All preparations were made; soldiers were well armed and armored, and fed and watered. Food and water had been rationed out for the long trek to Mordor, and they would gather up what they could as they traveled.

Elrond I and II, Maglor, Gil-galad, Elendil, and the human king’s two sons, Anárion and Isildur, joined in the courtyard of Rivendell for one final meeting before the Alliance set out.

“You don’t need a long speech from me,” said Gil-galad to his comrades. “Just remember that this is war, and as with all wars, there will be bloodshed, agony and, for some, death. You all know just as well as I do that some of us – nay, many of us – will not leave the battleground alive.”

“We have all joined in mortal combat before, Ereinion,” Elendil spoke up. “We know all about it.”

The elf was entirely unabashed by his friend’s reproach. “Even so, one reminder does no harm.”

Elendil fell into silence, nodding submissively. The last thing they needed right now was an army whose leaders were in disagreement.

Gil-galad met each of the leaders’ eyes in turn, just in case anyone had an argument that needed to be settled. When no-one raised his voice, the elven-king smiled and extended his hand. “Then we all concur.”

Three humans, two elves and one half-elf in two bodies all shook hands with one another, and returned to the waiting militia.

The journey to Mordor was long and wearying for all, but the warriors’ morale was ever mounting. The Alliance’s numbers swelled as they passed by Lothlórien and Greenwood; the Wood-elves’ alacrity to fight the forces of Darkness was more than a little heartening. The vast army approached Mordor steadily from the north.

When they arrived at the dark plain before the Black Gate of Mordor, it seemed as though every fearsome creature from every conceivable nightmare was waiting for them. There were orcs, trolls, great dark wolves with gleaming eyes and fangs, and a limitless swarm of dark birds – crows and ravens, every one pitch-black, ragged-winged and evil. They all swooped overhead, cawing and croaking, blocking out the sunlight and plunging the earth below into shadow.

Elrond I, marching between Gil-galad and his godson, looked up sharply as a huge shape darted past, out of the corner of his eye. It was a great eagle, followed by no small number of other winged figures – more eagles, hawks, falcons and other such predators of the skies. It was a host to rival the carrion-birds on the side of the Enemy. The elf smiled up at them; Manwë was surely fighting with the Alliance.

As Maglor, Elendil, Isildur, Anárion and Elrond I and II all unsheathed their swords, Gil-galad drew forth his weapon, the spear named Aiglos. Its pointed tip reached high above the elven-king’s head, even when its blunt end rested on the ground. Elrond II, watching him, forcibly held a shiver back as he momentarily recalled a long-ago conversation with this seemingly speechless object.

“Show them no kindness,” said Gil-galad, “for you shall receive none.”

The members of the Alliance nodded wordlessly, waiting patiently for further orders. The leaders of the host exchanged silent looks, and they came quickly to an agreement, which Elendil voiced.

“Charge.”

The elves and men moved forward as one, in a great wave that surged relentlessly toward the waiting enemies. The beasts of the Black Land lunged toward their opponents as well, and above them, two flocks of birds clashed in midair. The siege of Mordor had begun.

The battlefield was in complete pandemonium. Elven arrows struck the hearts of orcs and wolves as the trollsÂ’ maces cut great swathes through the ranks of the Alliance. Blood and feathers and birdsÂ’ corpses rained down on them from above. It was a nauseating sight to the beholder.

In the darkened sky, the ravens and crows were being soundly routed by the much larger, fiercer birds of prey. More and more ebony-feathered bodies plummeted onto the soldiers on the ground. Heartened by this, the Alliance fought with bubbling vigor.

Elrond I and II fought back-to-back, cutting down their foes and blocking attacks in turns. Whenever one half used his sword, the other always had his shield ready. The two halves of the same elf formed a formidable team of one, returning a gaping wound for every cut, a fierce torrent of blood for drops of the same. Two hearts pulsed in perfect unison, never missing a beat.

Elendil and his sons advanced steadily through the thick swarm of bodies that pressed in against them, with filth, sweat and blood mingling on their faces. Was there no end to the might of Mordor? It seemed that for every monster they killed, another ten rose up in its place. Morale and hope were slowly dwindling with the three humans.

