Chapter 396: Hear No Evil, See No Evil
When that blazing figure appeared in the sky, wreathed in flame like a meteor, shattering the Nazgûl one by one, the people below felt as though they were watching a sun rise.
The light he gave off burned away every trace of Mordor's dread. It was as if every soldier had found an anchor in the storm. Morale surged, climbing until it could climb no higher.
He was the legend that belonged to the Free Peoples alone. He had walked this world for barely a century, yet his stories were told in every land a person could reach. Even in the most remote villages, someone knew his name.
And now, the supreme Lord of the North had come to the field in person, and torn the feared Nazgûl from the sky as though they were nothing.
Mordor's allies noticed.
"I remember the old tales. The Shadow of War..."
On this day, the dark Men enslaved by Mordor recalled the terror of decades past. They hesitated. They faltered. Their momentum bled away.
Only the bravest and most hardened warriors of Harad and the East still pushed forward, teeth clenched, fighting to the last.
That was the nature of Men. On either side, free or dark, courage was never truly absent.
They had their own beliefs, their own lives. Their greatest mistake was siding with Sauron, drawn into darkness by his lies, placed on the wrong side of every good people in Middle-earth.
The blazing sun gave comfort and kindled hope.
The great horn-call that followed set their blood alight, stirring something deep in every chest, the faith of home.
The tide had turned for good.
Mordor's defeat was sealed.
But the fighting was far from over.
Shing.
As Boromir blew his horn, Halbarad unfurled the royal banner, proclaiming the return of Isildur's bloodline.
At the same time, the Grey Company surged forward and joined the battle.
"Come on!"
Gimli raised his axe and cut down one Orc after another.
Legolas flowed through the chaos, killing on the run, occasionally threading a single arrow through multiple enemies in one brilliant shot.
The Dwarf and the Elf had started competing over kill counts.
"Thirty-five, thirty-six..."
"Ha!" Gimli turned and shouted, "How about that? I'm ten ahead of you!"
Legolas frowned, glanced at Gimli, then at a mûmak in the distance. He sprinted straight for it.
He used every advantage his Elven body gave him. He grabbed the folds of the mûmak's hide and climbed, caught hold of one of the ropes dangling from the war tower on its back, and swung himself up.
The enemies inside the tower never saw it coming. They had not imagined anyone could get up there, let alone attack them from behind.
Caught completely off guard, most of the crew was dead before they knew what was happening. The last two or three posed no threat to Legolas at all. The squad was wiped out in moments.
Shortly after, an arrow punched through the thin spot at the top of the mûmak's skull, and the great beast toppled.
Gimli, who had been watching the entire time, stood frozen with his mouth hanging open.
That counted?
"That... that only counts as one!" he sputtered.
"I still have the most kills!"
Legolas shook his head. "I would not be so sure."
He pointed to another part of the field.
Gimli looked. Levi was tanking a mûmak's stomping attack head-on, then flipping the entire beast, tower and all, in one move.
Unlike Legolas, who had needed every trick and every ounce of his ability to bring one down, Levi just walked up and brute-forced it. Whichever one he reached was finished.
Gulp.
As Levi violently hacked apart yet another mûmak, Gimli swallowed hard.
"He doesn't count. We're not competing with him."
Boom!
In the blink of an eye, once every high-threat target on the field had been cleared, Levi bounded up onto Grond, the siege weapon Sauron had poured so much effort into building. He raised his sword and brought it down, again and again, until the thing was smashed to pieces.
The colossal ram split apart, and its debris rained to the ground.
That was the signal. Mordor's defeat was total.
The Orcs broke first. Without the Nazgûl to hold them in line, and with Levi, Aragorn, and the rest arriving with reinforcements, they lost all will to fight and scattered in every direction.
The dark Men followed. Most of them chose not to run, standing their ground to the end, but it made no difference.
The battle was over quickly. Some fled. Some fell. The ground outside the walls was a wasteland of smoke, dust, and bodies.
One thing was certain: there was not a single enemy left standing.
"You have fulfilled your oath. Go now to your rest."
After the battle, Aragorn did as he had promised and released the spirits of the Dead, freeing them from thousands of years of torment.
"They were actually quite useful," Gimli said, a little reluctant to see them go.
Aragorn shook his head and said nothing.
A king had to keep his word. That was the most basic thing.
"It's over. For now."
On the other side of the field, Gandalf looked out over the devastation and sighed.
"It's not over yet."
Levi walked up beside him, Pippin in tow.
"It's just getting started."
He patted Gandalf on the shoulder.
Gandalf seemed to understand at once. "Then, as always, bring me along. As the White Wizard, this is exactly where I should be."
"Then... I'll see you at the Black Gate."
"At the Black Gate."
Just as Levi turned to leave, a ragged scream tore across the field from the distance.
"No!"
Éomer was on his knees, cradling Éowyn's motionless form, weeping openly.
His cry drew the eyes of Rohan's Marshals and soldiers. When they saw their princess lying on the battlefield, the shock was beyond words. Many broke down, tears streaming.
"Only those who walk through war and still do not fear it are true warriors."
