Hello, and thank you to everyone who reviewed my story, especially now that I have over 100 reviews. Your reviews have showed me how much you liked my story, or what I need improvements on. Without further ado... chapter eighteen.

Chapter 18. Pelennor Field

For four days the company rode endlessly through the ever-deepening gloom that covered the land. Aníron stayed away from the other riders, preferring to ride alone in the rear of the company or alongside 'Dernhelm'. The two rarely spoke, communicating in whispers if they had to. Weariness overtook her several times, but she pressed onward, her mind wandering the paths of dreams, as was the way with elves.

The company had halted on the outskirts of the Druadan Forest, but in the ever-deepening gloom, the trees were dark and foreboding. Even Aníron, who was raised in the trees, was wary of this forest, and a curious Merry confronted her about this. The young hobbit crept silently over to the tree where the cloaked elven lady was cleaning her weapons, hoping in vain that she would not notice him.

'What troubles you, master hobbit?' the elf asked softly, not looking up from polishing her gleaming sword. The dying fire at her feet cast a flickering orange glow onto her face, but her hood cast her eyes into shadow, giving her a mysterious look that frightened Merry. 'T...the forest,' he answered softly, looking away from the lady. 'I see,' she mused looking up at the curly-haired hobbit. 'There is something unnerving about the murk under those trees, the rumbling of drums in the distance...' A strange light flickered in Aníron's eyes as she fell silent gazing deeply into the forest. Merry excused himself from her presence, and treaded back towards his blanket.

The Rohirrim were uneasy in the darkness, softly pacing feet could be heard on the needle-covered ground. A shrouded lantern would pass through the trees every few moments, and faint whispers went unheard to all ears except for Aníron's, but she paid little heed to what was being said. The enemy was encamped not three miles away, guarding the roads to Minas Tirith, and the riders knew not what to do. The drums in the distance grew steadily louder.

Restless, Aníron stood, her footsteps silent on the forest floor. None noticed as her cloaked figure strode into the forest. Her bright eyes searched in the darkness, and she easily found what she had been searching for. The colossal tree stood majestically in the gloom, and the elf leapt up onto to first branch, climbing the massive limbs with ease. Aníron reached the canopy of the tree and settled down on a large branch, gazing over the land. Only the destruction that she had seen at Helm's Deep could have prepared Aníron for what she now saw. Smoke billowed from the land, poisoning the air, and fire flickered on the once green fields. Proud Mount Mindolluin stood against this assault on the earth, but the white city it protected was falling to the darkness. Smoke and flame poured from its outer walls. Unable to look any longer, the elf lady bowed her head and wept.

Aníron reentered the camp just as a summons to march was being called. Silently, she stepped towards Celebfindel, gathering her weapons into her pack before mounting and following the other riders into the forest to meet Théoden. The king was with Éomer and a strange man. This man was gnarled as an old stone, and his beard was as scraggly moss. He was short-limbed and crouched at the king of Rohan's side like an animal. Théoden lead the party on Snowmane, his horse, but the wild man walked alongside the horse lord with a leisurely gait. The party was led through the dark woods the remainder of the night and the morning. It was late in the afternoon when they finally stopped near a large thicket.

As the wild man spoke to Théoden, Aníron found it hard to concentrate on what was being said between the two men. She was unusually weary, and cursed herself for not taking advantage of the time she had to rest the previous night. The company began moving again, though the road was rocky and uneven. It was night when they stopped once more, gazing over Pelennor Fields.

Fire was visible through the impenetrable darkness. Great crescents of flame barred the way not more than a league away. The enemy lay thick around the fire, like insects drawn to the light. Flame and smoke poured from the outer walls of Minas Tirith, and in seeing the charred walls, despair filled Aníron's heart. Then, the wind began to blow softly into the faces of the riders, and courage replaced fear. Light glimmered in the south, and dim grey clouds rolled and drifted, morning lay beyond them. Then there was a blinding flash, as if lightening had sprung from the earth, and the topmost tower of the city glittered with pearl and silver light. Darkness closed once more and over the fields a great boom rolled.

At this sound, Aníron looked up and saw Théoden, tall and proud on Snowmane. The king rose up in his stirrups and cried, 'Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden! Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter! spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered, a sword day, a red day, ere the sun rises! Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!' With that, he seized his horn and blew such a blast that it burst asunder. The king of Rohan cried out to Snowmane and he went riding down to the fields with his golden shield uncovered in the likeness of a sun. The wind sprang up in his riding and morning came, bathing the field in light. Darkness fled and in the hearts of the enemies there was fear. All the hosts of Rohan sprang down to the battlefield to aid their king, and they sang as they slew the countless orcs and evil men.

