Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth; they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.
Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.
A special thank you is in order, to Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless encouragement. Thanks so much for being a sounding board, hon, I really appreciate it!
Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The trumpets continued Aragorn's fanfare despite the growing sounds of battle in the streets of the First Circle. Orcs poured forth from the Gates, only to fall as the Rangers on the walls used their bows to deadly effect. The King's Banner flew high in the breeze, mocking the foul cries of the Orcs as they tried to repel the invaders.
The Rangers kept up their volleys, thinning the ranks of the enemy, and as they drew closer, Aragorn could see his people in the thick of the melee. Boromir, his fair head bared for all to see, was steadfastly cutting his way through the ranks of the enemy, ever advancing toward the gates to the Second Level. Tanathel kept close to him, obviously guarding his back, her blades flashing in the dawn light, relentless and cold.
Gimli and Legolas were up to their old tricks; the clear sound of the Elf's voice as he counted off the dead, the growling tones of the Dwarf as he tried to match his friend's tally. Merry stayed near them, his smaller blade no less accurate, no less deadly.
Aragorn held aloft Anduril, his voice harsh as he sounded the charge. Horses surged forward, leaving the foot troops behind; but there would be plenty for all to fight, he was certain.
The troops met with a crash, swords ringing in the morning sun, the Rohirrim keeping close to the outskirts of the battle, preventing any fleeing Orcs from escaping, riding them down with a fierce joy. "Eomer!" he cried. "Have your men secure the Gates! Let none escape!"
With that, he drove forward into the City, Pippin at his back with his own small sword. Together, they slid down from Brego as they passed the Gates, and Pippin immediately laid into the Orcs, his blade dancing. Aragorn called out again. "Men of Gondor, Elves, Dwarves!" His voice rang with determination. "This will not end until the City is retaken! We must reach the Citadel!"
Gimli shouted to Farin in Dwarvish, and the Captain of the Dwarves moved his company forward, pressing toward the tunnel entrance that Tanathel and Boromir had shown him. "We will clear the tunnels, the rest of you clear the City!" he swore.
Legolas cried orders to his Elves, and they took up positions with the Rangers on the wall. He joined them, the bow of the Galadhrim that Galadriel had gifted him singing as he fired.
Aragorn pressed forward, Anduril flashing almost continuously as he cut a swath through the Orcs. He fought his way through to Boromir and Tanathel, moving as a man possessed, his wrath terrible to behold. "Can we breach the Gates?" he cried as he reached them.
"No need!" Boromir shouted back as he dispatched yet another Orc. "Gates! Open for the King!" he bellowed, and they swung open rapidly, the soldiers behind taking up a ragged cheer even as they fell to the attack. "Your men are loyal, Aragorn, though they had lost their way!"
On and on they pressed, the battle becoming more and more fierce with each level they approached. Would they reach their destination? Aragorn was no longer certain, but still he battled on.
(The Citadel)
Saruman had fled Boromir's mind, that was true, but he had found no welcome in his own body. He was held in a tiny corner of his own mind, while his master enjoyed unlimited control. It was almost enough to make him sympathetic to the warrior, but not enough. He burned for revenge on the Gondorian.
Orders were given, Orcs were dispatched to the lower levels, not Mordor Orcs, but the strapping Uruk-hai. Master was taking no chances on Aragorn reaching him. If he should do so, however, there were other ways of destroying him.
The spells were laid, the trap complete. Now, all that remained was the presence of that ragged, wretched Dunedain.
