Disclaimer: I do not own anything in LotR universe nor Hobbit's nor Silmarillion.
The darkness Sauron spread had reached Osgiliath, veiling the stars and the moon. Varilerin would not know if it was night or day if it wasn't for the thick mist engulfing the riverbanks, and the eerie cold air stinging her bones. So far since her arrival and conversation with Faramir, there had been no disturbances, her eyes told her. She scrutinised past the walls, peering into the mist with her vision and inner senses, whilst Faramir stood frozen beside her. The Man, as Varilerin had expected, was the polar opposite of his brother. He was quiet and melancholic, barely speaking after their discussion before, and waited for Varilerin to further speak—either it was because of his lack of insight of their current situation or his other-worldly patience she did not know.
"Are there men stationed close to the river?" Varilerin inquired, giving Faramir the speech he had been waiting for.
"Yes, several of them," Faramir answered with a nod," I did not assign many for the river has remained undisturbed. The Orcs are lying low."
"We've also sent scouts to Cair Andros," Madril added, taking position beside Faramir above the walls. He was, according to her judgements, Faramir's right-hand man. "If the Orcs attack from the North, we'll have some warning."
Varilerin narrowed her eyes, returning to the river. "I do not believe they will come from the North, Faramir."
Faramir did not speak, yet his face hinted curiosity. It was his comrade who spoke, almost accusingly. "And why is that?" Madril, instead of Faramir, asked. Faramir remained silent, all ears open to Varilerin's words.
"To unleash the greatest damages to your forces, the enemies must strike with stealth and surprise," Varilerin reasoned. "From the North they shall not gain any. There are no obstruction to our visions, for even without sending scouts we can see them coming," she explained as she pointed towards the river. "If I were our enemy, I would take the path from the river. The mist provides cover and therefore, surprise."
"But you are not an Orc," Madril retorted with a scoff, clearly underwhelming their enemies' intelligence.
"An Orc is cleverer than you thought," Varilerin argued grimly. "And stealth is one of their greatest weapons. I have suffered to their stealth once—" Varilerin paused, recounting her failure in noticing Orcs' cunning and dirty tricks hundreds of years ago. It had cost many of her comrades, and she certainly would not allow it to occur. "And I shall not let that happen again. Furthermore, the one leading this army might not be only an Orc. The Witch King is their true commander, along with perhaps another I fear might come."
"Who is this other figure?" Madril asked, receiving a frown from Varilerin.
"A man who calls himself Vrasari," Varilerin hesitantly said. "He is a formidable warrior equalling my skills. He alone can slay twenty of you in minutes. I can only hope he is not leading the army, a reckless hope nevertheless, and for that we must be prepared. Faramir, what say you?"
Varilerin turned to Faramir, who had pondered her suggestion deeply. He glanced at her face, which showed conviction of her words. She could not have given an empty suggestion, considering she was renowned for her name. "Farewell," Faramir finally said. "Madril, concentrate our forces near the river banks, but keep several in the North. I do not want any risks taken."
"And place archers on the wall, if you have enough," Varilerin added. "If we see movement in the river, we better take down the enemies by range. Orcs are wilder under the darkness."
Madril looked at Faramir, questioning whether she was of authority or not, and Faramir gave him a look which convinced him to do as she told him. Madril left with their orders, clearly not in agreement with the strange woman. Varilerin cared not for his disagreement, for what mattered was the trust from Faramir. "Come, we should not stand here," Faramir said.
Varilerin nodded and followed him towards the river, her bow ready in her hand and her eyes sharpened. As she ventured deeper into the city, she noted the buildings crumbling worse than the ones near the gates. Clearly, the recent siege the garrison suffered was not a light one, though it did not inflict greater damage to the men. Faramir instructed the idle men to move as they walked past and he did so as if enemies had arrived. Those resting immediately took their weapons and marched towards the river, those with bows to the top of the walls. Faramir indeed had trained these men well, and with outmost discipline they followed his orders and lined up. She wondered if this had been the way the rangers carried out their tasks since her grandmother's leadership.
