Anárion rose drowsily from his cot the next morning. Isildur was gone. He shook his head in regret for all the things he had said the previous night. He did not want his brother to be estranged from him, after they had been through so much.
He stretched lazily and began to dress. First came his loose black tunic, then the mail-plate that covered his chest and stomach, the plates that covered his shoulders and thighs, his knees and upper arms, his knees and elbows, and finally this shins and lower arms. He then pulled onto his hands tough leather gloves, and to his shoulders he fastened a long black cloak. On his head he put his helm, with wings like those of great seabirds. Lastly he buckled on his sword-belt, and picked up his shield.
Anárion did not know why he had chosen to dress in full battle gear. Normally, he would have worn the chest plate and the helm, and that would have been sufficient. Anything more would have caused him to become incredibly uncomfortable. But this morning, he was taken by a feeling that he needed to be ready to give battle.
Stepping outside carefully, he found that it was as close to a sun-lit day as Mordor ever got. There was some light, and the cloud-cover of Sauron seemed to be breaking. There was no wind, the dust lay in drifts all about the camp. The air seemed cooler that was normal. All about him, Men and Elves whispered that the darkness of Sauron was fading, and He was not so far from defeat as they all thought. Morale rose everywhere, especially among the Men of Nùmenor, who cheered as Anárion walked past. He was glad to have raised their spirits, even though he did little more than walk past in his silver armor and hold his head high.
At mid-morning he found Isildur breaking his fast on stale bread and tainted water. His brother nodded to him, but otherwise made no acknowledgement that he had noticed Anárion at all. Anárion sat down beside him for some time, until Isildur rose from his seat and looked down at Anárion.
“I apologize for besmirching your honor yester eve brother,” he said stiffly, “It is not my place to decide your actions.”
Anárion stood as well and he clapped his hand on his brother’s shoulder, “Think nothing of it. I am sorry if my words hurt you, but you were only doing your duty as a brother.”
Isildur nodded, “I am glad there is no enmity between us; it would have weighed heavy upon my heart to go into battle without my brother’s love.” He stretched luxuriously, “I have also made up my mind to go with the diverting force.”
Anárion smiled, “Now there is truly hope of victory! With you upon my right and Glorfindel upon my left, who will stand before us.”
Isildur did not share his brother’s mirth, “Sauron, if he should show himself. Possibly the Lord of the Nazgûl, if he commands the battle himself.”
“Do not dwell on these possibilities,” said Anárion, his smile gone, “For that is what they are, merely chances, shadows of things that may be.”
Isildur smiled then, but it was without mirth, “It seems our attitudes have been exchanged.”
Anárion nodded, “Yes, you were so sure of victory yesterday at dawn, and I was filled with doubt. Now. . .” he shrugged.
Isildur shook his head, “I do not know what has come over me, but this feeling came upon me; a strangling feeling I have not felt since I stole the sapling from the temple and the guards fell upon me. It was like seeing Nùmenor fall again.”
“What could have caused it other than the will of Sauron? He may have bent his thought upon you, the man who has done ill to many of his designs. Did you have evil dreams?”
Isildur nodded, “They came to me as all things wrought by Sauron come, suddenly and violently. I remember nothing but black fear, threatening to drown me, like the sea on the eve of our escape from Ar-Pharazôn.”
Anárion shuddered at the memory, and endeavored to change the subject, “What of this light? What do you think of it?”
Isildur looked up at the sky, where patches of blue were now clearly visible, “I do not like it. It reminds me too much of all of Sauron’s secret designs; it has come quickly and without explanation or reason. This may be some new scheme to lure us into a trap.”
Anárion nodded, “If it is indeed a trap, we must walk into it open-eyed, and hope to catch Him off guard,” he turned to look at some of his men basking in the sunlight that they had not seen for nearly six years. Nodding towards them, he said, “But we may still keep some hope that His darkness is truly breaking and this war is near an end.”
“Do not allow yourself to be blinded by your hope,” said Isildur quickly, “Not for naught is Sauron called the Deceiver, and when He has a hand in events, they are not as they seem.”
“You speak truthfully brother, but I will not let hope blind me. Nay, I will keep this hope to stay sane and living.”
Isildur clapped his brother on the shoulder, “Then hope on, brother.”

