Consciousness came back to Nemireth slowly.
It was cold. The ground beneath her was hard and frigid on her skin. Her ears were ringing incessantly like a whistle was being blown right by her head. The smell…she could smell the dirt on the ground, she could smell the freshness of a morning dew and…something else, something not unlike iron.
Blood.
Everything hurt. Her back, her shoulders, her arms, her legs. Worse than any sparring practise. Worse than any drill in any heat Minas Luin could throw at her. Even breathing was sore, stinging at her nostrils as she took in great inhales of air to coat and sting at her bone-dry throat.
Thoughts were coming to her slowly. Memories slower still. Had it all been a dream? Please let it have been a dream. She was in her bed in the palace, resting against her fat and silken pillows while the songbirds chimed sweetly through the open window. She could smell the saltiness coming off the sea; the cheery calls as the markets opened for business. The maids were gossiping just outside her door, inventing scandal where not already existed and the guards groggily greeted their replacements.
That was real. The picture in her mind was the truth. Not this, not where she found herself now. It was so hard to tell, the line between fiction and fact blurring before her.
She had to get up.
But why?
Why leave the dream?
Why return to a world of war and death?
A world she wasn't strong enough for.
She had thought she was, but Middle Earth had proven otherwise. It had beaten her. Why fight it any further?
What else can you do?
She saw the shapes taken form in her mind; the speaker first and another behind him, infinitely her greater; Xiphos stood in front, then Boromir. She clung to them in her mind's eye and refused to let go, to let the real world take them from her again. If she stayed here; then they both lived, she had not failed them both.
"You promised not to let the White City fall," Boromir spoke softly, eyes still fierce and bright. Why had he not come with her in Lothlorien? Why had she not tried harder to convince him? "And you will keep your promise."
"I…can't…" The words may have escaped dry lips, though she did not know for sure.
"You can, and you will," Xiphos was grinning. He always grinned when she was down, like he knew when she needed the most cheering up, but his words were loud and confident, "Because that's who you are. That's who you always were."
"No…" They were slipping from her mind, fading away to the ether once more no matter how hard she clung on.
"Keep going Princess," Boromir was little more than a mist, his voice a breath on the wind, "The next step is all that matters, then the next."
She wanted them to stay with her but before she could beg, before she could even say how sorry she was, they were gone, and she was once more.
She forced her eyes open.
Immediately, she was sick.
Before her lay a man, his eyes paling in death, skin the colour of parchment and the blood that ran from his helmet to the pool in the cobbles thick and black. She retched again, unable to look away, frozen in horror as he stared into her soul.
The next step.
She forced herself over onto her stomach, supporting herself with her elbows as she finished emptying her stomach onto Osgiliath's street. Never had her armour felt so heavy, like it was made of lead. Dank hair fell over her face, stringy and filthy.
"Well, well, what have we here then?" A voice cackled from behind her. It was an orc, bent and malformed, skin as dead as the man before her; face laced with rings that looked like they were keeping his face together, "A little maggot's survived eh?"
He had in his hand a dagger, short and jagged, black surface shining red and he approached as a predator approached its wounded prey, "What shiny things have we got on you then eh? Want to see before I carve your gizzards?"
She looked around, desperate, frantic. Just ahead of her, the Princess saw what she was looking for her; her sword! It was so close…barely an arm's length away. She began to crawl for it, dragging herself along the ground no matter how it felt like her muscles were pulling apart.
"Oh, you trying to escape are ya?" The orc chuckled as he all but skipped towards her, only just beating her for speed. Enjoying himself, enjoying watching her suffer, "There's nowhere to run to, little worm. The Eye controls this city now. I could hand you to the captain, but then why should he have all the fun eh?"
She was barely listening, eyes focused wholly on her blade. It was just out of fingertip range. All she had to do was stretch…
He stamped down on her hand. The Princess bit back a scream.
"Now, now," He was looming over her, a monstrous giant, blade dripping blood onto her cheek, "We can't have that now. Looks like someone needs to lose their finge-"
The street was bathed in a fierce blue light. The orc lifted his foot in sudden agony as Nemireth, hands before his face as Nemireth lunged forward, with light spots in her eyes. Those same fingers wrapped themselves about the grip of her blade and thrust up at where she knew him to be. She felt a little resistance through her arm but she did not stop until her hand touched cold flesh. The orc had dropped his weapon, expression suddenly empty as he slowly fell beside her, like a tree being felled in a forest.
She waited a heartbeat, listening for calls of alarm, waiting for the feel of cold steel as it punched through her armour or sliced open her throat.
All was silence.
The street was empty but for the Princess of Aeanor and the dead.