She leapt up the stairs and landed on top of the wall, her eyes not leaving the river. The fog had thickened so that ordinary eyes could only see white mist, but her keener ones saw more, and her sharp senses as well. Whenever an Orc approached, she could almost certainly feel its foul presence disturbing her soul, and it was what she felt as she aimed her gaze across the river. Faramir stationed himself directly below her, readying his sword with outmost cautions. He waited, waited for Daefaroth to make words of what she saw, and to signal them of action.
"It is very quiet across the river," Faramir said to her, his voice almost a whisper but loud enough to enter her ears.
"Quiet, but not without a sound," Varilerin retorted, squinting her eyes. "There are shadows behind the mist, not far. Shadows of the enemy."
Faramir widened his eyes, subsequently drawing his sword slowly. His men followed his action, scattering behind the existing pillars with Faramir's signal. Varilerin saw the shadowy movement in the mist growing erratic, as well as faint lights glinting. Her pointed ears caught sound other than the Men's breathing, splotches of water being paddled with outmost stealth. She slowly drew her arrow and gestured the other archers to lie low, she herself ducking—though with her manner of clothing she was sure to be invisible in the cover of darkness.
"Wait for my signal," she told Faramir through mere eye contact. She drew a breath and peered through the fog, catching more torchlights flickering in the river. She counted, with her imagination making shapes of boats floating towards them. There were many, as she had expected, but just too many.
Sauron indeed did not take any risk in plunging Men to their demise.
Varilerin's breath hitched as she prayed the enemy not knowing their plans, before she caught the sound of the boats docking on the shore. She closed her eyes before she promptly rose to her feet, firing at the first visible Orc. Her arrow sang in the air, followed by a screech of a drying Orc and the sound of other arrows thwanging.
Many followed the first Orc's fate as arrows hit their chests. They growled in panic, searching for their enemies in the dark as more arrows defeated their comrades. "Move!" an Orc ordered in black speech. The Orcs quitted their ramblings and landed on the shores, those wielding bows and arrows aiming at the archers above. The element of surprise did not end, however, for Faramir swiftly leapt before the Orcs and thrusted his sword to the nearest enemy. The enemy archers once dedicated to the shooters above were soon occupied by the rangers skidding in front of them. With the distraction below, the archers continued to fire the enemies down without mercy. Varilerin released her weapons while she continued to observe the arriving army, scattering her gaze in search for a misplaced figure.
An arrow to a soldier beside her answered her concerns, shot with outmost accuracy, piercing into his skull. It was not even seconds before another arrived, this time taking down the other man by her side. It could be an Orc which had shot them, but her common sense said otherwise. No Orc could be that skilful archer, in such chaotic situation.
Varilerin glared towards the river, her hopes shattered when she discovered a dark-cloaked man aiming at her. She acted without further thought and drew her dagger, swinging it just in time to save herself from an arrow. Her eyes could never deceive her. It was Vrasari, the man bathed in blood.
"Vrasari, he has arrived," Varilerin murmured in horror. Bloodshot eyes flashed at her, hatred and bloodthirst brimming in each of the orbs. Varilerin shuddered and turned to the men, who relentlessly glanced at their dead comrades. "We cannot stay here. Move to the other side of the wall! NOW!"
Her shout echoed in the air, almost like a desperate scream, and urged the men to shuffle quickly out of Vrasari's side. Varilerin retreated without taking her eyes off Vrasari, who had landed on the shore with a terrifying grin on his face. He drew another arrow, aiming it at the lingering Varilerin, and she shifted just in time to prevent her death.
Below, the swordsmen left their grounds with the flooding enemy and retreated deeper into the city. His men were falling as well, succumbing to the brutal force of the Orcs. Varilerin grunted, realising that they could never defend the city long despite their planning ahead. To make it worse, the one whom she feared indeed led the army, and he stood in the frontlines.
