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Down into the darkness, onto the battlefields of blood and fire and young grass trampled beneath hate and desperation. The foul creatures fled from the brilliance of the Wizard, and the blades that were swung upon them with no remorse or pity. The company was great, and the enemy fell back, as Gondor swept in to defend their own.
It was the first time Lothiriel's sword hit flesh, and it hit flesh hard. No longer virgin to such violence, the Princess did not allow herself the time to dwell on it. She forced all thought of disgust and horror from her mind fiercely, and thought only of what she had been taught, of what she had begged as a girl to learn. She heard her cousin's voice in her head as she rode, as black blood coated her sword and shrieks and shouts sounded under Bela's hooves.
'Watch your back, Lothiriel...
'Swift and strong, Lothiriel...'
'Keep your balance, Lothiriel...'
At one point, she was able to pause, to blink, to look around. The furious dance went on around her, falling, bleeding, tearing...she was blind to the terror yet, her eyes sought only her loved ones. Imrahir was far off but doing well, her father was noble and furious, her brother leading and commanding the men with perfection. And Faramir... .
.
Her sword sang through the air as it severed the head of another enemy, before she looked about again. Where was Faramir? And then from above, she heard the terrible, nightmarish shrieking...
"Nazgul!" Imrahil cried, and it was at that moment that Lothiriel spotted her cousin. Upon the ground he lay, newly fallen from his mount, an ugly black dart embedded within him. A foul Harad was rushing toward his still form, red sword raised to take his head. Lothiriel could recall no thought, no feeling that she felt in that moment. She could only feel Bela beneath her, and her sword before her. With a fierce shout, She charged forward.
She had hewn the evil soldier in two, but she did not stop. She went blind then, striking at all creatures that moved around her, seeing them all as her cousin's assassin. Black, red, blood drenched her sword, came up to stain her face, twisted in rage...and then, the horns of retreat sounded.
Lothiriel awoke. She looked about...the men had done well. But they paled to see, for from the East there came a terrible sight. Thousands upon thousands of the enemy were pouring onto the fields, the Nazgul flying above them. She turned to see her uncle on his mount, with Faramir motionless in his arms. "To the walls!" Imrahil cried, once again the leader of his soldiers.
They followed, victorious yet doomed still.
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In the City there was both cheer and grief together, as Imrahil bore Faramir with him to the White Tower. A dent had been made, but it would and was soon filled in again, twice over, the Nazgul screaming black curses above and a third of Faramir and Imrahil's men laying dead or gravely wounded.
"Does Death lay upon him?" Lothiriel asked, when Imrahil descended, and he and his son made to carry the fallen Faramir to his father.
"I do not dare to hope for the best, Lothy." Imrahil whispered, and then he was gone. .
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.
.
There were no tears for Lothiriel. She simply looked down at herself...at the blood on her armor, in her hair, and felt numb. Distantly, she found herself wondering what Deliann would think of her looking like this. Slowly, she ran a hand through her long hair in an attempt to straighten it, as her eyes looked off into space. She knew there was a wave wanting to break...a wave that would remind her of the death and bring her crashing into the reality of all that had happened. She had killed...blood lie on her hands...Faramir was most likely dead...
"LOTHY!" She heard a cry, a million miles away and right behind her. She turned, and her brother was there, crushing her numb, frozen form to him. "I didn't see you return and I thought the worst! Oh but you're here, you're alive, all is well!"
Shakily, she hugged him back, and then he was pulling away. Lothiriel blinked...vacant, faraway eyes almost. "Faramir..." She said at last, "He...he might be..."
"Yes, I heard the men speaking of it..." His eyes grew saddened..."Keep up hope, Lothiriel!" He urged her, and she tilted her head. He took in her eyes and vacant expression worriedly. "Lothy? Lothy what's wrong?"
"I..." She gulped, shutting her eyes, some form of expression returning to her face as she did. "Oh Edemer..." She whispered, "How did I do it?"
"With that iron spirit of yours." He whispered back. "Just do not think about it, Lothiriel. I won't either. Just...don't lose hope on me."
She opened her eyes, and nodded. "I won't."
"You're a strong one, little sister." He went on, "Just be strong, as you have been through all of this."
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And indeed, all strength of spirit was needed, as the enemy finally enclosed the White City. The remaining few soldiers who had survived outside made their way in, and the gates were shut, as the roar of the enemy filled the ears of all. Through the night they came to that place, their numbers growing and growing, until, on the pale morning, none could fathom a guess as to how many there were. Hardly a green blade of the field could be seen beyond their Black Army.
