Even as they picked their way through Osgiliath, Nemireth's mind was racing, her mouth bone dry.

What if Faramir had taken the Ring? What could she do? She felt every muscle across her shoulders and chest tense, quickening her breathing. No one else but her would know. If he had indeed taken it then she doubted she would be able to escape to warn anyone. Then what? What had he done with Frodo and Sam? She mouth narrowed into a tight line, supressing the scowl she wanted to give to Damrod's back. If he kept the hobbits prisoner, she would kill every single damned man who stood between her and them. She put a hand on her blade. Whatever it took, she would take the Ring from him.

And yet.

A part of her thrilled at the idea of seeing the Ring again. A shadowy part that had been buried deep down since Lothlorien. A part that nearly overwhelmed and destroyed her, just as it had then overwhelmed Boromir. It would be a cruel irony if she had fled the Fellowship only now to find the Ring was so close after so long, after everything she had gone through.

Your name would become legend…

She shook her head, trying to clear those thoughts, trying to rid herself of the growing excitement. The Ring could be so close…

She crashed into the back of Damrod who had come to a halt at the corner of a particularly large building. Only now did she hear the shouts of men, the whistling of arrows and the deafening splashes and crashes of stonework being demolished. It was a noise that brought a chill to her veins, the sounds of Helms Deep, the sounds of battle. How had she made it so far without hearing it? How far had they walked?

"Keep your head down, ma'am," Damrod was looking over her with some concern, "And follow me."

She nodded. It was only when she looked down that she saw the hand still resting on her sword was shaking, fingers clenched white.

Damrod broke cover and, with a deep breath, she followed him.

The front line was so much worse than she could have imagined.

Here the city was split by the Anduin, but where it was cool and clear by Lothlorien here it was thick and claggy like burnt porridge. There was not a single building that not been smashed down to their roots, nothing more than great piles of shattered masonry with only the odd shard of wall remaining standing. Arrows rained back and forth across the river, falling like hail amongst the stones and clattering off shields, bouncing viciously off the ground like vipers. Boulders the size of houses rained in from high above as if the Valar themselves were tossing them from amongst the stars. Some landed in the river, throwing up great columns of the blackened water while others flew over their heads and into the city, accompanied by a cacophony of cracking masonry and the scream of the wounded.

All throughout this hellscape she saw men of Gondor and Aeanor alike huddling behind what little cover the ruined city could provide. They would leave only to loose an arrow into the similarly devastated opposite side of the river towards an unseen enemy. She felt an arrow ping off the ground at her feet while other whistled above her head, barely missing her helmet.

Ahead, Damrod skipped from cover to cover like a mountain goat, running with his head bowed as if fearing the final blow. Nemireth followed as best she could, albeit slower with her shield and spear. The dead littered the ground around here, both Gondor and Aenorean alike. Had they died without ever seeing their enemies? This was no way to fight!

At last they reached what seemed to be the last standing structure on the river bank, though it too was missing a great deal of its roof and most of its first storey. Inside it was darker than it should have been for being so open, the floor strewn with rubble even as men gathered. Some were eating, their helmets removed to show the faces of worn and exhausted men. Some were sleeping and others were having wounds tended. Yet others stood atop makeshift wooden platforms so they could reach the windows not longer accessible by floor, loosing arrows behind ducking behind cover once again.

At the centre of this hub of misery and war, a group of men gathered around a table. A few were in Aeanorean armour and she recognised the balding head and broad silver moustache of Captain Samar. He was speaking with a younger man with muted red hair, dressed in the same uniform as Damrod.

"Captain Faramir," Her guide bowed his head, "Captain-Com…uh…Princess…Nemireth…of Aeanor."

The redheaded man turned to face her.

Nemireth heard herself gasp for in that moment she saw the face of a ghost. But for the hair and the slighter build, she could have been looking into the face of Boromir.

"My lady," He bowed to her. By the Valar, he even sounded like Boromir. This was the man who had taken the Ring? "Welcome to Osgiliath."

"A pleasure, Captain Faramir," She managed to say only to immediately regret it. Was it really a pleasure? Here? Of all places? "A pleasure to meet you, that is."

"Indeed," He ever so slightly raised an eyebrow at her verbal fumbling, "Your presence is of course welcome but there's not much happening beyond some skirmishing across the river."

"We have reason to believe the enemy will look to move soon," She was still searching his face and in particular his hands. Each was gloved but sure if he had the Ring, she would have known by now. Though that pulsing excitement was still beating within, it felt old and tired rather than the fresh raw excitement she'd have surely felt if it were close. She could not help but feel disappointed, followed immediately by a deep shame.

Faramir frowned, "There's only one way to bring an army across the river in numbers and it's both smashed and guarded," He gestured to a smashed ruin high above their heads, "The major crossings would take them far north or south of Minas Tirith," He turned to one of his own men, "Send word to the sentries along the river. They're to raise the alarm at any sign of enemy activity."

"Yes, sir." The man dashed from the room.

Still Nemireth watched him cautiously, "Another thing, Captain. Damrod mentioned that when you arrived, you brought with you two halflings, hobbits of the Shire specifically."

Faramir glanced at the Ranger and back to her, suddenly on his guard, "Damrod is correct. The two hobbits were in our company for a while."

"Were they harmed?" She just blurted it out. She was in no mood for games nor double-speak. She had yet to see any sign of either Frodo or Sam.

"No. They were in good health."

"May I speak with them?"

"They left some days ago."

"Where?"

"I cannot tell."

He was lying. He hid it well, his expression never changing but she could see how uncomfortable the others around the table looked, Samar included. She fixed eyes with her Captain who ever so slightly shook his head.