Théodred, arriving just behind Éomer, murmured the words he had once spoken to Éowyn, and felt the world tilt beneath him.
"You are a true warrior, equal to any man who ever rode to battle, Éowyn."
He knelt, looking at her still face, and his tears finally fell.
"Nngh..."
A groan came from nearby.
"Is anyone going to check on me?"
Théoden was struggling to push Snowmane's weight off himself, staring at the sky, gasping.
"Father!"
Théodred heard the voice first and rushed over, pulling Théoden upright.
The old king, supported by his son, limped his way to the grieving Éomer and said, "Did it not occur to you that your sister is still breathing?"
The words struck Éomer like a bolt of lightning. He checked immediately and found that Éowyn was, in fact, alive.
But her condition was dire. Some kind of poison had taken hold. Her face was dark, her veins raised and discoloured, something foul clearly spreading through her.
"The Black Shadow. A curse inflicted by the Nazgûl, said to have no cure."
"They say those afflicted will sleep forever, until even their souls fall into darkness."
Théoden spoke quietly. "When I was young, two Rangers from Roadside Keep passed through Rohan and told me the story of this sickness."
"There are two ways to treat it. One is the sacred milk remedy of the Free City-States. The other is a secret art known to the Dúnedain."
"And right now..."
Théoden was not worried in the slightest.
Because Levi was standing to his left, and Aragorn to his right.
Both of them had been drawn over by Éomer's ear-splitting wail.
One of them needed no introduction. The other was the prophesied king, and by legend the greatest healer alive. If the two of them together could not save Éowyn, then Théoden might as well go with her.
"Leave this to me," Aragorn said, stepping forward before Levi could.
Just as Levi expected him to produce athelas and demonstrate the legendary healing touch of the prophesied king, Aragorn instead reached into his pack and pulled out his personal supply of milk, requisitioned from Roadside Keep.
"Really?"
Levi was speechless.
So much for the dramatic moment.
Aragorn smiled. "It works faster."
He could use athelas to cure the Black Shadow. But when a more efficient option was available, why not use it?
Éowyn was not the only one suffering.
When Pippin arrived and found Merry's cloak lying on the ground, his smile vanished.
The Witch-king, or any Nazgûl for that matter, was not something mortals could engage lightly.
Just standing near one, doing nothing, the dark aura they radiated was enough to sicken those around them.
Éowyn and Merry had fought the Witch-king for a prolonged time. They were mortal, flesh and blood. It would have been more surprising if they had come out unscathed.
After a long search, Pippin found Merry, unconscious. He had been struck by it too.
This time it was Levi's turn. He poured a bottle of milk down Merry's throat, and the dark taint clinging to him was cleansed.
But both of them were utterly spent. Even with the sickness cured, they remained unconscious.
They were carried into Minas Tirith to rest.
And still it was not over.
A short while later, Denethor came looking for Levi and made a request.
Faramir had the same affliction and worse. He had been wounded by a Morgul blade and had not woken since. A shard of the blade was slowly working its way toward his heart.
Boromir came with Denethor.
Denethor clapped Boromir's shoulder with visible satisfaction, then immediately started in on his other son.
"Faramir could never measure up to his brother. Look at our hero, Boromir. He returned with reinforcements and showed everyone what hope looks like."
"Not like that feeble patient still lying in bed, who could not even hold a city and had to be rescued."
Boromir's expression soured on the spot. He shot back, "Father, I've spoken to the soldiers. I know what happened. You cannot blame Faramir for this. He was always sent to the most dangerous places, given the hardest tasks, and you never showed him an ounce of understanding. You even twisted the truth to berate him."
"Silence, Boromir. Do not make excuses for that useless..."
Denethor was in full flow. The old habit had kicked in again.
Behind him, Gandalf caught Levi's eye and gave him a look.
Levi understood immediately.
He drew a short mithril blade, stepped quietly behind Denethor, and, under Boromir's bewildered gaze, tapped the Steward on the shoulder.
Denethor turned around, also puzzled.
When he saw what Levi was holding, his expression hardened at once.
The short sword in Levi's hand was no ordinary weapon.
It was the ornamental mithril-inlaid blade that Denethor's grandfather, Turgon, had presented to Levi years ago on behalf of Gondor.
It still bore the blank crest of the House of Húrin.
Whoever held that sword could call upon the full support of the House of Húrin.
Denethor had his pride. He would not break that oath.
So he waited, watching, for Levi to speak.
Today, he would honour the sacred promise his family had made.
Under Denethor's steady gaze, Levi stepped closer.
But what came next was not what Denethor had expected.
"I'd rather not get involved in your family's business. But as a father, you are sorely lacking."
"Today, I'll do what your grandfather should have done, and teach you how a man is supposed to treat his family."
"Wait!" Denethor shouted, finally sensing what was about to happen.
But it was too late.
For the first time in a very long while, he felt the weight of an elder's authority bearing down on him.
Boromir, standing to one side, looked stunned.
A moment later, wisely, he closed his eyes and covered his ears.
He would not look. He would not listen.
(End of Chapter)