At last, the Dark Lord has come forth to break the siege and the great battle of the Age begins, yet too will tragedy be born of joy for none are so mighty as Sauron the great, and the three lords of the west shall face their doom.
Notes:
Kindly leave a review, I'm sorry for my long time between post's college and life have been rather taxing, but I hope to post more frequently.
(Upon the plains of Gorgoroth)
They had ridden through the night and at last crossed through the black gates, followed by a great wain of oxen and other supplies. Weary yet vexed, she took a draught of water from her pouch, casting an angry glance at her beloved's sister as she trotted beside her, pleased as a cat given a ball of string.
Those fools, ever heedless, had begged her to accompany them, prattling on about the honour of journeying in her esteemed company, but she was no fool. It was out of envy and spite. Arya was especially bitter, still being punished for her actions against Isildur. Worse still was Círdan; it seemed her old friend held a measure of bitterness for her deception and readily agreed with the girls. Nor was she able to refuse without drawing suspicions on herself and Jon. Indeed, she would call the old elf's plan cunning if she hadn't wished to strangle him.
She frowned, for in truth, she might have done the same thing had their places been exchanged. Yet she would never utter such thoughts aloud. It was that jealous, possessive, passionate part of her that she kept tightly bound. Truly, it amazed her that such emotions could sway even her heart.
Her mind strayed to how best to repay her oldest friend in kind. By the Valar, she would not forget this slight, nor would she forgive it easily. The girls, too, with their envious hearts and spiteful smiles, would learn the price of crossing her. She almost laughed at the absurdity of her thoughts, yet such was her passion for her beloved.
"But at least I shall see my beloved again soon," thought Galadriel cheerily.
Then she heard a noise in the distance. At first, she thought it was but the rumblings of the mountain, yet dread filled her as she recognised the din of arms, with the crying of men and the neighing of horses. Horns were blown, and trumpets brayed, In the distance, she beheld a great shadow looming cold and cruel.
"My Lady Galadriel, are you well?" Daenerys asked worriedly, riding up beside her.
Elendil and Gil-galad's plan has worked. Sauron has emptied his fortress, and his troops will soon be upon them," replied Galadriel angrily.
"What!" cried Daenerys, her voice sharp with alarm, drawing the gaze of those around her.
"You heard me; we must hurry," she growled angrily.
"At last…Soon, we will leave this horrible place and return home…" Rhaenys said triumphantly.
"Stupid girl!" said Galadriel, and she no longer concealed her scorn. "Do you think victory will come so easily? Sauron is cruel and cunning; he would not reveal himself save for certainty of his victory. Have you forgotten the doom of my brother, who fell by Sauron's hand and the ruin of Númenor? His darkness is not merely the shadow of his realm but the heart of evil."
"I do not fear so cowardly a creature who dared not face us," said Rhaenys, brandishing her axe.
"Then you are a fool, Rhaenys! Your pride mirrors that of Ar-Pharazôn, and you would do well to heed the tragedy of his tale, lest you perish like so many others," Galadriel rebuked her furiously.
But before Rhaenys could answer, Arya rode up in haste, no doubt wondering why they were speaking so loudly.
"My lady, what is all the fuss," Arya Stark asked, annoyed and alarmed.
"Miserable fools!" she shouted, turning to Arya. "You lured me away on this foolish quest, hoping to keep me from Jon, and now I am away from him while our enemies close in! Curse you and all your schemes!"
It was then that they retreated in terror, for she appeared terrible to behold, as dreadful as a storm and the lightning's fury. Galadriel glimpsed the fear in their hearts and knew well that such dread would do her little good. Thus, she cast away the darkness from her heart, calling forth memories of joy and light.
"Forgive me, but we cannot tarry" Galadriel said without looking at them.
"Aye, my brother needs us," Rhaenys said fearfully. "They need us on the battlefield."
Galadriel nodded curtly, and peering out into the gloom, a cold dread gripped her heart as she beheld him in the distance. Ages had passed since she last looked upon him with her own eyes. In bygone days, he had worn a fair and pleasing countenance, a façade designed to beguile her kin and lead them into shadow, yet he was now as his master was black and hideous, cruel, crowned with smoke and fire.
"Let us make haste!" Galadriel cried. "If we are swift, we may arrive before the battle is joined."
As she spoke, one of the soldiers stepped forward. She turned her gaze upon him, her eyes blazing bright. "Half of you, fulfil the mission and bring the provisions to the camp," she ordered. "The rest, follow me!" such was the authority in her voice that none dared to question her.
"You heard her; be swift, Dunedain. Now is the hour of victory!" Rhaenys cried, and the soldiers hurried about gathering what supplies they could carry and drawing their blades.
Galadriel stood in stillness, her gaze falling upon them with a cold and discerning keenness as if searching their hearts, their eyes bold but uncertain under her gaze. Without a word, she turned and urged her loyal mare forward. The riders from the West had no chance to stir before she was away, riding swiftly as the summer's wind. Yet, as she rode on, the sound of hooves followed in her wake, and she heard behind her the shrill cries of Jon's kin carried as an echo on the black winds.
"My love, hold on a little longer until we reach your side. I shall not let him take you from me as well, please my wolf, do not do anything foolish." thought Galadriel in worry.
(Jon amidst the shadows)
As Jon stood there, his heart grew heavy with an unnamed dread. The air itself seemed to thicken with malice, and a chill wind swept across the barren land; he had long heard tales of the Lord of Mordor, yet to see him now filled him with terror. Sauron stood towering and terrible, a lofty form wreathed in shadow, his being like a sickening miasma of fire and death that drew all light from the world around him. His eyes, like burning coals, shone from out his helm, filled with hatred and cruelty beyond measure.
Yet, too, did the Nazgul come like wraiths from ages long past, though they were one fewer, with Khamûl, the Shadow of the East, torn from their ranks half a century ago. They glided across the battlefield like shadows given form, their black robes billowing like the wings of vultures circling a dying beast. , their menace was undiminished. Each was a figure of dread, their hoods concealing the emptiness within, but their malice was palpable.
For a moment, Jon could scarcely breathe. The Dark Lord, once fair of form, now but an imitation of his cruel master. The Ringwraiths, once kings of men, twisted into instruments of Sauron's will, were at his side. This was not the evil of Westeros, born of the ambitions and hatreds of men; this was a darkness far older, far deeper, and far more terrible.
"At last, the old devil has shown himself", Jon murmured, gripping the handle of his sword with desperation.
"By the Valar, I wish it were not so," Loras said fearfully.
"Yes, I feel it too," Robar muttered. "Evil surrounds him like some foul miasma."
"The Nazgûl are with him," Jon murmured, his voice heavy with dread. "It will be perilous for any to draw near..." Yet, even as he spoke, his gaze was drawn to a sudden stirring in the gloom. A small company of Wood-elves, their faces set with grim resolve, had broken from the safety of the ranks. With swift, silent steps, they moved through the smoke and ruin, their eyes fixed upon Sauron and his fell servants.
"What are those fools doing?" Robar asked in horror.
He saw, to his surprise, that the leader of elves was none other than the young son of Tinwendur, the very one who had scorned him a year past. Alas, the malice in his heart had festered into envy and hatred; the young elf now led his kin toward what seemed certain doom. Blinded by his own bitterness, he marched headlong into the shadow of death, heedless of the peril that awaited them all.
