Chapter Five: Gates of Mordor

Death. Smoke drifting through the air. Horses stamping their feet, chomping their bits. The silence of hundreds of men holding their breaths, waiting...

The Black Gates of Mordor rose like black statues of doom before the armies of men that had spent several hours riding to it. No one seemed able to say anything as they stared at the great gates and dared to look at the flaming eye that rose high into the air above it. Had it truly come to this ending? Would this battle, now, on this charred earth, proclaim the fate of Middle Earth, of the lands and kingdoms that the soldiers had come to protect?

Firefoot shifted nervously beneath Eomer as horse and rider gazed before them, well aware that they stood before their armies as leaders, as examples. Tension rippled through the armies like a heavy fog, but even when all seemed bleak, the King of Rohan found a strange peace residing within him. Lothiriel's kiss had placed within him a tranquility that he could not recall feeling, and even as he stared at what could possibly, and would most likely, be his death, he wasn't afraid.

Aragorn rode forward, his horse's flanks already covered in a thin layer of white foam from sweat and nervousness. The King still looked regal as he urged his stallion towards the gates, and Eomer urged his steed after the king, doing as his training had always instilled in him, looking brave despite how he felt inside. Aragorn's stallion came to a stop, and with a loud shout, Gondor's king shouted to the black gates.

"Let the lord of the Black Land come forth! Let justice be done upon him!"

If Aragorn had expected a verbal answer, he received none. Eomer berathed deeply as Firefoot shifted uncomfortably beneath him, stomping one foot and then another, always the eager battle horse ready for war. Merry, seated securely behind Eomer, tightened his grip around the warrior's middle, and if Eomer had been able to, he would have given the Hobbit a squeeze of reassurance. A sound echoed from behind the immense gates, and Eomer's hands tightened on his reins as a noise more dreaded than a voice sounded loud and threatening above all else. He could hear thousands of soldiers marching together, metal clinking, voices chanting, coming ever closer from behind the gates. And then there was a massive groan as the black gates began to open. He could see, as the crack of opening became ever wider, thousands of silver bodies of armor moving boldly towards the armies of Rohan and Gondor. No other sound could be heard, save from the enemy approaching, assured in their victory, without a trace of fear. Eomer had to take pride in his men. Surely he would have been able to hear them trembling in their boots, for he could hear his heart pounding within him.

"Pull back!" Aragorn shouted, violently spinning Brego around and urging him into a canter towards his armies. "Pull back!"

Firefoot was only too happy to oblige, shooting out from beneath Eomer like an arrow, and Eomer moved with him, keeping his seat as the stallion galloped after Brego. Eomer prayed that Aragorn did not mean to discourage the men by racing away from the upcoming enemy, but the men were either braver than he had given them credit for, standing perfectly still in their ranks, or they were terrified into shock, unable to move. The sight of thousands of enemy soldiers approaching at a steady and undaunted speed could be horrifying indeed.

Eomer found his gaze moving past his soldiers as he again brought Firefoot to a halt before the armies. He fixed his eyes past the men, past the fields behind them, and towards the land far beyond. He could see, just barely, standing atop a rise, a large black horse, and standing beside the steed was a woman, her dress blowing in a breeze, her long hair rolling over her shoulder with the wind. No matter what happened here, it comforted him that Eowyn was safe in Gondor, but Lothiriel did not have that safety. She wasn't far enough away, and he was suddenly afraid for her as he turned Firefoot away, bringing the horse to face forward towards the gates. If anything was to happen to this army, if they were to be surrounded, she did not have the horsemanship nor the distance to escape.

A brilliant light, blinding and warm, suddenly raced across the armies, and Eomer shuddered as he looked up, up to the eye of Sauron, glaring down at them. How he hated that eye! How he wished he himself could ride to the top of the tower and stab it, kill it, prevent it from ever harming again! Anger flooded through him, overcoming his concern as the armies shifted behind him, beginning to get frightened. He couldn't blame them. The eye of Sauron was upon them, and it was every man's right to be disconcerted.

Time slipped by. Eomer did not know how many hours had passed, or if it had only been minutes. Aragorn gave no orders but rode before the armies as the Orcs began to surround their enemies, coming from every angle, every direction. They closed in like a noose ready for the kill, choking off the men's freedom, choking off their air and their ability to breathe properly. Even if anyone wanted to run, to desert, to escape the impending doom, there was no chance now. They were surrounded, circled in by the net of Orcs. Again, Eomer's thoughts drifted to Lothiriel, and he felt sweat streaming down the back of his neck and into his armor. If anything had happened to her... Her death would not be a simple one. Orcs were known for defiling women before they killed them...

"Hold your ground! Hold your ground!"

A chestnut stallion galloped into Eomer's vision and he shook his head, taking his thoughts away from everything but the task at hand. Aragorn had a fire in his eyes now, a fire that looked ready to consume any enemy in its path.

"Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers!"

