The war began not with a scream and the clash of steel, but with the silent collision of two impossible armies upon the dead, ash-covered soil of the Pelennor Fields. Aragorn stood at the prow of the black-sailed ship, holding Andúril aloft. Behind him, a green, ghostly mist poured out like a river: The Army of the Dead; the anger of an oath unfulfilled and regret accumulated over thousands of years. Opposite them stood the army flowing from the blackened, tainted gates of Minas Tirith (the Gates of Darkness). Standing beside Aragorn, Faramir felt his soul shatter at the sight. It was not just an Orc army facing them. Yes, the massive, armored Trolls of Mordor were in the front lines; yes, the warriors of the South, carrying red banners from Harad, were there. But the bitterest part of the calamity was those standing shoulder-to-shoulder with them: Knights of Dol Amroth wearing the silver swan helm. Hard men from Lamedon, whom his father had summoned. And the Citadel's own guards; soldiers bearing the White Tree, but now serving the shadow beneath it. "Brother," Faramir whispered. "How did you unite them? With what fear?" The two armies clashed like a silent tide, and it turned into a harvest rather than a slaughter. The Army of the Dead had no physical bodies; they were a plague feeding on the fears of the living. The Trolls of Mordor, those massive, thick-skinned beasts, roared when faced with an invisible enemy. But when the silent scream of the King of the Dead pierced their primal brains, the Troll's heart stopped inside that massive chest from pure terror. It fell like a lifeless mountain. The Mûmakil of the Haradrim went mad when they felt the green mist, trampling their own soldiers, the red-clad southerners, under their massive feet as they fled in panic. The fate prepared for the traitorous soldiers of Gondor was the most terrible. The Dead did not touch them; they simply passed through them. That icy, spiritual touch ripped the soul of a living man from his body. The soldiers froze where they stood, swords still in hand, eyes wide with a final horror. They were dead; but it would take seconds for their bodies to fall. Aragorn saw that what was happening was not a battle, but a cleansing. The oath of the Dead was erasing the betrayal of the living. "Victory is ours!" shouted a Dúnedain Warrior beside him. "No," said Aragorn, not taking his eyes off the tower seven hundred meters above. "Not yet." At the peak of the Tower of Ecthelion, Mardûn stood on the protrusion shaped like a ship's prow. He watched the slaughter below calmly with his burned, mask-like face. This being was the union of Sauron's rage and Boromir's regret; he felt neither regret nor rage at the scene. He only calculated. He knew Aragorn had played his trump card: Isildur's final, shameful trick. "Spirits," his sepulchral voice grated against the wind, "can defeat the living. The weak. But they cannot defeat will." Mardûn possessed Boromir's memories and Sauron's knowledge. He knew how to use the Ring. He raised his molten, black hand. On that hand, the Ring shone with a terrible power. "TO THE SHADOW!" he commanded. His voice, amplified a thousand-fold by the power of the Ring, descended like a sledgehammer into the mind of every soldier, every ghost, and every man on the ships on the Pelennor Fields. "For my Master's will, TO THE SHADOW!" From that massive tower, nine black specks shot out: The Nazgûl. These were not the cloaked, trembling riders the Fellowship had tracked. They were gathered this close to their master's power, under the will of the Ring. They no longer needed cloaks. They were terrible kings clad in shining armor, composed of pure, dark will. Screaming atop their Fell Beasts, they dove onto the Army of the Dead. And Mardûn... he dove too. He jumped from the tower. He did not fall; he descended into that seven-hundred-meter void like a meteor, a black ball of flame. He crashed into the ash-turned soil of the Pelennor, right in front of the ships, with a massive boom. Where he landed, even the dead earth vitrified. Aragorn and Faramir recoiled in horror. When the dust cloud settled, Mardûn was there. That burned, molten husk. Those red eyes. "Brother," whispered Faramir, raising his sword tremblingly. "Boromir's Shadow," said Aragorn, gripping Andúril tightly. Mardûn laughed. It was that grinding, metallic sound. "I am neither." Then he raised the Ring into the air. He did not become invisible; he shifted. His physical body faded and slipped into the Shadow World, into that grey, misty limbo. Simultaneously, the nine Nazgûl did the same. The battlefield changed instantly. For the living (Faramir and the Grey