There wasn't time for a rousing speech by Aragorn. A shame, too—Rowan had been looking forward to it.

The only thing that could've given a glimmer of hope.

They kept coming—there were so many of them. How could they win against this massive army? According to numbers, it was impossible for any of them to survive. Honestly, they wouldn't, if Frodo and Sam didn't destroy the ring in time.

Because of the uneven terrain and treacherous pools, all had dismounted and slapped the rears of their horses, urging them to flee toward a sliver of an opening behind their army—it was a brief chance of freedom. Few horses made it through before the host of Mordor closed the narrow gap. The unlucky ones reared, kicking at the Enemy until those brave war horses were felled.

Merry and Pippin were set somewhere in the middle with Aragorn, Gandalf, Prince Imrahil, and other Citadel guards. Rowan presumed Legolas and Gimli were near them, along with the Dúnedain, Halbarad, and the Elven twins. She was to their right with Éomer, Gamling, Grimbold, and the Rohirrim.

Someone grabbed her left hand. She looked to Éomer watching her, his eyes soft.

"Rowan, I am glad you appeared," he said.

Tears filled her eyes; she touched his face. This may be their goodbye... especially since she was predicted to die.

"I am glad I found you."

He gave her a forced, grim smile as he leaned more into her hand. "I wish I could've seen you seated beside me in Meduseld, queen of Rohan."

She couldn't break down like she wanted—he would suspect she knew something if she did. Hope was the best thing for both of them now. "Perhaps it will still come to pass."

Nothing else was said, for the assault began with arrows falling as black rain.

The orcs hindered by the stinking mires lying before the hills they stood on sent the missiles into the defending ranks. Rowan took shelter with Éomer behind his shield.

Striding up through the lines, roaring like beasts, came a great company of hill-trolls out of Gorgoroth. Taller and broader than men, they wore only a mesh of horny scales and wielded heavy hammers or jagged blades. Recklessly, they sprang into the pools and waded across, bloodlust in their black eyes.

Just like the cave-troll in the Mines of Moria, their large sizes were the hill-trolls' weakness, for it made them slow and cumbersome. But thick hides ensured that they were much tougher.

Smarter, too. They didn't just stomp around, wildly swinging their hammers or blades—they focused on one enemy at a time, and feinted constantly, catching their opponent unawares.

Since she was quicker, Rowan darted around one hill-troll armed with a huge hammer. She slashed at his legs as she avoided its drop of the hammer—thudding heavily and shaking the ground—inflicting shallow and deep cuts bleeding black blood. Éomer would hack at its arms whenever he killed the closest approaching Easterling, Haradrim, or orc.

It swiped at her, trying to knock her away; Rowan ducked. Seeing an opening, she thrust her sword upward, near the fleshy armpit and above the hard ribs. Just as it howled, a broken spear lodged into its right eye from the king of Rohan throwing it. Instantly dead, the hill-troll toppled backward and landed in a giant explosion of stinking water.

Rowan blocked the fall of an Easterling's scimitar, threw him back to drive her sword hilt-deep into his chest, then after a familiar blood-curling roar and shriek, was knocked forward onto the man she just killed by a strong blast of wind. She looked back to see the Fellbeast rising back into the air with a group of squirming bodies clutched in its feet—some falling out, screaming. Where the monster had plowed through the fighters was a large aisle of forms. Dead men of the West mixed with the Enemy.

Others began to yell in warning, pointing at the north where another Fellbeast flew lower, intent on plowing through and scooping up more. As soldiers ran to get out of the way, Legolas appeared; in quick, fluid movements, he shot four arrows toward the creature. It opened its mouth to yell as it recoiled—trying to fly back up, away from the pain—when another sharp shaft shot into its mouth.

Dead in midair, the Fellbeast hurtled to the ground. It landed in a loud, vibrating, bone-shaking crash, and rolled for a few feet from momentum. Cheers rose from the men of the West with its fall.

Its Nazgûl rider stumbled drunkenly to his feet, only to meet Elrohir's sword. Instinct made him raise his sword. Metal clashed as the blades collided, and the Black Rider moved back. Elladan suddenly appeared, drawing its attention to defend the other elf's vicious attacks.

"The Eagles are coming!" Pippin shouted from somewhere. She looked up.

As the hobbit said, giant birds of brown engaged the Fellbeasts in the air, keeping them too occupied to attack those below. It gave her the impression of a fantasy dogfight.

The Elven twins would soon have the one Nazgûl dead and with the threat from above taken care of, Rowan focused back on the fighting raging around her.

She slashed, parried, blocked, and ducked, inflicting bleeding wounds, chopping off limbs or heads, and receiving some damage as well. Like at Helm's Deep, the injuries (bruises and nicks) were minor but annoying—her bloody hand made it harder to hold on to her sword.

Another hammer-wielding hill-troll came rampaging through the fighters, knocking away whoever got in its way—whether it be friend or foe. Rowan charged forward, doing what she and Éomer did before.

This time, though, she was more tired. She stumbled over an orc body, heard a heavy whooshing sound, and excruciating pain exploded in her entire left arm, torso, and side of her head as she went flying through the air.

Rowan didn't intentionally make her body go limp to reduce the pain of impact or further injury as she landed and tumbled. Coming to a stop on her right side, she lay there stunned for a while, struggling to breathe. It felt like an elephant sat on her left side, crushing her lungs—meaning her left arm and probably a few ribs were broken. Her vision was blurry and her head pounded from where she had been struck by the hammer.

