The War of Light and Shadow

By Freddie23

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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.

A/N: Thank you all so much. So many reviews! I hope you like this next chapter. Enjoy

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Chapter 70 – The Living And The Dead

The noise was terrible. Worse by far than when the Nazgul had attacked Osgiliath. The sound of pitiful screeching and wailing filled the air, making it thick with anger and…sadness? Aragorn wanted desperately to cover his ears, to block out the sound, for it hurt to hear their unnatural cries, but he could not. The Orcs had been momentarily stunned by the noise too but they had recovered quickly and had started up the battle again, many taking advantage of the moment of distraction the Men suffered from.

Only the remaining Easterlings and Haradhrim paused in their fighting. They seemed to physically recoil at the ear-splitting noise. It hurt them, burned them. Their steeds, the Mumakil, went berserk at the keening; they reared up, unheeding of the barked commands of their riders to calm down, and stampeded away, throwing the towers from their backs in their fear. They trampled all the men who dared get in their way and a fair few of their masters as well.

What had caused this chaos was obvious to everybody. The Wraiths were reeling from the death of their leader. The shockwave that had gone through the battlefield didn't extend as far as Aragorn, who was close to the city now trying to keep the Orcs and Uruk-hai away from the gates. But he could still feel the aftermath, a ripple of power through the air, followed almost immediately by a strange, white-blue light, like lightning.

One of the Wraiths had fallen and the others were now uncoordinated.

Aragorn turned his gaze to the skies during a brief lull in the fighting. The Nazgul had gone higher up, almost hidden by the roiling grey clouds. But as Aragorn looked up, they swooped back down and the man immediately feared the worst: Retaliation for their comrade's death. But they did not descend. They instead swept away, back towards the mountains, back towards Mordor. Aragorn could hardly believe what he was seeing. The Nazgul, impossibly powerful beings and Sauron's greatest, deadliest allies, were fleeing the battle.

The atmosphere on the battlefield changed dramatically again then. The Shadow recoiled in horror when it realised almost as one that the Nazgul had abandoned the fight whilst the Men rejoiced. A surge of strength went through the Human ranks when they realised that the Shadow was disheartened at the desertion of the Nazgul. Those defending the city pushed the attacking hoards back away from the barriers of fire.

Still, victory was far from secured for the forces of Light. Many of the Enemy still were up and fighting, disturbed but not entirely put off by the departure of their comrades in the sky. If anything, the Orcs grew more vicious at the retreat, perhaps sensing their demise was near at hand and fearing what would happen to them if they did not get the better of the Human invaders.

The abandonment of the Nazgul was a mystery to him and Aragorn searched his mind to try to figure out who could have actually destroyed one of them. He feared the answer. Legolas would not have hesitated to confront them; if he knew his guardian as he thought he did then Aragorn believed Legolas capable of actively seeking out such danger, as he had proven in taking down several of the giant steeds of the Haradhrim. But Aragorn also considered Ciaran. It would be foolish not to suspect the young Ranger. He had not seen Kinnale's son since they had first entered Minas Tirith. Would he really have been so foolish as to seek vengeance for the killing of his father by the Wraiths? Aragorn hoped not. Although his skill had grown considerably of late, mostly because Aragorn had insisted that he train with Legolas and the Rohirrim right alongside him, he doubted that the young man could kill a Wraith all by himself.

For now, Aragorn determined, who had slain one of the Nine would have to remain a mystery – infuriatingly.

Distracted by the puzzle of what had changed the fortunes of Men in this battle, Aragorn's concentration slipped just a little. It was a dangerous thing during such an intense battle. The blow caught him on the left shoulder and sent him staggering forward. Aragorn barely managed to keep his balance, made all the harder by the fact that he had to swing around quickly to confront his surprise attacker. It was an Uruk. And it was massive. Bigger than any Aragorn had encountered previously, it stood at almost seven feet tall, carried a huge black sword, chipped and scarred through many blows. Worryingly, Aragorn noticed the red blood and gore of his people already painting the blade.

