Once, long ago, before setting out on his fateful journey to the East in search of Sauron, Saruman, the great and wise, had kneeled before Manwë. The Lord of the Valar, who stood like a god to him, had summoned him to his mighty halls and entrusted him with a task both important and perilous. In the vast, golden halls of Valinor, Saruman had stood before Manwë, his heart full of ambition, his mind unshaken by any doubts. And as Manwë gazed down from his great throne, his voice like the rumble of the sea, he had asked:
"Tell me, little one, what is it that you fear? Is it we, who are infinitely more powerful than you, or perhaps the future—the path you are destined to follow and the darkness that will seek you there?"
Saruman's back had straightened at the question, and without hesitation, he lifted his chin, his eyes gleaming with pride. With a smirk on his face, he had declared:
"I fear nothing. Not even Morgoth himself. Whatever I must face, I will face it with a smile, without regret. You can count on that, my Lord."
Manwë, ever wise, had nodded in approval, for his heart had known the answer would please him. Saruman's words had been confident, unwavering, and yet, deep down, they were hollow. He had not truly understood the weight of what he had spoken. He had not yet known what true hardship was.
Now, as Saruman rode westward on his horse Shadobane, with his two older brothers—the Blue Wizards—at his side, there was no smile. His robes, once white, were now stained dark with the blood of fallen comrades and enemies alike. The scent of sweat and death hung heavy in the air, a reminder of the countless battles they had fought, and lost, in the Far East.
For weeks, Saruman and his brothers had been on the run. All their efforts, all their hope of resisting the darkness, had been in vain. No mighty kingdoms of men still stood in the East. They had all been crushed beneath the unrelenting legions of Orcs. Only the faintest hope remained in the West and the southern lands below Mordor, but that hope felt distant, fragile. Saruman had little faith in Gandalf or Radagast—those two, in his eyes, were nothing more than cowards who had failed to come to the East when they were needed most.
The sounds of pursuit broke his thoughts. Behind them, the thundering of Wargs echoed across the plains. A few hundred of the beasts were closing in, kicking up dust as they ran, their massive paws digging into the earth. And more ominous still, Saruman could feel the presence of the Witch-King, who had returned from the grave with his dragon. The sorcerer had been thought destroyed, along with his ancient kingdom of Angmar, but here he was, rising from the ashes of the past. The Witch-King had a dragon now, and Saruman knew that facing it would mean certain death.
Ahead, the distant city of Rhûn loomed, though Saruman doubted they would make it that far. The plains stretched before them, vast and empty, with no shelter from the coming storm. The dragon's dark magic was already gathering, Saruman could feel it. He had seen the dragon's power firsthand—its breath had turned men into mummified husks, draining the life from them in an instant. He had no desire to face such a creature again.
The weight of his failure hung heavily upon him, and for the first time since leaving Valinor, Saruman began to question his fate. He had been so certain, so proud in his youth, but now, the reality of the dark forces he faced seemed insurmountable. Perhaps there was more truth in Manwë's question than he had ever realized.
Looking to both his sides at his two brothers the blue Wizards as they were called, he yelled to them.
"Hurry up or will never make it! I can already feel it preparing to attack!"
However no matter how much he yelled and his brothers pushed their regular horses onwards, Saruman knew it to be a fool's hope. There was no way that they were ever running from a Dragon with mere mortal horses.
And so the Dragons shadow fell upon them, and it let out a mighty black breath of death, causing the blue Wizard on Sarumans right to spring into action.
Morinethar the blue fire Mage stood up upon his horse, his eyes ignited in blue flames, as did his fists, and then he leaped up high towards the incoming Black Dragon Breath. From his hands powerful cones of fire shot forth, and within mid air blue fire and the Black breath collided.
While the darkness ate away at the flames, turning their powerful blue light into red and then snuffing them out completely. Morinethar merely kept on pushing more flames within the darkness, Until finally the two forces cancelled each other out and exploded in a brilliant flash of blue and black light.
Black energies spread like a cloud all around the blue flame explosion, as some of the darkness flew down to Morinethar. In mid air the blue flame wizard felt the evil of it sweep within his body as he then fell to the ground in pain, the darkness eating at his very soul. Although his own magical core was quick to resist and burn the darkness away from his body.
Saruman and the other Blue Wizard having seen this, and the horse of Morinethar run away, were then quick to stop and ride to the man's side.
Jumping off his horse Rómestámo, the Ice Wizard was quick to come standing beside his brother, as they together faced the army of Orcs that was heading towards them and the Dragon which looked fiercely down upon them. They held no weapons and yet they stood confidently.
The Witch King seeing them manipulated his undead dragon to begin gathering more magical energy for another attack. But just then Saruman standing further back jumped off his horse Shadobane, and as his bare feet touched the soft grassy ground, he pulled off his white robes, revealing his muscular upper body that seemed to grow even larger as he roared to the sky.
