Nemireth felt cheated.

She stood upon the field of Pelennor, victorious, and all she could feel was anger.

It was stupid, and some small part of her knew it. Aragorn's intervention and the arrival of the undead army had saved them from what would have been a long and torturous defeat. It had turned a costly enemy victory into a devasting defeat beyond the realms of even the most delirious fantasy. In those few moments, the field had been rid of Sauron's host and the city cleared. The battle had been won without a single extra casualty.

But still, she felt cheated.

The Princess could feel the blood pulsing through her veins, her heart beating furiously against her chest. Her arms throbbed and her breath was rapid and ragged, but she felt alive. She felt as if she could have strangled the life from the Dark Lord himself with her bare hands! There were no thoughts of fear here, no numbness or shaking. There was only the fight, the thrill, the need to see her enemies smote before her! This could not be the end! She would not let it be so!

The Princess could not stop it, any more than she could have stopped the sun from setting or the wind from blowing. Slowly, agonisingly, she felt that power slide through her fingers as if it were water, pouring from her until all that Nemireth felt was an emptiness. The coldness of it clung to her as if it were leaking into her skin, filling her mind with that numbness she had known was waiting for her.

It was just like Osgiliath. It was just like Helm's Deep…

Only then did she truly see the fields as they were.

Aragorn walked nearby, his undead retinue dismissed before her, fading into whatever salvation they had earned themselves. Gandalf had tried already to have him leave the field, that he was needed elsewhere. Denethor, the last steward of Gondor had fallen. How, she did not know. Why, she did not especially care. It had left the city leaderless, or at least deprived of whatever Denethor had been providing. Aragorn had refused. Right now the field of Pelennor needed him more than the city of the Minas Tirith. He would do what was needed. Aragorn had always done what was needed. As for Gimli and Legolas…they were here, and she was sure they were speaking with her but their words were lost in the haze, in the fog that had fallen over her mind.

In time, she was sure, stories would be written of this day. They would write of the city's defence. They would write of Gandalf's intervention and the ride of the Rohirrim. They would write of how, when the cause of good had been all but extinguished, Aragorn, the true king of Gondor, had arrived to carry the day with his ghostly host. They would speak of its glory, of the bravery, of the renown that had been won.

They would never write of this.

The dead lay in every direction, piled thick upon the ground. No matter where she looked, Nemireth could see no end to their number; Orcs, wargs, horses, trolls, the massive forms of oliphaunts like islands upon the ocean. Amongst them lay men of Gondor, Rohan, Harad, Rhun and Aeanor. Even Grond, the great weapon of the enemy lay upon its side, smoke rising pathetically from its muzzle though who had slain it, she could not tell. Even the gaps between them were filled with arrows, with spears, with axes, banners, swords and shields, the detritus of war sprinkled upon the carnage as if this were some hellish artwork.

The survivors walked amongst the fallen, hoping against hope that some of those who had fallen could be saved. There was something haunting about how they moved, how they stooped and checked at their comrades, their brothers. It felt like a surreal dream, like she were floating amongst them, unseeing and unseen.

"Nemireth!" She heard her name called and those thoughts briefly left as she searched for its source. Pippin was running to her, his helmet cast off and the cloak of the tower guard flowing behind him. Even through the piercing chill she felt the smallest pang of warmth. He had lived. That cheery thought quickly dissipated however when she saw the expression upon his blood-stained and filthy face. His eyes were wide and his cheeks as pale as a new moon. He was holding something in his hands, some package bundled up. What had he found now? Some other weapon of the enemy? What could have caused him such distress?

Only when he was close did she see it for what it was truly was. It was not just some wrapping but a cloak, a cloak woven of the finest threads, hue the colour of a summer forest. At the neck was a clasp, a leaf of Lothlorien.

Oh no…

"Nemireth…" Pippin was clutching the cloak so tightly that his knuckles had gone deathly white and she could now that they were shaking. The look upon his face was so…torn…an agony she had never known in this world, "What if…he can't be…Nemireth…"

He looked so lost. Even by the standards of hobbits he seemed so small, as if he were shrinking and being engulfed by this world. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed tightly, "We'll find him Pippin."

"How…"

Aragorn approached, "We will find him." The Hobbit shivered at the ferocity of his words but nodded, clinging to the slightest thread of hope that he offered him as tightly as he held Merry's cloak.

"You will not search alone," That voice. So certain, so confident. She turned to find Legolas standing beside her, bow in hand. She felt her heart thump anew, as if just being close to him was enough to spark something from deep within her. He was looking to her with those intense eyes but rather than comfort, she found it disquieting, as if he were only noticing something for the first time and she hurriedly looked away.