Nemireth took a deep breath, "I am a friend of theirs, Captain Faramir. It would set my mind at ease to know they are well."

He inclined his head ever so slightly, "Then know that no harm came to them here. I cannot say more than that, for the consequences could be dire for all."

All of a sudden, it made sense. Why her instincts suddenly shifted she could not say. It was the look he gave her, the fierce passion that burned in his blue eyes as it had so often with Boromir. Faramir was not lying about Frodo and Sam. He was protecting them.

What more could she do but bow under his gaze, "So long as they were not harmed, I am content," Another quick glance to Samar and a nod from the wizened Aeanorean was all the confirmation she knew she'd get. The Princess was far from satisfied but she had to accept she'd get no more.

Before she could speak further, a horn blew from further down the riverbank. It was no orc horn, she was sure but before she could even turn to try and find its source, Faramir was already running as were many of those with him, barking orders. Somewhat scrambling, Nemireth took off after him.

"Captain!" She shouted after him as they ran, gathering up soldiers as they went, "What is going on?"

"Orcs! On the west bank! Hurry!" He drew his sword. Nemireth held her spear tight, head spinning at the speed everything was moving. They were passing buildings and streets completely alien to her, nothing like those she had seen on her way into the city. The river was on their left as they ran, the numbers of troops thinning the further from they went.

From up ahead, the horn blew again and this time there was the shrill blast of an Aenorean whistle along with it. Over the sounds of her own heavy breathing and the rustling of armour, Nemireth could now hear the ringing of swords and the clash of battle.

The ad hoc formation turned a corner with Faramir at their lead and straight into the battle. Orcs and men clashed all along the long, wide street, a seething melee devoid of order and command. Every man was fighting for himself, a desperate scramble for survival without aid, not helped by just how many more orcs there seemed to be compared to the defenders. Without even hesitating, Faramir and the others threw themselves into the brawl and Nemireth was carried with them. Her shield glowed a fierce blue and the orcs seemed to shy from her as she threw herself upon them. This was not the fighting she had been trained for, nor had she been equipped for. Even as she faced down an orc, parrying a blow with her shield and driving her spear into his gut in return, the words of Boromir came back to her.

You've been trained to fight in a system and that system does not exist...

Keep moving.

Keep your opponent in front of you.

Choose your opening.

Another orc ran for her, axe raised above his head. She waited until the last moment before ducking behind her shield. The axe bounced off, the orc unbalanced as she buried the spear into his back.

Keep focused.

The next orc was taller, stronger. He'd just finished off a Gondorian and now he had her in his sights. As she held up her shield, she could see how it pained him but still he came for her, hammer in hand. He brought it down hard on the surface and glanced off, though the impact juddered through her arm. She tried to counter, lunging only for him to shatter the spear. He came at her again, sensing weakness. He tried to rip her shield from her grasp. She barely held on. He was good, better than the others and he was watching her with intelligent and dangerous eyes, looking for an opening even as she drew her sword.

The instinct was to shrink behind her shield, to protect herself but she forced herself to stand tall and ready, bloodied blade ready. That was how Karos had taught her. That was how Boromir had taught her. Despite the urge to narrow down the battlefield to just him and her, she kept herself alert. He charged, hammer raised, howling in his foul tongue. She swung at the offered opening, just as he expected. She had fallen for the trap he had set for her, sidestepping to avoid the swing and strike her down as she was exposed.

Instead he stepped onto the point of her sword.

The swing had been no more than a feint, Nemireth had never been out of control and never exposed. Battle often came down to who made the first mistake. This time, the orc had made it and realised it as the blade sank a third of the way through his gut. All strength left him immediately. You've been trained to fight in a system and that system does not exist in Middle Earth. She had to kick him off, turning to find her next opponent.

There were none. The last of the orcs lay dead upon the ground, being finished off by the victorious defenders. A few men lay amongst them while others were being carried away.

Faramir was wiping down his own blade as he approached, "Impressive, my Lady. You're not hurt?"

"No," She was eyeing some Aeanoreans who were being supported between comrades, limping or shuffling awkwardly and bit her lip. "Does this happen often?"

"There are occasional raids, but never anything to this scale." Faramir approached the river, examining the boats the orcs had used to cross, "Well made. They've had these ready for some time." He pointed his weapon up, gesturing to a large wall which wrapped itself around the landing spot, like a manmade bay, "They used this enclave to hide their approach from the sentries. Had they sent more, they could have overwhelmed us."

"A probe." Nemireth exhaled.

"Trying to find the weakest spots in our defence," Faramir agreed, now looking across the river. It was not so far here, out of arrow range but certainly close enough to make out the details on the other side.

They were being watched.

There were orcs of course, standing with hands on more boats. Reinforcements who had never launched. Watching over them was a man, thin and straight-backed with black hair. The finer details were lost but Nemireth could not take her eyes off him.

"His name is Dôlguzagar," Faramir could see where she was looking, "A man of Sauron, leader of the orcs in Osgiliath."

"Who is he?" He had not moved and neither had the orcs. They were waiting for him.

"We don't know for certain. Perhaps from south of Umbar? What we do know is he seeks the ruin of Gondor and that alone makes him dangerous."

Though they were so far apart, she got the sense he was watching her and her alone. It made her shiver with dread even as he turned and walked away with the orcs trailing in his wake. The Princess shook her head to clear it. She had no idea where that cold fright had come from, for Dôlguzagar was no more than a man. Her enemy perhaps but no more dangerous than any other soldier of Mordor.

That night, she found out how wrong she was.