Alana moved silently through the ruined streets of Osgiliath, her cloak drawn tightly around her as she approached the soldiers going about their routine duties—sharpening blades, tending fires, and keeping watch. The atmosphere was tense, as if everyone was bracing for something terrible, something inevitable. She scanned the area until her eyes landed on Faramir, his tall figure unmistakable as he moved amongst his men, speaking with quiet authority.
She hadn't seen him since they had parted, and though their relationship had been brief, there was something undeniable between them—a connection forged not just in words, but in the unspoken bond of two souls who understood the weight of duty, the burden of loss. Before she could stop herself, she thought of the kiss they had shared before he left for Osgiliath, the moment that had lingered in her mind ever since.
Faramir was speaking to Madril, one of his closest soldiers, when Alana finally approached. She kept her hood drawn low, her steps light and deliberate as she neared him. His voice carried over the ruins.
"It's been very quiet across the river," Faramir said, his tone serious, as if sensing the calm before a storm.
Madril responded, "The Orcs are lying low. The garrison may have moved out. We've sent scouts to Cair Andros. If the Orcs attack from the north, we'll have some warning."
"Who are you? State your business!" A solider said as she got too close to their captain. He had his sword drawn, blade aimed at her throat.
Alana slowly raised her hands, keeping her movements deliberate and unthreatening. "Peace, soldier. I mean no harm." She met Faramir's gaze steadily as she lowered her hood, revealing her face.
Faramir's eyes widened in surprise, a flicker of warmth passing through them before he regained his composure. "Stand down," he commanded the soldier, who hesitated a moment before lowering his blade and stepping back.
Faramir approached Alana, his expression a mix of concern and something else she couldn't quite decipher.
"Alana," Faramir said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "What are you doing here? It's not safe."
She held his gaze, her heart pounding beneath her breast. "I had to see you," she replied, her words tinged with a quiet urgency. "I'm here to help."
Faramir glanced around at his men, who were watching the exchange with curious eyes. He gently took Alana's arm and guided her a short distance away, where they could speak more privately.
Once they were out of earshot of the others, Faramir turned to face Alana fully, his brow furrowed with worry. "Alana, you shouldn't be here. The enemy could attack at any moment. I cannot guarantee your safety."
Alana met his gaze unflinchingly. "Do you forget who I am? Warrior of the Dunedain?"
Alana met his gaze unflinchingly. "Do you forget who I am? Warrior of the Dunedain?" A playful smile danced at the corners of her mouth. "I can handle myself in a fight, Captain. Besides, I couldn't very well let you have all the glory, now could I?"
Faramir sighed, but a glimmer of amusement shone in his eyes. "I should have known better than to underestimate you." He paused, his expression growing serious once more.
"Alana, I cannot ask you to risk your life here," Faramir said gravely. "The enemy we face is ruthless and relentless. I would not see you come to harm."
Alana reached out and grasped his hand, her fingers intertwining with his. "I'm already here. Put me to work." Her eyes sparkled with determination and a hint of mischief. "Besides, someone has to keep an eye on you and make sure you don't do anything too heroic and foolish."
Despite the gravity of the situation, Faramir couldn't help but chuckle at Alana's words. Her spirit and bravery never ceased to amaze him. He squeezed her hand gently before releasing it, his expression sobering.
"Very well," he conceded. He gestured for her to follow him going back over to his men, so he could introduce her. As Faramir and Alana rejoined the few men that he had been talking with, curious glances and hushed whispers rippled through the group. "Madril, this is Alana, a skilled warrior of the Dunedain and a trusted ally." His voice carried an air of authority, leaving no room for question. "She went with my brother, and Frodo."
"Ah yes. Frodo, you'll be happy to hear he passed through here some weeks ago." Madril told her.
Relief flooded through Alana at Madril's words. Frodo was alive. There was still hope. She nodded gratefully to the soldier. But before she could respond, the sudden shift in the air drew their attention. Running through the streets they came upon a soldier that had been shot in the chest.
"They're not coming from the north!" Faramir shouted to his men, his voice commanding. "To the river, quick! Quick!"
