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LOTR: TMCP Ch. 395
🕑 Added 2025-12-25 02:18:42 +0000 UTCWhen that blazing figure appeared in midair, his whole body wreathed in fire, streaking across the sky, and shattered one Ringwraith after another, the very beings that inspired terror in all hearts, it was as though people beheld a radiant sun. The brilliance he radiated drove away every soldier's fear of Mordor. It was as if they had found an anchor for their hearts. Their morale soared, rising close to its peak. For he was the legend belonging solely to the Free Peoples. Though he had only appeared a hundred years ago, his tale was told wherever Men could reach. Even in the most remote villages, his story was known. And now, this lord of the North had descended personally upon the battlefield, effortlessly annihilating the fearsome Ringwraiths that haunted Men's nightmares.
Naturally, such a display did not escape the notice of Mordor or its allies.
"I remember the ancient tales... the Shadow of War..."
That day, the dark Men enslaved by Mordor recalled the terror from decades past. They hesitated, shrank back, and their momentum faltered. Only the fiercest and most unyielding warriors of Harad and the Easterlings clenched their teeth and pressed forward, swearing to fight to the death.
Such is mankind, whether among the free or the dark, courage is never in short supply. They too had their own faith and way of life. Their greatest mistake was allying with Sauron, deceived into darkness and turned against the good folk of Middle-earth.
The blazing sun brought comfort to people's hearts and rekindled their hope. Then, the grand sound of horns followed, stirring everyone's spirits, filling them with a faith born from the depths of their souls, faith in their home. The tide of battle completely turned. Mordor's defeat was now inevitable. But the fight still had to be fought.
Whoosh.
As Boromir blew the horn, Halbarad unfurled the royal banner, declaring the return of Isildur's bloodline. At the same time, the company of the Grey Company charged forward, joining the fray.
"Come on!"
Gimli raised his axe, cleaving through orcs one after another.
Legolas refused to be outdone, running and shooting as he went, loosing arrows that often pierced several foes at once. The Dwarf and the Elf began to compete in how many enemies they could slay.
"Thirty-five... thirty-six... Hah!"
Gimli counted aloud, then turned and shouted, "How's that? I'm ten ahead of you!"
Legolas frowned, glanced at Gimli, then at a distant mûmak, and immediately dashed toward it.
Using every bit of his elven agility, he climbed up the folds of the creature's hide, grabbed one of the ropes hanging from its tower, and swung himself upward. The enemies atop the howdah were doomed. None had expected anyone to reach them, let alone attack from behind.
Caught off guard, more than half were slain instantly. The remaining few could not threaten Legolas, and within moments the whole squad was wiped out. A moment later, when his arrow pierced the thin spot atop the beast's skull and the massive creature crashed to the ground, Gimli, who had been watching the entire time, was left dumbfounded.
That counts?!
"T-That still only counts as one!"
"I'm still ahead!" he insisted stubbornly.
Legolas shook his head and replied, "Not necessarily."
He pointed toward another part of the battlefield. Gimli looked, and saw Garrett bracing himself against a mûmak's trampling charge, then overturning the entire beast along with its tower in one brutal motion. Unlike Legolas, who had used every ounce of skill and grace to bring one down, Garrett simply overpowered them head-on, destroying any he caught sight of.
Thud.
As Garrett felled yet another mûmak with raw strength, Gimli swallowed hard.
"He doesn't count. I'm not competing with him."
Boom!
In the blink of an eye, after clearing all high-threat units, Garrett leapt onto Grond, the massive siege hammer painstakingly crafted by Sauron himself. Raising his sword, he struck downward again and again until the entire war engine was utterly destroyed. The colossal battering ram exploded apart, its fragments scattering across the ground.
With that, Mordor's defeat was complete.
The orcs were the first to collapse. Without the Ringwraiths to command them, and with Garrett, Aragorn, and their reinforcements arriving, they lost all will to fight and fled in panic. Next came the dark Men. Most of them did not flee, choosing instead to fight to the bitter end, but their resistance was futile. The battle ended not long after. Some escaped, many died. Outside the city walls lay devastation, dust, corpses, and ruin everywhere. One thing was certain. Not a single enemy was left standing.
"You have fulfilled your oath. Rest now in peace."
After the battle, Aragorn kept his word, releasing the spirits of the dead, granting them freedom from millennia of torment and pain.
"They were pretty useful," Gimli muttered reluctantly.
Aragorn only shook his head and said nothing. As a true king, one must possess integrity above all else.
"It's over, for now," Gandalf said softly, looking over the wreckage of the battlefield.
"It's not over yet," Garrett's voice came from beside him. He approached with Pippin in tow.
"This is just the beginning."
He patted Gandalf on the shoulder. Gandalf seemed to realize something, and replied, "Then, as always, take me with you. As the White Wizard, this is where I belong."
"Then... we'll meet at the Black Gate."
"See you at the Black Gate."
Just as Garrett was about to turn and leave, a heart-wrenching cry echoed from afar.
"No!"