Anduril still felt reassuringly heavy clasped tightly in his hand and he found it hard now to imagine that once he had feared the Sword of Elendil Remade. Now it was the only weapon he had left, having used or lost all the others he had collected when inside the city, but he knew that it would be enough; he was confident. Raising it in preparation, Aragorn stared unflinchingly into the yellow eyes of the Uruk, his own grey eyes narrowed and calculating; looking, just as Legolas had always taught him, for the chink in the armour.

However, skill in battle was so often eclipsed by sheer might and so was the case now as Aragorn faced this beast. It was too big for him to take on alone. That much became obvious with the first blow delivered. Their swords' edges ground together when they first collided but Aragorn could not hold back the creature as he had hoped to do. It put too much strength behind the chipped blade it carried and he was pushed backwards, the snarling Uruk moving him at will.

It was frustrating and Aragorn felt his confidence begin to sag along with his strength. He was tired. His arms felt heavy and unresponsive, making all of Anduril's impressiveness seem somewhat redundant. How he would have liked to have one of his men with him right then; they might have provided some protection, some aid against this creature.

But it was just him. Everyone else was busy with their own personal battles, no doubt just like him feeling the strain. No, he was all alone. As he was thrown back when their swords parted, Aragorn found his mind going once again to Legolas. Was he facing a far worse foe on his own? Had he really taken on one of the Wraiths? Even the possibility made Aragorn quiver with anger and fear. Had Legolas not promised just a couple of days ago to do nothing foolish that might get him killed? How could his guardian abandon his promise. There was no doubt in Aragorn's mind who had taken down the Mouth of Sauron and he knew for certain that it had been Legolas who had killed several of the enormous beasts the Haradhrim rode. Was that not breaking a sworn promise? But what could Aragorn really do? Legolas had a mind of his own. The man simply had to trust that Legolas knew his limitations, knew what he was doing and be sensible enough to pull back when things got really bad. Shuddering involuntarily, Aragorn pressed his mind back to the task at hand. Focusing on Legolas would not win him this battle.

Two more clashes of their swords nearly made Aragorn's grip loosen on the sweat-coated leather of Anduril's handle, but he wrapped his fingers tighter around the handle and added his other hand too in order to strengthen his grip.

"A fine prize you will be. My master has been searching long for you," growled the Uruk-hai menacingly as it stalked forward slowly moving backwards. It felt like a retreat, which Aragorn did not like one bit, but he reasoned with himself that this was giving him time to search for the right moment to launch another attack. "And what you carry. That shall be mine before the end of this day, I swear it."

Immediately, Aragorn felt the weight in his pocket increase, so much so that it made him almost physically stagger. Sauron searched still for the Ring. The Wraiths had failed to retrieve it as had no doubt been their intention in Gondor, turning tail when their leader had fallen to the swords of Man but it seemed that all of the Dark Lord's minions, even these lesser ones, were on the hunt for the elusive Ring of Power and they had been briefed that the King of Gondor was the one who possessed it.

Steeling himself, face hard and determined as it hadn't been before, Aragorn said in a low voice, "You will not have it. Your master will never have it so long as I live."

A cruel smile crossed the face of the Uruk as if this was greatly amusing to it. "That is not a problem. You will not live much longer, Human."

Aragorn adjusted his grip on his sword again, suddenly unaware of everything else going on around him. Men were still falling all about him, their lack of energy making them easier targets than ever for the remaining Shadow. Sauron's servants were scared now that their allies in the skies had abandoned them and that made them far more terrifying fighters. The Wraiths' retreat had not taken away their bloodlust, nor their fear of what would happen should they follow the Dark Shadows back to Mordor.

"We'll see."

The Uruk smiled again, a wicked grin, and charged forward, throwing its full bodyweight into the lunge. Aragorn ducked to the side and slammed the edge of his sword at the creature's back. Its armour clanged as the blade struck but the blow barely threw the Uruk off course. It probably hurt Aragorn more than it hurt the creature, the man thought with some disappointment. Unfortunately, during the small amount of time he had been granted to scan the Uruk's armour for faults or weaknesses, he had not found a single one. The only exposed part of the beast was its neck and it was wise enough to know not to let Aragorn get anywhere near its most vulnerable point.