The soldiers of Gondor sprang into action, drawing their swords and running toward the riverbank where the Orcs had begun to disembark from their boats. Faramir turned back to Alana, his eyes filled with worry. "You need to leave. Now."
But Alana shook her head, her voice steady despite the rising fear around them. "Will you just accept that I'm here to help already?"
Alana's blood ran cold as the sounds of the approaching enemy grew louder. She had seen this kind of battle before—the way the air seemed to thicken with anticipation just before the fighting began.
Any and all noise was drowned out by the deafening clash of swords and battle cries. The grotesque Orcs, their twisted faces contorted with rage, poured into Osgiliath like a horde of demons from hell. Their weapons gleamed in the dim light as they charged towards the outnumbered soldiers of Gondor.
Alana's heart pounded with a surge of adrenaline, her hand gripping her sword with unwavering strength. The air was thick with the stench of battle, the sounds of clashing swords and screams of pain filling her ears. She stood tall and fierce, a trained warrior ready to face any foe. Her will was unbreakable, her resolve unwavering as she prepared to fight until her last breath if necessary.
The first wave of Orcs descended upon them, but Faramir was swift and precise with his blade, cutting through their ranks with deadly accuracy. Alana moved with grace and agility, her cloak discarded as she moved in sync with Faramir, their weapons a blur of steel against flesh.
As the Orcs surged forward from the riverbank, the battle erupted in a storm of clashing steel and chaotic violence. Alana could hear the sharp ring of swords meeting in the air, the desperate shouts of soldiers trying to hold their ground, and the guttural roars of the advancing Orcs. The sight of the enemy flooding into Osgiliath sent a jolt of adrenaline through her body, but there was no room for fear now. There was only the fight.
Alana moved swiftly, her cloak discarded and her sword drawn. The familiar weight of the blade in her hand steadied her nerves. She ducked beneath an Orc's swing and parried its blow with ease, her muscles remembering the movements she had trained for all her life. With a quick upward strike, she slashed across the creature's exposed side, sending it crumpling to the ground. The rush of battle was terrifying, but Alana's focus sharpened as she fought, every movement deliberate, every strike intended to keep her alive.
Nearby, Faramir fought valiantly, cutting down Orcs with deadly precision. He moved with the grace of a seasoned warrior, his sword an extension of himself as he fought to protect his men and hold the enemy at bay. But even as he struck down one foe, two more would take its place, their grotesque faces twisted with bloodlust. The Orcs came in waves, relentless and overwhelming.
Alana, seeing Faramir momentarily outnumbered, rushed to his side just as a hulking Orc swung its jagged blade toward him. Faramir, distracted by another enemy, didn't see the strike coming in time. Without hesitation, Alana darted forward, her heart pounding as she raised her sword to block the blow. The force of the Orc's swing sent a tremor through her arms, but she held firm, using her momentum to push back. Her blade caught the Orc's arm, slicing deep into its flesh before she spun and slashed across its throat.
The creature gurgled and fell, its lifeless body collapsing at Faramir's feet. Faramir glanced at her, his eyes wide with surprise and a flicker of gratitude.
Alana nodded, not wasting any time as she stepped in beside him, their movements synchronized as they continued to fight side by side. She couldn't allow herself to think about the danger—not now. She needed to be sharp, every movement calculated, every strike intended to keep Faramir and his men alive.
Another Orc lunged at them, its grotesque face contorted with malice. Alana parried its strike, stepping into the creature's guard and driving her sword into its chest. The Orc stumbled back, but not before Alana withdrew her blade and spun around to face the next enemy. She barely had time to breathe before two more Orcs came at them, but she was ready.
Faramir, fighting on her right, had his own troubles. Three Orcs surrounded him, their dark eyes gleaming with savage delight. One swung a massive axe toward his head, but Faramir ducked low, using his sword to slice across the Orc's knees, sending it crashing to the ground. Another came at him from behind, and Alana, seeing the danger, reacted instinctively.
She leapt forward, her sword cutting through the air just in time to deflect the Orc's strike aimed at Faramir's back. The force of the blow nearly knocked her off balance, but she recovered quickly, driving her sword into the Orc's side before it could recover. It howled in pain, its weapon dropping from its hand as it crumpled to the ground.