Company), their enemies had suddenly vanished. Only the terrible, red ember eyes (Mardûn's) hanging in the air and the paler, icy lights swirling around them (the Nazgûl) remained. But for the Army of the Dead... the enemy had finally become visible. And that enemy was stronger than them. The King of the Dead swung his ghostly sword, but it passed harmlessly through Mardûn's new, dark spiritual form. "You feed on fear, little ghost," Mardûn's voice hissed, directly into the King of the Dead's mind. "But I... I am the master of fear." Mardûn reached out his molten, spiritual hand and seized the misty chest of the King of the Dead. This was not a grapple, but a battle of wills. The will of the Ring was stronger than a millennia of regret. The King of the Dead let out a scream; this time, it was not a scream of fear, but of pain. His soul began to unravel under that dark hand. That green light faded. The Nazgûl followed their master. With spiritual versions of their Morgul blades, they dove into the ranks of the Army of the Dead. Ghost against ghost. The Dead were dying a second time. Their green mists were being swallowed by the cold darkness of the Nazgûl. Aragorn's trump card was being shattered before his eyes. "You have kept your oath!" Aragorn shouted into the dissipating mist. "Go! Find peace!" But it was too late. They were not free; they were being hunted by Mardûn's will. "They are going nowhere," Mardûn's invisible voice said, directly to Aragorn. "They will be my new army. Just like your brother's army." Aragorn's blood ran cold. Defeat seemed absolute. At that exact moment, Faramir shouted. His voice was filled not with despair, but with astonishment. "East! Aragorn! THE SKY!" Aragorn tore his eyes away from the nightmarish battle and looked east, towards Mordor. The horizon was burning. But this was not the poisonous, orange-red glow of the Eye. It did not come from the Sun or the Moon. It was a pure, clean blood-red coming from above the clouds. "Red Horizons..." Faramir whispered. "How can this be? What more can come from Mordor?" The wind brought the scent of the ocean and strange spices from the east. And from within that redness, an army was coming. They were crossing the ruins of Osgiliath like a flood. They were mowing down the small garrison Mordor had left behind like a wheat field. Thousands, tens of thousands of soldiers. Their faces belonged to a race they had not seen before; stern, with high cheekbones and slanted eyes. Their armor was not of familiar metal, but of overlapping, bright, red lacquered plates. Their swords were not straight, but curved with deadly elegance. "Easterlings!" said Faramir. "But... they are not attacking us. They are attacking Mordor!" Even Aragorn was speechless. This was an army not on the maps. In front of that massive, red army, walking like two ships proceeding through the ocean, were two figures. They were old, yes. But not stooped; they were upright. They wore no pale colors like Gandalf's grey or Saruman's (no longer existing) white. One wore a robe of rich sea-blue, like the deepest part of the ocean. His staff was of salt-bleached wood salvaged from a shipwreck. This was Alatar. The other wore a robe of rust-red, like the lands of Rhûn. His staff was of black iron, carved with geometric runes they did not recognize. This was Pallando. The Blue Wizards. The Istari. The ones lost for thousands of years. Elrond's call had reached them. They had been fighting for thousands of years in Sauron's backyard, in the nameless lands of Rhûn and Khand. They had worked to break Sauron's absolute control over the Easterlings. They could not defeat him, but they had disrupted his religion, his will, and sown seeds of rebellion. And now, while Sauron's Eye was focused west on his new toy Mardûn, they had struck from behind with that army of rebellion from the East. Alatar and Pallando stepped onto the ash-turned meadows of the Pelennor. And they saw the war. Not just the physical war. They saw the war in the Shadow World; they saw how Mardûn and the Nazgûl, in their invisible forms, were slaughtering the Army of the Dead. The Wizards looked at each other. This was their specialty. The magic of the East dealt with shadows and spirits.
