Any semblance of Nemireth's good mood was gone.

The Princess led Siriondil to the top of the city, fighting the urge to scowl every time she turned to check he was still following. He walked with a swagger, looking upon the peoples who had gathered to watch as if it were he who had been anointed king. They cheered this tall and dashing stranger in his foreign armour with his flowing cloak and the army at his back and he lapped it up. He waved to the assembled crowd, smiling and gesturing as if this adoration was not only desired but deserved. Nemireth had to clench her teeth as they cleared the masses and the sounds of the marching soldiers were left far beneath them.

"So this is Minas Tirith?" Only once they had left the adoring people did Siriondil look around, "The Great City of the Eastern Exiles, the realm of Elendil?" He gave a tut, "I must say, I was expecting it to be so much more…grand than this."

"There has just been a terrible battle fought here, My Lord," Nemireth managed through gritted teeth without looking to him, "It is rather difficult to look splendid after such."

"Yes of course, your highness," His voice was positively dripping with a false sweetness that just deepened her annoyance. He was speaking as if she were a child, "But if these men wish to claim heirdom of Númenor then really I expected better of them, battle or no. Look here," He gestured to a great house whose innards were exposed by a great wound in its outer wall, rubble still piled before the shattered gap which had not yet been bordered up, "Such a fine hall and yet no man comes to tend to her. It really is rather poor."

Nemireth could see a beam of wood sticking from the house as an arrow from a chest and she looked away hurriedly, closing her eyes and exhaling deeply. It was the crossbeam of a catapult, smashed from on high and carried here to its final resting place. She tried not to think of what would have become of its crew, "The priority was to get water and food to those who need them. I don't believe anyone's tried to feed a brick wall before but if it satisfies you?"

Siriondil said nothing but gave her a patronising smile and a slow tut as if she had missed the point. It took some considerable effort for the Princess not to swing around and punch him, instead keeping her fists clenched and breathing slow and deep.

"Oh His majesty, the King, sends his regards after you, my Princess," The Lord now said apropos out of nowhere.

She stopped so suddenly that he nearly walked into her, coming to a halt just as she spun to look at him, "My father? How is he?"

"He is well," Siriondil's smile widened but it was a look that left her uncomfortable, for there was a meaning beyond innocence there, "Though he is wearied by a great many troubles. Fortunately, my father stands by his side and aids him in these difficult times."

Nemireth opened her mouth to speak but found she could not for a new feeling was welling up inside her; guilt. To think of her father, who had always felt the weight of rule so heavily upon his shoulders now being surrounded by the likes of Lord Arutaer and others stung at her, vultures every one of them. Then there was she was planning, what she knew would be her fate. What would happen to him, when he heard of her death in battle before the Black Gate? She took a deep and heavy breath to steady herself and her hands trembled, "Come, Lord Siriondil. We keep the king waiting."

Siriondil did not seem to have noticed her distress, instead sighing wistfully at her words and following her to the highest tier of the city.

The throne room was brightly lit, awash with the morning light as it poured through high windows. The throne sat unoccupied, the chair of the steward still alongside it. All activity in the room was centred around a table that had once held the solitary feasts of Denethor but which now held a large map of Gondor's eastern border. Wooden tokens had been placed across it, some of horses, some of men and others of elves or dwarves. Gandalf stood a little way off, puffing on his pipe as he surveyed Aragorn and Faramir who poured over the part of the map concerning Osgiliath and the Anduin. Others were here too, Damrod had his arms folded and was murmuring to Legolas who looked concerned at his news. All eyes looked up as she entered with Siriondil and the Princess cleared her throat.

"Aragorn," She said, "I announce Siriondil, son of Arutaer of the House of Narthanor, Lord-Heir of the Lands of Elenduin and Honoured Blade of the King, Brundir III." She rolled her eyes where he could not see.

"Lord Siriondil," Nemireth pressed on somewhat wearily. Titles had never been something she had put much stock in, "You stand before Aragorn, son of Arathorn of the House of Elendil; Chief to the Dunedain of the North, wielder of Anduril, the Flame of the West, King of the united realms of Arnor and Gondor and Heir to the throne of Númenor."

"Welcome, Lord Siriondil, I am honoured to have you as a guest," Aragorn bowed deeply. The Aeanorean returned the gesture but it was half-hearted and his expression was distinctly suspicious.

