"The duke had a mind that ticked like a clock
and, like a clock, it regularly went cuckoo."

― Terry Pratchett, Wyrd Sisters

43. City Under Siege

Nellas swiftly ascended the Rammas wall; with its rough surface it was no more difficult than climbing a tree. Boromir had said it was not built to stop the enemy, only to make it harder for wagons and horses to pass.

The view from the wall was both beautiful and horrible. Here near the mountains the wall was still intact, but further east there was a wide breach where the attackers had tore it down entirely and cleared away the rubble to open a passage. There were still more troops arriving through it – row upon row of orcs, humans, and some big, grey animals she didn't recognize.

When Boromir joined her at last (him being not much of a climber), he paused momentarily to look at the burning city again, clenching his fists at seeing his home in flames. "It is probably worse than it looks," he whispered, sounding like he tried hard to believe that himself. "As far as I can make out, only the first circle is under attack, and the gate must be intact or the enemy wouldn't linger outside. Inside there is likely a huge army waiting – my brother and his rangers will be there, of course, and my uncle Imrahil and his valiant knights. Add to that several thousands of footmen and riders from the southern fiefs, who would never abandon Minas Tirith in need. It is a lot I have to work with there. My father is a brilliant commander and strategist in his own right, but I think he will be glad for my aid and counsel. Thankfully we only need to hold our own until Rohan arrives – which should be soon – for then the enemy will be caught between two fronts, and what remains of the Rammas Echor will cage them in like sheep in a pen. We can do this!"

Nellas took his hand. "I don't like cities, but if this one is important to you, I shall help you save it," she promised.

Boromir gave her a surprised look, and seemed on the verge of saying something, but then he shut his mouth. "Come. We must hurry."

Down the other side they continued east along the wall, keeping in its shadow to avoid exposure from enemy scouts, until they were directly under the sheer precipice of Mount Mindolluin. Boromir stopped at a part of the cliffside which to Nellas looked exactly like the rest, and cleared away some lichen until the contours of a door became visible.

"This is a very old escape route that my grandfather Ecthelion built. The door is wooden, but painted to look like rock." He fished out a small key from a pouch in his belt and put it into a tiny slit in the door. There was a click, and it swung open with a squeak, exposing a dark passage leading into the mountain. The air was stale and smelled of mildew.

Boromir winced at the creaking door. "I hope nobody heard that." He took a rusty lantern from an equally rusty hook inside, and lit it with a flint and steel from his pouch. Then he pulled the door shut behind them and locked. "If all goes well, this tunnel will take us straight into the first circle of the city, but it has not been used for a very long time." His voice sounded strangely hushed and eerie, and echoed between the naked walls. "When I explored it with my friends as a boy it was still accessible; let us hope there was no rockfall since then, and that the other exit is not blocked."

Nellas nodded, feeling a rare sense of trepidation at the massive mountain surrounding her, and even more so at the mention of rockfalls. She had never liked stone and caves. Even in her youth in Doriath, she always avoided King Thingol's underground city and only came there once to help defend poor Túrin when he was accused of murder. It had not helped; the king pardoned the young man but he would not return.

Boromir must have noticed her distress, for he took her hand again and intertwined his fingers with hers. "Don't be afraid."

Nellas gave him a shaky smile. "How could I be afraid when you are with me?" she whispered, not entirely truthfully, but she knew he liked to feel like her protector.

They began walking. The floor was unevenly hewn and clouds of dust whirled up with every step, and sometimes they had to jostle through piles of old rubble. The deeper they got into the mountain, the closer Nellas pressed herself against Boromir until they were practically walking in a hug.

He seemed not to mind. For his part, he became more eager with each step, his face soon flushing with excitement. He mumbled to himself how he would handle the upcoming battle, especially if the enemy broke into the first circle of the city – such as how the rest of the gates must be reinforced, how they should reposition the siege engines, what captain he would place where, and where he wanted the Gondorian longbowmen. Nellas could not understand why the prospect of leading a war made him so animated, but perhaps that was a man thing? To her, fighting was a necessary evil, only done to protect her loved ones, but Boromir appeared to actually enjoy it.

At last they reached a similar looking door as the one they had come through. Before unlocking it, Boromir brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it with lips that were dry and heated. "Once we are out of here we cannot do this openly, for my people are very strict about decency. Unless officially betrothed to be married, a couple cannot even hold hands, and for us such matters must wait until after the war is over." His gaze turned intense, his eyes shining almost feverishly. "Therefore, in case I won't–"

"You will," said Nellas firmly.

