Symana stood in his stirrups as he had many days before, at the commencement of the Battle of Pelennor Fields. It was not, this time, Théoden riding at the head, spear glittering in the rising sun, but a whole company of the best warriors the Third Age could provide. Aragorn, Éomer of Rohan, Gandalf Grayhame and Imrahil of Dol Amroth made noble captains for the doomed army of the West.

Further forward this time, Symana could hear more; the heralds were proclaiming the land to be part of the ancient realm of Gondor under the rule of the King Elessar as they had been doing regularly for the three days past. Gandalf was riding on, almost to the very foot of the Black Gate to meet the newcomer. With him rode a contingent of the Lords and Kings there assembled.

Symana, watching events from behind several lines of horsemen, felt his breath catch in his throat as he saw what he perceived to be a child sitting in front of the big gray warhorse that consented to bear Gandalf. The figure was stoutly robust, but appeared in height to be of no more than ten summers old.

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Her eyes unwillingly following Harva along the corridor, Atlanté saw something even less welcome. Her heart seeming to leap into her mouth, and threatening to go further, she turned and almost ran back through the strong stone entrance into the chamber within. Her father, for some inexplicable reason, appeared to be walking along the corridor directly towards her.

Although Atlanté loved her father very much, she could not face him now, having disobeyed his order to remove herself from the city. He was not cruel or unkind, and nothing would make him so, but he would not hesitate to give the due punishment for her misdeed.

Seeing his daughter, Arexon increased his pace until he as well broke into a run. His personality matched Atlanté’s completely; both headstrong and unwilling to back down in the face of adversary. In the case of the man, this had been recognised as a talent and valuable resource and had lead to promotion, in the girl it had caused arguments about the ideas that others considered to be above her.

“Atlanté,” he called, “I have seen you, I know that you are here. Please come to me so we can talk about this.” Arexon knew, by the mere fact that she was still in the city against his wishes, his daughter was beyond being controlled like a small child.

Shaking once again, Atlanté walked over to the doorway where her father waited.

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Unable again to hear words, Symana was still able to glean the meaning of the conversation that was taking place between the black robed stranger, who had dismounted, and the grey cloaked wizard. They appeared to be debating some point of mutual disagreement. Around Gandalf Symana perceived some power beyond that of a physical being, an aura seeming to radiate from both his body and staff.

The messenger seemed to be growing impatient; reaching into a bag made of some dark animal hide he drew out a mail coat gleaming silver and white, more fair than any there had seen save Gandalf. A dagger, inlaid with the traceries of Westernesse, followed. Upon seeing these he visibly blanched and almost snatched the items from the black hand that dishonoured them.

The emissary, leaping back onto his black horse, spurred it cruelly as he rode back towards the Gate, which opened to admit him. A stream of orc soldiers poured out onto the plain as he disappeared from view.

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Atlanté took the final steps toward her father feeling as though they were the final steps along Rath Dínen, the silent street that leads to the tombs of the dead. Looking at the flagged stone floor, she slowly raised her gaze to meet his furiously flashing eyes.

“I believe I requested you to leave the city? Yet I see you here still. An explanation, Atlanté.” Arexon spoke quietly, the rage and fear barely contained, but the tone of his voice showed his feelings plainly. Dropping her head again, Atlanté replied.

“I’ve been in the service of Ioreth, helping tend the wounded. I couldn’t leave the city. I know I shouldn’t have disobeyed you, I’ll make amends in any way you see fit.” Still she shook, not wanting to think about the uses a girl her age could be forced into, wondering that her father had not named her punishment rather than allowing her to give an excuse.

“Your hours of toil in yonder chambers more than repay for your disobedience. I came for news of one of my men, he collapsed whilst accompanying a young Rider who wished to see his Lord’s body. Do you know where he is being tended, and what condition he is in?”

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Again the drums sounded, far away, seemingly, but chilling in the cloying atmosphere of tension and expectation. A single trumpet blast, unreal but very much adding to the horror that seemed ready to rend the hearts of the weak from their bodies, echoed off the forbidding cast iron gate and surrounding mountains. A cry from far behind startled Symana, who turned to see who had called and what had passed. What he saw nearly made him pass out. Fighting for breath, trying to clear the blackness that seemed to be enveloping him, he fumbled to unsheathe his sword.

File upon file of orcs, wild men and other fell servants of Sauron were pouring down the mountain faces from all directions, unhindered by the rubble and scree that shrouded the very feet of the slopes less than half a league distant.

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Startled by her father’s reaction to her disobedience, Atlanté stammered an answer, her mind on the youth he had mentioned rather than the Guard or the Lord. She hadn’t seen or allowed herself to think of Symana since the hour of his departure, and to be reminded of him in this way was almost more than she could bear.

Telling herself the boy could be any one of about half the army of the Rohirrim, many of whom fitted the description, Atlanté took her father’s hand and, leading him over to Ioreth, allowed the wise old woman to take over responsibility for the visitor. She then crossed to the doorway, stumbled through, and sped off into the black night swiftly gathering about the city silently shimmering in the still moonlight.

Her confused feelings pursued her through the Gate to the lowest level of the City, and to the feet of the Great Gate, now lying as shards of wood on the stricken floor. Quiet as a shadow she passed through the opening torn in the otherwise majestic wall and out onto the Fields of the Pelennor where she collapsed against the remains of a wagon used for transporting crops, her breath coming in great sobs.

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Having readied his sword, Symana dismounted his horse and allowed him to wander to the centre of the many concentric rings that enshrouded the hillock upon which he stood. The unlevel ground meant that it was probably better to stand than to trust the balance of even the most sure footed of noble steeds.

Feeling slightly more confident now that he had to carry his own weight, Symana tried a few strokes high above his head with the sword now firmly gripped in both hands. The fluid moves came easily and armed with the knowledge that he did at least have the ability to take a few orcs down with him Symana was ready to face the first foul creature that looked in his direction.

The stench of blood and death already overpowering, the scene grew steadily grittier and more deadly. Troops were falling steadily on both sides, the sheer numbers of the attackers evenly weighted with the ancient magic of Gandalf for the Armies of the West. It was a fair match of the best soldiers of the time against the cruellest mind and will of the Age.

Then the proud and arrogant mind faltered and broke. Orcs ran untamed in all directions, flinging down their weapons; the two great towers guarding the outermost regions of the Black Gate crashed to the floor as the very earth was rent apart. Rubble and other less innocent matter was flying in all directions, the air thick with dust. In the confused atmosphere of mingled panic and relief the last Symana knew was a large chunk of the ground rushing up to meet him head on.

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