Nemireth followed Faramir through the maze of streets as quickly as she could but he was like a gazelle to her elephant skipping over and around the rubble of the city. He kept disappearing into alcoves and broken houses only to reappear with another cluster of men dressed in the armour of Gondor and Aeanor.

"To the river!" He hissed over and over, driving the soldiers on, "To the river!"

So many of those he had gathered were lined of face and heavy-eyed. Exhausted from the fighting of the day and now given no respite or even time to breath. Was this Dôlguzagar's plan? To drive at the defences time and again, sacrifice however many orcs it took to grind down their ability to fight? The Princess made a note to have the bank fortified once they had repelled the attack.

If they repelled the attack.

Her supper both solid and liquid sat heavily in her stomach and each step was deeply unpleasant but on she ran, driven by Faramir's calls as much as those around her. Her shield glowed softly in one arm while her other clung to her sword. She would have dearly loved a spear, but she had left it with the eating soldiers when she had fled. A stupid mistake.

Please winds, don't let that be the mistake that kills me.

The Princess had been blindly following the man in front and somehow, she found herself close to the river. She could hear it oozing against the cobbles of the bank, a viscous and repulsive sound. Between the buildings she could see glimpse of its opaque surface and the orc-held bank beyond, as black as ever. Even in the dim light the blockading clouds allowed through she could see there were shapes on the water. A lot of shapes. Even the splashes were starting to sound less like waves and more like oars.

The Gondorian ahead of her began to mutter incessantly to himself, like an incantation. The Aenorean was praying under his breath. All around her was the sound of heavy breathing, armour rubbing against leather and gauntlets against weapons. Nemireth held her own in her hand, trying to keep the fear from rising from the depths of her stomach.

Remember your training. Show courage.

Please, don't let me die…

"For Gondor!"

From ahead came a cry that sent a shiver down her spine. It was the yell of frightened men giving voice as they launched themselves at their enemies. Before the river had claimed it, this must have been a vast structure, arches and walls stretching out left, right and behind. From ahead, the boats of Mordor were disgorging orcs, so many orcs. Faramir's men were fighting them in the river, water being thrown up in great waves as they struggled up to their knees in a confusing melee. With more and more orcs arriving, they were losing ground.

"Araharné!" She called in Ellayan, voice holding just the faintest quiver, "E-pellanlîr!"

"Anun!" Soldiers formed at her shoulders as if on the parade ground. Some had spears, some had swords. Some were Aeanorean, others were of Gondor dragged into the formation. Ahead, the survivors began to retreat into the ranks or behind them.

"Never let a fight become a brawl," Karos' voice was clear as crystal in her mind, "A warrior brawls. A soldier fights. The fighter beats the brawler, every time."

They had lost the brawl, the orcs were now driving up onto the bank, their breath misting before twisted faces as they lumbered forward with blood in their nostrils and blackened blades in hand.

She licked her lips and drew a breath, "Vocaran ameth!"

"Anun!" What spears they had lowered just as the enemy came upon them. Nemireth braced her shield against her shoulder, standing side on to take the charge. A terrible ringing filled the night sky as weapons fell upon shields and orcs upon men. A weight fell against her shoulder, driving her back a step before lifting. Without thinking, the Princess stabbed out around her shield and bit deep before she pulled it back. Another blow drove her back further, but another lunge found a target. This was a fresh hell. All around she could hear the ringing of blades meeting; the awful sound of metal slicing flesh and the screams of men as they fell. Yet in the darkness and sandwiched as she was, it felt like all the world was just her and the dozen men she commanded. Mordor's entire army may as well have been the orcs in front of them.

Those same orcs wavered. Momentum stopped, they were falling to the heavier weapons of their opponents. Her shield began to glow, bathing the murky battlefield in an ethereal blue light. The orcs shied back further, hissing as if the shield itself burned them.

"Mosaran!"

"Anun!" The formation stepped forward. The orcs before them shied away or were trampled underfoot.

"Mosaran!"

"Anun!" Another step, more orcs fell. A taller one blindly swung a hammer for Nemireth's head but she ducked beneath it and took his head.

