The Fellbeast was terrifying up close. Like the movies, it was huge, completely black, with a long, sinewy neck, and leathery wings between its fingers—like a bat. The putrid stench emanating from it was horrible.

Death. Rotten death.

More terrifying, though, was the tall figure—dressed entirely in black robes—astride it. A spiked helm, doubling as a crown, encased his head. A familiar cold dread seeped into Rowan's heart, being near the Lord of the Nazgûl.

The Ringwraith nor the Fellbeast were looking her way; focused instead on a white horse, and the king trapped underneath.

"Feast on his flesh," the Witch-King hissed.

Out of nowhere, Dernhelm—or Éowyn—got between her trapped-uncle and the Lord of the Nazgûl astride a Fellbeast. "I will kill you if you touch him!"

"Come not between a Nazgûl and its prey."

Rowan remained lying flat on her stomach, watching the famous scene from afar. She wanted to stay unknown to the Witch-King so she could jump in and help Éowyn if needed. Merry—unseen too—was frozen to where he crouched, immobilized by the fear Nazgûl inflicted.

Without warning, the Fellbeast lunged. Éowyn dodged the attack by leaping to the side; its neck fully extended before her, she chopped off the creature's neck in one, then two slices of her sword.

Its body recoiled, then sloppily flailed around as death took it. Once the wings ceased spasming and fell down, the Witch-King was revealed. The Lord of the Nazgûl rose to his full height—seven feet tall—lifting his massive spiked ball on a chain. Éowyn grabbed a shield from a nearby Rohirrim corpse.

A high-pitched, inhuman scream announced the start of the fight as the Witch-King swung the giant ball at Éowyn. She jumped out of the way, and went to cut his waist when the Nazgûl moved back, pulling the ball out of the ground, and swinging it around. The White Lady of Rohan had to abandon offense by ducking.

Other than a few instances where either got a near-hit in—Éowyn cutting off a strip of black fabric or the Witch-King's ball glancing off her sword—the fight was mainly defensive. They tried to strike the other, but kept missing.

As it wore on, she began to stumble, wearing down. She barely avoided being hit once before crawling away.

Rowan looked toward Merry and found the hobbit still paralyzed—he didn't look to be recovering anytime soon.

She thought quick. If she jumped in and killed the Witch-King when Éowyn's arm broke, how would it change the story? She was killing someone who was meant to die here anyway, not saving someone, so another didn't have to take their place.

The spiked ball connected with the dead-center of Éowyn's shield, shattering it, and throwing her to the ground with a broken forearm.

Rowan began to push off the ground—the risk would be worth the brave woman's life.

She took off for the Witch-King, whose back was toward her as he advanced on the downed-Rohirrim. Almost reaching him, she pulled out one of her short swords—it made no noise because of the fabric-like sheath. Rowan jumped, aiming to slice the back of his neck.

When the Nazgûl abruptly turned, backhanding her face in midair.

It knocked her to the side effortlessly, like swatting away a fly. Forcing her body to go limp to absorb the tumbling, Rowan rolled like a rag doll until she stopped. During the bowling of her form, though, her short sword slipped out of her hand. Already swelling-bruises throbbed and her body ached. She pushed herself up to a seated position, anyway.

The huge Witch-King stalked toward her.

"I knew you lay in wait, One-Who-Does-Not-Belong," he began. "Your foreign aura betrays you."

Well, she hadn't expected that. Rowan hoped Éowyn or Merry were too preoccupied with their pain or fear to remember his words and think about them later.

She needed to get a message to them both, too, without exposing either. Rowan pushed herself up, unsheathed her sword, and pointed it at the Witch-King.

"I know your ending. The smallest will help the fairest learn it as well."

The Witch-King hissed at her.

Before he could attack her like he looked ready to do, an icy wind rushed past her, carrying along with it an old, dusty smell, and that of the salty sea. Next, battle-cries and shrill screams froze Rowan's blood. The noises behind her back—seeming to come from the grave—grew closer until blurs of green rushed by her.