"Thank you, my lord," He said at length, "Long has it been since this side of the sea saw a King of men. We thought the line long broken."

"As it was, but it has been made anew," Aragorn spoke easily, "And I hope for ties between our realms to grow once more so that both may prosper in brotherhood."

"That will depend greatly," He said sharply, "On the nature of that brotherhood."

Silence fell over the room. Nemireth was looking at him in disbelief while Faramir's expression had turned quite ugly.

"Choose your words carefully, my lord," He said, "You speak to our king and the king of Gondor."

"I speak to a man who would claim lordship over all the realms of Númenor as his sires before him," Siriondil's tone was firm, looking to Faramir and ignoring the mood in the room, "I swear an oath to the House of Caldor and that House alone. Those that the House of Elendil has long desired to see fall down in ruin. I will be long dead in the ground before I recognise an upstart dressed in rags as an overlord to my king!"

Slap!

Before anyone could speak further, Nemireth had struck Siriondil across the face. He staggered back as if the blow had come from a troll's hammer. His hand came to his face and he looked down at the smaller woman in astonishment.

"How dare you!" She snarled, all rational thought having escaped her mind, "How dare you insult him! Do you have any idea who he is? What he's been through?" She raised her arm again but a hand took her wrist gently.

"Nemireth," Legolas said softly, "Don't."

She allowed her hand to be lowered but scowled at Siriondil who had regained some of his composure and looked to the Princess with a searching and calculating expression.

"Lord Siriondil," Aragorn broke the silence and drew attention back to him, "I know of the harm that my sires, the kings of old have done to the realm of Aeanor in both word and deed. Long have we claimed dominion over all realms that arose from the shadow of the old kingdom, a claim made in error. I turn my back on that claim now, before you. Never again shall the kings of Gondor and Arnor demand the fealty of Aeanor."

Siriondil did not speak at first, looking to the still glowering Nemireth whose hand was still in Legolas', "Noble words, my lord, but little more."

"I swear it before the eyes of the Valar, before the Princess of the realm," He nodded to Nemireth, "And to you. A promise that cannot be broken by myself or my heirs. I hold no claim nor lordship over the lands of Aeanor, her people or her ruler. I can give you no stronger oath than this," Aragorn strode up to the man. Though he still wore his ranger garb, he could not have looked any more a king. A man who radiated authority and power. He stretched out a hand, "Can we be friends, as we once were?"

Siriondil frowned, looking down at the hand, then at Aragorn. Without looking towards his Princess, he took it and they shook.

"Now come," Aragorn invited him towards the table, "There's a great deal that must be done and explained."

So Nemireth stood and watched with her arms folded, Legolas close to her as Aragorn explained their intentions without going into the details of why. Siriondil's face was expressionless, as unreadable as his father's while Aragorn spoke, while a still frowning Faramir spoke, while Éomer spoke. He raised no objections nor asked questions when they had finished. He just gave Nemireth a long, hard look and departed from the room.

"An…interesting introduction," Faramir said only once he had gone, looking between Aragorn and Nemireth, "Are all politics of Aeanor conducted in such a way?"

"No," She scowled, very pointedly not looking to Gandalf who was still puffing on his pipe and who she could tell was watching her, "I apologise Aragorn, what he said…he does not speak for us all."

"I have been called worse," He shook his head with a small smile, "And nothing he said was untrue. It was Isildur who first laid claim to Aeanor, his lust for power and ambition growing ever stronger under the influence of his bane," Another shake of his head, "His heirs took up that mantle and held it until the end of their days. Those days are now in the past but he needed to hear it from me. All of Aeanor will need to hear it if our alliance is to last."

Nemireth nodded and sighed, feeling the first prickles of shame. Without speaking another word, without looking at anyone, she left the hall.

Standing outside in the corridor, she leant on a nearby window and looked out over the city, just listening to the sounds of hammering, of chatting and the buzz of life passing by beneath her, uncaring and unknowing of her pain. She had let her temper get the better of her again, just like she had with Wormtongue, just like she had with Denethor, just like she had all those months ago in the courtyard of Rivendell. The cool air whipped about her face and her short brown hair but it did not help. It felt like it was mocking her, teasing her. The Princess felt her shoulders sag, eyes closed. Even after all this time, she was still a fool. Aragorn had not lost his temper with the foreign lord who deigned to insult him in his own halls. He had acted like a king should act, sombre, serious and sincere. She had acted like a child. Even now her hand stung as if to keep the shame of its actions at the forefront of her mind. What would Aragorn think of her? What would Gandalf think? Éowyn? Legolas…

She heard the footsteps of two people approach from behind and she did not turn. Even when she heard one familiar voice, "I have much to learn of Aeanorean culture it seems."