Aníron rode forward on Celebfindel, taking her bow from under her cloak and sending volleys of arrows at the fleeing orcs. The rush of battle had overtaken her, and she urged her steed forward as a new foe approached. Suddenly, the light that had filled the field at the approach of the riders dimmed, and darkness filled the air. Horses screamed and were cast into terror, tossing their riders to the ground. Aníron was tossed from the saddle, but landed nimbly on the ground just as darkness and despair as she had never felt before filled her heart as a shadow descended on the field. Théoden tried desperately to rouse his Riders, but none could stand the horror of the darkness. At that time, Snowmane cried out and fell, his body pierced by a black dart. The king of Rohan fell under the body of his horse and did not rise

The Lord of the Nazgûl descended on the field, his horrid steed like a massive carrion bird that had been tortured until it was terrible to look upon. The creature landed on Snowmane's body, and Aníron watched in repulsion as it bent it's scaly neck and began to feed on the poor horse. Suddenly, Dernhelm leapt forward, sword in hand and cried out to the creature, 'Begone foul dwimmerlaik, leave the dead in peace!' The elf lady wanted nothing more than to help the brave assault on the Nazgûl, but her limbs were frozen in terror, and she could do naught but watch. A cold voice that filled Aníron with such hatred as she had never felt before answered the brave warrior. Unable to watch or listen any longer for fear that the pain and hatred from seeing and hearing the Nazgûl speak would kill her, Aníron turned away from the sight that was unfolding and buried her face in her arms, trying not to weep.

A shriek that stung Aníron's sensitive ears echoed around the field, and she lifted her head to see what had occurred. What she saw caused her to run forward and fling herself on the wreckage. Éowyn lay as if slain over the dark cloak and iron crown of her fallen foe. Her pale cheeks were deathly grey and her golden hair was dull and brown. Merry was standing not far away, paralyzed in shock. The young hobbit stepped forward, near to the body of the fallen king and bowed his head. It was as such that Éomer found the two, but he did not recognize Aníron until she lifted her face up to look at him.

'Aníron?' Éomer gasped in shock, he could barely recognize her. Her face was smudged with dirt and ash, and tears traced long lines on her face. Her pale green eyes were clouded in sorrow and her hair was hidden under a travel stained cloak. 'I...I thought you remained in Edoras with Éowyn...' he muttered, dropping off as he saw the face of the fallen rider. 'What madness and devilry is this? Will every woman I care for ride to battle? Death, death take us all!' With that he leapt upon his horse and rode directly into the heat of the battle, fury and pain fueling his strength.

Men came and lifted up the bodies of Théoden and Éowyn, bearing them towards the city. Merry went with the men, but Aníron remained on the field, watching them go. Her eyes turned toward the battle at hand, and a sudden rage took her at being such a coward when she was needed most. Drawing her sword, she plunged into battle, terrible ferocity gleaming in her once calm eyes.

The Haradrim, Easterlings, and Southrons, all servants of Sauron and skilled fighters, joined the orc armies. Then in the midst of battle a mixed cry erupted from the field. Black sails could be seen coming up the river and the enemy cried for joy while the men of the Rohirrim and of Dol Amroth cried aloud in fear. The Corsairs of Umbar had come, and it was as the last stroke of doom in the battle. The Rohirrim gazed at the ships with determination and Éomer raised his sword to challenge them, when suddenly, a standard was raised with the White Tree and the Seven Stars of Elendil upon it. Thus came Aragorn, son of Arathorn from the Paths of the Dead to the aid of Gondor.

When the sun set on that day, the river flowed red with blood, and the once green grasses of the field were charred and stained with battle. The bodies of both men and monsters were strewn about the field, but small attempts had been made to separate the bodies. The very earth seemed to be mourning for the loss of so many lives, the sound of weeping was carried by the wind.

Aragorn walked into the city with Éomer and Imrahil, followed closely by Gimli and Legolas. The dwarf and elf walked along the long city streets, weary from battle, when they saw a figure crouched against the wall, barely moving at all. Haggard coughs escaped the person, and Legolas and Gimli rushed forward to aid whomever it might be.

Blood, ash, and dirt coated the clothing and skin of the person, making them unrecognizable. Their clothing was torn, and there was evidence of heavy bleeding from both seen and unseen wounds. Legolas was amazed that the person was alive at all. 'Come,' he whispered kindly, attempting to pick the person up, 'we must get you to the healing houses, for you have suffered grievous damage.' The person shook their head slightly, a strangely familiar hoarse voice croaked, 'No, I am far past the aid that any healing could give. Please, just let me rest in peace.' The person looked up, meeting Legolas' blue eyes with her own startling green, then he knew who she was.

'Aníron, no, it cannot be. You should be in Edoras, with Éowyn,' Legolas gasped, trying to ignore the awful choking feeling in his throat. Gimli looked on in saddened astonishment, as if he knew what was coming, but did not dare to speak it. An ironic smile played on Aníron's pale lips, but it soon faded. 'It seems that Éowyn and I share the same doom, to be left behind so that we could remain safe, only to follow and be slain.'

Legolas shook his head in panicked denial, 'No! I shall take you to the houses of healing, and you shall heal...' Aníron stopped him with a look, shaking her head once more. 'You are fighting what has to be, Legolas. I know when my own death is upon me.' Tears were forming in the eyes of everyone present, though Gimli was fighting valiantly to keep them away. 'Farewell, Gimli,' Aníron said trying to smile at the dwarf, 'you have always been a good companion, and I shall never forget you.' The dwarf bowed his head, no longer fighting the tears.

'Do not mourn so, my love, for we will see each other again if the Gods permit it,' Aníron whispered to Legolas, feebly wiping a tear from his cheek. 'Farewell, Aníron,' he replied tearfully, taking her hand and holding it to his lips, tears streaming down his cheeks. 'Farewell,' she breathed, closing her eyes for one last time.

The hand Legolas grasped in his own went limp just as night descended on Minas Tirith, the stars shining dimly, as if mourning for the loss of the twilight star.

Author's note: The final author's note will be issued later on this month is fan fiction permits.