The Resistance
A cacophony of their cries signalled their arrival and from the clouds of ash they emerged, salvation.
These noble beasts of the descended in a graceful arc, hovering before that jut that emerged sharply from the mountain of flame. The seven guardians of the exhausted Ringbearer followed Frodo onto the back of one of these mighty eagles and then were borne away, into the skies. A few moments later a skeletal thing emerged from the mouth of Sammath Naur, its back blacker than an orc’s heart and its mind lusting for so much: food, water, the Precious.
Hours, days, not even the wizard could tell how long it took to pass across the walls of the Black Land and over the fair forests of Ithilien and the grassy plains of Lebennin. In time the waters of Belegaer stretched out before them, an endless plateau of sapphire as far as the eye could see. It seemed to offer so much, even Gimli felt a calling, something crying out to be known.
Before that field of blue a citadel rose up on the edge of the Ocean, white towers stretching to the heavens, jagged cliffs, and mighty battlements standing above the waves. People swarmed below, tiny ants in a forest of stone.
Now the eagles gave renewed cries, slowly spiralling down towards the heart of the citadel. Their great claws snatched at the pale city walls and they crouched low to increase the ease at which their travellers could depart. The eight mysterious figures now bade grateful farewells to the beautiful birds and proceeded through the streets of the fair city, making their way to the citadel at its peak. The citizens in the streets looked on curiously for never had they seen such dishevelled creatures from all corners of the world, and never had they seen any man, elf, dwarf or little-person (of the latter none there had seen any in their lifetimes) arrive in such a mystifying manner. Indeed some civilians hid or cowered, they all knew the tales from the east, and what doubt was there that these figures were bearers of bad news or evil disguised in fair form like Annatar the Deceiver first appeared before the Elven Smiths of Eregion?
The eight finally assembled before the door to the citadel, tall and mighty it stood but darkened, like a weathered wooden relic torn from a bygone Age. They were welcomed in with uncertainty but someone had approved their entrance. They passed through more gates and more courtyards, following a straight road that steadily rose before halting before one last door, it opened, and into a mighty hall they walked. This place had a high ceiling adorned with murals of scenes told now only in fairy tales: the fall of Elendil and the Might of Isildur, the Last Stand of Gil-Galad and there was also one mighty piece depicting a glorious piece of fantasy: The Last Alliance of Elves and Men, drawn as to be some mighty tale not its reality: the bloody battles of fallen races. At the walls stood statues of long-dead Lords of Dol Amroth, windows cast light onto the crowns of each figure; was it the light on the marble, Frodo wondered, or did they appear to have tears upon their cheeks?
At the end of this spectacular palace a group of men stood arguing, as the Fellowship drew closer some of these men were recognisable at last, Gandalf noted them all save for two Captains of the Guards of Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth and a woman: Denethor, Steward of a Stolen Throne, Boromir, Faramir, and the Prince of Dol Amroth.
‘Hail, Lords,’ greeted the Wizard and they fell silent, turning to face the newcomers.
‘The victorious!’ Boromir exclaimed, ‘if only we had your fortune.’
‘Mithrandir!’ greeted Faramir, ‘We heard a tale that you fell in Rohan.’
‘It was no lie, but who told you this, there was no survivor of that battle.’
‘There were some, the Lady Éowyn of Rohan escaped and led her people through the mountains, she survived despite suffering many wounds for the Uruks pursued them,’ Faramir explained, ‘traps were then triggered in the tunnels and the roof fell in on the enemy.’
Aragorn stepped forward, ‘What is our current situation, how can we act?’
A Captain stepped forwards, ‘Scouts report that the scum of Isengard are resting, feasting on those who died. However it cannot be long until they rise again, undoubtedly they will move south, they will come for us.’
‘Can we hold them?’
‘In the east, Dol Amroth has only a little ground between it and the mainland, we can hold them for long before they breach the outer defences, we can hold them then at the inner walls and finally at the citadel, meanwhile the fleet can evacuate the populace from the city. This citadel is unassailable from the north, east, and south, never will an orc cross the Bays-’
‘This is no rabble of mindless orcs,’ Gimli interrupted, ‘these are Uruk-Hai, and as you should by the ease of the fall of your finest defence, these will fail before no barrier, how do you think the orcs lowered the bridge at Osgiliath? Boats! Water is no obstacle and if common orcs crossed the Anduin, I think intelligent beasts, half-men, will manage the Bays. You can hope they do not, but you could also hope your boats sprout wings and bear your devastated citizens to new peaceful lands in the West.’ There was an uneasy silence and Gimli moved towards the door, ‘Now if you don’t mind I’ll have a bed and enough beer to put an army of dwarves to sleep for a week!’
*
It is with little exaggeration to say that the Fellowship slept for a day, save for Gimli, who surpassed the period of twenty-four hours by a further seven.
The hobbits took to exploring the city for never had they seen one so mighty, they ventured through the docks and marvelled at the boats of such fine structure. As Sam, Merry and Pippin examined a battleship, Frodo walked further along one of the many piers, faint and lost in a dream. Sam turned and searched for Frodo and when he caught sight of him he cried out and sprinted towards him. As he drew near he seized his troubled companion and turned him from the water’s edge, ‘Frodo!’
‘It’s calling to me Sam,’ he murmured dreamily.
‘C’mon Frodo, there’s nothing there.’
‘The Sea, Sam, the Sea calls me home.’
*
‘I’m worried about Mr. Frodo, Gandalf, sir,’ Sam said, ‘He’s not the same.’
Gandalf nodded, sharing the concern, ‘He’s changed certainly, the Ring stretched him out, it allowed him too much strength where he should have had none.’
‘When we were at the docks he said... he said the Sea called him home.’
Gandalf nodded thoughtfully, ‘His path now is the same as the Elves’.’
*
They gathered around a circular table, the many men of Gondor, the one man of the north, the elf, and the dwarf.
‘How do we proceed?’ One man asked, voicing all their thoughts.
There was silence for a moment; they all searched their minds for an answer, now considering the more ludicrous ideas they could come up with.
Finally someone spoke up, a young Captain of Minas Tirith by the name of Istion, ‘The corsairs, maybe even the men of Harad.’
Bouts of hysteria replied and someone chortled, ‘Maybe even enrol the remnants of Mordor, and the Spiders of Mirkwood!’
‘The enemy of our enemy is our friend, sir,’ Captain Istion retorted angrily, ‘the Uruks will come to Harad and when they do, not even the Valar will protect all that is left of the Children of Illúvatar.’
The man who had mocked his suggested snorted and fell silent, Aragorn however looked at the officer and slowly nodded his head, ‘Is it feasible?’
Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth nodded, ‘We could dispatch a transport to the south with an escort, and prominent figures would have to go to show goodwill.’
‘I will go, my days on the battlefield are long since over,’ said Denethor, ‘they shall expect none higher in eminence than I.’
‘Then it is settled, I only pray that it is done in good time,’ said Aragorn and then more quietly, ‘there can’t be enough fallen souls in the White City to feed Isengard for long enough.’