There had not been many casualties in the battle and yet, Nemireth felt nothing from it.

She watched as the wounded were carefully lifted, men of Gondor and Aeanor alike limping or gasping, some capable only of voicing their pain. Some she knew would not recover no matter how encouraging their comrades were or how much wine they were given. The dead lying scattered amongst their fallen foes were scavenged of weapons and supplies and then left where they lay.

There was no delight in their victory or satisfaction that the enemy had been repelled. There was just…nothing. A void within her, neither fear nor ecstasy. Her head was throbbing painfully, pulses passing through her mind in time with her heartbeat. It was where she had been wounded at Helms Deep yet she found there was no blood there now, no new dent or breach in her helmet. It just…it hurt for reasons she couldn't tell. A knock in the heat of battle perhaps? She found herself fixing on the face of a young Gondorian who lay not far away. Clean-shaven with long hair beneath his helm, an axe of Mordor buried in his chest. He was watching her with wide eyes, as if surprised to see her, surprised to be laying there. He was so young…

The Princess turned her vision to the river.

Dôlguzagar was gone but orcs watched still from the other bank. The boats had been pulled in again and away from the shore, probably to avoid attempts from the defenders to light them. There would be no further attack in this part of the city it seemed. The silence was…disturbing. It left too much time for thinking, too much time to analyse, too much time to remember…

Faramir had gone, off to tend the wounded along with whatever healers the city had to hand. It had surprised her to see him doing so, as it had always been Aragorn rather than Boromir who had seen to any injuries amongst the Fellowship. The man of Gondor had always given her the impression he distained any practise that did not make him a more effective killer. Of course, that left her to return with a few of the soldiers who had rushed to reinforce and from whom there was little talk. When was the last time this city had known laughter?

It was only when she returned to the main camp of the defenders and caught the smell of frying bread that the Princess realised, she was starving. So eager had she been to reach this hellish place that she had not eaten in Minas Tirith. So, without a thought other than to her aching scalp, the Princess dropped down at the nearest campfire where there was already a selection of burnt and undercooked breads sitting waiting to be consumed. Selecting what she thought was the most competently cooked, she began to eat. It really was revolting; bland and yet somehow offensive, with a texture of mushed turnip with fragments of stone mixed in. Still, though it tried to glue her teeth together and break free of her stomach, she kept eating.

Someone cleared their throat.

Nemireth looked up to find herself in the company of four men; two of Gondor and two of Aeanor. One of the men she recognised as Damrod, her guide. The others were strangers but judging from the look of alarm in her soldier's faces, they recognised her well enough, both having scrambled to their feet.

"Your majesty," One of them said, a younger man who'd not quite began to grow his first beard. He reminded her of the man down by the river…she tried to force that image from her mind, the image of Xiphos from her mind that tried to replace it. She tried to think of happy things.

No such thing came to her.

"Your majesty," He said again, as if he wasn't quite sure he was seeing her, bowing deeply, "How may we aid you"

"Sit," She said through a mouth of bread. Her father would have had a fit to see her now. Then again he would have had a fit at every stage of her journey so far. It would have been one long continuous seizure, "Eat."

Hesitantly, they obeyed and returned to their meals, joining Damrod and the other, older man who had not risen but instead watched in confusion. It was of course a terrible breach of etiquette not to bow to the Princess Royal of Aeanor but Nemireth could not find it within herself to care.

"What are your names?" She asked after a long pause.

"Um, Damrod, ma'am. You remember, I brought you through the city?"

"I recall, Damrod," She gave him a hollow smile, "I'm glad to see you're still well."

The Ranger looked taken aback by that. Though whether it was her remembering the journey they had taken less than an hour ago or that she had asked after him, she could not tell.

"Tarondor," Said the older man. He was not dressed as Damrod but in the thick plate that most soldiers here seemed to be wearing. He did not refer to her by her title, she noticed. Again, she didn't care enough to make an issue of it. All she ever seemed to do these days was fight.

"Skiros, your majesty." Said the younger of the two Aeanoreans. He was brown-eyed and dark haired with clear Ellayan ancestry. She could not place his accent.