"God's give me strength, aaaaaahhhhhhh!"
Clenching his fists Saruman smashed them deep into the ground and as he roared out at the top of his lungs, a huge boulder the size of the huge dragons head was pulled out the ground. And seemingly by simply the pure physical strength of Saruman the massive boulder was lifted above his head, as he pulled his arms back and tossed the boulder with a great air rippling force towards the Undead dragon.
Seeing it the Wargs paused for a moment watching in a mix of awe and terror, as the massive boulder flew over their heads, and before the Witch King could manipulate his slow undead dragon to move, the boulder struck the beast hard. The sound of the impact and the boulder shattering into thousands of pieces carried for Kilometres around as the Dragon screeched seemingly in pain despite its state of undef as it fell from the sky.
Down below Warg riders moved to dodge, but many within the mass of Warg riders failed to move in time and were squashed under the dragons heavy body.
Saruman's breath came in heavy gasps as he watched the dragon rise again, the smoke clearing just enough for him to see the creature's massive form looming over them. But before he could push himself to stand, he felt Morinethar's powerful hand land heavily on his shoulder.
The touch was both comforting and final.
Morinethar, despite the weariness etched into his face, smiled bitterly down at Saruman. "Well done, little brother," he said, his voice thick with both pride and sorrow. "But this is where your fight must end. One of us must make it to the West to warn our brothers, to warn the Valar of what is coming. Go. We will hold them here as long as we can. See to it that the Witch-King doesn't have a dragon to ride into the West."
Saruman's heart clenched at his brother's words, and his gaze flickered to Rómestámo, who stood a few meters to his left, his expression grim but resolute. The Ice Wizard nodded, agreeing without speaking.
"No," Saruman whispered, his voice trembling despite his best effort to remain strong. "No, brothers, I... I can still fight. We can make it through this. The three of us together, like always."
But Morinethar only shook his head, his expression pained but resolute. "Your strength is spent, little brother. If you fight here, you'll only get in the way. Go, and in time, we will meet again—in Valinor, or beyond. But for now, you must live. We will not."
Saruman wanted to argue, to deny it, to fight for one more moment, one more chance to stay together. But deep down, the truth of his brother's words settled into him. His body, drained from weeks of battle and magic, could not withstand much more. There was no time for words, no time for further debate. They had all given their best, and now it was time to part ways.
With a final, heavy sigh, Saruman nodded. His face paled, but his voice remained steady. "Morinethar, Rómestámo, good luck, my brothers. Show them the power of the Istar. Do it for Khan Ali, for Tom Bombadil, and for all those who've fallen to them. Struggle to the bitter end. If we do not meet again in Valinor, we will meet beyond."
Without waiting for a response, Saruman mounted his horse, his movements stiff with exhaustion. He couldn't bear to look back. The parting hurt too much, the weight of his failure too great. So, with one last look toward the Sea of Rhûn, he urged his horse into motion, riding away without hesitation, but with a heavy heart.
Behind him, the two brothers shed their pointy wizard shoes, tossing them aside as they discarded their robes. The enemies who watched might have thought them old men, frail and spent. But beneath their worn garments lay the true form of the Blue Wizards: warriors, not wizards, trained in the art of battle, their bodies hardened by years of discipline.
For magic, as they knew, was not a force for the weak or the idle. It demanded strength, discipline, and sacrifice. Only those who had honed their bodies and spirits could hope to wield it to its fullest potential. And now, as they faced the end, they would wield it to the bitterest of ends.
On the left, Morinethar, the Blue Flame Wizard, stood tall, his eyes glowing with intense fire. On the right, Rómestámo, the Ice Wizard, fixed his gaze upon his brother, a silent understanding passing between them. With a deep breath, Rómestámo closed his eyes, drawing power from the very core of his being. The air around him grew heavy as his magic swelled, pulling in every drop of moisture from the ground below. His hands crackled with energy as he summoned enormous spheres of water into his palms, the cold feeling of the liquid energy pulsing through his veins.
In the distance, the Warg riders—archers with cruel, eager smiles—had finally closed the gap. They notched their arrows and loosed them with deadly precision, a dark cloud of projectiles speeding toward the two brothers.
But the Blue Wizards did not flinch.
Rómestámo raised his hands with quiet determination, and with a swift upward motion, the water spheres shot forward, bursting out in a wave of frosty magic. The water rapidly froze in midair, forming an ice wall that shimmered with a cold, lethal beauty. The arrows struck the wall, shattering against its frozen surface like brittle twigs, harmless against the sheer mass of ice.
