Of all the things Nemireth had missed, the greatest of them was the wind. The air in the halls of healing had been so stuffy and so warm, it had felt at times like she was attempting to breath soup or the exhaled breath of some dragon hidden amongst the cavernous arches above her. After so long, the air had felt like it was constricting, tightening in her chest, adding to the sense of walls closing in on her from all sides. It was only when she again stepped out into the light of a bright Minas Tirith morning and felt the eager breeze greet her as an old friend that she was finally able to breathe again, that she was finally free. It was a cleansing feeling, like the wounds of the past being swept away by the briskness.

There was only so much the wind could do, alas and as she took that next step, she could not help but wince and look to Legolas, "Don't say a word."

He raised an eyebrow but obligingly did not speak. The words of Aragorn were doubtless as fresh in his mind as they were in hers; "Take it easy at first; do not overreach yourself."

How could she not overreach? For the first time in what felt like an age she had the sky above her and the world at her feet. From high atop the citadel she could see so far in every direction. Had it always been this way? She had never truly looked, except for one notable direction. Mordor was still ablaze, ash and flame bursting forth like some hellish geyser, as if the mountain itself raged at the defeat that had been suffered. She felt herself torn upon seeing it; that same sick satisfaction that so many of the enemy had fallen that day and the pain, the terror of what retribution was to follow. Neither was particularly pleasant to dwell on and so she averted her eyes, leaning against the battlements and stretching to look as far north as she could.

That way the river Anduin snaked through the mountains, meandering and slow when it was this wide. She could see how the valley fell away on both sides to meet it; one side controlled by the free peoples and the other in the iron grip of Mordor. Further north, she could just see the tips of jagged rocks before all fell away into mist and cloud.

"Where is the Greenwood then?" She looked back over her shoulder to Legolas, whose washed, blonde hair blew about his face in a way she could not help but snigger at, "Can I see it from here?"

"I would be mighty impressed if you could," he stepped up beside her, close and all but pressed against her, eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon. At last, he pointed, "It is there."

She followed his finger, but he seemed to pointing to the maze of jagged hills and gullies that rose sharply from the flatter ground around them, which spoiled an otherwise unspoiled view, "You mean that stony outcrop? I fear you may have oversold yourself."

"It is a little past that 'stony outcrop', as you so poetically named it," He sighed but there was a smile at his lips; "Beyond the Emyn Muil are the Brown Lands, formerly the domain of the entwives but now barren and desolate. Between the crowns of the Misty Mountains and the great dwarven realms of the north lies the Forest of the Wilderland and at its heart, the Woodland Realm."

"So, no stony outcrop?"

"Alas no, though we lament often that our ancestors chose a bountiful and beautiful forest rather than the cold, lifeless rocks."

"I'll be sure Gimli hears it," She giggled leaning her full weight against the cold stone beneath her. It was sending a chill through her arms, but she welcomed it, anything but the itchiness and feel of wool, "Can you see much?"

"Parts of the wood have died, overrun with corruption and war. The plague of Dol Guldur has spread."

She felt her smile slip and she put a hand on his arm, "Your father will drive them back."

"He will. The Children of Ilúvatar will not yield their home easily."

"You wish you were there with him."

"It is my home also," The elf sighed, and Nemireth could see the weight that rested upon him, the strain he had kept hidden for so long now laid bare for her, "Were it to fall in my absence…"

"It won't," She squeezed his arm, "You know it won't."

"How can you be so certain?"

"If they have even one ounce of your skill, Legolas, your courage, then all the forces of the world do not stand a chance. Just so long as there are no undead kings for you to miss."

He gave her a gentle shove and together they laughed, the sorrow melting away.

Only now did Nemireth look upon the fields of Pelennor. She had been so determined not to look, to keep her eyes on the horizon only and pretend that nothing else existed but there was no escaping it and it was foolish to even try. Even from so high up she could see the dead strewn all across the field, make out of the shapes of the oliphaunts and the ruins of the catapults. How, from so high up, was it possible to tell the nondescript shapes of men and horses apart?

The elf had followed her gaze and now it was he who placed a hand on hers; "We have removed our dead. Those you see on the field are orcs and men of the east."

"There's so many," She bite her lip, taking in the sights, capturing them in her mind for eternity.

