Author's Note: This is kind of a random oneshot that hit me when I was watching Return of the King. It's written from Minas Tirith's point of view. It sounds bad, but trust me, it's not as crazy as it sounds-at least I hope so. :) Anyways, I'm rambling. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own Lord of the Rings.
Minas Tirith, the City of Kings. The proud structure stood at the heart of Gondor, a welcome sight to those she was home to. The streets were quiet as a tall, thin soldier made his way to the Citadel. He noticed that the structures were aging—Minas Tirith had been home to every ruling family of Gondor since before the time of Isildur. The cobblestone streets were worn, and signs of wear were beginning to show in the buildings.
She had protected her sons, her leaders. The city seemed to weep as Faramir, son of Denethor clutched the broken Horn of Gondor in his hands. One of her sons had passed on, and she hadn't been able to save him. A feeling of woe swept over every level of the city as rumors spread—Boromir, son and heir of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor's armies, had been killed in his mysterious quest.
The wind didn't give life to her banners. The sun was hidden by monstrous, unnatural black clouds coming from the East. She watched, heartbroken, as her only son, was forced to deal with his grief alone, having lost the one person in his life who understood, who had cared. She watched in horror as Denethor began communicating with the Eye, using the cursed Palantir.
Despite the grievous blow dealt to her, Gondor's heart continued to beat as Faramir took over his brother's position. He tried desperately to keep the city safe, but she knew it was only a matter of time before the dead lay in her streets, trampled by Orcs. She loved her son dearly, but there wasn't anything he could do.
He would try, though. He knew that his city was in danger, and that it was his responsibility to save her. He would do as his father ordered him—he would try to retake the garrison at Osgiliath with only a small company of men. He knew he would die. He knew that he would fail. He would go through with it anyway. He was loyal to his city.
Minas Tirith echoed with sorrow and shock as the small company of men rode from the Citadel to the Fields of Pelennor. She cried for her lost son as the Hobbit's words rang throughout her halls. She was finished, she knew it. Her sons were spent. The return of the true king was unlikely, but it was her only hope.