Nemireth and Faramir were led to the throne room of the White Tower, where Denethor sat not in his throne but instead paced back and forth, hands behind his back. Even when compared to their first and so far only meeting, Nemireth thought he looked terrible. His face had grown more lined in these past few days and his skin sallower still, while his gait was bent and ungainly. The bags under his eyes had grown heavier and darker but the eyes themselves remained sharp and he turned to face the pair as they entered, the servant bowing out and leaving the group alone. Nemireth could not help but notice a table with a single chair had been set in the room. Her initial thought that it must be for a map or some other form of planning was swept away when a servant entered and placed down cutlery for one. She could not but narrow her eyes and scowl, mood already declining rapidly.
"Hail, father," Faramir bowed his head, "You requested our presence?"
"Yes." No more after that, but more pacing. The Princess held her tongue but only barely, already feeling the precious minutes they would need beginning to melt away, wasted in this foolish performance.
"To plan the defence, My Lord?" She pressed sharply.
"It seems the defence has already been planned," Now he looked to her with an ugly expression that she returned, a scowl most unbecoming of a princess but entirely deserving of the man before her, "Works being done, men recruited. Did you think the White Tower was blind to your actions? Does Nemireth of Aeanor, the Welp of the West, seek to usurp the House of the Steward?"
Nemireth gritted her teeth. Her fists were shaking by her side. How dare he. How dare he speak down to her. After everything that had happened, he still thought to insult and dismiss her and her nation?
"How-"
"-I asked it of her, father," Faramir interrupted hurriedly just as Nemireth tried to speak, "I thought it wise to take precautions in the city."
Denethor did not believe a word. When he turned to regard the Captain, the look he wore startled her. This man was his son. Yet she saw no love in those eyes, nothing approaching concern or affection. She saw only an ugly grimace, as if having to look upon Faramir caused him physical pain.
"You would," Was his reply, every word dripping with a soul-destroying sarcasm that only darkened Nemireth's mood yet further. She was breathing deeply now, trying to keep herself in check but it took only a look to Faramir, to see his expression, to know that she was losing that fight.
The Steward seemed not to care for the damage his words caused and instead he hobbled to his table, where servants had brought out a variety of food and then hurriedly retreated. Roasted chicken, tomatoes, pork, ham, a few varieties of fish. This was meant to be a city preparing for a siege yet now he sat before this feast, too much for a man with even the mightiest of appetites to eat alone.
Breath, Nemireth. Breath…
Denethor piled up his plate and began to eat, tearing at bones and skin with long and grey fingers. He left the two to stand as he busied himself, drawing out this pathetic attempt at a power play.
Nemireth was on the cusp of leaving when he at least deigned to speak, "I do not think we should so lightly abandon the outer defences, defences your brother," Another derisory glance in Faramir's direction, "Long held intact."
"Lightly abandoned?" She could hold herself no more, the images of Madril and the dead filling her mind's eye, every word dripping with anger, "In what fantasy do you suppose they were lightly abandoned?"
"A fantasy in which the daughter of a foreign lord with no claim to these lands does not address the Steward of Gondor in that manner," He looked pointedly to her even as he continued to pile food onto his plate, "Never before in all the centuries that have passed has the western bank of the Anduin fallen. Properly led, it would not have happened now."
"It must be a great gift you have, My Lord," She hissed, "To have such great wisdom on affairs of which you clearly know nothing."
Denethor snorted as he picked at a chicken wing, "Spoken like a true child. The fact remains that the outer defences are breached, and the city is now exposed."
"Then it is the city we must look to defend."
"And so easily forswear what those who came before us sacrificed to defend?" His look darkened, "No true man of Gondor would speak of such."
"What would you have me do?" Faramir cut across before she could reply.
"I will not yield the crossing at the Pelennor unfought. Osgiliath must be retaken." Even watching him eat was turning her stomach, juices dribbling freely down his chin.
"You cannot be serious, my lord! Osgiliath swarms with the enemy!" She threw up her hands and laughed without humour, looking around the room as if hoping to find the source of this dark comedy in which she found herself, "They have had time to fortify and consolidate! There are bridges to the eastern bank to bring ready reinforcements! Even with the entirety of the garrison, what you ask is impossible!"
"Much must be risked in war," His eye fixed on Faramir, "Is there still a Captain here with the courage to do his lord's will?"
Faramir said nothing. There were tears in his eyes and suddenly he seemed so much smaller in stature, in presence, as if a part of himself had just been stolen away by some evil realisation, "You wish now that our places had been exchanged. That I had died, and Boromir had lived."
"Yes," Denethor whispered without so much as a second's thought "I wish that."
The hall was silent but for the chewing of the Steward. Nemireth looked to Faramir, lips parting but no words came forth. What could she even say? He looked so small; mouth set in a hard line as if to keep from crying aloud. The pain was there, like an open wound upon his chest. He stared unblinking at his father; the man who was to have loved him above all else. Even she felt the coldness in her veins, what must he be suffering?
The Captain of Gondor drew himself up, "Since you were robbed of Boromir. I will do what I can in his stead," He bowed and turned to go, "Should I return, think better of me, father."
"That will depend on the manner of your return." Denethor did not so much as look his direction, focusing instead on his lunch.