It was as if the threat to his most precious possession gave Aragorn the strength to continue though. Without pause, he struck out again, charging and slashing at the creature's legs. Anduril merely drew with a squeal across unmarked metal armour, indicating that this Uruk was from Mordor and not from Isengard as many of its fellows. Aragorn darted around the creature – at least he had the small advantage of being slightly more nimble than the cumbersome Uruk-hai – and hit it again, on the chest this time. The Uruk had not been expecting the burst of speed and by the time it had struck out at Aragorn, the man had gone again.

In the end though, speed just wasn't enough. As Aragorn looped around the slow-moving Uruk once more in attempt to get in another blow, he was suddenly struck down. Not with a sword but rather with something blunt – an armoured Uruk arm, he guessed in his dazed state. He hit the ground hard. The Uruk had anticipated his move and reacted before Aragorn even realised what was happening. Unable to get his weapon up fast enough, the Uruk had struck out with its metal plated arm, hitting Aragorn squarely in the face and sending him down onto his back.

Laughter filtered through Aragorn's mind. He must have banged his head when he fell, he realised, because the clouded sky above him was swimming in a most unnatural way. He tried to rise but the moment he moved even a little he regretted it. Nausea swept over him and he had to grit his teeth against the pain that exploded in the back of his head. Above him, the Uruk suddenly appeared. It had a grin on its face again, exposing rotting teeth stained with what Aragorn strongly suspected was blood.

Straddling Aragorn, the Uruk bent down and grabbed Anduril by the blade with both hands, unhurt by the Elven forged blade. Aragorn tried to hold onto the sword but he didn't have any strength left in his hands and the creature pulled it from his weak fingers with ease and threw it away out of their reach. Lowering itself down lower so that it was crouched directly over Aragorn, long fingers trailed down the man's heaving chest, searching for what it had come for.

"No!" Aragorn cried when the hand slipped into his pocket and came out with the Ring hooked on the end of its chunky finger. "No!" Although the man tried to grab it, the Uruk easily held him down, using all its weight to keep its prey pinned to the ground. That didn't stop Aragorn struggling. Kicking out, Aragorn tried desperately to free himself. Yellow eyes were no longer focused on the struggling man on the ground but rather on the thin band of gold it held up before its expressive face. Aragorn had seen that look before. Longing. He could easily picture that very same expression upon his own face whenever he looked at the Ring.

The Uruk laughed again, barely taking any note of Aragorn now it had what his master wanted so badly. Or perhaps, with this great weapon, the time of the Uruk would rise, with him as their master, and Sauron would no longer be the keeper of the Shadow. So many possibilities that the intelligent creature of Darkness could now consider. Sauron would rue the day he had deigned to rise the Orcs from the wallows of stupidity and give them wits.

"Boys," roared the Uruk to its comrades nearby. "Things have changed." It rose up from its position sat atop Aragorn, Ring still clutched in strong fingers.

Aragorn found that he couldn't move. Nothing physical now pinned him to the ground and yet he was stuck nonetheless. He could not raise his body off the ground. And he could only watch as the Uruk gazed with shining eyes at the Ring. His heart raced in his chest, pounding hard in terror at what this meant. He had lost the Ring. He felt suddenly and inexplicably bereft, so much so that tears sprang to his eyes and he could barely draw breath.

"Kill it," commanded the Uruk, looking down at Aragorn for the first time since taking up the Ring of Power.

Immediately, as if sensing the change in circumstances amongst their race, the Uruk-hai abandoned their fights with the surprised Men of Gondor and advanced on their new king's prone position. In the absence of the Wraiths, any leader would do and they were drawn to the power of the One if not the commands of the Uruk.

The Uruk-hai all advanced on Aragorn, dripping weapons drawn and ready to shed the blood of Gondor's proclaimed king.

