"There is a curse. They say:
May you live in interesting times."

― Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times

44. On the Fields of Pelennor

Shaking with a combination of cold and fear, Beregond huddled under a dense thicket of thorny bushes. He had to leave his hiding place soon, or he would either freeze to death or die of dehydration, but though Osgiliath was quiet now he didn't dare move. Not yet.

Why had he accepted the stupid mission to carry a demon cat from the city, right on the brink of war? Now he would die out here in the darkness while his city was destroyed. His city, where he against all caution had allowed his son to linger. Had Bergil managed to escape before the enemy arrived? Beregond would probably never find out, because soon he would die like everyone else.

He wiped away a tear. He missed Runner, even though it was his fault Beregond had become stuck here. It had happened when they fled from the enemy host and ran into a company of Haradrim with oliphaunts. The huge beasts caused the horse to bolt in panic, taking a turn away from the road, and when Beregond finally managed to regain control the retreat path was cut off.

Runner had left some time during the second night, probably in search of grass and water, and since then Beregond had been utterly alone. Peeking out from the thorns, he had watched the largest and most frightening army he had ever seen pass by, with legions upon legions of orcs, oliphaunt riders, trolls and foreign axe men, and a leader that was a worse horror than all the others together: a ghost on horseback. Together with his fellows, the flying monsters that circled above the host, the black wraith's presence added to Beregond's terror manifold, taking away his last hope that he or his people would survive.

Thus powerless to do anything but listen and sob quietly, Beregond had heard when the Osgiliath guards were easily defeated and forced to retreat, and then the enemy had built temporary bridges for their wagons and waded across the Anduin. Shortly thereafter rumbling explosions from the other side indicated that the Rammas Echor had been struck down somehow – possibly with magic – and by now the army would have arrived at Minas Tirith.

Beregond could still hear battle sounds, but mostly distant booms now. Poor Minas Tirith, whose walls were breaking. Poor Gondor. All was lost.

His teeth chattered. He was ravenous and his throat was dry with thirst, and he desperately needed to pee. He didn't want to pee in the bush again; it had begun to stink rather nastily. Perhaps he should venture out? It actually did seem calm outside now, and with the black wraiths so far away, the sickening dread was slowly leaving his heart.

Deciding to risk it before he wet his hose, Beregond very slowly and cautiously crawled out of his hiding place. He kept his ears open, listening intently for spies and stray orcs, but the coast seemed clear.

With cramping legs from lying still for so long, he shuffled over to the closest tree.

He was just done when he heard a rustle among a copse of bushes, followed by a heavy footfall. He stiffened, his heart making somersaults in his chest. Why hadn't he stayed in the safety under the bush? Damn bladder!

Another rustle, a twig snapping, and then – deep, huffing breaths. If Beregond hadn't already emptied his bladder he would have done so now.

He pressed himself flat against the tree. This was it. This was the end.

Something big and dark came out of the copse. Its ears were turned forward, and it huffed a low, friendly nicker.

"Runner!" he hissed, his legs buckling as the tension left them. He wiped his damp face. "I almost had a heart-attack! But don't worry, I forgive you. Here, boy. Come here." Careful not to frighten the horse, he took the reins. "I'm so glad you returned."

Feeling a bit calmer, Beregond put his arms around Runner's neck, comforted by the smell and warmth.

After a while, his stomach made a funny noise. He had to leave these wild, dark lands; there was no food here, and only foul, poisoned water. But where would he go? There could be enemies anywhere.

Well, since the host of Mordor was busy attacking Minas Tirith, he could at least sneak closer to the Anduin and appease his thirst, and then assess the situation from there. Maybe he could follow the river south to Lossarnach and help protect the women and children that had fled – such as his wife, and youngest son? And as for Bergil... He just had to hope and pray that his eldest son would manage to escape the city on his own.

ʕ('ಠ _ ಠ')ʔ

Éowyn subtly positioned herself closer to King Théoden's company, nudging Windfola to increase his step. She hoped her uncle wouldn't notice, for even in her man's clothes and armor she suspected he would recognize her. That must not happen, but she couldn't remain with the lesser captains either, not if she wanted to accomplish something that gave her a name – that made her a hero.