Yet despite the bitterness between them, Jon bore no wish for the young elf's death, even if he had acted the fool, but it mattered little for the shadow of death would come for him.
"It seems the fool shall pay with his life," Jon murmured in sorrow.
The elves, in their reckless fury, charged headlong at the Dark Lord, loosing arrow upon arrow. But each shaft, as it struck upon Sauron's dark armour, snapped and turned to cinder, scattering in ashes upon the wind. Yet still, they pressed forward, undeterred by folly or fear, until their quivers were spent. In a last desperate act, they threw down their bows and drew forth daggers, gleaming bright as stars, and with a fierce cry that rang out like a broken trumpet, they hurled themselves at Sauron. And then, the Dark Lord's dreadful gaze fell upon them.
"Are those Elves mad?" Loras asked, doubtful, as he moved to offer aid, but Jon held him back.
"Perhaps though they are far madder for following that fool, his arrogance would make Feanor envious," Jon replied, shaking his head. "His heart burns for glory. His folly has led him to this end, and though it is cruel to think it, it is a kinder fate to let his own foolishness be his end than to follow and share in his doom.
"Ah, now I recall," said Robar, thoughtfully stroking his chin. "Is that not the elf who heaped scorn upon you for taking Lady Írimë to wife—and had the gall to seek the favour of Galadriel."
"So, that is why you wish to let the fool die?" said Loras and sighed. "Truly, Jon, you hold a grudge as only a dwarf might."
"I am flattered by your high regard, my brothers," Jon answered with a wry smile. "Though I will not deny it brings me some small satisfaction, I am no fool. He goes now to his doom, and that much is certain."
Jon and his brothers-in-arms huddled in their trench, eyes wide with horror, as Sauron raised his great mace. Without a word, he swung the fell weapon, and it fell upon the company of Elves with a sound like a thunderclap breaking the sky. The earth seemed to wail beneath the might of the blow, and the Elves were scattered like autumn leaves torn from the boughs by a fierce wind. Their cries of anguish rang out as a dreadful chorus that lingered long in the memories of those who heard it.
It was then Jon spied Thorondil standing a little way from his fallen kin; his eyes burned with cold fire as he gazed upon the ruin of his comrades, but instead of fear, a sneer curled upon his lips. He stood tall, and his voice rose, cold and arrogant.
"Fools, all of them," Thorondil spat, his gaze fixed on the towering figure of Sauron. "They were but children playing at war, unworthy of their heritage. But now, Dark Lord, face your death!"
He raised his dagger high, a desperate light in his eyes; with a furious shout, he charged at Sauron, but Sauron was swifter, lashing out like a water serpent, he caught Thorondil by the throat. Yet the elf, unbowed by terror, drew forth a dagger, keen and fair, with a swift stroke, he drove it towards the helm of the Dark Lord. But ere the blade could strike, a dread heat flowed forth from Sauron, fierce and maleficent. The dagger glowed red, and with a hideous hissing sound, the enchantments woven upon it were unmade. Thorondil's eyes widened in sudden fear as the searing heat coursed through the hilt, scorching his hand and blistering the flesh. Fierce was its fire until it burned as though freshly drawn from the forge. With a cry of pain, he let it fall, and there upon the ground, it lay, sundered in twain, its power spent, its bright edge broken and undone.
For a moment, the elf struggled, eyes wide with fear and hatred. But then, a new horror took him. The touch of the Dark Lord's hand was like the fires of Orodruin itself, terrible and cruel. His flesh smoked and blackened beneath the gauntlet's iron touch. The silver of Thorondil's armour, once bright and proud, began to melt, flowing like rivers of molten metal down his body, pooling at his feet in streamlets of gleaming ruin. His skin, burned by the heat of Sauron's hand, split and blistered, peeling away like parchment put to the flame. The flesh about his throat blackened and withered, cracking as the cruel heat of Sauron's hand devoured him. His eyes turned white, rolling back in agony, while the fire coursed through his body, relentless and fierce. His lips, scorched and broken, drew back as if to cry aloud in his torment, yet no voice came forth, for the searing flame had stolen his breath. His gaze, wide with horror, stared blindly as the fire claimed him until, at last, his body was blackened and twisted. When, at last, the elf stirred no more, Sauron cast him aside. The charred, half-crumbled corpse flew through the air, landing with a dry thud in the trench where they stood. His charred form shattered upon the ground, ash and fragments of bone scattering into the wind. What remained of his armour dripped in molten streams, cooling into twisted, silvered pools around the broken ruin of the elf.
"By the Valar," Jon murmured fearfully. "What monstrous strength."
"Indeed," replied Loras, a bead of sweat tracing its path down his brow. "Sauron is counted among the greatest of the Maiar for good reason."
Jon's heart quickened, Ringil gleaming cold and bright. But just as they thought to join their companions, a creeping dread passed over them, something stirred behind them—something dark. Slowly, they turned, and from out of the gloom, a lone figure emerged from the shadows, striding toward them. Tall and grim, he was shrouded in a mantle of darkness, clad from helm to boot in iron that seemed blackened by sorcery. A ragged cloak hung from his broad shoulders, whispering in the cold, restless wind. This was no orc, nor beast of Mordor. The fell presence that clung to him like a black mist spoke of a man—if indeed he could still be called such—who had long ago sworn himself to the Enemy.
Jon's hand tightened around the hilt of his blade, and his brothers-in-arms fell into wary step beside him. Yet the iron-clad stranger did not raise a weapon. Instead, he stood still as stone, his face hidden behind a visor as dark as a starless night. Then, as if from the depths of the earth, there came a voice—yet not a voice of flesh or mortal breath. It was a sound that thundered within his mind, a low, thrumming whisper that seemed to twist and writhe through the air like smoke from a poisoned fire.
"Fools who dare to stand against the will of my master, heed these words."
The words echoed in Jon's thoughts, a voice ancient beyond reckoning, laden with malice; it was the voice of despair itself, a voice that seemed to know the deepest fears of those who heard it and to revel in them. His breath caught in his throat, and a cold dread seeped into his bones. Beside him, he felt his brothers falter as if they, too, had felt the weight of that fell whisper pressing down upon their spirits.
"Long have I watched your path, and longer still have I waited. You think yourself noble, yet you squander your strength in the name of those craven Lords of the West, whose light dims and fades with each passing age. I offered you power beyond measure, the mastery to shape the world to your will, and you turned away. But know this: even now, your fate is bound to my will. Yet you are too blind to see the hand that guides you; come then, and let us see if the meddling of the Valar has made you any more than a bastard playing at greatness, come let us see what worth lies in you wretch of a lowly race."
Its words were like malice in his mind, each utterance a lash that sought to stir wrath and folly. The voice faded, the fell message spoken, and the creature seemed to linger as if the very utterance had spent the last of its strength. Then, with a dreadful silence, it crumpled where it stood, its iron-clad form collapsing like a withered branch under a great weight. The iron helm rolled away, and beneath the shadow lay a pale and hollow face, still and empty in the cold grip of death.