She did not answer, jaw setting itself as she focused on a chimney on the lowest level and the little whisp of smoke that rose into the sky before being whipped away by the breeze.

Legolas leant alongside her. In spite of herself, the Princess sidled closer to him until their shoulders touched. Aragorn leant to her other.

"I must say I am surprised-"

"Legolas, please-" She finally said, unable to contain her shame. She could not even look in Aragorn's direction.

"-Let me finish. I surprised he would speak so brazenly to a king, even a foreign one, in the presence of his princess."

She heard Aragorn clear his throat and she sighed deeply, looking neither left nor right, "I shouldn't have reacted like I did. I shouldn't have hit him. I'm sorry, Aragorn. I wasn't thinking I just…" She trailed off, really unsure of how she was supposed to justify what she had done.

Aragorn took a breath, "Our realms have not been friends for so long a time. That he spoke as he did was expected. In many ways, I commend him."

"You what?" She spluttered, now looking at him through narrowed eyes.

"He was a foreigner alone in a court with his princess as his only possible ally. He spoke bravely through perhaps rashly. I will not condemn a man for such," He was looking to her, she knew it, "Nor will I think less of a friend who had only my defence in mind."

"That is…one way of looking at it." She scowled, "I suspect more he was trying to impress me, the fool. Like he always tries to do."

She felt more than saw Legolas glance sidelong at her, "You do not like him."

The invitation hung between them for a long second as Nemireth hesitated. Already she could feel her temper rising again at the mere thought of him…

"His father is Arutaer of the house of Narthanor, Lord of the Region of Elenduin. His power is second only to that of the king."

"Ah," Legolas nodded, sympathetically, "I believe I understand. He and your father are enemies?"

"Once they were friends," She went on, looking down into the city, "They even fought together on the frontier, inseparable. It changed when…when my mother died."

Legolas put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed gently.

"My father was in mourning. He was vulnerable. When he was at his lowest, he needed his oldest friend to aid him, to stand with him. Instead, Arutaer turned on him."

She scowled at no one in particular.

"He attacked him, not with swords or assassins but with quiet words in the ears of others when my father could not hear, with sly little actions in corners of the realm my father could not see. All the while he had my father's ear, acting the friend he should have been even as he took advantage. He destroyed my father's confidence and will, inch by inch, day by day," Nemireth's hands clenched into fists and she longed to have Siriondil before her again, just so she could punch him again, to knock that smugness from his face, "And I could do nothing to help him."

Legolas put a hand on her other shoulder and pulled her closer still. The anger within her did not abate but a spark of something else arose, fighting that powerful surge of hatred coursing through her.

"And his son, Siriondil…he acts as his father's lapdog, strutting around like the prize peacock. His father and family grows in strength while the realm's power drains away. They don't care about Aeanor. They have never cared about it. They would see it burn down in flames and my house, my family, cast into darkness if they could rule over the ashes," She hung her head, "And it's my fault."

The elf frowned, "How can it be your fault?"

"When we were young, Siriondil and I, Arutaer came to my father requesting a betrothal. He wanted us to marry as soon as I was of age." She felt Legolas' muscles tighten alongside her, "But I did not wish it. Even then, I hated him. I hated Arutaer, I hated what they were doing to us. Even though he had sunk his claws deep into my father, he still said no," She felt tears grow in her eyes, "He refused Arutaer's proposal. Since that day he has redoubled his efforts. He will not rest until my father is destroyed…he will not rest until I am the wife of Siriondil, the prize jewel in the crown that they have forged for themselves. I would be devoid of power or choice, a trophy to be presented at parties, to be discussed and commented upon…and I would rather die than let it come to pass…" She felt herself shake as those old feelings came back to her; the fear, the anger, the helplessness…

Legolas took her by the shoulder and turned her to him. Without a word she embraced him, head buried in his shoulder as silent sobs racked her body. There they remained, Legolas holding her tight and just taking her weight, the guilt of years untold. There they stood as her tears soaked his tunic. She just basked in his warmth, his comfort, the unspoken support, the unconditional love.