And she knew becoming a hero was the only way. Great deeds in battle were the only thing that could open Aragorn's eyes to her true self, and let that stubborn man see beyond the well-bred lady who did her bloody duty.

No more of that. Éowyn would be famous. And then he would regret his decision to leave her behind.

At least he would, if he was alive... He had passed into the shadows from which none had returned, but if anyone could survive the Paths of the Dead, it was him. She had to hope he had made it, and that she would meet him on the battlefield.

Afterwards, on the field of victory, he would finally recognize that she was the one for him. For, didn't a hero king need a hero wife? Yes, for sure he did. Someone who understood his love of the thrill of battle, and who could meet him as an equal in a game of sparring.

Her heart beat faster at the thought of the fighting that soon would commence. Already she could see the darker shade that was the Rammas wall around Minas Tirith, and once they overtook the guards there, they would ride through and make a surprise attack on the enemy host from behind.

Finally she would be in a real battle! At last she would reap the benefit of her many hours of practicing, and her sword get to taste something other than straw dolls. Black enemy blood would flow, and she would laugh at their agony and fear!

Behind her, she felt Merry's grip on her waist tighten as he drew his short, but deadly-looking sword. She didn't know why she had taken the hobbit with her – it would certainly have been easier to ride alone – but he had looked so unhappy when her uncle told him he would have to remain with the women and children. It had touched a sore spot with her to see that brave little man being treated like a child. Or like a woman.

Merry still believed she was a man named Dernhelm, which was what she had called herself when she joined the muster of the Rohirrim, and she didn't dare tell him the truth. Not yet. In time, she would blow her cover, but not until she had shown them – her uncle, her brother, her people – what she was capable of. Not until she had earned their respect.

They arrived at the broken wall, and swiftly charged at the few orcs left to guard it. Éowyn steered into the thick of struggle. A twisted orc face gazed up at her, his teeth bared as he tried to slash her legs. Trusting her metal greaves would do their job, she ignored his strike and aimed for the unprotected spot right under his chin. She drove her sword deep, angling it upwards into his head. Blood welled from his nose and mouth before he toppled over and slid off her blade.

The skirmish was already over. Trembling with excess energy, Éowyn followed the king into the fields. One down. Her first kill. That went well!

She tried not to look at the grimy sword, still covered in a mix of body fluids, but it was harder to ignore the sickening smell.

Ahead of them the city burned. Silently they rode through the darkness, creeping forward unseen and unheard under the noise of the fires and chanting orcs.

They had almost reached the enemy rearguard when Théoden halted, his face unusually pale as he beheld the enemy up close. He suddenly appeared old and frail – almost like during those horrible months when he was under Wormtongue's spell.

Éowyn followed his gaze and took in the sight fully for the first time. She looked at the battle towers and siege engines, the stone skinned trolls and myriad of orcs, the southerners from Harad and their enormous oliphaunts. And above everything flew those black lizards among foul, unnatural clouds.

Overcome by a strange weakness, Éowyn felt her hope dissolve. This would never work. They were too few, and had come too late – and their leader was too old.

Then a light breeze from the south touched her cheek. She blinked slowly, drawing in a breath of fresh air. What was she thinking? Of course it would work. They were several thousand riders, Rohan's strongest, and Théoden was their mighty king! Sauron didn't know what was coming for him.

A loud detonation boomed in the distance; the city gate had broken. The sound, or perhaps the change of wind, made Théoden snap to attention, instantly becoming himself: strong and secure, fearless. Éowyn's heart soared at seeing her uncle recover.

"Arise, arise, riders of Théoden!" he yelled. "Fell deeds awake! Fire and slaughter! Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered! A sword day, a red day, ere the sun rises! Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!" He grabbed a horn from his banner bearer and put it to his lips, blowing it so hard it cracked. All around him, others picked up their horns and joined in.

Tossing the broken horn pieces aside, Théoden went off at a gallop, and Éowyn followed suit with a swelling chest. The sound of the horns, and the men singing, and her Windfola's pounding hooves created a music more beautiful than any she had ever heard.

Here rides Éowyn, Éomund's daughter, shieldmaiden of Rohan. Fall back, foes, or you shall regret it!