"This is a trap," said Loras, his voice low and fraught with foreboding. "And that voice... I am certain it was Sauron himself."
"Aye," replied Robar, his gaze fixed upon the fallen messenger. "Sauron has longed for our doom for many years. Shall we grant him his desire?"
Jon glanced between his companions, the shadow of Sauron's malice still darkening his thoughts. His voice changed as he slowly mastered himself. "No," he said gravely, "we shall not be swayed by fear or dread. If Sauron desires my death, he shall earn it in battle. Yet I would not ask you to follow me into such peril."
Loras scowled, eyes dark with old grief. "Madness! Do you think we would stand by and let you face that tyrant alone? I lost Renly, and I would sooner fall here beside you than face that grief again. I will not lose you too."
Jon's heart stirred at Loras's words, a deep ache rising within him. The grief that clung to Loras like a shadow was plain to see, and Jon could not find the words to answer him, but his voice failed, for this was love and loyalty beyond measure.
Robar laughed softly. "Aye, do you think I'll face the wrath of your kin alone, brother," he said, and there was a gleam in his eyes. "Lady Ashara and Princess Arianne may kill me swiftly, but it's Galadriel and Írimë who'd twist my mind into knots. I'd sooner face a Balrog than fall foul of those two."
A pale smile, like a gleam of cold sun on a winter's evening, passed over Jon's face, though the burden of his heart lay heavy still. "Neither Lalwen nor Galadriel would twist a man's mind so," he said softly, though a warmth flickered in his heart, knowing the fierce love they shared. Yet, too, joy burned bright, for in this hour of darkness, he was not alone. Their loyalty and friendship shone like a light, undimmed by the darkness.
Let us stand together, brothers," said Jon as if the doom that lay upon them was already known. Glancing at the great horde, he drew his sword, and the elven blade sparkled in the silver light, but at its edges, a blue fire flickered, and his companions, Loras and Robar, stood grim and resolute.
"He who slays the least among these creatures," cried Loras, his voice rising like a challenge before the storm, "shall owe the rest a night of mead in the Honeyed Maiden."
Robar, standing grim, let a rare laugh escape his lips, though it was but a fleeting sound. "I am with you," he said, to Jon's surprise, for Robar was not one to jest in such dark times. But there was a spark, a faint memory of youth rekindled in that hour as if, for a moment, they stood unburdened.
Jon felt it too, the stirring of days long past before the darkness had crept into the land and the shadow of Sauron had fallen upon them. And for a fleeting moment, he welcomed it, a glimpse of the lives they once knew, now far behind them.
"So be it," said Jon, a faint smile ghosting across his face. "Let us begin then. But mark me—stay your hand long enough to settle your debts, for the enemy is not yet vanquished."
"I knew it," murmured Loras, though his voice trembled with a thrill of both fear and wonder. "We are bound to face the Dark Lord himself…"
"You are both mad," sighed Robar, though no bitterness touched his words, there was a weariness to the old rune lord.
"Aye," said Jon quietly, "perhaps we are. Yet this foe cannot be overcome without great sacrifice, nor can we hope to stand without risking madness. We dare not err now, so hear my counsel."
Jon then spoke his plan, though the words came heavily to the ears of Loras and Robar. They listened, yet with each passing word, dread mounted in their hearts, for his counsel was grim and perilous.
"And if, by some chance, this plan of yours succeeds," said Loras. "Then it will not be Sauron who brings you down, but the Lady of Light herself."
Robar laughed grimly. "Aye, Jon," he said. "If Sauron does not slay you, Galadriel and Írimë will take up that task. Do you think to escape their wrath? I would rather walk into the flames of Angband than stand before those two in their fury. I can see it now—both crossing the Straight Path, even into the Halls of Mandos, to demand justice for your folly."
Jon said nothing, for he knew well the truth of their words. The thought of his kin—their fierce love and terrible wrath—was like a fire that burned in his heart, for their love was not gentle but strong as the sea, and their anger would be swift and strong.
But he did not speak of it further, praying that it would not come to such an end, and he knew that if death came for him, it would not be long before those he loved would seek him, unto the ending of the world.
(Elendil upon the plains of Gorgoroth)
The Enemy had come forth from his dark tower. And his eyes beheld Sauron, where once his form was fairest of all bending the hearts of men to his will, he was a shadow of malice, great and terrible, and the weight of his hatred lay heavy upon the earth.
He turned and saw that Elrond was now standing beside him, though his face was worn with toil. His armour, once bright, was now dim with blood and filth, and his sword gleamed darkly with the gore of orcs. "So, it has come to this," he said, and his voice was low. "Our efforts have borne fruit at last."
Elendil smiled, though his heart was filled with pity. "You have lived, Elrond," he said, "And I'm glad for it. But now we must hasten, for the hour is late, and the foe is before us. We cannot tarry if we are to strike him down."
"No, we cannot delay," Elrond replied, "but we cannot rush blindly, son of Amandil. Sauron has come forth from his stronghold, yet we are not strong enough to challenge him alone. We must gather our strength, lest all be lost." His words were grave, and Elendil felt the weight of them, for the orcs continued to pour forth from the Dark Tower, a tide of malice that seemed without end.
"The Enemy has put forth all his strength," said a voice behind him, and Elendil turned. There stood Gil-galad, his armour blackened by battle, and beside him was Círdan. Their faces were grim and weary, though their eyes were bright with the fire of war.
"The time has come at last," said Gil-galad, and his voice was deep and filled with sorrow. "The Enemy is upon us, and we must stand against him."
Elrond spoke then, his gaze sweeping the field. "Where are the others, my lord? Where are Thranduil and Amroth?"
"They fight on the right flank," Gil-galad answered. "But I'd wager they shall join us shortly."
"And where is Glorfindel?" asked Elendil, his eyes searching for the noble lord of Gondolin.
"Here," came a voice, and Glorfindel strode forward, his armour caked in filth, his face shadowed with battle. His sword hung at his side, and his eyes were dim with weariness, though his spirit remained unbroken. Behind him marched several elves of Lindon, their faces set with grim resolve, their axes notched, and plate marred by ash.
"The hour is upon us, my lord's. Soon, these dark days shall end", said Glorfindel.
"We must deal with the Nine first," said Elrond, his voice cold and stern. "We cannot draw near to Sauron as long as they remain. Their terror will break our ranks before we reach him."
Gil-galad nodded, his brow furrowed. "Where is King Durin and his kin?"
"They fight in the trenches, as ever," Elrond said, a frown upon his face. "Even age shall not slow that dwarf."
"And what of Jon, Loras, and Robar?" Glorfindel asked. "They were seen heading towards Amon Amarth, leading a company of men."
It was then a messenger from Arnor came, bowing low before the lords. "My lords, I bring word. The three knights ride for Amon Amarth and go swiftly, leading their men against the Enemy."
Gil-galad's face darkened. "They ride to their doom. Sauron will not suffer them to live. Jon bears Ringil, and the Dark Lord knows its power. He will seek to destroy them."
Glorfindel wiped the sweat from his brow. "By the Valar, those Fools! My king, we must find them quickly, or I fear Sauron shall slay them all!"
The lords looked to one another and knew the truth of Glorfindel's words. The time had come, and they could not afford to lose their captains to folly. The Dark Lord was before them, and all hope now rested upon the valour of their hearts and their strength of arms.
