Nemireth shielded her eyes against the sun and glanced up at the gatehouse as horns blew all along the walls.
The great gates of Minas Tirith, which Gimli had worked so tirelessly and lovingly over days and nights untold were hauled open and the army of the west began its journey.
Such a strange collection she was sure had not been seen since the days of the Last Alliance. To the front of the snaking column were men of Gondor, dressed in their grey and silver plate with the white tree borne proudly upon their chests, spears resting upon their shoulders. Behind them were the Rohirrim; clad in green and gold with rounded shields with horse hair trailing proudly from their helmets. Last came the Aeanoreans, their large oval shields blue and silver, catching in the weak morning sun as they stamped their feet in time to the chanting of their officers. These then were the forces of the free peoples of Middle Earth, the combined might of three noble and ancient kingdoms beginning the approach towards their inexorable destiny.
At their head rode Aragorn, the ranger out of the north, the man whose path had always been leading him here. No longer was he dressed in the garb of his northern kin but in the attire of a king, armoured for the battle that none of them could avoid, that none of them wished to avoid. To his left rode Éomer, once a marshal of Rohan, it's greatest champion. Of the once mighty house of Eorl, he was the last man standing, he and his sister were the last kin of that great lord who had founded Rohan in the battles of old. On Aragorn's other shoulder, she rode. What was now at stake on her part, she dared not think about. Too much sleep had she lost over it already. Behind them then rode their friends; those who had been with them since the beginning of this adventure, those who had played no small part in seeing that they had this chance to begin with, small as it was.
She looked back over her shoulder and caught Legolas' eye where he rode alongside Gimli as ever. There was the faintest flicker of a smile upon his face and she forced herself to return it, though she did not much feel like smiling. Above them, the banners of the White Tree, the Golden Stallion and the Silver Eagle fluttered where they caught the breeze.
"In Ellayan culture," She spoke softly, as much to herself as anyone, "To have a tail breeze when an army marches is an omen of good fortune. It means the Winds are with you."
"I hope so," Aragon looked up to the same banners as she, "I feel we will need all the luck we can get."
They lapsed back into silence, allowing the sounds of beating drums and stamping feet to wash around them. They marched not directly east towards Osgiliath and for that Nemireth was grateful. It may have been where the Anduin was narrowest and blessed with cover but, as Éomer had pointed out, his men had smashed down the bridges after the victory on the Pelennor and to try and storm the eastern half of the city would take a heavy toll in lives. The armies of Mordor had proven that much during their attack. On the Princess' part, even being this close to the city brought goosebumps to her skin, a cold chill that had nothing to do with the weather running through her shoulders and down her arms. In her minds eye all she could see were the skeletal ruins rising up on all sides of her, strangling her. Every night it felt like she saw them until she was sure she knew every brick of every building. Hurriedly she looked away though Súletal stirred beneath her as if he sensed her unrest.
Aragorn led the army instead north, towards the island of Cair Andros. The enemy had taken the island fortress not long after the fall of Osgiliath but there had been no movement reported by the scouts since the assault on Minas Tirith. If it were still occupied by the enemy, they would have no choice but to assault. The very thought of it sent shivers down Nemireth's spine.
It was three days before they came upon the fortress, it's battlements creeping over the horizon until it was laid bare before the army. Once, it would have been a splendid place, as so much of Gondor would have been but years of neglect and its fall had given it a worn and tired look, like a mule with too many miles in its legs. Still, no one stirred along the walls or up on the gates. Flocks of crows had gathered upon the tops of the towers and there sat, crying and screeching about whatever petty squabbles they had with one another, ignorant of the army that now lined up against them.
"Abandoned?" Legolas asked from behind.
"Surely not," Éomer was frowning, staying his mount with a reassuring pat even as he continued watching the fort, "With the bridges withdrawn, this hold is impregnable."
"The enemy took it," Nemireth replied sharply but said no more, "Do you imply they're capable of something we are not?"
Éomer gave her a look but said nothing. Aragorn did not speak at all, instead he summoned Damrod who appeared with his bow in hand and dressed as if for battle. The king's commands were clear; take a party and scout the castle. If there were any opposition, he would fall back and report it.
The young ranger, now a captain Nemireth had to remind herself, nodded grimly and with his men ranged ahead of the army. It was a long wait, the army breaking up to camp once a strong guard had been set. At all times at least one of the party stood at the camp's boundary and stared towards Cair Andros as if it were a giant they were expecting to wake at any moment. Hours passed, the sun began to dip and the moon rise in its place.