Finding himself surrounded and still inexplicably incapable of movement, Aragorn could do nothing but lay there and wait. He wanted to close his eyes against the death he knew was coming but he was too afraid to take his eyes off the Enemy coming towards him. He recalled Legolas' tales to him of the Uruks' brutality in battle and in his mind's eye saw them tearing him apart without mercy. Nausea rose in him again and he tore away his eyes from the Enemy and turned them instead towards the grey swirling heavens. Then he frowned in confusion. For the heavens were no longer their normal grey colour. In fact, they were a very strange colour indeed. Green?

Loud shouts and calls of horror and surprise washed over him and Aragorn tore his eyes away from the green tinged sky, wondering idly whether he was concussed from his fall. Unfortunately, he could see nothing through the Uruk-hai massed around him. Only the leathery black bodies and legs of his would-be killers filled his vision.

Suddenly the Uruk Ringbearer's yellow eyes widened in shock and he pitched forward, landing almost on top of Aragorn, the Ring still clutched tightly in his hand, and finally Aragorn saw the reason for the all ruckus.

OIOI

The Men had no idea what they were facing. The commanders had been briefed by Aragorn and Jecha about this and yet they were still struck immobile by what was heading towards them. A wave of green haze, almost like a billow of fast-moving smoke, impossibly huge and dense, was sweeping over Osgiliath and across Pelennor towards where the battle raged. Aragorn knew immediately what was happening though and he could have cried with relief.

The Dead had come to battle.

Traitors twice over they may have been branded by Men but Aragorn had never been so happy to see anyone in all his life. The Dead Army from Dunharrow, come to fulfil their promise to the rightful King of Men, swept over the Enemy, some riding phantom horses but many more without steeds, although they moved as one all the same, never once touching upon the ground, striking the Enemy dead immediately at will, cutting great swathes through the Enemy masses. The Orcs, Goblins, Haradhrim, Easterlings, Uruk-hai, even the remaining Mumakil, fell to the ground, as though they had been simply robbed of their life by a mere touch of Death. No mark appeared on their bodies. No more Orc blood was spilled upon the Pelennor. They simply fell. No enemy could withstand the savage, elemental power of the Ghosts from the Mountains. Only the allies of the Light, somehow identifiable to the Dead, remained standing, suddenly useless in the battle they had fought hard in for days now and trying to work through what they were seeing, for it was not obvious to any of them what this phenomenon was.

The Dead Army did not look as an army at all but rather as a writhing billow of green smoke, interspersed with the occasional glimmer of a Human form bearing a trailing banner or sword or axe, haunting the great battlefield and striking fear into even those hearts that were bred and determined to fear nothing. They were far less substantial in battle than when Aragorn had treated with them deep inside the Dimholt many months ago. Perhaps it served them better, or maybe they simply didn't want to expend unnecessary energies on making themselves appear almost corporeal for the benefit of those who would never again draw breath to question it.

Human-looking or not, their sudden presence on the fields of Gondor immediately changed the course of the battle in favour of the United Men. The Orcs tried to flee from this terrible threat to their ranks but there was no way even the fastest among them could outrun this army. They were cut down at even the slightest touch of ghostly hand or weaponry, falling to the ground dead without time even to scream.

With each Shadow death claimed, the Dead Army seemed to swell in size, almost as though it were consuming additional energy through the blackened souls of the murdered. As they proceeded across the field, growing ever closer to the gleaming White City of Men, the Dead Army began to spread further; green tendrils doggedly seeking out those who dared to run from the damnation they had earned. It did not stretch them though. In fact, they grew ever bolder and bigger. Even as Aragorn watched with wide eyes, shining with wonder despite having witnessed this preternatural miracle once before beneath the Mountain of the Dead, tall, opalescent banners rose from the cloud of eerily illuminated swirling green, symbols of men striding into battle. The banners of the King flew again on the Pelennor.

