Chapter 38: The fires of Udûn

Scarily rang the echoes of Gandalf's voice through the valley of Morannon, but his answer was silence, just as Aragorn's call had been met with silence before. In the light of the spring afternoon the desolate valley before the Black Gate seemed a little less dreary than it usually was, but there was neither answer nor reaction to their presence at the very gates of the Black Lands. Boromir's eyes scanned the heights, the hidden pathways that would lead in a circle back to the gate, expecting a flank attack, but there too was nothing, and a swift signal from Faramir confirmed that the Ranger did not spot any sign of impending attack anywhere.

"They are not taking the bait." Aragorn's voice was tense, as was his gaze towards the mighty walls of Morannon. "The Enemy… he is not taking the bait." His glance went to Boromir, whose horse was by his side. "What do you think?"

"They want us to storm their walls. They know they have the advantage," Boromir replied, eyes still fixed on Morannon itself. "They have been moving troops throughout Udûn, probably to create staggered defense lines to bolster their fortifications in case of break-through. Now they wait for us to try and come for them. Smart tactic."

"Storming these walls is madness." Gandalf's pale eyebrows furrowed as he cast a sharp glare towards Boromir. He had not been very comfortable with his presence by Aragorn's side as they rode towards this battle. "We do not have the numbers for such a venture. Our plan hinged on the Enemy coming out."

"Maybe all is not lost yet," Aragorn said to him before he turned again to Boromir. "Can you think of any strategy? Of any way to force the Enemy into battle… or take the gate?"

"Not through a direct storm," Boromir replied. His mind was already racing, turning the factors they had into a plan. "But through a bit of craftiness we may have a chance. Have the armies seemingly dig-in, like we are going to lay Siege to the Gate."

"A Siege does not help us," Gandalf interjected. "And you should remember that much."

Boromir felt the wish to stab the wizard rise inside him, an irrational anger that almost had him reach for his sword. He focused on Kíli, on the echo of their bond, and the anger abated. "We will not lay a Siege, Gandalf," he said. "Unlike some others I have plans for my dragons. We need the Enemy to believe he knows what we are doing. The last Siege was during the Last Alliance, and as we seem to be the new Last Alliance, it would make sense we borrow their approach as well. The Enemy sees us through the eyes of the past as much as we do the same. What we need is them to relax just a little, thinking this is going to be the long Siege-game. And we need the night to fall. Before the night we cannot do much."

"And what then?" Aragorn asked. "Even under the dark a storm would hardly become easier." He turned to Imrahil though, signaling him to have the armies fan out for camp.

"I need Shakurán. We need to trap and kill a few Drakhár patrols before nightfall." The plan had already taken shape in Boromir's mind. "We will need a few more handlers for those beasts, but the Lord of the Dragon Forge had a few young captives he has yet to give up or kill. If Shakurán can win a few of them around – and with the Orders of the Empire he received it should work – they can serve as handlers. We take the armor of the Easterlings and fly right on top of that gate, overwhelm their guards and see it opened. At the same time you bring parts of the armies before the gate under the guise of the night, to storm inside once it opens. Two other leaders – might I suggest Dwalin and maybe the Elves? – lead their troops up on the hidden paths, to catch the gate in the flanks. That way they should be on top of them at the same time you storm inside. In the confusion we should swiftly gain a foothold, but I need the dwarves up on the gate swiftly, to use the catapults they are bound to have against the Orcs."

Aragorn had listened silently and wondered how Boromir came up with his new strategies that fast. Maybe it was a talent, a skill that had gained him the place of a Captain of Gondor before he had been thirty, and that had carried him through this war. He could still sense Gandalf's disapproval, but he knew that Gandalf did not trust Boromir, and he ignored it. "Then we better begin swiftly. I will inform Éomer, Éowyn and our men of the change of plans. Do you need me to send word to Lord Russandol asking for those prisoners released to you?"

"No, I will ask Kíli or Anvari to talk to him. It will shorten things a good deal," Boromir replied. "And I am sure Dwalin will add some valuable ideas to the plan before long."

TRB

"What makes you think I can turn these other captives that swiftly?" Shakurán stood, his arms crossed in front of his chest, opposite of Boromir, Dwalin and Kíli. "Do we even know if they are still alive?"

"Aye, they are," Kíli replied. "And if they are all young Drakhár riders that lost their mounts in battle. They might have been the very wing you led when dropping caskets on us. They might simply follow you because you were their leader before."

