Ok, I'll edit this with the fanfic tomorrow when I've got it on disk. I'll put a post per chapter, and I'll only post 1 at a time. Please comment!

Sounds like a good idea Becky :) :)
Speaking of fics, I'm writing up fics at the moment as well. One's a fic (the first proper one I've started writing for aages), and the other's a spoof. I could post them on here sometime, maybe when I've fixed them up slightly...
:rolleyes:

The Last Defence of Gondor



The First Day Closes

The last of the pale light from the setting sun shone faintly on the White City, signalling the end of another day of waiting and restless suspense. Quiet stole over the walls like a white dove, giving a false impression of calm. The silence barely contained the tension that hung in the air as thick as the sea-fog that sometimes rose from the mouth of the Great River Anduin, or the clouds that swept down from the highest reaches of Mount Mindolluin to cloak the city at the break of day.
Atlanté stood on the walls looking over the fields of the Pelennor towards Osgiliath. When Osgiliath had been lost that day Minas Tirith, the last defence of the realm of Gondor, the last hope of Men, had become the last obstacle between Sauron and his taking over of Middle Earth. Shivering in the twilight she turned to return to her house. It was a few seconds before she realised that she was going the wrong way, heading for the gate to the lower level instead of up to the fourth circle of the city. Pausing, Atlanté saw she was in a nearly deserted street.
Many men had rushed to the aid of the garrison at Osgiliath knowing that if it should fail, the war was as lost. The woman and children had fled to the mountains seeking refuge in townlands such as Lebennin. This emptiness, the hollow feeling of helplessness, was the result of this flight. A single tear slid down Atlanté's cheek as she realised that many of the men had not returned.


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It was not Atlanté alone who was feeling the oppressive horror of war. Symana, rider in the Éored of King Théoden, was having trouble controlling both his own fear and that of his horse, Cúrondhae, Moonshadow, who had spent the last few days prancing and restless in the manner of a true war horse, nearly unseating him on one memorable occasion whilst riding a narrow path on the edge of the haunted Mountain.
Gathering his courage Symana kicked on towards the King's tent, ready to explain that he could not do this, could not ride on knowing that few, if any, men would return and that those who did would be changed. It was mostly in the eyes. Soon, he supposed, you got used to the fact that your only friends must be killed or killers to survive. The older men had accepted this fate long ago but Symana, in the time of doubt and confusion, considered himself to be, not a man, nor a Rider, but a boy. Many, he guessed, would be feeling this, much of the camp was composed of young men, immature in battle.
Upon this last thought Symana closed his thighs and took a gentle check on the reins. Feeling his horse stop on command, he felt ashamed of his emotion; there were not many who could better or equal his riding skills. Only two summers ago, at only 15, Symana had taken his father Hessa's horse Arod and raced the best riders of the Mark from Dunharrow to Edoras, coming a close third. Of course the men had little thought that he had been a little less than a league to the North of them the whole time.
Thinking of his father still caused Symana pain, and he fought the memories that came flying into his head, unbidden, at the thought of Arod. His mother, crying. His uncle, recalling how he had died in battle defending the Third Marshall, Éomer, from the orcs that had killed the King's son. Éomer himself visiting the grave and paying his respects by spilling a few drops of blood in return. Worst, how Arod had been given to an Elf who had wandered across their path just days later.


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Atlanté stood alone in the deserted street, looking around but seeing nothing. She had remained hidden for nearly a week, not wanting to desert her city, not fearing war. Her mother had left and her father was in the employ of the Steward Denethor, a guard of the Citadel. They would not miss her, she had stayed out of her father's sight, hoping he would think she had left. But she would not, could not, go. She would stay here.
Steeling her nerve she stepped over the bare threshold of one of the ragged houses, inhaling deeply the musty smell of neglect. It had been but a week since the occupants of this house had left, and the area was habitable enough for Atlanté's needs. She settled down to rest on the cold stone floor, her mind still occupied with the loss she felt had befallen the White City.


..........................................................................................................