"The Dark Lord played his hand. Perhaps with this victory, we have bought ourselves time."

"Will it be enough?"

He looked away, "I cannot say."

Nemireth let her eyes pass over the lower parts of the city. The sounds of sawing and hammering were constant as the citizens rebuilt the ruins of the lower circles. She could see great gaping wounds in walls and roofs and suddenly she was back there. She could see the boulders, spinning through the air and crashing upon them. She could feel the fires on her skin and smell the tar, the acrid smoke, the fear of those around her. She could hear the grunts of the men who worked the catapults, their calls of encouragement. She could hear the whispered prayers of those who could only stand and wait. Even now her ears rang, the memory of the Nazgul sweeping in above them, that sound more piercing than even the spear she had taken in her side. She could hear the splintering wood and screams of their victims.

She pushed away from the battlement, "There's something I need to do."

"Must it be now?"

"It must." She saw how he hesitated, "You don't need to come with me."

"Of course I will. Lead the way."

It took some asking, questioning those who worked or travelled the streets but eventually, she found where she was looking for. It was a narrow house, in a small and nondescript street that the fighting had bypassed entirely, save for the large blockades that had been erected on her order. The door closed and before it, she hesitated.

"Maybe this isn't a good idea."

"It is your choice, but you have come this far. I think it will help. Both of you."

"Okay, okay" She took a breath but that twisting in her stomach did not go. Her side was throbbing which was not helping but she stood as tall as she could manage and knocked.

It took some time for someone to answer, in which time Nemireth felt like running. Where? Anywhere that wasn't here. Anywhere that would spare her what she was about to do. It had seemed like a good thought on the battlements but here, now, she could see only the flaws. Instead, she tried to focus on Legolas, standing alongside her. She was not alone here. That thought on its own was enough to steady her.

When the door opened, the woman who stood before them was younger than she expected, her red hair was only starting to grey at the ends. In her face however were lines that belonged to a woman so much older, while her eyes were swollen and red but dry, as if there were simply no more tears for them to give.

Those same eyes widened when she laid sight upon her visitors and she knelt upon one knee, "My Lady. My lord."

"Stand," Nemireth gulped, "Please. You are Edenion's mother?"

She inhaled a little and guilt surged through the Princess at the pain the mere mention of that name brought to the woman before her, "Yes."

Nemireth found her mouth was dry and the words that had seemed to clear in her mind mere moments ago seemed to evaporate, "He and his kin fought alongside me in defence of the city. It was a…dark time, terrifying for us all. I don't believe any of us truly thought we could win this battle. But when the call came, they answered,"

She could feel tears starting to prick at the corners of her eyes. All she could see was the crews of the catapults cowering from the Nazgul, her own legs jelly and heart thumping against her chest, men hiding behind walls and shields. Then she saw Edenion charging for his post, a squad of redheaded men in his wake, the others dragged from their fear by their example. They were not soldiers, no training had they been given for the hell they found themselves living. They were no warriors, born and raised with blade in hand and death on their lips. They were carpenters. Yet they worked their weapon with the same ferocity, the same determination.

"When all around them were surrendering to fear, it was your sons who stood the tallest. The courage they displayed is greater than I could ever describe. It was my honour to have fought alongside them. I thought you would just…like to know…"

The woman before them seemed rooted to the spot and for a moment, Nemireth feared she would collapse but instead she came forward and took up the Princess in her arms. A terrible stabbing pain ran down her side but Nemireth did her best to ignore it, instead returning the gesture, allowing a mother to grieve and weep into her shoulder and for tears to sting at her own eyes.

Finally, they parted, the woman wiping at her nose and sniffing, "They were so much like their father. So bold, so confident. Arrogance, some called it but I knew better. When it mattered, they always knew to do the right thing." She took a deep breath, "Thank you, my lady. It means a great deal to know they earned such praise."

Nemireth bowed her head and only now did she notice the blackened stains on the front of the woman's dress, "You are not hurt, I hope?"

"Not mine, thankfully. I have been volunteering down at the local market. There's some poor souls there were wounded in the fighting. I'm just about to go there now if you would like to accompany me, My Lady?"

The pain in her side was growing worse and she knew that she had already overdone it but instead the Princess nodded, "It would be my honour."

