Part XXV
Elladan winced as his mostly-healed wound sent twinges of pain down his arm. It had taken him some time to convince Elrohir and Aragorn that he was fit to fight instead of sitting on the sidelines as a healer. Twenty minutes into the battle, however, he was uncomfortably aware as the scab pulled at the surrounding skin with every movement.
There really was no hope, the elder twin reflected as he narrowly avoided a troll's mace. Unless the Halflings displayed a most impeccable sense of timing, this battle would be over within an hour, and all would be lost.
Blocking an Orc's scimitar, Elladan felt the warm trickle of blood increase as the scab finally gave way beneath the sudden pressure. He glanced towards his arm, observing that the sleeve was already sodden. Maybe this is more serious than I made it out to be, he thought absently.
The Orc, taking advantage of Elladan's lapse in awareness, twisted his scimitar viciously, succeeding in escaping from Elladan's own blade. Without missing a beat, he swept his crude weapon in a horizontal arc, intending to draw it across the Elf's middle.
Elladan started back to reality, cursing himself for his preoccupation. His eyes widened as he saw the notched, blood-coated scimitar coming towards him, and realized that even if he could raise his own sword in defense, he would still receive potentially-serious injuries. The Orc's blade was coming towards him too swiftly, and with such force that Elladan, with his injured arm, could not hope to match.
Inwardly steeling himself to the pain that would undoubtedly descend upon him within seconds, the elder twin raised his sword in order to meet the Orc's in a desperate bid. To his surprise, when his enemy's scimitar did reach his own weapon, the force behind the blow was nowhere near to what Elladan had expected.
The scimitar ran down the sleek Elven blade with a rasping noise, slowing to a stop some inches from Elladan's hilt. Jerking the Orc's weapon from its claw with a swift movement, Elladan watched as his opponent's eyes lost their malicious shine, going dull and glassy as the twisted creature fell to the corpse-littered ground. Only then did Elladan see the knife, identical to one of his own, protruding from the back of the Orc's head.
He raised his eyes to those of his twin, who was standing some ten feet away. Elrohir gave him a short nod before turning his own attention back to the battle at hand. Moving a hand to the partially-full quiver on his back, Elrohir drew an arrow and notched it to his bow, aiming the projectile towards an advancing troll.
It must be an enormously heavy troll, he thought to himself as he released the arrow. For the ground is shaking as though there were an earthquake. A second arrow found its mark in the troll's neck before Elrohir realized that the tremors passing through the earth were not the result of the troll. Elrohir, you daft Elf, it is an earthquake!
By this time, many of those fighting had ceased for the moment, some hardly daring to hope, others refusing to believe. Thousands of gazes turned towards Mordor, taking in the great Eye in the tower of Barad-Dur, which was now focused on the mountain that towered towards the sky in the distance.
The tremors became stronger as the seconds passed, and all at once, the volcano erupted. Plumes of lava and ash shot upwards before their eyes, and black smoke was belched forth from the cracks and crevices of the mountain.
Elrohir turned with some difficulty from the volcano towards Barad-Dur as the tower tilted slowly towards the heaving ground. Sauron's Eye swiveled towards the Black Gate before returning to Mount Doom, seemingly oblivious of the fact that his stronghold was crumbling into the surrounding pits of molten lava.
Above the armies, the Nazgul on their steeds screamed, instantly abandoning their posts in the air and winging their way towards the collapsing tower.
The next few moments passed in a haze. Elrohir fell to his knees as three eagles passed overhead, flying towards the volcano. They passed out of sight into the smoky gloom, but no one on the Morannon moved. All present watched, spellbound, as the Tower of Barad-Dur crashed to the ground amid fiery moats, spitting lava and debris hundreds of feet into the air.
It was at that moment that the minions of Sauron, either making a last stand of loyalty or sensing a desperate command from their Master, began running towards the Black Gates, ignoring their motionless foes. Screams and howls filled the air as the army of the Dark Lord surged towards Mordor, heedless of the flying chunks of rock and the rain of lava that continued to fall. A short-lived skirmish occurred as they fought their ways through the crowds of Men, back towards the Black Land.
Then all was quiet. The roar of countless wings beating the air, the screams of man and beast alike, and the crashes as the earth convulsed were silenced. Still, the paralysis that had overcome the army continued, and thousands of gazes remained fixed on the smoking mountain and twisted gates.
Mithrandir was the first to stir. Raising his bloody sword into the air, he called aloud in Elvish, summoning the lord of the Eagles to him. As Gwaihir alighted on the carcass of a troll, the wizard made his request known.
'Many times have you served me, my friend, and yet I ask one more favour. Bear me to Orodruin, you and two of your kind, for the Halflings will need rescue, if they still live.'
Gwaihir bowed his head in agreement and permitted Mithrandir to climb onto his back. With a shrill call to his companions, he rose into the air and winged his way swiftly towards the volcano.
