What is despair?
Is it the all-encompassing darkness, the terrifying shrieks, the endless enemies pressing in from every side, or perhaps the drowning of all light?
Those things may indeed inspire fear, but they are not enough to define true despair, for so long as people still have the strength to fight, even if the light never returns, they may not necessarily be defeated.
The ones who should feel despair at this very moment are the orcs attacking outside the fortress walls.
The wilderness, the plains, cavalry against infantry, a sudden charge.
That is the situation now.
In the darkness, a silver torrent gleams faintly as it tears straight through the orc army of tens of thousands, trampling screams into silence beneath the thunder of hooves.
Even the three ghastly green spheres of light fade under such an onslaught. The Nazgûl retreat in haste, trying to avoid being swept up in the flood.
Yet sometimes, against certain foes, retreat is useless.
"Bard, reform the ranks! Charge again!"
Leaving that command behind, the figure at the very front breaks away, riding straight toward the three black silhouettes that glow with sinister aura.
At times, showing oneself can instill fear in the enemy.
But in other cases, it only draws even greater terror upon oneself.
Whoosh.
The three Nazgûl mount their terrifying fell beasts and, in unison, choose to retreat decisively, especially far from the Man who is pursuing them.
The outcome of the battle is already clear. There is no need to struggle further.
"Reform the ranks!"
Elsewhere, after completing their first charge, the cavalry wheel about and once again lower their weapons toward the battlefield.
Bard widens his eyes, straining to distinguish friend from foe.
It is so dark here that even Bard, famed as a marksman with eyes sharp as an eagle's, can only make out vague outlines.
Fortunately, the armor of their own forces is fairly bright in color. Otherwise, in such conditions, stumbling and falling would be the least of their problems.
"Charge!"
The formation quickly falls into place, the second wave of cavalry thundering toward the center of the battlefield.
The orcs, however, seem still in a daze. No one gives orders.
The cavalry's first strike had come without warning, without a sound. The orcs hadn't even had time to turn around, let alone form ranks to resist. Almost the instant the two sides clashed, the orc host had collapsed in disarray.
Now, as the cavalry reforms for a second charge, the orcs might still be able to reduce their losses, if they could only respond in time.
But unfortunately... The Nazgûl are being chased.
As for command of the orcs, their newly appointed leader is no different from the rest, he has no idea what he should do. All that fills his mind is confusion and fear.
"Charge!"
And so the torrent sweeps over them again amidst furious shouts.
"Counterattack! Counterattack!"
At last the orc leader seems to remember what he should do, bellowing one of the few commands he knows. But it is all in vain. The army can no longer be organized. The orcs no longer have the strength to fight back.
Only a few trolls, their hides so tough that blades spark against them, still put up some resistance. Just by standing there, they can block the charge of oncoming horses, even hurling both man and steed to the ground.
The few surviving were-worms do the same, but most had already perished in the siege. Too few remain to pose a real threat.
Seeing more of his men hurled through the air, horse and rider alike crashing to the ground, Bard wheels about, accelerates, and lowers his razor-sharp spear to charge at one of the towering beasts.
Roar!
The monster raises an arm as thick as a tree trunk, ready to teach this reckless human a bone-shattering lesson.
At the critical instant, just before they collide, Bard holds his breath and hurls his spear forward with all his might.
Thunk!
A cold gleam flashes through the air, crossing dozens of meters in an instant to plunge straight into the beast's chest.
Whoosh.
Bard ducks low against his horse's neck as the massive arm sweeps past, the wind of it whipping his hair wildly.
The monster staggers and crashes to the ground in the direction its arm had swung.
That strike had clearly pierced its vital point.
"Well done!"
On the fortress wall, Balin can't help but applaud.
"His aim has always been exceptional," Gandalf replies with approval.
"You know him?"
"Of course. That is Bard, the ruler of Dale. What surprises me more is that you don't know him." Gandalf looks a little taken aback.
"He attended the feast at Wayfort last time. Did you not see him then?"
"I was stargazing at the time."
"Ah, gentlemen," Halbarad interrupts. "Forget the stars for now. Should we not be going out to help?"
"You're right."
Boom!
The stones blocking the fortress gate are smashed aside. Soldiers rush out roaring, their fury and thunderous shouts enough to make the blood boil.
Clearly, after seeing their lord return and the cavalry charge, these young men could no longer hold themselves back.
Defense had never been the strength of Wayfort's people. Now they would prove that to their enemies.
"Come back, you lot!"
