Chapter 21: Fear behind them, Fate before them

The host of the free people had arrived at the Black Gates, going from marching formation to battle grouping. The long column of their marching order fanning out into battle positions. On their right flank the Riders of Rohan formed the long wing, a long slightly looped crescent, that would prove it's terrible effectiveness once their charge began. Boromir saw the long line take shape and he knew once Éomer brought this field of riders down to the vale, the front rank Orcs would wish to have stayed home today. The center was comprised of mostly Gondorian troops, Swan knights, foot soldiers from Mothrond, Anorien and Lossarnach, along with all that remained of the Tower Guard, Aragorn had command of the center. Faramir was there was well, leading the Rangers and every other archer they had been able to muster. They were the link between the center and the left wing, much as the dwarves were the same between the right wing and the riders. Boromir was on the left wing of the formation, with the remaining Border-troops, Ithilien warriors and all those who had been mustered along the river prior to the battle of Osgiliath. Not that he actually hoped to keep any semblance of strategy going through the first encounters – in these grounds the battle would become fractured easily, which was the reason the most seasoned commanders had been split up over a wide area, to not lose coordination of the field prematurely. Still it felt wrong to not have Kíli and Faramir with him, not knowing them at his back. Still he could feel their presence like they were with him, Faramir's determination and Kíli's steadfast courage still reached him, even as they were on other ends of the field.

Standing on the broken hillside, Boromir hardly heard Aragorn's speech to the armies, though his voice carried far enough for them all. It was a good speech all in all – something to rouse the men and carry them into the battle to come – yet Boromir had no ears for it. Deep inside, behind the carefully guarded mask of the Captain, Boromir was exhausted. Not sleeping the previous night had spared him another night of nightmares, for there was no sleep left for him that was not disrupted by the whispers. The dreams of the Ring had haunted every night for longer than he cared to admit, and without the steadfast support of his brothers, he'd have broken weeks before. He was tired beyond the physical exhaustion of the past battles, he was exhausted in his soul, weary in ways he could not name and he was glad soon it would all be over. Here and now things would find an end, if through the destruction of the Ring or through his own demise – and probably both.

From afar he watched how Aragorn beheaded the Mouth of Sauron, and for the first time he truly cheered the King on – this was the way to deal with Sauron's demands. The wings of the Black Gate swung open fully and the host of the Dark Lands charged at the field. The battle had begun.

The first waves of battle were Orcs; myriads of them poured out of the Black Gate. Their first ranks were cut down by the archers, but more came, no matter how many of them were shot; there was no end to them. Boromir called his men to advance, and they caught the Orcs storming for the heart of the army in the flank, much like the Rohirrim did on the other side. The clash of the armies was fierce: a thunder of steel and bodies, death and only the beginning of the end. Boromir's blade ate its way through the ranks of Orcs like a sickle reaping ears. With them hopelessly outnumbered, strength lay in attack, in relentlessly pushing the enemy. Boromir was the first to advance, each attack blending into the next, never stopping, never ceasing, always moving forward, over bodies freshly cut down, , the sword finding one enemy after the next, always stabbing, slashing, always attacking and pressing forward. To his left he knew Veryan of Dol Amroth covered his flank, as swift and deadly as always. He could not tell how long they had been fighting like this, against the endless Horde of Orcs, the endless black wave that drove against them with the will and fear of the Nazgul, but the warmth of spring sun was bathing the field when he first saw a change in the enemy's attack formation.

Boromir found himself standing on one of the foothills east of the Black Gate and the Orcs were pulling back for the first time in the day. Their black masses flooding back towards the towers of the Black Gate. He knew that could only mean the Enemy was regrouping. "Close ranks!" he bellowed, the foothill was a good point to take on the next attack. The troops responded with the speed he was used to expect from them. Though he spotted a number of Rangers and other foot soldiers that had become separated from the center and regrouped with them now. Swiftly he his eyes strayed to the center of the field. Their army had splintered into several groups, he could see that but there was little chance to reunite with them now, there was too much ground between them and the battered center, and only one glance across the field on the other flank made Boromir wince. The Rohirrim formations were hardly worth being called that any more. He hoped Éomer would get them back together quickly.

"I'd bet they'll break out the Olog-hai and Haradrim next, Captain." Veryan's face was hidden under the swan helmet he wore, but Boromir could hear the grim humor in the Man's voice. They had come here without hopes or illusions and there was a brutal satisfaction in the price they'd extract from Sauron for killing them.

"They just wanted to clean out the barracks, because they'll breed Uruk-hai the next time," Boromir joked back, just as grimly. He heard some laughter among the ranks of his Men, and felt a surge of pride. These were Gondor's best sons, those who would walk into the heart of the Shadow for her and could still laugh at the danger.

