The red glow before them grew brighter and brighter as the riders neared Minas Tirith. Distant noises remained unidentifiable, but Rowan knew they were screams, yells, metal clashing. Sounds of war. Smoke thickened the air, furthering the Rohirrim's anticipation of battle, along with fear.

Rowan's heart pounded with every inch toward Pelennor Fields. She had fought in Edoras and Helm's Deep, waiting for the fight to come to her. Approaching it instead was worse. Her imagination of what awaited them—aided by sounds—made her want to flee. It took a great store of nerves to keep riding forward.

The glimmering White Tower of Ecthelion Boromir spoke so fondly of rose as the army crested a hill. Dawn, rising behind them, revealed a scene Rowan wished she could unsee.

Smoke and flames rose from the White City. Screams of pain and horror, battle-cries, and crashes and booms hung in the air. Those hideous creatures the Nazgûl now rode—Fellbeasts—swooped and dove for Gondorians.

Rows upon rows of orcs and other abominations stood before the city. Extremely tall and thick siege towers inched toward the white walls—many had already reached the battlements and had lowered their gates. Catapults (on the enemy side) continuously launched enormous boulders into the besieged city; none answered from Minas Tirith. A steady flow of small and large figures—trolls—entered the busted-open gate. The enormous battering ram still sat in the entrance.

Rowan was stunned at the sight. It looked worse than she had expected and what was shown in the movie. Fires raged up into the fifth tier of Minas Tirith.

Rohan had arrived just before it was too late.

King Théoden caught her attention galloping past her, ordering captains where to lead their éored. Éomer looked at her as he passed—he had insisted she ride with his éored. She had wanted to, badly, to ensure he wouldn't get hurt, but Rowan had to stay near the king—to make sure he died.

The realization of what she had to do turned her stomach... but it had to happen, unless she wanted to sacrifice someone else.

Finished calling out orders, the king rode back across the front of his army. "Arise, arise Riders of Théoden! Spears shall be shaken; shields will be splintered! A sword day, a red day as the sun rises! Ride now! Ride! Ride for ruin, and the world's ending!"

King Théoden raised his sword, rousing all to join him. "Death!"

The first unanimous chorus of 'Death!' Rowan couldn't join—her throat had seized at the opposition. Adrenaline pulsed in her veins from the king's rousing speech. She swallowed down her fear to yell out the second chanting. And the third and final time she yelled the loudest; Haldir beside her fell in as well, yelling death in Elvish.

"Forth Eorlingas!" he yelled.

Horns blew, sounding the charge.

King Théoden, on the stallion Snowmane, took off, practically a blur of white. The rest of the Rohirrim followed his lead, but his Royal Guard could not overtake him. Battle-fury had taken him, and it had seized everyone (even Rowan) in how they madly charged headlong into probable death.

Death. Now Rowan understood the fear shown in Gothmog's eyes in the movie. The chant wasn't only for intimidation but presented what the Rohirrim guaranteed: death to their enemies or death to themselves. They weren't scared—they wouldn't flee. The fear of dying wouldn't turn them away. It had been accepted. She and Nárind flew alongside all the other riders, whole-heartedly believing in that promise and willing to give it or receive it.

She couldn't hear anything other than the thundering of hooves and continued battle-cries of the Rohirrim around her. Wind screamed past her ears. One rider nearby was struck by an arrow and tumbled off, probably being trampled—his horse continued running in a frenzy. Another arrow hit a horse; it went down, taking its rider with it.

The Rohirrim pointed like an arrow-phalanx plowed into the Mordor orcs. Rowan alternated sides on swinging her sword, depending on where an orc or Easterling still stood.

As she continued on, Rowan made sure to keep King Théoden in sight. He fought just before her, and she briefly caught a glimpse of a small Rohirrim fighting near him, with an even smaller figure swinging a sword in the saddle seated before the rider. Éowyn and Merry.

Rowan smiled. It wasn't that she feared the White Lady of Rohan would forget the hobbit—like she had told Haldir. But it was still comforting and reassuring to see them.

Next, she kept an eye on was the sky. The Nazgûl on Fellbeasts must be focusing solely on the city. There wasn't a large black horror flying in the sky. It wasn't time for the Witch-King's attack yet then.

Nárind suddenly collapsed under her from being pierced by an arrow, pitching her into the air and tumbling when she hit the ground hard. Her helm flew off as she rolled.

