I stood atop the watchtower, gazing over a sea of orcs and men of Dunland, in the service of the White Hand. Torches, ballistae, trolls.
And suddenly, the wave broke and the battle became a blur of arrows, fire, orcs, and so much noise. When it became too thick to fight with bow or spear, I made to push back siege ladders. I am thankful for my relative deftness compared to the Rohirrim in their heavy armor.
Night deepened and the battle was pushed back, and back. We fell back into the main keep, and made a last stand — just before dawn, reinforcements appeared. It proved to be Erkenbrand of the Westfold with his army, accompanied by Gandalf, the White Rider.
The words of Húrin Thalion — a tragic figure to be sure, but that is a story for another time — came to mind: Aurë Entuluva! Day will come again!
I have survived, and the Men of Rohan have much to celebrate. I, however, must push south to Gondor. This is only the beginning.