It was not Haradrim that took the field, but Easterlings. Their black scale armors, the Morgul armor with the tabard of the blood flame, sent a shiver down Boromir's spine. There came the best the Black Lands had to offer, and they'd fight to their deaths.

TRB

Idrakhán deftly jumped on the back of the winged terror that the Varigian rider had held ready for him. Two more Varigians were with him, but only to keep the beast alive – he would need it quickly again once his task was done. The Easterling had been itching to take to the field, watching the Orcs battle it out with the Gondorians mindlessly was always boring to watch, but at least it had been punctuated with the amusement of figuring out what leader was deployed on what wing of the of the so called 'Alliance of free people'. When they swooped down on the field where the Easterlings began to attack the Gondorian forces, the Varigian Khan pointed towards one of the smaller groups, clustered on one of the lower foothills. "Look there, it's their damned Numenóran King. Get me my arrows and we'll shorten the war a little."

"No, Brazukh Khan," Idrakhán said sharply. "You committed two crimes in just one breath: you called this Ranger a King, I will forgive you that, he has conducted himself better than his lousy bloodline would have one believe, and you suggested making him a martyr to our treachery, which I can't tolerate. No, the enemy needs to see him defeated, humbled, crushed in single combat." He could see that the King was trying to reach one of the faltering groups of his smashed center and thus had exposed himself. Stupid, stupid, a noble move on his part, trying to aid his faltering troops but a big mistake. "Set me down," the Easterling ordered.

The Fell Beast swooped down, naked wings flapping and whirling in the air, outstretched claws ready to grasp, the creature's high pitched shriek causing Aragorn's horse to panic; he just managed to jump off before the animal cantered off in fear. Aragorn drew his sword, Anduril glowing in the light of the spring day, he fully expected to be faced with a Nazgûl, he had wondered why the Enemy did hold his most dreadful weapon back. But instead he saw a fully living figure dismount from the winged horror with casual ease. A man, not quite as tall as Aragorn himself, wearing the black scale mail armor like so many other soldiers of the Enemy. He wore no helmet, his face was what maybe shook Aragorn more than the casual poise with which he drew his blade. The face was regular, lean, edged features, dark eyes with only the tiniest hint of a slant and an intelligent, watchful expression – this was not a monster, but a man, a person... not so different from Aragorn himself and yet set to kill him. "Did the Orcs slay your Royal Guard or did you leave them… oh, I forgot you don't have one yet."

"I do not need guards," Aragorn ignored the mockery; entirely, it was easy to see that the Easterling was trying to provoke him. He raised Anduril in a guarded stance, circling his opponent. "Contrary to your Masters I fight my own battles." He watched the Easterling's movements match his, the man was moving with the deft grace of a prowling cat, the long curved blade in one hand.

"Courage, good." The answer was accompanied by an almost eager smile. "I had hoped for some good fight."

Their blades touched, it was no more than one swift attack and an equally swift parry, while they were still circling each other, testing the waters. "You know who I am," Aragorn kept his eyes trained on his adversary, he could sense something from him – a shadow, like a shroud of darkness enveloping the Easterling entirely, yet it was not encumbering him, felt almost natural to him. "Who are you?"

"Idrakhán," the Easterling advanced, his blade coming around in a whirl, like the song of the blade itself was the name he wished to give.

Aragorn parried the attacks with ease, he needed the Elven forms he had learned in his youth to match the speed the other warrior seemed to prefer in his fighting. He could see the first traces of a style in him, swiftness over strength and guile over straight out fighting. So this was the Enemy leader Boromir had spoken of, Idrakhán. Aragorn was far from underestimating the Easterling Captain. Any warrior who won that much of Boromir's regard while being the enemy had to be supremely dangerous. Aragorn feigned an attack against the legs, another false jab towards the side and with one fluid turn caught Idrakhán's curved blade with Anduril's guard. "What makes a proud warrior serve the Shadow?" he asked, his voice hard. "Slaughtering his fellow Men? Is that all you wish to live for?"

The Easterling broke the block in one fluid move, pushing Aragorn back. "Fellow men? I'd not call your kin that." he spat; his attacks came like a hailstorm, with a speed and strength that forced Aragorn to block and dodge swiftly. "We are the true children of Middle-Earth, until your accursed kin returned from across the sea after centuries of crawling at the Elves' feet. And we will retake our world. Il mantai chenur!"

