he lone figure was silent, kneeling with one knee on the ground. It was a tall man, clad in shining armor, from silver breastplate to chain mail gauntlets to boots. His eyes were closed and his lips moved, but no sound came from them. His hands rested on the cross hilts of his sword, which was planted point downward on the ground in front of him, its silver blade glittering in the light of the rising morning sun. Beside him was the winged helm of the soldiers of Gondor, along with a small golden medallion that bore the white tree and seven stars of that realm.

For a moment, magic rested upon that place as the man whispered his silent prayers to whatever powers existed over Middle-Earth. The small courtyard, secluded from the hustle and bustle of Minas Tirith was deathly silent; not even the sound of a breeze stirred. Flowering vines grew over the enclosing walls of white stone, and lush green grass covered the ground, interspersed with wildflowers of many colors. Before the kneeling knight, a statue of white marble rose, the figure of a winged woman, clad in flowing robes, her arms lifted above her head. In her open palms rested a long sword, and her eyes were closed in reverent peace as she offered to the heavens the symbol of the might of Man. Behind her, the brilliant white sun rose, clothing the courtyard in golden rays, and the lone knight was bathed in its glory.

This was Mathen Nors' favorite place in the whole of the White City, indeed, in the whole of Middle-Earth. For here, he found peace; here, he found comfort. Somehow it seemed right that he should rely on some power that was greater than his own.

For today, his power alone would not be enough to overcome.

As if summoned by these thoughts, there came the sound of a soft footstep behind Mathen, and a grizzled man wearing battered armor and carrying a longsword at one hip stepped into the courtyard. The old soldier waited until Mathen looked up before speaking. "My Liege," he said softly. "My Liege, it's time. The Captains have been assembled; they are waiting for you in the Second Circle, just above the gate."

"Captain Eldarion's command has fallen then?" Mathen asked just as quietly from where he still knelt.

The older man hesitated. "It has, sir. You are commander of the Men of Gondor now."

Mathen nodded slowly, then rose to his feet. He sheathed his sword, "Hunter's Flame", the steel ringing coldly as it slid into its scabbard. On an impulse, he bent to pick up the medallion and slipped it over the head of the winged statue, letting it dangle over the white dress and glitter in the light of the sun. The he picked up the helm as well. As he settled it on his head, he said calmly, "Then it is time." He walked swiftly past the other man, through the arching entrance to the courtyard, and out into the street beyond. "Come, Mendarin. It is time for the Last Guard to make its stand."

In the courtyard, as the two men disappeared into the city beyond, the last rays of the rising sun sparkled over the small medallion, and went out. The white tree and the seven stars were bathed in shadow.

The procession that made its way down through the circles of Minas Tirith was largely ignored. It was a noble sight - a column of men clad in silver armor and black and white cloaks, sitting atop stallions of purest white and deepest black. They rose four abreast, their lances, spears, and banners creating a forest of weapons held straight up into the air, each at the exact same angle. A thousand strong they came, the finest of Gondor, the best and the brightest, the very lifeblood of that great nation manifested in the flesh of her sons. But they were ignored.

Few people remained within the war torn city of Minas Tirith. Those that did were either arming themselves for battle or were fleeing for the hills to the north. For these men were the valiant soldiers of the Last Guard. Formed less than two years past, the Last Guard was made up entirely of veterans considered too old to fight in standard warfare; they were the last bulwark of defense against whatever evil might threaten the White City. And now, they were the only defense. Gondor's foot soldiers had failed to repel the invasion, the Rangers had been all but destroyed, and now Captain Eldarion's civil guard and been obliterated upon the Pelennor Fields in a desperate attempt to throw back the dark invaders. The Last Guard was now the Last Hope.

And so the procession made its way without fanfare down to the second circle of the city to where the remaining captains and Rangers waited with the rest of the defense force. Mathen Nors was in command now. He was the only man in the Guard that was younger than forty, and yet his blade had been bathed in the blood of countless foes. He was Gondor's captain now, and he wished fervently that it was not so.

He did not stop as the men passed through the second gate, and down into the First Circle. As the captains formed up in a glittering circle of armor and blades around him, making their reports, he kept his eyes focused straight ahead, his mind shut away from the living world. One thought rang continuously in his mind, and he made it his silent prayer. Blood shall be spilled upon the earth, and the souls of the faithful shall be spent, but the sword of the Guard shall not be broken. The White City will stand.