"Faramir!" Varilerin shouted as she leapt to the ground beside him. She fired her arrow at a charging Orc before she drew her swords. She desperately searched for the blood cloak of Vrasari as she helped clean Faramir's men of the threatening Orcs. Faramir took down an Orc before he turned to her for questions. "Vrasari is here," Varilerin informed.
"Then this man is truly terrifying," Faramir remarked while he held the ground with Varilerin. "I did not expect Daefaroth to be frightened by anything."
"I appreciate the flattery, but this man is indeed very terrifying," Varilerin retorted with a grunt. She slashed the head of an Orc and kicked its corpse away from her before she continued. "It is rare to find a man with such stealth at night, easily escaping an Elf's watch. If this man is here, the chance of your men's survival is almost none."
"It is almost none when those Orcs come flooding in," Faramir said. Around him his men started panicking, the ruthless Orcs charging at them with growls and roars. Above the archers started falling down, each one defeated by a single arrow to the head. Faramir gaped when one of them fell beside him, an arrow piercing through its eye. He felt his body paralysing for a moment, until Varilerin's hand pulled him away from a stray arrow. Faramir landed behind a pillar, panting heavily next to the elleth.
"This is no time for spacing out, Faramir," Varilerin rasped, hitting a passing Orc with her blade before she ran back.
"Whoever this Vrasari is, Varilerin, he is no man!" Faramir shouted as he tailed her. "His aim is uncanny. Only one race is capable of such aim!"
"He is an Elf," Varilerin responded without hesitation, her mind still focused on the battlefield. She glanced over her shoulder, searching for the said enemy to no avail. She furrowed her brows, her mind wary that Vrasari was actually lurking in a place she could not see—a chance for him to take down Faramir and her from darkness. "None of my dead comrades are men, except your brother."
Faramir gawked, trying to comprehend her statement. Varilerin's sharp glance silenced his further questions, commanding him to concentrate on the current battle. And he did, for he had no choice after the enemies truly entered the city. The rangers were still firing arrows above them, though their numbers had dwindled considerably after such a short time. The Orcs had climbed the walls and started chasing the archers, who had been targeted by an unknown figure Faramir could only guess to be the bloody assassin.
"To the other side of the city!" Faramir screamed. "Draw your swords! To the lower ground!" he added to the escaping archers. They obeyed almost immediately, having Orcs tailing behind their backs like hunters seeking their preys. Faramir scanned around the battlefield, searching for any of his comrades who had not retreated. He found none, and he found none of Varilerin's dark figure either. "Varilerin!"
"Go!" a shout came somewhere behind him. Faramir glanced over his shoulder, seeing Varilerin ravaging on her own to protect several soldiers. "I'll be behind you!" she shouted. Faramir could only obey reluctantly, himself being aimed at by numerous Orc archers. As a warrior he had been educated to bury any fear cast upon him in the battlefield, but the sight of his men hopelessly massacred by his enemies could only resurface a dread he once had as a kid. He appeared as child when he saw Varilerin, marring her fair face with Orc blood. He wanted to stand by her side, but he could do so much with his abilities. All he could do was to trust her of whatever she was planning, and lead his remaining men back to the city.
But just before he sprinted away from her, he saw a blood hood roaming in the sea of Orcs, swimming closer to Varilerin. Faramir turned around and unconsciously ran back to the horde. His lungs burnt before he screamed one definitive warning. "VRASARI!"
Varilerin frozed minutely before she realised the meaning of his warning. She immediately turned around from her dying enemy and met two blades with her own. The same bloodshot eyes back in Edoras met hers, purging silver orbs with hatred and menace she had never seen—felt before. His strength was otherworldly, almost pinning her to her knees with only two short swords. The resemblance was uncanny for her, though what attracted her out of focus was his visage. She had indeed seen him before, and she knew him.
"Who are you?" Varilerin demanded as she gritted her teeth. Vrasari's smile was shadowed by a mask covering his mouth, preventing Varilerin to get a better insight of his identity. He continued to push her with his strength, her arms trembling once she came upon her knees. She was only saved by Faramir's sword, swinging towards Vrasari's head only to miss terribly. Vrasari leapt back lightly, preparing for another attack if it was not for Faramir throwing him a dagger, which again was evaded by the warrior.