Aragorn climbed to his feet as the last of the cold green cloud passed by him, moving ever onwards, determined to take out every last ally of the Shadow left standing. A lump of emotion had formed in his throat and he swallowed it back. He had not been betrayed as he had feared. The forsaken had come at the very last minute to save the day.

For a while longer, Aragorn stared, watching as a tendril of the cloud climbed the white walls of the city, apparently intent on checking within the city as well to be certain of complete extermination of the Shadow in Gondor. But his attention was soon drawn away from the scene unfolding before his eyes. Bending down, he picked through the Uruk carcasses and found their self-proclaimed leader. Still clutched in the curled hand was the Ring of Power.

Aragorn picked up the gold band with a exhalation of pure relief. He rubbed his thumb over the smooth metal ring and then put it back in his pocket where it would remain safe and hidden.

There was much yet to do. Many had lost their lives. Many more would have sustained injuries. They all needed to be organised. Aragorn wandered away from the pile of dead Uruks, looking from face to face as he passed the Men. Most eyes were wide and firmly fixed on the Green Army so Aragorn did not disturb them. Every face was filthy, covered with grime and blood. Aragorn must have passed by thirty people and not one of them was uninjured. All sustained some hurt, whether minor or more major. The healers would have their work cut out for them.

Stepping over bodies, Aragorn stooped to snatch up a swatch of black cloth. A banner of Gondor bearing the symbols of that country. Not many were still flying. A few Men carried them still, like a lifeline, a reminder of the reason they had sacrificed so much.

More than a few Men littered the ground now. Human bodies mixed in with the corpses of the Enemy, barely distinguishable in some cases. They were beyond aid and Aragorn felt a pang of terrible guilt for the part he had played in their deaths.

The field had fallen eerily quiet. But for the odd cry of pain or distress, not a sound was uttered. Everyone was entranced with what they were seeing. It was beyond understanding and all they could do was stare at their ghostly saviours.

But, Aragorn knew there was much to be done and it needed to be done quickly.

"Healers!" he yelled loudly and several people startled around him, not expecting the sharp noise through the deep quiet. "Healers, to me!"

Slowly, at this command, people started moving. Healers had been forced out to fight along with everyone else this time around and they started to move slowly, as though in a trace, towards where Aragorn stood holding aloft the flag of Gondor. Shouts went up, carrying the message all around the field to the others.

"Commanders, to me!" Aragorn added as people started gathering around him, although he was fairly confident that they would already be coming together in order to get things sorted out. Aragorn suddenly realised that he had no idea who remained alive. Had Eomer made it? Or Jecha, Janor, Faramir? Legolas?

He pushed that dark thought from his mind immediately. He couldn't afford to dwell on that right now.

Forcing himself to concentrate on the living, Aragorn focused himself on the healers gathered around him. They all looked rather worse for wear themselves, weary and bloodied.

"There is much healing to be done here tonight. I trust that you are all up for the task," he said, his voice hoarse from lack of water and a lot of shouting. "Valon?" He recognised the healer amongst them and recognised him also to be the most senior. "Take charge. Organise your people. There are many injured. Triage the worst cases first. Those you cannot save, take every resource you have available to make their passing comfortable. We will put out what remains of the fire barriers and take everyone inside the city. The soldiers will bring people into you. Inside, you have water and supplies and make use of those who could not fight here."

The healer nodded vaguely, as if he was only half listening to what Aragorn was saying to him, but then turned his face towards the king. "Yes, I understand, my Lord." He turned then to the other healers around him, appraising them quickly. "Get the fires out and the gates open. We will go ahead and prepare. We must treat the injuries amongst ourselves whilst you retrieve the soldiers. Healers are your most valuable commodity right now."

Aragorn nodded his understanding. "Go." He looked up as they dispersed, going towards the city slowly, still obviously stunned by what was going on around them. The commanders, some of them at least, now stood before him. Faramir, Eomer and Janor. There was no sign of Jecha as of yet. Nor was there any sign of Legolas. They all looked rather worse for wear, just like everyone else, although there was no sign of potentially fatal injury to any of them. "Faramir? Go ahead and get those fires out."