A man stepped out of the shadows and came slowly to the King's tent. At least, Symana thought it a man through having no better word with which to name it. He was evidently known to the guards, who let him pass without a whisper of discontent or annoyance. He stepped into a soft pool of moonlight, and Symana saw him clearly for the first time. His skin was of a greenish brown hue, as if he was part of the living forest, wrinkled as if from living outside. When he spoke to the doorwarden it was not in an accent Symana had ever heard, it was clear that Westron was not his native language. Symana sat up on the cold ground to see the better. The man walked into the tent, and very soon was in debate with the King and his closest advisors.
Somebody had crept up behind Symana as he had been eavesdropping and whispered in his ear: 'He is the chief of the Woses, the Wild Men of Drúaden forest. He comes to advise us on the state of affairs near the White City.'
It was Elfhelm, marshal of the Èored in which Symana's father had ridden. He spoke quietly, not wishing to be overheard. 'You should be sleeping. We leave as soon as the King sees fit, and that may be as soon as our visitor departs. He wishes us to go soon so that we may arrive at Minas Tirith at dawn.'
'How? Does he not say the roads are all blocked, that orcs guard every pass and cleft in the waiting hills?' As the question was asked there came a reply from within the tent almost as if the old man had heard the question. The words used were spoken in Westron, but were so guttural that Symana could not make sense of what was being said, but Elfhelm translated.
'He says there are old roads that are not watched. The Wild men will act as scouts for us. They do not take sides but they wish to avenge the destruction of the trees by the orcs. They will not fight but will let us know when it is safe to attack'


...................................................................................................................


Sitting in her quiet hideaway Atlanté reviewed the day's events in her mind. Her thoughts wandered back two days to when her lord, Faramir, had left after having arrived only the day before that. "They give him no rest" muttered many, but Atlanté knew that, as the Lord Denethor said, much must be risked in war.
The risk had failed. Faramir and his men had retreated back to Minas Tirith barely 24 hours later after the foray to Osgiliath, arriving amid an attack of the Nazgûl from which not all the men had returned and Faramir himself had been wounded. He was laying now under fear of death, and the Fields of the Pelennor had become overrun with orcs in the past few hours. They were to be seen all over the Rammas and the Field, in total control of all passage into and out of the city.
There was no hope of any assistance being able to reach the city. Denethor had sent for the Riders of Rohan, but nothing had been yet heard of the Riders or of Hirgon, the errand rider of Gondor who had borne the Red Arrow forth to seek aid. As the ill-fated messenger had said, the strength of Rohan would be better within the walls of Gondor than without, yet it had not come. The city was set for a siege and there was little anyone from anywhere could do to prevent the forces of Mordor prevailing.

Wow what can I say, I think it’s really good! Bravo :D I really like your description and portrayal of everything that’s going on, and the split story between Atlanté and Symana. Split storylines make it all the more interesting xD It’s already turning out as an awesome start to the story, I hope you continue to write more of this :)

Thanks, I'm partway through chapter 4. I've never let anyone else read my writing before. No prizes for guessing what happens next! Chapter 2-



The Opening of Battle

Nearly 24 hours had passed since the Woses had left, yet the company of the Rohirrim had barely set off on the last stage of their journey to the besieged city. The King had commanded all men rest the day, that they may make haste that night and arrive in the dim morning unseen by their unwary foes.
It was slightly unreal to be riding at nightfall with no noise but the drumlike mutterings of the ever-watchful wild men, and nothing plain to see but the tail of the horse in front despite the bright moon who rested high above the dark sky. Symana was not sure if he liked it or not, unsure of his feelings. He trusted his horse in the dusk but could feel the pressure of the horses riding alongside.
Elfhelm had said that when the path broadened enough for four horses they would be near their destination, for then they rode on the lands of Gondor, the outer regions of the realm visible from the citadel of the White City.
Yet in this darkness even the farsighted could see little. They had reached the first group of squabbling orcs almost before either party was aware of the other, but the riders had the advantage. The pair were dead before one could prove to the other that he had heard something, the second orc being unaware as to the reason of his death at the moment he fell.
Symana looked on without emotion at this display, understanding how it was in war, knowing that there was only a choice between killing or being killed, no time for sadness, despair or pain, no time to worry about family back home or friends on the battlefield.
It was stupid, he thought, he had gone to war to protect his land and his family, yet would think not of them until it be over, unless by evil fortune he ended his days in bitter pain far from his homeland. He had seen it, men mortally wounded on the field, calling on wives, children, but most often giving a desperate cry for their mother.