Faramir pulled Varilerin with an unbelievable strength and escaped from Vrasari with inhumane speed—one could only possess at such a dire time. Varilerin did not pull her gaze away from Vrasari, who had drawn his arrow and targeted them. "Right!" Varilerin muttered as she now pulled Faramir out of Vrasari's line of sight, joining with the remaining rangers.
Half of the city was now covered with Orcs, with more to come. Varilerin skidded to a halt before Madril, who had taken a large gash on his hips but still stood fast and armed with courage. Varilerin gazed at her hands, tremoring after her confrontation with Vrasari, and could only muse incredulously. It was only then she realised so much Orc blood on her hands, reminded how much time had passed since the start of the defence.
"We can't hold them. The city is lost," Madril said to Faramir, pain hiding behind his voice. He intended to speak once more, but deafening screeches cancelled his intentions. He looked up, catching the sight of fell beasts approaching the city. "If we do not move now, men will also be lost."
"Tell the men to break cover," Faramir ordered without further ado. "We ride for Minas Tirith!" Faramir ordered the surrounding men. Varilerin shook her head, compelling her senses to do as they were told before she sheathed her swords. Behind them the rest of the men had escaped the horde, allowing Varilerin to leave for Elen without further hesitance. The screeches came closer, inaudible shrieks of Nazgul penetrating her mind like swords. She drew her bow again, counted her remaining arrows, and skipped to her steed.
"Nazgul!" the people screamed as the fell beasts dived into the city and grabbed the running men as if they were mere hares, throwing them to the air and letting their bones crushed by the fall. Varilerin ran without direction, evading the fell beasts with all her effort before she leapt onto Elen. Elen immediately lifted its hooves and paced away from the forsaken city, following its kin who had embarked first.
Varilerin let out a hopeless sigh of relief despite the situation at hand, for at least she had escaped Vrasari temporarily. Now the danger was not the assassin, but the Nazguls preying them like eagles. "Retreat! Retreat for your lives!" Faramir shouted from afar. Varilerin gripped her bow and reached for her remaining arrows, counting three of them as she drew them altogether. She released her grip on Elen's reigns and turned her body, knocking three arrows at once as she scrutinised the closest fell beast.
It was an impossible shot, but she had lived too long to not believe the impossible.
Between her heartbeats she fired her arrows at the creature's neck, hitting dead on and jolting it at the sky. A screech followed, both from the beast and the Nazgul, before the former ultimately fell from the sky. It crashed the ground not far, allowing more men to escape from its ferocity, however small their numbers were. With no more arrows to shoot, she shifted her focus to making it alive to the city, whilst more enemies tailed their paths.
As if answering their pleads of survival, the city gates of Minas Tirith slowly opened. From it came a white rider wielding a staff in his hand. Varilerin's eyes brightened with hope as Gandalf rode towards them, lifting his weapon to the skies.
"Mithrandir!" she shouted triumphantly. Gandalf replied with a shine of light emanated from his staff, so bright it blinded the men and paralysed the Nazguls. Their pursuers were blasted with the wave of light and retreated without further ado. Gandalf paced faster with Shadowfax, ensuring the safety of the other riders as he escorted them to the White City. Men who had faltered directions united in a single line, protected by Gandalf's power. They swiftly made through the city gates without further obstructions, each of them sighing relief and thankfulness once they came to a halt.
Gandalf unmounted Shadowfax and approached Varilerin, who still recollected herself after the gruesome fight. "They are too many, Gandalf," Varilerin told him as she slowly left Elen. "They broke through the defences despite our precautions. Their forces are, I am afraid, larger than the ones in Helm's Deep."
"It is as the Lord Denethor predicted! Long has he foreseen this doom!" a man called Irolas said.
"Foreseen and done nothing!" Gandalf scolded the overseeing man. He turned again to Varilerin and Faramir, who looked at Pippin—standing behind the Wizard—with incomprehensible visages. Gandalf's brows flew up, and Varilerin was the one who decided to speak.