Il mantai chenur! The words sent an icy shiver down Aragorn's spine. 'For the honor of the Great Lord,' was too harmless a translation for what was a call upon Morgoth himself, a call that no mortal tongue had dared utter in at least an age. He saw something, like a shadow swirling around the Easterling and then his enemy advanced anew, his attacks unceasing, mercilessly battering at Aragorn's defences. Had he had not been trained by the Elves, he would hardly have lasted through this storm. Idrakhán was more than dangerous – he was one of the best swordsmen he had ever encountered and he had been strengthened by something of the Shadow. Aragorn hardly dared to think of it, dark whispers of the blessings Melkor worship was said to bestow on devout followers were conveyed in the writings of ancient Numenór. But Aragorn had hoped that with the sinking of the Island the knowledge of such practice had died, but he clearly had been wrong.

Focusing his thoughts inward, he let go of his fear and of his anger for his enemy. Calm and composed he stepped into the line of the next attack and he caught the enemy's blade in a block, Anduril sliding down the curved sword to hit the guard, Aragorn broke the struggle of strength with all the power he had, pushing as hard at his opponent, Idrakhán stumbled backwards, losing his momentum

Aragorn pushed past his faltering guard with the next attack and managed to land one hard hit at his right shoulder. He would have expected bones to break under the shattered shoulder armor, the healer in him knew the bones had to be smashed, but when Idrakhán dodged the next hit and parried a third, he saw that the man moved as easily as before. Something dark and unnatural kept him at his feet, it seemed like he did not feel any pain or exhaustion. Again he stormed against Aragorn, their swords clashing, metal shrieking under the strain, as the blades made contact with each other, fiery sparks flying from the tormented metal.

Their duel drew out over the back of the hill, vaguely Aragorn was aware that the battle was still commencing in some distance, though the Easterlings were effectively cutting the Gondorians off this area of the field. He had caught glimpses of two smaller units trying to break through to them, but he could not dare to break his focus from the duel he was encumbered in. Right here and now all was locked in his own fight against Idrakhán. Aragorn pushed his opponent back again, towards where the troll corpses from the first wave were piling up, the Easterling showed a flaw in his cover and Aragorn made use of it, intending to drive the blade through the Man, but with lightning speed the Easterling dodged and in one fierce strike smashed the sword from Aragorn's hand. Anduril spun through the air and landed on the ground twenty steps away. Quickly, he drew his Elven dagger – he knew his chances had just dropped, this was it. Only armed with a dagger against one of the most dangerous foes he had ever encountered.

A deep calm settled upon Aragorn, even if he fell, and he had no doubt the Easterling would make a swift end, this battle was not lost. Boromir and Faramir, they would keep fighting, they had been fighting for all their lives and they would continue no matter what happened here. They would see this through to the end, until Frodo could finish his task. Aragorn trusted them, he knew the task in the best possible hands, and he would go down fighting. Bringing up the dagger he lunged forward, but found his attack swiftly dodged. Idrakhán ceased to attack for a moment and Aragorn heard the maybe most unlikely noise for such a moment – the Easterling laughed, a deep, amused, rich laugh, that felt like something no evil being should be able to voice.

"Not so easy, King, I'll see you dead in my own time." Idrakhán picked up the shield of a dead battle troll and tossed it; it hit Aragorn squarely, nailing him to the ground, chest and both arms trapped under the heavy metal that was ground into the bloody earth. Aragorn tried to free himself, pushing against the dirty steel, but he felt something dark, like an icy magic in the metal that weighed him down to the ground. His sword drawn, the Easterling approached, and Aragorn knew the Man would behead him. There was no mercy in this enemy, and Aragorn wished he could say there was no humanity in him either. But this was maybe the greatest, vilest triumph of the Shadow – having claimed these men to serve the dark with all the strength and capability Men were able to provide. He had debated the question of what strength might be found in the world of Men for nearly all his life and here he saw the answer – he wished he had been able to see that strength earlier, see it in his friends, instead of glimpsing it in an enemy. Idrakhán stood beside him, eyes cool, unmoved. Aragorn met his gaze evenly, daring him to do his worst.

"Oh no, you won't!" Several fighters had broken through the Easterling ranks quickly fanning out uphill. Idrakhán's sword swiping down at Aragorn was blocked by Thoroniâr's blade. The Alaris of the Tower Guard, had led his remaining Men to fight their way past the Easterling troops that had been cutting them off, and now stood between the Easterling and his King.

Idrakhán jumped backwards, two quick swipes of his sword beheading two of the new arrivals. "Thoroniâr, I should have expected you." Again he advanced, the shadow tightening around him as he sprinted into battle.

The next minutes Aragorn was forced to watch how the Easterling nearly casually slaughtered most of the Tower Guard. It was an effortless butchery that made Aragorn once more suspect that some kind of vile, deadly magic had been worked on the Easterling. There was a callous efficiency in these kills that made Aragorn freeze, brave as the Tower Guard's intervention had been, it was for nothing.