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Nothing at all had happened in the White City all day to hint of the impending battle. In some ways this was worse than being in the middle of a battle, at least fighting there was something to do, some way to forget what was at stake.
Even Atlanté, who had never been in a battle situation, almost whished for something exciting to happen.
In the gathering gloom little could be seen, and it surprised Atlanté when she heard someone running with a heavy, incautious step towards her hiding place. She sat bolt upright, ready to reprimand the boy for having ran so plainly to her having been given orders to come this way only after nightfall and only in times of great need. Before she could stand, Beregond poked his small head through the doorway and stepped in.
'Forgive me, Atlanté, they've started!' He spoke quietly, with laboured breathing that told of his run.
'What're they doing? Is there anything I can do to fight them?' Atlanté's calm response came so quickly it was as though she had been expecting the news. She had told Beregond not to give away her hiding place until the city was under attack and she couldn't be sent away. When he had arrived it was immediately clear that this had occurred, and she had concluded her questioning a long time before he had come.
There had been time to ponder a lot of unanswerable questions during the long hours the previous night and seemingly endless day since she had arrived in the small house, and time to answer all the answerable ones.
'There's nothing you can do, they're not in range of arrows and Denethor hasn't released an army onto the field. It'd be suicide to attack them now.' The reply came quickly, but not before Atlanté had stood up, picked up her brother's sword and swept over to the battered timber door.
'I'm going to see'
'You can't do anything!'
'I want to know anyway. I'll be ready when I'm needed'
Beregond, knowing there was no dissuading her, followed Atlanté out of the door into the cobbled street and cold wind. Taking the turning after her, he paced the labyrinthine walkways until he had climbed several levels. His breathing came in short gasps as he perceived his other charge in the distance. Running to catch up he forgot about Atlanté just as, several streets away, she forgot about him as her mind was overcome with horror at what she was seeing.

---------------------------------------------------------------------


Shuddering in the cold, Symana focused on the ground in front of him, looking for holes that could trip his horse or disturb the quiet of the great riding. There was nothing he could discern in the midnight gloom under the veil of Mordor but he assumed it to be safe ground by the sound of Cúrondhae's hoofbeats on the stony floor. He had settled in the past few hours in the dark, a pleasant change to the skittish untrusting behaviour he had been showing since they had arrived at Dunharrow five days before.
They rode for maybe another two hours, hearing occasionally the drumbeat language of the Woses patrolling around the area through which they were passing. Silently the host halted in the last patch of shadow before open battle. Symana looked up in wonder and disbelief at the seven-tiered city barely discernable through the darkness. The fire on the Fields of the Pelennor was the only source of light, flickering surreally in stifling dark, a grave reminder of the reason they had come.