Éomer had fallen to his knees, holding the limp body of Éowyn in his arms, weeping in anguish. His cry drew the attention of every marshal and soldier of Rohan nearby. When they saw their princess lying motionless on the battlefield, shock filled their hearts, followed by grief so deep that many could not hold back their tears.
"Only those who face the trials of battle without fear are true warriors."
Théodred, who had followed Éomer there, murmured the very words he had once said to Éowyn, his mind dazed.
"You are a true warrior, Éowyn, no less than any man who rides into battle."
He knelt beside her still body, unable to hold back his tears any longer.
"Ugh."
A groan came from nearby.
"Is anyone going to check on me?"
Théoden, struggling, pushed the fallen horse off his body and gasped for breath as he looked up at the sky.
"Father!"
Hearing the familiar voice, Théodred rushed over first and helped Théoden to his feet.
The old king, limping and supported by his son, walked to the grieving Éomer and said, "Did you not notice your sister still breathes?"
The words struck Éomer like lightning. He immediately checked Éowyn and found that she was alive, barely. But her condition was dire. Her skin had turned blackish, her veins dark and swollen, as though poisoned by some evil force.
"The Black Shadow sickness... the incurable poison of the Ringwraiths," Théoden murmured.
"It's said those afflicted fall into an endless sleep, their souls sinking slowly into darkness. When I was young, two Rangers from the roadside fortress near Rohan once told me of this illness. There are two cures. One is the Holy Milk Elixir of the Free Cities. The other is a secret remedy known only to the Dúnedain. And now..."
He smiled faintly, utterly unafraid.
For to his left stood Garrett, and to his right stood Aragorn. Both of them had been drawn over by Éomer's heart-rending wail. One of them needed no introduction. The other was the prophesied king, famed also as a legendary healer. If these two couldn't save her, Théoden might as well follow Éowyn into death.
"Leave it to me," Aragorn said, stepping forward before Garrett could.
Garrett expected him to take out athelas, the king's healing herb, to perform the fabled miracle of the "Hands of the King."
Instead, to his surprise, Aragorn pulled out a flask of milk rations he had received earlier from the fortress of the roadside keep.
Wait... what? He was speechless.
He had been expecting something grand, and was utterly let down.
Aragorn only chuckled and said, "Well, this works faster, doesn't it?"
He could have used athelas to cure the Black Shadow, of course, but if a quicker, more effective remedy existed, why not use it?
Éowyn was not the only one afflicted. When Pippin came over, he spotted Merry's cloak lying on the ground, and his smile vanished. The Witch-king, or indeed any Ringwraith, was not something mortals could even approach safely.
Simply standing near them, doing nothing, their black breath could sicken anyone nearby. Éowyn and Merry had fought the Witch-king for a long time. That they had survived at all was already a miracle.
After a long search, Pippin found Merry unconscious. He too had been struck by the Black Shadow. This time, Garrett took action. He poured a bottle of milk down Merry's throat, and the dark vapors clinging to the Hobbit's body dispersed. Both, however, were completely exhausted. Even after being cured, they remained unconscious.
They were carried to Minas Tirith for rest and recovery. But that wasn't the end of it. Moments later, Denethor arrived, with a request.
Faramir was suffering from the same symptoms, and worse, he had been wounded by a Morgul-blade. The shards of the cursed weapon were slowly moving toward his heart, keeping him trapped in a deep coma.
With Denethor came Boromir. Pleased, Denethor patted Boromir's shoulder and began his usual comparison.
"Faramir will never be like his brother. Look, our hero, Boromir, has returned with reinforcements, bringing hope to all. Not like that frail invalid lying in bed, who couldn't even hold a city and had to be rescued."
Boromir's face darkened. He protested, "Father, I've spoken with the soldiers. This isn't Faramir's fault. You've always sent him to the most dangerous places, to do the hardest tasks, and you never once showed understanding. You even scolded him without reason!"
"Silence! Don't defend that useless boy! If he weren't so weak, he wouldn't have..."
Denethor was spiraling again, his temper flaring. Behind him, Gandalf gave Garrett a look. Garrett understood instantly. He drew a short mithril dagger and quietly stepped behind Denethor. Under Boromir's confused gaze, he tapped Denethor's shoulder.
The Steward turned around, puzzled, then froze when he saw what Garrett was holding.
It wasn't just any weapon. It was a finely crafted ceremonial dagger, inlaid with mithril, the very same blade Denethor's grandfather, Turgon, had once presented to Garrett on behalf of Gondor many years ago. Upon it was engraved the unmarked crest of the House of Húrin. Whoever bore this dagger could claim the full aid of that noble house.
Denethor, proud as he was, would never break such an oath. So he waited, for Garrett to speak, knowing he was about to fulfill his family's ancient promise. Under Denethor's wary gaze, Garrett stepped closer.
But what he said next caught the Steward completely off guard.
"I don't like meddling in other people's family matters, but as a father, you've failed rather spectacularly. Today, I'll do your grandfather's job for you, and teach you how a man should treat his family."
"Wait!" Denethor shouted, finally realizing something was wrong.
But it was too late.
At the side, Boromir stood frozen for a moment, then wisely shut his eyes and covered his ears.
He didn't see. He didn't hear.
