Chapter 39:
Romantic dates
For the first time in many battles, I find myself fighting alone in the fray of my people and those of Gondor. With Boromir fleeing from my side moments ago, I was left to take on these masses alone, out on the fields of Pelennor. Flapping wings and fiery breath paint my every border, picking off the orcs at an alarming speed. After all, heightened emotions amplify the extent of a Phoenician's power, and I am furious at Boromir at this moment.
My aviary form rises above the heads of the ever crowding orcs, moving me back towards the dwarf, man, and elf of our Fellowship. They are the mortals of our company, and I must ensure their longevity. After all, we need a king for Gondor, a son of Gloin, and a prince of Mirkwood in order to survive this war.
On occasion, I easily forget the power of the elves when it comes to fighting. But these bouts of idiocracy revert back upon the fighting scenes of the Mirkwood prince. Indeed, he makes some show in every battle, whether it is mounting a moving horse or climbing a cave troll. But today's stunt surely has to be the most impressive.
The spider-like elf scales the legs of a Mumakil, taking out the riding warriors with but a few arrows and tipping the landing platform. And though I expect him to fall on many occasions, he always saves himself through some ridiculous and unnatural feat. This leads him to control the mumakil for a matter of moments before shooting two arrows in its head and sliding down its trunk to our gaping and stalled forms. Even I am not that graceful.
"What the hell?" Frerin coughs out, looking at the elf with his dwarven blue eyes. Catching his changed form from bird to man, I look to the littered masses of orcs around us, as they are wiped out by the phantom army. We have won the battle, and thus, it is safe to return to my natural form.
"That still only counts as one!" Gimli remarks, throwing his axe into a final orc and summing up his total. The few mumakil left and large wooden towers are overtaken by the Army of the Dead and the united Phoenician forces. This sends off a mass panic of the orcs and mumakil, their forces fleeing in the direction of the Black Gate. But in the same way, they separate themselves from the groups of men, giving the Phoenicians the opportunity to brush through their lines in an inferno. And then there are none.
The Army of the Dead makes a final sweep through the city, failing to comfort the wailing wives and newborns, yet reassuring our peace of mind. I still have yet to see Boromir after his rage, and though I am worried, the ache in my heart reminds me that he is alive and hurting. But where is he? Now, that is the question.
Looking across the remnants of the battle, I cringe in utter horror at the pain that Sauron has inflicted upon Gondor. The fields are littered with the injured, dying, or dead masses of men, their cries soaking my ears. And if the area is not littered in bodies, it is painted in either the blood of mixed enemies, or charred to a pulp by my own people. And the city of Minas Tirith itself seems to have worn the same, with large chunks of white stone missing from the ramparts (now present on the fields) and bodies hanging from the balconies. I cannot imagine the horror of these people, under attack from the mightiest fiend Middle Earth has seen in centuries.
The sun moves over the east, rising above the halls of Minas Tirith and comforting our souls. It is an honest notion that light is a sign of virtue, while darkness is death. These nights of long war have worn great tragedy into our vision, but at every daybreak, a promise of a future is reassured. I cannot be sure of what is to come in these hours, but I know it can only be better than this previous night.
YOU ARE READING
Of Dwarves and Men {Boromir/LOTR}
Fanfiction"Now I lay me down to sleep I pray the lords my soul to keep See me safely through the night And wake me with the morning light" ...and though that morning light is but a ghost on the Eastern horizon, it is one onto which we cling. In this dark age...
