The soldier gripped the hilt of the sword that hung at his waist. He was anxious for what was to come. A great captain had come among them, commanding the very shades of men long dead. In all his years, he had seen nothing like it. When that captain then called his people to great deeds, this soldier knew he had to march forth with him. North they now sailed, for the wind had picked up to bear them with all possible haste to meet their foes in battle. There was no singing on the ships, and the silence made everyone more anxious. The worst was expected when they arrived, but each man was ready to fight.
Finally, their goal was within sight, in the third hour of the morning as the Sun could be seen and felt by all that stood at the ready. The command was given to unfurl the standard: the flag of the King. As the ships came to the Harlond the soldiers practically leapt from them, and with Isildur's heir at their head, this army fresh to battle charged to the relief of the Rohirrim and defense of Minas Tirith.