"They cling to the shadow," said Pallando's voice, sounding like the grinding of the earth. "Then," said Alatar's voice, deep as the bottom of the ocean, "let us nail them to the light." The two wizards raised their staffs. No fire or lightning issued from their staffs. They used the forgotten, geometric, binding magic of the East. Chains made of pure, tangible golden light burst from their staffs. The chains twisted at impossible angles in the air, snapping towards those invisible targets. One of the chains struck a Nazgûl hovering in the air. The Wraith screamed with a sound never heard before. It was a scream not of pain, but of surprise. The chain of light did not burn it. Like a harpoon, it pierced that spiritual form. And it pulled it out of the Shadow World. The Nazgûl suddenly became physical, visible to all. Its black armor, its invisible form, turned into a flapping, helpless, visible thing in the air. "NOW!" roared Aragorn, realizing what was happening. From the deck of the ship, Legolas drew that powerful bow he had received from Lórien. He loosed a black arrow. The arrow pierced the throat of the now-visible Nazgûl. The Wraith, unable to scream a second time, crashed to the ground with its Fell Beast, a lifeless heap. The other chains found their targets too. Another Nazgûl. And another. Each was pulled from the Shadow World by that golden light, made visible, and hunted down by the arrows of the Grey Company or Faramir's Rangers. Mardûn, in his spiritual form, was about to tear the King of the Dead apart when he noticed the chaos around him. His Nazgûl, his powerful lieutenants, were falling one by one. "What sorcery is this?" he roared. The answer came with a golden chain of light stabbing into his shoulder. KRRRZZZAAAA! Mardûn screamed with a pain he could feel even through his burned flesh. The light burned his spiritual form and forcibly nailed him back out of the Shadow World, into his suffering, molten physical body. His invisibility was gone. He became visible again in the middle of the crater where he had crashed on the Pelennor Fields. The Army of the Dead paused for a moment as their master's will was broken, and in that moment, Aragorn called out to them: "You have kept your oath! Go! Find peace!" This time, Mardûn's will was shattered. The Army of the Dead dispersed like mist, finding peace. Mardûn straightened up, panting with his burned face. Facing him, hundreds of meters away, stood three enemies. Aragorn, at the prow of the ship, pointed Andúril at him. Faramir, beside him, stared at his brother's nightmarish face. And in the east, those two Wizards had pointed their staffs at him, preparing for a second attack. The tide of the war had turned, but it was not over. Mardûn locked his red eyes onto Aragorn's. This phase of the war was over. Now, the duel would begin. Aragorn jumped from the prow of the ship onto that ash-turned soil. Andúril's light shone against that dark plague. "Gondor has a king!" he shouted. "A king?" grated Mardûn. "You call a ranger who couldn't protect the life of a halfling a king?" He was reaching into Boromir's memories, into that jealousy, that pride. "You left me to die! All of you!" Faramir also jumped from the ship, sword in hand. "No, brother! It was not we who abandoned you! It was that ring and our father's pride that abandoned you! Come home, Boromir!" "Do not address me by that weak name!" roared Mardûn, lunging towards Faramir. The Blue Wizards cast their golden chains again, trying to restrict Mardûn's movements. But he was now in the physical world. The power of the Ring gave him supernatural strength. He shattered the chains with his molten sword (the thing that was once the sword of Gondor). "Weak wizards!" he mocked. "Sauron should have destroyed you a thousand years ago!" Aragorn and Mardûn collided. Andúril struck that black, molten sword. Sparks, pure light and pure darkness, exploded on the Pelennor. Mardûn possessed all of Boromir's strength and the Ring's will. He pushed Aragorn back. "You want my throne, don't you, Ranger?" hissed Mardûn. "Take it! Just like that halfling wanted the Ring!" He knocked Aragorn down with a blow and raised his sword to finish the job on Isildur's Heir. At that exact moment, from the north of the battlefield, a clear horn sound, never heard before, echoed. It was neither the loud horn of Rohan nor the harsh cry of Gondor. This was starlight turned into sound. Everyone fighting stopped. Even Mardûn paused before delivering that fatal blow. From the North road, not from beyond Osgiliath but directly from the north, riders were coming. But they were not Rohirrim. At the head of a procession drawn by massive elk, came a king with long blonde hair, his armor shining like moonlight. Thranduil. And behind him, the silent, deadly archers of Mirkwood. "My son!" shouted Thranduil, seeing Legolas on the deck of the ship. "Did you enter the war without waiting for your father?" The Elves had arrived at the end of the war. Legolas used that moment to smile at his father and loosed an arrow. The arrow struck the elbow of Mardûn's sword-arm, the