With a grunt, she twisted the blade and tugged it free of his chest. It had gone in right beneath a thick armoured plate. The Winds had favoured her.
Speaking of good fortune…
She glanced around, searching amongst the debris and her heart leapt as there, lying not far from where her sword had been was the shield of Lothlorien with an ever so slightly blue hue pulsing from the boss.
The thanks of the ancestors eternal, Lady Galadriel.
She hauled herself to her feet and taking the shield from the ground, she slumped into an alcove. Only then, pressed against the stone, did she check her hand. It was clenched firmly around her weapon still and she dare not relax it. Again, she listened, squeezing her eyes shut as she awaited the call of alarm. Still there was none, only now she could hear something else, a distant sound in the early morning haze.
Battle.
It was coming from the west, too intense to be a skirmish. Had Faramir held the western part of the city? It was too good to be true.
Then her thoughts were pierced by the most terrible scream.
Nemireth's legs gave out from under her. It felt like her head was being torn apart within her helmet, splitting asunder as that cry seemed to pass through stone as a knife through butter. The scream robbed her of all hope, routing from her heart as an army from the field. She heard the beating of wings and looked up to see a…a creature pass overhead. Black and eel-like but with the wings of a dragon, vast in size. It was flying west, towards the fighting.
Winds protect whoever faces that thing…
Shakily, she got to her feet, needing her sword for support as she took a deep breath. Looking east and west, only now did she realise that none of the streets looked familiar. Was this even the street she had been fleeing down just hours before? It looked so different in the morning haze…
Where else was there to go but west? Keep going west until she reached the edge of the city.
Then what?
How did she pass through the battle line of Mordor?
How did she make it across the plains without being shot or run down?
She thought of Súletal with the other horses and bit her lip.
Please let him have escaped, please let him be okay…
So, she began to slowly walk, partly out of caution and partly because she could go no faster. It felt like she was the only one in the whole of Osgiliath. Perhaps the fighting was still drawing the orcs?
Wait. What was that?
Voices ahead.
She ducked into a little passageway and waited for them to pass.
The voices neither faded nor strengthened. She could hear two distinct beings talking; one was rasping like an orc and the other was well spoken but clipped…a man?
She knew she should go around but curiosity filled her and so the Princess crept along the passageway, weapon in hand and dimmed shield at the ready until she was close enough to pick out the voices clearly.
"-the rats have been chased north. It's only in the western outskirts they're still holding."
"That is for the Witch-King and his mule to handle."
"Yeess," the word was hissed. Nemireth dared to glance around the corner and only barely managed to hold in a gasp.
It was Dôlguzagar.
He was both younger and taller than she expected, hands behind his back and curved sword unused at his side. He was speaking to a particularly malformed orc, whose leg had been crushed and an eye taken at some point. With them were just a half-dozen orcs standing guard over…
Oh, Winds no.
They had prisoners, a dozen in all, Aeanorean and Gondorian both. Each was on their knees, hands behind their backs, beaten and bloodied lot with their eyes downcast.
"Once we have the city secure," Dôlguzagar was speaking as if he were at a party rather than amid a besieged city. He was being guarded by two men whose faces were hidden behind cloth coverings; each carrying a wicked looking halberd, "Send some of your forces south to watch for a counter-attack. Until the bridge is secure, we are vulnerable here still."
"I serve the Witch-King," The orc spoke in turn, baring sharp and broken teeth, "Not you."
"I serve the Eye, as does your Master. You'd do well to remember that. Start work on reinforcing the bridge. Have it brought across after the first legions are there to defend it."
"We have no need," The orc scowled, "The gate will give before us."
"Unlikely," Dôlguzagar seemed amused by the bravado, "Have it brought as I command. I will return to the east bank to oversee the preparations from there. The Dusk Guard will remain to guard the bridge. I trust even you can handle things from here?"
The orc gave a deeply unpleasant growl but Dôlguzagar paid it no heed, his back already to the orc has he almost floated away, followed by the two men. That left just the orcs and their prisoners.
With a signal, the first was hauled forward. An older man, a ranger of Gondor judging from his armour.
Madril…
"What say you, maggot?" Even on his knees, the orc was not much taller than the Sergeant, "Will you beg for your life?"
Madril spat at his feet.
The orc took his head with a single blow, sending it bouncing across the ground only to picked up by another orc and taken from the square.
"No!" One of the prisoners got up onto one knee before a blow to his back sent him sprawling.
Damrod…
"You're next," The orc signalled that he now be dragged, all but on top of Madril's decapitated form.