Behind her, Legolas sighed but he made no attempt to dissuade her and instead accompanied her to the market. The wounded were a mix of soldiers and civilians who had been hurt when the roofs and walls had fallen or when the boulders had bounced down the streets. She stayed there for some hours and all the while she knew she could go, to politely make her excuses but some force kept her there. She thought back to the halls of Helms Deep, where the wounded of the journey had dwelt. Like then, many of those who she spoke to seemed taken aback that she would speak with them, but most were happy to have someone to talk to. So, she listened, she laughed, she nodded, she asked. She could only spend a few moments with each, but they lingered in her memory for far longer.

The sun was high above the walls by the time they departed, Nemireth now actively holding on to Legolas as he looped an arm under her shoulder, supporting her weight.

"May I say it now?" He asked as they made slow progress through the streets.

She gave him a look but exhaled, trying to keep her breaths as long as she dared, "Fine."

"You have overreached yourself."

"Only a little. How could I leave once I was there?"

"I know. It was a good thing you did. I will not hold it against you."

"Promise you won't tell Aragorn?"

Legolas laughed, "Do you really believe he needs me to know what you have been up to?"

She pulled a face, "I guess not. I am truly thankful though."

"For what?"

"First and foremost that you bathed before we were this close."

He sighed, "I could drop you right here, then go and eat dinner on my own. It would be twice the helpings."

"You can't, it's illegal to just dump princesses in the street. I checked." She couldn't help but laugh at how he rolled his eyes, "But that is not what I'm most thankful for."

"Is it that I trimmed my hair?"

"No…thank you, Legolas. Thank you for being here. Thank you for waiting for me. I just…thank you…" She leant up and kissed his cheek.

She could feel him tense a little after the gesture and for a moment she felt a fear that she had somehow offended him but instead he merely tightened his squeeze on her ever so slightly and she relaxed in his arm, letting him take as much of her weight as she could. They were coming into a busier part of the city now, but their progress was not impeded. Rather, the crowd parted for them, opening up a corridor through their numbers. It felt like a silence had fallen upon them and many, she saw out of the corner of her eye, bowed as she passed. It felt a little foolish, with her being all but dragged through the streets in a less than elegant fashion but she nodded back and did her best to look regal even as Legolas pulled her along.

"You would think they had never seen an elf dragging a princess down the street before," She whispered.

"Perhaps it is not just the soldiers of the city who deserve thanks," Legolas was smiling as they moved through the reverent silence that fallen over them. The Princess quickly found herself looking to the floor.

"My Lady! My Lord Legolas!" A figure was approaching through the crowd, one she recognised as a servant from the White Tower. If he had any comment as to how they were arranged, he did not voice it though his eyes widened, "His Majesty requests your presence at once!"

Legolas sighed and Nemireth chuckled at the expression, "Looking forward to hauling me up to the top of the city?"

He could but roll his eyes as they began the long journey up to the White Tower and her mind began to wander. Whatever it was that Aragorn sought them for, it was surely grim news. Everything else had been.

They did earn themselves a few looks as they ascended, passers-by sneaking second glances or following them out of the corner of their eyes. Nemireth ignored them all, rather more focused on putting one foot in front of the other and ignoring that near constant throb in her side. The pain in and of itself was manageable but it seemed determined to spread, lancing up and down her arm, her chest and her leg. A few times they had to stop, just so Nemireth could catch her breath and try to bring it under control. For his part, Legolas made no effort to hurry her, happy to move at the pace she was most comfortable with.

Eventually they made it, to the hall in which Denethor had sat and claimed to rule. It was the same hall from which he had bid his son to ride to his death, in which he had stewed and raged impotently as his city fell further and further into ruin. Now it was bathed in light, the marble all but glowing as if even the city itself rejoiced the man who now stood with his back to them. He wore not the regalia nor robes of royalty but the attire of a ranger, arms folded behind his back as he searched the face of the statue. Which of his kin it was however, she could not say.

Gandalf stood in the centre of the room, unmoving, unblinking. He gave the impression of being here only in body, his mind and his eye a world away. Éomer, the King of Rohan was here in full armour, a little less distressed than last she had seen him though still with a tired look, the look of a man upon which a great deal of weight had just been placed. Beside him were Éowyn and Faramir, standing as close as could be. He was a little pale but it was to her relief that Faramir seemed no worse for wear for his adventure. The eyes of the two met across the room and he gave her a slight nod which she returned. And then there was Gimli. Where the scene not so sombre and severe she would have laughed, for he alone seemed unconcerned. He sat upon the throne of the steward, puffing his pipe with his legs crossed.