The other of the two soldiers bowed his head. He looked a veteran; grey with many scars crossing his cheeks and part of his noise missing, "Kalok, your majesty."

"A pleasure," It was her turn to bow her head, "Am I eating your dinner?"

"It's alright, ma'am," Damrod replied, the most confident of the group it seemed, "It's not the most appetising anyway."

"They don't bring food from the city?" She could not see it from where she sat, amongst the ruins of what would have been a very long and splendidly finished building at some point in time, "I happen to know from very recent experience that it's not far."

"No one comes to this city if they can help it," Tarondor spat to the side, to the visible horror of Skiros and Kalok. They kept looking to her as if expecting her to have their heads taken at any moment. Was that her reputation in her own legion? Would Karos or X…would Karos have told her if it was? "It is cursed."

"Cursed?"

"Ever since the line of kings failed. Gondor is cursed to wane for all time until there is nothing left."

Cursed to wane to the end of time. Nemireth wanted to dismiss it out of hand and yet she could not. All she could think of was Aeanor, surrounded by her enemies on all sides with a weak and dithering king.

Your father. He's your father too…

And beyond him, she was all that remained of the line of Othion the Great.

Ever since the line of kings failed…

"Yet the city still holds?" She spoke quietly.

"It stands because of men like Faramir."

"Men like you, Tarondor. Men like you all."

"It will not matter who mans the city now. It's only a matter of time before it falls," He shook his head and she saw how Damrod looked at him. The Ranger was young, unsure of his place in the world but Tarondor had seen it all. If he had no hope for their victory then why should he? Why should she?

"If you think so, then why do you still fight?"

He shrugged, "It will be Gondor's end, but I will make it a good end."

"Um, ma'am?" Damrod was looking to her and it was only then she realised she not answered. If anything, Tarondor looked even more morose while the others looked alarmed. Had she just sat and stared at them? "Why did you come?"

"For the glory, I suspect," The elder Gondorian cut right across her answer, "Her sort are always looking for glory."

That did it. A spark of fire lit within her, a spark that had died since the battle down by the water. She rose from the fire and took some satisfaction to see the alarm in his face, "Is there glory to be won, Master Tarondor?" She spat.

He shook his head.

"Then why would that bring me here?"

She went to go but Damrod spoke after her, confused, "I don't understand, ma'am. Why did you come here?"

"Because," She found herself stopping and looking back at them, the exhausted and the jaded, the frightened and the lost, "Because if this is where it ends, then I need to be here. I need…I need to fight…"

The Princess left before they could ask anything further. Her need for company had suddenly gone. Now all she wanted was to be alone.

Nemireth rested her head back against the wall and let out a deep sigh, arms wrapped around her knees.

For a city so massive, it was surprisingly difficult to find a spot where she was by herself. There seemed to be men on every corner and looking from every window; sentries, reserves, off-duty soldiers and healers moving about as ghosts amidst the city's corpse. How could the city be so poorly defended when there were so many? Because she was at the heart of the defence, of course. No doubt the further into the ruins she went, the less she would see. She was on the verge of doing just that, with only the thought of Karos finding out delaying her until at last, she found her spot. It was one of the highest points left on this side of the river, one half of a tower that had been carved in two rather like a cake to offer quite the view over both the river and the plains. Why no sentries up here? It seemed perfect.

The rest of the day had passed without incident, or at least as without incident as things could get in Osgiliath; more men had been felled by arrows, another couple crushed by a lucky boulder that had bounced perfectly down their street and left little behind. Even thinking about it brought a dark, humourless smirk to dry lips. Whichever omens of luck they prayed to, they had clearly been otherwise engaged at that particular moment. Now night was falling and the men were getting jumpy. More of those who had been resting away from the front were gathering. Samar had taken half his company to the great bridge whose halves faced one another cross the black ooze of the Anduin. The rest sharpened swords and checked their armour, a ritual she knew only too well. They were expecting battle.

She thought back to Isen, to when they had camped for the night; Théodred's last night. Never in their worst nightmares had they thought the enemy would come upon them in the darkness. Never had they imagined the prince of Rohan falling then to an uruk blade. She relived the image over in her head, again and again. He had been so close. She had been so close.

