His sword arm ached and his hair was wet with sweat. Athladain stood amongst the ranks of men still buzzing with adrenaline. The stone streets of Osgiliath were stained black with the blood of orcs and the debris of a city once grand. The Gondorians skin was wet with blood; of both his own and his enemies. The patch of fabric that covered his eye had torn, revealing the milky whiteness of his right eye in sharp contrast to the deep blue of his left.
He wiped down his sword with his cloak, which now fell torn from the sharp dirty fingernails of an orc that had clawed after him when struck down. A command was shouted from further ahead, and Athladain rose up a bit higher on a broken wall, his sword in his hand.
“Men of Gondor! We move forward with swords in our hands, shields on our arms and strength in our hearts! The White City depends on us, and it shall not fall until we ourselves fall defending it. Push them back!!”
A rousing cheer roared from the men and forward they went, joining with those who were already marching onwards. They moved to the mighty rhythm of armoured boots hitting stone, and the jangling of metal of chain and plate echoed in their ears.
The men moved forward like the shining steel of a blade through the thick blackness of the army of orcs, their corpses and blood littering the streets behind them until the enemy decided to turn tail and run. It was then the Captain-General and his brother: Boromir and Faramir; Sons of Denethor, Steward of Gondor advanced forth. With them went a strike force, including Athladain and a handful of his men.
They moved to the final bridge that was connecting the Eastern and Western side of Osgiliath; metal and wood structures allowing a crossing. The soldiers took up their shields, hammers, swords and arms as they approached, finding it clear save for a few corpses littered about. Rocks were thrown and posts were smashed, until eventually the swift current of the Anduin took the supports of the bridge in it’s water grasp and washed it away.
Despite the victory, the men felt no happiness. Instead, a dread gripped their hearts and the air went cold around them, and for a moment it seemed as if the world went dark, and a shadow crept along the stones around them. The deep blue cloaks of the men and the red of their blood seeming dark and black. Athladain felt his breath catch in his throat, and he stumbled on his feet until he was clasped by the men around him as they made their retreat away from the bridge, through the city gathering the men alongside them as they left just a small number of men behind to keep watch, though for the Steward’s Sons and the majority of the army, they were to return to the White City after years of service in the Ruined City.
Still however, on the march back through the Pelennor fields, Athladain felt a cold feeling in his heart; one that was only rejoiced by the warm feeling of seeing the city shining in the light of the early morn. A frown came to his lips however, as he recalled business long ago he had in this city, and he wondered what had changed.
