Twilight drove the Gondor and Rohan company to the Morannon. The soldiers, exhausted by the incessant battles, stumbled and almost fell, they maneuvered between the lifeless bodies of comrades and enemies, strewn the ground all the way to the Dark Gate. Wiping the sweat from your forehead, you felt how your lungs were burning, your muscles were cramping, demanding a break and you gave in to this demand, stopping near your comrades.

You do not even hear what the men are discussing, focusing only on your own exhaustion. In your head, it seems like the war cries of the orcs and trolls are still ringing, a lump of nausea in your throat, a knot in your stomach and you only squeeze the thin blade of elven steel in your hand tighter.

The numbness disappears when your chest armor is gently tugged. You tear your eyes away from your own fingers, raising them to the sharp, chiseled face of Legolas. His white hair was matted with dirt and someone else's blood, he wore the same expression of exhaustion and barely concealed irritation at himself for his own helplessness. You pursed your lips. Legolas had initially been against the idea of ​​letting you fight, but there was nothing he could do. You were adamant.

When the elf finished checking your armor, he walked up to Aragorn, finally leaning over to him and whispered quietly, looking into his eyes:

"Don't let her onto the battlefield. At least not yet."