“I like it not,” said Gil-galad, “It seems to good to be true that His darkness breaks at the time we decide to launch another assault.”
“Knowing Sauron, it probably isn’t true,” said Elendil, and bitterness was clear in his voice.
“But will we continue are plan?” asked Elrond, “If we attack ere the sun sets, we may catch his orcs in a hard place.”
Gil-galad looked over at Elrond, standing over his maps and scouting reports, “That is the main reason this disturbs me; he puts the orcs, the staple of his army, at a severe disadvantage by allowing the sun to come through.”
“Maybe his power truly fades?” suggested Nalí.
“That may be,” said Gil-galad, “But I am loathe to place trust in He who wraps himself in falsehoods.”
“I think we should wait for reinforcements to arrive from Greenwood and Lothlórien before we launch this assault,” said Thranduil, “And also we should have Anárion summon up his reserves.”
“That could be playing into Sauron’s hands,” said Elendil, “To make us so suspicious of His motives that we make a terrible blunder. By no means do we close off all passage into the west with our presence,” he leaned forward until his face was inches from Thranduil’s, “With Sauron, you must understand, there are wheels within wheels within wheels. A man may go mad attempting to second-guess Him.”
Gil-galad nodded his agreement, “Whatever the reason for this new turn of events, we must not waver from our plan.”
“Speaking of which,” said Elrond, “We have yet to set a time for this attack.”
“I think it is best to keep the date unfixed,” said Elendil, “Sauron has ears everywhere, and those ears have ways of hearing what is not meant to be heard. Keep the men ready.”
Thranduil nodded and ducked out of Gil-galadÂ’s tent. The High King returned to his planning, but Elendil gazed at nothing for a time, then walked outside to nap in the late morning sunshine: a luxury he had not allowed himself for ten years.

Anárion stared at the dark tower of the Barad-dûr. It did not look so threatening in the sunlight, in fact, it looked no more threatening than the pinnacle of Orthnac, or so it seemed to him. He stretched on the ground, as much as his armor would allow. He stripped off his helm and set his arms behind his head.
He turned to his brother and smiled, “Sunlight! I never thought my heart would be so glad to see such a simple thing!”
Isildur frowned and did not answer. He seemed lost deep in thought to Anárion. He cocked his head towards Isildur,
“You seem morose, brother.”
Isildur shook his head, “Nay, I am nervous. This seems wrong to me, and a shadow of threat grows upon my mind. And it is not helped by seeing how lax you have become. Lying in the sun like a lizard, within sight of the enemy’s tower!”
Anárion smiled, “You should be more at ease Isildur. Soak up the sunlight lest it be gone tomorrow.”
Isildur shook his head and returned to brooding. After some minutes, Anárion, deeply at ease, began to sing. His voice was husky and unlovely, but the sound of fair song in that foul land seemed sweeter than the warbling of any bird.
He sang for some minutes, like his brother, from the Lay of Leithian. He reached a portion that touched near the subject at hand,
“He chanted a song of wizardry,
Of piercing, opening, of treachery,
Revealing, uncovering, betraying.
Then sudden Felagund there swaying,
Sang in answer a song of staying,
Resisting, battling against power,
Of secrets kept, strength like a tower,
And trust unbroken, freedom, escape;
Of changing and of shifting shape,
Of snares eluded, broken traps,
The prison opening, the chain that snaps.

Backwards and forwards swayed their song.
Reeling and foundering, as ever more strong
The chanting swelled, Felagund fought
And all the magic and might he brought
Of Elvenesse into his words.
Softly in the gloom they heard the birds
Singing afar in Nargothrond,
The sighing of the sea beyond,
Beyond the western world, on sand,
On sand of pearls in Elvenland.

Then the gloom gathered; darkness growing
In Valinor, the red blood flowing
Beside the Sea, where the Noldor slew
The Foamriders, and stealing drew
Their white ships with their white sails
From lamplit havens. The wind wails,
The wolf howls. The ravens flee.
The ice mutters in the mouths of the Sea.
The captives sad in Angband mourn.
Thunder rumbles, the fires burn-
And Finrod fell before the throne.”