The king's eyes burned into Eomer even as they burned into every other person who stood in their path.

"I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me! The day may come when the courage of Man fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day! An hour of wolves and shattered shields, when the Age of Man comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand! Men of the west!"

He raised his sword, and a shudder rocked through Eomer. All fear was gone now, all terror. All that remained was readiness, bravery, and hate. Hate for that cursed eye that stared at them. Hate that right now, at this moment, two small Hobbits were struggling to destroy a weapon that could destroy the world. The time had come. It was time to end all, even if that meant all that had ever been known, that had ever been good, was also to end.

The king of Gondor dismounted his steed, and without word, Eomer and Merry did the same. The enemy was closing in even more, but Eomer stood bravely, not blinking, ready for battle, as his horse was led away with Aragorn's. He drew his sword, feeling the smoothness of the hilt sliding across his glove as he awaited his next order. The Orcs were almost within a stone's toss away, never stopping, never resting, but marching steadily on. This was it...this was it...

Aragorn turned, gazing at the men closest to him with resolution in his eyes.

"For Frodo," he spoke, so quietly it was almost a whisper. And then he turned, raised his sword high, and rushed towards the oncoming army.

There was a heartbeat of quiet, a second of hesitation, and then a shout of challenge as Pippin and Merry charged after their king. They broke the tide of silence, and with a cry likened to waves crashing violently against the shore, Eomer and the rest of the men charged forward, swords at the ready. There was a greater adrenaline rush than Eomer could recall having felt in a long time. Here, he was not on a horse. Here, he held a sword. Here, he was outnumbered. Here is where it would end.

Nothing was clearly visible from that point on. Everything was a blur of metal, swords, blood, fangs, shrieks, screams, and wails. The body does miraculous things when it is in an intense situation, and Eomer fought with the strength and speed of ten men. He pivoted, thrust, leaped, stabbed, shouted, cursed, spit, and parried like a madman, but no one noticed, for all were in the same situation. He stumbled over one body and then another, falling to the ground and then rolling instinctively onto his back. A sword tip lunged towards his face, but before it could make impact, a warrior on the right slashed forward, saving Eomer from death. A hand reached out, and Eomer grabbed it, depending entirely on that hand to pull him up. With remarkable strength, his comrade pulled Eomer up, and Eomer grasped the hand firmly in thanks before turning to encounter another enemy. He caught what he thought was a glimpse of shining brown hair as he attacked, but it meant nothing to him in the course of battle.

A scream pierced the air, and Eomer glanced up, a growl of dismay slipping past his lips when he saw the dragon-creatures, the Fell beasts, diving towards the armies. The Nazgul were atop their backs, and a more upsetting scene the armies of the west couldn't have imagined. The Fell beasts' screaming alone shook the ground, throwing Eomer off balance, and his back crashed against the back of his rescuer.

"Stay here!" the soldier shouted, pushing his back hard against Eomer's. "Lean against me, and we can stand!"

It seemed the most logical thing to do. Eomer did as he was instructed, keeping one eye on the Fell beasts and the other eye forward to the best of his ability. The flying monsters were terrifying, looping through the air and then diving down to their victims. Men were scooped up on all sides of Eomer, and many times, he and his support had to pivot and leap to avoid being hit by bodies or grabbed by teeth or talons.

"We cannot hold up much longer!" Eomer panted, the adrenaline in his body beginning to fade into weariness.

"We didn't think we could hold up this long!" His comrade exclaimed and then gasped as a body slammed against him, sending him sprawling.

"Eagles! Eagles!"

The cry came from somewhere near Eomer, and he glanced to the sky as he helped his companion back to his feet. Surely enough, golden feathers shimmered through the air, and Eomer watched, with relief, as the immense eagles began to rip at the Fell Beasts.

"I pray the heavens that Sam and Frodo can finish this soon!" Eomer grunted as a blade slashed across his cheek. He glanced behind him to see his comrade stumble again, blood trickling through the grates of his helmet and down his shirt. "We must get you to medical attention! There is a woman not far. She can help you when all is done!"

"She cannot, Lord Eomer. She is wounded."

Eomer's heart sank, and even as he fought, he felt his motions becoming sluggish. If Lothiriel was hurt...

"She is here," his comrade breathed, and he pulled off his helmet to reveal the bloodied and bruised face of the Princess of Dol Amroth, dressed in male armor and already bloodied to nearly unrecognizable.

"You foolish, foolish girl!" Eomer spat, highly tempted to stop fighting long enough to shake her.

"I had no choice!" she shouted back, her fury shocking him. "The Orcs were closing in and I couldn't find my brothers! You were the only one I could find! Don't look at me so! I saved your life!"

She lunged forward, plunging her sword deep into the belly of an immense Orc, a deep scowl on her face.

"Swear to me you will never travel with the armies again after this. Swear it!" Eomer demanded, grabbing her arm and jerking her roughly away from two ferocious Orcs.

"I will swear no such thing!"