"The Rohirrim have not come." The soldier Ingold said, "They cannot come now. The enemy is too great."
"Then we are on our own." Edemer said grimly, though his face was set as stone. Deep in her heart, Lothiriel wept. But it was very deep within her, so deep the feeling felt to her far off and echoing. Her mind was set to courage, to strength...but oh, how she did wish to weep, as she gazed down upon the black masses, the circling Nazgul, the bloodthirsty sea digging trenches and lighting fires. They brought machines, devices with which they would hurl fire and stone at the smooth, high walls.
"They cannot break these walls." The men of the City exclaimed, as they sent their rain of arrows down on the black foe. "None can, they shall not enter this place."
"So you say." Lothiriel heard herself reply, to no one in particular. "But how long can we live within?"
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She did not have to wonder long. For the great catapults sent huge flaming stones over and above the walls, to break and smash upon the streets of the first circle of Minas Tirith. Screams of surprised terror filled the streets, as these strange burning stones rained down on the White City, crumbling the foundations and streets and lives. Flames leapt to life through the first level, and many were forced to leave their places at the walls and douse the flames, Lothiriel among them. It was natural, somehow, that she would help quell the flames. Her mind was running on instinct...she could not fire a bow, so she made herself of use elsewhere.
She dodged the rain of fire for water, helping men drench lighted roofs and houses. Ashes and sparks burned into her clothes, scarred her hands and singed her hair, but she kept on. Princess Lothiriel she was, she kept telling herself, and she would stay strong...
And then, her resolve very nearly snapped. Another great stone fell from the sky right in front of her, but she paid it no heed, simply ran around it with her bucket to douse yet another burning armory. But then, along with it, fell another kind of volley. Lothiriel cried out in terror, her voice joining that of nearly every soldier who saw.
The faces, faces of their comrades that had fallen in battle the night before. Their heads torn from their bodies were being hurled over the walls along with the stones, so as the enemy broke their city they also broke their spirits. The faces were twisted, mutilated, looking to have died in great pain. Lothiriel fell to her knees, shaking; to see the head of a young soldier she'd been a child alongside of lying not ten feet away in the cluttered, sooty street along with scores more.
Weapons fell, groans and cries of horror sounded, and Lothiriel stumbled back to the walls. Her people's men stood strong, stood brave...save two. Imrahir was there, weeping openly, as he looked down at the head of Imrahil's Captain of The Guard...Lindenna's father. And Edemer looked like a lost little boy. Like the boy Lothiriel had dragged from the Ringlo, shivering and helpless, bruised and cold. She had to turn...she had to look away...she could not linger near them.
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She clung to the walls, eyes wide, as flaming stone after flaming stone passed over her head, and Lothiriel lost hope. She raised her face, stained with dirt, soot and blood to the heavens. It came to her then that she would never again feel the ocean breezes on her face, be lulled to sleep by the pounding of the sea...she would never see the land of grass that was her father's home. She would die here; another twisted and mutilated body among thousands...
The drums pounded below, and she saw the great battering ram beating against the walls. She saw the Black Captain raise his voice and in a terrible, evil tongue cry out. The Gate of iron, that was said to hold against all, broke. In rode the Lord of The Nazgul; under the archway no enemy had ever passed. All fled from him, or like Lothiriel, all turned away in despair. Away from the Black One...
All save one. Gandalf stood strong, a White Light in the madness. "You cannot enter here." He said, aloud and clear and strong, "Go back to the Abyss prepared for you! Go back! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master. Go!"
The Black Rider flung back his hood, and behold! He had a kingly crown, and yet upon no head visible was it set. The red fires shone between it and the mantled shoulders vast and dark. From a mouth unseen there came a deadly laughter.
"Old fool!" He said, " Old fool! This is my hour! Do you not know death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!" And with that he lifted high his sword and flames ran down the blade...
Far away yet watching, Lothiriel let out a long, echoing cry...of desperation, frustration, and defeat. Her face pressed against the stone ridge of the wall, in her hopelessness she waited for the cries that would mean the White Wizard had fallen. But none came.
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.
Silence. The sun had come over the hills fully, and there was a deafening silence, a pause. Weakly, afraid to dare a hope Lothiriel looked up, just as the clear, echoing horns sounded, horns of friends not foes. The Black Captain let out a screech of frustration, annoyance and hidden dread. Lothiriel wanted to weep, to laugh, or shout, as she saw them. Spears, rows upon rows of endless spears breaking into the black sea...Rohan had come at last
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.
.
