A/N: I'm so, so sorry it took this long to update. My life has taken several unexpected twists since I last wrote, some incredibly wonderful, and one life-shattering and heartbreaking.

I'd like to dedicate this story to my dad. As great a soldier, patriot, husband, and father as any character ever to grace Tolkien's pages, Steve Moore set sail for the Undying Lands on March 1, 2009. I love you, Dad.

Chapter Six: End of the Game

The sounds of battle -screams of pain, of rage, of terror- pierced the clear morning air. Haytham heard none of these. He stood, a man transfixed, his eyes on the blood-reddened blade of his saber. Neither Man nor Orc took notice of him; a lone soldier who stood still and unmoving was no threat to anyone. His gaze ran up and down the length of the blade, from the hilt, a dull, pitted steel gray, to the tip, scarlet with blood.

That blood is not mine. That blood came from that man, who is now lying face up, his strange blue eyes staring unseeingly at the sky. That is the blood of the man I have killed.

The men of Ghâlib's army had spoken of the Northmen in voices of mixed hatred and fear. How they ate babies; how their hair was colored brown and gold and green and every other color imaginable; how they sacrificed their children to their Horse-gods each year; how their massive fortress, the hated White Tower, was carved out of the very mountains and how its mortar was mixed with the blood of the Men of Harad. These tales had half fascinated and half terrified young Haytham, but when questioned, his uncle would not give him an answer.

"I have never seen a Northman in all my life, Nephew," he would shrug, the ghost of a smile on his lips, "and neither have many of the men with us. How do they know what the Northmen look like or how they act, they who have never laid eyes upon them?"

This bit of knowledge had seemed infinitely wise to Haytham. But now, he realized, as his gaze traveled from the sword to the dead Northman, they had all been wrong. This man's hair was golden, yes, and slowly fading to grey, but it was the most beautiful color Haytham had ever seen. He had looked different than the dark peoples of the South Haytham had been raised by, but he was still just a man.

Yes, he was a Man. The soldiers of Ghâlib's army had whispered fearsome tales of the strange Men of the northern countries, painting them as bogeymen who crept in the night to steal children from their beds, or as evil, tyrannical warlords who conquered all in their path, and whose eyes, ever hungering for new land, gazed with lust at the dunes and savannahs of the South. But this man was no monster, no dictator. He was a warrior serving his king, just as Haytham himself was.

Uncle, Haytham thought, you didn't tell me it would feel this way.

But had he known? Khalid had always avoided the question of whether or not he had ever killed another man. Had he? Had he known how it had felt to end the life of another, to make him draw his last breath, to stare into his eyes until the life faded from them?

It made Haytham sick to think of what he had done, and sicker still to think that he may have to do it again.

Killing this man…as though he were no more than a mindless beast…or…

…or…

…or an Orc…

Haytham could hear the screams, now, deafening in the air, punctuated by the clashing sound of steel on steel, the thundering of hoof beats, and the occasional horn of some king or lord. And what he heard was the screams of dying men, and the barbaric, feral snarls of the Orcs, who rushed toward their enemies like carrion birds to a slaughter, and a slaughter it was.

Haytham broke free from his trance, and looked up to the sky. He wiped the blood from his sword-blade, and raised it to the heavens. There was a strange light in his eyes, a grim and fearsome light that would have sent shivers down the spines of mighty lords and would have made lesser men quail. A warm breeze blew from the South.

Uncle, he prayed once more, guide my blade. I will greet you in your halls not as a coward, but as a warrior.

With that, he stepped forward, into the fray. There was a battle to be fought.

--

Sweat stained Léofric's brow as he brought his sword down on the arm of an Orc, severing it. The creature hissed in pain and then was silenced forevermore as Léofric's blade lopped its head from its shoulders. Eight, he thought.

Ardhelm was wounded but alive; pierced through the side by an Orc-spear, he sat with his back against the dead Mûmak, fighting off Orcs as best he could with his Rider's shortbow. He and Léofric were surrounded by Orcs; though they had killed many together, more kept coming. They could not hold them off forever; they knew that. And so with the grim resolve of doomed men, they vowed to send as many of the Morgul-filth into the Void as they could before they succumbed.

"I'm out of arrows," Ardhelm called. Léofric nodded, teeth clenched.

"Do you still have your horn?" he asked, thrusting at the nearest Orc. Ardhelm nodded.

"Use it!"

Ardhelm took out his horn and blew a long, loud note, which heartened the two Men and gave the Orcs pause. Léofric took advantage of this by dispatching his current opponent.

Nine, he thought.

Léofric grinned fiercely, the light of battle shining in his eyes. He uttered a wordless battle-cry, daring the next Orc to try its luck.

--

"For Gondor!"

Thus went the cry that split the early morning air as Artharion and his men charged through the rubble of the White City's once-proud gates. The sun had barely risen over the dark mountains to the east, and all about them was carnage and bloodshed. The dying groans of Men mingled with the last screams of Orcs and horses. The air stank of blood and filth, and the clouds were red. Though the battle still raged, they were on the outskirts, and here there were only dying soldiers and those too wounded to fight.

Artharion's small band of warriors made their way across the wreckage, dispatching wounded Orcs as they did so and providing what little comfort they could to wounded Men. One of these was a young man, barely older than any of Artharion's children, who shared the same fair hair as his youngest son, Éthil.

I never said farewell to Caundaer, Artharion thought, his mind going to his eldest son. They had been separated early on in the battle, and he knew not whether Caundaer was dead or still living.

This thought grieved him deeply. What sort of man am I, if I have not said my good-byes to my son before he or I should perish? I never told him how proud I am of him. I wish I could now.