ʕ(ò ‿ ó)ʔ

After washing his face and drinking his fill, Beregond felt alert and awake for the first time in days. The river was deserted – even the crossing, where the enemy's temporary bridges still bobbed on the dark surface – and he decided to venture across. It would be easier to travel south on the Minas Tirith side, and less dangerous.

Runner was not happy to walk into the water, perhaps remembering losing his footing the other day, but Beregond didn't dare use the bridges because of the noise. It took some coaxing until the horse obeyed, and his nostrils flared wildly at first.

When they had almost reached the other shore, Runner's nostrils began to flare again and his ears pricked up – but for another reason now. In the dim light, Beregond saw that the road ahead was full of horses, carrying armored knights through the broken Rammas gate.

Who were they? Friend or foe?

Careful to be quiet, he lingered in the cold water, watching with a pounding heart how the knights rode towards the city. They were probably enemies then; more men adding to the already unfathomable numbers of Sauron's host.

Ahead of them, Minas Tirith was grimly lit by flickering fires, and the smell of smoke lay heavy in the air. His poor city! His poor son.

He didn't want to think about Bergil, and was just about to avert his gaze when he felt a breath of wind against his face. It ruffled Runner's mane, and far ahead among the riders it caught a banner and made it billow up. It was dark with a white horse.

Relief filled Beregond. The riders were friends, after all! Rohan had come.

The powerful sound of many horns ringing confirmed this, and poured a new hope into his heart. Ashamed of his plans to flee south, he turned Runner in the direction of the horse lords.

No way he would run with the tail between his legs like a coward. He would fight. Fight for his country, for his city, for his steward and Lord Faramir. Fight for Bergil, perhaps still in there, and for his young Borlas somewhere in Lossarnach with his mother. For Gildis, his beautiful Gildis.

There was some good in this world, and it was worth fighting for.

ʕ('ಠ ‿ ಠ')ʔ

The horse lived up to the name Beregond had chosen for him; his swift gallop carried them along the road across the Pelennor fields in what felt like no time.

It seemed the air had become lighter, and the morning brighter. Everywhere enemies fled or were killed by the onslaught of the fierce knights, who had come unexpectedly at their unprotected rear. Trolls escaped their bonds, siege engines broke, and orcs were thrown into the burning pits of ammunition they had been throwing on the city.

Soon Beregond joined both the Rohirrim ranks and their terrifying song, not caring that he neither knew the words, nor could carry a tune.

He caught sight of a banner he knew well and hated with a passion: the black serpent of the Haradrim, the longtime enemy of Gondor, and with a growl he steered that way.

A white stallion stormed past him. His rider had a gleaming, gilded shield and wore an intricately engraved helmet to match, and a banner bearer followed suit. It must be the King of Rohan himself! Proud to fight alongside royalty, Beregond continued.

The Rohan king didn't stop when he reached the Haradrim company; he simply let his warhorse ride them down en masse, making a wide berth like a hot knife through butter. When he reached their chieftain, the man had no time even to raise his shield before the king's spear had skewered his heart.

Changing to his sword, the king continued, and now Beregond joined the battle with gusto. Frenzied with bloodlust and hatred he fought alongside the Rohirrim, killing more Haradrim than he could count, stopping only when none remained. With a dripping sword and shaking arm he stood among the corpses.

A sudden darkness made him look up. One of the winged monsters was descending rapidly, raising clouds of dust with each flapping of its huge, webbed wings, and a black rider straddled its back. A nauseating stench filled the air, and all the horses screamed in terror.

"To me! To me!" shouted the king. "Up Eorlingas! Fear no darkness!"

But nobody heeded him; they were trying to control their terrified steeds.

Panicked, Runner ran straight into the king's white horse, making both their riders fall down on the hard stones of the road in a clash of armor and dropped swords. The horses wildly dashed away, followed by many others who had thrown their knights.

Beregond tried to roll aside, and under him the king groaned in pain, clutching his arm that had become bent at an unnatural angle.

The beast landed nearby, and struck its snake-like neck in their direction. When it opened its maw to devour them, the stench became so intense Beregond couldn't breathe. Row upon row of sharp, yellow fangs filled its mouth.

