Of Dwarves and Men {Boromir/LOTR}

Chapter 42: Saved by the betrayer

Chapter 42:

Saved by the betrayer

Aragorn charges forth from our ranks, standing alone for a mere second as we wait for a breath to be heard. And in that second, I think we all consider running in the opposite direction, but given the orcs surrounding us and Frodo relying upon our sacrifice, it is dished for heroism. And thus, it is fitting that the most heroic of all of us lead in a charge, Pippin and Merry shouting out in support of their cousin and moving onward towards Mordor. We echo their cheers, rushing forward in differing strokes of activity. For the elves and men, feet overtake the distance. But our Phoenician forces take off in mighty sweeps of flames, wings flapping in a renewed frenzy for freedom.

We break the line in sync with Aragorn, Anduril shining as it hacks at orcs whereas I hit them with the very force of my razor-sharp talons. Those screams of before become screams of pain as I ruthlessly slash and incinerate orcs, knowing we do not have the forces to have a heart in our killings. Our Phoenician forces move in rotations around the circle, releasing giant plumes of flames in areas with no manish soldiers. And thus, we are able to take out thousands, but not near the three-hundred thousand needed.

Like before, the Phoenicians work in organized duos, unlike the men below who go to battling like beasts. One-after-another, members in the duos switch off to release flames, like a never ending torch to the ranks. I work with Boromir in this fashion, each gust against each other like a hug and resounding hope. It is all I can do to keep an eye on the remainder of our Fellowship, ensuring their safety while watching our own backs.

But then it becomes impossible due to the entrance of the Nazgul from Mordor. Like werebats, these beasts are remarkable opponents to the Phoenicians and much larger in size. However, our groups are prepared for everything, a portion of us lifting from our repeated circles to take on each small dragon. And thus, it takes us from continued circles to unleashing flames and tearing scales while avoiding the teeth of the gruesome monsters.

I can easily say that Nazgul bode worst for Phoenicians, though only in our mortal forms. We are as immortal as ever when we fight as Phoenix, though capable of injury. It's a reassuring notion that our loved ones above cannot be hurt, except those on the ground face death at each swipe of the sword.

It is this reminder that prompts my viewing of the ground, only to see a horrendous sight. The White Wizard of dastardly stupidity is, once again, fighting in his mortal form, and to the great expense of his own life as a Nazgul dives straight towards him. Doing a quick flip towards the scene, I silently cuss out Gandalf for his failure of learning anything in his first death.

Flying as fast as I can, I find myself falling short of saving my great companion and practical family. The fell beast's jaws rise open in their preparation to feast, talons extended like the Phoenicians moments ago. I want to cringe at the sight, knowing I will not make the rescue...all until another and different call sounds out. My right eye peers out as Gwahir smashes into the fellbeast, claws ripping at the neck and ensuring the death of the monster. I weave out of the way of the scene, sending out a call to attention, and catching Pippin's own ears.

Above our heads, the clouds in intermittent patterns break to reveal additional eagle forces, signs from above. With their large size and good graces, the eagles are fellow birds with the same hearts as Phoenicians. Of course, we are not related in any sense other than our aviary abilities, but like them, we come from the sky and the Valar. We are divine creatures that do not bow under the weight of evil.