At last, the men around him stopped speaking, and he realized that they had reached the first wall, the last wall. All that separated them from the darkness without. He swallowed and dismounted; behind him, a thousand men did the same, standing stiffly at attention beside their mounts. As he raised one mailed fist, the soldiers fell in step behind him, and they made their way to the top of the first wall; they were as bits of dust against that great white bulwark, and bits of dust they were to the conflict that had devoured their land whole. But they were true, and they would prevail.

Mathen Nors stood upon the ramparts of the wall and looked out upon the Pelennor Fields. The grasses were bathed in the blood of tens of thousands, and a thousand, thousand glitters of silver marked the places were countless soldiers had died for their land. And beyond them, the dark tides of the Enemy awaited. There, less than a furlong away, the mighty blackness that was the soldiers of the Great Darkness boiled and seethed, waiting to unleash its fury upon the last strength of the White City. The Men were outnumbered, fifty to one, a hundred to one, more, but Mathen knew it did not matter. If the Last Guard did not hold, Gondor would be swept from the face of Middle-Earth, and there would be no more Race of Man. For if Gondor fell, all other defenses would crumble, and the Great Darkness would hold sway.

Mathen turned to the captains behind him. "Spread the men out along the wall evenly," he commanded, loud enough to be heard over the whistling of the foul wind that screeched over the wall. It carried with it the scent of death. "I want every man to be armed with longbow, pike, and sword. Arrows will not be loosed until I give the command. When the Enemy reaches the walls, use the pikes. And when they get atop it, use your swords."

"'When,' my Liege?" Mendarin echoed.

"When," Mathen repeated softly, his gray eyes boring into those of his friend. "When they reach the top. For they will. And there our blood shall be spilled to hold them back. Once they are on our walls, they are upon the very foundation of our strength, and there we shall cast the black foe down into the fields to perish upon their own blades." He fell silent, shifting his piercing gaze so that it fell on every man gathered. He realized there were a few women as well, their faces just as hard as the men's; and their swords were just as sharp. All would be needed in this battle, he realized. "There will be no retreat," he went on at last. "If the First Wall falls, we fight to the last breath. If there is a breach, we will have no time to fall back. The battle will be won or lost here, on these very stones. The Enemy must not break through."

"Nor shall they," said one of the captains suddenly, his voice firm. "No fell creature shall get past the Last Guard." A murmur of agreement swept through those gathered, and Mathen nodded.

"Very well, then. Go now to your men, and may the powers that be grant you victory."

The men dispersed, and for a moment, Mathen was left alone. He stared out at the Pelennor Fields. Even now, the hordes of orcs were picking over what was left of Eldarion's command, stripping armor and unbroken blades from the bodies of men, dragging away the bodies of the horses for food. Fires sprang up in the distance, and smoke rose from where the forests of Ithillien burned in the south. To the east and west, smoke rose from the villages that burned there. But to the north, the solid rock of Mindolluin jutted upward into the blue sky, firm, steadfast, unyielding. And Mathen Nors felt his heart tremble within him, not from fear, but from pride. If he died this day, he would die for his nation, his people, and for a soldier, there was no greater honor.

A distant horn sounded far across the Pelennor Fields, its single note wafting in the breeze across the grasses to the ears of the defenders, and silence fell over the city as every eye turned to look out at the black army. For it was advancing now, its disordered ranks pulling together into precise formations, its myriad banners of black and red waving in the wind, a forest of pike and spear and lance that slithered over the plains toward the white gem of Minas Tirith. Another horn sounded, this time from the First Wall of the city, and its majestic tone echoed within the walls of the citadel, seemingly multiplied into a thousand angelic voices. It was as if the city itself spoke, defying the Great Darkness that marched against it, lending courage and comfort to those few who yet lived to defend the Light. And the men took heart, for they were determined not to die in vain.

Onward the army of evil came, ever onward, the sounds of a thousand, thousand war drums pounding out an ominous beat that resounded in the air and shook the very foundations of Middle Earth. The cacophony of marching became audible a few moments later as countless booted feet crashed to the ground in time with the drums, creating a song of dread and death that spread fear among the ranks of the defenders. Boom, boom, boom, the drums pounded, thud, thud, thud, the feet resounded, and the forces of darkness came forth from the east to confront the soldiers of light.