"If you say so." He cupped her face between his palms. "But still... Just in case." Then he claimed her lips with a lack of restraint he had never shown before. Deep and needily he kissed her, backing her until she was pressed flush against the wall. Nellas buried her fingers in his hair and pulled him even closer, responding with the same passion. She felt his hands roam her soft curves, leaving a tingling heat in their wake. Her pulse throbbed loudly in her ears and a strange need pooled within her, sensations that were new and unknown. She ached for more, longed for something she couldn't put words on, nor quite understand – but her body knew.

"Damn," rasped Boromir, breaking the kiss with some difficulty. "I wish we had more time, but..."

"I know." Her voice sounded breathless.

"Soon. Once this is over..."

"Aye." She licked her swollen lips, tasting him on them. "Soon."

ʕll ಠ ‿ ಠ llʔ q( ಠ ‿ ಠ )p

From the tunnel, they came out into a narrow alley, littered with rubble and splintered glass. The air was heavy with smoke, and sounds of battle assailed their ears from all directions; deep rumbles of stone crashing into stone accompanied by yelling voices and the occasional wail of pain. The contrast with the sweet moment they had just shared couldn't be more striking.

Boromir led her in the direction of a wider street. In the bleak morning twilight it appeared to be littered with stones – strangely round ones, each lying in a puddle of dark liquid. But when they got closer, they saw it wasn't stones. It was heads; human heads.

"No..." Boromir fell on his knees in front of one, reaching out as if to touch it, but staying his hand halfway. "This is... was... Handir. One of the rangers; my brother's man. But how...? And where is the rest of his body?"

Nellas couldn't reply; she was struggling not to throw up. The dead man's features were frozen in a grimace as of terrible pain, and on his forehead a large, lidless eye had been branded into his skin. He must have been alive when it was done to him, for the edges of the symbol were pink and raw, covered in blisters.

The sound of footsteps made Boromir stand up, and he took a step to intercept two soldiers scurrying past. Their faces were covered with ash, and they looked like they were almost scared out of their wits.

"Halt there!" he ordered. "I need news of the battle. Who is your captain, and where is he?"

The men stopped abruptly, staring at him incomprehensibly. Then one of them found his voice. "My lord..." he gasped. "Is it really you? Alive?"

Tears filled the eyes of the other soldier. "Lord Boromir is not dead! Then maybe we still have a chance..."

"Dead?" Boromir huffed. "Who told you such falsehoods? I am alive and well. But now tell me – who is your captain?"

"We have no captain, lord." More tears welled up, streaking his grimy cheeks. "Your brother... And the steward. They are..." He fell silent.

"They are what? Speak clearly, man!" Boromir took a step closer, looking ready to shake the soldier.

"Lord Faramir was wounded, and is very ill. He could even... Some say..." He shook his head and swallowed.

Boromir blanched, his fists clenching. "He's dying?"

The soldier nodded unhappily. "And since he came back, Lord Denethor has been acting strange. But the wizard probably knows more – he took over the defense yesterday. Shall I lead you to him?"

"Wizard? They put a stranger in charge of the city?"

"Not a stranger! No, no. Though they say he mostly brings ill news, Mithrandir has been helpful. He chased away the dark fiends that attacked Lord Faramir, and–"

"Mithrandir?" Boromir choked. "What is this nonsense? Mithrandir is dead; I know that for certain, for I was there when it happened. Bring me to this impostor immediately!"

The soldier dipped his head, and his lip began to tremble. "Yes, my lord. Right this way!"

Following the soldiers, they jogged swiftly down the street. Bright red flames flickered from the windows of many houses, but since the buildings were made of stone it did not spread further. They also saw more of the hewn-off human heads, all of them branded with the same, grisly eye.

Boromir indicated them, a deep frown creasing his forehead. "What happened to these poor men?"

"They were with Faramir at Osgiliath. After it fell, they were taken by the enemy, and... Last night they threw them in with their siege engines."

"Last night? Then why haven't their remains at least been covered up? It is disrespectful."

"There was no time. We are so few, and the enemy will break through the gate at any moment now." The man began to shake. "They have an enormous battering ram – we saw it from the wall. That's why we were running..."

"So you just left your post? Cowards," spat Boromir, increasing his pace.