Anárion trailed off, for the nameless terror in that song was Sauron himself, when he had been no more than Morgoth’s great captain. Isildur shivered in the sunlight. Elves nearby stared at Anárion, with his unlovely voice and unlovely topic. Anárion laid back and closed his eyes. The morning wore on.

At dusk, Anárion arose from the cot where he had spent most of the afternoon. It was barely the fifth hour from noon, and already the sun sank behind the mountains of Shadow. He stretched and yawned, almost like a cat.
He gazed around in the lengthening shadows, discerning the shapes of elves and men. The return of darkness hurt him, and so he went back inside, and lit a candle from his small box of treasures. He sat on his cot and rummaged through that chest, noting every item, how and when he had received it, what purpose is served him, why he had it here.
Coming to the leather flask of elven wine, he took a draught. Staring around into the gathering darkness, he suddenly realize why Isildur was afraid. The swirling seas, and the fires on the shore. Their father standing straight against the raging gale to stare at his fatherÂ’s ship until it disappeared on the horizon. He shivered at the memories, but none so much as the only time he had seen Sauron.
The looming menace of his presence had only partially been concealed by his fair raiment, as he stood behind the throne of Ar-Pharazôn. And in that moment, Anárion had realized that the throne of Nùmenor had fallen under Sauron’s will. The thought still terrified him.
He stared into the gloom for an hour or more, mulling over the horrid memories from Nùmenor as it was under Sauron’s command. He did not even notice Isildur come in and sit beside him until his brother gently shook him from his reverie.
“What are your thoughts brother?” Isildur asked.
Anárion shook his head, “I will not say. Dark have been my thoughts in hours past.” He paused for a moment and closed his eyes, “They are gone now. But I have been thinking on Ar-Pharazôn and Sauron’s power over him.”
“Those are indeed black memories,” said Isildur, “But why do you dwell on them?”
“There is a heavy menace about this place that not even an age of sunlight and greenery can wholly cure. I feel His will, showing to me the things my heart fears most.”
Isildur threw his arm about his brother’s shoulders, “I understand your anguish, for I myself have been cast into the dark pits of despair that He delves for us, but I have returned. You must return as well. Dwell not on one subject to long, or He will turn it to your ill.”
Isildur stood and walked over to his own cot. He stared up at the ceiling and sighed, “I have long wanted to break free from these tents and wander once again in Ithilien. This place begins to eat away at a man’s spirit.”
“Yes, very quickly.”
The two sat in silence for a long time. Isildur was on the verge of sleep when faint cries came from outside the tent. He sat up quickly and threw on his helm. Anárion did the same.
“What is this devilry?” he cried.
“I know not,” Isildur replied, “But let us go meet it!”
Outside they ran into a company of elves in full battle dress, shields and spears glinting dully in the moon-light. They joined themselves to the rear of the company and many Men of Nùmenor followed them.
As they reached the perimeter of the camp, the faint cries became distinct. There were shouts of ‘Elendil! Elendil!’ and ‘Avi-i-eldar!’ and the unintelligible screeches of orcs. There were cries of anguish and of death and everywhere there was the clash of metal upon metal.
“Come Anárion!” shouted Isildur, “Battle is joined! Elendil!”
With that Isildur charged recklessly into battle, and Anárion and his company followed. Orcs had come up under the cover of darkness and had slain the outermost guards and had made it into the first row of tents before they were stopped. No doubt that the poor men and elves that inhabited those tents were dead, killed while they still slumbered.
Orcs sprang up before Isildur, but many fled, for his wrath was terrible to see, and those that stayed were hewed down. In this way Isildur came to the beleaguered guards. He broke through the orc’s ranks with a fury that surprised even Anárion.
Anárion turned to his following and raised his sword above his head, “The enemy is upon us! Rise up! Rise up! Forth Nùmenor!”
“Elendil! Elendil!” they cried, and sprang forth into the fray.

Even as Anárion called the darkness of Sauron blanketed them again, its stifling blanket threatened to choke the hope out of all those under its shadow. It was now impossible to tell how many orcs had snuck in under the now-heavy cloud cover.
A more evil fortune still: the coverings of Sauron struck fear into the hearts of men, and many found themselves unable to move. Some cried that they were blind, and others cast themselves down and beat the ground with their fists. Around Isildur and Anárion the Men of Nùmenor who still had some wits about them rallied, and lashed out at anything that came within reach of their long swords.
