I'm finally back after a long time trying very hard to get into university, so no apologies this time! Here's chapter 11, enjoy!
Although the march was long, a cooling breeze stuck with the Rohirric troops right until the once gleaming spires of Minas Tirith were in their sight, providing welcome relief from the tiresome travelling. But, as the men (and woman) drew near the end of their journey, the destruction wrought by the armies of Mordor became all too clear: smoke rose in thick plumes from the towers, city walls crumbled and fell like the leaves of a burning tree, and the once proud people of The White City fled as ants do from a flood.
Feeling her own heart ache at the sight, Amela barely dared to glance at Boromir, dreading what she might see; when she did, she saw what she had feared. The Captain's skin looked drained and cold, his every muscle stiff; his only visible movement was the rabid shaking of his jaw and flitting pupils, as the fires burning his city flickered in his watery eyes: reflections of the nightmares he believed and hoped no man would ever live to see.
"The White... my city..." Was all Boromir could manage to say; he solemnly bowed his head and his arms became slack, letting his reins hang loose and limp.
Before the charge, Théoden ordered his patchwork army into position, a long, deep line of men and horses, ready to sweep over the enemy and crush all in their wake. As is expected, he gave an inspiring and uplifting speech to his troops, raising their spirits for the looming battle. Although, for all Boromir and Amela could tell, he could have been discussing his opinions on the optimum time for mead fermentation. The first was too utterly absorbed by mourning to take in anything but his own emotion, and the latter was preoccupied with worry for the former; fixated on the suddenly inexplicably aged face of her closest companion. Tentatively, she pressed her heels into her horse's sides just enough to approach Boromir at not much more than a crawl, giving her just enough time to throw together a string of words that she hoped might form a sentence.
"It's... it'll be- I... The city, it'll stand." Is what she eventually lead with. Boromir's reply was both short and painfully drawn out.
"...How?"
Having never been all that good at emotional support (not having had anyone else's emotions to deal with, up until recently) Amela was thrown slightly by Boromir's bluntness.
"Boromir, you know your city's strength more than anyone, and now you are here to defend her!"
"Who am I to defend Minas Tirith from this hell?" Boromir gestured to the carnage surrounding the White City; it did seem hopeless.
"Well..." Amela tentatively rested her hand on Boromir's shoulder; she tilted her head to try to see his face, before saying, sincerely, "you are the Captain of the White Tower!"
He looked up at her from under his furrowed brow.
"And what, now, is the white tower?"
The pause between them thickened the air...
"More than it soon will be if we don't save it."
When Boromir looked up, Amela reinforced her point with an assured nod as she turned her horse away to return to the Rohirric ranks. Soon enough, just as predicted, Boromir too took his place in line for the charge.
And charge they did. The Rohirrim swept across the fields like shining armoured waves on a stormy sea and. Cowering in their wake, the front lines of the armies of Mordor were mown down like dry grass under a herd of stampeding oliphants, but the inner ranks of orcs and uruk-hai proved more of a challenge, even for the skilled fighters amongst the men, who quickly began to curse the absence of Isildur's heir and his companions.
Soon enough though, everyone could see the fruits of Aragorn's missing the initial charge: an eerie army of the damned swarmed from the ships Aragorn had taken, gliding across the battlefield, engulfing the forces of evil wherever they met them.
Unlike at the Hornburg, Boromir and Amela this time fought side by side; they were a deadly team, as opposed to two formidable solo artists. Running side by side into hoards of orcs, they'd slice through them all like a newly sharpened cleaver through a tender joint. If they found themselves surrounded, back to back they'd turn and quickly their defensive positions gave them the attacking advantage, since any orc who dared come close enough was instantaneously struck down.
Although the agents of Sauron were being quickly dispatched (either killed or fled from the field), after the distant rumble of a fallen oliphant, an ominous presence fell on the battlefield; the deadliest servant of the dark lord Sauron had entered into the fray, and was fast bearing down on King Théoden.
