In his weakened state of mind and body but with determination in his heart, Frodo stumbles forward and comes within sight of the Tower of Cirith Ungol. After the tunnel experience, this particular sight does not bring him relief as much as it otherwise would. To be near this formerly Númenorian outpost, now under the possession of Mordor Orcs, maybe relief in a sense of coming closer to his goal. However, the mere onlook onto this towering menace may provide Frodo with more terror than the hope of having cleared all danger.

The Rohirrim are advancing towards Minas Tirith to aid the army against a common enemy. They take brief breaks along the way so as to arrive at Minas Tirith with as much strength as possible. They have taken a break near a lake. Éomer rides in to report to the King of the situation at their destination.

There may be nothing more frightening than being lost in a dangerous place where everything around you screams malice. The tunnel appears to have all the characteristics of a cemetery, only the corpses and leftover pieces of skeletons are exposed for everyone to see. The only thing binding them together, instead of dirt, are spider webs.

An unrecognizable shadow of a once spirited Hobbit makes his way towards a tunnel. He is incredibly weak stumbling forward to the path-showing Gollum. His expression presents us with his feelings, not guided by overpowering manipulation of the Ring but rather his self-preserving inner voice. Although heavily influenced by his enemy, Frodo can still sense and distinguish right from wrong. 

It is always easier to blame someone else for one’s shortcomings than to admit to wrongdoing. It is also a very draining experience, to feel anger toward someone and being unable to forgive. Anger takes a lot of energy out of an individual. Over time it becomes habitual. It envelops us into a circle that is not easily broken. 

Faramir’s sacrifice for his country has brought death upon him and the rest of his garrison. They never stood a chance against the now Orc infested Osgiliath. To overtake it was a decision of a madman, of Denethor. Now that it is done and come to naught, the last able-bodied men willing to protect the city are gone.

There is nowhere now to go but forward. The Three Hunters enter the realm of the Army of the Dead. The atmosphere is dark, frightening with a green hue that envelops the path. They walk in synchronicity, keeping together so as to provide the best possible defense strategy they can for themselves in case they were attacked. The fear of the unknown and possible danger ahead is an additional reason for their cautiousness. As they move forward, there appears before them a path laid with skulls. 

Dawn breaks. The Three Hunters are now deep down the mountain path. The probability of their return is as much a mystery as the fate of Middle-Earth. Éowyn stands on the edge of the encampment staring into the sunrise. Her expression is despondent.

Night has fallen over Dunharrow. The minds of the men are preparing to ride for war at first light. Fear and doubt swarm the encampment. There isn’t much more for them to do but await their King’s orders and ride to war. To only mentally prepare for an event as tragic as a battle is half the work, to actually ride and join the onslaught in the second half, which may change their lives forever.

Not even sleep can ease Aragorn’s peace of mind. When his concern is not focused on the gathering army of Mordor and the probability of failure, his subconscious wonders over to Arwen. Every aspect of his life seems to be descending into shadow. His only way of survival is to be prepared for the worst-case scenario.