst themselves, but Amelia cared not for the few who turned tail and ran back up the hill, scrambling to get a grip on the slope. The sight of some of their comrades fleeing seemed to give the remaining men a stubborn determination however, and Amelia heard several of them cursing the deserters.
The Black Gate rumbled, but the sound was deafened by the sound of thousands of stomping feet, clad in iron, and Amelia swore beneath her breath at the sight and size of the orcs of Mordor's army, already appearing at the gate and marching quickly towards them.
"Hold your ground!" Aragorn cried and moved along the army's edge, seeming to look each of them in the eye at the same time. Amelia's eyes were trained on him, blind to all else and those closest around her. "Hold your ground!" Aragorn's sharp command and encouragement stopped most of the fleeing men in their tracks and they looked back, fearful. "Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers!" Aragorn's voice lowered a bit, but it still held the fiery intensity all too fitting of a king of men. "I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day." Amelia's grip on her sword tightened, as well as her jaw. An hour of wolves and shattered shields, when the age of men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight!" Aragorn shouted and Amelia felt her heart swell with mad battlelust, pride and terror, mixed in one acute, glorious moment. "By all that you hold dear on this good Earth, I bid you stand, Men of the West!" Andúril seemed to burn with a clear light as Aragorn held it above his head and, as one, the army around Amelia unsheathed their own blades, the sharp sound of swords sliding out of sheaths singing around her.
Then, Amelia froze as the Eye of Sauron, lit like a fire atop the tower of Barad-dûr, turned on its axis and suddenly locked itself on Aragorn, bathing him and all behind him, including Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, Merry, Pippin, Boromir and Amelia in its orange light. Amelia sucked in a sharp breath at the sensation and Sauron's words, branded in her mind as they were, seemed to echo in her ears again. Blindly, she grasped for something to ground herself with and her hand abruptly seized Boromir's wrist in a deathgrip.
In slow moments, Aragorn slid off his horse, as if he was in a dream, and worried mumblings arose among the ranks of rohirrim and gondorians. He stepped forwards, several steps, as if he was dragged gently forwards by the great eye, but then he stopped. Amelia heard the distant stomping of the orcs and, beneath that, whispers and screams that had never come to be at all, and desperately looked at Aragorn as he turned back towards them.
His face was strange, warm even, and his eyes shone with unshed tears as he gave them a smile that seemed both broken and serene, mighty in its humanity.
"For Frodo." The words were soft, gentle and faithful, spoken in absolute certainly of his actions. Then, he pivoted, gripped his swords with both hands and set off into a sprint towards the dark army approaching with a mighty yell.
Amelia stared as Merry and Pippin let out cries of their own, not as intimidating, but still impressive with their boldness, and rushed forwards on short legs, their own blades raised high above their heads.
In a rush of movement that sent ripples, those in front of the army of men cried out, some cursing, some yelling challenges and some simply screaming out their terror and bloodlust, and thundered forwards as one entity, the little sunlight that managed to get through the clouds glinting off raised swords, daggers and polished armor, arrows being released from and hailed down on both sides.
Madness had gripped Amelia, madness born from the desperate unity that had formed in the collective awareness of the army, that some side's final hour had come and they would need every effort to not let it be their doom approaching. They could fight or die, and to most, the preferable alternative was as clear as the bright dawn.
Amelia's legs burned, but Amelia only found exhilaration in every hurt and labored breath as she ran like she had never run before, not in Moria, Rohan nor Gondor and for a second that seemed to last an eternity, she felt more alive than she had ever felt before, with every sense heightened to its possible peak and her heartbeat booming in her ears.
Her body was alight with pain when she slammed herself into a hunchback of an orc, but it was a pain that she wished would never end, and she slammed her elbow into the orc's nose, following it up with a quick stab to the abdomen. She kicked the orc off her sword and swirled, immediately slapping another orc, who had yellow eyes like a bug and lacked an ear, with her flat palm and then using her momentum to deliver a swift sword through its chest, twisting Aeglos and feeling muscle and meat give way to the blade. The orc spat at her as it fell to the ground and Amelia turned around wildly, her blue eyes gleaming blankly.
