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It began as a low rumble accompanied by a metallic groaning. The Captains turned their mounts around and hastened back to the rest of their men, soldiers of Gondor clad in silver armor bearing the White Tree and their allies from the north, their golden manes and green cloaks fluttering in the burning wind. The Black Gate opened wide like a maw, an appropriate image for the Towers of the Teeth, and out of its jaws came the Orcs of Mordor, red eyes and dagger-like teeth gleaming while chanting in their fell tongue—One Ring to rule them all.
Indor could no longer distinguish between the shaking of the earth and his own trembling frame. The seemingly endless army of Mordor closed in around their pitiful forces. He regretted that he had not remained with the small garrison that was guarding Minas Tirith, or that he had not gone with the thousand who were tasked to retake Cair Andros. But he could not afford to be a coward; not while his older brother Ingold was recovering from his wounds in the Houses of Healing.
Perhaps, he would manage to make it out of this with only an injury that would heal in due course, and then he would have plenty of stories to entertain his young nephew. But that was unlikely to come to pass; even the experienced captains knew that their chances of survival were slim, and the odds of victory even slimmer.
He could not look in any direction without seeing a churning sea of leering faces and wagging tongues, as if this was nothing more than a game to them—a form of sport to temporarily relieve them of their boredom. Even when he closed his eyes, they somehow managed to claw their way into his psyche. The thrumming of his heart overpowered all other sound, and it seemed even harder to breathe in a land that was already long bereft of air. Indor tasted smoke in every inhale and ash in every exhale, and he wondered if this was what it was like to become the prey of the fire drakes of old.
At long last, the cruel chanting fell silent. Someone was speaking—a man, he thought—but he could barely hear or distinguish what was being said over his own erratic breathing. And then, an opening formed in the front of the host, and like a wave rolling upon the shoreline, the rest of the men charged forward with Indor becoming swept up in the current.
Blood sprayed in the air like fountains of red and black. It splattered on his face, but from where it came from, he did not know, for it seemed as though the clouds overhead were raining blood. Indor was swinging his sword indiscriminately, hoping to block every blade and ax and hammer that came at him. Men in silver armor and golden helms over golden hair were struck down by the viciousness of the enemy. The Gondorians were disciplined, and the Rohirrim were brave and honorable warriors. The Orcs and evil Men from the South and East did not fight with honor. They killed with poison-tipped arrows and crude, rusted blades that made unclean cuts. Watching men’s throats being ripped open by those blades made him wish he could not see.
But he couldn’t shut his eyes to what was happening around him. Doing so would mean certain death.
Bodies, both ally and enemy, battered him around, bringing him to his knees on more than one occasion, but he got up each time to avoid being trampled into the blackened earth. Sweat dripped down his forehead and into his eyes, making them burn.
Suddenly, the ground began to shake, but rather than a constant tremor as before it was like a beating heart. And the shaking was getting stronger and the rumbles louder. A shadow appeared in Indor’s peripheral vision. A massive troll carrying a club the size of a tree was lumbering towards him, its every step creating a fissure in the earth. Archers fired a barrage of arrows at it, but even if any of them pierced its flesh, it kept coming, as though it felt nothing and had no thoughts of its own, and its only purpose in life was to kill as many people as possible. But it was even killing Orcs that got in its way, which made it even more dangerous, for it had no sense of friend or foe.
Indor stood frozen in place as it got closer. He could now see the four hairs on the top of its bald head and smell its foul breath. Why wasn’t he moving?
“Indor, keep your wits! Do not lose focus or you’ll be dead!”
It was one of the lieutenants in his company—Haeron son of Hildorion. Indor shook his head in an attempt to free himself from the fog he was in. The lieutenant was right. He couldn’t afford to lose his bearings or he might end up losing his life. Lieutenant Haeron shouted a command, and a few nearby Gondorians rushed towards him before forming a semi-circle to try and box the troll in. Unfortunately, the troll knew it was much bigger than them and that they were too small to stop it in its tracks.
With a single swing of its arm, the troll knocked away half of the soldiers with its club, the sound of crushed metal overpowering the clashing blades and voices of the combatants. It swung in the other direction, sending two more men flying. Men scattered to avoid being flattened by the creature’s massive feet as it continued forward.
Indor spun around and ran as fast as his clunky armor would allow. The thuds of its footsteps grew in volume and the shaking of the earth became more severe.
A hard blow to his back threw him several yards. His leg and hip hit the ground first. Pain flared up his side and he let out a strangled shout. Any movement, no matter how minimal, made it worse, drawing another cry from his raw throat.
“Indor! Can you stand?!”
