March 11 3019
A messenger came earlier from Faramir, saying that orcs from Minas Morgul were marching on Osgiliath, and that they were being joined on the way by the Haradrim. Curse those bloody Southrons! I daresay they're not coming to give us reinforcements.
Although the news was not unexpected, the lord Denethor's reaction was. He seemed almost...gleeful, as if something he had long forseen had finally come to pass. Even the news that they were being lead by the dreaded Dark Captain seemed to give him grim pleasure. For my part, I was horrified. It is said that a terror goes before this Captain that no man is able to stand against. Ithilien would still be ours, were it not for him. And now he comes to Osgiliath...
o0o
March 12 3019
The Sun did not rise today. Part of me is glad that I am here at the Citadel, rather than blundering about in the dark at Osgiliath, trying to descern whether it is a friend or enemy at the other end of my sword.
I don't know where that thought came from, and I am ashamed of it. I'd like to blame it on this confounded darkness. It seems to be weighing on everyone except the lord Denethor. He has been unusually animated, pacing the hall and thinking out loud, plotting schemes and strategies out on scraps of paper.
It raises one's spirits just to watch him. He is so like the Denethor of my father's stories that I begin to wonder if the changes I have seen in him were purely my imagination, or perhaps a dream.
o0o
January 2977
' I suppose I should -- be grateful for the shade,' Tatharion's thoughts, like his breath, were coming in jerky gasps. 'But -- I really wish bloody Mordor-- would have picked a -- nicer -- day for this!'
Osgiliath had been attacked shortly after dawn, and the battalion stationed there had been fighting with hardly a respite ever since. It had to be at least noon by now, but it was hard to tell. The sky was masked heavily with low dark clouds that were steadily adding to the slippery slush underfoot.
Tatharion used the hilt of his sword to smash in the face of an orc coming up on his side, then looked wildly around for Denethor. The Steward's son had come to Osgiliath only yesterday to see personally to the conditions there. Tatharion couldn't help but wonder if the attack this morning was mere coincidence, or if the Dark One had somehow known Denethor was going to be all but within his grasp today.
There he was -- on top of a nearby ruined wall with a cluster of archers. He looked to be trying to get a better view of the battle, but Tatharion had to wonder if the better view was worth the risk of being hit by a bolt from an orc's cross-bow. He began fighting his way toward the Steward's Heir; parrying a clumsy blow from an orc, then cutting its neck with a backhanded strike; ducking away from another's mace before shoving his sword through its chest.
He glanced up again at Denethor, saw him stare at something, stiffen, and glance wildly around. Tatharion turned and squinted through the snow, but crumbling walls and archways were blocking his view, he couldn't see what Denethor was staring at. He looked back up just in time to meet Denethor's eyes. The gaze held for a moment, then Denethor turned and shouted something to the archers. He jumped down and caught Tatharion's arm. 'Thorongil is in need of aid! Come!' and he was off running while Tatharion scrambled to keep up, still trying to make sense of what had just been shouted at him.
He slipped in the slush and nearly fell when Denethor made an unexpected turn into a side street... right into a nest of orcs. Denethor quickly killed two and Tatharion the last, then the rest of the street was clear and they ran like mad down it.
A troll stepped into the alleyway ahead of them, and suddenly the street was not clear. Tatharion's first instinct was to slow down and think about going another way, but Denethor barely broke stride.
The troll bellowed and brought its heavy sword down, but Denethor danced neatly under it and brought his own sword up, cutting the underside of the troll's arm. He let the momentum carry him past the troll, bringing his sword hard around and slicing the troll's side.
Tatharion ran past the distracted monster just in time to see Denethor raise his sword over his head, and, with both hands and all his strength, plunge it into the troll's back near its kindeys. The troll roared in pain, stumbled, and fell.
Denethor wrenched the sword out and turned to continue running. 'Hurry!'
A right turn, down another alley, out through a nearly ruined arch, and Tatharion could see their destination.
The strange captain, Thorongil, had fought too far ahead of the rest of the battle, and was now cut off, fighting another troll as a knot of jeering Uruk-Hai did everything possible to make it difficult for him.
Tatharion paused and took a deep breath before he and Denethor charged into the Uruks.
Despite the element of surprise, the Uruks weren't entirely unprepared, and the fight was a fierce one. Tatharion had just killed his second Uruk and was paused, gasping for breath, when a sound from behind caused him to spin around.
The troll from the alleyway was limping under the arch, bleeding and terrible to see. It glanced about at the fighters, and its gaze rested on the Steward's Heir.
Tatharion's eyes widened, and he attempted to shout a warning. 'Milord De--' But he was cut off as the troll roared in fury.
Denethor heard the roar and turned quickly. He seemed frozen in place for a bare second, then ran toward the troll, going wide out of its sword-reach and darting into the archway, climbing on a pile of rubble and pressing his back to the stone. The troll followed determinedly, stamping toward him, but he didn't move. He remained frozen, staring at the troll, waiting...
The troll raised its sword with a roar and swung it with awful strength at the Steward's son. Denethor leaped to the side and tripped as he landed, falling and rolling out of the way. The troll's sword smashed into the side of the arch. The blow shook loose the dangerously weakened morter, and the precarious stones of the arch came crashing down on the troll, knocking it forward, thudding heavily on its head and back. Denethor scrambled to his feet and ran his sword into the downed troll's throat.
The fight continued. Tatharion removed the head of another Uruk; Denethor came climbing back through the rubble of the archway and dispatched one of his own. Thorongil disemboweled his troll and narrowly avoided being crushed as it fell.
Then it was over. The three were panting, looking around for something else to fight, but there was nothing. The street was empty. Tatharion let out deep shuddering breath and slumped against a wall, sliding down to sit on a fallen rock. Thorongil remained standing, but sagged as if he'd never move again. Denethor leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees and breathing hard. 'Well,' he gasped, looking up, 'I think I'll have to cite that troll with creating a nuisance, destruction of property and...' he glanced back at the dead troll blocking the archway, 'obstruction of the roads?'
Tatharion giggled weakly, and it felt so good he found himself laughing till his stomach hurt.
o0o
March 12 3019
That is the Denethor I had a too-brief glimpse of today.
Another messenger arrived even before the noon-bells rang, to say that Osgiliath had been completely overwhelmed, and Faramir and his men were retreating, hoping to hold the Causeway Forts.
Being a member of the Citadel Guard has many draw-backs, the greatest of which being that one stands about like a peice of decoration, unable, even forbidden to do anything, while a war goes on at one's own gates! It makes one feel cowardly.
Lord Denethor looked almost to feel the same way I did. He pressed the messenger for details, then almost distractedly sent him down to mess to refresh himself, and afterwards fell silent.
The wizard Mithrandir announced that he was needed at the battle and hurredly left. The Steward watched him go, and though his gaze had a small stab of anger in it, it was more one of envy and longing. He resumed pacing the hall, but it seemed restless now, and he often paused at the windows looking to the East.
I noticed, when he passed close by me, that worry lines had tightened between his eyes.