Pain lanced across her left calf and she spun with a snarl, barely noticing her blood seeping out through her clothes as she buried Aeglos in the skull of a tall, muscular orc, through his squinty, right eye. Black blood spewed out and across her face, like a dark dash of freckles. The stark, red blood from her leg ran down and mingled with the black blood of the orcs. She breathed out through her nose. It could only have been an arrow that didn't manage to lodge itself completely in her leg, but still managed a sizable cut on its way, and she threw herself back into the fray before her body could even realize that it had been wounded at all.
Numbing pain exploded across the left half of her face as a small orc hit her jaw with all the might its tiny self could muster and Amelia, disoriented, fell to the ground and found herself staring into the dead eyes of a man of Rohan beside her, his helmet dented and his blonde hair matted with blood and ash. Amelia yelped and rolled over, narrowly missing the orc's sword and struggling to get back on her feet with her injured leg.
She jumped backwards when a sword buried itself through the neck of the orc from behind. Imrahil then kicked the corpse aside with a grunt and pulled her roughly to her feet, patting her shoulder, but leaving no time for chatter as he blocked the move of two orcs with his broad sword at the same time, something Amelia had been specifically taught not to do, and cleaved their heads off with a broad swing. Amelia slammed the butt of her sword into the temple of an orc bashing on the shield of a young man of Gondor with a large mace, surprising it from behind and then sending Aeglos down through its open mouth. She ignored the man's grateful cry and she stumbled around herself and narrowly stepped aside, the longsword that would have cleaved her skull slamming down into the bloodied ground instead. Since the sword required some effort to lift from its owner, Amelia seized her opportunity and sent her blade through the heart of the orc. When her sword slid out of her foe, she stumbled backwards, breathless and her head spinning.
Then, Amelia hissed angrily and her head snapped upwards as the screeches of five nazgûl pierced through the cacophony of battlecries and the screams of the dying and Amelia saw them, atop their flying beasts, speeding towards the battle outside of the Black Gate. In a chain of events that almost happened too quickly for Amelia to comprehend, five brown shapes to match the black ones emerged out of the cover of the clouds covering the skies and collided with the nazgûl, claws outstretched and beaks tearing into whatever they could find to harm.
"The eagles are coming! The eagles are coming!" At first, Amelia heard the small voice of a joyous hobbit yell it, but then it spread to the men and the men of the west found new hope again at the appearance of the eagles, who Amelia doubted had ever been seen by any common soldier for many decades. She allowed herself a brief moment of relief, of jubilation and joy, but then reality flooded her again and Aeglos was buried in the neck, armpits and bellies of orcs both small and hunched and large and bulging with tight muscles.
In her exhaustion, as her muscles shook with exertion, Amelia screamed as she drove Aeglos into the shoulder of a dark orc with poor armor and swung it into its neck, taking its head half off.
An arrow whizzed past her nose and buried itself in the forehead of an orc that had been approaching her from the side and Amelia sent Legolas a brief look of gratitude before she ran past him and barreled into two orcs at the same time. Pain blossomed through her hip when one of their axes hit it, and Amelia thanked her God that it had been with the flat side, and she thrust her sword into the offender's stomach in return, one of Legolas' arrows felling the other in the blink of an eye.
Amelia whirled around, stumbling on her feet, when Legolas cried Aragorn's name and let loose another arrow. Amelia followed his line of sight and snarled in anger. Aragorn was facing a troll thrice his size, covered in dark plating, with a rusty greatsword twice his height and broken teeth, clearly being overpowered by its sheer size and raw strength.