Nemireth had withdrawn to one of the many fires that burned between the tents. It was deep into the night, the tents of the combined armies bathed in a stark, ethereal moonlight and there were few awake. Most of the fellowship had been gathered around this fire at one point or another but one by one, they had withdrawn to bed until only she, Legolas and Gandalf remained. Aragorn was awake but he had gone to watch Cair Andros, taking his turn to keep it under surveillance.
None of the three spoke. Legolas was working on his bow while Nemireth rested with her head in his shoulder. Gandalf was looking into the fire, every so often muttering to himself as the light danced across his wrinkled face and his long beard. Once it had annoyed her, when Gandalf had chosen to keep his own council rather than share with those around him but now she paid it no heed. The fire was homely and warm, the evening temperate and dry but each time she closed her eyes, Nemireth could see the flames dancing on green-coloured tents, the cries of men battling for their lives, the sight of Théodred falling just yards from her aid…
It would not happen again.
She would not let it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Legolas would occasionally glance down before resuming his own work. At last, she sighed aloud and drew his eye.
"Go on then," She had meant the words to sound sharp but they came out as little more than a mumble, her mouth slow and jaw heavy, "What is it?"
The Elf shrugged his shoulders, "It is late."
"And?"
"And you are tired."
"I'm fine."
There was a long silence, Legolas hesitated, "You cannot keep doing this, Nemireth."
"What?"
"Staying awake until you pass out from exhaustion. I can see how it wears on you."
"There's nothing wearing on me."
Placing his bow down, Legolas took one of her hands in his, "Then why are you shaking?"
"I…" Her mind had gone blank, it felt like every muscle had tensed, like she was inches from taking flight and never turning back, "I…"
Legolas wrapped an arm around her and held her close. She wrapped her arms around him in as tight an embrace as she could manage. There were a million things she wanted to say and yet she wanted not to speak at all. Adrenaline pulsed through her and yet, she felt numb. She felt tears sting her eyes and yet she could not cry.
Legolas did not speak. He did not have to. He just held her, an anchor to stop her being swept away by herself. They sat like that for so long, his chin atop her head, arms protectively around her.
At least, the elf spoke in little more than a murmur, his voice rumbling comfortingly through his chest where she had her cheek pressed, "I have seen my kin fall in battle. I have seen things I would not wish upon my greatest enemies. Long was I thankful that I need not sleep, for my every quiet moment was dominated by those memories, those sounds, those smells…"
She felt him shudder and instinctively she pressed closer, to be a comfort to him as he was being for her. The silence dragged on until at least, he whispered in her ear, "You are not alone, Nemireth. Remember that. You are never alone."
There they sat, an elf of the woodland realm, ancient and wise, and a lady of the western world, a stranger in this land, lost and confused. Both had been born into a duty they could not forsake, a destiny bound up in the blood that they could no more control than the tides of the Great Sea. In that moment, they just embraced. So simple a gesture and yet so powerful in a time of death and suffering and misery. Gandalf had not interrupted them but he watched with the faintest of smiles beneath his beard. Even here, when hope was at it's lowest ebb and all light seemed to have faded, the most beautiful of things shone through all the clearer. In no time at all and without changing her position, Nemireth had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep.
The horns that announced the morning had her leaping awake, standing stiffly as while the sleep had been pleasant, the position in which she had taken it was not. Looking around, she saw that Legolas was working his shoulder with a visible wince.
Nemireth could feel a little warmth coming to her cheeks, "Sorry." She managed.
Her apology was waved away, "I have had less comfortable nights, believe me."
"Will you be okay?"
"Well, if the feeling does not come back before battle," He held up an arrow and mimicked throwing it like a javelin, "I am prepared."
She chuckled at the sight before looking about the camp. It was now bustling as soldiers gathered equipment, cooked their breakfasts and performed a dozen other little routines as they would have on any other morning. Gandalf was gone and their fire had extinguished itself, little more than a pathetic little helix of smoke being taken swiftly by the breeze.
Before it could be relit for breakfast, a messenger appeared and summoned them to Aragorn's tent. There, the entirety of their company present stood along with Siriondil, Éomer and, most joyously and worryingly of all, Damrod.
He was already talking, his eyes bagged heavily and his voice strained with exhaustion but his posture was upright and strong, "-abandoned some time ago, my liege. I had my men man the walls, lower the gate on our side and then cross over to the east bank to check for enemy mischief."
