June 3023 T.A.
Hirvegil stood upon the top of his grand tower observing the peaceful landscape to the south. The dense forests of North Ithilien gave way to brown rolling hills. These were the hills of Emyn Arnen and it was the heart and soul of the land known as Ithilien. In ages past a group of prominent Númenórean nobles had lived on top of those hills and from them had come Húrin of Emyn Arnen, the founder of the House of Stewards. Before Húrin the office of Steward was given to an eldery respected man favoured and trusted by the King to function as the most trusted advisor to the King of Gondor, and rule in his stead when the King went to war. After Húrin's death, serving as Steward to King Minardil, it became traditional for the next Steward to be chosen from Húrin's descendants. When Steward Vorondil, a direct descendant of Húrin, took over, from his father Pelendur, as Steward, the position became hereditary and his son Mardil Voronwë became the first Ruling Steward after serving both King Eärnil II, who died of natural causes, and his son Eärnur as Steward, who eventually gave in to the Witch-King's taunts challenging him and rode into the Morgul Vale never to be seen again. With Eärnur gone and no heirs to the throne Mardil took up the leadership as Ruling Steward, until the King's return. Hirvegil turned his gaze west and saw the glint of the White Tower of Ecthelion in the morning sun. There still ruled the House of Húrin with Steward Denethor II as its head after so many years of hardship and decline. Gondor had known splendour under the Ruling Stewards from Húrin's line but those glorious days were long gone and Gondor was but a shadow of its former self. By the skin of their teeth they had fought off Sauron's hordes of Orcs and their many allies for many a year and it had taken its toll on the kingdom and it's ruling class. Hirvegil sighed at the folly and madness of Denethor II who sat prideful in his halls while when the Dúnedain had united they could've done wonderful things. Alas, the Arnorian thought after which he turned his gaze north. The wooded region of North Ithilien again gave way to a massive plain and a dark mountain range. There the rightful King stood defiantly against the Dark Lord, Hirvegil thought, the one who could unite all the Free Peoples against Sauron. He had received messages that King Elessar would soon start the assault on the Morannon and force his way into Mordor. Hirvegil's mind was troubled by this like a dark cloud looming overhead. In contemplation what this rise of worry could be he turned his gaze east where he saw the sky had grown dark. A broil of fume had been sent forth from Amon Amarth, the Mountain of Doom, to cover Ithilien in darkness. Hirvegil looked down and saw his camps were at full alert and he could hear horns on the northern wind answering one another. The enemy had come.
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It was on the north side of the Rammas-dan-Morgul that the Orcs made their assault. Arfandil was responsible for the defence of the northern section and he was nervous but determined to drive the enemy back. He could hear horns coming from the south signaling Hirvegil had seen the Orc host as well and would be riding to his aid. It would take about two hours minimum for Hirvegil to reach his position, untill then he had to hold out. The Orcs were clever to try and force their way through at Arfandil's point. His army consisted mostly of Wildmen troops from Enedwaith, ill-equiped and lightly armoured. While he was arming himself, putting on his steel vambraces a scout arrived at his tent.
"M'lord, the Orcs are swarming across the plain." the scout said winded from his rapid journey. Arfandil fastened the last strap of his arm protecters before facing the scout, in his grey eyes a fire burned in compliance with his red hair. The scout was so taken aback by this he thought the wrath of the Gods themselves lived inside this man.
"Then let us be a great host and meet them without hesitation." the Dúnadan said, placing his round helmet on his head. All the fighting men were already rushing to the wall in case the Orcs began their assault immediatly. When Arfandil arrived, it seemed that worry had been unfounded and that the Orcs were content to jeer at the defenders. From the parapets Arfandil could see it was a great host of Orcs and hate burned in his heart for these wicked creatures. The standoff continued for a bit with neither side taking the initiative, it seemed as if the Orcs were waiting for something and indeed they had been. They first appeared as great shadows, slowly moving towards them. Large devices, too large to be operated by an orc or human. Then it hit Arfandil what the great shadows were. The machines were catapults not made for Man, but for Trolls.