Undeterred, the Warg riders split their forces, aiming to circle around the two brothers. But Rómestámo's ice wall began to melt, its crystalline structure dissolving into an ethereal mist. With a sudden, violent gust, the cold air billowed outward in all directions, a vast cloud of freezing vapor that swept across the battlefield like a living storm.
The Warg riders gasped, their breath turning to steam in the frigid air. Within moments, the temperature plummeted, and the world turned into an icy nightmare. Their arrows froze stiff within their quivers, blades became brittle in their sheaths, and Orcs and Wargs alike began to shudder, their movements growing sluggish as the very marrow in their bones turned to ice. The ground beneath them hardened, a slick layer of ice spreading like a creeping disease, causing Wargs to slip and fall, their riders struggling to stay on their mounts.
But the mist was not the only threat.
Morinethar, his body wreathed in blue flames, surged forward, propelled by the fire beneath his feet. His robes fluttered as he leapt into the air, his magic lifting him higher and higher until he hovered above the frozen Warg riders. The fire burning around him rippled and danced like an inferno, an unstoppable force of destruction.
He dove, crashing down into the Warg pack with the force of a storm. The explosion of blue flames erupted outward, scorching everything in its path. Four Warg riders were the first to feel the full brunt of his magic. Their bodies and their mounts were instantly consumed by the blinding blue fire, their flesh sizzling and crackling as it burned away to nothing but ash and bone. The agonized screams of both riders and Wargs filled the air, but even their cries were drowned out by the roar of the flames.
But Morinethar did not stop. His blue flames spread like wildfire, turning the battlefield into a hellscape of flame and fury. He moved through the ranks of the Wargs with terrifying speed, his hands igniting everything they touched. He punched through orc armor as though it were mere paper, and his blows left nothing but charred remains in their wake. His kicks sent Warg skulls smashing apart, their bones crushed under the sheer force of his power.
The flames of Morinethar's fury did not falter; they only grew in intensity. With a final, earth-shaking breath, he inhaled deeply, his chest swelling as he drew in air, the fire within him growing hotter with each passing second. Then, like a dragon, he unleashed a torrent of blue flame that surged across the battlefield, incinerating everything in its path—Wargs, Orcs, and the very earth beneath them. The blue fire spread in a wide arc, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake.
Meanwhile, Rómestámo continued to shape the icy winds around him, his control over the cold absolute. Where Morinethar's flames scorched, Rómestámo's ice froze. The two forces—opposites in nature—complemented each other perfectly. The fire burned with a relentless intensity, while the ice swept through the battlefield, slowing the enemies to a crawl, rendering them helpless as they were trapped between the two powerful magics.
The Warg riders, now caught between fire and ice, had nowhere to run. They tried to push forward, to break the encirclement, but the heat of Morinethar's flames and the chill of Rómestámo's frost worked in tandem, pushing them further into chaos. They could neither fight nor flee; the storm of blue fire and ice was unstoppable.
Together, the two brothers fought as one—fire and ice, destruction and preservation—showing the world that their magic, despite being born of opposing elements, was a force stronger than anything their enemies could comprehend. They would not fall today.
But the cold, once overwhelming, began to dissipate as the air was consumed by the blistering blue flames that danced across the grassy fields. These flames, born of Morinethar's fury, swept across the battlefield, incinerating both enemy and earth in their wake. The fire crackled and roared, consuming the bodies of the Warg riders and leaving a scorched wasteland in its path.
At the same time, Rómestámo, standing further back to conserve his strength, extended his will into the ground beneath him. The earth groaned as he pulled every last drop of moisture from the soil, shaping it into sharp, glistening icicles. These lethal projectiles formed around him in a deadly arc, catching the light like frozen spears of death.
With a powerful flick of his wrists, Rómestámo sent the icicles hurtling toward the enemy. The air around them grew cold as they cut through the battlefield with incredible speed. Each icicle struck with deadly precision, shattering the bodies of Orcs and Wargs alike as though they were nothing more than fragile dolls. Those who didn't perish instantly found their bodies wracked with an unnatural cold, as if a sickness had overtaken them from within. Flesh turned to ice, and in mere moments, they stood motionless—frozen statues in the midst of a battle that no longer held meaning for them.
In mere minutes, the blue wizards' onslaught had reduced the enemy ranks by nearly a third. The high-pitched screams of the dying rang out across the battlefield, echoing for miles, reaching the ears of Saruman and the approaching Warg reinforcements. These sounds were a chilling reminder of the devastation that was unfolding, and the approaching forces were only emboldened by their numbers.
Watching from his perch, the Witch King—clad in his black armor—sat unmoving upon his undead dragon, which trembled slightly beneath his weight. His fingers, cold and skeletal, moved with a slow, deliberate gesture. At the command of his iron-clad finger, his minions surged forward with renewed purpose. Some were dispatched to give chase to Saruman, while others were sent to keep the two blue wizards occupied.