"Where is Lady Galadriel?" asked Glorfindel, his voice low and weary though his keen eyes darted about. "I thought she would have returned by now."
Cirdan stood silent for a moment, and his face darkened. "She has not yet returned., Oh, by the Valar, what if the enemy had ambushed her on the road!"
"Do not trouble yourself, Cirdan," said Glorfindel. "She will return. My heart tells me that her own drives her with all haste."
"May she come soon," growled Elrond, his face grim as he looked toward the host of Sauron. "We will need all our strength, even that may not be enough."
Elendil frowned. "Too much has been lost already," he said bitterly. "Friends, kinsmen, allies… Let us have his head and be done with it."
At that moment, Gil-galad stepped to his side, tall and grim, yet in his eyes, there glowed a light undimmed, fierce as the stars. His spear Aeglos, keen and cold as winter's breath, glimmered white in the growing gloom. "Do not waver, my friend," he said. "Our doom approaches; let us meet it with unshaken hearts and unyielding will."
Thus, they stood proud and noble, the lords of Men and Elves. Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor, stood at the fore, and beside him strode Elendil, lord of the West, unbent and mighty. So, they went forth into the last battle against the Dark Lord upon the slopes of the Mountain of Fire. Shadow and flame rolled over the land, yet their hearts held no fear, for they faced the power of Sauron with grim defiance, filled with the fire of courage, as the might of the Enemy gathered before them.
(Jon upon the plains of Gorgoroth)
Beneath the shadow of the Mountain, Jon moved swiftly among his foes, and Ringil's cold flame gleamed in the murk, cutting through the armour and shields of the Black Númenóreans and the dark Dwarves of the East. Long and hard had been the road to this dreadful hour, and now the final doom of battle lay before him. The ground littered with the fallen, their blood mingling upon the ashen earth. It seemed to Jon as if the very soil wept red beneath the slaughter, and the air was thick with the stench of death.
Jon's heart stirred at the sight of a mighty host of Dwarves holding fast, unyielding as stone; at their head was Durin, wielding his mighty axe, and Magni, with his great Warhammer in hand. Their eyes blazed with the fire of the forges, and their cries of defiance rang like the tolling of deep bells. The Dwarves fought as though under the eye of Lord Aule himself, each blow they struck cleaving armour and bone alike. Durin's axe cleaved through the dark helms and iron corslets of the Black Númenóreans, and Magni's hammer rang like a smith's stroke upon an anvil.
Jon's glance lingered on his companions—Durin, his beard matted with the blood and sweat of battle, his axe gleaming red in the faint light; and Magni, his hammer glinting cold and bright beneath the smoky sky. They were beset on all sides by the foul dwarves of the east, but neither blade nor spear could fell them. The sight of their courage stirred Jon's heart anew, filling him with a grim resolve. Raising Ringil high, the cold light of its edge gleaming through the smoke and ruin, he let out a battle cry. And in that moment, it was as if Turin had come again and the spear that sought him broke upon his shield like waves upon stone.
Soon enough, the field lay strewn with the fallen, and those that yet drew breath fled like shadows back towards the mountain. Jon beheld Durin, standing tall amidst the ruin, leaning upon his great axe, with measured steps, Jon strode forth, his voice ringing clear above the stillness.
"Is the King of Khazad-Dûm weary at last?" he called, half kindly, half mockingly.
Durin turned and let out a booming laugh. "Weary? Ha! May Aulë's hammer smite you for your insolence, Jon!" he said, his voice harsh as stone breaking.
"Well, my friend," Jon said. "The hour is upon us, and the Enemy stirs from his tower. Let us be done with our jests, for the Dark Lord's reckoning draws near."
"You are still a shameless fool, Jon," Durin growled, his sweat-streaked face blackened with the dirt of battle. Both turned as an evil cry rent the air and from the shadows, a host of wicked Dwarves appeared, come to relieve the Black Númenóreans, their dark armour gleaming with malice.
Jon's heart quickened, and without a word, he raised his fingers to his lips and let out a sharp, ringing whistle that cut through the din.
"Keep your wits about you, fool!" Durin shouted. He swung his axe, burying it in the chest of a Dwarf who had broken from the throng, but as Durin wrenched his axe free, another evil Dwarf crept up behind him, axe raised high for a deadly strike. Jon moved swiftly, his blade flashing like silver lightning, and with a single stroke of Ringil, beheaded the dwarf.
"Arggh…that one counts as mine", Durin growled, pulling his axe from the skull of a fallen dwarf.
"I'm sorry, friend, but I was merely calling for aid," Jon said.
"Bah!" Durin spat. "Always with your sorcery."
"Even Sauron uses sorcery, old king. It is no crime that we should do the same to best him. Besides, Loras, Robar, and I have made a wager."
Durin grunted. "And what mischief are you three plotting now?"
Jon smiled. "Whoever slays the most enemies buys the others jugs of mead in the finest tavern of Osgiliath."
Durin's eyes gleamed. "Mead, you say? I'll join your little contest, boy."
"By all means," Jon said with a laugh. "Though you may find yourself outmatched."
Durin cursed as he hewed another orc in half. "I have killed twenty-three already!" he boasted.
"Forty-five," Jon replied with a grin.
Durin's eyes widened. "What!? No upstart Dúnedain whelp will outdo me!" He roared and charged into the fray with renewed vigour, leaving Jon and Magni to exchange a glance.
Magni chuckled, wiping the blood from his brow. "What madness has gripped Durin now?"
Jon turned to him. "Our old friend wishes to win a night of ale from the Honeyed Maiden."
Magni laughed, a low, rumbling sound. "Ah, I remember that tavern well," he said. "I'll join you and look forward to your generosity, my friend."
He wanted to laugh at its absurdity and how they were all like children, hiding their dread behind jests even now. But it worked. And for now, that was enough.
Jon scolded himself for his foolishness, forcing his thoughts aside as he pressed onward once more. The enemy fell before him, unable to stand against the might of Hador's helm and the stroke of Ringil. And then, from the sky, a shadow fell upon the battlefield. A piercing screech cut through the din of war, and Jon knew it at once. Deathclaw, his faithful companion, descended with a cry of fury. The beast's talons rent through a hulking orc, scattering its kin in terror. Jon's heart swelled at the sight of his friend.
"Thank you," Jon said, though as he reached to stroke the griffon's neck, Deathclaw turned sharply away, clearly displeased at having been summoned.
"I needed aid," Jon said, mounting the great beast. "Ghost leads his packs far to the north, Lòmeroccoo is still recovering, and Vhagar...well, the dragons have refused to enter Mordor."
Deathclaw ruffled his feathers at this, clearly pleased that Vhagar had stayed behind. Jon laughed softly.
"Deathclaw..." Jon muttered, though the gryphon merely ruffled his feathers in disdain. With a steady hand upon the creature's neck, Jon wondered once more at the absence of dragons from this war-ravaged land. Such beasts, proud and mighty, hadn't dared to enter these lands in all their long years here, though he doubted their fire would have availed much against the Dark Tower.
