When Gandalf had said they would ride in haste, he had not been joking.

The next three days were ones of profound discomfort for Nemireth. She had ridden for days at a time, having always refused a carriage when travelling to some distant lord's castle alongside her father and she had galloped some distances before.

Never had she done both as she was now.

There was no time for chat, no time for even taking in the varied landscapes they found themselves in; overgrown plains, small forests and hill lands passed before them as a blur without even a moment's hesitation. For her part, it was all the Princess could do to hold on to the reins in her hands and ignore the increasingly sharp pains in her thighs and down her legs from the incessant riding. How Súletal managed it, she had no idea. In fact, she was certain a lesser stallion would not have been able to cope but any time she tried to slow him down, the grey-speckled mount ignored her. It was as if being close to Shadowfax gave him strength were others would have found none. So she kept her head down, eyes half-lidded any time a stinging wind blew against them and ignoring the heat that beat down when they crossed the exposed grasslands. At least it didn't rain. There'd been enough rain in Rohan to do her for this lifetime and any others that followed it to the ending of the world.

Only once did Gandalf speak. After two days of constant riding in which she had only been able to doze in the saddle, when they had passed over a stream that was indistinct from the dozen others they had powered across, the wizard turned and called over his shoulder, "We have just passed into the realm of Gondor!"

The sound of human speech caught her off guard, her only company having been the rush of wind and the thump of hooves upon the ground. The latter in particular had become as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. Perhaps she should have been more elated to know that she was in the greatest land of men long past but all she hoped for in that moment was that it was a smaller country than it looked on any map so that her ordeal may be coming to an end.

Alas, the mapmakers of old had known better than her the size of Gondor and so it was another day of riding, through landscapes that she cared little to try and differentiate from the others they had passed until at last Gandalf brought Shadowfax to a gentle trot and finally allowed Súletal to draw alongside him, the first time since Edoras.

"Minas Tirith," Gandalf said, no more out of breath than if he had just climbed out of bed, "The city of Kings."

It was a glorious sight; a city whose descriptions could not have done justice to the sight before her. Nemireth wished she could have enjoyed it more, the concentric rings of marble formed around a great spear of rock, like the waves of the ocean breaking before the bow of a ship. She wished she could have taken in her first sight of the city of Isildur, Elendil and Boromir but right now, tired, cold, hungry and with pains in places she hadn't known existed before, she was more than happy just to get inside and get onto her own two feet once again.

What caught her attention more than Minas Tirith, even as they rode towards it, was the range of mountains to the east, beyond a vast river and a city which straddled either side of it. Beyond those mountains, fused together like a great and terrible wall she could see fire and ash being thrown high into the sky, joining a perpetual black cloud that seemed trapped in place above it, as if it had been moulded by a loving hand.

"Is that…" She was breathless, and her lips dry.

"Mordor," Gandalf answered, having mercifully kept a gentler pace. Perhaps it was the sight of Minas Tirith still standing which had calmed him, or the lack of an enemy roaming the flat ground before the city, "Ever has the capital stood in its shadow, the last great line of defence for the west."

"Is it always so…active?"

"Once the mountain slept, but as Sauron's power grows so too does that of his realm. It won't be long now. We must hope that Steward Denethor has Gondor ready."

And so up to the city they rode. Immediately, even through the tiredness, Nemireth frowned. The front gates, broad and taller than any she had ever seen, were thrown open. A constant stream of people moved in both directions, mules and horses alike pulling goods while conversation buzzed throughout, like that she had heard from the windows of the Royal Palace in Minas Luin. Tilting her neck back to see to the top of the gatehouse, she found a few guards watching but certainly not as many as she would have expected. There were a few more armoured men with spears at the gate but on sight of Gandalf they let him pass with bowed heads.