"Frodo and Sam. Faramir told me that they passed by," Varilerin informed him quietly.
"In Ithilien, not two days ago," Faramir added with short breaths. "They're taking the road to Morgul Vale."
Varilerin gaped, surprised of this new information, and turned to Gandalf. "They're going to pass Cirith Ungol," she deduced, knowing she was correct just by seeing Faramir's expression. Pippin moved from his hideout, exhilarated by the news and confused at the same time. "It's Gollum, Gandalf. Gollum is guiding them to Mordor, either for good or worse."
"Faramir, tell me everything. Tell me all you know," Gandalf pleaded. Faramir nodded and followed Gandalf towards the citadel, leaving the bemused Pippin alone with Varilerin.
"What does that mean? What's wrong?" Pippin asked Varilerin warily.
"It means they are getting closer to Mordor, through a shortcut everyone barely knows," Varilerin murmured. "Though it is very unlikely they get any closer."
Varilerin refrained herself from meeting Denethor once more with Faramir, Pippin, and Gandalf. Instead she busied herself by tending the wounded rangers, several of whom suffered poisoned gashes and stab wounds. With the impending battle at hand, Varilerin taught all the healers of the cures to the poisons used by the Orcs, at least those within her knowledge. They learnt as swift as she had educated them, though the matter landed on the insufficient herbs in the city. Denethor indeed had not been ruling well, ignoring the important aspects of defence including the availability of medical materials. Varilerin pressured the importance of Athelas to solve this problem, though she knew it would only do so little in the upcoming battle.
Once all the injured had been tended, Varilerin took a brief rest and gazed to the skies. Day and night could not be discerned now, only the action to be taken. She could not spare a smile now, even though Pippin had accomplished his role by lighting the beacons. Theoden and his men certainly would come to their aid, no doubt, but it would take time. And their forces would still be outnumbered, considering the addition of Haradrims and the mercenaries from the coast. The latter reminded her of Aragorn's obligation as the Heir, and his capability to turn the tide of the battle if he could draw forces from the undead.
Now she thought of it, she had missed the company of her friends. Her heart sank as she realised the Fellowship had passed and endured so much. They had embarked as a whole company of ten, swearing the vow to protect Middle Earth, but now there were only pieces scattered like puzzles. The journey had their fates overturned, washing them like aimless boats dragged by the waves. They could not discern their way in the endless sea, and could only hope to the stars that they survive the way. Yet it was that hope which bound them stronger than anything, hope which convinced them all sufferings bear fruit.
She shifted her gaze and found Gandalf waiting before the door of the healing chamber, standing still like a statue as he joined her gazing the horizon. "What did Faramir say?" she quietly asked.
"Nothing more important other than the fact Frodo and Sam are alive and taking the horrifying pass," Gandalf answered.
"And what did Denethor say?"
Gandalf parted his lips, but rendered them shut. Varilerin drew a deep breath in understanding and played with her hands, knowing nothing further to say. It was Gandalf who spoke next, his voice emanating a fatherly warmth long he had not revealed. "You miss the others," he curtly remarked.
Varilerin twitched a half smirk, still looking at her hands. "I miss them, indeed, but I do not worry for them. Trust has been developed among us while you're gone, My Friend, and it will not be shaken by mere separation alone."
"And what of love?" Gandalf smiled when Varilerin looked at him, almost a glare. In the past she would certainly reprimand him with harsh words, but now she could only stare with bemusement. With those simple words she realised the Wizard's greater involvement in her personal journey, as well as the other's.
"I know you have spoken with him," Varilerin simply responded, maintaining a disinterested tone.
"No, it is the other way around," Gandalf retorted nonchalantly, almost surprising her with his answer. He took a step closer before he settled beside her, forming a solemn smile. "He had a vision after you fell from the cliff. He saw you singing in the Hall of Fire, alive and well. He described yourself as peaceful and contented." Varilerin did not move nor speak, only widening her eyes. Legolas had never told her, perhaps for her own good, and now she wondered why the Wizard inform her of this. But she could not perceive any hidden intentions from the Wizard.