weak point where the armor had melted. "GGAAAAHH!" Mardûn roared in pain and dropped the sword from his hand. Aragorn used that moment to roll away and stand up. Thranduil, atop his massive elk, surveyed the battlefield. First he saw Aragorn, then that strange, red-armored Army of Easterlings. And then... his eyes locked onto those two wizards in blue and rust-red robes. The Forest King's noble, cold expression cracked with pure astonishment for the first time in a thousand years. "Alatar...? Pallando...?" he whispered. "We... we thought you were dead. Returned to Valinor... or lost..." Alatar turned his head, keeping his staff pointed at Mardûn. "We had no time to return, King of the Woodland Realm," he said in his deep voice. "And we still don't." All the pieces of the war had come together in that moment, on that ash-turned plain. And they were all looking at that single, wounded, furious being, Mardûn. The ash-turned meadows of the Pelennor fell into absolute silence for a moment. The monster was pulled from the Shadow World by the intervention of the Blue Wizards, trapped back in his physical body. Mardûn straightened up, smoking, in the middle of the crater where he had crashed. His shell of molten, burned metal and flesh creaked with the pain of Alatar and Pallando's golden chains of light. Invisible, he was a nightmare; visible, he turned into a challenge. Behind him, the Army of the Dead began to disperse, freed from their master's will. The green mist breathed like smoke dissolving in the wind, as if wishing to find peace after thousands of years of captivity. The King of the Dead gave Aragorn one last, grateful look and dissipated. Aragorn's ghostly trump card was gone; only the living remained. The battlefield had turned into a giant chessboard. In the west, on the ships by the river, Aragorn, Faramir, and the Grey Company stood in ranks; Legolas was at Aragorn's side. In the north, atop his elk, the Forest King Thranduil and the Elven warriors were positioned, standing like a bow with tension on its shoulders. In the east, the silent red-armored Eastern Army and the two ancient wizards, Alatar and Pallando, had their staffs locked on the target. In the center, between the three armies, Mardûn stood alone. The collision focused from the fight of massive armies to the fate of a single being. "Brother!" The first person to break the silence was Faramir. He jumped from the ship, landed on the ash-covered ground, and stumbled towards his older brother, sword in hand. His eyes were teary. "Boromir! In the name of what? Gondor, our father? Come back!" Mardûn slowly turned his burned head. The red ember eyes saw Faramir's pure grief and despised it. Reaching into Boromir's memories, he found the jealousy he felt for his brother, the anger stronger than love. "Brother?" the sepulchral voice hissed. "I have no brother. There was only a shadow that took my place." Faramir screamed in pain and lunged at him. He swung his sword at the monster's chest. CLANK! The steel of Gondor shattered into thousands of pieces upon hitting the molten black armor. Mardûn didn't even flinch. "Weak," he grated. He struck Faramir's chest with the back of his molten hand. The blow was like a sledgehammer; Faramir was thrown meters away, his breastplate crushed, and collapsed to the ground. He lost consciousness, his breath cut short. "Now it's your turn, Wizards," Mardûn said, turning east. Alatar and Pallando raised their staffs again; golden chains of light snapped in the air once more. This time, Mardûn was ready. "I was pulled from the Shadow World," he roared. "But it is still my domain!" He pressed the hand bearing the Ring onto the ash-turned soil. The ground rotted. The spreading plague shot towards the Blue Wizards like a black wave advancing under the soil. The earth beneath the feet of the red-armored Easterling soldiers blackened and collapsed as if in its death throes. The Wizards recoiled before the magic of pure destruction; the golden chains were swallowed by the darkness before they could find their target, and extinguished. "Eastern sorcery," said Mardûn, "is nothing against my master's will." He turned to Aragorn. He surveyed Aragorn at the prow of the ship, Thranduil in the north, and the Elven archers behind him. "And you, Son of Isildur," he said mockingly. "Have you come to repeat your ancestor's lucky strike? You gathered the Wood Elves too, huh? You will die together." Aragorn jumped from the ship, landing firmly. Andúril, the Flame of the West, in both hands. The elven runes on the sword shone with pure white fire against the darkness. "I have come to correct my ancestor's mistake," he said. "He