[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor reined Pernolë to a halt as the Black Gate was visible through the wall of morning mist. The ranger’s breath caught in his chest as he took in the spectacle. It was a wall of iron that ran, what seemed to be a quarter league, between the walls of the dark realm. It was as thick and impenetrable as the very rock it connected to.

“How does it open,” whispered Dûrvagor to Sorlas, his northerly accent tremouring with the slight fear he sheltered. The ranger narrowed his eyes and answered slowly.

“There is some sort of giant force, like a mechanical pulley on the other side. No living force could budge this open.” Dûrvagor nodded, satisfied with the explanation. Mounted on a horse whose rider had been taken in the previous battle, Aravir shifted uncomfortably.

“You are not nervous then, eh friend?” asked Dûrvagor, trying to resist the shadow that disheartened Aragorn’s militia. Aravir relaxed slightly, shaking his head.

“No because now that you’ve cut into my thoughts so abruptly, I cannot remember what it was I was nervous of.” He adjusted the reins and flipped his cloak from under his seat. Dûrvagor looked again towards the gate of Mordor.

He thought of what it would be like to be in the company of Ravenwyn instead of where he sat now. To have his feet propped up upon the railing of The Raven’s Nest as it coasted into Harlond, full of trade goods from the south. To sing and joke, listening to her pearly laughter, and enjoy her very presence. He yearned suddenly for the taste of the jasmine tea she favoured. He also wondered what Jem, her adopted son, would be doing. He’d be aloft, no doubt, Dûrvagor thought with a smile. That boy was always anxious to learn and please the Captain, his mother. The ranger had taken an instant liking to him and vise versa. They got along well and what ignorance Dûrvagor held towards the sea, Jem tried to teach. Exactly opposite then, the ranger taught the boy sword play and weather-sense, the latter of which Jem was constantly congratulated upon learning and was greatly useful on board.

A gust of wind then passed over the army, the flags beating and cloaks loosing themselves from where they were tucked under seats and saddles. Dûrvagor was brought back to the present and caught Aravir’s eye as they waited. Waited for whatever was to come from behind those looming gates into their midst. Fate, thought Dûrvagor somberly. Fate was going to unleashed; fate and all its terror and merciless. Though he hated to be there when it did, he stayed steadfast in his place, drawing his sword. The effect rippled through the crowd as ally weapons were drawn and the metal reflected the waning light.

From within the realm of the shadow came a low drumming sound that echoed inside. The sound, barely audible to the rangers’ ears, was dismal. The outcome was unknown to him at the time, but what was soon to begin was the final row between good and evil. Entering unknowingly into the circumference of where the battle was to take place, Dûrvagor waited for what was to come…