The fight raged for long minutes, and all that could be heard were the clash of metal and the screams of the fallen. It was a near even contest. Had the Men of Nùmenor been able to add their prowess, the orcs would have been scattered like leaves in an autumn gale. Yet they were bested by Sauron’s covering, thicker than it ever had been beforehand. The elves possessed the greater skill, but the orcs could pit three of their warriors against every elf.
Things would have gone ill if not for the arrival of Thranduil and the archers of Mirkwood. Their keen eyes and stout hearts cut through the wrappings of Sauron and many orcs fell with white feathered arrows in their chests. The orcs wavered for a moment, and then retreated. All elves, both Noldor and Silvan, pursued them in the hotness of their wrath. Many orcs that lingered to give battle were cut down ere they had chance to raise their weapons.
They pursued them across the bitter ashes of the no-man lands between the Barad-dûr and the light fortifications of the encampment. They were no more than two furlongs distant from the tower when the orcs turned about unexpectedly and lashed out. The lightly armored and lightly armed elves under the command of Thranduil suffered heavy losses, nearly fourscore fell in the first minutes of the fierce melee. But the heavily armored Noldor withstood the sudden onslaught and once again proceeded to hew down their enemies. Then the Lord of the Nazgûl revealed his plan, and hundreds of fierce Uruks and scores of wolf-riders poured from the gates of the Barad-dûr.
The Noldor cried out in terror, and the Sylvan elves fled before this new onslaught. The Noldor held for a few moments, wavered, and then fled. They would have been overtaken and slain by the wolf riders if not for what happened next.

Nalí Bloodtooth had brought his company to the edge of the camp, but when they arrived the elves had already charged after the retreating enemy. He made as though to follow them, but as he saw the plight of the Men of Nùmenor, he paused. He grudgingly conceded that at least one group that could see in this gloom should stay to guard the camp. For the dwarves could see and their hearts were not troubled, and to them this suffocating darkness was no worse than the deepest caves of Khazad-dûm.
Yet when the cries of the elves became evident, Nalí threw caution to the winds and cried:
“To me my kinsfolk! To our comrades! Baruk Khazad!”
With a great shout the dwarves, less than five hundred strong, charged recklessly into the no-man land. The elves were a furlong distant and drawing closer quickly, and the wolf riders were now near on top of them, and the Uruks not far behind.
In their panic and in the dark, the elves very nearly tripped over the dwarves. Not realizing that their friends had come to their aid, they attacked viciously and though no dwarves were killed, many were wounded. The dwarven lines parted and the elves ran through. The dwarves stood bewildered for a time, but then turned back to MordorÂ’s armies.
“Baruk Khazâd!” they shouted, “Khazâd ai-mênu!”
And the orcs, though they outnumbered their foes ten to one, were halted with great slaughter. The elves returned after they heard the dwarven war-cries, and now Thranduil led his archers forward, and they let loose every arrow in their quivers. Hundreds of orcs fell stricken, but still their fellows came on. And up from the tower gates, six furlongs distant, came up new strength of orcs and trolls. Even the steadfast dwarves began to give ground, but their line would not be broken.
At last, a group of trolls and Uruks burst through the dwarven lines and made for the archers that tormented them with their darts. Dozens of Elven archers were slain, and the chief troll knocked Thranduil to the ground, and stood above him, preparing to tear out his throat. Nalí Bloodtooth saw this, and he gave a blood-curdling scream,
“Khazâd ai-mênu!”
And he leapt to ThranduilÂ’s aid, slaying two trolls and driving the rest away in fear, so great was his fury. Others, dwarves and elves alike, rallied about their captains and fought off all who came before them.
Thranduil was not grievously hurt, and he stood up. He began to thank Nalí, but the dwarf said gruffly, “Save pleasantries for afterwards, for whether you are injured or not, there is still a battle to be fought here.”
And that battle was being lost. Though the valor of both dwarf and elf was great, the great crush of Sauron’s force began to slowly drive them back. The blood of dwarf, elf and orc fell into the ash of Mordor and evaporated. The warriors of the Last Alliance had been driven back up against their own barricades, and the Men of Nùmenor could give them no aid, for they were blind still.
