The monotony of knowing that one could sleep away one's entire duty turn at the top of a mountain without incident was mind-numbing. To be sent here was to be forgotten. Six of them there were, condemned to sit high and safe - and bored - while the darkness of the East drew ever closer. Here they would wait for a signal that would never come, that had not been sent in centuries.
Would they even know when Gondor fell?
It had been a long day, and the time drew near for him to wake Himdir and Durben for their watch. But habit - and a tired sense of duty - made him cast his eye toward the southern mountaintop first.
A flame! In generations, such had not been seen. Gondor called for aid!
He ran for the pyre, knowing himself no longer a forgotten man. For this had he been born - and never knew it. He might never see the battlefield, or hear his name sung in any lays.
But the blow he'd strike this day would resonate through the Ages.
With a glad shout, he tipped the oil onto the wood and tossed his torch.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.