With a sudden shriek, the nazgûl turned tail and sped towards Mount Doom, as if drawn by unseen strings, but Amelia paid them no heed. She mindlessly launched herself in Aragorn's direction, but her path was cut off by an old man of Rohan, desperately and barely holding off two great orcs with only his shield for cover. With a hoarse yell, Amelia stabbed the first through the neck, but she had lost the moment of surprise and was distracted by Aragorn's desperate battle with the troll when it came to the second. Her first strike was blocked by its armor, a most basic mistake to make, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Legolas also struggled against men and orcs alike to reach Aragorn, his quiver empty of arrows. He wielded two long knives instead, but they could not carve him a path to his friend.
Amelia's distraction was a costly one. Amelia cried out, tears of frustration beading in the corners of her eyes as the orc brought one of its long, slick daggers down on her left arm. It carved through her mail like butter, obviously made for that specific purpose and Amelia felt it slide over the bone inside her. With a yell, she ducked the other dagger aimed for her throat and pulled her arm out of the orcs grip with a snarl. At the sudden movement, her grip of Aeglos slackened at it slipped out of her grasp, landing on the ground.
She had only taken a single item from her old backpack when she left it in Minas Tirith, but it would be one that saved her life. In a jerk, she pulled the orcish dagger up from the belt the Lady Arwen had gifted to her and buried it in the armpit of the orc with a crazed laugh, pitched higher than her usual tone. She was scarcely able to believe the irony of it, as the dagger had originally been meant to take her own life, as she had found it embedded in her backpack, but she was smart enough to quickly retrieve her sword from the ground and tighten her grip on it, descending on the orc with a yell. She pushed Aeglos though the small space in the orc's plating at the collarbone, pushing it with all the force she had in her one good arm. It fell on its back and Amelia stumbled forwards, yelling incoherently when her path was blocked again and the troll knocked Aragorn down into the dirt, kicking him once, surely breaking more than a single rib in the process, and then placing its colossal, circular foot on his chest, pressing down on him.
And then, it was the screech of a hundred nazgûl echoed out from Mordor, filled to the brim with terror, pain and all-inducing rage and Amelia screamed along with it, for she was all too familiar with the sounds of Sauron from the Palantír, but not once had she thought that a single entity, no matter its body or mind or soul, could even emit such hatred and rage. She raised her eyes to barad-dûr and her scream died out as she saw that the fiery Eye of Sauron swerved wildly around, even as the headsplitting scream that came from it continued without end, and then, the dark tower it was atop began to crumble, layer by layer, the smaller towers around it falling over and collapsing in on themselves. Barad-dûr tipped at the Eye of Sauron widened, turned as bright as the sun, and then imploded and Amelia knew then that Frodo and Sam had done what they had set out to do from the valley of Imladris.
Amelia staggered and fell to her knees as the shockwave of Sauron's final defeat hit her and salty tears streamed down her bruised face, leaving clear tracks in the dirt, the blood and the grime that covered her. Deep sobs wracked her body as men around her thrust their blades high, embraced those they either knew as friends or complete strangers alike, and the army of orcs that had surrounded them all screamed and fled in one mass of chaos. Amelia wept, Aeglos discarded on the ground beside her, as the ground behind the Black Gate began to collapse and every piece of land that an orc stood on collapsed and fell down into the abyss beneath it, no longer held up by the sheer will that Sauron had had. With a sob, Amelia straightened her back and pressed the back of her right hand to her mouth, though she remained on the knees.
Mount Doom exploded with a roar, magma flying into the sky at the eruption and lava flowing down its sides and Amelia was reminded of a cracked egg spilling open. She knew that only she was aware that their ringbearer would not come to further harm, but she didn't consider telling anyone of those who had to wonder about it. As that was left was the aching relief and the pain she finally allowed herself to feel and in that moment, there was nothing else. Her tears dripped down her chin as she allowed herself to cry for all that she had done and suffered, every bruise, nick and pang of hunger on the long road that she had, in the end, willingly chosen to walk.