He had died. She had lived. Orcs had gotten so close as to enter her tent with the Princess unarmed and unarmoured. Still, she had lived. The cruel whims of fate.

She looked to the sky. Funny how even with the all-consuming cloud she knew that the sun had gone. What little warmth had penetrated to the city was rapidly draining away. In its place came a clammy chill, as if the air itself were sick. Winds, even from here she could smell that damned river. Her mood was not helped either by that bread sitting like a lead weight in her stomach. Never had she missed the honied nuts and dried fruits of Minas Luin like she did now. How were Damrod and the others handling it?

The Aeanorean rolled her eyes to think back to that conversation. She knew she had handled it badly, just like she had when the Rohirrim and King's Guard had fought in Edoras all those months ago. Like then, she had ran away. It was him who had found her then. Him who had talked her around, calmed her down like only he could…

Why? Why him? Why not me?

Footsteps.

She looked up and found that the world had blurred. Only barely did she clear her tears before a head appeared, crowned in long red hair as Faramir joined her atop the world.

"I was told you were here," He said jovially, "May I join you?"

A shrug, her arms still tucked around her legs, "it's your city."

"Thank you," He settled beside her, a bottle in one hand. He was smaller than Boromir, not so heavily built across the shoulders but then he seemed more a skirmisher than frontline soldier, "As it happens, I come to this spot whenever I can at this time."

"To keep watch?"

"Of a sort. In time, you'll see why," He took a swig from the bottle, looking over her out of the side of his eye, examining her. They always did. "You fought well today. Your men have already done this city a great service in your name."

Nemireth snorted at that, "Your father doesn't seem to think so."

Out of the corner of her eye, Faramir tensed. She was on dangerous ground and his answer was guarded, "Once my father was brilliant, a great mind the likes of which the line of Stewards had not witnessed before. Time has worn him down, as it does to all things. First, our mother died when we were young and then recently his eldest son, the pride of all Gondor. In between came the defence of the realm, a never-ending war against a force that does not tire and does not relent. That we've held so long, that we were even able to retake this city for a time, is a testament to my brother's courage and my father's skill. He has paid a price as great as any man can pay, his brilliant sapped, his resolve eroded," He was not looking to her but staring off at some unseen point. He was lost in his mind, thoughts that had long been with him pouring forth now almost unbidden, "That is why I do what I can, to aid him and Gondor in all that I can."

The Princess found she had no answer. The words he spoke uncomfortably close to her own memories; to those of her father. He had been the great hope of her house once, of her kingdom. The death of her mother…that had changed something in him, a part of himself died with her. The wolves of the realm had closed in, sensing weakness and her father had not been strong enough to hold them alone. When he had fought those unseen battles, wars of words and promises and threats, where had she been? Off playing soldier, belittling and second-guessing everything he did in the name of the realm. When had she ever actually tried to help? When had Princess Nemireth stood shoulder to shoulder with King Brúndir? She thought back to when she had first met Gandalf, all those years ago. She had tried to help then, to hug her father, to let him know he was not alone.

He had shouted at her. She had fled from his anger.

Was that really it? Was there no time beyond that?

Faramir offered her the bottle and she took it. The deep swig was fine for all of second before she felt the fire catch in her throat and suddenly she was lost in a fit of coughs, eyes watering anew. The Captain of Gondor seemed to find this amusing, "Is this your first taste of Ithilien wine? It can be quite…harsh."

"Harsh?" She choked, "Did you brew it from the river?"

He laughed openly as he took another gulp himself before handing it over to her. The second mouthful was not so bad. Perhaps because the first had seared away whatever taste she had left.

"You like it?"

"Compared to the ale of Edoras, this is like a cool cup of spring water."

"Then truly, I must visit Rohan one of these days," Faramir chuckled and settled back with the bottle, "We heard word of the victory at Helm's Deep. The 'Hallkeeper', they call you now? It must have been a terrible fight."

"I…" She could go no further. The swords rang in her ears and the grunting of uruk and men alike. Above it all she heard the sharp shrill of a whistle, words called above the pouring rain and pounding of men's feet, Protect the Princess! Protect the Princess! "…I would rather not speak of it."