"Yes, my lord," agreed the soldier miserably.

They rounded a corner and arrived in an open area just outside the massive city gate. In its center, a bearded man in white robes sat astride an equally white horse, talking animatedly to a group of footmen and several riders with lances and plumed helmets.

Boromir strode up to them, his face furious. "Who are you, who dares impose on my city?" he yelled.

The bearded man turned, raising his bushy eyebrows in surprise. Then his features lit up with a wide smile. "Boromir! You are alive! And you brought your elf-maiden too. I am glad the cat was right about you two."

Boromir halted mid-stride. "Gandalf..." he whispered. "But I saw you fall."

"So I did, and then I rose. I am back, my friend. But that is a long story that must wait until later. The situation here is dire, as you probably have noticed."

Regaining his composure slightly, Boromir asked: "Please, I need to know everything." He lowered his voice so only the wizard and those standing very close could hear. "Is it true that Faramir is dying, and that my father has been acting strangely?"

"Not dying, but he is very ill. And Denethor, I fear, has gazed too deeply into something that does not belong to him, nor obeys him. He refuses to leave your brother's side, and cares naught about the city or its defense."

"Then I must go to him without delay. But first, tell me – how large is the enemy host, and how many men do we have?"

One of the knights gravely filled him in on those details. "Rohan has not come, and my southern neighbors are cut off – only a tenth of what I had hoped for followed me hither. Even now, ships from Umbar and Harad sail up the river. As you understand, we are too few to hold the city... Much too few."

Boromir smiled grimly. "I cannot do much against the southern threat, but Rohan will come!" He explained how he had traveled on the secret paths of the Drúedain, and how the wild men had assured him that the Rohirrim were close behind.

At this, his face brightened considerably. "In a few hours, you say? Dear sister-son, this is good news indeed!"

Boromir pressed his arm, and said with some urgency: "I must hasten to my father, but I shall return here as soon as I can, to lead my people."

"Seeing you alive will bring back the men's courage, for sure." He smiled warmly. "Go now, but do not linger!"

"Take my horse, cousin." A man looking slightly like Boromir had already dismounted, offering them his bay stallion.

"Elphir! Good to see you. And thank you." Boromir jumped into the saddle, and turned to help Nellas up behind him.

"After we win this little skirmish, you must introduce me to your fair companion," he said with a grin.

"Always the optimist. See you soon!" Boromir spurred the horse into a gallop.

They rode at great speed up a winding street, passing through one gate after the other. "Skirmish, indeed," he muttered. "I hope we can make it, but... Frankly, this fleet worries me, as does the shortage of men. Even if Théoden has emptied the entire Rohan of riders, we cannot beat Mordor, Harad and Umbar at the same time." He sighed. "But I must not let my apprehension shine through, or the men will lose what little courage remains in them."

Nellas wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her cheek against his broad back and seeking comfort from his familiar scent. She already hated this city, with all its stone and lack of greenery, and Boromir's worry was contagious. Had she saved him, only to watch him die here instead?

At last the frantic ride was over, and Boromir halted outside a more intricately designed set of doors. When he dismounted, he almost landed on someone running past – a short, familiar person, dressed in black and silver.

"Pippin!" cried Boromir, suddenly smiling.

"Boromir?" The hobbit's eyes grew wide. "But your horn... It was in pieces!" He threw his arms around the man, reaching only to hug his thighs.

"It was, but I am still whole." Boromir fondly patted his back.

"I am so relieved! Oh, Eru, what a mess it has been. But with you here..."

"Yes, I heard about my brother's illness and my father's... troubles."

"Troubles won't begin to cover it. He is fey and dangerous. Here, follow me, and I'll tell you on the way. Oh, I have been so worried! I was on my way to find Gandalf, but this is a lot better. If anyone can make that man see reason, it's his son, I am sure." Pippin started out on a smaller road that followed the wall.

"Why are we going this way?" asked Boromir. "Is my brother not in the Houses of Healing?"

"No... Lord Denethor has taken him to a chamber among the tombs. He says he will burn himself and poor Faramir there!"

"Burn?" Boromir's face paled. "Why would he do that?"