Then, when all hope had nearly faded, a brazen trumpet sounded from within the camp, and suddenly a great blue light sprang forth from just within the barricades.
It was Gil-galad, and the light had come from the blades of the folk of his house. The blades were made in Gondolin, and were presented to Gil-galad’s father, Fingon, before his death at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. The orcs shied away from the light, for it pained them to look upon. The Men of Nùmenor, suddenly relieved of their blindness, and reinforced by more of their kindred coming late with a Captain named Ingold. They gave a great shout and leaped the barricade. The Uruks and Trolls wilted before their onslaught, so great was their wrath.
Anárion himself slew the troll chieftain, and the rest fled in fear of him. Ingold made as if to pursue them, but he was stayed by Isildur.
“Nay,” the prince said, “We have but defeated a portion of His strength, and I do not doubt that if you came before His doors, He would unleash His hidden armies and you would fall.”
“Ah, you have touched upon a great point Isildur,” said Gil-galad, coming up behind the pair, “Have we defeated his last strength? Or was this strike merely a ruse? Nay!” he cried, seeing Isildur ready to protest, “Speak no more of this matter here. Within sight of the Barad-dûr is his power greatest.”
Isildur snorted, “I begin to wonder if there is truly any place in this land where we can speak freely.”
“Not freely,” said Anárion, “But Sauron’s eyes can see happenings in other lands, even without a palantír. There is no place, save Imladris or Lothlorien where you could truly speak your mind without fear of the wrong ears overhearing.”
Isildur nodded, “But where shall we hold council? I fear this attack may be a show to convince of his weakness so that we should become overconfident and attack before our plans are ripe.”
“This may be true,” agreed Gil-galad, and slipped off the thick leather glove on his right hand, revealing a ring, “We shall hold council in my tent, as before, but this time more caution shall be used.”
As the Elven King spoke, he fingered the silver ring set with a sapphire upon his hand. Though neither Anárion or Isildur said anything aloud, they recognized Vilya, the ring of Air. With that ring’s power, their council would be kept secret. Gil-galad grinned slyly, and slipped his hand back into its glove.
“Why had you not used Vilya before?” asked Elendil, who had come just then to the front, only to find that the battle was over.
Gil-galad shook his head, “Alas, it was folly for me to assume that the Dark Lord was both blind and deaf, and I fear I may have done ill.”
Elendil clapped his hand on Gil-galad’s shoulder, “Do not trouble yourself friend. Come,” he gestured to the tents, “Let us take what rest we can.”
Gil-galad nodded and the pair walked back into the encampment. Isildur looked over at his brother, who was grinning wryly.
“I think,” said Anárion, “That they are growing senile in their age.”
Their laughter rang throughout that hollow land.

Thranduil came up behind the dwarf, Nalí Bloodtooth, and cleared his throat. All within earshot turned about, and what they saw amazed them. Thranduil, King of Greenwood, kneeled before the dwarven captain and spoke thusly:
“O Nalí Bloodtooth of the race of Durín, great is your strength in battle, and noble is your heart. There are grievances that lie between us concerning our races and I beg of you to pardon me. I spoke ill of your people, and my words have been proven wrong. I have been saved by your valor, and I beg of you to take from me anything that I can give. I withhold my life only.”
Nalí was taken aback by such humbleness from the proud elf, and he muttered softly, fading into silence. At length, he spoke,
“Thranduil of the elves, I pardon all hurtful words that have passed from your lips concerning dwarves. I will take naught from you, but instead ask that you remember these words should ever another of the race of Durín, that you will treat him with the same dignity as you have treated me now.”
Thranduil stood, and looked about at the scattered elves and men in the fading light of the Noldor’s blades and said in a great voice, “Let none here say that the dwarves are without fair speech, and let none say that they are uncourteous!” He turned back to Nalí, “Master Dwarf, I will do as you ask, and I swear by the Valar themselves that I will keep your vow.”
Nalí muttered something under his breath, and walked back into the encampment, searching for food and sleep.

The next morning found the captains of the Last Alliance at council again. The darkness of Sauron had faded just as swiftly as it had come. In Gil-galadÂ’s tent, they debated their course of action freely, knowing that Vilya would prevent their words from reaching SauronÂ’s ears.
