High in the Misty Mountains lay the nesting place of the great Eagles, where snow lay deep upon the crags and the very ground was hard as ice, rendering passage for the children of Men almost impossible. This treacherous terrain made the peaks of the mountains a perfect location for the nest of the eagles, as it had been for many years.
In each direction the sprawling lands of Middle-earth lay before Gwaihir, the greatest and swiftest of the eagles. The buildings of Men seemed like nothing more than smudges upon the vista that lay before him as he breathed in the bitter mountain air, spreading his wings wide, smelling the faint undertones of smoke from a faraway conflict.
The eagles were not unfamiliar with the conflicts of Men, but this latest unravelling of peace had brought much unease to Gwaihir’s heart.
Dawn came to greet him as he looked out over what soon would be the land of Men; the Sun’s unyielding warmth was unable to still the frigid air that clung to him. Gwaihir’s mind was occupied by news that the Elves were migrating back to the Undying Lands of Valinor, across the sea. He would mourn their parting, but their loss would blend into the memory of so many others, with time.
In his mind, Gwaihir felt the familiar tug of an old friend; Gandalf sent warning of a battle at the Black Gate. All those who would call themselves allies of freedom would be needed to extinguish the dying light of evil from the lands, and the eagles must be ready.
He remembered the Ring and the stories of its great power, pulsing with evil abandon. Gwaihir had not interacted with it directly — for it would surely corrupt him absolutely — but he had felt the Ring’s rage, even from a distance, on many occasions.
Time was limited, so Gwaihir called upon his brethren, screeching out in the language of the Eagles, calling the Council of the Great Eagles into session.
He waited, letting his thoughts wander to the Elves once more. The other Eagles would come to him, as his status among them afforded him this little grace. Gwaihir was not known for calling upon the others unless in dire need, causing the others to arrive promptly.
“What causes you to call upon the Council, Gwaihir, Windlord of the Great Eagles?” Landroval, the wisest among them, spoke first.
“It is none other than Gandalf who calls upon the Eagles, Landroval,” he responded.
“He has sent word that the forces of the Dark Lord are near defeat and requests the aid of the Great Eagles.”
“Then the quest of the Ring-bearer nears its end,” spoke another of the Council.
“It would seem that way,” Gwaihir responded in kind.
“What say the council?
Will we provide aid in the final battle for Middle-earth?”
Landroval turned from the group, casting his eye towards Mordor.
“The powers of darkness are greater than we can imagine, Gwaihir,” he uttered in a tone of sorrow.
“We cannot hope to defeat them.
Do you not remember the great war upon which we celebrated the victory of Men too early?
The Ring crushes the will of those who would oppose it; it cannot be destroyed.
If we join this fight, the price of many wings may have to be paid once more, but with no guarantee of success.”
“This is true, my brother, but surely we have a duty to the Valar, to the light, to all that is good in this world.
If we have a chance to transform the cloud of despair that hangs over this land into the vapour of success, should we not grasp it by our talons?” Gwaihir pleaded.
“Gandalf would not call upon us if he did not think that it was worth our sacrifice.”
“Or, if he fails and the lands of Middle-earth are cast into permanent darkness, it may be worth sacrificing all, or we and the Valar will be left with a vassal land not worth inhabiting,” he continued.
The other Eagles stood in quiet thought, the icy wind whipping through their feathered bodies.
“Very well,” Landroval said, breaking the silence. “We shall hold a vote. All in favour of offering the aid Gandalf petitions for, show your talons.”
Gwaihir looked around the circle of his kin, each Eagle staring into his very soul. He knew what Gandalf asked of him, and what he asked of his brothers.
One by one, each Great Eagle raised its talon, until there was not a single Eagle who did not stand behind him.
“Then it is settled: we shall aid Gandalf when he calls upon us,” Gwaihir announced.
“I volunteer myself, and I request two others to join me.”
Landroval hopped forward and bowed before the Windlord.
“It would be an honour, brother.”
Another stepped forward, bowing twice as deep.
“My wings will not falter, Windlord.”
The Windlord bowed back, so deep that his beak scratched upon the stones of the mountain.
At that moment, with the timing that only a Wizard could manage, Gwaihir’s mind was tugged by Gandalf’s call for aid.
“It is time,” Gwaihir screeched. “Join me, brothers, to battle,” he bellowed. “To death!”
His wings spread wide, scattering rocks below him, as he launched himself into the air. His resolve was unwavering as he propelled himself higher, the clouds swirling around their tips, as he made his way to the battle at the Black Gate.