When at last she parted, wiping her eyes, he spoke quietly but firmly, "Nemireth, listen to me. It is not your fault that a lord wishes to empower himself at the expense of his king. He is not the first to try it, he will not be the last. The politics of court are cruel and merciless. My people have learned that hard lesson over too many years," He grimaced, "All you can control are your own actions, your own deeds."

She wiped her nose now, trying to hide that embarrassment, "Like when I slapped him, you mean?"

Legolas smiled softly, "Precisely. I doubt he will forget that in a hurry. Perhaps then he will understand that the Hallkeeper of Rohan is not so easily swayed or taken as he may think."

She gave him a quick hug in thanks before taking a deep breath to steady herself, "How do I look?"

"No worse than usual."

"Charmer," She punched his arm but her lips curved up in the slightest hint of a smile.

"Alas," He sighed, "I must go, I am needed with the rangers," He gave her another hug and then departed, leaving just her and Aragorn.

There they stood. There was nothing said, the quiet between them broken only by the whistling of the wind and the fluttering of flags high upon their staffs. Nemireth wiped her eyes with her cuff then finally looked to the king of Gondor,

"You think me a fool," She said to finally break the silence.

"Not once have I thought that," He replied at once, then gave a little chuckle, "Capable of foolish actions perhaps, but never a fool."

She rolled her eyes and looked to him, "Yet I feel you don't agree with my assessment of Siriondil."

He rolled his shoulders but now it was his turn to be quiet, "May I ask what age you were, when your mother died?"

Her eyes narrowed and her voice carried a threatening note, "Why?"

"My father died when I was very young," Aragorn said quietly, his voice only just carrying over the wind but he may as well have shouted for clearly she heard, "He was slain by an orc arrow, leading a band of my people into a battle he had no need to fight. For years, I truly thought him a fool, for throwing away his life when his people…when my mother and I…needed him. I carried that resentment for many years until at least, I learned why he had done what he had. I understood him in a way I had not before."

"You think I need to understand Siriondil?" She was scowling again.

"I think that youth and tragedy has a habit of clouding us from certain truths, truths that only wisdom can reveal. I do not know this man as you do, and nothing I hear of his father sounds good. However, based on having spoken with him so little, I feel you may judge him harshly." Aragorn stepped away from the balcony as a messenger appeared for him. He nodded to the summons then looked over Nemireth once again but gave her only a warm smile as he departed.

Now alone again, Nemireth turned her eyes back to the city. She looked over the gaping wounds still, to the blackened stonework and the shattered roofs. A sigh left her lips. Aragorn had not been sharp but the rebuke had been there all the same. He was a king now. He would understand soon enough what that meant. Being on top just meant you were all the more exposed to those who wanted your power…

Again she scowled, this time at the wind that blew across her face and made her eyes sting before she too moved away. She had an army to attend to.

As it turned out, there was so much more to do so than even she had anticipated. The army had arrived in good order but now extra food was required for the men, extra feed for the horses, extra lodgings, extra arrows, weapons and a thousand other little things which needed to be sourced at short notice. She visited each Legion in turn, making sure to spend time with their captain-commanders, then with the men in the field. She made sure to keep these appearances as short as she could, for the time the men had without an officer present was sacrosanct and she was intruding upon that. Karos, she knew, would keep his time with the men of the King's Guard to a minimum. If they were resentful of her presence however, they made no show of it.

Instead, they asked for the stories of the great battles of Middle Earth over and over again. They shook their heads and raised fists in memory of Théodred's fall at the Fords of Isen. They murmured words of sorrow at Captain Xiphos' fall before the walls of Helms Deep. They rejoiced the final stand of the Blue Company in the halls of that great keep, echoing the words; "We stand together!" as she spoke them. They looked at her with awe as she described the escape from Osgiliath and the battles that had preceded it, winced and frowned at the terrible losses taken before the gates of Minas Tirith and upon her battlements. They clapped and cheered at the charge back through the city and the sally to doom upon the fields of Pelennor. She made no mention of Moria, nor of Lothlorien, nor of the two hobbits for whom they must soon spend their lives.

It must have been the hundredth time she had told the story, sitting amongst the men of the twelfth legion, who had gathered around to hear of her story. Her throat hurt from so much talking, her stomach doing flips at the merest hint of the memories.

"Is it true, your highness," One of the men spoke when she had finished, speaking in his own tongue, "That you killed a troll single-handedly?"