He looked just in time to see Lieutenant Haeron take a swipe at the troll’s belly with his sword. The troll’s hand managed to grasp the blade and snap it in two. Lieutenant Haeron threw his sword hilt away and found a discarded spear, rushing at the troll and piercing its thick flesh. The troll roared, sending a rain of spittle. It swept its hand down, and Indor thought that it meant to smack the lieutenant away. But that was not what came to pass. Before Lieutenant Haeron could get far enough away to avoid the blow, the troll snatched him up and lifted him towards its mouth. Indor momentarily forgot about his own pain as he watched the troll enclose its teeth around the lieutenant’s neck. There was a pop and then a grinding of bone against bone. Haeron’s limbs twitched for a second before swinging limp.
Indor dry heaved. The troll turned its head and spat out Lieutenant Haeron’s, his helmet flying off and going one direction while his head went another, rolling a few feet, his mouth wide open and his sightless gray eyes looking at the black clouds overhead. Someone let out a cry of dismay, and it was only when the troll set its sights on him that he realized it had come from him.
He turned onto his stomach and started to drag his body along the ground. His fingers clawed at the dirt, turning his skin and nails a charcoal black. He wished he hadn’t thought about being injured earlier. He was about to die, and he couldn’t even hope to save himself. He didn’t want to die. Not like this. Not like Lieutenant Haeron.
A skirmish ended near him, the loser falling to the ground dead. Indor glanced back to see where the troll was. It seemed farther away and yet was too close for comfort. In a last-ditch effort, he grabbed the newly-made corpse, a Southron adorned in dark clothing that blended with the land. He rolled the body over on top of him and hoped it would be enough to shield him from the troll’s gaze.
The shaking became more intense. He couldn’t tell if it was the troll’s footfalls or his own trembling limbs. Tears burned his eyes and whimpers bubbled in his throat. He had never felt so helpless.
The weight of the Southron lessened before vanishing completely. He kept his eyes shut, not wanting to know when his end would come, not wanting the last thing he would see to be a troll. His teeth were chattering. If he’d had something to drink just before the battle—or the bloodbath was more like it—he probably would have soiled himself.
A hand settled on his back. His body jerked uncontrollably. He felt the fingers curve around his shoulder, but instead of grabbing him and lifting him from the ground, it lightly shook him. A voice that was as soft and gentle as the hand on his shoulder bypassed the haze of fear and reached his ears.
He opened his eyes, immediately aware of an ache in his neck and a wetness on his cheeks. His gaze was drawn to a stain on the parchment from his tears. As he began to sit up, the hand vanished from his shoulder, and a quiet clacking drew his attention.
“Lady Idhreniel.”
He got to his feet, wincing a bit at the ache in his muscles and the lingering pain in his leg. The tips of his ears warmed with shame, not just because he had been caught napping at his desk but also because of the dream. Every time they crossed paths, his stomach curdled with guilt. Though they had been working in the Steward’s household together for several years, he still hadn’t been able to admit to her that he was the last person to see her husband alive.
“Indor?” His head snapped to her. Judging by the slight furrow of her brow, she seemed to have been trying to get his attention for quite some time.
“I am sorry you had to see that. I feel ashamed to have fallen asleep over my work.” Now the concern vanished from her face, replaced by a patient smile.
“You have been working endlessly for weeks. I am amazed that you have been able to persevere for so long. Lord Boromir thinks the same. I understand that he has given you some days to rest but that you have refused them.” Indor shook his head and glanced away.
“I have no need to take time to rest. Not when there is so much to do.”
“Everyone needs a break, no matter how grueling your work is. In fact, I was hoping you might join me for a walk in the garden. The sun is shining and there is a pleasant breeze.”
Indor didn’t know how to answer. Or rather, he knew what he wanted to say, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He was also surprised by how she seemed to be unaffected by the state she’d found him in. But she had been married to a soldier once. Perhaps this was not the first time she had witnessed a nightmare of someone haunted by war.
“I am grateful for the offer, but you would enjoy yourself more without me. I would only slow you down.” His eyes flickered to the cane that was leaning against the side of the desk.
“Then it is just as well that I was hoping for a leisurely stroll. You tend to miss things when you are in a hurry.”
She reached into the sleeve of her dress and withdrew a white handkerchief, which she held out to him. He hesitated before taking it and dabbing under his eyes with the corner. He didn’t meet her eyes when he handed it back.
“Thank you.”
“I hear that the sunflowers are as tall as a horse. I have always loved sunflowers. No matter how I am feeling, they make me smile. Would you like to visit them with me? Perhaps you could tell me what Lord Boromir has you working on.”
Indor gave a stiff nod and grabbed his cane. As he limped around the desk, Idhreniel came to his side and slipped her arm through his. A shiver ran through him. He coughed in an attempt to hide it. They passed through the door to Steward Boromir’s study and walked together through the corridor, the tapping of his cane becoming interwoven with the clicking of her shoes. She started talking again about the sunflowers, whether just aloud to herself or if her words were intended for him, he did not know. But one thing he was certain of was that, no matter how vibrant or fragrant, no matter whether they grew in the garden of lords or princes or kings or in an open meadow, there were none whose beauty could compare to hers.