The blurs cleared to the skeletal ghost soldiers from the Army of the Dead.

More screams made her turn to see a Mûmakil being swarmed by the Army of the Dead like attacking ants. The giant elephant-creature went down; men yelled as the Haradrim in towers on top it witnessed the undead soldiers.

Seeing them meant Aragorn was successful, but he had arrived earlier than Rowan expected.

She turned back to see the Witch-King practically absorb an undead soldier's hacks and slashes of his sword, then spun his spiked ball around, hitting the soldier's head and he vanished. The next one the Nazgûl ignored the painless spear thrusts, seized his throat, hurled him to the ground, then swung the spiked weapon over his head and thudding deep into the dead grass. The ghost vanished as well.

Rowan gaped, open-mouthed. Undead soldiers were no match against the Witch-King. Was it because they were men why they couldn't harm the Lord of the Nazgûl?

With the ghosts gone, the Witch-King charged, swinging the spiked ball. Rowan dipped, ducked, and dodged and inflicted minor damage like Éowyn had done. For such a large man, he was fast.

Because of his swiftness, a normal upfront attack wouldn't work—it would have to come as a surprise to the Witch-King... like a deep stab in the back from a hobbit.

She threw knife after knife in hopes of making the Nazgûl stumble back from a-knife-from-a-woman-to-the-face so Rowan could look around for Merry. Every successful hit, he recoiled slightly with a hiss.

Her last knife she threw at his chest; the Witch-King screamed. As he stumbled back, Rowan looked over at the last spot she had seen the hobbit. He wasn't there.

Good. Hopefully that meant Merry was sneaking up behind the Lord of the Nazgûl to attack.

She turned back around to the spiked ball flying toward her; Rowan jumped back, but knew her reaction was too late.

Pain didn't explode in her left waist and her back like she expected as the hit knocked her into the air. Her right side actually hurt worse when she landed hard. Someone had jumped in the way, pushing her while taking the full blow.

She looked back, fearing who she'd find lying behind her, broken and bloody. Éomer, Éowyn, Merry, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli...

Golden armor shined under the glistening blood. The form had long blond, almost white, hair.

"Haldir!" she called before scrambling toward him.

The elf's eyes were clenched as he grimaced and panted. Blood covered his left side and more soaked into the ground under him. His face was deathly pale.

Rowan touched his face, already losing warmth. His eyes flickered open, tight with pain.

"I watch your... back, you... watch mine... correct?" he breathed.

She huffed a laugh. "Yes."

A dry chuckle drew her eyes up to the Witch-King.

"You have wandered and lingered in Arda for far too long, One-Who-Does-Not-Belong," he said. "You will no longer hinder my Master's plans. Die with the other man that has faced me."

He just lifted the spiked ball to probably smash it onto her and Haldir when he jolted and released a god-awful scream. The handle for his weapon fell from his hand as he dropped to his knees. Merry stood behind him, clutching his smoking glove.

A battered Éowyn approached on his right, holding her broken left arm to her chest. Her helm was gone, revealing her full beautiful face and long blonde hair.

"I am no man."

Yelling, she forced her sword into the Witch-King's face hilt-deep. Her blade shot out of his face—smoldering—and she collapsed, looking at her own burning hand.

The Lord of the Nazgûl screamed and whimpered as his body constricted, folding in on itself, and shrunk into a husk. Even that disappeared until black robes dissolved into the wind.

Rowan let out the breath she had been holding. She was honestly glad Éowyn and Merry had killed the Witch-King like they were supposed to.

She leaned over Haldir. "Don't die on me, yet."

"I will... survive," he panted.

Rowan got up and headed over to the White Lady of Rohan and helped her to her feet. She kept an arm around her waist to support her. Next, she looked at the brave hobbit.

