Atlanté swayed where she stood, leaning against the cold stone wall for support. It had been nearly 36 hours since last she had slept, and the time had taken its toll. Her hands were covered in dried blood, thankfully little of it her own, her hair hung lank and loose about her face and there were many abrasions on her fingertips from all the armour she had handled, yet she felt content.

All she had treated has improved substantially over the past few hours, but this was not what gave the stony cold walls of the dusty chamber new life. All who looked upon the Lord Aragorn in the hour of his entering the city that was rightfully his had felt refreshed, as if new like and hope were kindled from the very fibres of their being.

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Symana, not being present in the Houses of Healing, felt none of the calm happiness that the rest of the city seemed to feel. That night he had lost his King; the one man he felt he could respect and look up to since the death of his father, and he had lost also the pretty girl who had tended to his shoulder; the only fair thing in a city ravaged by war, or so he felt.

In truth, bodily Symana was healing well; his wound less sore by the hour. He passed a restless night in a tent outside the city walls with the rest of the Rohirrim, unable to sleep for long without waking in the deep gloom. The Rohan camp was quiet, all that could be heard was the distant water running down Anduin towards the sea, passing out of time and space into far off regions unknown to mortal Men.

Symana woke early in the gray morning, and lay still in his tent, seeing the coloured hide above him with eyes glazed over with pain. He dared not move the injured arm, for the ache had spread to his neck, as whiplash tends to do. In fact, it was the fall from his horse, not the sword, which was causing the stiffness and immobility in that delicate region, but he knew it not. The next few days passed in a blur, and Symana heard nothing of the war councils of the free peoples of Middle Earth.

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Nevertheless, council was taken and given by all in authority, the greater part of the debate taking place the day after the biggest battle of the age. Presiding over the Lords Aragorn, Faramir, Éomer and Imrahil was Gandalf Grayhame, gray veiled again after his encounters on the field, his energy spent. His sole purpose in life was to destroy the One Ring, throw down Sauron the deceiver and so set the world to rights. The Ring had passed beyond his grasp, taken by his bidding into Mordor, the land of Sauron himself, to be thrown into the fires of Mount Doom, where the Ring was made, the only place it could be unmade.

Aragorn it was who, at the end of all despair, could see a solution. Not for himself, not for the greater part of the armies of the West, but a solution still. To draw Sauron’s gaze from within his own realm, to give Frodo the chance to complete the final stage of his punishing journey, they would need a distraction, bait which could be no smaller than the entire attacking force of the united strength of the West. They would send the entire army to the Black Gate of Mordor in the hope it would lure the armies of the enemy from his own dominion, leaving it defenceless.

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Two days later, three days since the battle of Pelennor Fields, the host left the White City, as many men as could be spared. Atlanté knew little of strategies planned my mighty men, and cared even less. All that affected her was that the army was leaving, the next battle would be elsewhere and that meant no new casualties for her to tend. Many men were still abed, but Atlanté was sure she would lose no more. All seemed healed in spirit, and physical wounds, with her care, could only improve as time passed.

The men said it was Atlanté’s pretty face that did it, but she knew better. Her dazzling smile had benefited none since Symana had left, and it was the coming of the Lord Aragon which had caused them to feel joy renewed. She wished only to know what had become of Symana, but he seemed to have prudence enough not to visit her, fearful of the ends to which it may lead them.

Still, Atlanté did not begrudge the others their chance and hope, letting them flatter her yet believing not a word they spoke. She walked as a ghost that day, feeling, somehow knowing, that Symana had left with the great ride. She looked with eyes unseeing, the only image flickering in front of her tired lids of a sandy haired lad with sparkling irises and a smile that lit the world.

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It was no more Symana’s part to
understand what was to come. He knew they were going to the Black Land of the Enemy himself in a vain attempt to meet his armies. Men talked of ‘buying time’ and ‘hope for others’ but this did not make things any clearer; knowing only that he was unlikely to return.

Men spoke thus only when they gave voice at all. A hardy type of man, not given to wasting breath on such politeness as talking, composed the main body of the small army, mainly from the encampments of the Rohirrim and the townlands of Gondor. They marched and rode silently and swiftly for many hours, resting only briefly under the scrutiny of the captains and commanders.

They continued in this manner for the next five days, until the pace began to slacken. It was directed that a long halt be taken roughly a day’s journey from the Black Gate to renew strength of body and mind before the final encounter.

Symana sat on the bare earth looking around but seeing little. With eyes swollen because of the dusty land and the constant lack of sleep he perceived a row of black mountains ahead; towering over the surrounding land they posed a forbidding and threatening presence. Breaking out of his dim thoughts Symana realised that the Lord Aragon was speaking.

“Men of Gondor, and of Rohan. A day may come when your courage fails, but it is not this day. A day of terrors unknown and shattered shields when the forces of Men are crushed, but not this day.

“Today, we fight. You have been chosen
for this task due to your unwavering valour and loyalty. From here, we continue to the ultimate end. For those who feel their day is come, and do not wish to follow, I give one final command. You may go to the isle of Cair Andros, situated in the centre of the Great River Anduin. Once there you will dispose of the orc soldiers and reclaim the land for Gondor, and so regain your honour.”

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Staggering slightly under his weight, Atlanté helped the well-muscled man to the stone doorway. Harva, much improved, stooped and brushed his lips to her hand in a gentle token of thanks that both thrilled and revolted her. Never in all her sixteen years had Atlanté been kissed by a man and she whished not for the honour from any save Symana.

Knowing she must be polite, however, Atlanté smiled. Harva owed his life to her, and was repaying as he could. It was not his fault, she thought, that he did not hold much attraction for her, and this was for the best, as he had spoken often of his wife over the few days she had cared for him. Softly, so as not to disturb the wounded laying only the other side of the open archway, Atlanté whispered a goodbye.

“I hope you find better fortune where you are going than where you came from. I wish never to see you within these walls again, but the sight of you racing across the plains on your valiant steed in times of peace would be welcome.”

Atlanté spoke formally in the hope that the encounter would soon be over. It was not true that she wished to see Harva again but she had been schooled in the best manners her father, a guard of the citadel, could teach her.

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It was after another few hours weary journeying, their forces much depleted, that the armies of the West reached the Morannon. After a long night’s waiting, they assembled within view of Gate. Massing on two small hillocks frontal to the forebodingly dark cast-iron gate, they waited, seeing no opposing forces. Symana sat with the household guard of King
Éomer, shaking so hard he was sure that the creaking of leather on leather could be heard for miles around as his quivering legs rubbed the stirrup leathers against the saddle.

Yet none perceived Symana’s doubt, all focusing on the gate ahead. A deep rumble was carried by the wind to their ears, and before their eyes the creaking gate began to wind open. Whilst men sat and stood in despair a single figure, robed in black and perched atop a black horse, rode out towards the Lord Aragorn’s banner floating high in the wind.