Protected by the mysterious power of Mandos’ cloak, Gil-galad was totally unscathed, in spite of being deep in the middle of the mêlée. In the elf’s skilful, calloused hands, Aiglos impaled beast after hideous beast with swift and deadly accuracy. Dark blood of two hues splattered his armor. But no matter how many creatures he slew, he knew there would be more. There would always be more.

The battle dragged on and on for days, weeks and months, with scarcely a free moment to eat or sleep. The numbers of both the Alliance and the Mordorian creatures had dropped, but the elves and humans were slowly but surely defeating the forces of evil beneath the fiery, smoke-streaked sky.

Amid the endless screams of pain and miscellaneous battle cries that had plagued his ears for so long a time, Gil-galad finally heard a triumphant whoop from somewhere ahead of him. He quickly cut a path through the enemy horde to the one who had cried out; it was Elendil, his face flushed, eyes dancing with the light of success.

“I think we can make it to the gate!” he gasped.

Maglor had joined with Elendil’s sons, and the three of them wasted no time in making sure their way to the Black Gate was clear. Elrond I and II soon met them as well, every bit as exultant as the others. Together they charged forward with all that was left of the Alliance (it was still a formidable number, despite their losses), through the Gate and on toward the looming fortress of Barad-dûr.

Past the dark threshold, even more foul creatures awaited the army of Light. Arrows flew like hundreds of shooting stars, and swords slashed and pierced enemy flesh like striking serpents. This time the fiends of Mordor were not nearly as strong as before; it seemed all of the best fighters had been sent to the forefront of the war.

The Alliance moved forth step by determined step. Slowly the beasts of darkness began to falter as the elves and men stood up ever stronger. Conquest was in the AllianceÂ’s grip; they had only to reach out and take itÂ…

But a much darker shadow passed over the battleground, and for a moment Time held its breath. The soldiers of the Alliance could do nothing but stare in wordless disbelief as the commander of the evil host descended from his tower to join the war.

Gone were the blue eyes, sallow skin and shoulder-length golden locks; the robe and shirt of ivory and scarlet had been utterly discarded. Sauron, in all the might of his darkness, stood up against the sky like a mountain wrought of the shadows themselves.

Black armor glinted like obsidian on every inch of his body, from his fearsome, spiked helmet down to his huge boots. In his steel-gloved right hand he held a massive mace – a thick spar of iron topped with a great, barbed ball of the same metal. And on his right ring finger was a band of gold, inscribed inside and outside with words of a dark language that befouled the origin of their intricate script. One Ring to rule them all…

The Lord of the Rings had come to crush his foes.

The elves and men had no time to react before Sauron swung his mace, slaughtering a dozen warriors with each ruthless blow. Panting, Elrond I and II quickly ducked behind a rocky ridge that would give an impermanent shelter. The leaders of the Alliance, who had been struggling to regroup, now seemed to be scattered again.

“Where are Maglor and Gil-galad?” Elrond II asked fearfully, staring into the face of his other half. “Did you see them?”

The elder elf’s voice trembled. “I did, for a moment. They were with Elendil, Isildur and Anárion, but … they just vanished.”

Elrond I suddenly gasped as a hand clamped on his shoulder. His godson moved instantly to help him, but soon sighed and relaxed when he saw that it was a friend.

“It’s all right,” whispered the person who was holding Elrond I, as the half-elf tried to look at him. “It’s only me – Maglor.”

“Thank you,” Elrond I replied as he was released, his voice hoarse with relief. “Are you all right?”

Maglor nodded. “I’m alive, at least.” But the son of Fëanor sported several deep, bloody gashes on his hands and cheeks, and the tip of his left ear was missing.

“Do you know where the others are?” Elrond II asked.

“Only for a few moments,” Maglor answered. “I saw Gil-galad get buried under many of our army… I didn’t see him get up. Elendil and Isildur escaped, but I’m not certain about Anárion.”

Elrond I nodded, shuddering in pure fear. For one of a great many times in his life, he had absolutely no idea what to do next.