She killed another Orc and then claimed its sword as her own, fighting with two swords in a manner that Eomer could not deny was impressive.

"You need me here!" she spat, gasping as she dodged sideways and then slashed out. "I made you angry! That gives you energy! I am a woman! That gives you a protective strength!"

She stopped talking and sprang back, viciously wiping the blood out of her eyes as she did so. She was having difficulty maintaining the stamina that was needed for battle, but nothing could be done for her. The only thing that would keep her alive now was sheer will power, and she seemed to have a great deal of that left.

"The Nazgul are leaving!" she gasped minutes later, and it only took one glance for Eomer to know she was right. The creatures and their winged beasts were fast making their way towards Mount Doom. Sam and Frodo had revealed themselves. Now there would be no saving the world from Sauron unless, unless by some chance the Hobbits were soon to be rid of the cursed ring.

The Orcs, feeling victorious, renewed their killing frenzy with vigor. They had kept the largest of their armies for the end of the battle, and now giant monsters were stomping through the western armies, demolishing and killing with every stride. They were faster than Eomer had suspected, and he found himself being confronted by one of the giants. He fought bravely, but even as he moved forward to counterattack, a fiery, burning sensation coursed across the backs of his legs, and with a cry of pain, he felt onto his side, grasping for the wounds. He watched, eyes nearly closed in pain, as Lothiriel stepped towards him and then, to his surprise, over him. She stood with one foot on either side of his chest, swinging her two swords

Time seemed to stop, and no one in the battle knew how long the fight had been raging when, abruptly, the fighting came to a halt. A massive rumbling sound had filled the air, and the ground was shaking violently. Eomer struggled to his feet, leaning on his broadsword for support, and he found himself leaning against Lothiriel as they turned their eyes to Mount Doom in the distance. Lava was pouring out of the mountain in all directions, and every pebble, every ash, every rock on the mountain was shaking as though it was about to explode.

The Great Eye was roaring and groaning, and all eyes turned to see the tower crumpling, collapsing towards the earth with Sauron moaning from atop it, the Eye still attempting to see, still trying desperately to maintain power, but it was too late, and with a giant thud, the tower hit the ground and crumpled into hundreds of pieces. The great fire of the Eye was vanquished, and like a snuffed flame of a candle, it blinked out and disappeared.

And then Mount Doom destroyed itself from the inside out. Fire and rocks soared through the air even as the Black Gates collapsed into heaps of ash. The mountain's deadly projectiles launched towards the armies, and even as the Orcs and their armies fled, Aragorn's armies dropped to the ground, covering their heads with shields and arms.

The ground continued to shake, and Eomer's heart ached as he kept his shield held above him, protecting him and Lothiriel. There was no possible way Sam and Frodo had escaped from the mountain. While the great war had been won, the Hobbits who had worked so hard to restore peace had sacrificed themselves to the cause.

"Perhaps they made it," Lothiriel whispered from his side. "Perhaps..."

No one stood until the smoke had cleared somewhat, and then all stood together and surveyed the destruction around them. There were great cracks in the earth and the sky was still somewhat dark with dust, but through the fog, the sun had begun to shine, and Eomer breathed in deeply, struggling to stand, but he no longer felt in great pain.

Victory had been won. There would no longer be a fear of darkness, no longer a terror of night. The plains of Rohan would again be safe for the children, and rejoicing and cheer would return to the darkened country. He could understand the pain for Sam and Frodo, and while he felt it deeply, overwhelming joy flooded through his very soul. It rippled through him, threatening to send him jumping and dancing out of pure ecstasy, but there were matters to be tended to first. There were many men who lay wounded, dying, or dead on the field, and Eomer only then realized that there was no one qualified to help them. No one but one woman who was wounded badly herself.

He turned to Lothiriel to find her putting a helmet atop her head again, not wanting to harm the morale of any of the men by letting them realize they had been fighting with a woman. It appeared that she could barely stand, and yet she began to make her way through the fallen, kneeling at every body and doing what she could to ease pain while the horses were gathered from their hiding places, great trenches that had been dug into the ground and then covered as soon as the animals were there. It hadn't been the most effective way to seal the animals in, and it took a long time to get them back out, but most of the animals were unharmed and exited their frightening holes with energy and relief.

The beasts of burden were immediately brought to the men, and the wounded and dead were helped up onto the creatures' backs before Aragorn led the way away from the battle field. For having succeeded in defeating a vast army and powerful enemy, the armies did not seem excited, but rather solemn. There had been many deaths, and by the time the men had returned to the Halls of Healing, there would be still more deaths.

It seemed that hours of silence and marching had passed when word began to spread through the men that Sam and Frodo were still alive and were no their way to Minas Tirith. The news came by way of the great eagles, and the command was given by Gandalf that all should rejoice. The air then became filled with cheering. The horses quickened their paces, the men walked faster, and it was great joy that they returned back to Rohan, exhausted, wounded, but overwhelmed with pride and peace.