----------------------------------------------------------------------


Standing upon the brink of the Outer Wall of the first circle of the city Atlanté watched as the orcs kindled yet more and spread it by some secret art or devilry across the Pelennor towards the city, watched as they began firing shot up at the walls. Flaming shot seemed certain to engulf the first circle city in fire and threatened ruin on the people watching there.
Retreating from the terrifying sight she fled up the circles of the city until she reached a place sacred throughout her childhood. Stepping through the wide stone doorway she felt the innate sense of calm wash over her as she rushed over to kiss Ioreth, her superior, as greeting.
"What's wrong, child? Is it as the old legends say- the Dark Lord himself is come?"
"They’re setting fire to the city! The first circle's almost lost! What're we going to do? If we don't get out now there'll be nowhere to go and we'll all die! Even if we left, we'd never be safe anywhere!"
Sobbing, she buried her head in Ioreth's cloak, barely hearing the whispered words of comfort the old lady spoke in her ear. Speaking of the King of Gondor and of a hopeful future Ioreth tried to comfort Atlanté in the way she knew best until she ran out of words to say.
It was at this point that the pair heard the first sound from the outside world since Atlanté had stepped through the doors of the Houses of Healing. A cock crowed in the distance, filling the air with a hope anew, the sound untouched by the Enemy and his war. Feeling some new emotion kindled inside her beating heart Atlanté ran out the door, straining her eyes to the horizon.
Appearing over a distant ridge rode file upon file of horsemen, spears flashing in the newly awakened light, dust thrown from the horses' hooves as they thundered over the turf.

I love the way you write this stuff :rolleyes: It's really good, and we've never actually had as much impression of everything from the point of view of the people and soldiers, so its a nice change. What's going to happen next? :P Hm, part of that might already be known, but the rest could be a different story B)

You mean you can't guess? Clue- I'm trying not to divert from what really happened, only to tell it from a different viewpoint.
If I post any more now you won't get chapter 4 for a while! It's about 3/4 finished, I'll maybe post chapter 3 in a few days.

oka *waits in suspense* :) Staying with viewpoints sound good to me.

I take awhile to write some fics. Is it just me or is it really hard trying to write when you’re stuck for words? I’m having a severe (maybe not so severe) case of writers block *blank stare* with that fic I’m writing… but I daresay I’ll get over it and think of something. I’ll post it when I’ve gotten a little further, unless people want to read mad spoofs too in the meantime xD

One question… does Symana die? Or maybe you shouldn’t answer that till we get to that... :rolleyes:

I've not thought of that, no. But I suppose anyone who visits the Black Gates after Pelennor and survives both does very well! Give me tonight to finish chapter 4, then you can have 3, the Battle of Pelennor Fields.

okay B)

The Battle of Pelennor Fields



The Rohirrim had arrived. A trumpet sounded in the distance, challenging the might of the Dark Lord and his minions. Shrill and distant it sounded yet it kindled hope in the hearts of those who heard it.
Atlanté turned to inform Ioreth of the developments, but she was standing, dumbstruck, next to her on the terrace. Ioreth did not pause at the sight of the Rohirrim but ran indoors to prepare for the coming of the wounded soldiers, should any survive the battle she was sure would soon take place.
Atlanté followed at a sprint, wishing now to be of service in the Houses of Healing, fetching, carrying and assisting in whatever way Ioreth found useful. She had helped tend the sick before, after all.
"I'm helping" she informed her superior as she filled bowls with steaming water. "I can bathe wounds and do as you say. You've let me help before"
"You should not be here. You should have gone with your mother. War is not a place for girls."
"You know as little of war as me. If you can stay I can. Those men need all the help they can get. If I can't help here I'm going to the armoury so I can fight"
Turning on her heel Atlanté went to leave the room, only to find, as she had expected, that the older woman did require her help, and would be grateful for it. She soon busied herself preparing water, beds and anything else that she was commanded.


..............................................................................................................

Symana stood in his stirrups, trying to see what was happening at the front of the ride. 6,000 men back, it was hard to hear what the King was saying, and only snatches reached him in the turbulent air. From what he could make out, Théoden was finishing his short speech and turning to face the White City; ready to ride.
At the head of the ride Théoden turned again, taking his horn from the hand of the bearer he blew a loud, clear note on it which rang through the field and reflected of the mountains they were facing. Then, with a cry he was gone, racing towards the battle like a man possessed. A ripple of movement spread towards the back of the ride as the front lines hastened to keep up, but he outran them all.
Long before Symana's row began to move a wave of terror swept over him. It would be the first time he had fought in a true battle, but he knew enough to realise most, if not all, would not return. Trying to conquer his thoughts he looked down at his horse, but Cúrondhae was of no help. He was becoming unsettled again, and was starting to shift on the spot, tossing his head and stamping at the ground.
In a swift movement, Cúrondhae moved forward, bucking as he leapt into canter. Symana, not ready, felt himself shift out of the saddle onto the horse's thick, sweat stained neck which disappeared as he lowered it to the ground and bucked again. Symana felt himself fly through the air and land on the floor with a loud thump. Standing up, he rubbed his hand over his smarting backside and looked around for his horse, whom he saw at this point charging with the others. Riderless, stirrups flapping with the speed, Cúrondhae was running as wild, not realising the loss of the rider. Symana walked after the Rohirrim, conserving his strength for the battle ahead.