"He's lost his mind, thinking both his sons are dead or dying," panted Pippin. Boromir was running now, and he had a hard time keeping up with his short legs. "It began after Faramir returned from Ithilien, and found the halves of your horn floating down the river. Then Lord Denethor became both grieved and angry, and sent him out to Osgiliath – but he knew it was in vain, for they were too few to hold it. Faramir was hurt by a poisoned arrow, and Prince Imrahil brought him back here in a fever. This was when your father really became a madman, if you don't mind me saying so. He went up into his tower, and there was a strange light coming out, and when he returned his face was ashen, and his eyes were... dead. Like he had seen his own death. And after that he started talking about burning."

They had come under the shadow of the mountain that the city leaned against, and stopped outside a somber door. Boromir forcefully pulled it open and entered a dark room with a vaulted stone ceiling.

Nellas warily looked around, staring at the row upon row of preserved old corpses lying on tables everywhere, and feeling the familiar discomfort at being surrounded by stone. A heavy smell of spices and dry, stale air made her slightly nauseated.

On one of the tables lay two living men, and servants were piling wood around them. One had just uncorked a bottle of oil, on the verge of pouring it over the pyre.

"Stop this madness!" Boromir commanded, and his stern voice echoed under the vaults.

The servants instantly fell back, gasping with awe and surprise. Their master had returned, alive!

One of the men on the table sat up, glaring at Boromir with narrowed eyes. "What kind of devilry is this, who speaks with my dead son's voice?"

Boromir's jaw set, pain marking his features. "Father... Don't you recognize me?"

"Leave me alone, so I can burn with my youngest son, for I have failed him. I sent him to his death, and my parting words were unpardonable. Thus here ends the House of Stewards. We will burn like heathen kings, and not leave anything for the enemy to desecrate."

"Nay! Nay, Father. Faramir still breathes." Boromir stroked his brother's damp forehead, and he responded with a low groan. "See? He can be healed, I am sure."

"He is burning, already burning. They have set a fire in his flesh. But soon all shall be burned. My sons have abandoned me, and the west has failed."

"I am here now." His eyes filled with tears. "Your Boromir is back. Cannot you see it is really me?"

Denethor cocked his head to one side and peered at him. "Who?" Then his eyes slowly widened in wonder. "Boromir," he breathed. "But you died. I saw it. I saw it in..." Abruptly snapping his mouth shut, he straightened his back and changed from a frail old man into a commander. He jumped off the table in a rattle of firewood scattering on the polished floor, and grabbed Boromir by the shoulders so he could scrutinize him. "It is you!" A grin formed on his deathly pale face, but Nellas saw the look in his grey eyes and shuddered at the madness shining through.

Boromir weakly returned the smile. "Aye. It is. At last you see it! And now we must–"

"We must throw out the usurper, aye! And then we fight. One last stand, until we die on the battlefield. You and I, my son."

"First my brother needs medicine." Boromir beckoned to the servants. "Take him to the Houses of Healing immediately."

They bowed, and hurried to move the feverish man to a carrier.

"What is the use?" asked Denethor, but didn't try to hinder them. "Tomorrow we shall all be dead."

"Why do you say that? Soon Rohan will be here, and–"

"Rohan? Pah! What can the horse lords do? Against the power that now arises there is no victory. Only the first finger of its hand has yet been stretched; even now wafts up Anduin a fleet with black sails. The west has failed. It is time for all to depart who would not be slaves. So, I tell you my son: ride with me!" His mad eyes glittered.

Boromir had become almost as pale as his father. "Let me take you back to the citadel, and you can perhaps rest a little, while–"

"While the grey fool is taking over my city? Absolutely not." He returned to the table, and grabbed something wrapped in cloth, swiftly sliding it under his robes. "Come now. Let us go to death, side by side." He strode determinedly after the vanishing servants.

Boromir glanced at Nellas and Pippin. "Something is very wrong, indeed," he murmured, his voice full of suppressed worry and dismay. "I shall follow him, and hopefully Gandalf will be able to wake him up from this strangeness. Pippin, will you go with my brother, and make sure everything possible is done for him?"

"Of course."

"And you too, please." He pressed Nellas hand.

"Never."

He frowned. "There is no time for this. Do as I say."

"No."

"Yes!"

Their gazes locked, neither of them backing down.

"You know I will follow you anyway, no matter what," said Nellas at last.

Boromir's eyes softened slightly. "I just want you to be safe," he said.

"I want the same thing for you." Nellas shrugged. "So, let's go out there and protect each other, shall we?"