Thoroniâr, on the other hand, was not easily defeated; he knew what he was up against, and he fought with a grim determination albeit he knew that he stood no chance of winning this duel. He saw his Men go down, each falling comrade a name and another long friendship ended on the Easterling's blade, but never lost focus on the fight, pain had no room in battle. Remaining between the King and Idrakhán he forced the Easterling into a deadly dance that cost him time if nothing else. And that was what he needed – time. He did not dare to look over his shoulder where the Rangers had to work their way past the enemy, he did not even dare to think of Faramir and his plan, only focusing on his own part in it – cost the enemy as much time as he possibly could.

Aragorn watched the uneven duel unfold, he could tell that Thoroniâr did not expect to win, it was written all over the grim, iron-hard battle stance, the brutal fighting that spared nothing. He had seen men like this before – willing to walk to their deaths, and the healer in Aragorn shuddered at the cruel waste of life, at the disregard they must have for themselves to be able to throw their lives away like this. That Thoroniâr should do this for him, only deepened the sacrifice he was making. As fierce as their fight was, as long as Thoroniâr held out, it came to a bloody end when Idrakhán sent the brave Alaris to the ground, with several bloody wounds that had smashed his armor. "Well fought, Thoroniâr, just not good enough to save your King," the Easterling said. "No one can save him now."

"I'd dispute that."

Idrakhán cursed when he saw that the Ithilien Rangers had managed to reach them; most of them had closed ranks to keep the Orcs from reaching the King. But between him and Aragorn now stood Faramir, sword at the ready; the blade shone in his hand like day itself.

Faramir attacked with a determination few would have believed him capable of, neither fear nor hopes on his mind, his entire focus on the enemy he fought. There was nothing but this fight, and this foe. Each attack found its block with him; moving swifter than the Easterling could anticipate, he parried even the fiercest attacks of the Easterling, neither the strength nor the speed of the enemy exhausting him, the blade in his hand like a burning brand, sometimes nearly drawn to strike at the enemy,. Each time Faramir's blade found purchase, it did not only cut armor, he felt something else, a darkness, like a shadow that waned with each touch of the bright blade in his hand, like a dark river slowly bleeding out. He could sense the shadow around Idrakhán fail, and he saw how the man's movements slowed to the normal speed of a well-trained Easterling fighter, though exhaustion was taking its toll too., for nothing the Shadow had given Idrakhán came free and now that his cloak of shadow was fleeing his body began to feel the exhaustion. Faramir saw that in each slowed attack and in parries becoming less prompt. He did not underestimate Idrakhán, though; a lion backed to a wall would be more dangerous than one prowling free.

"Retreat, you will not slaughter my King, not today and not tomorrow." Faramir spoke, when their blades clashed again.

Trapped under the enchanted shield Aragorn watched as Faramir fought Idrakhán, fearing for another life needlessly wasted on trying to rescue him. Unable to draw his eyes away from the battle, he saw Faramir stand under a storm of fierce attacks, with a calm and firm determination that way beyond compare. Where Boromir was the aggressive fighter, always attacking, always in the verge of a crazy risk, Faramir fought with a composed focus, he was a defender, a rock that would stand, no matter how many blows came down on him.

Seeing how Idrakhán was slowing down, and he was getting weaker, hope surged in Aragorn. But then he saw it – Faramir moving to the side, dodging an attack, his sword coming up too slowly, while Idrakhán whirled around for his favorite attack that Aragorn too had been at the receiving end of. "Faramir!" he screamed, knowing his warning would be too late. The Easterling's curved blade found its target, buried in Faramir's body. For a moment both opponents stood unmoving in their deathly embrace, and then suddenly Idrakhán stumbled backwards, Faramir's sword having pierced his heart.

Aragorn could not believe it – he had heard of this form, long ago when Elrohir had taught him the sword, the Elven Prince had told him of the form called 'embracing the blade', a suicidal move to step consciously into the enemy's attack to get close enough to land the killing blow on the enemy. It was a brutal, self-sacrificing choice and Aragorn was pained to know what price Faramir would pay for his valorous defeat of Idrakhán. His eyes went over to the two enemies lying in a crumbled heap, unmoving, an embrace in death.

His breath hitched in his throat when he saw Faramir's head move and the Ranger General pushed himself back to his feet, yanking his sword free of the dead Easterling's body. Turning around Faramir hurried to Aragorn's side, kneeling down on the bloody grounds. "We need to hurry, I don't know how much longer Dwalin can hold the center together." he said, his hands curling around the rim of the troll shield, as he tried to pry it loose. But the dark steel would not move the least.