"Come, Merry. You share a bond with the king as well, and should say your farewells, too."

His eyes widened—probably surprised King Théoden still lived—and got on Éowyn's other side so she could lean against him as well. The trio shuffled over to where the dying king of Rohan lay trapped under the body of Snowmane.

Once there, Rowan eased Éowyn down to his side; Merry kneeled beside her. He looked at a loss. Rowan left them to say their goodbyes in private.

As she hurried back to the wounded elf, the clashing of weapons, whinnies, roars, screams, and all other sounds of battle were practically gone. The massive army of orcs had been annihilated—no member on the Enemy side walked or rode around; only the Rohirrim. Large clusters of green moved about the battlefield, ghost soldiers checking for survivors. Glancing at Minas Tirith showed more of the Army of the Dead washing over the burning white city like a green wave. Thick smoke rose from behind the walls and from Pelennor Fields.

Rowan set about grabbing non-splintered spears and took a corpse's cloak to fasten together a litter to drag Haldir to the city for help.

Too weak to stand, the elf helped scoot over—or roll—onto Rowan's makeshift, rudimentary stretcher. After making sure Éowyn and Merry were where she left them, although openly sobbing on the lady's part—King Théoden must've just died—she picked up the spears and headed toward Minas Tirith's gate.

She didn't get far before Éomer called her name, stopping her. Rowan turned to him dismounting and hurrying over; the four Rohirrim did the same—one was Gamling. The Third Marshal of the Riddermark's—now the king of Rohan—eyes widened at her battered, dirtied, and bloodied state pulling a litter.

She spoke before he could. "I am uninjured. Haldir must go to the Houses of Healing."

Éomer told two of the Rohirrim to take Rowan's place and to hurry the wounded elf into the city.

"I will come soon," she told Haldir as each man took a side to carry him between them. Severely pale, he just nodded as he was carried away, much quicker than what Rowan was going—and probably a smoother ride too, in that he wasn't being dragged on the ground.

With them growing distant, Rowan turned back to Éomer and checked him out for herself. He was dirty, with some black orc blood on his armor, and sweat streaks on his face, but he was unharmed. She wrapped her arms around him; he held her tight too.

"You're okay," she said against his breastplate.

"Are you truly uninjured?" he asked.

"Time will heal the bruises."

They just stood holding the other for a while, not speaking—comforted knowing each was alive. Rowan hated to ruin the quiet moment; Éomer needed to know about King Théoden's death.

She broke the silence by whispering, "I'm sorry—I couldn't save him."

His head turned to her. "Couldn't save who?"

"Éomer..." Éowyn whimpered, seizing her chance to confess.

Hearing his sister's voice—where it shouldn't be, on a battlefield—shot his head up quickly.

Over Éomer's shoulder Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli had appeared.

"Go to her," Rowan told him. "She'll explain."

The now-king of Rohan left her for Éowyn to find out exactly that; Gamling and the other Rohirrim followed once the White Lady gestured at the previous king's body. Rowan turned away to greet the return of the three hunters with a long hug for each—she was glad to see them again, and uninjured at that. They hugged her back just as tight, even the elf.

"You'll have to tell me exactly what happened so I can see if anything changed," Rowan said. Not too far away, Halbarad, some Dúnedain, and the Elven twins conversed with a few Rohirrim. If Rowan remembered correctly, Halbarad dies at Pelennor Fields in the book.

Aragorn nodded. "What of your journey? Did events occur as you've foreseen?"

"Yes, although still difficult."

At their questioning looks, she gave a quick summary of King Théoden's death. Rowan also mentioned Haldir's severe injury, but said she hadn't expected that.

She needed to lighten the somber mood, so she turned to Gimli, whom had kept averting his gaze in guilt. "You looked down, didn't you?"

Gimli wouldn't meet her eyes as he said, "No. I remembered your words, lass."

"No, he didn't. He looked," Legolas answered. The dwarf scowled at him.