Beside him, the king grasped feebly after his sword with his unhurt hand, but it was gone.

Then a knight jumped to stand between them and the monster. "Begone, foul dwimmerlaik," he cried in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. "Leave the wounded in peace."

From the black shape on the creature's back came a chilling reply, speaking with something between a hiss and a moan: "Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will–"

Beregond didn't hear what he would do, or what the knight replied, for he was trying to crawl away when an intense pain shot up through his spine and he fell back with stars dancing under his eyelids. Something must be broken in his body.

The ghost continued: "Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!"

The knight actually laughed at that; a shrill, wild laughter. "But no living man am I! You look upon a woman." Throwing off her helmet, she released a blonde mane of hair and exposed a very female face. "Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone!"

"No Éowyn!" choked the king, his face pale as a sheet. He was back on his feet, one arm dangling limply, and had somehow found his sword and picked it up in his left hand.

She glanced his way, but then set her jaw with determination and remained where she was.

The beast flapped its wings, rising above the woman, and charged.

"No!" The king repeated, shuffling forward, but one of the webbed wings struck him flat in the face and he was thrown several yards away and lay still.

Roaring in anger, the woman swung her sword and chopped the beast's ugly head off in one swift stroke. The monster crashed back down, spurting black blood over the paving stones and whirling up another cloud of dust. It writhed and thrashed a few times and became still.

Seemingly unperturbed, its rider walked from the carcass and screamed at the woman with a shrill and penetrating voice that hurt Beregond's ears and made his blood feel like ice. Raising a cruel mace, the dark rider smashed her shield into pieces with such force it broke her arm as well.

She sank to the ground with a whimper.

The wraith towered over her. Slowly he lifted his mace again, preparing to deal the killing stroke. He was so intent on his victim that he didn't notice someone crawling towards him. A child. No, a small warrior. A halfling like Pippin!

The halfling rose, reaching only to slash the dark rider's leg, but that was enough. Howling in surprised pain, the black shape toppled forward.

"Éowyn!" shouted the halfling. "Éowyn!"

She looked up. Weakly raising her sword again, she tried to cut the fallen wraith's head off like she had done with his steed, but when touching the darkness her sword shattered and her hand flew back. With a strained gasp she fell and was still, landing on the dark rider – but there was nothing left to land on. The black cape was empty.

Another piercing scream came from the rumpled fabric, more distant now, no longer frightening. The sound disappeared into the air, where the wind dissolved it.

Dazed, Beregond looked up, and realized that sunshine had returned. It was morning.

ʕ('ಠ ‿ ಠ')ʔ

It was so quiet. No birds, no small creatures, nothing. Mordor was close now, just at the other side of those mountains, and the animals felt it. The few there were, kept silent.

Legolas glanced east, but quickly averted his gaze. Even this far he could sense the evil from there, like filth on his skin. He wished he could bathe, over and over again and rub himself clean of the taint.

He looked north instead, straining his eyes to see the white city, but there were hills in the way. Soon! He couldn't wait to get there; not because he wanted to fight that badly, but because he hated the nervous anticipation before a battle.

"Nín," squeaked a seagull. At least one animal dared to break the sinister silence. The bird had followed them up the river, and now she sat in the main mast, peering into the darkness and waiting for sunrise.

She didn't know there would be no dawn; the Dark Lord had made sure of that.

"Nín," the gull repeated, with an expectant tone now. A strong wind ruffled her feathers, bringing a tangy scent from the sea. "Nín."

Looking up in wonder, Legolas saw the darkness above waver and dissolve. Sun broke through, bathing his face with warmth.

"Ca-ca-ca. Meee-ahh!" cried the bird, soaring high into the air. She circled the ship a few times and disappeared with another jubilant call. "Meeee-ahh!"

Legolas closed his eyes against the bright light, drawing in the fresh air in deep breaths. Something new was happening. The Dark Lord was losing power, his black taint driven away by the light and wind.

ʕll ಠ‿ಠ llʔ

Beregond remained where he was, not wanting to move and make his injuries worse. The Rohan king sat nearby, muttering and wincing as he tried to stand up, but now one of his legs seemed broken as well as his arm. At least he was alive.