Down into the darkness, onto the battlefields of blood and fire and young grass trampled beneath hate and desperation. The foul creatures fled from the brilliance of the Wizard, and the blades that were swung upon them with no remorse or pity. The company was great, and the enemy fell back, as Gondor swept in to defend their own.
It was the first time Lothiriel's sword hit flesh, and it hit flesh hard. No longer virgin to such violence, the Princess did not allow herself the time to dwell on it. She forced all thought of disgust and horror from her mind fiercely, and thought only of what she had been taught, of what she had begged as a girl to learn. She heard her cousin's voice in her head as she rode, as black blood coated her sword and shrieks and shouts sounded under Bela's hooves.
'Watch your back, Lothiriel...
'Swift and strong, Lothiriel...'
'Keep your balance, Lothiriel...'
At one point, she was able to pause, to blink, to look around. The furious dance went on around her, falling, bleeding, tearing...she was blind to the terror yet, her eyes sought only her loved ones. Imrahir was far off but doing well, her father was noble and furious, her brother leading and commanding the men with perfection. And Faramir... .
.
Her sword sang through the air as it severed the head of another enemy, before she looked about again. Where was Faramir? And then from above, she heard the terrible, nightmarish shrieking...
"Nazgul!" Imrahil cried, and it was at that moment that Lothiriel spotted her cousin. Upon the ground he lay, newly fallen from his mount, an ugly black dart embedded within him. A foul Harad was rushing toward his still form, red sword raised to take his head. Lothiriel could recall no thought, no feeling that she felt in that moment. She could only feel Bela beneath her, and her sword before her. With a fierce shout, She charged forward.
She had hewn the evil soldier in two, but she did not stop. She went blind then, striking at all creatures that moved around her, seeing them all as her cousin's assassin. Black, red, blood drenched her sword, came up to stain her face, twisted in rage...and then, the horns of retreat sounded.
Lothiriel awoke. She looked about...the men had done well. But they paled to see, for from the East there came a terrible sight. Thousands upon thousands of the enemy were pouring onto the fields, the Nazgul flying above them. She turned to see her uncle on his mount, with Faramir motionless in his arms. "To the walls!" Imrahil cried, once again the leader of his soldiers.
They followed, victorious yet doomed still.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
In the City there was both cheer and grief together, as Imrahil bore Faramir with him to the White Tower. A dent had been made, but it would and was soon filled in again, twice over, the Nazgul screaming black curses above and a third of Faramir and Imrahil's men laying dead or gravely wounded.
"Does Death lay upon him?" Lothiriel asked, when Imrahil descended, and he and his son made to carry the fallen Faramir to his father.
"I do not dare to hope for the best, Lothy." Imrahil whispered, and then he was gone. .
.
.
.
There were no tears for Lothiriel. She simply looked down at herself...at the blood on her armor, in her hair, and felt numb. Distantly, she found herself wondering what Deliann would think of her looking like this. Slowly, she ran a hand through her long hair in an attempt to straighten it, as her eyes looked off into space. She knew there was a wave wanting to break...a wave that would remind her of the death and bring her crashing into the reality of all that had happened. She had killed...blood lie on her hands...Faramir was most likely dead...
"LOTHY!" She heard a cry, a million miles away and right behind her. She turned, and her brother was there, crushing her numb, frozen form to him. "I didn't see you return and I thought the worst! Oh but you're here, you're alive, all is well!"
Shakily, she hugged him back, and then he was pulling away. Lothiriel blinked...vacant, faraway eyes almost. "Faramir..." She said at last, "He...he might be..."
"Yes, I heard the men speaking of it..." His eyes grew saddened..."Keep up hope, Lothiriel!" He urged her, and she tilted her head. He took in her eyes and vacant expression worriedly. "Lothy? Lothy what's wrong?"
"I..." She gulped, shutting her eyes, some form of expression returning to her face as she did. "Oh Edemer..." She whispered, "How did I do it?"
"With that iron spirit of yours." He whispered back. "Just do not think about it, Lothiriel. I won't either. Just...don't lose hope on me."
She opened her eyes, and nodded. "I won't."
"You're a strong one, little sister." He went on, "Just be strong, as you have been through all of this."
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
And indeed, all strength of spirit was needed, as the enemy finally enclosed the White City. The remaining few soldiers who had survived outside made their way in, and the gates were shut, as the roar of the enemy filled the ears of all. Through the night they came to that place, their numbers growing and growing, until, on the pale morning, none could fathom a guess as to how many there were. Hardly a green blade of the field could be seen beyond their Black Army.