“It was a feint,” Isildur insisted, “A deliberate attempt to make us believe He was weak enough to defeat. I remain convinced that He has much strength yet, tucked away in some black pit.”
“If it was a feint,” asked Gildor Inglorion, an elven captain, “Then why did He release more forces to be destroyed? Either His wit wanes, or he seriously believed that he could defeat us with such a small force.”
“He almost did,” said Anárion grimly, if not for the valiance of the guards, we would all have been slain as we slept.”
Thranduil nodded grimly, “And that proves that His wit does not wane either.”
“But what of Isildur’s points?” asked Ingold, “For if His intent was to slay us all, then why did He not unleash all His forces from the beginning?”
Elendil spoke after a moment of consideration, “That was not His objective I guess. I agree with my son when he says that this was a feint. We were far too careless with our words two days ago, and He might have heard us planning.”
“So what you are saying is that, if His soldiers had slain us while we slept, that would be all well and good, but His purpose was to lull us into a false sense of security?” asked Gildor, “I still cannot understand why He would do such a thing.”
“He did it because He knew there was small chance of slaying us all with such tactics, but with His knowledge of our plans, he could kill us all and win the war. If he could convince us to go through with them that is,” said Elrond softly.
“Did I not tell you that my heart bode ill of this course?” said Isildur, “This course of action is now useless. We must find some other way to evict His forces from the Barad-dûr.”
“And I still say that the key to this siege is this gully!” shouted Elrond.
“The key to His victory, not ours!” retorted Isildur, “Why not order our armies to cast themselves into His pits, and save ourselves the trouble!”
“Men!” spat Elrond, “Always they are the first to despair! There is no other way, and so, when minds fail, bodies must prevail!”
Isildur leapt to his feet, and leveled his sword at Elrond, “Lord Peredhil, you who are only half-elven, forget not that your brother was a man, and that you are in part a man, and that, if not for the valor of men, you would not have come into being!”
“Humph, two councils, and two conflicts,” said Nalí, “Why do we struggle amongst ourselves? Elrond, Isildur, forget your differences for another time. We have a more important matter at hand than your petty squabbles, more borne from stress than from any real grievance.”
The two glared at each other a moment longer, but for the time being, they did forget their differences, but Isildur carried them in his heart, even until he stood over the Crack of Doom, and his chance to destroy the Ring. Gil-galad stood after a few moments,
“Nalí speaks wisdom; we are all stressed and wearied beyond belief. Were it possible, I would council that we go to our own countries and take rest. But, since this is not possible, we must at least try not to kill each other over nothing.”
“It is not nothing,” said Isildur, quietly, yet dangerously, “The fate of Middle-earth could hang in the balance!”
“Stay your tongue Isildur,” said Elendil quickly, “Lest you be drawn into another argument.”
Before Isildur could answer, Anárion spoke, “Returning to the matter at hand, what can we do, now that we are in agreement of the fact that Sauron has knowledge of our plans?”
“I believe that the plan Glorfindel and Anárion came up with two days ago seems to be the best,” said Gildor.
“Yet Sauron has knowledge of it,” said Glorfindel bitterly, “Or at least we guess He does.”
“Even if it is a mere guess,” said Elendil, “We cannot risk it. It may be that the attack was the result of His playing a hunch, but with Sauron, nothing is as it seems.”
“Always must we second-guess ourselves,” said Thranduil bitterly, “I grow weary of it. Oh, what wouldn’t I give to meet His forces in open battle, rather than sit around questioning how much He knows!”
“You are not alone in such a wish, Thranduil,” said Nalí, “If it is possible, I council that we lure His forces out into the open plain, where we may crush them!”
“Crush them?” said Círdan incredulously, “We have no clue as to how many orcs or men or trolls He has yet at His call! For all we know, He may possess the forces to crush us in open battle.”
“This I cannot believe,” said Anárion, “For if He did have such numbers, would He not have slain us all before?”
“Captains,” said Gil-galad suddenly, “How many do you have at your command, and of what sort are they, and how many do you believe they could do battle with at one time?”
“I have four and a half hundreds of dwarves, all in mithril mail. I wager that we could contend with some three thousands of orcs at once before we were overrun,” said Nalí.