Men began to shift anxiously, and worried mutters began to rise over the sound below. Soldiers began casting glances over their shoulders, looking longingly toward the slopes of Mindolluin above. Oh, that they could put away their swords and flee, oh, that this was not their fight, that they would not be called upon to take up this task… Mathen heard the whispers, but his heart would not waver. He had been waiting for this moment all his life. He raised a hand, and held it high above his head, "Hunter's Flame" glittering like star fire in the light of the sun. Instantly, the murmurs ceased, for the Captain would not be swayed, and so the men would remain with him. Behind the walls, the whispers of hope and peace swept down from the mountains yet again, and the soldiers fell silent, content to wait for their foe.

They would not have to wait long. Already, the black horde was nearly within bowshot. Rough, guttural voices could be heard now as well, the war songs of the orcs shrieked out in frenzied fervor, mixing with the drums and reaching out with the voice of Terror itself.

Mathen smiled grimly as he looked down upon his foe. Today would forever be remembered… "Archers, ready bows!" he commanded, his shout echoing up and down the walls, ringing clear above the drums below. His sword was still held above his head, straight and unwavering, its double edges sparkling with hungry anticipation. The Enemy was nearly to the walls now, less than a hundred yards out into the plains. All at once, the multitudes of orcs broke ranks, and charged with a mighty roar. Mathen howled in fury, his sword flashing down to point out at the Great Darkness in defiant challenge. "Loose arroooooowws!"

With a shriek, an angry hiss, a flashing rain of five thousand arrows slashed down from the First Wall of Minas Tirith, cutting into the black ranks of the Enemy with devastating effect. Orcs cried out and died by the hundreds, no, the thousands, their bodies falling to be trampled by their comrades behind. But the army did not slow. Onward the Darkness came. Again, Mathen gave the command. "Loose arrows!" Again it rained death over the Pelennor Fields, and again, a thousand lives were snuffed out.

But now the hordes were getting too close to the walls for the bows to be of much effect. Mathen ordered one more volley released, and then the soldiers of the Last Guard were picking up their pikes, ready to cast back the Enemy. The orcs screamed in delight as one by one, scores of tall wooden ladders were raised up and propped against the white walls. Like ants, they swarmed up them, hand over hand, crawling over each other in their eagerness to get at the men above. Using their pikes and their hands, the men pushed the ladders away one after the other, sending hundreds to their deaths, casting away the orcs to be impaled upon the spears of their kindred below. But no sooner was one ladder cast down than another rose to take its place, and slowly, the men began to tire.

And so the great battle raged. For hours it drew on. Quarter was not asked, nor was it given, by either side. All knew this was a fight to the last breath. The sun continued in its lazy arc above, drifting with casual indifference as the lifeblood of thousands was spilled upon the white walls of Minas Tirith. Orcs fell shrieking to their deaths, and men were either pulled over the ramparts to fall among their enemies, or were struck down by stray arrows loosed from the plains. Great was the loss of human life, yet greater still was the number of the Enemy that was sent into the eternal darkness.

And then, as morning turned into afternoon, the forces of darkness swarmed onto the ramparts of the First Wall with an ululating cry of victory. A section of the defense, just west of the main gate, broke ranks as orcs swarmed among them, cutting down men by the dozens. Soldiers all up and down the battlements raced to stop the breach, but they were too few, and they were far too late. An entire brigade of the defenders was lost, cut down by wickedly curved blades or cast from the walls to die in the streets of the very city they defended.

Mathen turned toward this new threat, all thoughts banished from his mind except the goal of repelling the Enemy. He howled his war cry and sprang forward to meet the first of the orcs, "Hunter's Flame" singing an eerie song of its own as it slashed downward in a silver arc of death. The first enemy solider screamed and fell upon the parapet, dead. Mathen struck again, darting his blade in from the left. The next orc parried the blow, but then the Gondorian lunged forward, and the enemy took the stab to the gut. And so he fought on, virtually alone against the black tide that swelled upon the threshold of the First Gate, and all around him, the dwindling numbers of the Last Guard screamed their fury as they battled.