They soared eastward, swift as the wind, their shadow flickering upon the desolation below. Mordor lay in ruin, yet even in this barren land, the Eye's malice lingered. A storm of arrows rose from the fields—black, venom-tipped, and filled with hatred. But Deathclaw, with wings strong as the winds, wove between them, each shaft falling harmlessly to the ground. The cries of astonishment from below, faint yet unmistakable, followed them—men, elves, and orcs alike, staring skyward as he passed.
Jon's heart was filled with dread. The Dark Lord was a living shadow, vast and terrible, his black armour gleaming beneath the red light of Orodruin. In his hand, the great mace swung with the force of a tempest, scattering the warriors of Arnor like leaves in the wind. Men and elves fought with all the strength left in them, yet their swords and spears clanged uselessly against the dark shield of their foe. Each blow they struck was met with death as Sauron hurled them back with a sweep of his mighty arm, sending them tumbling like broken reeds before a storm.
Deathclaw's wings beat faster as they descended toward the battlefield, and Jon's mind raced. Sauron had not seen him yet, not indeed. But he knew the Dark Lord could sense him, the way a storm senses the rising winds. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, its weight a familiar comfort in his hand.
At that moment, Sauron's great helm turned. Jon felt it before he saw it—the tyranny of the Dark Lord's gaze. Eyes burning like coals in the heart of a furnace, and for an instant, the field fell silent as if the world itself held its breath.
Jon's countenance bore such strength that neither Elf nor Man at his side withdrew, for some measure of his courage seemed to pass unto them.
Thus, emboldened by this silent fellowship, Jon strode forward, though his heart was set upon a perilous course. Sauron, dark and terrible, had marked his coming and lowered the mighty mace in his hand as he beheld him.
As Jon drew near, the first thing he felt was the searing heat that radiated from the fallen Maia. It was like unto the great furnaces of Aulë, whose forge blazed with the fire of creation, a heat known to rival even the breath of dragons. Yet it was by the strength of his Valyrian blood alone that Jon withstood such heat, for lesser men would have perished at its touch.
Cries arose from the host behind him, voices of Elf and Man calling out in warning and fear. Yet Jon did not heed them. With grim resolve, he pressed forward until, at last, he stood before his foe, raising his gaze to meet the eyes of Sauron, the Dark Lord, whose presence alone was enough to smite the hearts of the bold.
For a time, there was no sound save the wind that swept across the blackened plains, carrying with it the distant murmurs of war and the trembling of the earth beneath Orodruin. Jon stood facing the Dark Lord, and there was a great silence as if the world itself waited upon the edge of doom.
Then, at last, Jon spoke, his voice unwavering, though his heart was heavy with the weight of all that had passed and all that might yet come. "I am here," he said, "You have watched me from afar, through shadows and fire, from the moment I set foot upon the shores of Middle-earth. You sought my death and the death of those I hold dear. And yet, now I stand before you, alone."
But Sauron, the Lord of Mordor, stood unmoving, his vast shadow stretching far over the broken land, and he spoke no word. His helm, black and terrible, gleamed with the fire of the mountain, and his dark eyes burned beneath its rim. Yet after a time, he answered, and his voice was as the grinding of stone and iron, deep and cold so that the hearts of many faltered.
"You know nothing, Jon Snow," said Sauron, and his voice seemed to fill the air, as though he spoke not only with his mouth, but also with his thought. The power of it pressed upon Jon's mind, and he felt as if a great weight had fallen upon him. "You presume to stand before me, yet you are a child playing at war. A bastard, cast out by your own kin, wandering the wilds, unloved and unwanted."
At these words, the soldiers of the Last Alliance murmured among themselves, their hearts troubled, for the Dark Lord's speech was filled with malice, and many were struck with doubt. But Jon held his gaze, though the weight of Sauron's voice pressed heavily upon him. And in the distance, Deathclaw stirred, screeching in defiance, for the beast sensed the malice in Sauron's words and would not be cowed.
"Do you think I would be so easily ensnared by your pitiful designs?" said Sauron. "You stand before me with nought, but that fool beast which the Lords of the West have sent to guard you, and you think to challenge me? Know this, Jon Snow: I am no fool to fall prey to the schemes of a mortal child, born of weakness and failure. You are nothing, and your death will be swift."
And at that, Sauron laughed, a sound like the clash of great hammers upon shields, harsh and terrible, and the hosts of Mordor took up the sound, mocking and jeering. Jon felt the cold hand of doubt press upon him, for Sauron's voice was like a sword, sharp and cruel, and it cut at the heart. But he stood firm, his mind guarded, for he knew well that this was the Dark Lord's way, to twist words as he twisted all things, bending them to his will.
Then Sauron spoke again, and his voice was full of scorn. "The Lords of the West have wasted their strength on you, a mortal of no worth. You, who brought death to your mother in birth, and were cast out from your first home as an unwanted thing. In the second, you were despised by those who knew you for the wretch you are. Even your first love abandoned you for a lion swathed as a stag, for she saw your weakness and fled from it. And when the time came to protect your king, you failed him, as you have failed all those who trusted you. You fled your homeland like a coward and left your brother to die dishonoured and broken."
And as Sauron spoke these words, Jon's heart darkened, for the Dark Lord's words struck deep, and all that had passed in his life came back to him, the loss, the failure, the betrayals. Yet his heart wavered; he would now bow and spoke in answer, sufficed with a resolve born of long suffering.
"Do you speak to me of failure, servant of Shadow?" Jon said, and his voice, though quiet, carried through the field. "You, who were overthrown by Lúthien and Huan, who drove you from your lair and left you to cower in the shadows of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. You, who begged for Eönwë mercy, grovelling before the Herald of the Valar. And what of your great designs? Your plan to subjugate the Elves with the Rings of Power failed, and the might of Númenor drove you from the land like a beaten hound. When you faced Ar-Pharazôn, your servants abandoned you to the mercy of your enemies."
At this, there was a stir among the ranks of the Last Alliance, for Jon's words reminded them of the long history of Sauron's defeats, and hope kindled once more in their hearts. The soldiers of the West tightened their grips on their weapons, and many cast their eyes toward Jon with renewed faith.
But the Dark Lord's eyes burned brighter, and the ground trembled beneath his feet as his wrath grew. He towered above Jon like a shadow of doom, and the flames of Orodruin blazed higher behind him, as though they answered to his fury.
Yet Jon did not retreat, for though fear clutched at him, he knew that Sauron's pride was his greatest flaw, and it was by that pride that he hoped to gain a small victory.
However, upon hearing him mock the Lord of Mordor in his face, a murmur of disbelief ran through the ranks of both armies; elves, men, dwarves, and even the orcs watched Jon with horror.
Sauron, being of the order of the Maiar, held knowledge surpassing that of any mortal man, yet even the greatest of the Ainur were not beyond the reach of deceit when the right moment came. Jon was no fool; he knew he could not outwit such a being, and no pride led him to believe he would be an exception to this truth. His mind turned to a desperate stratagem: to draw Sauron's ire upon himself, to give his companions the chance to strike in secret. It was a plan born of madness, folly at every turn, yet Jon knew the aim was not to vanquish Sauron this day but to delay and weaken him until the Lords of the Eldar came, bringing hope of his ruin.