“I have with me some six thousand archers,” said Thranduil, “They are lightly armored, but their skill with a bow is unmatched, save by our kin the Galadhrim. I believe we could contend with six thousands in melee combat. More, if we started further away.”
“I have ten thousands, of all sorts, and heavily armored from Imladris,” said Elrond, “We could contend with three times our number, for most are of the Noldor, and are well trained in the art of war.”
“My sons and I have some thirty-six thousands, all told,” said Elendil, “We could contend also with three times our number.”
“And I have twelve thousands in Osgiliath, and in Minas Anor,” said Anárion, “I will not summon them, however, for they are all that stands between the enemy at Minas Ithil and the west.”
Isildur glowered at the thought of his beloved city in the hands of the enemy, and then said, “My son Elendur, commands four thousands at the opposite end at the pass,” he paused, “And there are the men who live in the mountains of Ered Nimras. They have sworn an oath to me, and I will summon them, if it is necessary. I estimate that they number three thousands.”
“And I myself command some four and twenty thousands of the Noldor and some Sindar,” said Gil-galad, “And I deem that this is enough for the plan I have designed.”
All looked at him in wonder, and finally, Anárion spoke, “And what is this plan my Lord?”
Gil-galad smiled, “We must assume that Sauron knows we mean to attack him from the postern gate, and that a smaller force means to distract him at the front gate.”
“Yes,” said Isildur, becoming irritated, “We have been over all this before; if you have something new to add, add it.”
Elrond frowned severely at Isildur, but Gil-galad waved him off, “I have nothing new to add, but you do, Isildur, as does Anárion.”
Isildur stared inquisitively at Gil-galad, but Anárion nodded grimly.
“Ah, you speak of the weapon. I feared that it would come to this. I had hoped that we might have kept it hid, and none would have ever known of it. Tis a shame, really, that such a weapon will be brought to light.”
Isildur’s eyes opened wide, then narrowed, “If we are to use this weapon, this must truly be our last assault. Should Sauron learn of it, and learn the secrets of its construction, a great evil would be unleashed upon Middle-earth.”
“And if He does,” said Gil-galad, “Then I shall be held to blame; your hands are clean.” He glanced around at the others at the council, who were at this point staring inquisitively, and he smiled. “If you could bring the others to the same page Anárion?”
The other nodded, and turned to the others, “Once we of Gondor learned of Sauron’s return, we constructed, in secret, a weapon so powerful that it could bring low any fortress or any amount of troops. This weapon is a great bow, perhaps five times longer and a dozen times thicker than any currently in use, mounted on the end of a long, flat piece of wood, perhaps three times the height of a man. The string of this bow, which has been designed specially to accept the great pressures that will be put upon it, is woven of tough animal sinew and strands of iron, cleverly crafted by dwarves.”
“A-ha!” cried Nalí, “At last we learn the purpose for the strange order.”
“You do indeed,” Anárion replied, then turned to the rest and continued, “In the center of the string is a great sack, large enough to cradle a boulder that it would take ten men to lift. The tension in this string is held back by a steel pin which is attached to a crank and a lever. When the lever is released, the boulder, or whatever load is placed in the sack, is sent flying at its target. Its maximum effective distance is a furlong, but,” he paused in grim silence, “At a range of thirty feet, a large boulder can blow a hole through solid stone.”
“That is indeed a powerful weapon!” cried Elrond, “I can see why it has been kept hid! Should some thing of that sort should fall into his hands all the fortresses we possessed would be worthless!”
“And it is a weapon that should be kept hid!” shouted Círdan, “Nothing with that sort of destructive power should be allowed to remain! Burn these machines, and speak no more of them.”
“Wait until you have heard my plan before you condemn it,” said Gil-galad. The Elven King cleared his throat, and then launched into it, “We have not all shown our faces to Sauron at one time since we cast down the Morannon. He knows not our number, and this we can use against Him. I had already decided who would go with the diversionary force ere the attack came, and here are their numbers: Some five thousand Men of Nùmenor should Anárion lead; Nalí Bloodtooth should take all his company, and Elrond should divide his host in two, and give half to the command of Glorfindel.” He paused for some moments, and then continued, “The original plan said that the rest of the host should bear down upon the rear gate, and so crush Sauron from behind. Here now is the new plan:
Our entire host shall move in the grey light before dawn. In the assault upon the rear gate, Elendil and I shall each take nine thousands of our kindred. Elrond should bring the rest of his host, and all of the Galadhrim and the new forces from Greenwood shall come as well, for we shall have need of good archers in that battle. Those whom Elendil and I shall take will all be heavily armored, and for the most part shall be spearmen.”
