Living Proof

Chapter Twenty-Five

The rumble itself was powerful enough to shake the Great Black Gates of Barad-dûr. A reverberating scream of a giant eagle was the only thing louder than that rumble and Boromir stumbled back as the ground shook beneath his feet. Overhead, the enormous birds swooped down from the iron-gray sky and with their massive beaks, each caught a fell beast by the neck, snapping said neck to kill said beast.

"The Eagles!" Boromir had no idea who spoke, as all he could see around him were the soldiers of Sauron. "The Eagles are coming!"

Steel rang against steel, and Boromir had long since lost sight of Gandalf and Aragorn, of Gimli and Legolas. He could only hope they still lived, as determined to end this battle as he was. He plunged ahead, ignoring the sting of old wounds as he swung his blade or blocked a thrust. His back ached, his arms burned, but he kept moving forward and would continue to do so until the last of them fell.

Blades clanged against his heavy armor, denting it as he pushed forward still. Then he heard it.

Turning to his left, he saw an orc the size of a troll. Perhaps it was a troll. He couldn't tell through its armor. All he knew was it bore down upon a figure lying facedown on the ground.

Aragorn.

Without hesitation, Boromir lunged, shoved through the throngs of orcs and men. Sweat ran down along his spine, rolled down his chest and his temples. And as he reached Aragorn, the air grew thicker, grabbing at him, pushing in and down on him even as it felt like it was being sucked from the world itself.

He paused, the rumble beneath his feet louder and more powerful now. They all stopped and turned toward the huge orange Eye hight above them. Hot wind blew in from all directions as the pressure worsened still, and Boromir slowly lowered his sword, as entranced as everyone around him, as swirling black clouds gathered around that Eye and as they all watched, the tower began to crumble into itself. It toppled and the Eye exploded in a burst of orange and black and the shockwave ripped across the battlefield. For Boromir, it was like being struck with the Urk-hai arrows all over again, only with no pain this time. The explosion burst the vacuum of the air and the wind on the shockwave's heels was actually cool.

His relief lasted only minutes as the rumble worsened and they watched as the ground gave way from the tower outward, stopping at the gates and left them all to stare at the peak of Mount Doom, now alive with flame and fire.

But there was no sign of Sam or Frodo.

He spotted Pippin in the crowd, his eyes screwed shut, tears running down his cheeks as he mouthed Frodo's name. Or perhaps he spoke it aloud. Boromir could hear nothing but the roar of blood in his own ears.

The sun split the darkness, cleaved through the heavy clouds to spill beautiful golden light across the broken earth and destroyed towers. The eagles swooped overhead, their cries silent now, the only sound that of the swish of their mighty wings as they sailed toward Mount Doom.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump, and he turned to see a sweaty, dirty, thoroughly bedraggled King of Gondor smiling alongside him.

"It's over."

Two simple words and Boromir's throat tightened. His eyes stung. He nodded, looking back at the eagles once more. "It's about time."

****

Minas Tirith never looked more beautiful and he leaned forward to pat his horse's neck. "We're almost home," he murmured. "Almost home."

The main gates were almost completely repaired, and as he reached the stables, he handed off the reins to the stable boy, who said, "Welcome home, my lord. Gandalf and the halflings are in the Houses of Healing. They arrived about an hour ago."