He accepted that without complaint or comment and allowed a silence to call between them before lifting his head with a smile, "Ah, so it begins."

She looked up to see he was no longer focused on his bottle but rather out across the plains towards Minas Tirith. The Princess followed his gaze and a gasp escaped her lips. No longer was the White City shrouded in gloom but instead glowed as if all the stars of the world had settled for the night upon her. Even from so far, it seemed to glow softly, a single light surrounded by darkness.

"This is why I rest here so often," He murmured, not taking his eyes from what he saw, "From the ground, all there is around you is decay and battle and death. But there is a world beyond the war. A dream that one day my children need not don armour as their father did, that they need not think only of soldiering. One day, Gondor will flourish again and be the light in the world that it once was."

"Some of your men seem to think the war is already lost," She whispered, mesmerised by the beauty before her. She had been in Middle Earth now for months. When was the last time she had just stopped and allowed herself to witness something so beautiful?

"I was told of your discussion with Tarondor. He's an old soldier whose hope was taken from him long ago, but still he fights."

"To make it a good ending."

"So he says, because he cannot admit the truth to himself. The moment we stop fighting for what we believe in, for what we love, then the war is truly lost."

For the longest time it felt like they remained there in silence, just watching Minas Tirith slumber before Nemireth licked her lips and spoke slowly, unsure of how to word her next question, "Frodo and Sam…how were they when you saw them?"

"Unharmed physically though there had been a great weight placed upon them, that much was clear. The burden was beginning to show."

Nemireth sighed, feeling the guilt well up, "It was a burden they shouldn't have taken alone."

"You were a part of their Fellowship," She started. It was not a question and she saw now he was watching her, judging her reaction, "You bear the same clasp as they did, a mark of the woodland realm."

She felt for the leaf that held her cloak in place. Through all she had been through, every struggle she had faced, Nemireth had never once removed it. It felt like the final connection she had to the entire Fellowship before it had broken in Lothlorien and then shattered on the banks of Amon Hen. All the while a question swirled around and around in her head, demanding to be voiced and she could do little to stop it; "How did you do it?"

"Do what, my lady?"

"How did you give it up?"

A blank look came across his features, all those barriers the wine and talk had lowered sudden rose up again taller and stronger than ever. There was no comfort in this silence, just a long, awkward wait. Nemireth found herself squirming such was her discomfort.

"For a while, I didn't," He finally said, slowly, every word chosen carefully, "I brought it here for use in the war. To show my father and strike down Sauron in a single blow. The hobbits had begged me to free them but I did not. I knew in my mind that I was doing the right thing by my people."

"What happened?"

"The hobbit who carried it, he drew a sword on his companion after nearly walking into the claws of a Nazgul. Samwise, his gardener, saved him. Then he spoke of the stories of his youth, the tales they had been raised with; 'It's only a passing thing, this shadow. A new day will dawn and when it does it'll shine all the clearer.' But it was how he ended it, that what was caught me hardest; 'There's some good in this world Mr Frodo, and it's worth fighting for.' When I heard those words, the truth shone as bright as any star. No good could come of the Ring. No good had ever come of the Ring. It would not save my people but destroy them. After that, no more could it lure me as it had once done."

Not for the first time, Nemireth found tears in her eyes and for the first time since crossing into Gondor, a smile crossed her lips.

"You find it amusing?" Faramir asked.

"It's just…it's Sam," She chuckled as she wiped away her tears, "It's just something he'd say. I miss him. I miss Frodo…"

"If all were like them, then perhaps the world would not be as it is."

"There is no 'perhaps' about it. Things would be better," She nodded fiercely, "I know in my heart."

"I'll drink to that," The wine was passed between them, a silent salute to the great gardener of the Shire.

Then, from within the city, the sound of a raven.

Faramir leapt to his feet, bottle forgotten. No longer was he looking forwards Minas Tirith but instead the opposite side of the city. The orcs, she noticed, had lit no lights. His eyes were narrowed and he scanned every inch of the bank with a terrible intensity.

"What is it?" She hissed, unable to see anything different.

"We're under attack," He hissed, hand at his sword, "Hurry!"