"Your sword," Aragorn gasped. "It cut through the spells before." The blade had made short work of all the protections the Easterling had carried and Aragorn could feel the burning presence of the blade. He had not known that weapons of such power were still existent in Gondor but he was all the more glad for it. He saw the hesitation in the Ithilien Ranger's eyes. "I trust you; break this thing."

Without further hesitation, Faramir did as he was ordered, his blade smashing the troll shield, breaking the dark enchantment used to hold it. The Steward's son raised his sword; it shone bright like a star, white light flooding over the field. The Orcs surrounding them shrieked and began to flee from the light of the blade.

TRB

For a moment, Boromir felt a fierce pain, like a blade stabbed into his body that he could not understand. His knees buckled and he barely managed to block the attack by the Orc advancing on him. Veryan pushed forward, the first stab killing the Orc about to attack Boromir and the next one as well. "Are you injured?"

Boromir struggled to his feet, accepting the pain, not struggling against it. "No," his blade found its next victim. "It was not me..."

A silvery bright light rose from one of the other foothills, like the fabled star of Earendil itself, it shone like a beacon, a torch of hope, sending the Orcs fleeing, but neither Easterlings nor Haradrim paid it much heed. Boromir saw the whole field shift with the Orc formations falling into chaos. He focused on the enemy, who was regrouping very quickly, coordinated by their General. For the first time during this battle, Boromir could peg the enemy commander: a Nazgul on his beast, sitting right between the wings of the Black Gate. With the Orcs in total disarray, running scared from the light, the way was free. He looked to Veryan. "Time to cut off the head."

"And you always said charging a Nazgul was crazy." The Swan Knight followed his Captain without any hesitation in spite of his words, the rest of the troop formed up with them.

"I learned better, Veryan." Boromir took point as they moved on the Black Gate. "Hope is the spark of Light. And Hope is the banner of freedom." Kíli had taught him that, and he'd gladly die keeping to this belief, to this hope. They passed the field unopposed. The Nazgul,must have sensed their approach, for he brought his beast up into the air and attacked. It swooped over them, grabbing and tossing a dozen of Boromir's men in the first attack alone. Coldly, Boromir turned; there was no fear in him anymore, no horror – not even the black wings of the Nazgul could cause him to freeze, he was past the fear, past the doubts. . When the Beast came down again, he waited until it was right above him, and then rammed the black sword into the Beast's belly.

The Beast shrieked, pained, thrashing as it tried to get away, wings flapping in obvious pain but Boromir was not finished. He brought the blade about to cut off the Beast's ugly wing.

TRB

Across the field, Kíli nearly broke to his knees when the old wound in his side flared in pain renewed and a wave of dark despair washed oer him. He could feel the cold, the echo of the Nazgûl from afar, echoing to him from where Boromir was fighting. He had felt a stabbing pain not long before, but pushed past it.

"Dragon!" The panicked shout echoed over the field. Looking up, Kíli saw a huge form all but eradicating the Rohirrim formation to his right. A few of them managed to evade the attack, though they lost their horses. Closing rank with them, he recognized Éomer and Haleth among them. "They never run out of monsters," Éomer's voice was grim with determination, as their eyes went uphill towards the new attacker.

Kíli saw a long bright lance of eerie blue fire hissing down from the hill. It failed to hit him only by inches, incinerating the stone ground all along its path, cold blue flames flickering from each stone or body it came in contact with. In the cold winter light of the burning stones, he saw a gigantic shadow rise, with tall wings, a long neck and an ugly head rising above him. All in him froze from sheer terror. There was only one fire in this world that could burn stones and melt souls that would scorch and still be colder than ice – nothing in this world or the next could stand against the winter fire of a cold drake. A Dragon had come down from the dens of the Ered Lithui, raising his head for another lance of cold fire to scorch the stony grounds under the Black Gates. Like a burning, melting wave, fear washed over Kíli: the deep rooted, warning fear, the terror all of his kind carried ever since they first had ventured into the Grey Mountains or opposed Melkor's dragons.

"Great Eorl... how can we fight such a terror?" Éomer's eyes were fixated on the flames and the beast spitting them.

"They can be killed," Kíli knew this would be hard, cold drakes, while lesser to the great fire dragons were still one of the worst opponents one might encounter. "Eyes and belly are weak spots." He had noticed the sparkle in the dragon's eyes – he did not have a horned cornea, rendering the eye susceptible for weapons.