The brave young woman was in a worse condition. She lay absolutely still, and her features were smooth; serene, almost. The halfling wept openly as he checked her. "She is so cold. I think she may be dead. Or dying."

Around them the war raged on, for though the loss of their black captain had scared away many of the orcs, most of the humans remained. Beregond saw another company of Haradrim and wished he was fit to fight them.

A white horse arrived from the direction of the city, carrying Mithrandir. Quickly dismounting, the wizard checked first the limp woman, then the king, then Beregond, before jumping back up.

"You have to heal her," wheezed the king, who had somehow managed to drag himself over to where she had fallen.

"No time. There is a Haradrim fleet coming this way, and though I hope... Well. I cannot be sure who comes, and I may have to intervene."

Groaning, the king squeezed his eyes shut. Tears streaked his wrinkled cheeks.

The halfling looked up. "Is Pippin... Is he still...?"

"Yes."

"Then where–"

"Not now, Merry."

"But–"

"I said, not now. I must go." With that, the wizard galloped away. "Oh, and well done for killing the Lord of the Nazgûl," he shouted over his shoulder.

The halfling looked long after him, until a group of Rohan riders approached and made him turn on the spot. Their leader wore a helmet with a long, pale horsetail.

"Éomer! Please help me. Your uncle is unwell, and your sister might be–"

"Sister?" The man jumped off his horse. Sinking to his knees beside the wounded, he touched the woman's forehead, but quickly pulled back when he felt the unnatural chill. His face became almost as white as hers.

Slowly opening his eyes, the king blinked away a tear. "Éomer... There you are. I am glad at least one of us is whole."

The younger man seemed to struggle to speak, and it took a few heartbeats until he found his voice. "Éowyn – how came she here? What madness or devilry is this?"

"Ride now, sister-son!" The king sounded tired, and had closed his eyes again. "Ride to victory! Bid Éowyn farewell and ride." The last was a low mumble.

Red blossomed on Éomer's cheeks and he clenched his fists. "Death, death, death," he growled, looking at the wounded. "Death take us all!" He sprang up, swiftly mounting his horse, and blew a horn to call his men closer. "Death!" he yelled to them. "Ride! Ride to ruin and the world's ending!"

"Death!" roared the men in one voice. "Death!"

And then they rode.

ʕ('ಠ _ ಠ')ʔ

Nellas and Boromir had fought their way forward in Gandalf's wake for a while when they came upon the place where the dark rider had been slain. Its winged beast lay dead in a pool of blood, and nearby were three wounded humans and a crying hobbit.

Nellas touched the woman's deathly cold skin and shuddered. "The rider did this," she said sadly. Then she looked more closely at Merry. "He hurt him too."

The hobbit looked up with a tear-streaked face. "Nellas? And Boromir!" He smiled weakly.

"Good to see you again," said Boromir. "What happened to you?"

"I stabbed the rider and my sword burned all away like a piece of wood. I can't use my right arm anymore."

"The defenders of the city are behind us, and they are likely bringing men to pick up the wounded. You must go with them to the Houses of Healing. Pippin is there already."

"Pippin? What–"

"He is not hurt. He is tending to my brother."

The hobbit looked hugely relieved. "Then I will go there too."

Nellas and Boromir left the wounded and continued, running towards a new group of enemies who were crossing the river from a ruined city on the other side.

"Southerners," muttered Boromir. "Of course they would side with Sauron. They have coveted our lands for years." He laughed grimly. "How typical of those cowards to hide in the ruins and let others do the fighting. I bet they thought they could get some easy loot. Well, we'll show them differently, won't we?"

"We will," Nellas agreed.

They ran on, but were soon overtaken by riders: Prince Imrahil and his knights, one of them the optimistic Elphir they had met earlier.

"Got any more horses to spare, cousin?" Boromir panted.

"Sorry, not this time. But the exercise will do you good, I am sure!" Grinning mischievously, he galloped away.

"The nerve," Boromir grumbled.

When they came closer to the river, they saw a company of Rohan riders making short work of one of the other human armies; those with the grey beasts. The Rohirrim leader wore a flowing horse tail on his helmet and fought with a strange frenzy. As if he were a dark rider too, with no feelings and no fear.