Finally coming to a stop, Rowan almost vomited. Everything continued to spin as she pushed her bruised and aching body up. She shook her head a few times to right her vision.

Men and orcs never stopped screaming around her, metal clashed and clanged as arrows whistled, smoke and dust stung her eyes, horses whinnied, and putrid smells filled the air.

Nárind.

A snarl nearby snapped her head around to block an orc's slash. It sliced at her again, which she deflected down, then swung at the orc's head, lopping it off.

As its headless body dropped, Rowan quickly checked around for imminent danger; finding none, she looked for sight of the king or the Witch-King in the sky. She couldn't find either, so began searching for the big body of her horse.

"Nárind!" she called.

A weak whinny answered her. She went in the direction it came from, but found multiple dead horses, Rohirrim, Easterlings, and orcs. She called his name again and followed the noise to a black horse. Behind the dead steed was hers.

Rowan dropped down at his side, utterly helpless as she took in the blood pouring out of the arrow wound in his neck and the shaft of a broken spear impaled into his stomach. Blood darkened the dry grass. She couldn't leave him to suffer and bleed out.

The white of his dark brown eyes showed from panic and fear.

She licked her lips, trying not to cry. "I will miss you, friend."

Rowan couldn't look at her hand as she angled the knife. He gave a small nicker like he knew what was coming and wanted to comfort her.

Without breaking his stare, she brought the blade down, piercing his hide and into his heart. Nárind jolted from the pain, and his eyes froze. She swore gratitude reflected in the horse's eye before it went blank and lifeless.

Rowan let out a single sob before she pulled out her knife, wiped it clean on the grass, and sheathed it.

First Boromir and now Nárind; she had to be next. The ones that weren't meant to see the end of the story.

The call of her name made her turn to Haldir riding up. His eyes quickly looked her over.

"I need a ride!" she yelled.

An Easterling charged with a raised scimitar; with barely a glance, the elf-captain dispatched him with a twirl of his sword. "Where?" he asked, knowing she wouldn't have demanded so if she didn't need to be somewhere.

"King Théoden."

Haldir scanned the battlefield as she ran up. Obviously finding him, the elf looked down as he offered a hand for Rowan to get up behind him. With a hand around his waist for balance and the other holding her sword, he turned his horse to the left, and they took off.

The elf and woman rode through the heart of the battle. Fighting raged around them. Rowan protected their right side as Haldir—the ambidextrous elf he was—swung his sword on the left. A troll swam through the orcs, swinging a massive club, knocking Rohirrim off their steeds and driving horses' heads into the ground. Riders rode around the lumbering beast, shooting arrows, throwing spears, and cutting its sides with swords. A thrown spear lodged in its neck; the troll tumbled backward, flattening a couple of orcs.

Before them was the king, fighting a group of Easterlings bearing a red flag with a black serpent. Near him were his Royal Guard and a certain rider and hobbit.

Rowan began to slide off when a deep booming made her look to the south. Orcs and Easterlings fled that way, where monstrous creatures emerged through the dust stirred up by feet and the dimly lit horizon. Horns blew, and foreign chanting grew louder as the Mûmakil neared, challenging and intimidating the Rohirrim like they did to the orcs.

Certain patterns were blown on the riders' horns, and static formations of horses raced toward the enormous four-tusked elephants with towers on their backs, carrying Haradrim. As the Rohirrim charged, they broke into even smaller groupings on approaching the Mûmakil and seeing the spaces between each beast. Perfect running aisles where those tusks couldn't reach the horses.

"Remember, aim for the eyes or the handlers," Rowan told Haldir as she slid off his horse.

The elf-captain nodded once before facing toward the Mûmakil line and spurring his horse onward. He swapped out his saber on his back for the bow as he rode off.

Rowan prayed Haldir and Éomer would be alright before running toward the still-fighting-Easterlings King Théoden. Dernhelm—Éowyn—had been de-horsed and now fought on foot. She saw little Merry doing the same.

She ran over to help Éowyn. The Shieldmaiden would've been struck down in the back if Rowan hadn't shown up. Once all the Easterlings were dead, she turned to her.

"Watch your back, Dernhelm," Rowan said.

The undercover lady huffed a laugh.

Whatever she opened her mouth to say was silenced by a powerful gust of wind blowing them flailing in the air. A heavy landing rumbled the ground and a sickening noise of ripping flesh and yelling, followed by another hard impact, told Rowan enough.

The Witch-King had finally arrived.