His reverie was broken by the sound of a horn blowing nearby. Near the colossal corpse of a dead Mûmak he saw a pair of Rohirrim fighting valiantly against what must have been a dozen Orcs. One was wounded, and sat on the ground against the corpse, blowing fiercely on a hunting-horn. The other fought skillfully with a sword, and bore an ugly scar on his forehead.

The Men of Rohan had long been friends of Gondor, and in the White City's hour of need they had come to her aid. Artharion would not let these courageous Men die on this field, not while he could save them.

He lifted Túrrív, shining brightly in the morning sunlight, and broke out at a run, shouting his battle-cry as he did so.

"Gondor!!!!"

--

Gorlâk snarled and shoved another Orc to the ground, striding towards the horse-warrior with the scar on his head. The filthy Straw-head had held off an entire squad of Orcs, but Gorlâk knew that this was due in part to his fellows' cowardice. He despised the fearful nature of his own kind; they cowered under the whips of their masters, and their wills were easily broken. Not so with Gorlâk. He feared neither Man nor beast nor Orc. Nothing that walked under the sun or crept in dark places held any terror for him, except perhaps the Eye. He was a killer unparalleled in his skill, the pinnacle of what it meant to be an Orc.

To see so many of his race slain by a pathetic Man sickened him. They were stronger, faster, unburdened by the foolish desire to aid one another. They deserved to rule. No Man would stand against him.

He stood facing the warrior, spear in one hand, blade in the other. There was a pause as the two warriors regarded each other, and then the battle began.

They closed to striking distance at the same time, the sound of ringing metal splitting the air as they locked blades. Gorlâk thrust the spear-point at the Rider, but he dodged it and parried the sword-blow the Orc had tried to bring down on him. The Rider lunged forward in a leaping slash, but Gorlâk rolled to the side, barely avoiding the blow. He retaliated with a brutal flurry of blows, but the Rider somehow managed to hold him off.

A sharp flash of pain hit Gorlâk as, without warning, the Rider's sword flicked out and severed Gorlâk's ear. The Orc hissed in rage and surprised pain, his yellow eyes narrowing with hate. He stepped forward and, heedless of the Rider's sword, thrust his spear into the Man's leg. The Rider fell to one knee, blood streaming from the wound.

"Now," he grinned, broken teeth filling his terrifying maw, "the fun begins."

--

An Orc stood over the fallen Rider, ready to finish him. Artharion broke into a flat-out sprint, determined to reach the valiant warrior in time to save him. He collided full-force into the Orc, driving both of them to the ground. The Orc rolled over, its claws closing about Artharion's throat, malice in its yellow eyes. Artharion punched it, forcing it back, and rolled over, pinning it beneath him. He reached for his knife, but the creature was too fast; it brought its feet up and kicked him in the chest, forcing him backwards and onto the ground. Before Artharion could react, the Orc drove its sword through Artharion's chest, pinning him to the ground.

"You little swine," it snarled, "I'm going to kill you good an' slow for that!"

Then a sword-tip, stained red with blood, burst through the Orc's chest.

--

Haytham pulled his sword out of Gorlâk's back. It gurgled once in disbelief, looking down at the gaping hole where its black heart was ruined, and then toppled over, life fading from its yellow eyes. He kneeled beside the dying Gondorian, compassion and concern in his dark eyes. He spoke, in what little Westron he knew.

"Can I help you?"

The Man shook his head, and gasped with pain.

"Thank you. It's...too late for that." He grimaced as blood seeped from his breast. "Help the Horseman."

"I'm fine," came a voice from behind Artharion.

Léofric hobbled over, the spear-shaft still protruding from his leg. He gazed down at the dying Gondorian. The pain in his blue eyes had nothing to do with his wounded leg.

"You saved me," he said. "Thank you. Is there anything I can do?"

"No," Artharion gasped, a bubble of blood bursting from his mouth as he struggled to speak. "My time has come. I am...my name is Artharion of Minas Tirith. Tell my wife that I love her. Tell my children not to grieve, for I would not have died any other way."

The light began to fade from his eyes.

"And...tell my eldest son...to take my sword. His life is his own."

And with that Artharion, soldier, father, husband, Man of Gondor, passed into the Undying Lands.

--

The battle was over. The Orcs surrounding Léofric and Ardhelm had been routed by Artharion's reinforcements, and both Rohirrim would survive their wounds. The soldiers stood in a circle around their fallen leader, paying their silent respects. Ardhelm stood supported by Cammir. Haytham helped Léofric to stand.

"You saved him," Léofric murmured, turning to look Haytham in the eyes. "He was on the other side, but you tried to save him. Why?"

The young Southron met his gaze steadily, looking years older than when he had first set foot upon the battlefields of Pelennor.

"He was not my enemy. He was a Man. A brave one." He swallowed.

"My people...I...have been fighting the wrong war. I killed a man today. A Rider, like you. I had never seen him in my life before today, and I killed him. Men like that...like you...like him..."

He gestured at the body of Artharion, who now looked peaceful.

"...we are not enemies. We should not be enemies. We are brother Men. That..."

He pointed in disgust at the corpse of Gorlâk.

"...that is our enemy."

Léofric nodded thoughtfully, his eyes distant. He held out a hand to the young Haradrim.

"Do you have a name, Southron?"

"Haytham," the other smiled, taking his hand.

"I am Léofric," he said, and they clasped hands over the body of a fallen hero as the sun shone on a new age in Middle-Earth.

--

It's done.

Finally, this story is finished. I'd like to thank you all for reading it; your comments gave me the drive to finish this story. I will miss sitting down at my computer and getting into the heads of Haytham, Artharion, Léofric, and yes, even Gorlâk. Until our next journey together, farewell!!