Chapter 8
Two thousand two hundred men marched to Osgiliath.
One thousand seventy-five men survived to see the victory.
Boromir knew the casualties, but the only casualty he felt special concern for was Gerhard. He looked at the grave of his beloved friend and teacher. He couldn't have held Osgiliath for all this time. Except, what if he had had the Ring? Would it really make such a change?
Faramir came next to him, "Everything's finished, the corpses have been cleaned up, and the soldiers are firmly established. The war will continue."
Boromir smiled, "If we keep it up with the kind of victory like today, Sauron will be seriously weakened."
Faramir didn't answer.
Boromir turned away from the grave and went to the top of a crumbling pillar. He looked back, and saw Minas Tirith, shining in the bright sunlight. It seemed to him to be so pure, so beautiful, and unable to be harmed. Then he turned to look at the blackened mountains of Mordor. They loomed high, and he could hear the thunder of Sauron's wrath. And he had a feeling the men of Gondor would get a taste of it before this was over.
Boromir climbed back down to the side of his brother.
Faramir spoke, "I'm going back to Ithilien tonight. My Rangers are anxious to go back to their comrades."
The two brothers embraced. Boromir smiled as he ruffled his brother's hair as he had done so many times when they were younger, "Good luck."
Faramir smiled, nodded, and called to his Rangers, who Boromir could see, were mounted and ready. He watched as his brother lead his men in the green cloaks over the plains.
Boromir turned to the men who had fought a horde to regain this old fort, who had shown more bravery than any other men, "What say we give them a farewell to remember!"
With that, he raised his treasured horn to his lips, and blew a sound as he had never made before.
And the army of Osgiliath cheered. They had won back this fort with hard fighting, and they would stay here to the death.
And they had the greatest man in Gondor leading them.