Dwalin tilted his head, his eyes appraising the Easterling. "Whatever your orders were, if they were not for suicide, those boys might have received a jab to follow your direction as well. The Empire does nothing in half-measures, I recall."

A thought came to Boromir. "The Empire would not have shared your new orders with the Enemy, not when they plan on surviving Sauron… How many of the leaders over there will already know of your choice?"

Shakurán's eyes sparkled. "Very few indeed, as my planned sacrifice was rather secret as well. It is something we can use, but…" There was a stubborn expression in his eyes. "If I talk my riders around to join you, I want them to join you, not to be killed afterwards."

Boromir understood that Shakurán would make use of the orders he had been given to maybe turn some of those captives to their side. And it would work. "Each who will break his old bonds and swears to stand with us is welcome." He did not know how this was going to sort out after the war, but he had little time to spent on dreams of a war over. They had a battle to fight.

As Shakurán headed off to begin his task, Boromir turned to Dwalin. "I would prefer having you on the hill path, leading your troops into the flank of the gate, but we have very few people speaking enough of the Black Tongue and the Eastern language for this raid as it is."

Dwalin exchanged a glance with Kíli. Their conversation was nothing but a set of Iglishmêk gestures. "Bifur will take them through the pass," he replied after a moment. "Kíli and I will come with you. If we want to trick them into opening the gate, we need luck."

TRB

Faramir's rangers had done a good job of luring in several patrols and killing them. Catching the Drakhár had been the more tricky part, but now, by nightfall, twelve Drakhár were perched on the rocks in the nearby ravine. They had spread out the Easterling armors amongst themselves, finding those who could wear them. Because many Gondorians were significantly taller than the average Easterling, it had not been an easy venture. Eventually Faramir had suggested that they added several of the girls from Éowyn's troop to their group, because they were small and slender enough to fit into some of the armors. While he had found an armor to fit him, Boromir had not, but Shakurán had been resourceful about that. "Discard that ugly field armor you use. It screams Númenor to a blind man at night. Keep the heavy chainmail, wear a black cloak and one of their red tabards and at night you will look like an auxiliary from the Sea of Echoes."

His suggestion had elicited a small laughter from Éowyn, who had already changed into one of the black scale mail armors and just assisted Brithonin in donning the heavy gauntlets. "I doubt the Captain ever was an auxiliary, Shakurán," she said.

The joke made Boromir smile. Between them he felt at home, these were warriors one could risk such a daring raid. He glanced to Dwalin and Kíli, who had discarded their typical dwarven armor, only leaving chainmail, various leather pieces and a wild mix of weapons that made them almost look like mercenaries from Khand. It would do at night. At a little distance stood the other Drakhár handlers. Boromir had been right to assume that with the Empire's orders to change sides on him, Shakurán had been able to turn them as well. Many of them were a bit pale, having foresworn their old allegiances only an hour ago. He had been present there. Many of them were young. Scyrane and Lorcaile were the youngest, aged barely seventeen, though Boromir remembered Scyrane having done some of the most daring troop deliveries with his Drakhár during the battle.

"The plan is simple," he said to the entire group. "The Enemy does not know of Shakurán's switch of allegiances just yet, or at least most of the troops won't. So we will try to play them as long as we can, seeing the gate opened by order rather than force." He gestured the Easterling to join him.

Shakurán stepped closer. "For those of you who do not speak the Black Tongue, there are only three lines you need to remember. Drâk naz gár – Have you not heard the orders? Shak tal gaz turag – By Morgul's wrath, obey! And Ezrag tun nar gazdûn! – In the name of the Witch King! Keep using them whenever someone tries to speak to you. Be harsh, harmful and do not tolerate anyone coming too close. In case of Orcs, Varigans and other minor troops, kill whoever questions you, in case of Easterlings, keep to the last line and point them my way. They will think you are auxiliaries from Rhûn and do not speak the Black Tongue yet. It happens."

He looked to Boromir, Faramir and Dwalin. "You speak the Black Tongue, and I do not need to tell you how their troops think. Behave like you are the Vanguard of the Returning Witch King and we should confuse them for a good while."