The Orcs, despite their fear of the blue wizards' terrifying power, hesitated for only a heartbeat. Their wills were dominated by the fear of disobeying their dark master, and that fear was enough to push them forward. They charged mindlessly, fully aware that their fates were sealed—but to disobey would mean certain death. And so, they threw themselves into the fray, like moths to the flame.
Morinethar, standing at the heart of the chaos, moved with unparalleled grace and speed. He dodged arrows and blades that whizzed past him, each strike failing to land as the blue flames around him flared and burned. Warg riders who dared to come too close were instantly engulfed in fire, their bodies consumed in a matter of seconds. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, but Morinethar paid it no mind. His focus was unwavering as he fought with the raw power of his flame magic, a whirlwind of destruction.
Meanwhile, Rómestámo was holding his ground, his icy defenses growing thicker and more formidable with each passing moment. His ice walls rose high, forming an impenetrable barrier between himself and the incoming Warg riders. From behind this frozen cover, he could see a large group of riders diverting their attention toward Saruman, but there was no dragon in sight. The absence of such a formidable threat allowed Rómestámo to maintain his calm. His hands moved with precision, sending more and more icicles toward the enemy, each strike another nail in the coffin of the Wargs and Orcs. He knew the battle would be long, and every drop of energy he used now would need to be carefully measured for the fights to come.
But he wasn't worried. Not yet.
The ice and flame were like two halves of the same coin—seemingly opposites, but together they formed an unstoppable force, a perfect balance of destruction. As the Warg riders charged forward, Rómestámo's icy winds swirled around him, pushing the enemy back as Morinethar's flames surged ahead, consuming everything they touched. Together, they were a whirlwind of elemental fury, unstoppable in their combined strength.
And so the battle raged on.
Unbeknownst to Morinethar, the enemy had plans of their own. In the burned and charred fields, the flickering blue flames cast eerie shadows that danced across the battlefield. Among them, five figures moved with lethal precision, their dark forms cutting through the smoke like predators on the hunt.
The assassins of the Dark Tribe were a breed unlike any other. Their movements were fluid, like shadows, but their presence was anything but subtle. Clad in black from head to toe, their muscular physiques were barely concealed beneath their dark attire. Skull masks obscured their faces, their cold eyes gleaming from beneath the hoods of their black cloaks. Metal pauldrons adorned their broad shoulders, glinting in the dim light, while their hands were encased in black leather gloves, the metal claws extending like deadly talons. Black leather boots and pants completed their uniform, and their dark metallic chest plates shimmered faintly beneath their cloaks. One of them carried a bow, its quiver brimming with dark, ominous arrows, while the others gripped twin daggers, each with a cruel, serrated edge designed for silent kills.
Riding through the smoke, their approach was unnoticed by Morinethar, who remained focused on the chaos around him. The assassins were mere moments away from striking when they were finally revealed, emerging from the haze like ghosts. Morinethar, unaware of their presence, felt the ground shake beneath the thunderous hooves of the Wargs they rode, but the figures were still concealed—until they were a stone's throw away.
To Morinethar, they appeared no different than the usual assassins of the Dark Tribe. A quick glance told him all he needed to know: skilled, deadly, and relentless. Without hesitation, he summoned a wall of blue flames in their path, hoping to incinerate them with ease.
But the assassins were not so easily deterred.
With the practiced grace of trained killers, four of them leapt high into the air, their daggers drawn in mid-flight, prepared to strike with terrifying speed. But one of the assassins, caught off guard by the Warg's saddle, struggled for a moment, and it was enough time for the flames to consume him, his body disintegrating in a flash of fiery destruction.
The remaining three, unfazed by the loss of their comrade, continued their assault, diving toward Morinethar like ravenous wolves. The blue flame wizard, with his unmatched speed, leapt into the air to meet them, his fist engulfed in flames. A single, devastating kick sent all three assassins hurtling to the side, their bodies flailing through the air, one's head flying higher than the rest as it separated from its body in a sickening spray of blood.
But just as Morinethar prepared to press his advantage, a sharp whistle cut through the air. From behind the burning Wargs and the smoldering remains of the fallen assassin, a dark arrow flew toward him with terrifying speed. Morinethar's instincts kicked in as he shifted to dodge the arrow, just as he had done countless times before. But this time, the arrow was faster—too fast.
He realized too late that it had struck its mark. A sharp, searing pain erupted in his right shoulder as the dark magic imbued in the arrow coursed through his veins. The impact sent him tumbling to the ground, disoriented. His right arm, the source of his fire magic, suddenly felt alien, the magic within it slipping away as if severed by an invisible hand.