"Mosaran!"

"Anun!" The orcs before them broke, running for the boats. The formation dissolved as victorious soldiers set off in pursuit, cutting down any who turned to fight them.

All around still came the chaos of battle, as loud as ever. Their fight was won, but they were not yet victorious.

"Omáran!" She called breathlessly, "Omáran!"

Some troops heeded her call but most did not, disappearing into the vast city on the heels of their fleeing enemies. Those who had assembled, mostly Aenorean, would have to do.

"e-aphad im!" With that command, she set off at the sprint, ignoring burning lungs as best she could while the troops trailed in her wake. It did not take long to find their enemy; a horde of orcs cutting through a band of Gondor men, their armour flashing in the torchlight. At their centre, encouraging and commanding was the redheaded Faramir.

In that instant, she was back there. Back at the Isen. Illuminated by burning tents was the Prince, surrounded on all sides. Fighting for his life. In her mind's eye, she saw the shadow of Théodred fall, time and again. Just out of reach. Just minutes from aid.

Not this time.

"Epísaran!" She cried with all her might, "Epísaran!"

The men of the King's Guard charged with the Princess at their head. The orcs had not been expecting enemy reinforcements to fall upon their rear, the alarm clear in their faces as they were hacked down. Nemireth swung and stepped, stabbed, and parried. Orc after orc fell before her as they cut a bloody path to the beleaguered defenders. It felt like hours of combat, but it must only have been moments before the orcs dissolved, breaking into packs, and making for the streets.

"After them!" Faramir called breathlessly, his sword black from guard to tip, "Don't let them regroup!"

His own force scattered and then it was only he and Nemireth who stood amongst the dead and the dying. She tried not to look down at them, only to focus on him as the Captain caught his breath. He had been cut, a red mark across his cheek but otherwise he was unhurt. How long had they been fighting? The sky was still dark above them so it must not have been long.

"Have-have we done it?" She asked between gulps of air. Never had she thought the putrid smell of the river would be so good on her palette.

Faramir nodded, cleaning at his sword with a filthy rag, "There's no more boats crossing the river. Their attack has been repelled," He chuckled, "I must admit, I was a little worried before you came upon us."

The Princess shrugged then immediately wished she had not, for her shoulders burned from the movement. Karos would have a fit that she was not already cleaning her weapon but then she thought she had earned a rest, "Think nothing of it though I do think we should fortify the bank, in case they-"

"My lord!"

Her suggestion was cut off by a man sprinting amongst the debris and the bodies as if the Dark Lord himself was on his tail. Such was the dimness that she could only see when he drew close that it was Damrod, the Ranger of Ithilien. Only when he drew close could she see the panic in his young eyes, the terror in every pore of his body. Her breath quickened to see him so afraid.

"My lord!" He was panting hard, barely able to stand, "My lord! They're here! They're here!"

"Calm down, Damrod," Faramir took him by the shoulders. From how he reacted, it seemed that it was that gesture alone that kept the Ranger from collapsing, "What news do you bring?"

"The orcs," He was fighting between breaths, "The orcs have crossed the bridge."

"What?" Faramir's grip turned firm, "How?"

"They-they had…engines ready. They threw them across before we could stop them. The Aenoreans tried to hold but," He glanced at Nemireth, who now felt only cold, "They were pushed back. The orcs are in the city."

Faramir let go. His fair features had gone ashen beneath the grime, his lips tightening to no more than a line. In those moments, all was still. All eyes looked to the Captain of Gondor but only a glance to each man betrayed the truth.

Osgiliath was lost.

Already the sounds of battle surrounded them. Faramir shook his head and raised his blade, "To Crossing Street!" He drew strength from somewhere for his voice was proud and assured, "We must regroup there!"

And so he took flight, and all followed him for lack of what else to do.

Nemireth followed, bloodied blade still in hand, shoulders still heavy and lungs still aching but none of it compared to how cold she felt. Osgiliath could not have fallen so quickly. The west side of the city had never fallen. It could not have started now. Not with her here.