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It was not long before the first of the wounded began to arrive. The less gravely hurt came in pairs, supporting each other; the more seriously injured borne by the stretchers of the few women permitted to remain in the city.
Atlanté was soon immersed in the task of cleaning wounds and renewing the workers' courage. It was easy to despair in here, where the air smelt of blood and other bodily fluids, and the only reports of the battle came from the few men brave enough to recount the last they knew. It was not encouraging. Often the men would not speak of outside, asking only of the other wounded that they had known. When they would speak of battle it was only of failure and death, of the armies being crushed by forces larger than any the Gondorians and Rohirrim could hope to muster.
The first case Atlanté was not able to deal with was a man of Rohan who would not speak at all. He was deathly cold and pale, and if it were not for the feeble pulse flickering at his wrist he would have been thought dead. Every now and then he uttered a feeble cry and tried to turn in his bed, but was not able to move more than his little finger.
"Ioreth, this one's not right, can you come check him for me?"
At this the man's eyelids flickered, showing pale brown eyes dilated with fear. He spoke in a hoarse whisper that showed how great was his exhaustion.
"Is he gone? The tall, dark one?"
"You're safe now. You're in the Houses of Healing, and I'm going to make sure you get all the care you need."
This seemed to satisfy the man, who soon came to tell Atlanté that his name was Harva, and he'd been fighting a wave of orcs when a tall black figure had arrived on the battlefield in front of him. The figure had looked at him, and seeing no face beneath the black robes, had fainted in terror. He had woken in the Houses with the fear of the Nazgûl still on him.
.................................................................................................................


Outside the gate of Minas Tirith the battle raged, fortune showing no favours to either side. Symana held fast in the centre of the mêlée, sword swinging wildly in all directions as he tried to protect himself from the surrounding armies. Taking a ragged breath he glanced around, his tired eyes seeing little but a red mist beginning to cloud the edges of his vision.
By the time he had seen the sword it was too late. It cut through the leather straps that bound his breastplate to his shoulder guard, causing the guard to fall away, leaving his upper arm unprotected. The uruk took another swing, aiming for the exposed skin, seeking to relieve Symana of his shield arm. Symana was too quick for him, spinning round and removing the uruk's head with a clean swishing sound. It crumpled, and fell to the ground, carrion on the stricken field, no more than the rock a careless man could trip over, and requiring no more notice. Symana turned again seeking new foes. They were plentiful. Within seconds he had disposed two more, his attacking strokes strong enough to block any enemy thrust.
I should have known it was too good to last, thought Symana as he wheeled to face the next wave of orcs and feeling the cold bite of steel pierce his exposed shoulder. He fell as though dead to the ground, the mist taking over his vision. The last thing he remembered was the image of a white horse rearing, standing tall amidst the fray, crashing down to earth, for a black dart had pierced Snowmane's flank, and he fell upon his rider Théoden King of the Mark.


..............................................................................................................................