Panic surged in Morinethar's chest, and with his left arm, he pushed himself up, only to feel the magic in his right arm spiraling out of control. Before he could react, a pulse of energy detonated within him, causing a massive explosion. The force of it sent his body flying backward, his once muscular right arm now a shredded mess of bone and tissue, the remnants scattered across the battlefield.
"Boom!"
The sound of the explosion reverberated through the air, a deafening blast that sent shockwaves across the battlefield. Morinethar was thrown sideways, fragments of his own body piercing his skin as his once-pristine blue robes were now soaked in his blood. He landed hard on the ground, his body wracked with pain, shaking violently as he fought to regain control of himself. His breath came in ragged gasps, and for a moment, he struggled to steady his mind.
But even as he lay there, weakened and vulnerable, he sensed the presence of another assassin.
Above him, a swirling cloud of black smoke materialized in the air, twisting and coiling as another Dark Tribe assassin descended upon him, knives gleaming like a death sentence. Morinethar's rage flared. He could see the bow on the assassin's back, and with it, realization struck like a thunderclap: it was the same assassin who had shot him.
The anger surged through him, pushing aside the pain. With a grimace of defiance, he pulled his knees to his chest, gathering his remaining strength. With a fierce cry, he kicked into the air, and a wave of blue flame shot from his feet, incinerating the descending assassin before he could strike. The body was reduced to ash in an instant, while the assassin's blade melted into a puddle of liquid metal, falling harmlessly to the ground.
Morinethar's chest heaved with anger and exhaustion. The explosion had left him weakened, but his fury burned brighter than ever. To be wounded by an Orc, even a high-ranking assassin from the Dark Tribe, was a blow to his pride that he could not tolerate. The flames that roared within him were no longer just a weapon—they were his wrath, and he would not let them fade.
With a growl of fury, Morinethar sprang to his feet, his body pulsing with raw power. He threw his head back and roared to the sky, a sound filled with both pain and defiance. His teeth were bared, eyes burning with the fire of determination as he soared forward into the oncoming tide of Wargs and Orcs. Like a streak of blue fire, he tore across the plains, his presence igniting the very earth beneath him. The ground turned black where his flames touched, scorched by the intensity of his power. His enemies had no time to react as he crashed into their ranks.
With a single, effortless motion, he grabbed a Warg by its throat, the beast thrashing in panic. It struggled, but its strength was nothing compared to the might of an Istari. The Warg burned in his grip, the flames consuming it from the inside out. Morinethar felt an almost perverse satisfaction in its agonized howls and the screams of its rider, echoing through the battlefield like music to his ears.
Arrows rained down upon him, but they were nothing. His body, forged from the very fabric of the Valar, was impervious to such mundane attacks. The crude Orc arrows burst into flames upon contact, the shafts and heads turning to ash in an instant. Morinethar's heart swelled with pride. He was beyond the reach of mere mortals—he was something more, something close to divine. A being not just of Middle-earth but of the heavens themselves. Nothing could defeat him now.
Meanwhile, Rómestámo, watching his brother's savage onslaught, was filled with dread. His brother's wound, the one Morinethar had sustained when the assassin's arrow had struck him, was growing worse. There was no time to waste. The battlefield was swarming with enemies, but Morinethar needed him now. Rómestámo swept his hands over the ground, drawing the moisture from the earth with a thought. Ice began to form beneath his feet, and he slid toward his brother, leaving a trail of frozen ground in his wake. With each stride, he sent sharp icicles flying into the ranks of the Warg riders, cutting them down in an instant. Yet his focus was not on the enemy, but on his brother's pain.
Reaching Morinethar's side, Rómestámo's voice was urgent, a touch of desperation creeping into his tone.
"Hold still, brother! I must close the wound for you! You may be strong, but you're losing too much blood—too much life."
Without waiting for a reply, Rómestámo created a shimmering cocoon of ice around them. It formed an impenetrable shield, protecting them from the arrows and attacks that rained down from all sides. Inside the icy barrier, Rómestámo's focus narrowed to his brother's wound. But before he could begin his work, Morinethar's eyes locked onto something in the distance, and his words cut through the air, filled with a cold certainty that sent a chill through Rómestámo's very soul.
"No, brother," Morinethar's voice was a grim whisper, "just cool me down for now. We have no time for healing. If we are to stand a chance against that dragon, we must act fast. The Orcs will only keep coming—more of them, with the Nazgul and the Graugs. If we wait, we will be overrun, and this battle will be lost before we even have a chance to strike at the beast."
Rómestámo's heart sank as he looked at his brother, disbelief and horror clouding his features.
"So you really intend to sacrifice yourself?" Rómestámo's voice cracked with a mixture of frustration and fear. "You would throw your life away here, for these people? You know we could still escape—we could survive, regroup, and with the Valar's help, we could return to reclaim this land! But this... this is madness. We've lost Tom Bombadil, and now you want to give your life for them? For a world that doesn't even know our names? How many more must die? How much more must we lose?"