was defeated when he took the Ring. I will win by destroying it." "Empty words," said Mardûn, and attacked. This speed did not belong to a human. The fifty-meter distance closed like a shadow. He had no sword in his hand; he was the weapon. He swung his molten claw at Aragorn's heart. Aragorn dodged at the last moment with Númenórean intuition. SHINNNK! Two powers collided. Andúril touched the molten armor. This time, the sword did not break. When the pure elven steel touched the dark Mordor alloy, a scream erupted; at the point of contact, the armor burned, white steam rose. Mardûn pulled back in pain. The red eyes behind the burned mask flashed with shock. "This... this sword... Elendil's..." "Yes," said Aragorn, breathless. "And it will cut anything forged in darkness." The duel began. This was not the chaos of the Pelennor; it was the duel of the ages: light against darkness, hope against regret. Mardûn pressed with the brute force of Mordor; every blow landed with the power to topple a tower. Aragorn, however, flowed through the blows like a river with Dúnedain grace. Every time, Andúril tore a piece from the black armor. Mardûn was weakening. He was not invincible; he was trapped in Boromir's body, and this body, however strengthened, was vulnerable to the pure light of Andúril. The monster retreated; he realized he had no chance against the sword in the physical world. "Enough!" he roared. He gathered the power of the Ring not to break free from chains, but to repel Aragorn. A black, visible wave of will exploded from Mardûn. Aragorn was thrown into the ash as if he had hit an invisible wall; the sword flew from his hand. Mardûn towered over him. "Like your ancestor: unarmed and helpless." As the molten claw descended towards his throat, Aragorn said, "Never." He reached into the pouch under his cloak; he took out the crystal phial he had reverently taken from Frodo's lifeless body at Amon Hen. "I give you the light of Eärendil..." He raised the crystal. "Gilthoniel! A Elbereth!" A pure, blinding, cold white light exploded from the phial; not the sun, but the heart of a star. The light struck the burned face and the red ember eyes. The monster screamed in horror for the first time. The Balrog fire and the Sauron shadow could not withstand this light; they retreated before the unsullied purity of Valinor. The red embers were extinguished; Mardûn was blinded. "MY EYES!" he wailed, covering his face with his molten hands. Yet, the power of the Ring was still in his hand. "You may blind me, Ranger! But I will be erased from this world; you will not find me!" In final desperation, he passed into invisibility. Silence fell. Aragorn remained on the ground, breathless, the fading star-light in his hand. The space seemed empty; victory was slipping through his fingers.
The Easterling soldiers paused. Thranduil spurred his elk, trying to understand the situation. Only the wind and the invisible monster's hoarse, hate-filled laughter were heard. "It is over, Son of Isildur," the invisible voice echoed. "You defeated me, but you lost. The Nazgûl are dead, my army is scattered; the Ring is with me. Now I return to my master, to the ultimate power. Nothing can stop me." The voice began to retreat east, to Mordor; it was fleeing. "No," whispered Aragorn. "Not yet." As a Númenórean, as a Ranger, he focused on seeing what ordinary eyes could not. He looked at Andúril, then closed his eyes. Silencing the physical world, he turned to the Shadow World with the last ability left by the light of Eärendil. And he saw: Not a body, but a dark stain not belonging to the world. A running, panicked, suffering spiritual form. Mardûn could not see him; he did not know Aragorn could see. Aragorn snatched Andúril from the ground. As the dark stain passed him, in that final moment of escape— He swung with all his might at the invisible target. This strike was not the desperate move of a king; it was the lethal, calculated blow of a hunter. Not blind luck like his ancestor's; a conscious choice. Not at the torso, not at the shoulder— At the left arm, where the Ring was. SCHLAAAK! Not metal on metal; spirit was severed from flesh. A bone-chilling scream split the world. Then visibility returned. Mardûn collapsed to his knees. His eyes were blind, burned by starlight. His left arm was gone from below the elbow. Andúril had severed the dark alloy, the molten flesh, and the spirit with a single Final Cut. As the severed arm fell into the ash inside the burnt gauntlet, the dark band on the finger—the Ring—continued to shimmer. The monster shuddered. The red embers behind the burned mask flickered and died. Sauron's will lost its link