When her sight cleared and the call of her name became audible—by two different voices—Rowan pushed herself up, crying out against the pain, and falling back down a couple of times. Once she finally remained sitting, the reason for the warning yells gained her attention quick: three Haradrim saw her still alive and prepared to attack.

An arrow pierced one's eye socket, and he fell back. The other two took their focus off her to the elf that jumped before Rowan with his two knives in his hands. Faster than the blink of an eye, Legolas killed the last Haradrim, then turned to her.

He was unhurt, filthy with dust, mud, black orc blood, and regular red blood splattered on him, and his quiver was empty.

"You should stay down," he said.

Rowan forced herself up. "No, it's just a broken arm," she panted. And some ribs and a probable concussion. "I can do this.

"Now, go; protect Aragorn, not me!"

The elf's eyes met hers; with a solemn nod, he turned and was soon swallowed up by the fighting.

She lost her sword as she flew through the air, and Rowan could now only hold a weapon in her right (far bloodier) hand, but unsheathed a short sword and limped back toward where she last saw Éomer. She glanced at Mount Doom in the distance.

Hurry up, Frodo.

Arriving, the king of Rohan still fought the hill-troll—Grimbold wasn't in sight and Gamling lay immobile. Yelling in rage and fury, Éomer hacked off the grubby hand that held the hammer, and when it went to clutch the severed appendage, he swung at its stomach. A deep slash opened and its bowels began sliding out. The hill-troll changed to clutching its stomach to stop the insides from escaping, but in a manner of seconds it was dead and collapsed frontward. Éomer jumped out of the way.

He whipped around, intent on searching for her plain on his face, but his eyes widened seeing Rowan behind him. "You're standing!"

"For now."

Seeing something behind her stopped him from speaking; he grabbed her and leapt to the side as metal cut through the air. Éomer immediately jumped back up; Rowan looked. Yet another hill-troll had appeared, this one with double blades.

The king of Rohan dealt with the newest opponent, metal ringing, his wooden shield thudding, and roars and grunts. It took more strain for Rowan to get to her feet again than the last time. After avoiding a downward stroke, Éomer cut at that hand, slicing off some thick fingers. It dropped that sword. Hollering in pain, the hill-troll looked to recoil like all the others when hurt, but instead, it backhanded him with the injured hand. Caught off-guard, Éomer was knocked off his feet, landing a few feet away.

Screaming his name, Rowan didn't think as she hurled her short sword at the beast; the blade sliced its arm. She ran forward, pulling out a throwing knife as it turned her way. Aiming for its left eye, she threw the knife—hitting its mark.

The hill-troll recoiled this time, rearing back as its damaged hand went up to the wounded eye. She reached for another, but it didn't cower as the left hand sharply raised—holding the blade.

All she got was the tip, but it was enough. The sharp point sliced up from her right hip to her shoulder.

Her legs immediately gave way. Rowan dropped onto her back, struggling to breathe against the blood clouding her airways and as fire burned up her waist.

Next, a rumbling vibrated the ground—not the hill-troll coming to finish her off, but deeper. Like an earthquake.

The deep thudding was the hill-troll as it ran past. A high-pitched shrilling, like a scream of some kind, sounded before it was cut off by the boom of an explosion. Rocks crumbling and yells of horror followed. If things were happening as seen in the movie and described in the book (Rowan couldn't see), Mordor itself was falling apart, disappearing into a cavernous abyss. Orcs and trolls—maybe the Easterlings and Haradrim, too—were falling as well.

Frodo and Sam did it.

They had destroyed the One Ring.

Cheers, shouts, and Merry's calls of Frodo's name in praise rose.

Éomer soon appeared above her, face pale in terror as his eyes swept over her. "No. No. No." He pressed hard against her right side on fire.

The king of Rohan looked up. "My Lord Aragorn!"

Eventually, Aragorn leaned over her, face worried as he checked her wounds, bleeding under Éomer's hand. More pressure was added to her waist. Legolas and Gimli appeared behind Aragorn, eyes widening at the sight of her condition; Merry and Pippin did as well—the latter gasping. Based on everyone's reaction, and the fact that her fingers were growing cold and she was becoming weary, it wasn't good.

Lady Galadriel was right: she would die here.

Rustic blood pooled in her mouth as she coughed, gasping for air, and Rowan felt some trickle out the side.

Éomer leaned over her so she could see him. "Do not leave me, Rowan. Please!"

Movement behind him brought her eyes up to the mostly white sky because of the clouds. Brown blots cleared to giant birds. The Eagles. Two headed in the direction of Minas Tirith—those, Roman assumed, held Frodo and Sam in their talons. A few others followed their lead, but one Eagle flew down to them.

Legolas ran off to where it must've landed.

"Meneldor will take her!" his voice called out to them after a few moments.

Éomer rose with Rowan in his arms and Aragorn with them, keeping pressure on the deep slash. A voice she didn't recognize instructed the king of Rohan to lay her down when they arrived. She didn't know Eagles could talk.

Once she was flat on the ground, Éomer kissed her. When he pulled back, he caressed her face.

"Be breathing when I arrive."

He kissed her again before he backed off.

Powerful gusts of wind blew around Rowan as something large flapped like wings, stirring up dust, pebbles, and blowing her hair and clothes. The underbelly of an Eagle—golden feathers with brown ones scattered throughout—hovered over her before it lowered, and its tan legs gently curled around her body. She felt no change, other than the air under her, as she was lifted into the sky.

Flying through the air in an Eagle's talons was smooth—smoother than some airplane rides Rowan's taken. It was colder, though. That could've been because she was dying.

Gentler than the swaying in a hammock and because of the blood loss, the flight eased her eyes closed.

She hoped she'd open them again in Minas Tirith.