"I heard the command, Your Majesty," Faramir said without pause and turned away, motioning to his lieutenant to give out the orders.

Momentarily stunned by Faramir's rather reverential address towards him, Aragorn scanned the faces of the others. Eomer had several gashes to his face, which was crusted with blood. Janor looked worse. He was cradling his right arm and favouring his right leg but he still remained standing. What other injuries they bore, Aragorn did not know.

"All right, now I believe you about the Dead Army," smiled Eomer, his teeth impossibly white against the black filth covering his face.

Aragorn couldn't help but laugh in return. "Only now?"

"What would you have us do?" asked Janor a little wearily.

"You need to get yourself into the city and get those wounds seen to." Ignoring the protest already forming from the Ranger, Aragorn turned to Eomer. "You still standing?"

"Just about."

"Good. Gather as many of your Rohirrim as you can find and get them searching the field for the wounded. Anyone who can walk will have to work."

"Got it."

"Eomer," Aragorn called him back as he went to walk away, a hint of worry entering his voice even though he did not will it, "have you seen Legolas anywhere?"

"No. Don't worry; he's probably dishing out orders of his own somewhere out there. He'll find you eventually."

"Right."

There was no time to dwell on his guardian's whereabouts just then. He would have to do as he had ordered the others to do. No doubt in that process he would find his guardian somewhere amongst the warriors. He just prayed that it wasn't among the fallen.

OIOI

Her head pounded mercilessly. And yet it seemed quiet now. But that didn't make any sense. They were at war. On the battlefield. How could things possibly have turned so quiet? Had she been unconscious for that long? It didn't seem like a very long time. But then, how could she really judge? Had the battle been won at last? If so, who had won? Had Men emerged victorious? Given the unearthly silence, that seemed unlikely. They would be celebrating victory, surely, if they had won. The headache made her memory infuriatingly vague. She couldn't recall how she had come to be knocked out. A tingle of fear, an echo of the terror she had endured rippled through her and she shuddered. This proved a painful mistake. Her whole body lit up with agonising pain and she cried out loud. All thought of the circumstances of Gondor left her as she was consumed. It felt like she was on burning, on fire. Was she actually being burned alive? No, there was no smell of smoke. Just a strange, green haze obscuring her blurry vision. Green was not the colour of fire; her confused mind could come up with that logic at least. What then could have this effect on a Human body? Something terrible, doubtless.

For a long time – or it felt like a long time, at least – Eowyn lay panting through the pain, praying for it to recede to a more bearable level. By the time it ebbed away a little, she was left breathless and exhausted once more.

Still curious about what was happening around her, Eowyn tried to lift her head, slowly. It throbbed painfully and she immediately lowered it again and went completely still, not willing to risk being consumed by the horrific pain again. If they had lost this battle and were overrun with Orcs then staying silent was the best way to remain overlooked until the danger passed. She did not wish to attract the attention of the Orcs – or something worse.

Worse…?

A memory, foggy and incomplete filled her fuzzy mind. Something dark. Impossibly dark. And then pain. The same pain that threatened to erupt at any moment again if she tested it. What could have caused such agony? And for it to linger so… Eowyn shook her head gently, as if that simple action might clear her memory further. It did not.

However, after a seemingly endless silence, suddenly there were sounds. Crying? Yes, people were crying. Men? Then it grew, as though the first to break the silence had also broken the dam for all the others to join in. Not the voices of the Orcs, Eowyn reasoned. She could pick out words of Westron but didn't recognise any of the voices, they were too distant and mingled together.

Thinking that perhaps now would be a good time to attract some attention, she raised her head again, biting down on her lip at the exertion and the threat of pain that this time didn't explode quite so violently over her. Maybe it wasn't as bad as she'd initially thought it to be.

She blinked a couple of times quickly to clear her vision. The strange green haze still coloured the air but at least now she was looking at the field rather than up at the sky. She could pick out vague images of Men in the distance, shapes moving slowly. The source of the noises?

