Work Text:
Clouds hover over Helm’s Deep, on the verge of rainfall.
A battle hovers over the empty gap, ready to begin.
The gathered armies look outward, each evaluating their foes’ strength.
Who will emerge victorious? Whose will the following day be?
The fate of the world stands at the turning point.
It cannot be known, not by the mortals gathered here.
It can be shaped. The great orc readies his sword.
It can be hoped. The gold-crowned king readies his armor.
A single droplet falls. The land will see rain today.
A single arrow flies. The fate of Arda is decided.