The drake leapt forward, faster than anything his size should be able to move, paws cleaving the air, swooping down at Kíli. He saw the attack coming, and evaded it by jumping sideways, more a reflex than a decision of his mind. Haleth, was in range of one of the Dragon's hind paws and was thrown through the air like a leaf in late autumn. He hit the ground somewhere near the flames. Éomer managed to barely evade a similar attack, but a strike with the Dragon's tail he could not escape.

An icy feeling fell over Kíli's mind, suppressing all feelings: fear, terror – even the ancestral horror of the drakes was drowned by it. Nothing remained but a chilled feeling, his mind cold and clear like a single flame in the midst of night. Like he could feel Boromir's icy calm in the face of danger from afar. From one moment to the other he saw the dragon and Éomer fighting him alone, like through a crystal, clear but cold. Few paces covered the distance to the dragon. He took his blade two handed and led a strike against the dragon's paw. Clinking, the blade was thrown back by the scaly skin of the dragon; the sword had not even left a scratch on the scaled skin. The throwback force alone made Kíli nearly stumble. He might not have done any damage, but now he had the complete and undivided attention of the drake. With an angered, evil scowl, the dragon's head turned to him, glowing yellow eyes were sparkling dangerously at the dwarf who had dared to arouse the drake's ire.

Instantaneously, he realized he was in biting reach of the dragon and about to become a one bite snack to the unfriendly beast. He saw the open maw with the gigantic teeth and the snakelike tongue coming down on him. With an icy composure, he waited for the drake's mouth to be close enough for a direct attack against the dragon's head. He had miscalculated slightly on how fast the cold drake moved; Kíli's blade missed the target, instead of impaling the roof of the mouth hehit one of the big, glittering teeth. Thousands of splinters sprang in every direction when the tooth smashed by the sword. In pain, the dragon screamed and raised his head, howling.

"Kíli, the eye!" Éomer shouted, heedless for the danger the Rohirrim sprinted towards the dragon, his steel sword useless against the scales, but well able to smash another tooth and cut deep into the dragon's soft tongue.

In the dragon's pained howl, Kíli saw the chance Éomer was giving him. Leaning back to give his throw all the force possible, he threw his blade at the bright open eye of the dragon. The blade, thrown with all the strength Kíli could muster, flashed through the air and hit the amber-like eye precisely. The dragon's death cry shook the ground; his gigantic wings ripped Éomer and Kíli of their feet, throwing them through the air. The lashing tail broke the rocks of the hillside, stones raining down on them.

Finally, the body of the dragon fell, his wings stretched out in death, as if he wanted to fly again. A last time he opened his mouth and a small blue fire-lance hissed from it, vanishing into the ground, lightening additional fires to all those that were already burning. But it was different this time: it kept on running through the vale, forming an oval encirclement around them.

And then Kíli felt it, contrary to the flames before these where whispering, their echo reaching the dwarf's attuned senses. Winter Flame, a cold shiver ran down his spine, another dread legend had just stepped from the shadow and become life. The Winter-flame for which he had once named his dragonsword was the legendary cold fire of the dragons, consuming souls and life itself, it's touch paralyzing every living being, turning them into cold, unliving shells. Few, very few cold drakes had ever had the Cold Fire, but this one...

Another line of hissing flame shot past them. "Stay away from the fire!" Kíli snapped at his comrades, when he finally understood that this was not just final breath but a last spell of the dying dragon. Deep in his heart, he admired the willpower of the wounded creature to muster the strength for a last final spell. 'If I can show half this strength and determination when it comes for me to die, I can be proud,' he thought. The circle finished that moment; the ends met crackling and hissing flames murmuring and muttering coldly. A barrier neither of them could dare to touch or they would pay the price of paralysis and death, their soul eaten away by the flame.

Éomer and Haleth closed ranks with Kíli, the three the only fighters still standing in this part of the field. The battle had moved west of them, the main center having frayed into three separate formations. Something told Kíli that Faramir was at once of these formations, where the main bulk of the forces were fighting but he had no time to think about it, or even wonder if Dwalin was still able to hold the other group. A dry whisper flitted through the air. First it was drowned by the cracking of the rocks still on fire and the groaning of the dying dragon. But when the last light in the eye of the dragon flickered out, they heard the whispering drawing nearer from all sides of the fiery encirclement. It came from everywhere, echoing forth and back, like soft voices whispering in the wind. Shocked, Kíli saw how the flames parted and creatures of burning stone rose from them. They reminded him of the Storm Giants he had seen long ago, only smaller and aflame with the cold dragon's fire. Many of them rose from the ring of fire. Kíli gripped his blade firmly. This battle had just begun.

TRB

Boromir felt pain, like a jab in his side and a fear like a drowning wave; he shut both out, pushing past it. The Nazgul's beast was dead the Rider however had not fled but dismounted, drawing his pale blade. Boromir stood alone; most of his men were dead or wounded, many tossed aside by the beast's wings.