"The Rohirrim have not come." The soldier Ingold said, "They cannot come now. The enemy is too great."
"Then we are on our own." Edemer said grimly, though his face was set as stone. Deep in her heart, Lothiriel wept. But it was very deep within her, so deep the feeling felt to her far off and echoing. Her mind was set to courage, to strength...but oh, how she did wish to weep, as she gazed down upon the black masses, the circling Nazgul, the bloodthirsty sea digging trenches and lighting fires. They brought machines, devices with which they would hurl fire and stone at the smooth, high walls.
"They cannot break these walls." The men of the City exclaimed, as they sent their rain of arrows down on the black foe. "None can, they shall not enter this place."
"So you say." Lothiriel heard herself reply, to no one in particular. "But how long can we live within?"
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
She did not have to wonder long. For the great catapults sent huge flaming stones over and above the walls, to break and smash upon the streets of the first circle of Minas Tirith. Screams of surprised terror filled the streets, as these strange burning stones rained down on the White City, crumbling the foundations and streets and lives. Flames leapt to life through the first level, and many were forced to leave their places at the walls and douse the flames, Lothiriel among them. It was natural, somehow, that she would help quell the flames. Her mind was running on instinct...she could not fire a bow, so she made herself of use elsewhere.
She dodged the rain of fire for water, helping men drench lighted roofs and houses. Ashes and sparks burned into her clothes, scarred her hands and singed her hair, but she kept on. Princess Lothiriel she was, she kept telling herself, and she would stay strong...
And then, her resolve very nearly snapped. Another great stone fell from the sky right in front of her, but she paid it no heed, simply ran around it with her bucket to douse yet another burning armory. But then, along with it, fell another kind of volley. Lothiriel cried out in terror, her voice joining that of nearly every soldier who saw.
The faces, faces of their comrades that had fallen in battle the night before. Their heads torn from their bodies were being hurled over the walls along with the stones, so as the enemy broke their city they also broke their spirits. The faces were twisted, mutilated, looking to have died in great pain. Lothiriel fell to her knees, shaking; to see the head of a young soldier she'd been a child alongside of lying not ten feet away in the cluttered, sooty street along with scores more.
Weapons fell, groans and cries of horror sounded, and Lothiriel stumbled back to the walls. Her people's men stood strong, stood brave...save two. Imrahir was there, weeping openly, as he looked down at the head of Imrahil's Captain of The Guard...Lindenna's father. And Edemer looked like a lost little boy. Like the boy Lothiriel had dragged from the Ringlo, shivering and helpless, bruised and cold. She had to turn...she had to look away...she could not linger near them.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
She clung to the walls, eyes wide, as flaming stone after flaming stone passed over her head, and Lothiriel lost hope. She raised her face, stained with dirt, soot and blood to the heavens. It came to her then that she would never again feel the ocean breezes on her face, be lulled to sleep by the pounding of the sea...she would never see the land of grass that was her father's home. She would die here; another twisted and mutilated body among thousands...
The drums pounded below, and she saw the great battering ram beating against the walls. She saw the Black Captain raise his voice and in a terrible, evil tongue cry out. The Gate of iron, that was said to hold against all, broke. In rode the Lord of The Nazgul; under the archway no enemy had ever passed. All fled from him, or like Lothiriel, all turned away in despair. Away from the Black One...
All save one. Gandalf stood strong, a White Light in the madness. "You cannot enter here." He said, aloud and clear and strong, "Go back to the Abyss prepared for you! Go back! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master. Go!"
The Black Rider flung back his hood, and behold! He had a kingly crown, and yet upon no head visible was it set. The red fires shone between it and the mantled shoulders vast and dark. From a mouth unseen there came a deadly laughter.
"Old fool!" He said, " Old fool! This is my hour! Do you not know death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!" And with that he lifted high his sword and flames ran down the blade...
Far away yet watching, Lothiriel let out a long, echoing cry...of desperation, frustration, and defeat. Her face pressed against the stone ridge of the wall, in her hopelessness she waited for the cries that would mean the White Wizard had fallen. But none came.
.
.
.
.
Silence. The sun had come over the hills fully, and there was a deafening silence, a pause. Weakly, afraid to dare a hope Lothiriel looked up, just as the clear, echoing horns sounded, horns of friends not foes. The Black Captain let out a screech of frustration, annoyance and hidden dread. Lothiriel wanted to weep, to laugh, or shout, as she saw them. Spears, rows upon rows of endless spears breaking into the black sea...Rohan had come at last
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.