"Legolas wishes for you no more grief and suffering, dear," Gandalf whispered, Varilerin not moving. "He truly loves you, all of us can see that. Do not let his hopes down because of this blood assassin—another shadow of your yet insignificant past."
"I know, Gandalf," Varilerin whispered back emotionlessly. "I know you are afraid Vrasari shall cast me back to the abyss, but I shall not—not when I have someone whose hands will always reach me."
At her assurance Gandalf merely smiled, this time genuinely. "And here I thought I was the one changed the most after our separation."
Varilerin scoffed as she noticed a figure running towards the chamber. She had expected him to be Pippin, dressed with the citadel uniform, only to be surprised when she discovered he was none other than Beregond. Varilerin immediately stood up, receiving the man with a gape. "Beregond, what is wrong?" Gandalf demanded as the man skidded to a halt.
"Lord Denethor has ordered Lord Faramir and his men to retake Osgiliath," Beregond rapped. Varilerin glanced at Gandalf, who shared the same expression. Beregond swallowed before he continued. "They are departing now."
Without further ado Varilerin rushed from the healing chamber and towards the gate, the slower Wizard tailing her from behind. He can only meet doom in such battle! she screamed internally. She stopped behind a crowd of people lining along the road of the city, waiting to bid farewell to the rangers. Their visages were decorated with grief and loss as they waited. Gandalf arrived behind her, panting as he searched for Faramir and his men. They arrived not long after, riding their horses and cladded with battle armour.
Gandalf pushed his way through the crowd, approaching Faramir. "Faramir! Your father's will has turned to madness. Do not thow away your life so rashly!"
"Where does my allegiance lie if not here?" Faramir responded plainly. "This is the city of the men of Numenor. I will gladly give my life to defend her beauty, her memory, her wisdom."
"Who will defend the city if all of you die in a reckless siege?" Varilerin argued as she stepped before him, forcing the entire line to a halt. "Your father has been blinded by grief, Faramir! I thought you have realised this back in Osgiliath!"
"Yet there was no order back there," Faramir retorted. "A captain is given authority in battle to decide, but here in the city the Steward's orders are absolute."
"The city cannot lose another great warrior."
"This city has lost him not long ago."
His words struck Varilerin like thunder and forced her out of the way. She wished she could knock him out to save his soul, but the man's resolve truly defeated her. He became the mountain, unbent by the harsh winds and storms; a lonely mountain in the plain. "I cannot lose you like I lost Boromir," Varilerin whispered lastly.
"Protect the city, Varilerin. I am sure it will be safe under your watch," Faramir said lastly before he walked away with his men. Varilerin and Gandalf stood still as they watched them meeting their own demise, slow yet fast.
"Your father loves you, Faramir," Gandalf spoke to himself. "He will remember it before the end."
"It will be too late by then," Varilerin whispered as the men disappeared from the city. Her morals were swayed, for she had never seen a man so loyal and loving to his father that he risked his life for the greater survival of his people. And she had never encountered a man so engulfed with grief that he lost his way, so lost he could not be recovered. And she would always be rendered useless when she confronted such things, things she understood but could not accept. She could only pray, pray, and pray.
Oh Valar, spare this son of Man from the impending doom. Spare his father from unrelenting grief. Spare his people from never-ending danger. Spare us the light promised to us after this darkness.
Sounds answered her prayers, inaudible to the ears of men but as clear as day in hers. The sound of arrows, and the dead.
A/N: Hello guys! So I know I am posting pretty late because the next chapters are not fully written yet. I am still affected by the lack of creativity in writing and thus must change my update days into every 5 days or so. The reason is also because the battle of Minas Tirith is freaking hard to write, and because life has started to disturb me (lol).
Anyway... Thank you again for all the reads, follows, favourites, and reviews! I love them all as always and I'll see you soon!