"Lay down your arms, you cannot win." The fell voice of the Nazgûl whispered, as the armored figure advanced and brought the pale Morgul blade down on him.

Boromir parried in reflex, without finesse, his body following what had been drilled into him since he was a boy as his mind struggled to push past the memories of the darkness under Minas Morgul. "Never," his own voice seemed hoarse and thin to him. "weren't you the rider that got his scorching at Weathertop?" he yanked his sword free and again their blades clashed,

"Stand or fall, win or fail... you lose," the chill voice of Khamûl continued. "only through surrender you can live... only when you kneel to me you can save the Ring."

A chill touched Boromir's soul, the whispers suddenly so close... closer like never before. He could almost see the ring whirl in the darkness, firelight glistening on the golden band. If it reached Mount Doom it would be lost... it would never fulfil its promise.

"The Ring..." Boromir's lips moved without his will. He wanted the Ring to survive, the desire to feel the echo of the golden band again became overwhelming, searing into every corner of his soul. The greatest gift of this world must not be lost.

"The Ring..." Khamûl had ceased to attack, waiting in eerie patience. Boromir looked at the black figure, a creature he had killed in his dreams, ripped apart and discarded a vile, loathsome shade of times past. "The Ring will never be yours," the pain searing in his heart was like the fire from Mount Orodruin itself, but it was a pain Boromir welcomed. He would not be a traitor again; he would not do the enemy's work. He'd die clean.

He swallowed hard, both hands gripping the hilt of the black sword. "Till hope dies and life is gone, till dawn fails and light burns out, on the last day to carry hope into the eye of the Shadow." He whispered the blessing he knew engraved on the black sword as he faced the Nazgul. He would fight the fell creature to his dying breath, no matter if he had a chance or not.

TRB

"Spread out!" Dwalin shouted when he saw the drake. With the fresh troops of Haradrim and Orcs flooding out of the Black gate in during the afternoon hours, the fractured center of the battle had been drawn apart. There were several near separate battles raging in the vale behind them. In an attempt to gain some control of the field, Dwalin and his dwarves had given ground, pulling some of the Rohirrim and Gondorians with them to the ridge at the flank of the vale. It had worked at first, allowing them to regroup, but the main battle was a chaos no war-master could bring into strategy again, thousands, tens of thousands friends and foes caught in a chaos of slaughter that could only end through sheer exhaustion.

But only the moment he had at least regained some semblance of formation with his mismatched troops, they had another monster down upon them. A part of him, a part that he usually ignored or denied having shook in fear, when he saw the dragon advance on them. A second cold drake had come down from the mountains, opposite from where the first had decimated the Rohirrim. He could not afford to freeze, if he failed his troops would fail too, Dwalin knew that, and thought the fear was eating at his very bones, he continued on like it was not the dwarves greatest nightmare that had entered the battlefield. Dragons – he should have known. The enemy had his fill of chances to recruit dragons beyond Smaug, old miserable bastard that he had been. Dwalin moved forward and up the hill. The dwarves reacted quickly, dissolving their formation fast enough to not give the beast an easy target. A cloud of acidic smoke shot down on them, stinking and churning, at least the beast had no full flame. Small favors. Still, it woke memories in Dwalin, dark memories of the day Erebor fell, of the hopeless day that had started their long years of wandering.

The dragon swooped around, his tail aimed at Dwalin, who only just evaded it. He got tossed over the ground and hit hard rock. Drawing Bloodstar and Bloodsong, the two axes Kíli had made for him, he growled. He remembered the day the dragon came; he remembered Thorin leading the army against the dragon, standing strong in the face of the beast. Remembering Thorin's courage, his strength, Dwalin advanced at the dragon. He'd not let his King down.

Bofur's hammer came down on the dragon's paw. It may not have penetrated the scales but it definitely crushed a few bones. The dwarves were tackling the drake from all sides, Bifur's spear finding a weak spot and nailing the tail to the ground, others doing small damage where they could. But it was the Dwarven war-master who tackled the head of the monster. One axe in each hand, Dwalin fought with the fierceness of all his being and with an absolute disregard for his own life. The blades of the axes smashed the drake's maw bloody and battered the head scales. Both axes hard enough to even resist the iron hard scaling of the cold drake. Dwalin kept pressing on, never ceasing the attack. The head of the drake came about, and he saw his chance. Dropping Bloodsong, he picked up a Haradrim sword. When the drake tried to bite him again, he let it come and drove the sword through the roof of the dragon's mouth and into his skull.