But they must come swiftly, or all would fall beneath the shadow. The heat emanating from Sauron grew fiercer, and the very air seemed to darken about him as though his black armour devoured the light of the world. The sight chilled the hearts of those who stood by, and even Jon felt the weight of his presence like an iron shackle about his throat. Yet he stood firm, for he knew that if he faltered, the courage of his men would crumble like leaves in a storm. And they were already drawing back.
Then Sauron spoke, his voice venomous with malice yet cold as iron. "Foolish child, do you think to stand before me with such insolence, here in my realm and before my host? Do you think that you and your pitiful band shall escape alive? What madness makes you believe I would let you leave this place unscathed?"
Jon met his gaze, though it seemed to bore into his very soul. "You will never let us go," he replied, his voice steady though his heart seethed with rage. "But if I fall, know this—I will die knowing I shall defy you till my last breath."
Sauron laughed. "Hatred, you say. Gratitude is what you owe me, ungrateful fool. Or have you forgotten it was through my design that you claimed Galadriel, stealing her from her weak husband? Thief of love…" His voice, mocking and venomous, struck deep, but Jon's fury burned brighter than his fear.
In that instant, Jon could bear no more. Whatever Sauron's words meant to those who heard, he cared not; he would not allow the honour of his beloved star to be sullied by the malice of the Enemy. Suddenly, Jon drew Ringil, its cold light flashing in the darkness, and leapt at Sauron. But the Dark Lord, though vast in form, moved with a swiftness that belied his might, evading the stroke with ease.
Jon sprang back just as Sauron's mace fell with the force of thunder, shattering the ground and leaving a great rent in the earth.
"Our words are at an end," Jon thought grimly as Sauron bore upon him with dread purpose. Ringil was in his hand, gleaming like a star as he readied himself to face the Dark Lord.
Now Jon moved with swift purpose, wielding Ringil, and with a stroke born of desperation, he struck Sauron upon the side, for the Dark Lord's great stature made him vulnerable to the reach of the blade. A terrible cry burst from Sauron, echoing like thunder, and Jon saw that the sword smoked where it had pierced the dark flesh of his foe, black blood hissing upon the blade. Yet the wound seemed not to hinder Sauron, for with the speed and fury of a tempest, he countered, and the weight of his black shield met Ringil in a clash that echoed across the field.
Ill fate... Jon thought, cursing under his breath. That helm had safeguarded him from grievous wounds, but now it was gone, and he had only his healing strength, the armour upon his back, and the shield of Fingolfin, his ancestor, to protect him. He knew well that even these mighty defences could not match the wrath of an Ainur, but rising swiftly, he resolved to fight on, for retreat was no option. His task now was not to win, but to endure.
Again, Jon pressed the attack, bringing Ringil down in a mighty stroke, but Sauron blocked the blow with his black shield. To the amazement of all who watched, the dark shield shuddered, and Jon, seizing the moment, struck at Sauron's legs, seeking to topple the giant. But Sauron leapt back with unnatural speed, his malice growing ever greater.
"Not only is he swift beyond reckoning, but his strength is beyond mortal measure," Jon thought grimly. "Were it not for this shield, I would've been killed."
With swift might, Sauron wielded his shield, and the next blow of, Jon was turned aside. Then the two came together in a great contest, and they clashed, and the sound of their battle was as the thunder upon the mountains. Jon, though mortal, did not yield, but his strength was sorely tested, for Sauron, in his wrath, was as a storm, swift and unrelenting.
Ringil glowed with the light of its forging, and Jon struck again, this time at the legs of Sauron, seeking to bring him low. But Sauron, though mighty in stature, moved with the speed of the wind, and leapt back from the stroke. Then with a great shout, Sauron raised his mace, and it fell upon Jon like the hammer of the world, but Jon met it with Ringil, and the clash of their weapons shook the ground.
Yet Jon stood firm, though his arm was sorely tested, and his heart laboured within him. Still, he pressed on, for the fire of his spirit was not quenched, though the might of the Dark Lord bore down upon him. Again, and again their weapons rang, but Sauron, though wounded, did not falter, and his malice grew with every stroke.
Sauron, with cruel laughter, charged at him, his dark form looming over Jon as he slammed into him, sending him to the ground. The heat of the Dark Lord's body was unbearable, Sauron's foot came down upon his chest, pinning him. The agony was unlike anything Jon had ever known, as though a great boulder of molten stone pressed upon him, crushing his ribs and stealing his breath.
"Fool," Sauron growled, his voice cold. "You may wield the sword of Fingolfin, but you are not his equal." With that, Sauron seized Jon by the neck, lifting him from the ground. The heat of his grasp was like Dragonfire, and Jon felt his flesh burn as Sauron's grip tightened. He gasped for breath, struggling against the overwhelming power that sought to crush the life from him.
"I… I do not…" Jon tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. Yet in that moment, his eyes fell upon a ring, gleaming with subtle malice, its inscription glowing faintly with fire.
For a moment, all thoughts of his peril forgotten. But then, there came a monstrous roar, the cry of some great beast. The sound shook Jon from his trance, and Sauron screamed in rage, for two swords had pierced his black armour, driving deep and causing black smoke to rise from the wounds.
Jon gasped as Sauron released him, falling to his knees and gasping for breath. His neck burned with a terrible heat, yet he could not rise; the pain was too great, and he remained kneeling, his strength nearly spent, as the battle raged on.
Then Jon, lifting his gaze, beheld that his brothers in arms had struck true, drawing their swords from the body of Sauron. Yet the Dark Lord, though wounded and furious, did not fall but rose again, his eyes ablaze with malice. In that moment, Deathclaw descended from the skies with a mighty cry, seizing Sauron by the neck with his talons. With a great heave, Deathclaw bore the Dark Lord aloft, high into the heavens, and then released him, casting him down upon the earth. There was a thunderous crash as Sauron struck the ground, and a thick veil of dust arose, obscuring all sight. But Sauron's host, enraged by the fall of their master, surged forward in wrath. The forces of Osgiliath, with swords drawn, moved swiftly to defend Jon and his companions, and in that hour, Loras and Robar took the chance to draw Jon away from the fray.
"Your neck," said Loras, his voice filled with concern as he beheld the scorched skin, "it is marred by fire. How can this be? Is it not said that the blood of the Targaryens is immune to flame?"
Jon, weary from battle, had no ready answer. Twice before had he felt the searing touch of flame: once in the heat of a dragon's breath, and once when, through chance or fate, he had performed a ritual of the ancient Valyrians, rediscovering the lost art of forging Valyrian steel. But this burning, the memory of Sauron's hand upon his neck, was like no other. The strength of the Dark Lord had been as a mountain bearing down upon him, and Jon had known in that moment not whether he would perish from the fire of Sauron's touch or from his strength.
"Are you well?" Robar's voice cut through his thoughts, and Jon, still dazed, nodded. He cast his gaze skyward, watching as Deathclaw flew swiftly away into the distance.
"Thank you, Deathclaw... but where are you going, my friend?" Jon thought, his heart filled with gratitude and bewilderment at the sudden flight of his gryphon.
"Fool, I name you a fool, Jon!" Robar barked. "You charged at Sauron, driven by reckless whim."