Morinethar's gaze was unwavering as he turned to face his brother. A faint smile played at the edges of his lips, though it was tinged with sadness, as though he already knew the path they had chosen.
"Why do this, you ask?" Morinethar's voice was steady, but there was a fire in his eyes. "Because, my brother, it is the right thing to do. Life is fleeting, whether it is ours or a bird's. But if we die today, and it means saving the West from the darkness that is coming, then it will be worth it. A life lost is a life lost, but the lives we might save—that is what matters."
Rómestámo's breath caught in his throat, his heart aching for his brother, but deep down, he knew there was no other choice. He had known Morinethar's heart for centuries, understood the fire that burned within him. There would be no changing his mind.
With a heavy sigh, Rómestámo relented. He reached out to his brother, his hand trembling as he placed it upon his shoulder, and began to cool the raging heat within him. Ice spread across Morinethar's chest, the magic stabilizing his body, though the cost would be great. They were both near their limits. But Rómestámo knew this was their only chance. The battle would not wait, and neither would the approaching forces.
They were both warriors, but in this moment, they were also brothers—bound by fate, their bond stronger than any force of nature or magic. Together, they would either burn the world down or save it, but there would be no retreat, no surrender.
With a grim determination, Rómestámo held his hands upon his brother's shoulders, feeling the intense heat radiating from his body. He closed his eyes, channeling his icy magic to cool the flames consuming Morinethar's form. But as the ice cocoon around Morinethar crumbled and the dismounted Orcs began to approach, they were immediately engulfed by a surge of brilliant blue flames. The inferno spread like a shockwave, sweeping across the battlefield and incinerating everything in its path.
For a moment, the flames receded, pulled back into the stump of Morinethar's right arm. His eyes burned with the same blue fire, and from his gritted teeth, steam hissed into the air. A guttural roar tore from his throat, filling the heavens as his form rippled with power. Then, from the hollow where his arm had once been, a new limb of pure flame surged forth, growing rapidly in size and ferocity.
In mere seconds, the arm swelled to monstrous proportions, as thick as the tail of the undead dragon hovering above, crackling with heat. With a deafening roar, Morinethar slammed his fiery fist into the Warg army below, and every creature it touched was consumed in a flash, reduced to ash in an instant. But still, the dragon remained distant, just beyond his reach.
Rómestámo, his own form surrounded by an aura of ice and cold, stood resolute at his brother's side, his magic protecting them both from the arrows that rained down. His brother's relentless fury seemed to fuel him, and despite the storm of chaos around them, Rómestámo could feel the exhaustion beginning to take its toll.
Morinethar's eyes narrowed, and with a violent surge, he pushed his powers beyond anything he had ever known. The fist of blue fire grew larger, a beacon of destruction, and the sheer intensity of it was enough to send the Witch King into a retreat. The dark rider took flight, unwilling to face the full force of Morinethar's rage.
But the battle was far from over. The trolls and Graugs, enormous creatures resistant to any ordinary assault, pushed forward with relentless force. Despite their immense size and armor-like skin, they were nothing before the flames of Morinethar's fury. His fire fist struck with cataclysmic force, and with a terrible roar, it expanded into a devastating explosion of concentrated energy. A shockwave of heat and destruction ripped across the landscape, the earth itself shattering as the fire consumed everything in its path. A massive, twenty-meter-wide trench of burned earth and blackened soil was all that remained in the wake of the blast.
The battlefield was now silent, save for the crackling of distant flames and the screams of the last few Orcs fleeing in terror. Morinethar had obliterated nearly all of them, but the price was clear—his body was rapidly failing. His form was melting, his flesh burning away under the strain of his immense power. Rómestámo's fingers were already sinking into his brother's disintegrating skin, the magic he had used to cool him failing in the face of such overwhelming heat.
"Brother, stop!" Rómestámo cried out, panic creeping into his voice. "You're going to die! You can't keep going like this—let me help you!"
But Morinethar's voice was filled with an unyielding rage. "No! I won't stop! Not yet! Not before him! That bastard…"
With those words, Morinethar's fire fist grew once more, rising into the sky like a towering column of flame. His arm extended far beyond the reach of any mortal, reaching for the distant Witch King and his dragon. The flames intensified, and for a moment, it seemed that victory was within his grasp. But once again, it fell just short. The enormous fist shattered into hundreds of smaller fireballs, like meteors crashing to earth, raining down on the battlefield with deadly precision.
The Warg riders, already in disarray, scattered in terror as the fiery hail descended upon them. None dared to approach the brothers now, their resolve shattered by the devastation that Morinethar had wrought. But even as the enemies fled, Rómestámo felt the deepening weight of his brother's condition. Morinethar was barely clinging to life, his body on the verge of collapse. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his heartbeat a frantic drum against his chest.
