Flowers fall from trembling hands, tokens of farewell cast down in the road before the group of men setting out. Their horses bear them faithfully, but without hope. They sense the dread in the air, and know they will not return. Their hooves gently brush the flowers that had been carefully tossed before them as they continue slowly onward. A mournful dread has fallen over the watching crowd. Women gaze at the soldiers, their vision blurred with tears. The children, too, are uncharacteristically silent. They know that their fathers might not return. The men are all too aware of their fate, but they say nothing. Their faces are set and grim as they follow their captain. They are always loyal to him, not matter the cost to themselves.

            But these orders didn’t come from him. They came from his father, the Lord and Steward of the city. And in his impulsive decision of war, he has sent his only remaining son to his death.

            The young captain’s face is determined, devoid of bitterness or sorrow, save his eyes. They show the pain of neglect and indifference from his father. But he continues. Mithrandir has tried to dissuade him, tried to convince him of his father’s love, but his statements fall on deaf ears. The young captain is firm in his resolve. He has received his orders, and no other can sway his decision. For now he must do the duty of two, for himself, and for the one that will not return.* The white wizard gazes silently after the cavalry as they pass through the gate of the City for the last time.

            They are off on a futile mission. None will survive.

            The thunder of hooves echoes weirdly across the fields. Many eyes peer out from the ruined city of Osgiliath as they approach. The foul servants of darkness are puzzled, and laugh derisively. The guttural sounds echo harshly throughout the empty city streets. This place will remain theirs.

            Without fear, the young captain draws his sword. Wielding it before him, he cries out a charge. The horses move still faster across the barren fields, drawing closer to doom. The brave men are jeered at by those who have conquered the city. The scum of Mordor leer horribly as their black bows are fitted with arrows and carefully aimed.          

            They are in range.

            The arrows are released.

            Safe inside the walls of the White City, the father of the young captain ignores the mournful tears of a young hobbit and unconcernedly finishes his meal.

*This line was taken directly from The Return of the King.