It was Éomer who raised an eyebrow as Nemireth hobbled into the hall, all but hanging off Legolas' shoulder while Éowyn and Faramir exchanged a look but no one spoke. It was left to Legolas who leant down and whispered in Nemireth's ear, "He searches for Frodo and Sam. The eyes of wizards defeats even that of elves."

All attention was on Gandalf. At last, he exhaled as if his soul had returned to his body. He did not look around but began to pace.

"Frodo and Sam have passed into Mordor, beyond my sight," He announced in a most grave manner, "The darkness is deepening."

"If Sauron had the Ring, we would know it," Aragorn did not turn.

"It is only a matter of time."

"You underestimate them, Gandalf," Nemireth said sharply, annoyed, and alarmed in equal measure by the wizard's sorrow, "They have come this far; why can they not go further?"

"Their troubles have only just started, Princess." He looked to her with ancient eyes, a depth of wisdom that, as they had always done, made Nemireth feel both very small and very foolish, "The plains of Gorgoroth are as merciless and twisted as any orc. The lakes are spoiled and the very land itself is poisoned."

In that moment, Nemireth was brought back to the Council of Elrod, all those months ago in Rivendell, to the words Boromir had spoken and which she had then so causally dismissed; "There is evil there that does not sleep…"

"Surely his hands are now tied, after the battle?" Éowyn asked, looking between Gandalf and Nemireth.

"He has suffered a defeat, yes. But, behind the walls of Mordor our enemy is regrouping."

"Let him say there then, let him rot!" Gimli blew a puff of smoke, "Why should we care?"

"Because countless thousands of orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom," Gandalf gave the dwarf a withering look before resuming his pacing.

"Sauron's strength will rebuild faster than our own," Legolas sighed, "I fear waiting for his next move is no longer an option."

Nemireth exhaled. So now they knew. All their efforts and all their sacrifice had not brought them any time at all. That hurt nearly as much as her side and she held to Legolas a little tighter.

"Then what do we do?" Éowyn had moved closer still to Faramir.

"Frodo needs time, and safe passage across the plains of Gorgoroth," Aragorn at last turned around and Nemireth was surprised to see his eyes ablaze with both passion and mischief, "We can give him that. Draw out his armies, empty his lands. Then we gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate."

Gimli choked on his pipe.

"March out and meet him on an open field?" Legolas' brow was creased in thought and he shrugged his shoulder, conceding to the logic, "It would surely be the last thing he expects."

"Even combined, we cannot achieve victory through strength of arms," Éomer stepped forth though his expression was sombre.

"Not for ourselves, but we can give Frodo the time he needs," Aragorn said, "Keep the enemy's eye fixed on us. Keep him blind to all else that moves."

"Certainty of death? Small chance of success? What are we waiting for?" Gimli clapped his hands together, pipe between his teeth.

"Sauron will suspect a trap," Gandalf approached Aragorn, "He will not take the bait.

His answer was a small, knowing smile, "Oh, I think he will."

"Even if he does, you are asking us," She nodded to Éomer, her own arms folded as she chewed on her lip, "To sacrifice our armies in a battle we cannot possibly win. So many thousands…"

He walked to her and placed his hand on her shoulder, "I do not ask this of you lightly, nor of Rohan who has already sacrificed so much for this war, but it is as Legolas says; our enemy will only grow in strength. Patience is a luxury we no longer possess. What we do possess is an opportunity. It is a slim one, I know, but a better one will never present itself. It will be a steep price to pay and if it is too great for Aeanor or Rohan, then I will not demand you make it. The choice is yours."

"It's no choice, Aragorn," Nemireth smiled and placed her hand on the King's shoulder, mimicking the gesture she had seem him make so often with the elves, "We will stand by our allies, no matter the cost."

"We have come this far," Éomer sighed, "And it is as you say; if this is our best opportunity, we would be fools to let it pass us by."

Just like that, the decision was made. They would march not for themselves, no personal glory or honour but to give two hobbits across the world a chance.

It was a faint hope, a foolish hope but it was all they had.

That in itself was a grim thought, indeed.