Despite the ferocity of the battle, there was something deeply comforting about fighting alongside Faramir. They had each other's backs, moving in a fluid rhythm that spoke to their trust in one another. She didn't need to think twice about stepping in to protect him, and she knew that he would do the same for her.
The battle raged on, the men of Gondor fighting valiantly but struggling against the seemingly endless tide of Orcs. Alana's muscles burned with fatigue, but she pushed through the pain, her sword slicing through enemy after enemy. She moved with precision, blocking strikes and delivering fatal blows with every ounce of strength she had.
At one point, Faramir found himself locked in a brutal struggle with an Orc wielding a large, spiked mace. The creature swung the weapon with brutal force, and Faramir barely managed to duck out of the way in time. He stumbled, and the Orc raised its mace to strike again, but Alana was already there. She stepped between them, deflecting the blow with her sword and driving her blade deep into the Orc's chest.
The creature let out a guttural cry before collapsing at her feet.
Faramir straightened, panting from exertion, and looked at her with a mixture of awe and gratitude. "You weren't kidding about being skilled with a blade!" he admitted, his voice strained but sincere.
Alana shot him a quick smile, though there was no time for pleasantries. "I never lie!"
But despite their best efforts, the men of Gondor were being pushed back, the sheer number of Orcs overwhelming their defenses. The situation was growing more dire by the minute, and Alana could see it in Faramir's eyes—he knew they couldn't hold Osgiliath much longer.
"Fall back!" Faramir shouted to his men, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Regroup at the second line!"
Alana fought her way back alongside Faramir as the soldiers of Gondor began to retreat. The Orcs, smelling blood and victory, pressed forward with renewed fervor, their snarling voices filling the air.
The battle at Osgiliath had erupted into a brutal and chaotic fight for survival. Orcs swarmed the city, their grotesque forms charging through the narrow streets and crumbling archways like a tide of death. The men of Gondor fought valiantly, but the sheer number of enemies overwhelmed their defenses. The sounds of swords clashing, the shouts of soldiers, and the guttural roars of the Orcs filled the air, mixing with the acrid stench of blood and fire.
Alana had been fighting alongside Faramir and the soldiers of Gondor since the battle began. Her sword had already tasted the blood of numerous Orcs, but the relentless nature of the enemy left no room for rest. The Orcs came in waves, their twisted faces gleaming with malice, and their weapons sharp and cruel. Every swing of her blade was met with resistance, every parry another fight for her life.
Beside her, Faramir fought with the precision and grace of a seasoned warrior, but even he couldn't hide the exhaustion in his movements. The men around them were struggling to hold their ground, their numbers dwindling as the Orcs pressed harder. Alana could see it in their eyes—the creeping realization that Osgiliath was lost.
She dodged an incoming strike, twisting her body to avoid the jagged blade of an Orc, then countered with a swift slash across its torso. The creature let out a guttural snarl before collapsing to the ground, but before Alana could catch her breath, another Orc was upon her. This one was larger, more monstrous, wielding a rusted axe. It swung at her with reckless abandon, forcing her to duck low and roll to the side.
The weight of her armor felt heavier with each passing second, but she gritted her teeth, determined not to let exhaustion claim her. Her sword flashed through the air, deflecting the Orc's next strike, and with a quick pivot, she drove her blade deep into the creature's chest. The Orc staggered, its breath rattling in its throat before it collapsed at her feet.
Faramir grabbed her by the hand and puled her along through an archway where more mend could be seen. They were readying their bows and Madril yelled at them to get out of the way. As quick as he could he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to the side, hiding behind a pillar as the archers let loose their volley.
She created heavily, leaning her head on his chest plate briefly. He reached up and cradled her head, taking but a second to enjoy her closeness. He kissed the top of her head quickly and then was moving again, addressing his men.
"We can't hold them. They city is lost." Madril told Faramir. He had a large gash on his forehead that was bleeding into his eye.
"Tell the men to break cover. We ride for Minas Tirith." Faramir ordered.