Despite this, Rómestámo pressed on, pouring every ounce of his magic into Morinethar, cooling him just enough to keep him alive, strengthening his fire with his own icy power. The two forces—fire and ice—wove together in a fragile balance. But still, it wasn't enough. Morinethar's body was a furnace on the verge of exploding.
Through gasping breaths, Morinethar's voice emerged, hoarse and strained. "No… not yet… I have to… I have to finish this. Only fire can burn them. Only I can do this…"
Then, with a final, explosive surge of power, something within Morinethar snapped. His eyes blazed brighter than ever before, two burning stars in the night. He shoved Rómestámo aside, and with a scream that seemed to shake the very heavens, he launched himself into the air. His body was engulfed in blue flame as he shot like a comet toward the Witch King and his dragon.
The dragon responded with a blast of black, poisonous breath, engulfing Morinethar in an instant. Rómestámo could do nothing but watch in horror, his heart pounding in his chest. The air around him felt charged with an electric intensity as the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then, from the inferno, Morinethar emerged. His body was charred, but his fury was far from quenched. With a single, mighty punch, he struck the dragon's jaw, the force of the blow leaving massive scorch marks behind. But he did not stop there. He flew to the dragon's neck, wrapping his arms around it in a final, desperate embrace.
In the blink of an eye, a brilliant flash of light erupted, blinding and deafening all who were near. The explosion that followed was like nothing the world had ever known—a force so immense it felt as if the very fabric of reality had been torn apart. The shockwave surged outward, knocking Rómestámo to the ground, his ears ringing from the deafening roar. For a long moment, it seemed as though the world had been consumed by light, and all that remained was silence.
Even Saruman, far off in the distance, felt the shockwave hit him, the air rushing past him as though caught in a violent storm. His hair whipped around his face, his robes billowing as though caught in a tempest.
But the explosion was not just a destruction of bodies—it was a declaration. The West had been marked, and the darkness had felt its wrath.
As the blinding explosion faded into the ether, a dense, oppressive cloud of dark smoke hung low over the battlefield. Ash and soot, tainted by the fires of destruction, rained down like a mournful blanket upon the land. Rómestámo, his expression a mask of bitterness, fell to his knees. His hands trembled as he caught the remains of his brother, now nothing more than ashes drifting in the wind.
The grief that wracked his chest was brief, however, for the world around him seemed to turn cold, dark, and suffocating. As the smoke settled, Rómestámo's heart sank. The 11 Nazgûl stood encircling him, their ghostly forms towering like shadows from some otherworldly abyss. Cloaked in darkness, their eyes gleamed with an unnatural malice, and in their hands, they gripped their long Morgul blades—black, twisted swords that whispered with the hunger of the ages.
Yet, Rómestámo did not look at them. His gaze remained fixed upon the horizon where his brother had once stood. He felt it—his brother's spirit, lingering in the skies, rising toward the West, to Valinor. It was a bittersweet presence, a flicker of hope that quickly faded. He felt the wind stir around him, and it carried his brother's spirit—delicate as dust—swept away on the eastern winds. Manwë had rejected him. Manwë had rejected them. Was their sacrifice not enough?
A deep sorrow clenched at Rómestámo's heart, and he smiled bitterly, as if the very air itself had become heavy with the weight of despair. This was the true end. They would never see Saruman again, nor the elves, nor the Valar. Not even each other. Their spirits would drift, adrift for all eternity, lost in the void of time. Nothing but the winds would remain of them.
As the despair crept in like a poison, a voice, cold and hollow, seemed to rise from the darkness surrounding him. It was a voice that seemed to come from the earth itself, from the very bones of the world—the voices of the Nazgûl, their presence like the whisper of the dead.
"Why struggle any longer, struggler?" they asked, their voices a chorus of agony and malice, like the wailing of souls bound in torment. "Even your wise and powerful friend, Tom Bombadil, struggled long. He went from land to land, trying to evade our blades, until at last he was cornered, just as you are now. And in the end, when he saw he could not run, he fought. But each time, we found him again. And when he had nothing left, he too accepted his fate beneath our dark swords. So why do you continue to fight? You have already lost, just as he did. You have struggled for over a thousand years, and yet you remain nothing but a shadow. Come now, Rómestámo. Join us. Become one with us, and you will be spared. You will rise as a lord over many, and our master might even bring back your brother from the depths of the void."
Rómestámo's heart wavered for a moment, as if these dark words held a strange and cruel logic. Yet, in the next instant, his thoughts were with his brother once more, and the image of his spirit, fleeting in the wind. His resolve solidified.
"No," Rómestámo whispered, his voice heavy with defiance. "I struggle because it is the right thing to do."