"Gothmog!" A voice came from the opposite passageway. Nemireth sank back into the shadows, breath catching in her throat, "Gothmog!"
The orc who had spoken with Dôlguzagar and who had killed Madril in such cold blood turned to the messenger, "What is it?" Every syllable was dripping with menace.
"Lug wants you at the front. Some of the filth from the plains attacked a bunch from Núrn."
"So?"
"They're about to start on one another."
Gothmog snarled, "Useless scum! You two," He gestured to a pair of guards, "Stay here. If they move, kill them. The rest of you, come with me." He hobbled off, holding the sword still dripping with Madril's blood as his band disappeared onto the main street. Now it was the prisoners and their two guards.
Nemireth waited, listening for anyone else nearby but able to hear little but her own heartbeat in her ears. She tested her arm and winced at the sluggish reaction.
Winds, watch over me…
She leapt out from the shadows and charged. The first guard just watched her approach, hands by his sides as if she were a ghoul. The Princess cut him down before he ever reacted. The other managed only a step before a beam of brilliant blue light blinded him and he stumbled. Like that, the prisoners were on him, leaping to their feet and tackling him to the ground. There he was pinned until Nemireth could finish him off.
Now it was their turn to regard her with whitened faces, as if they too doubted their own sanity.
"Princess?" Damrod managed as Nemireth cut his bindings before he hurried to help her with the others. Once freed, they scrambled for whatever weapons they could find, "I…this can't be real."
"We have to move," Nemireth panted, "We won't have long."
The Ranger spared a glance for his fallen comrade before his features hardened. He looked to have aged a decade in a single night, "Follow me."
Where he was leading them, she did not know. All she knew was that it was not west. Had she a breath, she would have asked but the pace of the desperate men was punishing enough. They were not exactly quiet, but it seemed that the only orcs in their path were scavengers picking over the dead and who paid the noise no heed.
At last, their destination became clear, a tunnel cut into the rock.
"A way out?" Nemireth looked down into the dank and murky depths.
Damrod nodded, "It will bring us to the north of the city."
"Then lead on."
How he knew where he was going without a torch she had no idea, but on he went, his splashing feet noise enough for the others to follow. The smell was rancid for somewhere that not been in use for centuries but Nemireth found she had nothing left to give other than a few dry heaves. Judging from the coughs and retches from behind her, she was not alone in her misery. They seemed to be travelling for an Age before they got a scent of fresh air, so thick and pure to the nose that it was like breathing the soup of the gods.
Then they were free.
They were amongst wild grass, the smell of spring intense in their noses after the rankness of the sewers. The river Anduin flowed lazily by them, as clean and as crisp as it had been in Lothlorien. The mountains rose to their south while Mordor bubbled and thundered on the horizon. They must have travelled miles beneath ground, judging from how distant Osgiliath had become. From here it looked no different, still the same broken city it had been the morning before when she had arrived.
Did Minas Tirith yet know it had fallen?
"We must hurry to the city! Come!" Nemireth tried to slip her sword into her scabbard but found the blade would not go. The blood of the night had crusted on the surface in thick blobs. It was going to take a lot of oil to clean it.
Karos was going to kill her.
None of the men had followed her. Some had slumped to the ground, their own strength exhausted. Others still were looking to the north as if gauging how far they need run to escape. Damrod just stood listlessly.
"Come on now, all of you!" She snapped, kicking one of the Aeanoreans who lay on his back and bringing him to his feet as surely as she had set fire to him, "If we are the only survivors of Osgiliath then we must warn the city!"
"What's the point?" Damrod looked to her, "What more can we do?"
"What we've always done!" The anger burst from her lips unbidden. Her head was splitting, her stomach empty and sore. She had come too far and suffered too much for this, "What Madril died doing! We can fight! We'll fight until there's none of us left and then, Winds willing, we'll fight from the afterlife itself if we must! Now get on your feet and let's go!"
She turned on her heel and headed for Minas Tirith, no longer caring if they were even following her. It was only by the crunch of their boots on the ground that she knew some were.
How far they walked and how far her rage sustained her, the Princess had no idea. All she knew was that, step by step, mile by mile, both anger and strength began to desert her once more. A stride became a walk, a walk became a limp and a limp became a hobble. Her shield and sword were dragging from heavy arms but still she continued. Those who followed her were little better, some discarding weapons or armour to unburden themselves and others still stopped all together.
Nemireth kept going.
The next step…
A noise came from ahead. The ground shook beneath her feet.
Hooves.
The horsemen appeared over the next hill, clad in the armour of Gondor and flying the banner of the White Tree.
Nemireth raised her arm in greeting, then collapsed amongst the tall grass.