Against the huge animals the riders couldn't do much, however, but luckily Gandalf was there, galloping to and fro with a flapping cloak like a big, white bird. He waved his staff and caught the light of the sun with it, blinding the beasts until they panicked and ran over their own keepers.

Then Nellas saw something further away, something dark coming up the river. Ships. A black fleet had arrived.

Boromir looked the same way, blanching. "The Corsairs of Umbar. So they came, after all... That means Belfalas is taken, and the Ethir, and Lebennin. The men Imrahil left behind in the south have failed." He looked at Nellas, and she read despair in his eyes. "We cannot win. Not anymore."

She took his hand. "Then we die together."

"Wait..." Boromir shaded his eyes against the sun. "That banner... I see no serpent. It is..."

"A tree," she filled in. "And stars. Pretty. I like it."

"It's Aragorn!" A surprised grin cleaved his face. "I have no idea how he got onboard those ships, or how he defeated the corsairs, but it's actually him!" He laughed and drew Nellas into a rough embrace. "We will win! You hear me? We will win!"

"Sounds good."

"I must go to him." His voice was serious again. "My king has returned."

ʕll * ‿ * llʔ q( * ‿ * )p

"Hoist my colors! I can see Minas Tirith." Aragorn's voice drifted back from the leading ship, echoing over the water.

Soon his black banner was unfurled and billowed proudly in the wind. The white tree shone, and the gems of the crown and seven stars sparkled dazzlingly in the sunlight.

The rowers held their oars and the fleet came to a halt.

Legolas looked down at the storming battle, with a pillar of smoke from the city as a bleak background. His stomach churned. It was time. He was here, ready to help (Kat) Minas Tirith.

"Let's get them, eh?" suggested Gimli.

"Aye. Let's."

They jumped ashore, and from the other ships the Dúnedain and the men of the south did the same, and up the southern road galloped Lord Angbor with his cavalry. Aragorn drew Andúril, reforged from the shards of Narsil, and when the sun caught the sword it burned like fire.

The enemy was filled with terror at the sight, and were soon surrounded from all directions: in the west, Gandalf and the defenders from the city, in the north Éomer and his Rohirrim, in the east Prince Imrahil and Boromir, in the south Aragorn.

After a while, they met in the middle of the Pelennor fields.

"Thus we meet again, though all the hosts of Mordor lay between us," said Aragorn. "Did I not say so at the Hornburg?"

"So you spoke." Éomer grinned grimly, and shook his hand. He had not dared hope, but it seemed Aragorn had the gift of foresight!

"My lord," said Boromir and bowed deeply, too overcome with emotion to say anything else.

"Suilad. I don't think we have met?" Elrohir and Elladan eyed Nellas with interest.

But Legolas was distracted. Sheathing his bloodied knife, he scanned the battlefield for a certain someone. Then he found him: a white rider, making for the city gate.

"Gandalf, wait!" He ran after the rider, wishing he had brought Arod ashore.

Gandalf heard him despite the distance. Halting Shadowfax, he called back: "I must tend to the wounded. You should stay and fight; still many foes remain!"

"Wait," repeated Legolas breathlessly, catching up at last. "The others who went with you... Uh... Is Pippin safe?"

Gandalf gave him a far too knowing look. "Pippin is in the citadel, I think. He should be well."

A chill creeped down Legolas' spine. "And...?"

"No, Kat is not safe. She has gone to Mordor to fulfill her task."

A/N:
Translation: Suilad = greetings.

When I began writing this, I never thought there would be a real war breaking out not very far from my country. We have lived through quite 'interesting times' these past years, and as this chapter's Pratchett quote says, that is indeed a curse. I'm praying for all the victims of war and their families.

I'll end with another quote, this one from Faramir in the Two Towers:

"I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend."

Bonus: If you want to hear the original version of this battle, listen to Tolkien himself read the Ride of the Rohirrim here:

[There should be a GIF or video here. Update the app now to see it.]

(https://youtu.be/LPZrReZ5H9Q?si=k2SMWKIWJd8_ZuKO)

Image Credits:

Meme found on Tumblr.