Nemireth shrugged. She had little memory of that wild and terrible charge. What she had done or what she could lay claim to, she did not know. All she could see now were the rivers of blood, the bodies of the dead, the screams of the wounded. The men whispered amongst one other, gazing upon her with curious eyes.

"Is it true you saved twelve men in Osgiliath?"

"Eleven," She replied instantly with a lump in her throat, thinking of Madril's greyed head hitting the cobbles of that cursed city, "It was eleven."

Her hand was shaking.

No one else seemed to see, instead their murmuring grew louder and keener.

"And you threw yourself into the enemy's ranks to break them?"

She saw from eager faces that they wished her to boast of it, to speak of her glory, of the honour and greatness that had seen her survive but all she saw in her mind's eye were the men who had tried to follow her; those who had been hacked and carved through in her wake, those whose luck had not held them in such strength as hers. Wordlessly, she nodded. Her side was starting to throb.

"And you will march with us, your highness? To battle?"

She nodded again. There were yet more excited murmurings and gossiping amongst the men. Though they showed only enthusiasm and warmth towards her, Nemireth felt like they were closing in on her, constricting her. It was like the Golden Hall all over again, as if they were trying to squeeze the life from her, sucking away her air.

With a breath to keep her voice steady, the Princess made her excuses and fled. She only stopped when she found a quiet alleyway, breaths coming quick and sharp. The Princess tried to lean against the wall, only to find herself sliding down it as her legs gave out from under her. Huddled on the cobbles, she could see the black puddles of aged blood against both tile and brick, as if it had soaked into the very pores of the city. Tears stung at her eyes as she shook as if from a terrible chill, unable to stop herself, unable to steady herself. Fear pulsed through her, a raw terror even the battlefield had not contained. Putting her head in her hands, fingers gripping at her hair, the Princess sat there for Winds only knew how long until the shaking had stopped.

It was no better as night fell upon the city. Siriondil had requested, via a messenger direct to Aragorn, that the army would need at least a week to recover but he could never agree to that. For all they knew, Frodo lay trapped in the mountains of Mordor, delayed by the hordes of the enemy that stood between him and his goal. For all they knew, he could be dead. But none entertained that possibility for more than a second, that all their preparations may be in vain. Nemireth had so much to do that she saw none of her companions until that evening and even, they were too exhausted to do much more than nod to each other before retiring for the night.

Even then, when her eyes ached from exhaustion, her limbs were stiff and her side throbbing, sleep did not come to Nemireth. She tossed and she turned. She stirred and twisted. Any time her eyes closed, she felt black and acrid smoke stick to the back of her throat. She felt the warmth of her own blood running down her face. She felt her side exploded into untold agony, muscles torn, skin ruptured. She saw lifeless grey eyes staring into her soul. Screams filled her ears…

Nemireth shot up in her bed, panting as if she had just run a mile, drenched in sweat. She frowned out of the window at the moon as it bathed the city in an ethereal white light as if it was somehow at fault. Admitting defeat, she rose and threw a coat over her nightdress. Perhaps a walk would settle her…

It was so much colder than she had thought. The wind that had been refreshing in the sun was now biting, passing through her coat as easily as an axe through parchment. She folded her arms around herself in a bid to keep in the rapidly escaping heat but any thought of going back for more layers was dismissed out of hand. Even in her stubbornness, she knew that the outer balconies would be unwise and so she ducked into an inner corridor where the moonlight threw long white shadows onto the stone floor and the statues which lined the opposite wall. How far would she walk? Would she stay awake to watch the sun break the horizon again? How long could she keep going like this? Haunted by the dead in every quiet moment? Any time her thoughts were idle, would they go to those mud-covered hellscapes? Would they go to where she had lost so much?

"My lady?"

She jumped at the voice and looked up to see Pippin watching her. How she not spotted him in turn would never know. He was wearing his grey cloak over some robes, hair even messier than normal.

"You're up late," She gave him a weak smile, drawing her arms tighter around herself.

"I couldn't sleep," There were bags under his eyes, and lines upon his face that she did not remember upon their first meeting in Rivendell, all that time ago, "I've…not really slept for a while."

He turned back to the statue that he stood before. When she followed his eyes, her breath caught in her throat. The subject was taller than she remembered with thick armour she had never seen him wear but it was his sword at his hip and the horn of Gondor was slung over his shoulder. Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain of Gondor stood frozen in stone, looking out over the city through one of the arches.