The King fell from his mount; his body crushed, he could make no escape from the fell beast looming above him, with its dark rider ready to order a final blow. The vile creature arched its neck, bared its reeking teeth and prepared to feast...
But its bloodlust would not be satisfied that day, for a soldier, rather unremarkable in appearance, had stepped between the King and the nazgûl set on destroying him. Sword shaking in hand, the anonymous soldier shared a short exchange with the Witch King of Angmar before his mount made its strike. The soldier dodged the attack. Glinting in the light of the sun, the warrior's sword was a fiery blade of judgement as it carved through the tentacle like neck of the fell beast; its scream of agony tore through the air like a hot iron burns flesh: slow, searing, and unbearably painful.
Yet the soldier's ordeal was not over. Despite having fallen from his seat atop the evil beast he rode, the Witch King stood and towered over the soldier. As the Witch King swung for his final blow, he suddenly set out a hellish shriek. The soldier took their chance; they drove the broken hilt of their sword into the hollow shadow under their enemy's helmet. Burning the soldier's hand, the Witch King's amour was sucked into the void now within it. There was a hot blast, and the greatest servant of Mordor was dead.
After this, it wasn't such a long time until the armies of men emerged victorious, and attention was diverted from saving Minas Tirith... to rebuilding it.
Although long and tiresome, the restoration of Minas Tirith was more successful than any could have predicted. From afar, an absent minded traveller seeing the city could be fooled that the war hadn't touched its glorious foundations. However, once in the city, the walls - while strong and whole again - told clear stories of the devastation they had seen with the scars they bore. Nonetheless, the people of the White City were immensely proud of what they and their friends from Rohan had achieved: armies may have fought for the city, but the people saved it. There was still much to do of course, but the vital structures were all safe again, and this meant the work's pace could slow.
Both having had critical roles in managing the rebuilding of Minas Tirith, Boromir and Amela hadn't had more than a few minutes for each other - or anyone, for that matter - between sleeping, eating, and working. So, as soon as the bulk of the project was over, they were resolved to test their newfound bond.
The first of them to chase their chances was Boromir; after scouring the stables, the training yards, the barracks and even the market, he made the lengthy climb to the loftiest heights of Minas Tirith: to the citadel. Entering the ancient halls, he was met with a disconcerting cocktail of nostalgia and hesitation. Finding the former odd, as his absence wasn't one that would normally be lengthy enough to warrant such a reaction upon returning, he wondered just how distanced he'd really been from his home while he'd been away.
"It isn't just miles that cause separation." He thought to himself, as he fought the emotional division he found himself facing as he strode through the grand marble halls of the citadel. Right now though, he had other distances to close: ones that might be wider than ever if he didn't do something soon.
"You can't leave!" He exclaimed as he burst into - what he believed to be - Amela's room. But instead of her staring back at him, stunned, he found a group of young serving women doing just that. Quickly explaining that they, in-fact, were allowed to leave, Boromir was much too occupied by hurried requests of "excuse me, m'lord" - as the women found various reasons to be anywhere but there - to notice a certain other, rather significant, woman watching him from a comfortable stance leaning against a marble pillar near one of the grand windows, just in the stone column's shadow, having emerged from behind a thin curtain at the far end of her room.
Boromir breathed deeply, and sat on one of the benches near the fireplace, facing away from the curtains. With his forearms resting on his thighs and his hands cupped between his knees, he let his regal airs fall from him as his shoulders slumped and his jaw lay open slightly.
"Where is she?" He asked the room, almost expecting it to answer, after everything that he'd seen.
"I was packing," remarked a familiar voice.
"Amela?" Boromir span to his feet, scanning the room for the one he'd been searching for the whole morning, "Plea-"
"I heard you the first time," she interrupted him abruptly, but with an odd smile beginning to stretch across her thin face, "and a please would've been nice then too." She giggled. "I'm sorry Boromir, but I can't stay in the citadel with you."
Standing there, frozen, was all Boromir could do after that. He'd expected a chance to at least fight for what he'd been wishing for since... well he couldn't really remember. Just as he managed to step forward to try and plead with her though, Amela burst out laughing. Her ruse was shattered.