ʕll * _ * llʔ q( * _ * )p

The ride down to the gate was even more wild than when they had come the other direction. Denethor led the way on a huge warhorse, and close behind him Boromir followed on a similar stallion, bringing the one he had borrowed from his cousin on a lead line. Nellas had chosen a mare, and rode it rather awkwardly in the chainmail shirt Boromir had insisted she put on. With the matching vambraces and leg greaves, and the helmet covering most of her face, she felt needlessly encumbered – but the weight of the long sword in her gloved hand was reassuring.

They had almost reached the first circle, when drums began to beat a steady rhythm outside. Chanting orc voices joined in: "Grond! Grond! Grond!" they roared, and the sound rolled between the buildings and the sheer face of Mount Mindolluin.

The assault on the gate had begun.

"Ya! Ya! Faster!" Boromir spurred his horse.

Nellas frowned at his back. She must talk to him about his treatment of animals, but perhaps now was not a good time.

When they arrived at the gate, there was a flurry of activity. Archers on the walls and towers were firing scores of arrows down on the attackers, while others resorted to rocks and rubble. Below, Gandalf rode back and forth, instilling courage in the soldiers and knights lined up to meet the enemy host if it broke through.

The tempo of the drums increased, their beat intensifying expectantly.

A new sound arose: a voice, terrible and cruel, chanting spells in a foreign language. Nellas stared at the gate, dread seeping into her veins from the foulness at the other side. She had felt something similar a very long time ago, and now chaotic scenes sailed up before her vision; memories she had tried to forget. Burning demons lashed the ground with whips of flames, and in the sky flew beasts larger than mountains and fiercer than forest fires, breaking the world and sinking it into the ocean. Outside the wall waited the Dark Lord's servant, and his power equaled even the monsters of her far distant past.

There was a deep boom, and the massive metal doors shuddered with the impact from the battle ram, a huge dent forming in their center.

"Stay steady!" yelled Gandalf. But the men had begun to mumble in fear, and quite a few slunk away.

Another thud, and the ground shook.

A third, and the gate blew up with a sharp crack of lightning.

In through the twisted shards of metal rode a black rider, surrounded by compact shadow. Nellas' mare screamed in panic and bolted, and around her the other horses did the same, some bucking off their riders. All the footmen fled as well.

When she finally managed to halt her horse and turn, she saw that one defender remained before the broken doors, a single rider undauntedly meeting the approaching fiend. It was Gandalf, sitting calm on Shadowfax, Lord of the Mearas, the only horse brave enough to face the Nazgûl king.

"You cannot enter here! Go back to the abyss prepared for you," Gandalf commanded. "Go back! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your master. Go!"

The dark shape pushed back his hood, and revealed a black emptiness instead of a face. Two red spots burned like eyes, and where his forehead should have been a crown rested on thin air.

He uttered a horrible sound, that probably was supposed to be laughter. "Old fool! This is my hour. Do you not know death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!" He raised a huge sword, and dirty red flames erupted along its blade.

All went silent. The two combatants stared each other down, one dazzling white, one inky black. Good against evil, dawn against night.

Then the most unlikely sound broke the silence; frail and distant, yet penetrating: "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" Somewhere in the city, oblivious to the war, a rooster was calmly greeting the morning like he did every day. And from the fields of Pelennor, as in answer, came the ringing of many horns. The Rohirrim had arrived.

Hissing, the Nazgûl turned on the spot, his red gaze set on the new danger. And just like that, he vanished.

Gandalf clenched his fist. "He will yet bring ruin on us. Follow me, men of Gondor!"

"No. This is not your city, and my men are no longer yours to command." Denethor rode up behind him.

"Come, we are needed out there," urged Gandalf. "This is not the time to bicker about leadership."

"Do I not know you, Mithrandir? I have read your mind and its policies. With the left hand you would use me as a shield against Mordor, and with the right bring up a ranger of the north to supplant me. But I say to you, Gandalf Mithrandir, I will not be your tool! I am steward of the House of Anárion, and I will not step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an upstart. Even were his claim proved–"

"Nay, Father," Boromir interrupted. "I have already sworn fealty to Aragorn. I have named him my king, and I will not take that back."

Denethor's face twisted into a furious grimace. "So! You have taken both my sons' love away from me, grey fool. But in this at least you shall not defy my will: to rule my own end." With that, he spurred his warhorse and set out towards the battlefield.

"Father!" Boromir urged his own horse forward, hurrying after Denethor in a speedy gallop.

"Boromir!" Nellas was close on his heels.