Their walls were not reinforced enough to be able to withstand an assault like this. Arfandil ached to ride out and meet the Orcs on the field and crush them before they could do too much damage with their monstrous machines of war. But unlike his uncle Damrod, Arfandil had learned to counter his impetuousness with patience, a patience he had inherited from his father, Nirven. He was outnumbered by the Orcs and unlike Damrod or Hirvegil he did not have strong Dúnedain forces. Not to say the Wildmen weren't strong. They were ferocious in battle against the Orcs, their hate bitter and steadfast. The fact they were unarmoured and ill-equipped worked in their disadvantage. Scanning the field Arfandil could see many of the heavily armoured Uruks among the ranks of Mordor. He doubted many of the Wildmen had weapons that could easily slice through the Uruks' coat of mails. No he could not ride out and meet the enemy, not yet. He commanded someone to sound the signal of utmost urgency, three high short notes, to notify Hirvegil that speed was essential here. As the horn blared its notes of desperation into the dark sky the catapults started their fiery barrage. Boulders flew towards the Dúnedain's fortifications, some making contact with their target, in which case the wall trembled, to the horror of the troops on top of it, some flying overhead and exploding in sparks setting the camp behind them ablaze. Men rushed from the walls to put out the fires to prevent it from spreading and lay waste to the entire camp. Horns sounded and the Orcs began their assault, carrying makeshift ladders to climb the walls. Arfandil saw his disorganized men torn between saving their possessions and defending the wall. He quickly rallied his men, sending two companies back to deal with the fire while the rest was ushered back to the wall. His intuitive quick decisionmaking had probably saved them as the defenders only returned to the wall when the first Orc-head appeared over the parapets. With the heat of battle finally arrived the Wildmen's hearts were set ablaze and they threw themselves upon the Orcs. Arfandil ran across the wall aiding on the more dire sections, constantly encouraging his men to fight. It was not long before the enemy ceased their attack and pulled back, leaving their dead and dying comrades behind without remorse, for such is the Orc way. The young Dúnadan took a short time to regain his breath while he assessed the situation. The Orcs were retreating but had killed some of his men. The enemy catapults had made a couple of dents and cracks in the wall and one section looked like it could collapse at any moment. Arfandil quickly pulled his men from the unstable part of the wall and positioned them behind it, should the enemy try and break through it. He took a quick glance behind him and saw the fires were still burning among the tents but not spreading. They seemed to be under control. Very good, he thought bringing his mind back to the battle. The trolls were still targetting the damaged part of the wall and were preparing for the next volley when Arfandil saw a glint marking the arrival of something. Though the sky was pitch black, a single ray of sunlight had penetrated the fumes and had found the armour of none other than the Knights of Annúminas. Riding their heavily armoured horses, with their long hard lances in hand none could withstand their glorious charge. And glorious it was even under the gloom of this Shadow. The Trolls managed to fire of one more volley before the Knights plunged their lances into their throats.
One boulder flew over the defender's heads the other crashed into the weakened wall which finally collapsed. Orcs rushed over the rubble into the gap where they were met by the hardy fisherfolk of Enedwaith. Arfandil left the wall and led his retinue right into the heat of battle, his sword black with Orcish blood. He knew Hirvegil had arrived and the Orcs would have no way of escaping unless they broke through his defences. They had to hold the line only for a little bit longer. The fighting was hot, fierce and exhausting but the Orcs were ultimately driven back where they were hunted down by Hirvegil's fresh forces. Nearing the end of the battle, weary from fighting, Arfandil had slipped over a man's corpse. One of the retreating Orcs had seen him lying defenceless and thought himself quite the opportunist. Were it not for his vambraces he would've lost his hand to the savage Orcish blow. The Númenórean steel had absorbed most of the axe's blow but Arfandil knew his left underarm would be bruised if not broken. One of the Wildmen had slain the Orc and had helped him back on his feet. Arfandil had thanked the man and saw Hirvegil standing on the battlefield overlooking the slaughter of the fleeing Orcs. He sheathed his sword and walked towards his commander.
"Thank you for your timely arrival my Lord." he said inclining his head. Hirvegil turned to look at his compatriot and smiled.
"There's no need to stand on formalities, you may call me Hirvegil. My heart gladdens to see you unscathed my young friend." Arfandil smiled wryly, pain shooting from his arm to his shoulder, the adrenaline disappearing from his body. "I saw you go down from the wall to join the fierce fighting at the breach and feared you might be overwhelmed, but I can see now that you've performed admirably." Hirvegil said waving at the corpses of the Orcs. Arfandil inclined his head once more and thanked his commander. Hirvegil eyed the battlefield for any problems temporarly forgetting about the exhausted Dúnadan next to him. It was Arfandil himself that broke him from his reverie.
"If you would excuse me my L- I mean Hirvegil" he smiled, "but I must see to my men and start cleaning up the mess these rude Orcs have inflicted upon us." Hirvegil's kind eyes returned back to the young Dúnadan. "Very well," he chuckled at Arfandil's sense of humour, "I'll leave a couple of companies to help with the cleansing. For now I shall take my leave, I too have other business to attend to." he said pointing at the fleeing Orcs. "I invite you to my quarters tomorrow at noon so we may discuss the battle in full. Take care of yourself Arfandil." and with that Hirvegil left and began to organize his troops. Arfandil returned to his camp where he helped his men with piling up the Orcs' corpses and burning them. It was midday when they started burying their own dead digging a multitude of graves within the forests of Ithilien in the fashion of the Wildmen, scattered and stones adorning each individual grave, their deeds engraved upon it. The low sad voices of the Wildmen rising in song for their fallen comrades could be heard throughout the night but Arfandil took no heed of it for when night came his arm ached terribly and he felt so exhausted that, upon falling on his bed, he immediatly fell in a dreamless sleep.
