Boom!
Lightning split the heavens, thunder roared, and rain poured down in a relentless torrent. Upon the battlefield blood ran in streams, flowing along the drains and spilling into the Anduin, dyeing the river red.
The fighting raged on from dawn until nightfall. Elves and Men alike held their ground at the fortresses beside the bridges, repelling wave after wave of assault.
The blades in their hands had grown jagged and blunted, spears no longer cut with sharpness, their armor and shields were broken and battered. Yet in their eyes,though dulled by exhaustion,there still burned a single unyielding fire: the certainty of victory.
At midnight, the Orcish onslaught faltered once more. Beaten back, they retreated, and for the first time that day, no further attack came.
Amidst the rain, before the three bridge-fortresses, lay the corpses of more than ten thousand Orcs.
But the cost was grievous.
Every soul bore wounds upon their body.
In one assault, Legolas had leapt to save a comrade at his side, only to be struck by an arrow in the left arm. Unable to draw the bow, he had fought with sword in hand for a long while.
Andric, the hill-tribesman, was scarred from head to foot, yet still stood tall, his battle-axe in hand. Simply by standing there he made the Orcs quail.
Lord Domhere once terrified of the battlefield, now bore eyes emptied of fear. He had learned to kill, though at the price of one finger and grievous wounds.
When they saw the Orcs withdraw without returning, the three laughed—though their laughter was weary.
For they knew: on the morrow aid would surely come. Even if they all perished, Tusgar would not fall.
….
That night, Andric, Domhere, and Legolas sat together within the King's Hall.
They knew well: tomorrow would be the final battle.
Thus, a heavy mood hung over them.
Andric spoke:
"Prince Legolas, I have a request, though it shames me to voice it. I beg you to hear me."
"Forgive me, my lord," Legolas replied before the words were spoken. "Whatever you intend to ask, I must refuse."
He knew well what Andric wished: that he gather the surviving Elves and withdraw.
But how could that be? As prince, his pride would not allow it, nor would the Elves of the Woodland Realm ever consent to retreat in the face of darkness.
"Elven blood has already been spilled in rivers," said Andric. "Tomorrow, no matter the outcome, we shall be victors in spirit. But you—Prince of the Woodland Realm—you must not fall here."
"Say no more," Legolas said firmly. "This battle has long ceased to be mere siege and defense. It is a war between light and darkness. To retreat is shame. Precisely because I am a prince of the Woodland Realm, I will not yield. I shall stand or fall with this city."
At his words Andric fell silent.
At length, he spoke again:
"Then send the folk of the eastern quarter away. We can no longer shield them. Whether we live or die, the war itself will yet be won."
Domhere nodded grimly. "So be it."
….
That night, the people of the East Quarter were told to flee.
But to their astonishment, the citizens refused. None would abandon their home.
Six thousand able-bodied men, armed with whatever weapons they could seize, marched to the fortresses beside the Sun bridge and the Moon bridge.
One among them declared:
"Under our king's hand, we raised Tusgar stone by stone. This is our home. Now that darkness falls, we will not flee. Beneath the light of Eowenríel, beneath the King's Tower, we swear—we shall live and die with this city!"
And from the Caladhîn came five thousand, every adult of their folk—men and women alike.
One among them spoke:
"We Caladhîn were awakened by the holy light of the High King. Now, though the light upon the King's Tower is veiled, we cannot flee. When soldiers fall, we shall be the last line of defense."
Andric, Domhere, and Legolas looked into the eyes of these people and saw there a steel of faith. They knew they had no right, nor power, to refuse such devotion.
….
The fifth day of the Siege of Tusgar dawned.
The rain ceased.
Yet no light of dawn touched the earth. The heavens were leaden, and the stench of blood hung in the air.
Upon the fortresses and the bridges beyond, men and elves crowded shoulder to shoulder, clutching weapons—some the heirlooms of slain heroes, still stained with their blood.
Though the edges were dulled by days of slaughter, unseen strength and courage seemed to flow into their hands.
Then the sound came.
Woooo—
The war-horns of the Orcs, loud and terrible.
This time the hosts marched forth in full.
The Nazgûl themselves came—six in number.
In the ruins of the West Quarter, every street and alley teemed with Orcs and foul beasts.
Black vapors rolled, foul and choking.
The Witch-king of Angmar strode before Moon bridge , his hollow voice rasping as he called out to Andric:
"I admit, you are valiant warriors. But now you are cornered beasts, powerless to resist. Swear to me and embrace the glory of Darkness!"
Andric laughed with scorn.
"Lost soul, shadow of corruption—you have forgotten name, forgotten honor, forgotten all. We may die, but so long as hope remains, Eowenríal and all peoples shall remember us. And you—ha!—you are but half-dead, a crawling shade of Darkness."
The Witch-king hissed:
"Darkness has fallen. All shall be dust. Light cannot stand against it. Your deaths mean nothing."
Andric sneered.
"Then prove it. Let the bats fly free from the Tower. Let the light of Eowenríel's star fall once more! But you will not—for you fear the light. Without it, you are nothing but carrion cloaked in shadow."
The words stung. The black vapors about the Witch-king writhed furiously. He turned, voice echoing:
"Hope is dead. Prepare for death!"
"No. Hope has come!"
Suddenly, a voice thundered from the King's Tower, rolling across Tusgar.
The Witch-king froze, turning his gaze skyward.
From the North a beam of golden light pierced the clouds, striking the Tower shrouded in a cloak of bats.
A shriek split the heavens. The bats scattered, fleeing in terror.
And the light of the Star of Eowenríael blazed forth once more above Tusgar!
Golden radiance spread, and wherever it shone the powers of darkness shriveled like smoke in the sun.
The Orcs howled in agony.
Andric stared at his arm—his wounds knitting before his eyes. Astonishment gave way to tears of joy, and then to laughter. His gaze burned as he looked not at the star itself, but at the northern beam of gold.
He knew that light.
It was true light—the light of Eowenríel!
"My Lord!"
The archers of Eowenríal cried with reverence, their faces alight with devotion.
Domhere, grievously wounded, felt his hurts healing, and slowly sank to his knees.
Legolas gazed at the light, whispering in awe:
"Your Majesty Kaen… you have come at last."