Screams.

Inhuman screams and human screams mixed together, echoing through the streets of Minas Tirith. A faint clank of a weapon hitting the street could be heard, and here and there cruel laughter. But it was the screams that filled the air and carried with the wind.

Carried all the way to Mordor, where Sauron would relish them, certain it was all his now. There would be no end to the screams, no end to the blood, no end to his Shadow.

Minas Tirith was falling. Soon it would all fall, Elven and Human cites alike.

And Middle-earth screamed.

Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, raced through the streets of Minas Tirith, dodging arrows. A few swords came in his path, but he knocked them aside, desperation giving him unknown strength.

Éowyn.

He had left the Houses of Healing to hear news from the front, and standing at top of the city he had seen the Shadow rise.

For a brief moment that seemed to last forever he hadn't been able to move, just stare at their doom. The Doom of Middle-earth. His heart had been pierced with darkness and all had felt lost.

Then screams had begun to rise from the city and in a sudden flash of light he had envisioned Éowyn of Rohan, orcs bearing down on her. He could not let her die, not without dying himself. He wanted to see her just once more, feel her light in the terrible darkness.

And so he ran, barely aware tears were streaming down on his face.

The White City was no longer white; the sky was no longer blue and the air was foul. Could it even be called Middle-earth anymore?

Men fled through the streets, their faces filled only with terror. Bodies lay scattered in some streets, women and men alike.

The Houses of Healing were burning he realised as he turned a corner, great flames eating away at the buildings like a hungry beast. His body nearly froze, a distant memory of flames haunting it, but his mind was too focused to allow for halts.

Black smoke clouded his vision and his eyes burned. He could make out dark shapes, nearly blending in with the smoke. Almost as if they were a part of it.

Cold steel made contact with his arm, and he winced in pain. With a quick thrust his opponent fell to the street, an orc with a hideous smile on its lips.

But he hardly looked to see if the orc was dead, for now he saw her. Her sword flashed bright, and she nearly shone like a star in her white dress. But her face was hard and cold, and blood stained the dress.

Beautiful, deadly Éowyn. Even as he saw her, his heart cried out in pain and joy at the same time. She was alive, but her face spoke of death.

The same face he had seen soften with a smile not too long ago, the same face had had wanted to caress and from which wipe away all sorrow. The face he had come to love.

She had nothing to live for and everything to die for, now.

By her side, Merry and Pippin, the halflings, stood as fierce as any men would, their little swords working furiously. The men of Minas Tirith fled in fear, but the little people stood their ground.

A strange defiance came over him. Death was around them, but Sauron would not have this victory. They would go to their deaths with dignity and pride, not fear.

"Gondor!" he cried out, and his cry echoed through the streets, growing in strength until it carried over the screams and with the wind.

And the men heard. One cry of courage and defiance in the heart of darkness.

One cry among the screams.

*******

All the way to Lothlórien the cry of Faramir carried, where the waves of orcs searched furiously, the Nazgûl hissing in anger.

The Lord of Lórien lay slain but the Lady had vanished. Sauron would not be pleased. The Nazgûl knew better than to displease him, and so they whipped the orcs on.

Trees burned and houses came crashing to the ground. Statues were broken, fountains knocked over.

Galadriel saw it all in her mind as she sat on the cold cave floor, silent and waiting. Gimli had found the cave just outside the forest, claiming the orcs would not see it. And so they sat in the darkness, hearing the faint sounds of trees falling.

She could make out the shape of Legolas, head in his hands. She knew he was crying, but his tears were silent. Neither he nor Gimli had spoken about the rise of the Shadow, but she could see it clearly in their minds.

Legolas had come to Aragorn's side, but too late. The orcs and the Nazgûl had taken his friend, cutting into his flesh and carrying Isildur's Heir to Mordor, to face Sauron's wrath for what Isildur had cost him. The man's blood was still on the elf's hand, and his mind it would forever be.

She had whispered in his mind that it was not, but the young elf had simply looked at her with his deep eyes. He had nearly fallen himself, but Gimli had come and together they had killed a Nazgûl.

She did not have the strength to look further into their minds, adding to her own grief. It came at her every time she breathed, like knives stabbing at her heart.

The ring in her hand felt warm. She didn't dare put it on, for Sauron was aware of it now.

Could it be his downfall? Could her vision come to be? He would not expect her to walk into his dark land of her own free will. He would try to cut her off from the Havens, her and all the elves.

Frodo Ringbearer, lose not hope. I will come she whispered, reaching for his mind. No answer came to her, but somehow she knew he had heard.

"Where shall we go?" Gimli muttered.

"To Mordor," she replied, clutching the ring. "To Mordor."

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