Opening her mouth, Eowyn tried to call for help but the words would not come. Her throat was too dry and it hurt too much for speech. She whimpered uselessly and rested her head back down in the mud.

Never one to simply take what was happening without action, Eowyn lifted her hands from where they rested on the muddy ground and laid them upon her flat stomach. She flinched automatically, although no great pain came with the action. No wound there. Gingerly, she moved her hands up over her chest all the way to her collarbone. Still no obvious injury. Why, then, the pain?

Perhaps, she reasoned once she had finished her self-assessment, she should try to rise.

It was almost impossible. Her body felt so stiff and unmanageable. But she persevered until she was positioned in an awkward way, propped up on shaking elbows. The pain assailed her again though and she collapsed back, as before lying still until it had passed. White light covered her eyes followed by blackness.

When she opened her eyes, as the pain had passed over her again, things had bizarrely changed. It was darker out. The grey sky was nearing black. The noise had grown also. It was very loud now. Many Men shouting out orders, despairing cries of pain and grief echoing from close by and far away. The whole kingdom seemed to be in mourning. And it was so cold. She was shivering as she had not been before. As she went to wrap her arms around herself though, the pain returned, emanating from her right arm and encasing her chest tightly making it hard to breathe. She fought it this time, unwilling to surrender.

She had been unconscious again, she realised with a jolt of fear. It was the only explanation for how dramatically things had changed. It was impossible to tell for how long exactly. And it didn't really matter, she supposed. What mattered was what had happened to her.

When she had woken this time, the truth had washed over her. She remembered now, how she had come to be injured and it explained the pain.

The Wraiths. They had attacked. Or one of them had attacked. She thought it was one. It had knocked her out, sent her and the Dwarf flying. She had woken to find Legolas, golden haired and magnificent, standing up against the black creature, so dark that it seemed a void in the world, fighting it. For a moment, she remembered being struck motionless. Great fear had passed over her as she watched Legolas duck from the blows rained down on him by the great creature. She felt it again now as she remembered. She did not know what had happened to Gimli, couldn't even recall checking to see if he was well. All she knew was that she had been consumed with the need to help. Shaking from her fear, she had crawled towards her fallen sword and staggered to her feet. No Orcs were nearby; they had been avoiding the Wraith. Perhaps they were scared too. Then she had seen Legolas fall, knocked down by the Wraith. He would have died if she stood idly by and did nothing. She could not abide that. How could she not help her beloved rescuer? Without him, she would certainly be dead. She owed him, she knew. So, she had done the first thing that had come to her mind, giving no thought to how foolish an endeavour it was. She had charged at the Wraith and thrust her sword, two-handed into the back of the creature, hoping to sever its spine – if it had one – and if not then at least it might provide a distraction for Legolas to regain his feet. But she had been thrown back by some invisible power, immense and ancient. Then she remembered nothing but a blast of cold air pushing her into the ground. And then the blackness of unconsciousness.

Shaking more now from fear and disbelief at what she had done than from the cold air swirling around her, Eowyn found that the first sound from her lips since she had confronted the Wraith was a sob. She didn't know why she cried. Fear, relief, confusion, grief? Whatever the cause, she cried until all energy had seeped from her and she was left feeling hollow and cold again.

What was this terrible cold? It was not natural. It spread up from her arm, seeping into her very blood it seemed. The arm that had struck down the Wraith? Legolas had said that when he had fought the Mouth of Sauron in Osgiliath it had felt strange. Was this the same? Or worse? Was she poisoned?

Eowyn had to confess to knowing nothing of the Nazgul. She didn't know their power, only that they had much of it. But who knew what the Dark Lord had created them into.

She was dying, she realised with a jolt.

How unfair. After everything. After all those long years filled with pain and terror in the company of the Orcs, separated from those she loved and locked beneath the terrible stone of the Deep. She had survived the isolation, the terror, the tortures they had subjected her to. Not many could attest to such an accomplishment. She had been reunited with her beloved brother when all looked hopeless, found friends and gone to war. And now, all that was gone. Taken from her because of her own stupidity.