with the body; the artificial life force withdrew. Inside the molten armor, in the midst of the burned flesh, only Boromir remained. He opened his eyes; they were no longer red embers, but the old blue, suffering eyes of Gondor. He was blinded, but he could see. He sensed his brother stumbling towards him. "Faramir...?" he whispered; his voice human, broken. "Boromir!" Faramir collapsed beside him, weeping, having awakened from unconsciousness. "I saw him, Faramir," Boromir coughed; black smoke escaped his mouth. "The Halfling... Amon Hen... I caused his fall." "I know," said Faramir, trembling. "Forgive me... I left you alone." "No..." He held on with his old pride in his last breath, then let go. His eyes drifted to where Aragorn stood. "I was weak. He carried it; I could not." He closed his eyes. "I cannot see my father... only darkness." "Find peace, Boromir," said Aragorn, kneeling. "Son of Gondor. You paid for your father's sins." Boromir smiled faintly. "My King..." he whispered, and the proud, tragic son of Gondor finally died. Pelennor was buried in silence again. Among the ashes, beside the severed and burned arm, lay the Ring. In Mordor, the Eye atop Barad-dûr felt the death of the Emissary and the loss of the Ring; for the first time in thousands of years, Sauron felt fear mixed with rage. Aragorn walked towards that small dark ring that ended and began everything. "Do not touch it, Elessar!" The Blue Wizards, Alatar and Pallando, ran to his side. The armies were clearing the fleeing remnants. Thranduil dismounted from his elk; his face contorted with horror as he looked at the small object. "I will not repeat my ancestor's mistake," said Aragorn; his voice struggling against the sweet whisper of the Ring. "Then what shall we do?" asked Pallando, his rust-red robe fluttering in the wind. "The Ring must be destroyed; it must go to Mount Doom." "I will take it," said Aragorn, reaching out his hand. "No!" said Alatar, in his sea-blue robe. "Your destiny is to rebuild this city. You are a unifier; if you carry the Ring, you will unite, not destroy." The two wizards exchanged a look; the silent war that had lasted centuries in the East ended in a single glance. "We," said Alatar, "failed in the East. We delayed Sauron, but we could not stop him. Perhaps our destiny is here, to bring his end." Pallando struck his iron staff on the ground. "I will take it. My will can resist his desire for order." "No," said Alatar. "Your order is too similar to his; fire does not extinguish fire. I am the unknowability of the ocean; Sauron cannot see my depth." Alatar tore a piece from his cloak. He reached for the severed hand. Without touching the flesh, he grasped the ring with the cloth and slid it off. As the simple gold band sat in the cloth, he stumbled for a moment; the whisper made his head spin. He turned to Aragorn. "King Elessar, take back your city; unite the West. We will take on this final task." Aragorn looked at the two weary, ancient wizards. "You cannot go alone. The road to Mount Doom—" "We are not alone," said Pallando, pointing to the red-armored army behind them. "These people have lived in the shadow for thousands of years; they deserve to see the end most of all." Alatar hung the Ring around his neck; the sea-blue robe turned black for a moment. "Red Horizons saved the West," said Pallando. "Now the army of the East will make the mountain shine once more." The two Wizards turned towards the single, dark task. The red army of the East wove a protective circle around them, and the hopeless march towards the heart of Mordor, to Mount Doom, began. On the ash-turned soil of the Pelennor Fields, the silence around Mardûn's burned, shattered body was like the sudden ceasing of a millennia-old storm. Aragorn lowered Andúril; the pure light on the sword faded as if its task was complete. Beside him, Faramir knelt by his brother's tragic remains, weeping silently. In the East, two weary, ancient Wizards—Alatar and Pallando—had undertaken the final, impossible task. Alatar had wrapped the Ring in a simple piece of cloth and hung it around his neck, and in that moment, his sea-blue robe had darkened like a drop of ink. He was now the Ringbearer. As the stained gates of Minas Tirith trembled in the darkness, a clear cry was heard from the north. The Forest King Thranduil, atop his wide-antlered elk, approached the ashen plain with a grace that cut the wind; beside him, Legolas, lowering his hood, let out a quiet breath. Thranduil gently reined in his elk and bowed his head. "Elessar," he said, his voice clear as frost, "the wind of grief has reached even me. Yet within this smoke, there is a hope turning