Constructive criticisim appreciated.

A Soldier of Gondor

I had no time to receive a kiss from my dear wife. Nor give my son his carving of a toy horse I had engraved a month before.

It is with a heavy heart I mount my faithful steed, but as I look upon the figure of Lord Faramir, my fear vanishes. Yet what cannot prepare me is the look of despondency in his eyes. Yet he still moves swiftly and without hesitation.

We are to take back Osgiliath from the masses of orcs and Southrons who linger there. I recall the dramatic and frightening escape from that place to the refuge of Minas Tirith's large gates. The Nazgul swooping low, clawing at our backs. That last glimpse of my friend was his look of pure horror. I push the memory to the back of my mind.

I am now trotting. Slowly trotting through the winding, white streets of the City, already a dead man. People watch us go in silence, carpeting our path with flowers. They know our errand is hopeless. Their faces say it all, grave, observing and still. A young woman catches my eye and she weaves through the crowds to me, clutching a bundle of flowers.

"For luck," is all she says. The roguish, free strands of her hair catching slightly in the wind. She is beautiful and will see the world renewed. Alas my own wife is nowhere to be seen. Though I know why …

"You cannot go," is what she had last said to me. "For once, do not follow this mission. It is suicide. It is folly."

I had ignored her words. I was too headstrong, bred by the rigid callings of duty. And duty I must and will do. I love my leader and will follow him.

Surely I cannot love the Steward? Lord Denethor lost his way ever since our lady passed. But he blessed the City with his two sons, Lord Boromir and Faramir. Alas one which we men have believed to have passed to the Hall of his Father's. I mourn for him; he was a great and courageous warrior.

I am barely aware of the tall gates opening. I trot past on my steed; the flowers are now tucked neatly in a sleeve of my armour. Once out of the City we form a line instructed by Faramir. He nods at me as I ride beside him. Poor boy, is what I only think as I glimpse his hardened, determined face. Is this what he has to do to redeem himself for the ways of a madman? To prove he is as good as his brother?

Now it is too late to ever question the matter. My horse gathers speed and the thunderous pummel of horses' hooves, gallop across the Pelennor Fields toward Osgiliath. I feel the Orcs creeping up from behind the ruins of the City, readying their bows. Yet I feel a furious pleasure as I mercilessly charge my steed onwards, readying myself to slay these creatures. It replaces all fear.

If I am to meet my end, then this is how it is. Beside my Lord, to show that his men still love him.