Author's note | A little history on the last Kings of Gondor. By the time Eärnur, the last, came to power the Royal House of Gondor had already been decimated by war and disease. To understand Eärnur's story we must go back in time to the reign of King Ondoher. During his reign, Gondor was attacked from both the South and the East in the year 1944 T.A (Third Age). A two-pronged attack from the Haradrim and the Wainriders (a tribe of Easterlings). Ondoher split his army in two with himself and his firstborn son Artamir in command of the northern army and Eärnil, a distant relative to the King and father to Eärnur, in command of the southern army. Ondoher's other son, Faramir, was kept safe in Minas Anor to act as regent, as was custom for the second in line to inherit to stay behind should disaster happen. That way a undisputed heir was kept safe. Ondoher rode out to meet the Wainriders on the field of Dagorlad but had made a bad assessment on how fast the enemy could move. He, his son Artamir and his entire vanguard were completely taken unawares and were butchered. Minohtar, the nephew of Ondoher tried to organize a orderly retreat to minimize casualties when disaster struck. Faramir had been found dead among the Éothéod allies of Gondor riding with them into battle, not wanting to be left behind. Its leader brought the body of Faramir to Minohtar who was soon overwhelmed as well and killed. Eärnil however had won a tremendous victory over the Haradrim near the Poros river in Southern Ithilien and rushed north after hearing of the disaster that had occured. Marching through Ithilien he gathered the scattered forces of the Northern Army and assaulted the feasting Easterlings, who thought all Gondor's forces were defeated and celebrated the coming destruction of its kingdom. Eärnil won another great victory and most of the Wainriders died during the slaughter or drowned in the Dead Marches in their retreat.
Some important details to note here are the following. Prior to this engagement, in 1936 of the Third Age, Ondoher and Araphant, King of Arthedain (what was left of Arnor, the Angmar War was reaching its end at this point in time) had made a pact and strengthened the bonds between the Northern en Southern Dúnedain kingdoms. This was sealed with the marriage of Fíriel, daughter of Ondoher, and Arvedui, son of Araphant and Prince of Arthedain in 1940 T.A. When Ondoher and his close relatives died, Arvedui tried to stake his claim to the throne of Gondor. One, because he was a direct descendant of Isildur, the Last High King of both Arnor and Gondor, stating that Isildur never gave up his royal claim to the Kingdom. Second, because according to Númenórean law the crown should go to his wife Fíriel her being the last living child of Ondoher. The Council of Gondor, led by Steward Pelendur denied these claims and instead crowned the victorious general Eärnil their King, him being from the line of Anárion and a local hero. Thus Eärnil became King of Gondor in 1945 T.A. and after his death his son Eärnur. Eärnil proved to be a wise and good King and when he received a message from Arvedui in 1973 T.A., then King of Arthedain, that Angmar was about to launch its final assault against him, he sent his son Eärnur North but too late. In 1974 T.A. the Witch-King took Fornost and Arvedui fled north into the cold lands of Forochel where he drowned and with him died the last king of Arnor. His son Aranarth became the first Chieftain of the Dúnedain. Eärnur arrived in Mithlond in 1975 T.A and together with Círdan, with forces from Lindon, and Glorfindel, with forces from Rivendell, they defeated the Witch-King at Fornost. Eärnur wanted to fight him personally but his horse would not comply, afeared of the Witch-King's dread aura. The Witch-King mocked and jeered at Eärnur for his supposed cowardness but soon fled before the might of Glorfindel. Eärnur wanted to pursue but Glorfindel halted him and said these prophetic words.
"Do not pursue him! He will not return to this land. Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall."
― Glorfindel
Eärnur held a particalur grudge towards the leader of the Nazgûl and this was his downfall. Upon his coronation in 2043 T.A. the Witch-King challenged him to a duel, reminding him of his shameful display in the North, and were it not for the counsel of his Steward Mardil he would've accepted. Seven years later the Witch-King renewed his challenge and Eärnur in his hate could not be swayed again. Before he left he placed his crown on his father's lap in the Houses of the Dead. Eärnur rode to Minas Morgul and was never seen again. None know what became of him, if he really did fight the Witch-King, if he was captured tortured and killed or faced an even worser fate. Eärnur left no heir to the throne and rather than risk another civil war Mardil became the first Ruling Steward until the King returned, who eventually did. Aragorn, sixteenth Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North, direct descendant of Isildur and descendant from Anárion through Fíriel's marriage to Arvedui, would receive Eärnur's crown from Faramir almost a thousand years after Eärnur's disappearance, and become King Aragorn II, Elessar, of the Reunited Kingdom. |
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