"And?" Aragorn leant against the table in the centre of his room, eyes fixed on the young Gondorian.
Damrod shook his head, "We went as far in every direction as we dared under cover of night. We searched every crease, every gully and every hill we could find. The enemy is gone."
"I don't understand," Éomer was frowning intently, "Why would they abandon so strong a position without a fight? Even a token garrison would have held us up for days, if not weeks."
"Our enemy does not seek to delay us," Gandalf drew all attention to him as he puffed on his pipe, "We march to his lands, away from our forts and our walls. The further we advance, the greater our peril grows and the lesser our chances of escape. He knows this, as surely as dawn follows the night."
It was with those dire words ringing in their ears that the army struck camp and renewed their advance. First to pass through Cair Andros were the horsemen, a mixture of Rohirrim and Ellayan who would ride ahead of the army and along its flanks.
The King's Guard were the first to cross, Nemireth at their head and as soon as they were on the eastern bank, the legion formed for battle. The Princess stood with them, spear and shield in hand with worry gnawing at her stomach. The hills were quiet, she could hear no sound of battle and yet in her minds eye all she could see was the horizon filled with the legions of the enemy, orcs and trolls and wargs lined up against them. Karos stood with her, expression as immovable as ever.
It felt like an age before the next formation crossed, a company of Tower Guard who formed up alongside them, Pippin amongst their number. One after another, formations crossed the river and lined up as if Mordor was bearing down upon them. The enemy never obliged them and, after a full day, the army was safely across and the fortress garrisoned once more. Though back in numbers, Nemireth could not shake the unease as she glanced back and watched the bridges of Cair Andros slowly withdraw. There was no way back now.
For another two days they marched. It was impossible to ignore how the walls of Mordor, the jagged mountains ringed that cursed land grew larger with each passing hour. It was impossible to ignore how Mount Doom loomed over them, rumbling deeply like a thunderstorm until they feel it trembling beneath their feet. It felt like they had entered a graveyard, for not even grass grew on the flat lands here and carrion birds were the only animals they could see. The anxiousness was infectious, the nerves palpable in every man, hobbit and dwarf.
When they made camp on the third night, they were but at the feet of the Edhel Duath, the mountain range which separated them from Mordor. Even with those grey-white mountains standing over them, the tip of Mount Doom was visible. Minas Tirith was but a memory, lost over the horizon with only the caps of her mountains visible. The following day would be the final march on the Black Gate.
Nemireth gripped at the sword at her side, glancing north-east to where she knew the Black Gate awaited them. Ahead, the 9th Legion of Aeanor stood in battle formations alongside men of both Rohan and Dol Amroth in Gondor. It was going to be a long and nervy wait for these men, to see if those vast gates would open and emit the endless hordes of Mordor upon them.
Alongside her were three men; the captain-commander of the 9th Legion, a tall grey and morose man named Xarius, Siriondil with his finery dirtied from the march and Amathor, who now wore the sash of an officer.
"There has been no word from our scouts," She said to them, "And Gandalf believes us safe." It struck her then just how relative a word such as 'safe' could be, "But we cannot take that for granted."
The Captain-Commander merely nodded, Siriondil fixed her with a scowl and Amathor grinned.
"I wish you well," She said to Xarius who nodded again and turned towards his men, "And I will speak with you soon." The plan was to rotate the watch out, to give the men as much rest as they could before tomorrow. It would be a hard day, and each man deserved a little peace before it broke.
As they walked back towards the small city of tents and fires that was the army, hidden in the shadow of the mountains as the sun once again crept below the horizon. Perhaps it would be the last she saw. Perhaps it would the last any of them saw.
"I never did congratulate you," She said to Amathor, "On your promotion. Captain of the Blue Company."
"Thank you, your majesty," Amathor's beaming smile grew wider, "I look forward to tomorrow."
"I'm glad someone is," Nemireth could not help but smile at his enthusiasm.
"It is like Helm's Deep again, your majesty."
"I only wish it were so, Amathor. I really do." She looked to the horizon and sighed. There would no reinforcements this time; no Gandalf coming out of the sun, or an army of the dead long forgotten, "There'll be no miracle tomorrow."
"Perhaps, perhaps not." The Aeanorean shrugged but without losing his grin, "But when we fight with you, there is always hope. I will not believe in anything else."
"Amathor-" She did not know what to say to that. How to express her thanks, or her fears that he had such faith in her. Instead, he merely gave her a salute and broke off, heading for the tents that were the home of the King's Guard.