There was nothing more to say. They split up to mount the Drakhár. Darkness had fallen over the field and in the shadow of the night, their own troops were advancing on the gate. Boromir, knowing his armor identified him as an auxiliary, stayed away from Shakurán's Drakhár, choosing to approach Scyrane's black Drakhár instead. The young man had mounted with the practiced ease of someone trained to jump on the back of the mighty lizards with little to no help. Before Boromir could wonder how he too would mount, the Drakhár lay down on the ground, spreading his wings, so Boromir could easily reach the back. He sat down behind Scyrane and watched as the others mounted much the same way. Shortly after all the Drakhár rose to the skies.

Shakurán could see the torches marking the landing platforms clearly in the night; the two mighty towers at the sides of Morannon were used for Drakhár riders to land. He guided his Drakhár down and the others followed in formation, as they should. With his left hand Shakurán pulled the black veil that used to cover the lower face into position. Usually the black cloth served against the perpetual dust and ashes in the Ered Lithui, but for now it simply made sure that only his eyes would be visible to others. It had an intimidating effect and would hopefully distract the casual viewer, making them see what they were used to see instead of noticing he had changed.

The Drakhár hit ground and Shakurán dismounted, seeing the usual helpers running his way. He gestured towards another Drakhár group on the platform. "Get those out of the way you dreamers," he barked at the arriving soldiers. "We are just the vanguard. You were supposed to have room for us! Name of the Witch King, I have seen Orcs obey faster!"

His words caused confusion with them, as they well should, and stumbling excuses too. He did not wait to hear them out, striding off the platform. "Why is the gate not opening?" he barked at the watch commander who had come hastening as well. "I have not been marching three days through enemy lands to now be held off! The Witch King will want answers for this."

In his back he heard Dwalin's voice bark orders at the trolls who moved the gate, orders in an Orcish they'd understand. They began to pull on the mighty levers that steered the main mechanics.

He could see the panic his presence caused. While rumors of the Witch King's demise had certainly reached them yet, Barad-Dûr had not declared it officially so, and thus they were bound to believe the rumors were wrong. The Watch commander was a lower-ranking officer, relegated to lead the night watch, hardly dared to contradict Shakurán, who had been the Witch King's field commander after all, and did nothing to prevent the opening of the gate. He requested to wake the gate captain, but Shakurán cut him off. "My men are sneaking past the Enemy army! Once they are inside, I will see to waking your lazy watch captain myself."

"Will you, brother?" A new voice cut into their conversation. On the stairs from the central tower of the gate stood another Easterling warrior, fully armed and blade in hand. "Your return is a surprising as it is… questionable."

Idrakhán! Shakurán felt a cold hand grip his heart, squeezing it hard. If someone could see through this ruse it would be his cunning brother, who always played plans within plans. Only one thing would help here: counter-aggression. He strode up the stairs. "Is it, little traitor?" he snapped, loud enough for the surrounding troops to hear. "First running from the field you were to hold and now conspiring against the Witch King himself… I'd call that treason."

He had almost reached Idrakhán when his brother raised the blade, advancing on him. "We'll see who is a traitor in the end," he snapped, his voice icy. "You finally showed what I always thought, that you were in league with the Enemy."

Shakurán raised his sword and their blades clashed. The surrounding troops stood frozen, trying to decide whom to believe, but unable to discern which of the Nazgûl Lords might be in the right here. Dodging another attack, Shakurán changed style, going for a fast-paced, wild series of attacks that pushed Idrakhán backwards. He knew his brother, he knew his style and he attacked the weak points without mercy. Idrakhán retaliated in kind. Their fighting was only interrupted by sudden noise down in the main yards, where the gate stood open. The moment the mighty wing had been opened wide enough, the storm had begun, and from the flanks too rose the noise of battle.

Idrakhán stood in shock for a moment. "Traitor," he said softly, realizing what was happening. "You truly… you truly betrayed us."

"Tell that to the Lord of Night!" Shakurán did not wait, he did not waste the chance. Much as it hurt, he did not flinch away from what he had to do, ramming his blade deep into Idrakhán's chest while his brother was still distracted. The body tumbled to the ground, armor crashing on the stones of the gate's battlements. A horn of alarm rang out over the battlements. The fighting had just begun.

TRB

The troops on the wall reacted swiftly, but not swiftly enough. Boromir had already seen the one who would take command next – he stood out a bit – and Boromir never gave him the chance to bring order to the chaos on the wall. With Kíli by his side he charged at the red-headed man, who tried to assess the situation. He reacted fast and drew his sword, but he never stood a chance, being cut down with two swift strikes. Boromir came around and stabbed the next of them and another. Kíli and he were a good distance away from their comrades, but it did not matter.