It seemed that the wall would fall, but the worst was not yet upon them. Far out into the fields, great winged shapes rose up from the smoking, bloodied grasses, and swept toward the walls. Hideous creatures they were, like dragons, but smaller, and their mouths bristled with a multitude of fangs, and their hands and feet were armed with sharp talons. They climbed high into the blue sky, crossing in front of the setting sun, then dove with a piercing shriek that froze the blood of the Men. Downward they streaked, and as they passed over the walls, they plucked the defenders from the ramparts and then dropped them into the depths of the city streets. Men screamed and cried out in fear as they fell to their deaths, the ground rushing up to meet them with its rocky embrace.

The Last Guard was failing. Mathen knew it, but he would not, could not concede defeat. There would be no retreat. And the men stood with him, for as they looked upon his face and saw his defiance against the evil, they took heart and would not yield to the Great Darkness. They fought on, screaming and dying, cut down by blades or carried from the wall by the great, dark birds.

Mathen was still standing above the gate as the sun set, its fiery crown just beginning to dip into the sea to the West. His armor glittered like fire, and "Hunter's Flame" burned in crimson wrath. The orcs gave way before him, howling in terror as he cut a great swath through their black ranks. But suddenly, a huge shadow rose up to his left, and before he could turn, one of the flying creatures bore down on him, its razor-sharp talons grasping for him, seeking to clutch him by his armor and bear him away to his death. But as Mathen tried to dodge the claws, he slipped, and it saved his life. As he fell to stone of the parapet, the great claws cut deep into his left shoulder and the side of his face. He felt the red torrent of blood spill down his arm and chest from the wounds, and he cried out in pain. The orcs wailed in triumph, and surged toward him. As Mathen cried out in despair and defeat, the heart of the Last Guard wavered, and the men began to quail in fear.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and as Mathen Nors lay upon the battlements of the First Wall of Minas Tirith, his own crimson blood spilling to stain the white stone, mingling with those of his brethren, he looked up at the skies. And it seemed to him that a winged shadow passed across in front of his eyes. It was gone in an instant, but he was certain it was not one of the dragon-things. He searched among the golden rays of the sun, but there was nothing there. As he looked back down at the battle that raged around him, fighting off the orcs that tried to kill him, pushing them away with his bare hands, his eyes fell upon a small circle of gold that glittered in the light of the sunset. It lay upon the parapet, almost hidden by the dark feet that swarmed around him, flashing and sparkling with a light of its own. Impulsively, he reached out for it, clenching it in his fist and drawing it to him. When he looked at it, his eyes filled with wonder, he beheld the medallion, the one that he had left hanging around the neck of the statue, the woman with wings… And as he looked toward the sunset again, he was filled with new determination. Upon the medallion, the white tree and the seven stars blazed with fire, and Mathen Nors surged to his feet, holding it high.

"Elendil!" he cried, shouting the ancient war cry of his land. "Elendiiiiiiilllllll!"

The cry echoed along the wall, and as he bent to pick up his sword, the orcs fell back from him in terror. With the medallion held up in one hand, and "Hunter's Flame" clenched in the other, the Captain of the Last Guard shouted his challenge to the Great Darkness. And the Men of Gondor took up his cry, rallying to him by the hundreds as they took heart once again, and pushed back the dark tide.

"Elendil! Elendil!" they cried, over and over again. All the while, their helms and their shields glittered in the sun, their swords flashed in the light of the setting fire, singing songs of death as they meted out their revenge. "Elendil!"

Thus the Last Guard made their last defense, spilling their own blood in a desperate attempt to repel the Enemy from the First Wall. Little by little they pushed the orcs back, until they were casting the black creatures from the walls, pushing away the ladders. Arrows sprang up in hails to strike down the great black birds, and the creatures fell to the earth with dying cries. Mournful horns sounded over the Pelennor Fields, and suddenly, the orcs were retreating, wailing in fear as they fled the walls of the White City.

And so it was that the Great Darkness was driven from Minas Tirith, defeated upon the slopes of Mindolluin by the valiant men and women of the Last Guard.

Mathen Nors looked wearily out upon the ruined plains and took a deep breath. In one hand, he still held his sword, while in the other, he held the golden medallion. How they had won, he would never know, but it was enough for him that they were victorious. It was enough for him that Gondor would survive to see yet another dawn.

As he turned away from the Pelennor Fields, ready to go back into the city, he cast one last glance back at the setting sun, searching for the winged shape that had passed over Minas Tirith. But the sky was empty, and as the sun set, the stars came out to fill the void.

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