Atlanté stood still a minute, a brief respite from the constant work. Then, head bowed, she returned to the inner chamber to see to Harva, who now needed checking on no more than the other wounded. Seeing that his skin had lost some of its ashen paleness she turned to attend the next person, a Gondorian who's right leg had been cut too badly for him to stand and fight. He needed only rest and had come to ensure the deep wound was cleaned properly before tending to it himself.
Hands busy cleaning deep in the man's flesh, Atlanté heard the stretcher bearers stumble awkwardly into the room. Turning her head to look, she gave a small cry of surprise, and the Gondorian she was tending let out a swiftly checked oath of pain. The boy laying as though dead was about Atlanté's own age, but it was not this that had caused the exclamation. He was ruggedly handsome, his features chiselled as if out of marble on his cold white face; laying there on the stretcher she thought he looked as cold as ice but as fair as a rose in the frost withering for lack of care and warmth.
The boy's eyelids flickered, breaking Atlanté's silent thoughts and confused feelings. She pulled her hands free and walked slowly towards him, pointing out a freshly made bed as she did so.
"Put him on there. I'll tend this one myself, if Ioreth will let me." She spoke quickly and with emotion, her face regaining colour as she saw he was not dangerously hurt.
"He fainted on the field. Just check it's not anything ... er, serious."
The man spoke quietly, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. It was a well known fact, by now, that anyone who withstood one of the Nazgûl, or suffered themselves to be within the presence of one of the Nine deadliest of Sauron's minions would slowly fall into death, or worse, if not killed outright.
"I think he's safe. The ones suffering the Black Breath are cold, and do not speak. He has colour and is warm to the touch." Atlanté retorted, placing her hand on his reddening cheek and feeling the heat radiate from it.


.............................................................................................................................


Hearing Atlanté's raised voice cut through his aching head, Symana struggled to open his eyes fully and speak.
"I'm OK. My shoulder, though. What happened? It feels like fire! I'm awake now. The King's not, he fell. Where am I?"
He attempted to use his injured arm to raise himself from the bed, and sank back down onto the crimson stained sheets, his breathing heavy and strained. Seeing the pretty girl looking at him with concern, he tried to elaborate.
"It's only a scratch. It'll be OK, honest. Or if you're going to do anything, get on with it, don't stand around waiting!"
Mortified, Atlanté grabbed the cleanest cloth she could see and gently began to sponge the blood from the wounded shoulder.


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Outside, the battle had taken a turn in favour of the Black forces of Mordor. After the death of the King of Rohan and many men of his house, there were few besides Éomer of Rohan and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth who dared lead the men near the enemy legions. Everywhere soldiers of the enemy advanced towards the city, burning all in their path.
As if by common consent all on the field paused, though none knew the reason. Then a shout went up, and echoed off the blackened walls, resounding in everyone's tired and aching heads. It was a call of ultimate despair, for no way out was foreseeable. Looking along the River, a fleet was silently drawing closer, black flags whipped every direction in the wind that propelled the ships towards the White City, carrying the Corsairs that would tip the battle in favour of the Dark Lord.


Hope you still like it! This one is longer than anything else so far! Don't worry, 4 is shorter! And I think 5 will be as well, but I'm not done it yet. This isn't *my* story, I couldn't have done it without LotR!
Spoiler- we see later that they really do care about each other, and we meet a few more true LotR charactors- I've not got Gandalf yet! But I think the quality of the writing is getting worse as the story goes on!

I just realised, it doesn't know that I edited so it looks like I've not added anything but I have!
I've not actually shown what Symana and Atlante look like, have I? Should I add something to the beginning chapter?

How can you say that, the story as a whole is a tremendously fine piece of writing xD Nice recount of the battle. I really like it!! :) Keep it up! It would actually be good to see some familiar characters like Gandalf in the scene, and just thinking, no one whose fics I’ve read have ever attempted to ‘climb’ inside Gandalf’s head. In other words, written something from his point of view while it’s been done with almost all the other characters. That struck me just then, but I don’t think that’s probably something you’ll do, since it’s not completely revelant… But them ‘getting together’, that would be definitely something to look forward to :) It would be certainly nice to have an image of what the characters look like, but add some descriptions if you like ^_^

wow!
I think you've really done your best on this fic,
it's good to read, nice, without getting boring! ^_^
i like it!
i do think that you should add a description of your characters in your next chapter... that would be really nice :)

xxx
Amarië