He saw Kíli jump on the battlement and from there onto one of the chained troll's shoulders, ramming his sword deep into the neck of the beast. Boromir grinned. Kíli had been faster than him, making sure the gate would not be closed any time soon. He joined him and along the chaotic battlements their chase went. Troops flooded against them, but Boromir hardly saw the difference. Orcs, Haradrim, Southrons, they all fell from his blade without bringing much resistance to bear. Holding to what Kíli had shown him, to the focus they almost shared, he saw them with an eerie clarity. Their enemies' movements seemed slow and sluggish, their actions were utterly foreseeable, if not downright uninspired.

By the time they reached the middle of the gate wall, Boromir saw that Russandol's troops had flooded the gate on one side and Bifur's from the other. The gate itself was secured, but down in the yard Aragorn had a hard stand against the dug in troops and Orc legions. "Bifur, have your people secure the gate and use the catapults against the Orcs," he said, before turning to the one-handed elf, who had silently assessed the situation.

"I will bring my people down their left flank." Russandol's voice was calm, unmoved by the battle. "If you can break their center, we can drive them out of this vale altogether."

Boromir swiftly looked down and saw what the elf meant. It was a daring strategy, because smashing their center meant contending with the Orc legions, but it could work. "Leave their center to me," he replied with a short nod, before the Elf took off with his troops.

The shortest way down into the fray was the long stairs of the tower. Boromir knew Kíli, Dwalin and a part of the dwarf troops with him. The others would secure the wall, led by Bifur. Faramir and Éowyn were with them too, to take lead of their archers again. Down in the main fortification behind the gate Boromir saw Aragorn had successfully secured the gauntlet fortifications and two bastions behind, but the wider field of Orc legions kept him bottled up and prevented him from spreading out and bringing their numbers to bear.

When Boromir reached the bastion where Aragorn was fighting, he was not surprised to find it almost cleared of foes. Aragorn might prefer to fight Ranger-style – in the shadows and with cunning – but when it came down to it, he was a good fighter and he had learned tactics amongst the elves. "That should have gotten their attention." The Ranger shot another Orc coming close and ducked under two spears thrown in his direction. "Though I doubt we will be able to hold this fortress for long."

Boromir kicked one of the remaining Haradrim off the wall and stabbed another Orc. "We are not going to defend it. We are going to attack them until they are running like hares." He could almost laugh; the battle around him felt so alive, like it was feeding the darkness inside him, making him stronger.

Their gazes met and he could see surprise… and trust in Aragorn's grey eyes. It was what maybe spurred Boromir's determination even more than anything: a friend trusting him that he could pull this off. He raised his blade. "Veryan, advance on their right. That Orc legion with the bone banner is your target. Thoroniâr, you stay with our King and protect him with your life. Éomer, the Orcs down in the trenches are yours. Kíli, Dwalin, we take the center, fifth banner goes with us." He had never felt it so keenly before, a plan coming together, the surge of strength, the rush that would carry them through this. He saw Shakurán was with them too, another strong blade to cut through their masses. The storm had begun.

TRB

High up on the walls Scyrane saw the Lord of the Morning lead troops against the Orc center. Legions were amassed all along the valley of Udûn, numbering enough to break any army. And while he was awed by the way the Lord of the Morning cut through them, he also saw the fresh Orc troops flanking him. He turned to the other handlers still at the platform. "Mount everyone, grab casks. The right flank needs support," he said, trying to not show that his own heart was hammering like a drum. It had been easier to take the lead when Alaine had been shot during the battle for Minas Tirith; in the chaos no one had cared who had come up with the next steps, but here they all looked at him, and not in a good way.

"Who put you in charge?" Rakhir asked sharply. "We have no orders for the battle." He too sounded insecure. Apart from the task of flying the infiltration group in, they had not been given further orders.

Scyrane stepped up to him. Rakhir was nine years older than him, but shorter by a hand, allowing Scyrane to tower over him. "Did you think proving yourself to the Lord of the Morning would be easy, Rakhir?" he asked in a low, threatening voice. "Shakurán is the only one who has yet proven in blood where he stands." He did not like to think about his father having slain his Uncle. Serving the Lord of the Morning would come at a steep price. "And each of us will have to prove his loyalty in blood before this is over. Do you have friends down there? Family? Not anymore. Now, mount your Drakhár, grab those casks and let's scorch the Orcs down there! If I see you miss your drops too often, I'll shoot you out of the skies myself."

