I don't own LotR
"Orcs are becoming more and more persistent. They are becoming a danger to our borders." Boromir reported to his father.
Wyniel listened from behind the large main doors. Boromir had returned unhurt, but a few men were dead, much to the sorrow of the city. The orcs proved tougher than everyone thought, and the battle carried on for much of the afternoon.
"There will be many more tests of Gondor's will. This is nothing." Denethor replied.
"Father," Boromir began, "we lost a dozen men. Such a group of orcs should not have claimed that many."
"Then you should prepare with better skill. Believe me, son, much worse than that ragged band will threaten Osgiliath in the future."
Boromir nodded, down struck, and exited the hall. He stopped next to Wyniel.
"There will be funerals tomorrow." he stated. She grabbed his arm and they walked toward the Houses of Healing.
Inside lay about twenty men, some groaning, some unconscious. They made the rounds, offering bits of comfort and blessings of honor. Wyniel faced it with a stone visage, hardened by her son's death. But then she saw the woman, the one who Wyniel talked to outside her house. She cried over the still body of a bloody man. Detaching from her husband, Wyniel went to the woman's side. She wrapped an arm around the shaking shoulders and waited until they calmed. When it was all done she ate dinner and retired to bed.
That night a dream woke Wyniel. There was a deep fog covering the Pellenor, and Wyniel was standing near Osgiliath. The leaves floating in the water were no longer in sight than they disappeared. Ghostly voices echoed around Wyniel in the dampness, and she thought she heard horses galloping a long way off. What sounded like a bowstrings release and many arrows flying made Wyniel jump, and she lost her balance and began to fall. Before she hit the ground she was awake.
"What is it?" Boromir asked groggily. Wyniel was soaked to the skin, so she jumped out of bed and threw a log onto the fire before stripping out of her nightdress. Boromir raised himself onto his elbow and looked questioningly at his mute wife. She was rushing across the room in seemingly aimless haste until she halted by the wide window. Throwing open the shutters she gazed at the moonlit Pellenor, hidden by a settled fog.
Not sure what the dream meant, Wyniel slipped silently yet cautiously back into bed.