Eomer would be furious.

The thought came so suddenly upon her that it made her laugh. Here, on the battlefield, cold and alone, she laughed, chuckling away to herself. She was dying. She had taken on a Wraith of Mordor and all she was concerned about was her brother's anger? It was absurd. She threw her head back and laughed and laughed, even when the pain became unbearable.

Had she lost her sanity at some point during the previous day? Had the Wraith stolen that from her as well? That thought made her laugh all the harder. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, still shivering horribly. Tears poured from her eyes, leaking down her face and joining the blood and mud in the soil.

"Here. There's someone over here," a voice called close by but Eowyn knew that it wasn't referring to her. She was all alone here. Alone to die; away from those she loved.

Sobering somewhat, her laughter died and she fell quiet, emotionally spent. With hitched breaths, she calmed herself.

It had gotten dark. Very dark. She could see an orange glow from the corner of her eye, replacing the curious green; the torches of Minas Tirith burning brightly, bold and comforting to those who had won the battle. She hated the darkness. She had seen too much of it down in the dungeons of Helm's Deep. How she longed to die bathed in light, even the false light provided by torches would have been preferable to this darkness. Tears of grief flowed now, although she didn't think she had much more left in her.

Eowyn let her eyes drift shut, breathing as steadily as she could. As she recalled, she was far out from Minas Tirith, on the very edge of where the battle had raged. If they were searching for survivors, it would take them hours to find her. Too long. She could just go to sleep. The darkness was calling even now. It was so inviting. Not at all like the blackness of the night surrounding her physical body. If she concentrated hard enough, she was sure that she could just slip right into it. Surely that would be better than lingering here alone until her body finally gave up the fight.

Sighing deeply, she moved her head to get as comfortable as she could. No point in being uncomfortable in her last moments.

Fingers were pressed to her throat then and she startled at the touch. Or at least her mind startled. She was fairly sure that her body remained unresponsive. The fingers were warm, solid and confident. They searched for a moment then came to a halt and remained that way for a few seconds. Checking. Someone checking for a pulse. Vaguely, Eowyn wondered whether they felt anything. She could feel her heart beating laboriously in her chest.

"This one's alive," a voice Eowyn didn't recognise called, directed away from her. To a colleague maybe. Healers?

"Alive? After all this time?"

What was he talking about? It had been daytime when she had fought the Wraith and it was night-time now. That wasn't so long.

"She has a pulse. Barely but it is there," insisted the first voice despite the disbelief of his colleague.

"Get her back to the city. Can you carry her?"

"Better you do it. I might be needed out here."

Apparently, the second voice agreed with this as Eowyn suddenly felt herself being lifted off the ground and up into strong arms, her body pressed against cold armour.

"Are you sure she's alive? She's frozen."

"She has a pulse," replied the one Eowyn supposed was a healer as if that was a good enough reason to bear her from Pelennor and back to the city.

"For how long?" murmured the man holding her and she was sure that had she not been pressed so close to him she would not have heard.

"Go on. Get her to the healers in the city. I'll carry on this way, pick up another soldier along the way."

"Right," the soldier said aloud. And then, in a quieter voice, added, "You leave the meat with me and look for the ones you can save."

A Gondorian man, without a doubt, Eowyn realised as she felt herself carried away from her resting place. By now, if he had bothered to look, one of the Rohirrim would have recognised her. She chuckled again under her breath and felt the man carrying her halt for a brief second.

"You all right there?"

She could not respond but did ponder silently upon the absurdity of the question.

Then she was hefted up as the man got a better grip on her. They carried on, faster before, perhaps because the soldier had come around to the possibility that she was not yet completely beyond saving. Her head flopped over his arm, her injured arm dangling and swinging against his armoured waist and leather-clad leg. It hurt but she couldn't speak to complain.

At least she was moving back towards the light of Minas Tirith.

To Be Continued…