to flower." Legolas crouched beside Faramir; he gently touched the shaking shoulder. "Faramir," he said in a low tone, "your brother's last look remains with you. The darkness has left him. The shadow he left behind is not you." Faramir raised his tear-filled eyes. "Boromir... finally went silent. And finally... I could hear." Pallando spoke with a voice the color of earth in his rust-red robe: "King Elessar, your city awaits you. Our path is different." The red-armored Easterling army did not hesitate. They had lived in Sauron's shadow for thousands of years; they were sworn to see their master's end. As a silent, protective wall of steel was woven around the two Wizards, the sorrowful caravan—two Maiar and tens of thousands of rebel Easterlings—began the long, heavy march towards the heart of Mordor, to Mount Doom. Aragorn watched the procession shrink and vanish into the dark plain; then he turned, looking at the blackened gates of Minas Tirith. "Lift your brother, Faramir," he said in a weary but compassionate, kingly tone. "We are going home. To take back our city." Thranduil turned his head aside and surveyed the plain. "The Shadow is broken, but men stumble as the mist clears," he said. "Like walking on a deer trail: calm and careful." Aragorn gave a short salute: "Share with us the north wind that blows wherever the shadow retreats, King of the Woodland Realm." Legolas turned to Aragorn and smiled. "The wind is with us, mellon nín. And today, the songs keep a softer measure." The march was not a victory procession; it was the beginning breath of liberation. When the ominous mouth of Sammath Naur opened like the mouth of hell before the two Wizards and their armies, Alatar walked in front. The burden on his neck was heavy not only on the mind, but on the soul—the burden of thousands of years of failure. They had been sent to the East to break Sauron's influence, and they had failed; they could not be the hope of the West like Gandalf. But now the Ring was around his neck. You can still succeed, the voice of the Ring whispered into the depths of his mind. This was not the insidious hum it whispered to Frodo or Boromir; it was a power-laden call spoken by a Maiar to a Maiar. You saw the East: waste and chaos. They need a shepherd. Sauron ruled with fear; you can rule with order and wisdom. Alatar, Lord of the Seas—bring the order of the ocean to the land. Alatar paused. He was a servant of Oromë; he loved order. In the suffocating heat, for a moment, he saw the chaotic lands of the East transformed under his will into a geometric, peaceful empire: no war, no hunger... only absolute obedience. "Brother," said Pallando, placing his hand on his shoulder and fixing his gaze. The Maiar of Aulë knew the scales of creation. "This peace you see is not peace; it is the same thing Sauron sought, just under a different banner. This is not life; it is a cage." Alatar bit his lip. "We... failed in the East." "No," said Pallando. "We brought them here." He pointed to the red-armored soldiers. "So they could see their master's end. Our mission was not to win; it was to give them a choice." Alatar's fingers went to the Ring; the promise was very strong. "Then let us choose together," said Pallando, and brought his iron staff down on the unstable floor of the Chambers of Fire. The rock groaned inwardly; lava rose growling from the cracks. Within the red breath of the fire and his brother's determination, Alatar saw the truth: The Ring's promise was a lie. He smiled. "We are not shepherds, Pallando. We are the pathfinders." The two Wizards joined hands at the edge of the precipice. "It must go," said Alatar, and cast the wrapped golden band into the fire. Sauron felt the betrayal in that last moment—but it was too late. The Ring returned to the fire in which it was forged. This was not a melting, but a scream: the darkest will, pure hatred, steeped into the foundation of the world, dissolved in an instant. The fiery, lidless Eye atop Barad-dûr trembled; then it collapsed inward like a star and exploded with a silent wail. Sauron's spirit was ripped from the tower; he was no longer an Eye, but a powerless shadow sharing the fate of his master Morgoth. He was cast into the Timeless Void; he would never take shape again. Everything that stood by his will collapsed: Barad-dûr succumbed to its own weight, the gates of the Morannon turned to dust. The floor of Mordor split; Mount Doom vomited its ash into the sky with a final grunt. In the Chambers of Fire, Alatar and Pallando were swallowed by the flood of fire and rock under the silent gaze of the red-armored Easterling army. The mission was complete. Their sacrifice