Now that she was inside the city, making her way through the cobbles streets of each layer, she found that Minas Tirith's glorious appearance from a distance did not hold up to close inspection. Many of the marbled buildings were dirty or pockmarked, blocks crumbled and worn in a way that would have had the governor of her own capital weeping in despair. A great many catapults were set atop the battlements but as she passed, she saw many were rotten and unmanned, little more than glorified statues. Still people passed through the network of streets, happily chatting and laughing, market sellers calling out their wares and bargaining occurring all around her. Plenty looked to Gandalf as he passed but just as many looked away or paid him no heed at all. All the while she looked for the garrison and saw some, here and there. Some were on patrol, some stood in towers or on the walls but there were few, so very few.

At least, they reached as far as the horses could go, a courtyard with a set of steps to the highest point of Minas Tirith. Stable hands emerged from the shadows to take the horses and now, only now, could Nemireth descend to the ground. It was a sensation not unlike that she'd felt when setting foot in the Grey Havens for the first time, stumbling as if unsure that the ground would remain in place beneath her feet. The urge was to stretch her legs, to work out the aches and kinks of the journey but already Gandalf moved, surging up the steps with Pippin at his side. Nemireth followed, though she was sure Mount Doom could have been climbed more gracefully than how she took the stairs. She could have sworn that the eyes of every man in the courtyard were on her, guards, farriers and stable hands but she refused to look, to give them the satisfaction. Let them think she was the ancient one to Gandalf's sprightliness if they wanted. She cared not. How would they feel after riding as she had done? That thought gave her some small sense of satisfaction.

Now they were at the highest point of Gondor. In the centre of the vast open space was a tree, gnarled and bare. The White Tree. The tree of the Kings, planted from a single seed saved from the fall of Númenor. In her stories it had looked so much more majestic, abloom with snowy petals, bursting with life, as vibrant as the kingdom which it overlooked. Now it just looked tired, old, a victim to the ravages of time.

"Your majesty?"

The familiar voice jolted her from her own thoughts and in that moment the pain and aches of the journey vanished.

"Karos!" She rushed up to him and threw her arms around the Company Commander. The grizzled veteran seemed taken aback by the gesture and awkwardly patted her back before she finally let him go. How long had it been since she had last him? That night in the palace, the day Gandalf had broken the news of Sauron's return. When he had counselled against making the journey at all, when he had snapped at her and she shouted at him. Before the Ring. Before Moria. Before the Ford of Isen or Helms Deep. It had been so long ago, "I'm glad to see you're safe."

"And I you, Princess," He was the same man she remembered, with an effortless authority that came from complete confidence. As ever, she felt herself shrink before that authority, "The news we have received these past months of your exploits has been…troubling, so say the least."

The Princess gulped, trying to push aside those memories that his words evoked and not helped by how tired she was already, "We accomplished our goal. For now, Rohan is safe and will ride to join us when called. Now we must focus our efforts on this city."

"Is that so, your majesty?"

"We discovered the enemy's plan, Karos. Sauron is going to attack this city! He could do so any day now, as soon as his full strength is gathered."

"Then I suggest we withdraw west with all haste, your majesty."

"What?" She gawped at him, sleep-starved mind taking a long time to process his words, "Did you not hear me, Karos? He will attack this city!"

"If he attacks with his full strength, as you say, then there is little we can do to prevent it. The city is both undermanned and unprepared for siege or storm. We received news a few days ago that three Legions have landed at the Grey Havens. If we march now, we can join with them and face the enemy in strength."

"Karos," She was glaring at the Commander now, boring into those immovable brown eyes, "Gandalf says that Minas Tirith is the key to the west! If we can't stop them here, there may be no stopping them at all!"

"Then I see little reason to throw away more good lives in a lost cause."

She bit her lip and looked away, closing her eyes as she tried to keep her rising temper in check, hands balled into fists, "What's been done to secure the city?"

Silence.

"Captain Karos? What has been done to secure this city against attack."

An exhale from the Officer, "We've deployed two hundred men from Samar's company to Osgiliah, joining three hundred there under the Steward's son, Faramir" He pointed out to the city on the river, "It's the city's only defence from direct attack."

"Good, and?"

"That's it, your majesty."

"That's it? Nothing else has been done?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Lord Denethor has given no orders. There's only so much we can do."