“But you have left out the greater part of the host!” interrupted Thranduil.
“And you have yet to say how these terrible weapons will fit in to this,” said Círdan.
“Peace!” cried Gil-galad, “Give me time! These are things that cannot be said all at once.” After a moment, he continued, “The greater part of the host, some two and twenty thousands under Isildur and eleven thousands under Gildor, and also Thranduil’s archers and the Galadhrim already here shall lie hidden with the machines until the signal is given that we in the rear force have been engaged.”
“And what will the signal be?” asked Isildur.
“I shall have a herald blow a horn three times,” said Gil-galad, “And when that signal is given, the main host shall leap from their hiding place and aide those at the front gate, and with the machines they will burst through the Barad-dûr’s gates and so conquer it utterly.”
“And where shall the main host hide?” asked Isildur, “There is naught but ash and dust between here and the main gate, and we cannot cross its six furlongs before we will be espied and our plan discovered.”
“Ah, but that is where you are wrong Isildur,” said Gildor, “If I remember rightly, there is a great ledge, behind which a host of our size may lie hid. It is a furlong yet from the gate, but one furlong is better than six.”
“And there you must hide until the signal is given,” said Gil-galad to Isildur and Gildor, “And you must move quickly once it is given; everything hinges on it.
Once you have reached the gate, you must set shields or guards about the machine-operators, for once the enemy discovers the power of these engines, He will surely attempt to destroy those who operate them.
After you have broken through the gates, send the greater part of your host across the chasmÂ’s bridge, for that is where the enemy will make his stand. The rest of the host must be sent along the walls to the rear gate to disrupt the enemy archers. In the unlikely event that our host breaks through, we will come to aid you in your taking of the tower. The host will proceed to slay every enemy within the tower and the fortress, and when it has been cleansed, set the machines to raze it to the ground. We will then march on Orodruin, and the power of the three rings combined with the strength of our host will serve to defeat Sauron.
And after we accomplish all this, we will re-take fair Minas Ithil, and the war will be ended. Do any here have questions?”
Isildur stood, “I have heard that the commander of the Barad-dûr is the Lord of the Nazgûl, and I do not think that he will sit idle in his tower if we come barging through his gates. It is said also that no mortal weapons can harm him, but that the Nazgûl fear the three. I say that if Galadriel should come to this battle, she should come with our host, and that Círdan should come also.”
Gil-galad nodded, “I had not given thought to this. It shall be as you ask Isildur.” He paused momentarily, “Should I come as well? The power of the three is greatest when they are used in accord.”
Anárion shook his head and answered before his brother could say ‘yes’, “Nay lord, if you do not lead your host, Sauron will know something is afoot. Instead give your ring to Elrond, and let him come with our host.”
Gil-galad nodded in agreement, “This plan seems good to me, but we must hear the voice of all. Are there any objections?”
The Elven King stared about the room, and after a few moments it became apparent that none would say anything, he spoke again,
“Then it is settled. We shall wait for the hosts of Lothlorien and Greenwood, and three days after their arrival, the attack upon the Barad-dûr shall commence!”
A cheer rose from all in attendance, and Gil-galad left the tent silently. One by one they filtered out of the tent, and went back to their own to rest in the fading light of the afternoon.

Even though it seemed peaceful in the camp, there was much tension underneath the surface. All were, in their own way, mentally preparing for what an assault on the Barad-dûr would mean, and what horrors might await them there.
Anárion slept fitfully, for his dreams were full of terrible things. He saw again the fall of Nùmenor and the sack of Ithilien. He saw things he had never seen before: the last stand of the men of Dor-Lomìn, the fall of Fingolfin, and Fingon after him, the horror of Morgoth’s greatness. And worst of all, he saw in his mind a vision of his own death, bound and gagged, before the throne of the Dark Lord.