became a legend that the West would not know, but the East would never forget. In Minas Tirith, Aragorn watched the explosion in the east in the wind of the Tower of Ecthelion. In that moment, a pressure heavier than physical weight was lifted from the world. The dead, black plague covering the Pelennor—Mardûn's legacy—dispersed like mist with the first lights of the sun. The earth breathed again. Faramir stood beside him; the grief on his face gave way to a weary but clear peace. Below, Boromir's body was laid out like a king; as his tragedy ended, so did Gondor's. Thranduil quietly pulled back his elk on the stone steps. "The shadow is gone," he said, "but the echo remains in the roots." Aragorn bowed his head. "Let us entrust the roots to the soil, and the soil to the song." Legolas looked at the Pelennor: "This plain will smell of flowers again one day. But first, silence must be allowed to heal." In the days and weeks that followed, news flowed like a flood. In the West, Saruman's attack on Rohan turned into a disaster; Radagast directed the slow but furious march of the Ents to the urgent cry of Rohan. The final march was not to Isengard, but to Edoras; the Uruk army was mowed down by the ancient forest rage. Théoden and Éomer saved Meduseld with the help of the Tree-shepherds. Saruman fled to Isengard, his power exhausted; Orthanc was no longer his fortress, but his dungeon. The Ents imprisoned him in his tower; Radagast broke his staff and excommunicated him from the Council and all powers—his price was endless powerlessness within the stone. In the North, Gandalf, Legolas, and Gimli felt the destruction of the Ring as they emerged from the frozen but cleansed Moria. The burden of the Grey Flame was lifted from him; Mithrandir remained. "It is over," he whispered to the mountain wind. "My task is done." The world fell silent. Aragorn received the crown from Gandalf's hand; this was not a crown of conquest, but a crown of healing. Elessar's first act was not to fight, but to build. He appointed Faramir the wise Steward of Gondor; in Rohan's brave daughter Éowyn, he found the cure to heal the city's wounds. In the Elven realms, the power of the Three Rings faded along with the One Ring; the golden leaves of Lórien turned brown, the timeless beauty of Rivendell took on a pale sadness. Elrond and Galadriel gathered their peoples; Círdan's white ships sailed west from the Grey Havens, to Valinor. The Ents returned to Fangorn after their last march; the world now moved not to their tune, but to the hasty step of men. Radagast retreated into the depths of the forest; for a long sleep, as Treebeard had said. The Dwarves returned to the shadowless Khazad-dûm under Gimli's leadership. This was not revenge, but rebirth; the halls were filled again with the sounds of hammers and dwarf songs. Minas Tirith became the White City once more: the blackened stones were cleaned, the black iron gate was removed. Aragorn found a white sapling brought from the mountain to replace the dead tree in the tower. Arwen Evenstar came to the city, leaving her people's last ship behind to bind her mortal fate to Elessar's. Legolas stayed for a while to regreen the forests of Ithilien; Gimli lent his shoulder to the craftsmanship of the marble halls. The friendship of Elf and Dwarf was counted as the first miracle of the new age. Then one day, the call of the sea echoed in Legolas's heart; Gimli did not leave him alone on that final journey. Before boarding the last ship, Gandalf stood once more with King Elessar at the peak of the Tower of Ecthelion. He was no longer Grey nor Flame; just an old friend. "The Wizards are scattered," he said, looking at the western horizon. "Alatar and Pallando sealed their tasks in the East with fire. Saruman is a prisoner in his tower; Radagast has become one with the forest. And I am returning home." Aragorn, with lines of wisdom on his face, was no longer a young ranger, but a mature king. "The world is silent, Mithrandir. There is no magic; nor ancient evils... Not even ancient friends." Gandalf touched his shoulder. "No, King Elessar. Magic has not gone, it has changed. It is no longer in great storms or dark towers. It is in the patience of the earth, in a mother's love, and in the will of a good man to do what is right." He smiled. "The world is yours. Use it well." The last ship set sail. Aragorn remained alone in the tower. Below, through the seven levels, the city was filled with noise, trade, children's laughter, and the smell of morning bread. A new age began upon the ashes—perhaps less magnificent, perhaps less epic; but for the first time, it belonged entirely to men. The Age of Men.