The air was thick with tension as the army of Mordor gathered outside the gates of Minas Tirith. The earth seemed to tremble under the weight of their march. Pippin stood beside Aragorn, his gaze fixed on the distant line of shadowed figures.

"Where are they?" Pippin asked, his voice laced with fear and uncertainty.

Aragorn turned to him briefly, his face grim and determined. "They are here," he said, his tone resolute. He nudged his horse forward, and with him rode Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, Liv, David, Éomer, Haldir, and a Gondorian standard-bearer, their presence a beacon of hope amidst the darkness. Together, they rode towards the great gates of Minas Tirith, the massive doors looming before them like a silent, immovable wall.

As they drew near, the sound of drums and the distant echo of Mordor's legions reached their ears. Aragorn's heart pounded in his chest. The time for words had come.

The gates slowly creaked open, revealing the terrifying figure of Sauron's Lieutenant, the Mouth of Sauron. He was mounted on a horse of shadow, his presence unnerving, his appearance a grotesque mockery of life. His face was twisted, dark, and his eyes gleamed with malice as he rode toward them with measured steps. Behind him, the vast army of Mordor stood, waiting like a coiled serpent.

Aragorn, ever composed, spoke first, his voice unwavering: "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth. Let justice be done upon him."

Merry and Gimli, who had stayed back, watched the exchange with anxious eyes. Their hands gripped their weapons tightly, but they knew that this moment was not for them to intervene.

The Mouth of Sauron's voice broke through the silence, cold and mocking: "Is there any in this rout with authority to treat with me?"

"We do not come to treat with Sauron, faithless and accursed," Gandalf answered firmly, his staff held high. "Tell your master this: The armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart these lands, never to return."

The Mouth of Sauron chuckled darkly, a cruel grin spreading across his disfigured face. "Aha. Old Greybeard. I have a token I was bidden to show thee," he said, his words dripping with contempt. With that, he pulled out a familiar sight—a mithril shirt, the very one Frodo had worn during his perilous journey. The moment it appeared, Pippin's heart lurched in his chest.

"Frodo!" he whispered, his voice breaking.

The Mouth of Sauron sneered as he tossed the mithril shirt at Gandalf, watching with twisted satisfaction as it fell at the wizard's feet. "Frodo," Pippin repeated in disbelief, stepping forward as if he might somehow reach out and save his friend.

"Silence," Gandalf commanded, his voice sharp and filled with sorrow.

Pippin's shoulders trembled, his worry for Frodo overwhelming him. "No," Merry protested, his own heart aching as he witnessed the scene unfold.

"Silence!" Gandalf's voice cut through the air, stronger this time.

The Mouth of Sauron stood tall, his expression twisted into one of cruel triumph. "The Halfling was dear to thee, I see. Know that he suffered greatly at the hands of his host. Who would've thought that one so small could endure so much pain? And he did, Gandalf, he did."

Tears welled in Gandalf's eyes as the weight of the Mouth's words struck him. He knew the suffering Frodo had endured. He had witnessed it, but hearing it spoken aloud in such a callous manner made it all the more unbearable.

Aragorn, his face now a mask of fury and determination, could no longer stand idle. He urged his horse forward, his sword glinting in the sunlight. "And who is this? Isildur's heir? It takes more to make a King than a broken Elvish blade," the Mouth of Sauron taunted.

Aragorn's heart burned with the pain of his ancestors' legacy, but he did not hesitate. With a swift motion, he drew his sword—Andúril, reforged. The blade sang through the air, and in one smooth movement, he struck down the Mouth of Sauron, severing his head clean from his shoulders. The dark figure crumpled from his horse, his body falling lifeless to the ground.

"I guess that concludes negotiations," Gimli muttered dryly from behind the riders, his gruff voice cutting through the silence that followed.

Aragorn stood tall, his sword still dripping with the blood of Sauron's lieutenant. His eyes were filled with a mixture of rage and sorrow. "I do not believe it. I will not," he said, his voice low and intense, as if the weight of the world had fallen on his shoulders. His gaze remained fixed on the gates of Mordor, where Frodo's fate—and the fate of Middle-earth—still hung in the balance.

The riders remained in silence for a moment longer, the storm of war drawing nearer with each passing breath. They knew that the battle was far from over.