"I can't stay in the citadel... because the people have given me a house!" With the news leaping from her lips like a burst of sunlight through a cloudy day, realisation dawned on Boromir like the rising of that same sun, as Amela ran toward him and flung herself into his arms. Light as she was, he span her with him - her arms locked around his neck; his around her waist - and set her down clumsily on the stone floor, their momentum almost throwing them both over.
"I don't understand," admitted the Captain, "you told me you could never stay in the city."
"That's the beauty of it!" Amela almost squealed the words, out of excitement. "I don't have to! The house has a garden that backs up onto a path that'll lead me right to the front gate! It's like you said in Meduseld when we saw the sunrise: I can still be free, still live in the wild lands, should I choose, but now..." She turned away, scanning the view of Minas Tirith from her windows.
"Now?" Boromir queried her sudden hesitance, been as though she was previously hardly able to contain herself.
"Now... now I'll have a home." She looked up at Boromir, smiling with pleased tears in her eyes.
"And you didn't think of that in Rohan?" Boromir asked teasingly as he nuzzled his strong face into Amela's hair. They stood like that for a little while: holding each other, Amela's head resting just below Boromir's neck, his head propped on top of hers. It wasn't until Boromir broke away from the embrace that any words were spoken. With a spark of memory in his eyes, he made for the door.
"And where are you going?" A confused Amela demanded.
"Meet me on the walls! Above the gates."
"That doesn't answer my question, Boromir." She pressed.
"At noon!" He shouted from down the hall.
Noon that day came all too slowly for Amela, who normally had not enough hours in the day; try as she might she could not dissuade her mind from pondering all the possibilities of what could happen at Midday. Eventually, though, she sun was almost at its peak in the clear azure sky. So, despite still being a little early, Amela marched down the circles of Minas Tirith in record time, climbing to the glistening city walls with a number of minutes to spare before noon struck. To her left, the vast lands of Gondor reached out to the horizon, and mountains and - somewhere - distant lands as yet untraveled; to her right, The White City surpassed its name, with every stone shimmering like a glorious diamond sculpture in the high sunlight. It occurred to Amela that maybe she ought to have worn something a little more "pretty" than her new leathers (a gift from Faramir, with the Lady Éowyn's help in choosing, no doubt) in a setting as awe inspiring as this. As she looked down at herself, thinking on this, footsteps brought the answer right to her.
"It's perfect." Boromir told her, beaming - Amela thought - almost as bright as the sun was this day. He walked up to her, hands behind his back, looking like a mischievous child the whole while; Amela stayed quiet, waiting to see what he had planned. Boromir was wearing the same clothes he'd had on the first time they met in those woods beside the Anduin (granted, they were mended and cleaned) and he looked a true son of Gondor: proud, strong, determined. Whatever he was hiding, Boromir concealed it in a hidden pocket somewhere in his cloak - undoubtedly installed for just this occasion - and then made Amela forget all her suspicions as he pulled her to him for only their second kiss. This one, not like before, was full of need and messages unclear; it spoke of giving and want and desire... but it was brief. Just as well, since Amela found herself breathless following its end. Struggling for words, she let whatever remark first came to her mind fall from her mouth, as the sun finally hit Midday.
"We have no shadows." She remarked quietly, her eyes still closed from the effect of Boromir's lips. When she opened them, she saw that he was kneeling: down on one knee on the white stone floor... holding out a bow. It was a thing of beauty: an ebony string bound to white wood and silver gilding, which wound through and around the wood in the pattern of shining branches and leaves. From the bottom of the bow hung two keys: keys to the house given to Amela.
"And no regrets." He finally said, as all the questions that were veiled in his kiss came to light; atop the gates to his city, he opened the doors to his heart. Forever.
There we have it, that's the end of Saving Boromir! If there are any loose ends you guys want tying up, let me know and I can add a short "epilogue" so to speak. Thank you so much for sticking with this story to the end, it really means a lot to me that people take time out of their days to read something of mine. So, again, thank you, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.