"Fools!" groaned Gandalf as he took up the chase.

ʕll ಠ _ ಠ llʔ q( ಠ _ ಠ )p

It seemed that Denethor had decided that the Nazgûl captain would be his bane, for he ignored all the orcs, men, trolls and beasts on the field, riding past them like he didn't notice their presence. It was everything Gandalf, Boromir and Nellas could do to protect him, diverting arrows and fencing off swords as they thundered on, cutting a narrow wedge through the enemy lines.

Behind them, clangs of steel and battlecries broke out when the remaining knights and soldiers gathered to defend the broken gate, but neither of the riders turned to look. They were getting closer to the Nazgûl, who had reappeared in a spot about a mile away, right in the middle of the Rohirrim. He had a new steed now, a winged monster instead of a horse, and had changed his sword for a mace. Everywhere he turned his evil gaze, men fled and horses bolted.

"I must stop this! Hurry, my friend," Gandalf cried to Shadowfax. The Meara obeyed, accelerating into an impossible speed and overtaking Denethor's warhorse with ease.

This did not sit well with the steward. "Grey crow! Begone! He is my foe!" Beating his poor horse, he made it run faster, but Gandalf was already far ahead.

"Father! Not that fast!" yelled Boromir. "Careful!"

"Do not lecture me, son. I can– Argh!"

The warhorse had lost his footing on the uneven ground, and making a sudden swerve to one side, he inadvertently threw Denethor off. The man landed straight on an orc, his sword knocked from his hand by the impact.

Unfortunately the orc was surrounded by many others of his kind.

Nellas hurriedly turned her mare, but the orcs were rapidly closing in on Denethor, raising their bent swords and hooting over the sudden gift from above.

"Lookie what we have here," croaked one.

"Let me bleed you like a stuck pig," added his comrade.

"No, he's mine. It was me he landed on, it was."

Denethor dizzily rubbed his forehead right under the helmet, where a huge lump was forming. He looked like he had suddenly changed his mind about ending his life. "Now, wait here–"

"I think not!" The offended orc's sword swung out.

That would probably have been the end of the steward, had not Nellas just then jumped down from her mare and countered the strike. "Here is payment for the poor men you used as ammunition!" she growled. Then she promptly severed the orc's head from his shoulders, and in quick succession those of his comrades.

When she had finished, Denethor stared at her with a rather unfocused gaze. "Thank you, uh, miss..." His eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell heavily in the mess of blood and orc body parts.

Boromir had finally managed to turn his strong-headed stallion. He jumped off, anxiously checking the prone body for signs of life, and then breathed out a relieved sigh. "He is alive. Just a knock on the head, it seems."

When he touched Denethor's cloak, a black globe suddenly rolled out from it and came to a halt at Nellas' feet. The murky sky was reflected in its clear surface.

Boromir reached out his hand, but before he could take it Nellas quickly kicked the sphere back under the cloak. "It is evil," she said, not quite sure how she knew.

He began to say something, but a shrill sound drowned his voice: a scream; a terrible, unearthly wail. It soared to the sky, where a ray of bright sunshine broke through the clouds, and another, and then a great wind dispelled the final shreds of darkness completely.

Somehow the shadow had lifted – both from the sky, and from their hearts. Morning had come at last.

"What happened?" panted Boromir, cautiously removing his hands from his ears.

"The rider was defeated." Again she couldn't say how she knew that.

"Gandalf's work, probably." Boromir grinned wildly. "Now I feel hopeful for the first time!"

The battle, however, was far from over. Nellas looked at the swarming, ant-like mass of enemies surrounding them in all directions, and thought about the black ships that would come.

"Let's finish this," she said grimly.

"Yes, and let us lead the enemies away from my father. Hopefully they will think him dead, and leave him alone." Boromir raised his sword. "Gondor!"

"Gondor!"

Then they charged, running side by side, and soon their swords were put to work.

A/N:

Elf women can be warriors, so there!

In the next chapter we shall get to know all about the defeat of the black rider (don't worry, Gandalf didn't steal the show!), and see what Legolas is up to. :)

To all who continue blessing me with your comments, votes and reads: lots of love! x

On another note: I realized my chapter breaker emojis looked different on computer and phones, so I decided to change back to what I used in the beginning, and create the emojis with signs instead. :) I've changed older chapters too!

Image Credits:

Screenshot from The Lord of the Rings movies.