"He insulted Galadriel," Jon muttered, his voice thick with anger. His brothers sighed, wearied by his words.
"Ah, ever the gallant fool," said Robar, shaking his head, "defender of your Lady's honour. But have you thought what the Lady of Light will say when she learns of your folly? You are ever quick to leap into peril, Jon, but not always quick to think of the consequences."
Jon remained silent, for in his heart, he knew the truth of Robar's words, though the fire of his spirit would not easily be quenched.
Jon spoke, his voice laden with wrath. "It is more than an insult, Robar. That cursed serpent, Sauron, proclaimed before all that he had claimed my Lady, speaking thus after the passing of Lord Celeborn. Many there were, Men and Elves alike, who heard his vile words." Loras and Robar exchanged glances, their faces dark with bitter understanding.
"I grieve for you both, and for Lady Írimë as well," Loras said, "yet sooner or later, this would have come to light. It is a sorrow that—"
But ere he could finish, a mighty roar of rage echoed across the battlefield, and all light was swallowed by a shadow, as though the sun itself had been blotted out. They turned their eyes to the field, and behold! Sauron stood once more, tall and terrible, like a tower of iron, unyielding.
"We shall speak no more of such matters now," Jon said, grimacing as the searing pain in his neck flared anew, though his arm, once broken, had begun to mend.
"As you wish," Loras replied, though a wry smile touched his lips. "But you are in for a reckoning, my friend, when Lady Galadriel learns of this folly."
"Indeed," Robar chimed in, his voice tinged with mockery. "My wife once asked me who was the most feared—Lady Írimë, Lady Shiera, or Princess Rhaenys? It seems we are about to learn."
Jon frowned. "A fair question indeed..." he muttered to himself.
But Robar's voice grew stern as he gazed toward the Enemy. "Now is not the time for jest, Jon. What can you tell us of Sauron's strength?"
"He is a Maia, his strength beyond mortal measure. His blows are swift and mighty; the mace he wields is death itself. And his very touch burns with such heat that no man nor elf could endure it long."
Robar nodded gravely. "Then we must remain ever on guard, for it is a wonder that Sauron did not fall when we plunged our swords into him."
Jon merely scoffed, his weariness weighing upon him. "He is no mere creature of flesh. Sauron is of the Ainur, a Maia of great power, and the wounds we dealt him are but a hindrance."
But then Jon's eyes widened, for he felt a stirring in his heart. Deathclaw returned, and with him, two familiar presences. One of them, Jon knew, was filled with wrath.
"What of your Ladies, Jon?" Robar asked. "Were they not to return to the camp?"
"They are surely on their way. Galadriel IS watchful. If my fears are correct, she already knows what has transpired." Jon's voice grew uneasy, for he could feel the anger of his beloved star drawing nearer.
Loras glanced about. "Where are our King and the others? Should they not be here already?"
"They are delayed, no doubt," Robar replied. "The host of the Enemy is vast, and many foes stand between us and them. As for Kings Durin and Magni, they were separated from us by the onslaught."
"They will come," Jon said, his voice firm. "But for now, we must hold our ground alone."
Loras raised his sword, resolute. "Then let us finish this. I would return to Annuminas and meet your son."
At those words, Jon's heart was steadied, and a flicker of hope stirred within him. "Yes," he said, donning his helm once more. "Let it be done. My son waits in Imladris, and I shall not leave this world until I hold him in my arms."
And with that, Jon and his companions steeled themselves for the battle ahead, for Sauron, enraged by his humiliation, drew near, his wrath unrelenting.
(Cirdan near the Dark Tower)
Beside him, Glorfindel strode forward with a grim expression. "We have come far, my Lord," Glorfindel said, his voice heavy with concern. "But the hour is late. Do you think we will reach the mountain before Sauron overwhelms them?"
"I hope so, but time is against us," Círdan replied, his brow furrowed. "The Enemy presses them hard, and the way is perilous. Jon and his companions must hold as long as they can."
At that moment, Prince Elendur approached, his armour battered and his brow dark with weariness. "Lord Círdan, I saw Jon, Loras, and Robar not long past," he said, his voice breathless with exertion. "They fought near the trenches by the base of Mount Doom, but the Enemy's forces have pressed hard against them. I fear we may be too late to reach them."
Círdan's heart quickened at these words. "Then we must hasten our steps, for if they fall—" he began, but Glorfindel's voice cut in.
"They will not fall so easily, my Lord," Glorfindel said, though his tone was grim. "But we must be swift."
"Nazgûl!" came the shout, and the soldiers faltered, the black breath of the Ringwraiths seeping into their hearts. The sky darkened further, and the cold terror of the Nine descended upon them.
"We must act, or the Nazgûl will break our forces before they even reach Mount Doom," Círdan said, his voice urgent.
"Aye," Glorfindel replied, his eyes scanning the skies. "If they gather together, not even we shall stand against them."
"But where is Lady Galadriel?" Círdan wondered aloud. "Her strength could turn the tide."
Before Glorfindel could answer, Círdan felt a familiar presence—a power ancient yet filled with wrath. He looked skyward, and there, on the wings of storm, flew Deathclaw. Upon the great griffin's back were Lady Galadriel and Jon's cousin, Arya. Though Galadriel's face was stern, her wrath apparent, Círdan felt a brief moment of hope.
Since the days when he first came to know of the strange bond between his apprentice and Lady Galadriel, Círdan had sought to counsel them both, warning of the doom such a union might bring. Many times, he spoke with Jon, urging him to forsake this love, and likewise, he reasoned with the Lady herself, for whom his esteem was boundless. But their hearts were set. He had seen Jon's impetuosity often enough to ascribe it to the foolishness of youth, a fire that burned hot but with little thought of what lay ahead. She, too, had changed, allowing passion to guide her rather than reason.
Círdan thought then of another course: when they returned to Imladris, he would speak to Lady Írimë, and perhaps she might bring them to their senses. Yet, in his heart, he wondered if it was too late, for now, he must save his son.
"You have keen sight, Prince Elendur," said Glorfindel with a heavy sigh.
"Aye, Lady Galadriel rides with fury in her heart. It is no small thing."
"I cannot tell if I am fortunate or not, for never have I seen the Lady wroth," the young Prince admitted.
"Then count yourself blessed, Prince," said Círdan, though his lips pressed into a faint smile.
"You are fortunate indeed," said Gil-galad, grimly.
"The fury of the Lady Galadriel is like the dawn itself," said Elrond, standing among them. "It is beautiful and terrible, relentless as the sea and more enduring than the roots of the earth. Indeed, such wrath runs hotly in my wife's blood though she has never had need for it."
Isildur frowned. "I can scarcely believe such a thing," he said, "for in all my dealings with her, she has been gracious, kind."
"What could have stirred the Lady of Edhellond to such fury?" asked Elendur, his gaze shifting between the gathered lords.
Elendil and Círdan exchanged a knowing glance, but they said nothing, for the answer lay in their hearts, too grave to speak aloud in that moment of dread.
Then Elendil lifted high Narsil, and its flame flickered as a star of the West, and he cried aloud, "Tûl Acharn!" His voice rang out, clear upon the plains of Gorgoroth, and the host of Gondor and the Eldar surged forward, undaunted. No fear touched them, for they remembered the glory of Númenor and the mighty deeds of old in Beleriand, ere the Shadow had risen.