The sudden, ear-splitting screech of the Nazgûl filled the air, a sound so terrifying it seemed to freeze the blood of every soldier who heard it. Alana's heart clenched as she looked to the sky, spotting the dark, winged forms of the Nazgûl descending upon the city. Their fell beasts circled overhead, their eyes gleaming with malevolent intent.
"Nazgûl!" someone shouted, their voice tinged with panic. "Take cover!"
Alana's grip tightened on her sword as the soldiers around her scrambled to find shelter. Faramir's voice rang out through the chaos, calling for the men to fall back. "Retreat! Fall back to Minas Tirith!" he shouted, his voice a beacon of command amidst the madness.
But the Nazgûl were relentless. Their beasts swooped low over the retreating soldiers, their claws snatching men from the ground and dragging them into the sky, only to drop them to their deaths below. The sight was horrifying, and Alana felt her stomach twist with fear as she watched the Nazgûl pick off the men of Gondor one by one.
"We need to move, now!" she shouted to Faramir, cutting down another Orc that had tried to block their retreat. "The Nazgûl are targeting us!"
Faramir nodded, his face pale but resolute. "We fall back to Minas Tirith," he repeated, urging his men to follow him. "Retreat!"
As they ran, Alana stayed close to Faramir, her sword swinging with precision as they cut their way through the chaos. She could see the terror in the eyes of the soldiers around her, many of them too young to have faced such evil before. The Nazgûl were unlike any foe they had ever encountered—creatures of pure malice, wielding fear like a weapon.
They reached the outskirts of the city, but the retreat was far from over. The plains between Osgiliath and Minas Tirith stretched out before them, open and exposed. Faramir pulled her to a horse where he jumped on. He tried to pull her in front of him but she protested and got behind him. Alana's heart pounded in her chest as they began the long, desperate flight across the open fields, knowing that the Nazgûl would not relent.
Alana held tightly to Faramir's waist as their horse galloped towards the gates of Minas Tirith, the Nazgûl's shrieks echoing behind them. The remnants of the Gondorian forces were in full retreat now, desperate to reach the safety of the city walls. Horses thundered past, carrying wounded soldiers and those lucky enough to have escaped the carnage in Osgiliath.
Glancing over her shoulder, Alana saw the Fell Beasts swooping low, aiming for the horses. The Nazgûl circled like vultures, their fell beasts screeching as they dived down to pick off more soldiers. Alana watched in horror as one of the creatures swooped low, its claws grasping a screaming soldier and lifting him into the air. The man's terrified cries were cut short as the Nazgûl dropped him from a great height, his body plummeting to the ground with a sickening thud.
Then she saw them.
Among the dark forms were two figures unlike the others, their robes not the familiar black shrouds of the wraiths. Instead, they were cloaked in dark, blood-red garments, their forms cutting through the sky like shadows dipped in blood. Alana felt a chill crawl up her spine as recognition hit her. These weren't ordinary Nazgûl—these were the Red Wraiths. Kitra's parents.
Alana had heard the stories, whispered among the warriors, the grim tales of how Kitra's parents had been taken by Sauron, twisted and transformed into wraiths—servants of the Dark Lord. They had died long before Alana had been born, and she had never known them, but now, seeing them in the flesh—or what was left of it—sent a wave of cold horror through her.
She leaned forward, her grip tightening on Faramir's armor as she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "Faramir… the Red Wraiths… they're Kitra's parents."
Faramir turned his head slightly, his eyes dark with understanding as he followed her gaze to the sky. His expression hardened, but he said nothing. There was no time for words, no time to process the tragedy of what had become of Kitra's family. The Nazgûl were closing in, their fell beasts swooping lower, their intent clear: death.
Alana's heart raced, her thoughts swirling. She had never met Kitra's parents, never had the chance to know them before they were claimed by darkness. But seeing them now, twisted into creatures of pure malice, sent a wave of sorrow crashing through her. What must Kitra feel, knowing that her parents, once loving, had been turned into these mindless servants of Sauron?
"Keep going!" Alana shouted, urging the men forward. "We have to reach Minas Tirith!"
But just as it seemed like all hope was lost, a bright light cut through the gloom, blinding and brilliant. