I winced slightly as the first of Mordor’s fiery missiles struck the First Circle of Minas Tirith. I held out a hand to grab the white walls in an attempt to regain my balance. I was located at the second wall, far from the destruction and death that will come but close enough to see the might of the Enemy. I hastily grabbed my bow and raced down towards the first level, despite the blatant risks. I placed an arrow onto the string, tugged on it, and loosed it. The shaft, soon followed by scores others, flew into the air and hit the Orc masses. A sharp whistle in the air could be heard and I saw the catapults fire again. But this time it wasn’t a fiery missile, something worse.

The heads of the brave soldiers that fought in Osgiliath, the Rammas Echor, and other places rained upon the first level. One head hit the rampart, not two inches away from me. I looked at the face that was once of a valiant soldier. On the head was a face of horror and hopelessness, combined with the hideous brand of the Enemy. A wave of nausea hit me and I was forced on my knees to expel what was in my stomach. After that was over, I nocked my bow again and fired at the enemy, my heart raging in anger. I was responded by a hail of black arrows that mostly just hit the wall. Some of them managed to fly above the walls, hitting the second wall. As arrows flew across the air, thickening it, a loud shriek could be heard, which was followed by the dreaded word, “Nazgûl!”

I looked up in horror to see the steeds of Winged Shadow. The Nazgûl shrieked as they flew over us, spreading horror and terror as efficient as a disease. The shrieks grew higher and higher in pitch until I was compelled to put my hands over my ears as I fell to my knees again. In their insanity, some of the men threw themselves from the walls to their doom. Many of the soldiers took cover and fled from their post. As my mind was consumed by fear, the thought of joining them flitted through my mind until a voice pierced through the shroud of fear like an arrow into the heart. The voiced cried, “Don’t give into fear! Stand and fight!” I shook my head to rid it from the cloud of fear that covered my mind and looked for the source of the voice. It was Mithrandir. As he spoke, my fear and doubt were lifted from me, though they have not entirely dissipated. On my account only four men could do that to a soldier: Boromir, Faramir, Prince Imrahil, and Mithrandir. With Boromir now dead and Faramir’s life hanging by a thread, hope among us was short.

Now while my, along with my comrades’, attention had been diverted towards the shrieking Nazgûl, still spreading fear among us, the Enemy had begun its attempt to scale the walls. Siege towers, filled with hideous Orcs, were pushed on by equally hideous trolls towards our beloved wall. Those that salvaged whatever sense they lost by the Nazgûl re-assumed their posts and fired towards the tower, I included. Years later, if I am to survive that long, I would say my mind was clouded by the remains of the fear and failed to realize that the towers were impermeable to our arrows. “Not the towers,” another voice cried out. I shook my head again, bewildered. “Aim for the trolls, kill the trolls,” the voice commanded again. I turned to see Prince Imrahil among our ranks, accompanied by his famed Swan Knights. Slightly invigorated, I shot at the trolls that pushed the engines forward. My arrow was followed by others that pierced through the unarmored regions of the trolls, causing them to groan in agony. Yet despite this, they managed to wheel the towers close enough to the wall that gangplanks were lowered, unleashing a flood of Orcs

I altered my aim towards the pouring Orcs, shooting them as they crossed the makeshift bridge. Often an Orc would stumble upon a fallen cohort of his, sending him falling into his death. Yet despite that, the Orcs continued to pour, like a flood. They hit the shield wall we erected to hold the Orc tide, but the wall was faltering, almost ready to break any minute. I hastily joined the soldiers in close combat, discarding my bow in favor for a spear. Before my eyes, my comrades fell to the rusty blades of the Orcs. The soldiers’ eyes were filled with despair as they fell to the ground, motionless. Anger swelled in my heart once again, and I charged towards the Orc mass that continued to pour from the tower. I skewered one with a swift thrust of my spear, and another. I lost my spear after pushing it through an Orc, who fell from the walls. I drew my sword and in a berserker rage, slashed at anything that came near my sword.

Night had fallen and so did my courage and hope. Fatigue and fear conquered my heart and not even the encouraging voice of Mithrandir or Prince Imrahil could dissolve it. I was surrounded on the walls by the corpses of Gondor and Orcs and behind me; the First Circle was dominated by flame. This day alone made more widows and orphans than any day I can remember. In the air, cries and laments of soldiers whose friends were hewn before their eyes could be heard. Then something else pierced through the air, something that was neither a cry nor lament. It was a chant. The Orcs chanted and cried, “Grond! Grond! Grond!” as a giant battering ram, its head shaped as a snarling wolf, crawled towards our Great Gates. Pulled by massive beasts, manned by massive trolls, it caused massive fear among the already fearful. To me, it is only fitting that they called this engine “Grond”, after the Hammer of the Underworld, the weapon of the Great Enemy. It was the hammer that would bring the death of Gondor. The men and I watched in horror as they brought the source of our fear closer and closer. And then something even more horrific came to our view: the Lord of the Nine. As he approached, I hastily grabbed for my bow, which I recovered after the siege tower assault, and aimed for his hideous heart but then as swift as lightning, an arrow, its head rusty from negligence, flew into my stomach. I fell forward against the rampart as blood dripped from the wound, giving me an entire view of what will soon to happen.

The Lord of the Nine held up his sword and stillness dominated in the air. No bow sang its deadly whistle, even the Orcs fell silent. Fear now dominated my mind as Grond knocked on our door and the Lord of the Nine spoke harsh words of terror and power. Thrice Grond knocked and thrice the Lord of the Nine spoke. On the third time, Grond smashed our impregnable Gate, destroying all we have built and protected for centuries. Instead of the hordes of filthy Orcs and trolls that we expected to enter, only one soldier approached the breached Minas Tirith. All of the soldiers, in fear, fled before him save one: Mithrandir, who had mounted Shadowfax and held his ground. I yearned to join either the soldiers or Mithrandir, for my heart was divided on this, yet my wound restrained me to my post. Mithrandir cried out, in a noble challenge, “You cannot enter here! Go back to the abyss prepared for you! Go back! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master. Go!” To this the Lord of the Nine retorted, “Old fool! Old fool! This is my hour. Do you not know Death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!” And with that he lifted his fearsome sword again and flames ran down it, filling me with fear. I now know it is possible to be scared to death because as I lay dying, fear was all that remained in my mind. Fear and despair. There is no hope for Men, the world will be devoured by the Enemy and the Dark Lord will reign over all Men. A rooster crowed, ignorant that the doom of Men approaches, which was responded by horns, horns that signaled the arrival of reinforcements of the Enemy. With that thought in my mind, among others, my eyes fell into darkness, darkness that would reign this Middle-Earth.