Forgive me, readers, for my lack of experience in battle scenes; I hope this chapter is a little better.

Snitter in Rivendell: Wow. What wonderful encouragement you have given me. The battle in the last chapter is the one Boromir described in the Council of Elrond, and this chapter (hence the name) will include the Bridge of Osgiliath, as well as the Witch-king (though he remains unnamed).

Thanks to those who reviewed!

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Chapter Two: The Bridge of Osgiliath

The two brothers rode side by side for some time, and, reaching the Anduin, they paused to allow their horses a moment's rest. They had reached a rather narrow and conveniently shallow turn of the river, making it a busy route for those traveling from Gondor to their trading posts or military stations in Ithilien. Nearby was an old, corroded bridge that loomed above them, casting a gloomy shadow on the surrounding marshes and the flanking torrents of the river.

They stood on the grounds that were once Osgiliath, the mightiest of the cities of ancient Gondor. Its name meant "Fortress of the Stars", and rightly so, at one time, but now the once towering buildings and citadels were in ruins, if not gone completely. War had oft been fought on these land, the most distinguished battles having been between the corrupt Minas Morgul and the gallant Minas Tirith. The great city had flanked either side of the Anduin, but now the land on the eastern embankment was uninhabited save for a few forts. The old bridge, however, was still standing.

Many who had looked upon the bridge in recent years were of a new generation that knew naught of its former glory. In ancient years, in a glorious age now long forgotten, the mighty Bridge of Osgiliath had stood proudly as a link between the extensive realm of Gondor and the beautiful countryside of Ithilien, beginning and ending on either sides of the Anduin in the great city Osgiliath. Now, however, it signified the desolate, wretched state that Gondor had become.

"It would be folly to linger any longer, Faramir," Boromir said warily, eyeing the sun. "We must away; we need to cross the river before nightfall."

They once again mounted, and prepared to cross the bridge. However, they immediately halted when they perceived a horrendous, appalling sound that was painful to hear. Steering their mounts to face due east, they saw a scene that would haunt their nightmares for some time.

For many years had Mount Doom remained inactive, but right before their very eyes, it exploded into a striking array of fire, lava, and smoke. And, from far away in Mordor, a barely audible drumming could be heard, though such pounding could not compare to the loud throbbing of Boromir's heart.

Instantly, without a word or glance in each other's direction, Boromir and Faramir raced towards the battle ground. Terror filled them, and also grief; they knew that a second assault would come, but they had not expected one this soon, nor one of this intensity.

The hour-long ride was both too long and too short; too terrifying, and yet too eerily calm. They could not hear what lie ahead, and they drew closer, the pounding grew louder, into a wryly rhythmic melody of evil and malice. Night had come, and finally, the battle came into view, and the cries and shouts of war could be heard.

Boromir scanned the land ahead of him as he dismounted Neldor and ran into the heated war. He unsheathed his broadsword, aware of Faramir trailing closely behind him. He flinched inwardly when he saw a severed body lying on the ground, in a pool of blood that was slowly draining into the earth.

Holding is sword high in front of him, and filled with a new strength that was born of vengeance, he charged at a nearby cluster of orcs. With his blade, he pierced the heart of the nearest goblin. As the bloodthirsty creatures raised their weapons, he thrust his sword straight into the gut of a second orc, the foul, black blood oozing out onto his gripping hands. To his right, Faramir cleaved the neck of another.

More of the bloodthirsty creatures approached, one of them raising his black longbow and readying an arrow. But he would never have a chance to deal the killing blow, and within seconds he fell to the ground, one of Faramir's arrows in his chest.

Boromir heard the clanging of swords around him, as well as the heart wrenching screams and moans of his dying comrades that were ever-present in his mind. The roar of battle was deafening , but the army of corrupt men and fell bests finally seemed to be lessening, and the battle would probably end soon.

But such was not to be. Out of the shadows of Ephel Duath, there came a dim shape in the distance, coming ever closer. As it came nearer to the combat, Boromir could see that it seemed to take the shape of a horseman, garbed entirely in black. And, as though given some silent encouragement, the malevolent army of orcs and men fought on with a new ferocity. The battle now seemed drastically one-sided, as the men of Minas Tirith had grown weary ere the battle had even begun.

Dodging a blow from an orc's sword, he swung his blade against the fell creature's skull, and with a sickening crack, the goblin fell lifeless to the ground.

Boromir fought on, but to no avail. The battle would turn into a blood bath if it kept going like this much longer. He called for the men to retreat.

They did not need to be told twice. They fled to the Bridge of Osgiliath. Those who were on horseback bore the wounded. The warriors were now in a confused mob. Boromir, however, instantly took action, calling them into order, commanding those who bore wounded soldiers to cross first.

At first, it seemed as though the orcs would turn around and head back to Mordor, and so it seemed to be at first. But once most of the men had crossed over the Bridge, and a mere two dozen were left in Ithilien to cross it, they charged.

Faramir was quick to notice.

"Boromir!" he cried, and wordlessly pointed at the fell army.

After the first assault, Boromir had suffered from some of the inevitable guilt that proceeds all attacks under your lead. But after this second one, in which he had not only missed part of, he had failed miserably to keep the troops organized, Boromir actually felt the heavy burden of pure ignominy. And under such conditions, he was not in the mood to think rationally, let alone to once again take the responsibility of the lives of his men.

"Over the bridge!" he cried, alerting his troops to the danger that followed closely behind them.

The orcs were gaining on the weary soldiers, and to make matters worse, they were being led by the black horseman. His bulky, black cloak billowed out behind him as he rode his black, red-eyed horse against the raging wind. In his hand he brandished a long, narrow blade.

The men raced across the bridge; the ancient structure creaked and groaned under the heavy weight. Boromir and Faramir led the way, and the western shore was drawing near.

But they would never reach the other side. Even as Boromir continued to run, he felt the wooden laths shifting beneath him, and he stumbled. But he did not tumble onto the hard bridge; he was only aware of a long drop, until he hit the surface of the mighty river. Blackness filled his mind, and he knew no more.

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Be kind, review! I need feedback! It's what keeps me going! Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Boromir's dream has been postponed, but I thought this was a good place to end the second chapter. But the next installment is coming soon, in chapter 3.

Thanks!