Rakhir took a step back. He was a good rider, but he had no backbone. Scyrane had noticed that before. None of the others made any arguments; they went to their Drakhár and mounted them. Scyrane jumped on his black Drakhár too. The casks he had seen stacked by the platform had been in preparation for the battle, by the other side, but now they were theirs to use. He shortened his grasp on the reins, guiding the Drakhár into the run.

One step, two steps, three… Like the drum pounding in his heart, the Drakhár ran, fluttering up the first time, fourth step, another flutter, fifth, the flutter became a sailing. Claws dug into the ropes of the casks and the black wings flapped swiftly as the Drakhár soared up, carrying the lethal cargo. Scyrane directed it towards the right flank and above the Orcs. He dove down as they dropped the casks on top of the Orc legions. Flames poured over the troops and screams rose to the skies along with the stench of scorched Orcs. He saw more Drakhár dive in; the others were following him. Redirecting the Drakhár into the air, he went for the next casks. Udûn would burn.

Boromir saw the shadows of the Drakhár soar in and moments later the flames erupted amongst the Orcs. He had hardly time to catch his breath or stop fighting, but he had noticed it was the black Drakhár leading them. That youngster had been trouble during the Siege of Minas Tirith, keeping his head after his captain was shot out of the air, never losing his wits and skill for one moment. He'd probably put him in charge of their rag-tag Drakhár troop, once this battle was done. Young as he was, Scyrane had potential.

While the Orcs on their right began to falter, the fires making their advance all the harder, Boromir saw Veryan and his troops pinned down between the Bone-banner and another Orc legion was pouring down on him. Veryan and his men fought bravely, dishing out death to many of their attackers, but ultimately they'd lose. Boromir sighed, he'd not have Veryan die on him. He would need him in battles to come. Thus he turned their own advance to that side, picking Veryan's attackers off from the flank.

TRB

"Éomer, duck!" The shout came moments before two spear hissed over Éomer's head, cleanly striking the throat of yet another troll that had come out of the earth-barns. As he came up again Éomer saw Elrohir, who had caught up with him, a third spear still in hand, ready to strike again. The trenches were crawling with Orcs, small trolls and other beasts. Cleaning them out was brutal work, but they were making progress at it.

"On ahead." Éomer took the lead, climbing out of the trench and racing to the next, where some of theirs were already fighting, Elrohir followed him along with the Rohan troops. When they reached the trench a dead Orc came flying their direction, along with a second one, both tossed up by the same fighter. Raedan had not thrown them for fun, but for freeing Haleth, who had been trapped under them. Only a step away Anvari held off a troll, his sword cutting deep into the creature. The dwarf moved faster than the troll could handle; the heavy club usually hit empty ground.

Éomer used his elevated position above the trench to jump on the troll's shoulder and stab his neck. The creature buckled under him, landing him hard inside the trench. He rolled over the dirty grounds and landed between several dead Orcs. A hand grabbed his arm and helped him up. "More are coming." Anvari pointed towards the end of the trench, where some fires were burning from the caskets the Drakhár riders were dropping on the Enemy.

As he looked that way Éomer saw five huge trolls, larger than those they had seen before trample their way. Olog-hai, they were and they were not as dumb as their mountain-born brethren. "Push them against the fires." He saw Elrohir, Anvari and Haleth follow him as they stormed against the trolls, forcing them to fight between the liquid fire scorching the grounds of Udûn.

TRB

Fion could not say if there was any strategy to the battle left, for he could not see it as he hacked his way through more Southron troops, both blades in his hands singing in the eternal echo of his strikes. He did not think about the plan, or strategy. If anyone could see through this chaos it would be Rú, and he did not question when Rú ordered them to spread along the entire left flank of the field. As the fighting went Fion allowed some of his skills to bleed into his fighting, not too much, just enough to give him and edge and to keep up with Rú.

Boromir down on the field might be downright scary, as he cleaved his path through the heart of the Orc formations, but none of them had ever seen Rú fight and to Fion there was nothing more fearsome and fascinating than the one-handed elf, who fought with the speed and grace of an angry wild cat and who never left a living Orc in his path. The entire elven force advanced that way. Canó led the outer wing, which had almost reached the gap of Udûn, blocking it off.