It was as though Mithrandir's departure had awakened everyone else from their stupor. Seeing the three eagles head towards Mount Doom, all thoughts turned to Frodo and Sam, who were more than likely dead, either crushed by flying debris or turned to ashes by lava.
Gwaihir and his brethren disappeared into the clouds of smoke, and at last Aragorn turned to Legolas, who stood beside him. 'Duties await, and lives depend on us. We must separate the wounded from the dead and tend to them as soon as possible. Spread the word among the army.'
Hours passed as the uncrowned king's orders were carried out. Fallen allies were separated from fallen foes, and the wounded were transported to hastily-pitched tents, where the inexperienced healers of Gondor and Rohan were assisted by the three sons of Elrond.
The night passed slowly as they waited for news from Mithrandir, but none came. Morning dawned reluctantly, the sun fighting to pierce the thick, unnatural clouds that still blanketed the Morannon. Still, there was no word from the wizard.
Aragorn heaved a sigh as he tied off the thread after stitching yet another wound. His entire body was one agonizing ache, and an unbeatable weariness tortured him relentlessly. Rising to his feet, he rolled his shoulders experimentally, vaguely surprised that he could still stand straight after kneeling in a cramped position for so long. Wiping the perspiration from his brow with his forearm, he stepped outside the tent, rubbing the back of his neck.
Those lucky enough to be uninjured had done remarkable work during the last day, he reflected in slight surprise. Many of the orc carcasses had been cleared from the battlefield, and smoke still rose from where they were being burned, downwind from the camp. Aragorn noted with a grim smile that Gimli was assisting a large group of men in building stone cairns over the remains of their fallen allies.
Meanwhile, halfway across the camp from Aragorn, Elrohir was finishing up with his last patient – namely, Elladan.
'Do you think we're dead?' the elder twin inquired, mostly serious. 'I never thought we would be in any other state after seeing that army emerge from behind the Black Gates.'
In answer, Elrohir reached out and prodded his brother's bandaged arm, grinning half-heartedly at Elladan's yelp of protest. 'If you feel that, I assume we're still alive. I can't boast of experience, but I am pretty sure that when one's body is dead, one's spirit does not adopt the senses. We'll have to ask Glorfindel.'
Elladan yawned, his exhaustion beginning to catch up to him. Glancing up at Elrohir, he detected a scheming spark in his twin's expression, and was immediately suspicious. That look only meant one thing: his brother either had a 'clever' plan, or he had scored a success. His brow creasing in thought, Elladan feverishly tried to recall whether he had eaten or drunk anything handed to him by Elrohir recently. No medicine, no food, no water...
'Here.' Elrohir's voice seemed to come from a distance, and Elladan automatically reached out to accept the proffered water-skin. Lifting it to his lips, he drank the cool water that his twin had somehow found, his brain still working to figure out a reason for Elrohir's seeming triumph.
No medicine, no food, no wat–
Elladan's thoughts stopped. His eyes moved down to the water-skin, and then up to Elrohir's face, which now sported a devious smirk. 'You little –'
The devious smirk remained, its owner not put out in the least over the names that were currently being hurled at him. Stepping across the tent to his twin, Elrohir calmly plucked the mostly-empty water-skin from his brother's hands.
'Go to sleep. Estel and I will already be getting an earful from Adar about allowing you to fight with such an arm-wound. There is no reason for it to look like we also made you stay up all night afterwards, using your nonexistent energy to heal people.'
'You didn't make me,' Elladan muttered, the drugs already affecting him. Laying back on the makeshift bed, he continued almost inaudibly. 'I made me.'
This time, Elrohir's smile was genuine as he laid his cloak over his drowsy brother. 'Sleep, Elladan,' he commanded quietly.
It was late in the afternoon when Landroval, Gwaihir's brother, returned to the encamped army. Upon his arrival, he requested to speak with Aragorn immediately.
'The Halflings live,' he began without preamble, once the Ranger had greeted him. 'Both were in serious states when we found them, stranded on the mountainside. Mithrandir has healed both, and they are recovering in the green woods of Ithilien.'
Aragorn nodded, his heart lightening with every second. He had a feeling that no one expected either Hobbit, let alone both, to be alive and more-or-less well. 'Thank you for the message, my friend. My heart sings to hear that Frodo and Sam are safe. If you will, remain here and rest. Eat, if there be any decent food to be found. Alas, we have nought but stale bread and dried fruit.'
'I must return to my brother,' Landroval replied. 'Fare well.' With a great beating of wings, the eagle had soared into the air, heading back in the direction of Ithilien.
TBC...
A/N: Ahhhh! I finally finished this chapter! I have been toiling over this thing for AGES; I was so stuck. Anyways, hope you enjoyed reading (and that it wasn't too slow-paced), and I would love it if you would tell me what you thought of it!