Author's Note: Conceptual art? I'm not sure.

Warnings: AUish elements. Half-formed ideas are emerging, hopefully some back-story to this piece will be forthcoming.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Written only because I am grieving.

Tomb of the Unknown Soldier

We wait.

We wait for the sun to rise, for the Enemy to fall, for the fight to begin or end. At this point, it is interminable; the air is oppressive, heavy. We cannot see farther than a few leagues beyond the Pelennor; despite this, orcs' calls carry far.

We hear every insult. Every foul oath rings terribly in our ears; some soldiers call back even fouler things, words I would not wish unto the enemy, hated or no. I shudder at the evil, wistfully thinking of my family. Are they safe? Did I do enough in sending them far from home?

At the least, they have a day's march before evil spreads completely, if we fail.

Night, or what can pass for it, comes, and then War is upon us.

Stones fall around us. Screams – raw and painful – a scimitar in the back – an arrow to the eye – maybe a small dagger that cuts the leg. My sword arm rapidly becomes sore; my armor soaked in blood. In the darkness, I cannot tell which is mine, or which is Theirs.

Carcasses rise around me. The Gate is breached.

I retreat to an upper Circle. For a moment, I can breathe what isn't quite fresh air – the metallic of blood, the stench of smoke of the fire-arrows flung from both sides…but at least I have more than a shoulder width's space to move.

Several minutes pass. I see many of our allies' go forth; the White Rider, staff flying this way and that; he also has a sword that gleams. I hear him spit, "Let Glamdring cut through you, shadows of the dark fire!" He headbutts an orc that would have cloven me in two, and I nod in thanks.

An Elf, tall and with a feral grin goes by also, yelling, "Ithil's Bane!" I wonder why the moon would inspire such a call, but then, Elves are beyond comprehension. I cut down some who would do the Elf harm, but do not have the opportunity to stay at his side, he is so quick to move.

A perian there is also, to my wonderment. He fights as ferociously as any of the rest of us; his uniform, that of the Citadel Guard to my surprise, is just as stained as mine. When there is yet another moment's peace, we share a grim smile.

Only another soldier would understand the energies of battle. It is Life at its uttermost, and Death at its beginning. Adrenaline surges; heartbeats become hours long; the screams of those around me are a song of vivid unreality.

It is those energies within our shared smile. There is no true Good thing of War, save its outcome, if Evil is pushed back.

I do not get the chance to ask what the perian is fighting for, but I suppose it is no different than any of the rest of us. For our families, for our legacies. For a life to live free of the oppressive Shadow that would claim any and all in its path. For the green plains to bloom again, for farms to yield such that would make every table groan with heavy weight.

For hope to live again.

I begin again in earnest, and I feel no pain when at last I am struck upon the arm by an arrow. From the fletching it is Southron in nature – only they use the red bird so rare here. I yank it out, whence comes a fiery lance up to my shoulder.

I stagger and fall, and it seems darkness covers my vision completely. What grip I had on my sword loosens and vaguely its clang on the white stones of City bids me welcome to the next world.