"It's not really him, is it?" The Hobbit said quietly.

He was right. The more Nemireth looked, the more she saw was wrong. There was an ornate crown upon his head she knew he would never have worn. His look was stern, triumphant, conquering. That was not the Boromir who they had travelled with, who had taken the time to train her how to fight, how to survive. It was not the Boromir who had played with the hobbits, who had saved her life before Moria.

"No," She said after a while, "It's not."

"Denethor had it commissioned," Pippin said without turning, "It was one of his last commands."

Despite herself, Nemireth could not keep from snorting, "Will Aragorn have it replaced?"

"Gandalf says not. It is the last tribute of a father to his son and Aragorn will honour it."

That, she could not argue with. Instead, she gazed up into his face, so like the one in her memories and yet so different. Was this how Gondor had seen him? As a conquering hero? As the man who would lead them back to glory? The man in whom they had placed, for good or ill, their hopes for their future and survival?

"I miss him," Pippin said quietly.

"So do I," She murmured in reply, "I just wish I could have done more for him."

She felt more than saw the hobbit turn to face her, "There was nothing you could have done that day, my lady. Nothing any of us could have…" Again, his voice trailed away into the night.

"Maybe not," She gave a pained smile, "But in Lothlorien..." She thought back to that terrible night; when Boromir had rained splinters upon her from the blows of his fists. When his every word had been twisted with a malice that was not his own. Even now she could see him, beating upon his chest…

"You wish to steal me from my destiny! You work for the enemy! You may have fooled Gandalf and you may have fooled the Ranger but you do not fool me! I am the Captain of Gondor! I am the son of the Steward!"

She could feel the weight of that memory press down upon her, and the guilt which had burrowed into her mind over so many unbroken nights, "I could have convinced him to come with me. To leave the Ring behind. But I was scared…too scared to push him. Too scared that maybe he was right to stay…and I was wrong." The Princess could no longer hold his gaze, her eyes dropped to the marbled floor, "And he hated me for it."

"That's not true, my lady," Pippin's voice was heavy, "Boromir died with no malice in his heart. He was at peace. He was free…"

"Thank you, Pippin," Nemireth gave a shuddering sigh and a weak smile. There was nothing further she could say to that, no words that would adequately explain what those words meant to her. Instead, they stood together in a companionable silence.

"Does it get easier?"

"Hmm?" She hummed softly in reply.

"Does it get easier? To sleep, I mean."

"I don't know," Nemireth shook her head, feeling the unease and worries of the night grow at his question, "I hope so." She gave a violent shiver.

Pippin was searching her now, "You're cold, my lady."

"I'm fine," She said it at once but her teeth were on the verge of chattering and she closed her arms tight around herself. She had forgotten how chilly it was.

"Here," The hobbit took his cloak and threw it about her. It barely covered her shoulders but she recognised the gesture and smiled in appreciation even if there was an urge to take it off and hand it back.

"Thank you. You won't need it yourself?

"I don't think so," Pippin rolled his shoulders and gave a reassuring grin, "We hobbits are hardy folk."

A chuckle, "I don't think any man, woman or child will question such ever again."

The Halfling's smile faded ever so slightly and he looked away from the statue and out of the arches to the east, to the rumbling and flashing flame that was Mordor, "Do you think they're okay?"

"Frodo and Sam?"

He nodded.

Nemireth closed with him and put an arm around the hobbit, holding him in a hug so close she could smell the pipe-weed while his arm snaked around her. The scent of it made her smile softly, "They've got each other, Pippin. They'll make it and we'll help them carry their burden in whatever way we can."

"Yes," Pippin nodded fiercely, "We will."

There they stood, looking out to Mordor as if searching for their friends amongst the towering, black peaks. Nemireth knew that the hours of rest were passing them by, that the longer she delayed would return to haunt her on the morn. Still, she could not bring herself to part from the hobbit and she sensed from how he gripped that Pippin had no desire to leave either. All that awaited them were nightmares and memories, not that there was any difference between some. Here there was comfort, here there was safety and warmth.

When she had finally returned to bed, Nemireth tossed and turned, tormented by her own dreams. Awoken for what felt like the hundredth time, she found herself looking up at the ceiling in a cold sweat. Whatever the days ahead would bring, it could be no worse than this…