"Is that so?" She turned to the palace, where Gandalf had disappeared to without so much as a pause. She exhaled deeply through her nostrils, teeth gritting, "We shall see about that."

Off she went, Karos following her while the others looked hesitantly and stayed where they were. There were two guards at the doors but they looked alarmed at her approach and did nothing as she threw the doors open.

Within was a grand hall of stone and marble, lined along each side with grandiose statues of the kings of old, with a stone throne atop a dais at the far end. It rather uncomfortably reminded her of her own father's throne room; the same echoey footsteps, the same sense of being in a cave, cut off from the world beyond the doors. There was no sign of Gandalf or Pippin, only a man with long, dank hair sitting in a chair, not the throne itself but a wooden chair before it, lower and less grandiose. He did not look up as she stormed forward, only remembering to check herself at the last moment and bow.

"Hail, Lord Denethor. I am Nemireth, Princess of Aeanor and Captain-Commander of the King's Guard."

No response. He had not so much looked up.

She felt her irritation rise further at the insult, but with a deep breath she steadied herself. Now was not the time for anger, "I'm here to help with the defence of Minas Tirith. To that end, I believe we need to look at the catapults on the walls as they're in a dreadful state. I also can't see much evidence of the garrison on the walls and we should change that, to reassure the city that the threat is being taken seriously. I also recommend-"

"-I tolerate Mithrandir," Denethor at last spoke, mouth twisted into an ugly sneer, "For long has he been a servant to Gondor but you, you dare step into the hall of kings and lecture me on how best to defend my city?"

Another deep breath but the Princess was clenching her hands so tightly that she was sure she was drawing blood from her palms, speaking through gritted teeth, "We need not argue, my Lord. The Dark Lord has turned his eye to this city. We must prepare for the battle to come."

"You hold Council with the Dark Lord, do you?" The sneer seemed to grow, the derision emphasised in every single word that slipped past his lips, "You know his plans? A child from a pretender realm on the other side of the world?"

"We. Have. Seen. It." Nemireth could feel herself starting to shake, "We know that he is coming. You would leave this city open to him?"

"You walk a dangerous line, 'Princess'. I have seen more than you know." He looked down at the broken horn in his hands, "Nemireth of Aeanor, I have heard that name before. You travelled with this…Fellowship, did you not? You travelled with my son."

"Your son…" It hit her like a horse at full gallop, the name of Denethor, the face of Boromir filled her mind's eye and she was struck dumb by the pain that filled her. She remembered the last time they had spoken, when she had tried to convince him to leave the Fellowship with her in Lothlorien. When she had failed to save him, when the Ring's grip had been too strong for her to break. Even now his words cut at her heart; You traitor...weakling...

"You too were there then? When my son was killed?"

"I…I was not."

"No? Where were you?"

"I had…" She bit her lip, swallowing hard as she found she could not keep her gaze on his eyes, instead looking to the floor, "I had…departed the company."

"So you abandoned my son to his death," He shook his head.

"It…it wasn't like that…"

"My son," Denethor rose from his chair and limped down the steps, every word now vindictive, malicious, hateful, "The greatest son in Gondor's history, died in a wood with no name, with two halflings of no repute, surrounded by orcs and abandoned by his friends."

"You don't understa-"

"While you, a jumped up welp from a state that shouldn't exist, stand here before me and speak down to me like an imbecilic peasant. My son got to die because he was honourable. You got to live because you were a coward."

Nemireth snapped. The anger had been building at his insults, her hurt at the lies and her guilt at the truth he spoke. Her cheeks were flushed with anger and she went to punch him, drawing back a fist without thought of consequence or punishment. She just wanted to hurt him like he was hurting her.

A firm hand grabbed by the elbow, a curt call from Karos, "Your Majesty."

Denethor was right in front of her, eyes narrowed with a bitterness she had seldom seen in man, mouth twisted and ugly, skin pale and cracked.

The Princess threw off her captain and stormed from the hall, head down and cloak streaming behind her. She needed some fresh air.