Out from the throng of Black Númenóreans came five cloaked in a darkness deeper than night. But the warriors of the West faltered not, though the Nazgûl, cold and terrible, advanced upon them. Neither Elf nor Man quailed. Their banners flowed bright in defiance, and beneath the black sky of Mordor, their swords and spears glittered, bright as the stars.
Glorfindel, turned to Círdan and said, "No shadow may turn aside those whose hearts are kindled with fire unquenched. We shall not be stayed." Then, to Elendil, he spoke, "Let us press forward, for the hour grows late, and the servants of the Dark Lord gather ever closer."
Círdan frowned. His thoughts wandered to Jon, and he sighed bitterly. Whatever storm thou hast roused in the heart of Lady Galadriel, it is a little thing beside the doom that draws nigh. He feared for his pupil, whose flame burned fierce, yet folly walked beside his steps. But no more could be done, for the Enemy was upon them.
Elendil, tall and terrible as a mountain, raised Narsil once more, and his voice rang out like thunder, "Tûl Acharn!" With him moved the hosts of the West, swift and deadly. Their blades sang as they slew, and their hearts were aflame. Beside him stood Isildur, grim and resolute, and Gil-galad was with them, his spear Aeglos glittering like hoarfrost beneath the shadows.
Then the Nazgûl came, veiled in shadow, their presence silent save for the chilling wail that haunted their steps. Yet the warriors of the West stood firm, unshaken by the terror the wraiths sought to bring. The light of their hearts, undimmed, clashed against the malice that darkened the land.
Gil-galad's spear flashed like lightning in the gloom, and the sword of Glorfindel shone bright as the stars of Aman, cleaving the dark. Fierce was the battle, as the fire of the Edain and the light of the Eldar mingled, driving against the shadows of the wraiths.
"They shall not endure!" cried Elendil, and with a mighty stroke, Narsil smote upon the shadow of a Nazgûl. The wraith shrank back, recoiling from the wrath of the West. And the cry of the faithful rose, ringing out upon the plains of Mordor, and even the hosts of the Enemy seemed to waver before the valour of the King.
Thus, the battle was joined, and the Men of the West sang as the slew for the love of their homes was in their hearts.
(Galadriel near the mountain of fire)
"There they are!" Arya cried. Yet the Lady of Lórien answered her not. Though the fury she harboured toward Jon lingered in her heart, it was now but a shadow compared to the sight before her. The hosts of Sauron pressed hard upon their forces, driving them back with ceaseless malice. But Galadriel's gaze passed over Gil-galad, Elendil, Elrond, and Isildur, who fought valiantly near the fires of the mountain, and rather, she sought for another—her heart's desire, her beloved, though she feared to find him.
At last, her eyes found him upon the slopes of Amon Amarth, and there he stood with his brothers-in-arms—three warriors of light, set against the vast darkness of the Enemy. Jon, her husband, stood amid them, and though it seemed madness, they faced the Dark Lord himself. Loras and Robar were at his side, bound in fellowship and valour, though the doom that gathered around them weighed heavily upon her heart.
Long had Galadriel known Jon's strength and that of his companions. In the long years of war, they had proven themselves mighty, their deeds sung of in many lands. But against Sauron, it was as children wielding reeds against the tempest. And yet they fought, fearless, moving as one, each strike met by the swift defence of the others, and each blow dealt to the Dark Lord was answered in kind. Yet Galadriel knew, in the deep places of her heart, that their strength was not enough. For no living man could measure the might of Sauron.
Then the mace of Sauron was lifted high, and with a thunderous blow, he smote the earth, and it trembled beneath the force of his wrath. A crack ran through the stone, and all three champions were cast down. Loras was the first to rise, though his sword arm hung limp at his side, his shield shattered. He stood defiant, but Sauron struck him down again with a savage blow that rent his armour. Robar, too, sought to rejoin the fight, but the mace of the Dark Lord found him, and he fell, grievously wounded, his shield splintered and broken.
Jon alone remained standing, though his breath came in ragged gasps. He beheld his fallen comrades, and dread gripped his heart. Loras lay broken upon the field, and Robar's blood ran dark upon the earth.
Then Arya spoke again, her voice faint with fear. "Is that Sauron?"
Galadriel's gaze did not leave the field, her eyes fixed upon her husband. "It is," she answered, her voice cold and distant. She saw him now, Jon, standing defiant, his helm gleaming though his strength faltered. Her heart was torn.
"He is a monster," Arya whispered, and her eyes filled with despair as she beheld Jon, battered and bloodied. "That is Jon," she cried, her voice filled with anguish.
But even as she spoke, Galadriel's keen sight discerned new peril. Dark shapes moved behind the warriors, wreathed in shadow and malice. The Nazgûl had come, their dread voices rising in a fell chorus. Among them was the Witch-king, the chief of Sauron's servants, ever at his master's side. A chill spread over the battlefield and the hearts of those who stood against them grew heavy with fear.
Galadriel spoke softly, her voice barely more than a breath. "The Nine have come. Prepare yourself, for the Enemy draws near."
The air grew cold as the dark spell of the Nazgûl fell upon Jon and his companions. Weakened by Sauron's blows, they faltered beneath the weight of the sorcery. Jon swayed upon his feet, the shadow pressing upon him, while Sauron strode forward, his mace raised for the final blow. With a great stroke, he smote Robar, whose shield shattered, and the cry of his pain rang out across the field.
Galadriel turned to Arya, her face set in grim resolve. "The time is upon us. Steel your heart."
With that, she descended upon the field, and her presence shone as a light in the gathering darkness. The soldiers parted before her, struck with awe at her coming. Arya, weeping, ran to Jon and knelt beside him, helping him to his feet. Jon, dazed and weary, looked upon his sister with dim eyes.
"Arya… why have you come?" he asked, though his voice was faint, and his strength waned. He shook his head, striving to clear the shadow that lay upon him, but when his gaze fell upon Loras and Robar, broken and bloodied, a great sorrow took hold of him.
Sauron, perceiving Galadriel at last, turned his malice toward her. The Lady of Lórien stood before him, the memory of her brother Finrod heavy upon her heart.
"It has been long since we last met, wretch", she said, her voice cold though her spirit burned within her. She had lost much to his treachery—her brother, her home in Eregion, and her husband Celeborn, whose absence still pained her.
Sauron laughed, his voice full of scorn. "At last, you stand revealed, Galadriel"
"Your time is ended" she snarled. "No more shall you bring ruin to the Free Peoples"
"The kingdoms of the Dúnedain shall fall" Sauron sneered. "Lindon and Imladris shall follow. And I shall reclaim what is mine"
"Not while I stand" Galadriel said. "You are but a servant, and to the void you shall return"
Sauron's laughter rang out across the field. "You speak of light, but I see the shadow in your heart. You bear hatred for the loss of your kin; indeed, you've the mark of your uncle about you now"
But Galadriel stood unmoved. "It is you who fear, Dark Lord. You fear what he may become."
Jon, though weary, raised his sword. "You shall pay for all the evils you have wrought"
With a great cry, Sauron rushed upon them, his wrath a storm that shook the earth.