In that moment, the Nazgûl lunged. Their black cloaks billowed like the wings of death, their Morgul blades gleaming with venomous light. In an instant, they were upon him, stabbing their cursed swords deep into his flesh.
But Rómestámo did not falter. The moment their dark blades sank into his body, a quiet smile spread across his lips. He had not expected to survive. He had not expected mercy. But as the Nazgûl's malice coursed through him, something else awoke. His body trembled, but not in weakness. He felt the cold surge of ice within him, the icy essence of his soul. Before the Nazgûl could react, he released it all.
A chilling blast of freezing energy erupted from his core, engulfing the 11 dark figures, turning them from shadow into brittle ice. Their hollow wails were abruptly silenced as the ice spread through them, freezing them solid, and then—like fragile statues of frost—they shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. The air was filled with the sharp, metallic sound of breaking ice, and the last of the Nazgûl fell to the earth, scattered like dust on the wind.
Rómestámo, his body nearly broken, slumped to his knees as the cold magic ebbed away. His blood stained the ground beneath him, and the last of his strength seemed to fade with the fall of his enemies. But he was not yet gone. With his final breath, he whispered into the empty air, his words a prayer to the brother he had lost and the spirit that now drifted into eternity.
The wind carried away his last thoughts—both of loss and of defiance—into the void.
***
Far from the battlefield, Saruman rode through the windswept plains, his cloak billowing in the howling gusts that seemed to echo the storm within his heart. He had been moving with purpose, but as the distant flash of light—a terrifying explosion that tore the very sky asunder—caught his attention, he could not shake the gnawing sense of doom that gripped him.
The shockwave from that immense force reverberated in his bones, and a dark certainty settled in his chest. His brothers—Morinehtar and Rómestámo—were gone. He had seen their sacrifice, felt the raw, untamable power of their magic, and in that moment, he understood. They had fought to their last breath, perhaps for the very future of Middle-earth itself. And now… now it was up to him.
His horse's hooves struck the ground with a heavy, rhythmic thud, but Saruman hardly noticed. His mind, as always, was far beyond the present moment, grappling with the enormity of what had just occurred. He could feel the weight of his brothers' deaths, a burden he was unwilling to bear alone, yet here he was—alone. He cursed under his breath. How could it be that fate had played such a cruel hand? His brothers were gone, and the light of hope that they had held now lay scattered in the ashes of their sacrifice.
His eyes turned to the horizon, his thoughts consumed by the realization of what this meant. The West, the free peoples of Middle-earth—now their only hope was him. How had it come to this? The great war of the free peoples seemed a distant, abstract thing now. With the explosion of power he had just witnessed, the balance had shifted. The forces of darkness were no longer distant whispers; they were real, and they were coming for them all.
The task ahead was unimaginable. How could he face such an overwhelming force, how could one wizard—one man—hope to stand against the armies of Orcs, the malice of Sauron, and the shadow of the Nazgûl? He could feel the weight of the burden settling upon him like a heavy cloak, suffocating him.
Saruman's horse shifted beneath him, sensing its master's distress, but Saruman paid it no mind. He was too lost in his thoughts, too lost in the storm of grief, rage, and fear that now raged inside him. He needed to find a way to warn the West, to gather the forces of good before it was too late. He needed to send word to Gondor, to Rohan, to the Elves and Dwarves—he needed to rally them all, to prepare for what was coming. But where to begin? How could he possibly reach them in time?
His mind turned toward the great eagles—those magnificent creatures that had always been his allies in times of peril. Where are they now? he wondered bitterly. He had sent word to them before, but the time for help had come and gone. The darkness had already begun to gather, and he knew that no one else would be able to stop it. The responsibility was his. The fate of all Middle-earth lay on his shoulders.
He spurred his horse forward, feeling a sudden surge of determination. I will make their sacrifices count, he thought fiercely. I will make sure that their deaths were not in vain. The West will know of this threat, and we will fight back, or die trying.
His hand gripped the reins tighter, and his gaze hardened. This was not just about vengeance. This was about the survival of everything his brothers had fought for. The sacrifice of his kin would not go unanswered. He would stand tall, alone if necessary, and ensure that the darkness would not win. The forces of Mordor, the Orcs, the Nazgûl—they would not bring the West to its knees.
He looked up to the sky, feeling a great weight press down on him, but also something else. Something sharper than grief—resolve. The coming battle would be unlike any that had come before it, and Saruman would be ready. Whatever dark forces lay ahead, he would meet them with fire in his heart, and the fury of the West at his back.
No longer would he ride aimlessly through the wilderness. No longer would he wonder if there was a chance to escape fate. His destiny was clear now. He would not fail. And he would make sure the sacrifices of his brothers were honored.
The future of Middle-earth rested in his hands.