TRB

Boromir did not know how he could have lasted that long against the Nazgul, but the black sword withstood the hits of the Morgul Blade in his enemy's hands like it had been forged for exactly this fight. The skies were already darkening around them and their blades still clashed, the Nazgul getting stronger with nightfall. Ducking under one fierce blow, Boromir brought up the blade like he was fighting a mortal man and not an immortal Nazgul. The sword hit the armor, cutting through it like through dry leaves. The Nazgul shrieked, howling in pain as his body was ripped through, and crumbled to ashes.

Pain erupted in Boromir's mind as the whispers of the Ring became a fiery lash, scorching his very soul. A fiery light rose at the horizon, so bright it was like a second sunset, the earth trembled, the mountains shaken by the force of the erruption shining on the eastern Horizon. The Orcs screamed in panic, beginning to flee as parts of the Black Gates broke under the shaking of the ground. The searing pain in Boromir's mind grew, like a fire burning itself right through his skull; like something dark and vile, more sinister than all he had ever felt, reached for him. Through his nightmares and the whispers he had heard for so long it reached to him, the familiar, seductive voice of the Ring, of the Enemy... only this time he could nearly see the form. A flaming, form burning in the darkness, reaching for him.

He pressed his hands over his ears, like he could block out the whispers, the promises of power, of Rulership, of pride... it drew closer and closer, like mists seeping from a chasm at dawn, it crawled up on him and much as he did not want that vile power any more, he knew he could not fend it off on his own. He fell to his knees, shaking with pain, with horror, even as he saw Mount Doom's fires rise in the distance, heralding the end of the Ring.

The darkness surged, filling him with a pain beyond anything he had ever felt. Far away, in the forge of Orodruin the golden band was melting in the fires from whence it had come, and the power, the terrible, sweet power wrought into the gold became free, latching onto the one thing it was still anchored to – Boromir himself.

The warrior cringed, when he felt the cold touch upon his soul, how deeply had he befouled himself when he had allowed the Ring to touch him? It crept closer and closer, seeping into him, gaining a foothold in the soul he had so foolishly opened to the Ring.

Boromir knew he would not last long before the escaping power of the Ring would take hold in him and control him. Here and now, on the field of death he saw that nothing – neither forsaking power nor setting aside his pride and ambitions – could shield him against the darkness. A lifetime in the Shadow's Reach, his mother's death from the Shadow's taint and too many times under the Shadow had left him vulnerable, open for the darkness to claim him. He had walked in the shadow too long to still have defenses against it. He closed his eyes trying to find the strength to fight, to find something to shield himself against the taint, the vile power that he had even longed for... but there was nothing. He had fought for all his life, given all he could to that battle and now... there was nothing left. He had given all he could, and his strength was at an end.

The pain in his sore body eased a little, but Boromir recognized the easement as the all too familiar unceasing strength of the Lord of the Morning... the Ring had promised him that kind of strength, and now he began to feel it. What could he do? How could he fight becoming a monster, becoming the very vessel of evil? The thought frightened him more than anything had in his life. His eyes fell on the black sword. There was a way out. He could deny the Enemy a vessel for his fleeing power by simply ending it. He could die and be free of this evil. Boromir had never feared death, and when he took up the black sword, it was with utter calm, even as his mind was lashed by the fiery whip of the dying darkness.

He thought of Faramir and Kíli, his brothers, he knew they would understand, the thought of them was comforting, a gentle warmth spreading through him. It felt so much like an embrace from afar, a last goodbye... and then suddenly the pain ceased and he felt something, a presence standing between his soul and the Shadow. Wracked with pain, barley able to stand, he looked up, and in the darkness he saw two figures, one tall, one short, both brightly alight in the shadow surrounding him. From afar, from across the field of death, the very souls of his birth -brother and of his war-brother Kíli were with him, protecting him from the Shadow.

In the distance, Barad-Dûr collapsed – the black tower that had haunted the world of Men for so long faltered and failed, crashing into the ground. Tears rose in Boromir's eyes as he saw it and he was not ashamed to cry. His whole life, from the day he had turned sixteen to this very moment, had been dedicated to protect his people, protect his world from this pinnacle of doom and now… finally, it fell. It had not fallen from the hand of men – there never would be a host of armies to break Barad-Dûr – but Boromir was glad for it. He now knew with utmost clarity that no army could have conquered the fortress of darkness, no leader would have gone unchanged by its evil. The dark tower fell thanks to two Halflings, who had done the impossible.

The ground broke up, the Black Gate collapsed, and the stones under Boromir's feet began to crumble. He struggled to his feet, trying to race away from the destruction, but it was too late: the stones fell under his feet and he was tossed into the deep. Falling into shadow, he knew no more.