She was scarcely able to find the words, but when she did, every word dripped with a malice she had never before felt, a hatred so burning and raw it could not have been matched by all the orcs of Mordor, "Should the city of Kings fall, let it be known it fell while ruled by the least of all men."
"You are dismissed, Nemireth of Aeanor," Denethor burst a tomato between his teeth, "Go in peace."
She did not bow; she would not give him the satisfaction as she hurried out in pursuit of Faramir. There was no sign of him in the courtyard and it took some frantic searching to find that he was in the stables. Already there were men gathered in armour, readying weapons, and saddles, climbing atop their horses. Faramir was at their head, mounted himself with helmet hiding his locks. Some of the men gathered she recognised from Osgiliath just a few days before.
"Faramir! You can't mean to follow through with this?" She asked in disbelief as the horses formed up into a column and began to ride out.
"I took an oath to the Steward of Gondor. Here do I swear fealty, in living or dying." He was not the same man, his voice was flat, and his eyes empty of any warmth or light. The Princess felt a cold dread overcome her at the mere sight of him. This was a man who had lost all hope, where it had once been plentiful, "I will see my oath fulfilled."
"The Steward," She spat the word as if it were a slight, "Does not ask sense of you Faramir! He asks you to throw your life away!"
"And were our roles reversed, were it your father who asked this of you, would you carry out his will?"
"I…" She fell over her words as the column began to ride, heading out of the stables and through the gates into the city, "My-My father would never ask such insanity of me!"
He looked like he wished to smile but for a twitch of his cheek there was no expression, "Then count your blessings, Princess Nemireth, that such dark times have not found themselves at your doorstep."
She grabbed hold of his sleeve, his horse coming to a stop from the fierce tug, tears coming to her eyes, "Please! Faramir, don't do this, I beg you!"
He leant down and placed a hand on her shoulder, "Farewell, my lady. I will give Boromir your regards." It was there again, another ghost of a smile but before she could truly tell if it had been there all, he had kicked his horse on, leading the column into the streets.
There was little wind, so the banners of the men did not billow so much as fall limply. A crowd was beginning to gather but there were no cheers or celebration, only stony and sorrow-ridden faces. The clop of hooves upon the cobblestones was deafening. Those in the crowd threw flowers before the advancing horses or reached out and gifted them to the soldiers atop. The fear was infectious, rising all around them, engulfing and suffocating.
"Faramir!" She heard a familiar voice, Gandalf pushing his way through the crowd, "Your father's will has turned to madness! Do not throw away your life so rashly!"
She found herself praying. Please, Winds, Valar, anyone. Please let him listen to reason. Let him listen to Gandalf.
Faramir barely spared him a look before fixing his gaze ahead, "Where does my allegiance lie if not here? This is the city of the men of Númenor. I would gladly give my life to defend her beauty, her memory, her wisdom." He rode on and left Nemireth and Gandalf both, past the statue of Elendil. What would the great king have thought to see such a procession before him? This was no great army departing the city of Númenor. This was no mighty host riding forth to challenge the enemy in the great battles of his time, with a king worthy of the name at their head. No, this was a son, shorn of his father's love, commanded to die before the blades of their enemies. Was this what the world of men had come to? Had they truly fallen so far?
"Your father loves you, Faramir," The Wizard spoke so softly the Princess was not sure anyone else heard him, "He will remember it before the end."
As soon as the gates had sealed behind them, the crowd took to the walls, Nemireth amongst them. Looking back up towards the top of the city, she could see people had gathered at every level but the very top. Only the White Tower did not watch on as the column formed into two lines just behind Minas Tirith. Even from here, with Osgiliath a distant ruin, they looked so few. At last the wind began to pick up, the banners taking life as they trotted forward.
"Please," She found herself whispering, chanting under her breath, "Please call it off, Faramir. Please withdraw…"
The force broke into a charge.
They never even made it to the city.
From the broken walls and buildings of Osgiliath came a storm of arrows as thick as hail. In one moment, there was a force of Gondor, men of Númenor led by the son of the Steward.
In the next, there were only the dead.
From the walls, there was silence. No one moved. No one spoke. It was if the entire city were paralysed in grief.
Her head dropped and Nemireth found tears were running freely down her cheeks and hitting the ground at her feet. Faramir was gone. His men were gone. For what? Because of the bitterness of one man. The unfairness of it, the injustice of what she had seen clawed at her mind until she wanted to scream. She wanted to lash out, to punch and curse and leave this city with its Steward to the horde who wished it destroyed. They did not deserve men like Faramir, like Boromir!
She took a deep breath to steady herself. She wiped her cheeks and turned to the nearest soldier, "Please help the civilians off the wall. Find me the city captains, we need to prepare the evacuation of the lower level."
The soldier did not move, "My Lady, what is the point? It is over."
"No," Nemireth's voice was low but fierce, "It is not over."
The crowd began to dissipate with an air of defeat that was suffocating, infectious. The Princess could not stay on the walls and instead went to find Gandalf.
He was not far from where he had tried to dissuade the young Captain of Gondor from riding to his death, sitting still on a bench with staff in hand. Without a word, Nemireth went and sat beside him. There they remained for however long without a word being spoken, each taking comfort from the other.
There was nothing else to say.