Siriondil did not speak but gave her a long and hard look which she returned, daring him to say anything. Wordlessly, he turned on his heel and left as well. Nemireth shook her head with a scowl at his back and headed for the campfire around which the fellowship had gathered.
No one spoke as she settled down next to Legolas. Nemireth felt around until she found his hand and held it in her own. He squeezed back.
Everyone was staring into the dancing flames, lost in their own thoughts. Well, almost everyone. Gimli was chewing and chomping noisily on a piece of chicken, the sounds making Nemireth wince.
Legolas rolled his eyes and glared at Gimli, "Must you?"
"Mmhmm," The dwarf managed through a mouthful of chicken before swallowing, "If this is going to be my last dinner, I'm going to enjoy every mouthful." He took another massive bite.
"I will miss dinner," Pippin did not look up from the flames, "What about you, Merry?"
"I'll miss the Green Dragon, Pip," Merry sighed deeply, "I shall miss the fireworks. The smell of the newly cut grasses. Most of all, I shall miss pipe weed."
"Hear, hear," Gandalf chortled, puffing on his pipe.
"And you, Gimli?" Pippin looked to the dwarf who had finished off one chicken leg and was starting on another, "What will you miss?"
"Certainly not manners," Legolas offered, "It is hard to miss what you did not have."
"I shall miss your humour most of all, master elf," Gimli snorted, "That and the mountain halls of Erebor. I would have liked to look upon them one final time."
"Princess?" Pippin turned his gaze to Nemireth.
The Princess considered it and squeezed Legolas' hand a little tighter still, resting against his shoulder, "I can think of a few things but…I would have liked to speak to my father again…just so he understood…" She trailed away as she felt tears building behind her eyes, guilt welling up in her stomach.
"Legolas?"
"The forests, the sound of the rivers, the song of the birds and…" He looked to Nemireth, "Many other things precious to me."
Even through the guilt, Nemireth's stomach did a little flip.
"Aragorn?" Pippin was looking to the ranger-turned king who was tending the fire, those instincts of a lifetime not yet forsaking him. He looked up at Pippin, the flame reflecting off dark and noble eyes. He smiled softly and sang in a gentle voice over the crackling of the fire;
"I dhoer manath únodui,
Trî annon dûr, angren thamas
Am ered gondeb, hithui
A thaur dhúatheb angoeol.
I aearon min hain dorthas,
Govanner hai na vedui,
Pelanner io anann ennas
Úníniel vi daur linnol."
They listened together in silence. Even Gimli lowered his chicken leg so he may better hear the sorrow and the regret in the voice of their friend. Gandalf's pipe rested in his gnarled as he watched with his expression unreadable.
"You sang that once before," Pippin said in little more than a whisper, "It feels like years ago now."
Aragorn bowed his head but did not reply.
"She will not forget you," Legolas spoke in the common tongue to his friend, "She will understand."
Aragorn placed his hand on the elf's shoulder and gave a slight nod of thanks.
"I never thought I would be here," Pippin spoke up, looking back into the flames, "We don't even hear tales of such things in the Shire anymore. I never thought I would get to meet anyone like you all," He looked from Nemireth to Legolas, to Aragorn to Gimli and Gandalf, "There may be no better time to say so I'll just say it now…I'm glad I volunteered, all those months ago, to go on this mission…quest…thing…" He smiled weakly.
A chuckle swept around the group and Nemireth replied, "You were right as well. We did need people of your intelligence. You have proven your worth, Pippin. As have you, Merry. You are a credit to your people."
Pippin blushed ever so slightly and gave a nod, "Then tomorrow we shall all prove ourselves worthy. We'll prove we were worthy to protect Frodo. We'll prove the Fellowship is as strong today as it ever was."
They all murmured in agreement, the motley collection who had set out from Rivendell, whose paths had parted them and yet led them back together. Pippin's words rang true with them all. They were the Fellowship, so named by Elrond in his halls so long ago. Once it had been merely a title but now it was a bond that would see them to this tale's finish, whatever that may be.
"Your highness," Nemireth turned to see a messenger in the garb of Aeanor, "Lord Siriondil requests you in his tent."
Loath to part from the companionship and warmth of the fire, the demand that the messenger depart and not bother her was on the tip of her tongue. In the end her sense of duty won out and so she stood with a sigh and followed with a final glance back at her friends before they were swallowed up by the tents.