Gil-galad couldnÂ’t halt his sobs as he heaved himself out from beneath the lifeless bodies of a half-dozen of his kinsmen. They had fallen on top of the elven-king after Sauron had struck them down, completely shielding him from the dark LordÂ’s gaze and guarding him even in death.

Gil-galad gasped in horror as he recognized a human among the elves he had been buried under. Anárion! The man had died protecting him, and he hadn’t even known it… The elf gently cradled his slain friend in his arms for a brief moment, lightly kissing the prince’s cold forehead and whispering a farewell, even though he knew that Mandos had already been here and visited the man.

But Maglor, Elendil, Isildur and ElrondÂ… where were they?

Somewhere else not far from him, Sauron was still wreaking merciless destruction on the last remnants of the Alliance. The king started to rise fully, to see what was happening, but saw his cloak – Mandos’ cloak – fall from his shoulders. The hem was pinned firmly beneath a fallen orc’s sword; the weapon’s blade was sunk deep into the ground, holding the edge of the garment tightly. The clasp that had held it was broken.

Even if the cloak was able to be freed, Gil-galad knew he could never wear it now. He had no choice but to discard his greatest means of protection. He climbed laboriously to his feet and stepped over his friends’ limp bodies, advancing toward Sauron with Aiglos held tight in his fist.

Sauron himself was moving across the war-torn plains of Mordor, treading heedlessly on the immobile forms of elves, humans and Mordorian beasts alike. Many of the kindred of the Light were still living, if scarcely even that, and were crushed unto death beneath the dark LordÂ’s massive boots. He ignored the muffled groans of agony as the warriorsÂ’ final breaths were wrung out of them.

His purpose was evident, and it did not involve any of those pathetic, half-dead creatures. Sauron’s sight was fixed on the two figures trying to conceal themselves behind a shelf of stone that threatened to crumble at any instant. That was his greatest mistake – he didn’t think to look over his shoulder, to where Gil-galad was still approaching.

Behind the precarious ridge, Elendil and Isildur huddled together, not daring to breathe. They had both seen Sauron coming; they had to remain hidden until the time was right to strike.

Elendil silently fingered his blade, a majestic-looking sword called Narsil. He tilted it just a little, so that a thin slice of the sky above was reflected on its surface. And part of it was slowly blotted out by a greater shadowÂ…

Â…still unobserved, Gil-galad slunk forth, until he was within striking distance of the dark LordÂ…

Â…Isildur closed his eyes, silently praying to the ValarÂ…

Â…and the elven-king leapt up, plunging Aiglos deep into SauronÂ’s giant-sized right shin.

His adversary struck back, using his mace to fling Gil-galad carelessly aside as if he were nothing but a rag doll. Aiglos flew from his hand as he pitched backward through space. He landed hard on the rocky ground fifteen feet away, and let out a scream of anguish as some razor-sharp object was thrust through his back, its tip just barely protruding from the lower left side of his breastplate. He could only observe what happened next.

At the same time as the other king had attacked, Elendil had sprung into action, throwing himself full-force toward Sauron. But he, too, was swatted aside like a bothersome insect, slamming into the rock face behind him and crumpling forward, instantly slain. Isildur, in a frenzy of wrath, lunged forth and snatched up Narsil from where it lay unheeded.

Sauron stepped on the blade, cracking it into pieces, and reached down to the prince with his right hand. With a cry, Isildur desperately swung the fragment of the sword he still held, slashing the air until metal struck flesh. SauronÂ’s right ring finger, with the golden band still upon it, fell away from the dark LordÂ’s hand and landed on the stone before the prince.

The man looked up into the concealed face of Sauron to see beams of dazzling white light emanate from the eye-holes of his helmet, and from many other places on the evil figureÂ’s body. In one blinding flash, SauronÂ’s whole body dissolved, and his armor fell to the earth, empty and smoking. But it didnÂ’t end there.

From the very instant of the dark LordÂ’s disappearance, some great wave of unseen force had surged out across the plains of Mordor. Now it overwhelmed what little remained of the warring armies, knocking every standing creature off their feet.

Then, with surprising softness, it was gone.