Sword and Arrow

Chapter 62

Aragorn stood at the prow of his ship, looking out onto the river. They were close to the harbor where they would dock, very close, and he could see Minas Tirith from here. It had been very long since he had seen the white city, and now it was burning. Smoke and dark clouds hung low over the white spires.

His head jerked up as he heard Beruthiel's quiet steps behind him. He shoved the delicate chain into his pocket, making sure the oakleaf was hidden. Aragorn turned slightly to see her, then patted the railing beside him for her to join.

Beruthiel silently stepped up beside him, her hands on the railing. The space between them felt infinite even though they were almost touching each other, and the silence swallowed up the words that she meant to say.

"I'm sorry," Beruthiel eventually managed to say. "For shouting at you. For being rude."

Aragorn was silent for a while, his hands white on the railing. "You can't quit," he said. "You're my lieutenant. I need you."

"I've done some pretty stupid things on this journey," Beruthiel admitted. "Including a lot of not taking your orders. I don't think I deserve to be a Ranger at all, Aragorn, much less your lieutenant."

"These few months don't mean anything." His hand slid across the railing to cover hers. "You've been by my side for years - for decades. Now you're deciding you don't deserve it anymore?"

"I don't know, Aragorn," Beruthiel said with a sigh. "I don't know." She let him take her hand and fold it across his, placing both on the railing.

Beruthiel looked up at the dark clouds above them, the smoke rising from Minas Tirith, the dark fields before it. Unbidden and certainly unwanted, scenes flashed past her eyes.

"Don't you dare leave me, Ruth. Don't you dare." Shallow breaths. "I'm so sorry, darling. I'm so sorry."

"Aragorn. Look at me." Grey eyes silver with tears. "I will... tell Boromir that... we miss him."

"I love you."

Her heart beat once, twice, never again.

It had been this same city, this same field of the battle, the same dark sky. And so much more would make sense now - the way Aragorn had talked to her, the crown on his head, the way she had referred to Boromir in the past tense.

Dread settled over Beruthiel like cold water trickling from the crown of her head to her toes as she gripped the railing of the ship. Her heart hammered harder and harder as they sailed into the harbor of the Anduin where an army of filthy orcs were assembled.

"Late as usual, pirate scum!" the leader of the orcs barked at them from the harbor floor. "There's work that needs doing."

No response from the ships, for they were filled with Dunedain and not pirates.

"Come on, ye sea rats!" the orc yelled again. "Get off yer ships!"

Then Aragorn vaulted over the railing of the ship, landing in a crouch. Beruthiel and Legolas came after him and Gimli last, all with blades drawn. "There are plenty for the both of us," Gimli whispered to Legolas. "May the best dwarf win!"

Aragorn raised his sword, rotating it through the air perpendicular to himself, then held vertical, and led the small charge forward. As they progressed, green shapes flowed from the ships, from the river, from everywhere; on foot and on horseback, armed with bows and swords and spears.

The army of the Dead, led by Aragorn and their King, swept through the orc reserves that had waited for the corsairs at the harbor. It was a quick, merciless slaughter - only a few escaped, and those were quickly shot down by Beruthiel.

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Éowyn felt their cold gauntlets around her neck. The Witch-King lifted her up onto her knees and she could see into the eye holes of their helmet. There were no eyes behind it, only darkness and death.

"You fool," they hissed. "No man can slay the Lord of the Nazgul." They threw her back and she landed awkwardly, scrambling for her sword. "Die now!" But the Witch-King screamed and fell back as they were stabbed in the back of the knee. It was no man that had stabbed them.

Éowyn stood shakily over the kneeling Witch-King. She ripped off her helmet, letting golden hair cascade past her shoulders. "I am no man," she breathed. Then she stabbed her sword through the large opening in the mouth of the helmet.

It was like air gathered towards the Witch-King, building into a scream, a deafening screech. Their helm fell from their shoulders, crumbling like paper. The remnants of the wraith writhed on the ground until it was still and the Nazgul was dead.

There was silence.

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Aragorn's party fought their way towards the city. He had Halbarad in charge of the Dunedain along with Elladan and Elrohir. The two archers worked well in tandem, covering Halbarad with his sword.

Aragorn and the other three themselves made their way towards a large disturbance that they had seen. Legolas and Gimli were keeping a running count of their kills, even though they worked together to bring down larger orcs and trolls.

Beruthiel would find a higher point of ground and cover Aragorn's advances towards the enemy with showers of arrows. She had taken more quivers from the Dunedain and wore one on each hip, her sword sheathed beside one of them. Her own quiver was on her back - though it was nearly empty. She would have to scavenge for spent arrows soon enough.

Aragorn came up behind a deformed orc that was raising its mace to strike a wounded soldier. The soldier reached for his - her? - sword but it slipped from her grasp. She fell back and Aragorn saw it was Éowyn, sweat beading her forehead, pain on her face.

The orc stumbled with a green arrow in its neck. Then Aragorn was there, cutting the orc down with a mighty blow from his sword. He only paused there for a second to make sure she was all right, then turned away.

"Legolas!" Aragorn shouted over the sounds of battle.

Legolas turned to see a lumbering giant behind him. Mumakil, he thought with dread. He took a deep breath and hurled himself at it, clinging onto the spears and arrows that protruded from its grey hide. He heaved himself up onto its back and climbed up on the harness on which warriors rode.

Legolas counted under his breath as he shot enemies off the war-tower on his back. He paused, hanging on with one hand and unsheathing his slender dragon-knife from his back, then sawed through the saddle rope that held the war-tower onto the back of the mumakil. Using the weight of the falling saddle, he pulled himself up onto the wide back.

Calmly, balanced perfectly on the shifting and screaming mumakil, Legolas walked up to the base of its head. He fired three arrows in quick succession into the base of its skull. The mumakil bellowed and went down, and Legolas gracefully skated down its trunk to land.

Pain in his back. Legolas fell in a twisted heap, an arrow protruding from small of his back, narrowly avoiding hitting anything important. He lay in agony, unable to move, the breath knocked out of him and unable to call for help. Orcs rampaged around him and it seemed that they were losing the battle.

Legolas prepared to die.

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split up a longer chapter to make it a bit easier to read and a little more suspensful. Are the visions coming true...?