"Egandîr, take half the banner to the thorn there. The rest, push towards the valley!" Fion heard the order and followed when Rú charged inwards with the others, pushing the Orcs deeper into the valley of Udûn. And now, from above the plan began to become clear to him: they had trapped the Orcs between them. They pushed from the left mountainside, the right mountainside was aflame in liquid fire and Boromir was at the center. The Orcs were trapped, ripe for the slaughter. Their greater numbers were useless in the narrowing space where they could not unfold their strength. Udûn was becoming their Death Knell.

TRB

Black smoke still rose from the fires that would not cease to burn and that ate away at the dead bodies strewn across the grounds of Udûn, when Aragorn reached Boromir. The battle had raged for two days and to Aragorn's own surprise they had taken Udûn. They stood inside the Black Lands itself, with an army that was still alive. The deathly plan Boromir and Russandol had executed had worked perfectly, leading to the greatest slaughter of Orcs and Shadow troops in this age.

He was not surprised to find Boromir at the very gap of Udûn, where the two Mountain chains formed a narrow passage leading out to the greater Morgai and the Isenmouthe foothills, both bordering on the plains of Gorgoroth. Boromir stood on one of the Orc bastions, studying the grounds ahead, which were alight with campfires and torchlights shining into another falling night. "The Enemy is regrouping," he said, when Aragorn reached him.

Leaning against the black, dirty battlement, Aragorn allowed himself to let go of the front he presented towards the troops, the role of the King that they expected of him. He did not need it with Boromir. "Can you allow yourself ever to rest, my friend?" he asked him. "Your mind is already racing ahead towards the next battle, but you too are not immortal."

The Captain of Gondor turned to him and some of his tense attitude faded a little. He still only wore the chainmail armor and had discarded the black cloak he had worn for disguise. With the blade on his back, a fresh scratch marring his throat and blood smearing his tawny hair, he looked wilder, stronger than ever. "You are right, Aragorn. The troops need at least a day's rest before we press on. The Enemy is regrouping and withdrawing troops from the Plains of Gorgoroth, but there are still too many closer to Orodruin."

"Won't they try to retake Udûn and thus clear the way?" Aragorn asked, seeing that Boromir's mind was restless. Maybe he had never had the chance to rest, to allow someone else to take care of the battles to come. He had always been the one who had to be strong.

"No, we need to make them turn another way, keep attention keenly focused on us," Boromir said. "To make sure that the way to the Sammath Naur remains open for our friends."

"You already have a plan?" Aragorn could see that Boromir hesitated speaking of it. "Hesitation is not like you at all."

Boromir shook his head. He ran his hand through his hair to push it away from his face, the very gesture betraying a fatigue that was not of his body, but went deeper. "It is this place, Aragorn. It is calling to me, whispering, luring me… The focus Kíli taught me helps, as does his presence; he keeps remembering me who I am. But the one plan I can see through this, is one you will not like."

"I cannot judge that, if I do not know what it is." Aragorn was grateful for the waterskins one of the dwarves – was this truly Yurar fighting with them here? – had brought them. He did not question why Boromir preferred to fight alongside the dwarves; Kíli and Dwalin might be the only ones to be able to deal with him when he was in the full fighting rush. Aragorn had seen how Boromir had cleaved his path through more enemies than anyone might care to count, and he had come out on top. Even his own Gondorian troops began to shy away from him, though discipline suppressed any open display of fear, yet.

"We ignore Orodruin and Morgai entirely, force our way through the crossroads of Ashlands, three miles East of here and march on Barad-Dûr itself," Boromir replied, pointing out the relevant positions as they could see it at night. "We force the Enemy to focus entirely on us, bring the war to his very doorstep, and no one in this land will pay attention to anything but us."

March on Barad-Dûr itself. It sounded like madness, like the words of an insane or a dreamer, but the same was true about the plan of storming Morannon, and now they stood here, deep in the Enemy lands. Aragorn wondered if Elendil had felt like that about Gil-Galad and his fighters or if there had been anyone before who had a similar warrior like Boromir by his side. "Can we do it?" he asked him. "Do you see a plan to truly make it happen?"

Boromir must have seen Aragorn's exhaustion, for he chose to sit down on the battlements as he began to explain the plan he had to him. Kíli joined them after a while, and together they began to plan their advance deeper into the Enemy lands.

Author's Note

This chapter comes again with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who put lots of work into this chapter. I am amazed how you always put up with my weird sentences. Thanks, my friend, you rock! *hugs*