---
Whoosh.
A firework shot into the sky. Garrett switched to his elytra and shot forward, cutting off the Nazgûl. The instant he landed, he immediately swapped back into his netherite armor, better safe than sorry.
Whinny.
The three fell beasts screamed, their instincts telling them to fear the human before them.
He pointed his blade at them and asked, "Who's first? Or all together?"
There was no avoiding this.
The Nazgûl exchanged a silent glance.
Then so be it. Fall once if we must, the mission is already complete...
One by one they dismounted, drawing their weapons.
"Looks like it's all at once, then."
Three shrieks merged into one. The runic shield flared to life around him, holding back the impact, though a poison debuff still clung to him.
There was no time to drink milk or honey. The three Nazgûl closed in from different angles, blades dripping with venom. Two of them even activated phasing abilities, trying to bypass his armor and strike directly at his flesh.
Only the one wearing a ring refrained, he clearly had experience, knowing that in the face of Garrett's runic shield, all magical attacks were useless.
Clang!
Amber light flared, repelling everything. Garrett slashed, but the familiar nameless Nazgûl before him dodged.
The wraith formed an axe-hammer, clearly trying to force Garrett into a weapon clash, buying time for his companions to attack. Garrett, seemingly as expected, raised his sword, as if he truly meant to face the other two head-on while dueling him.
But just as sword and axe were about to collide, Garrett canceled his swing. He swapped his inventory in an instant, a shield appeared in his hand.
Bang!
The shield absorbed the blow. The nameless Nazgûl staggered in surprise, his prepared combo broken, his timing thrown off for just a heartbeat.
But a heartbeat was enough. Garrett had already switched back to his sword. He lunged forward with a thrust.
Boom!
Flames burst forth. The Nazgûl shrieked in agony as he fell to the ground, his voice thick with torment.
As for the other two, just as Garrett prepared to deal with them, a sharp cry rang out from above.
He looked up and saw, in the distance, a great eagle soaring in the sky. Below it, a golden figure on horseback was racing toward them.
The rider stopped on the high hill where Garrett had stood moments ago and shouted, "Friend, I come to your aid!"
He raised his sword and charged.
As he did, a radiant brilliance erupted from him. In the eyes of all who watched, his form seemed to grow taller, larger, more magnificent than before.
Where his footsteps fell, the clouds and shadows overhead were driven back by his light.
"This guy... what a showoff. Wherever he goes, all eyes follow." Garrett sighed helplessly.
The moment he appeared, the Nazgûl faltered. Fear overcame them, and they tried at once to melt back into the shadows and flee the battlefield.
But clearly, those near them would not allow it.
A longsword pierced through armor, igniting a fleeing Nazgûl in flames.
When mortals fight Nazgûl, the wraiths can make countless mistakes. All they need is one strike, and the mortal is wracked with agony, stripped of their will to fight.
Now the roles were reversed. Against Garrett, he could make countless mistakes. All he needed was one strike, and the Nazgûl would be set ablaze, temporarily crippled.
And without comrades to shield them, "temporary" against Garrett meant only one thing: their spirits returned to Mordor.
By the time the golden figure reached Garrett's side, all three Nazgûl had been destroyed, leaving behind only scorched, broken armor scattered on the ground.
"Was I in time?"
"Perfect timing."
Garrett looked at the refined, golden-haired Elf before him, his body still faintly glowing, and fell silent for a moment.
"Glorfindel. Why did you follow me here?"
Yes, it was him, the mighty Elf-lord of the First Age, bathed in the light of the Two Trees, peer to the Balrogs in might, long hidden in Rivendell since his return to Middle-earth.
In sheer power, he and Garrett stood on the same level.
As the valiant Elf crossed the battlefield to Garrett's side, the clouds overhead dissolved entirely.
Under the returning starlight and moonlight, the warriors could at last see the field clearly. Their blades struck orcs with greater precision, their movements freer and more fluid.
"And the eagle? Since when was there an eagle here?"
The soldiers might now see clearly, but Garrett was left puzzled.
"It came just after you departed. No sooner had you taken the soldiers and ridden out than the eagle arrived, bearing news."
Glorfindel dismounted.
"But since you were moving so swiftly, I could only pursue from behind. You know few horses can match the steeds of Dale at full gallop."
Even Rivendell's finest could not quite compare.
"News?"
Garrett caught the word immediately.
"Tell me everything, in detail."
And so, everything that was about to unfold had begun even before this war had erupted.