Her mind went back to Karos, to his parting words just the night before; "If there is so much as a whisper that the city may fall, you must withdraw..."

She thought to the muddy hellscape of the Deeping Wall. To the dead of Xiphos' company who lay there. She had fled then, and they had died to save her. Because she had been a fool. Because she had refused to run.

It's my fault he died.

Not again. Her pride would not doom her men. There would be no panicked retreat.

Even just a few streets from the river and the hopelessness of their cause revealed itself. Orcs seemed to be marauding down every street, hunting in packs; screeching and cackling in the victory they knew they had won.

Nemireth stopped running.

She brought her whistle to her lips and blew a single, loud shriek. She gave it a heartbeat then blew again.

The shrill sound cut through the chaos of battle. Before it had even began to fade; there was movement from every street. Aeanoreans formed around her; shields dented and scratched, blades bloodied and chipped. They formed a loose circle around her, daring any orcs to approach. None did. There was easier prey within the city.

"Stili!" She commanded as she moved to the front. It hurt to talk, her throat stinging and her chest stabbing but she forced herself to shout, "Stili!"

The circle shook itself out into a long column, as already sergeants fell back on routine and began to harry the men into a decent formation. Only once they were ready did she give the cry of "Tréxaran!"

The call to move at double pace. It was not popular on the training fields; hard on the shoulders and the back but no one questioned its need here. The sight of so many shields and spears moving as one had orcs veering off down one side street or another rather than face them. Arrows and stones rained in from above, forcing men to raise their shields to protect themselves. As the formation drove through, stragglers joined to the back, or onto the sides, anywhere that offered safety. At its head was Nemieth, her shield glowing fiercely in the darkness, lighting their path through twisting and narrow streets. It was in the back of her mind that she did not know the way to Cross Street or even the best way out of the city but that was not so important now. What mattered was to keep everyone moving; not to let themselves be trapped and slaughtered like animals at the hunt. If they had to keep running like this all the way back to Aeanor then so be it.

"My lady!" It was Damrod who had somehow fought his way to the head of the column, "My lady, this way to Cross Street!"

She was not going to argue as he directed her down a larger boulevard and the entire formation swung like a vast snake around the bend, men grunting and chanting to keep themselves in time.

Damrod's directions were good for he soon brought them to a place where two large streets seemed to meet then split again. A battle was raging here; Aenoreans and Gondorians in a desperate brawl as orcs fell upon them from every alley and doorway. Already the dead had piled high in the square. Not a fight but a brawl...

As the Aeanoreans approached however and before Nemireth could draw the breath to charge through stinging ribs, the orcs fell back, turning and disappearing into the maze of streets. This time, there was no pursuit. A few took flight themselves, running westwards but most seemed frozen in place, as if marvelling that they had lived for so long.

"Princess," Madril approached, the old Ranger bleeding from above his left eye but with bow in one hand and sword in the other, "The city has fallen."

"I know," It hurt so much to say it but she forced herself to remain calm, "We must pull back as quickly as we can. The horses?"

"Saddled and ready to go."

"Where is Captain Faramir?" It was only when she had looked to Damrod and seen how lost he looked, like a frightened child, that she realised she could not hear him amongst the survivors. Dread began to creep into her heart.

"He is holding the Northern Gardens but not for long, the orcs are too many!"

"Then we make haste! Hurry!"

The defenders took flight. Again, they were running. No longer was their priority the defence of this ancient city but merely in their own survival. Nemireth stayed as far back as she dared, cutting down any orc who tried for an easy target of the retreating soldiers. Ahead she saw an Aeanorean holding himself up with his spear, blood pouring from his leg as he hobbled.

Without a word, she slipped under the man's arm and began to drag him. He was heavy, so much heavier than she could carry and she felt her legs begin to buckle but on she kept, puffing and gritting her teeth against the pain. Two Gondorians appeared before her from out of a side street and took the man from her, leaving her off-balance on empty legs. She turned to check the street behind, that no one else had been left.

In the dark she saw a flash of grey, then a brief but intense burst of pain in her temple before she slumped to the ground, sword clattering from her hand.