"Aye," The other voice was gruff, and its own strode past with his long axe haft resting upon his shoulder, "Come on lad, we have a lot of ground to cover."

So, they began their quest; an elf, a hobbit, a dwarf, a man and a woman. Five beings who upon sight alone could not have been more different spread out to search for a halfling amidst so much destruction. Five beings who had stood all those months ago in the courtyard of Rivendell. No oath had bound them, as Lord Elrond had said, no words had bid them come this far. Yet here they were. No oath could have driven them so far, no words could have brought them here. It was a bond, unspoken and indescribable yet Nemireth knew they all felt it as powerfully as she did. Even now, she could feel the strength of those who were beyond them. Frodo, Sam, Boromir, Merry, they drove the Fellowship on as surely as if they had been here in the flesh. No matter how long it took; a day, a week, a year, an age, they would not abandon one of their own. Not while they had strength left to give.

It was the Rohirrim who lay thickest upon the ground here, men in scale armour and green cloaks with long beards and manes in blondes, browns and reds. Some could have been asleep so peaceful did they look while others could not even have been described as men so little remained. Nemireth looked into the faces of each and every one, some still clinging to their weapons as if preparing for the call of their king. How many of these men had fought at Isen Ford? How many had manned the walls of the Hornburg? How many had stood shoulder to shoulder with her in the lowest halls of the Deep, awaiting the end? How many had drunk and danced and laughed in the Golden Hall, revelling in their victory?

Her hands were starting to shake. Her breath was shallow. Every intake of air was bringing an intense pain in her side, as if a poker were being held against her bare skin.

She heard a howl from across the field and she looked up, terror seizing her heart. It couldn't be Merry, surely not. The Winds would not be so cruel.

A figure was on their knees, helmet tossed aside as he cradled another figure in his arms. Every wail was like a spear through her heart as the man looked around with that same wide-eyed and frantic grief, the blonde hair of the person he held spilling over his arms.

No…

Nemireth was frozen, fixated, trapped by the sight. Éomer was rocking back and forth, lost to the world as he hugged his sister with such an intensity that not even Morgoth could have parted them.

Not her…

A figure in black tore past her, sword bouncing at his hip and cloak billowing. He skidded to his knees before Éomer and checked, hands running hurriedly over her cheeks, her forehead, her wrists.

Please…

Nemireth could feel her lip trembling. The shake in her hands was growing worse.

Aragorn was gesturing frantically, and two men hurried over. It took no small effort to part Éomer from her but before long, the group was running for the city, Éowyn's beautiful long hair hanging between them.

Please not her too…

The pain in Nemireth's side was growing worse. As if the poker resting there was being twisted, tearing at her flesh, scrapping at her ribs. Tears stained her cheeks. A gasp escaped gritted teeth as she tried to take a step, to keep searching. She had to find Merry. He was here. She knew he was. He couldn't be dead too.

Her knee buckled and the Princess found herself dropping to one knee, hand going to her side as an unbidden cry left her lips.

"Nemireth!"

A figure caught her just as the last of her strength left her legs and she fell against the shoulder, almost eagerly. She was shaking frantically, and every joint felt numb. Every breath came quick and shallow as if she were drowning.

"Nemireth!" She could hear the panic in Legolas' voice, but it felt so distant, so hollow. He placed his hand at her side, and she screamed aloud though even that sounded muffled and muted. His fingers came away bright crimson, "We must get you to the city, hurry!"

"No…M-Merry…"

"We'll keep looking, Lassie! Don't you worry about that! Now go!"

She was given no choice in the matter as Legolas lifted her and rushed for the city, supporting her by the shoulder. She wanted to resist, to tell him no. They had to find Merry. That was all that mattered. She could not force the words from her lips, it hurt even to breath…

Another figure scooped under her free shoulder. Who it was, she could not tell but their pace quickened.

"Keep breathing, Nemireth," Legolas took her hand in his and squeezed tightly. She squeezed back, "Just breathe deeply."

It hurt so much to do but she tried. Even when she felt something press hard against her wound that made her scream, she tried to keep her breaths deep. She wanted to look at him, she wanted to tell him how sorry she was, but it felt like she was falling asleep, her eyes growing heavy.

This was how it felt to die.

She squeezed as tightly at the elf's hand as she could. She thought back to the hall in Helm's Deep. She thought back to the Golden Hall. She remembered him laughing and that brought a smile to her lips as the darkness took her.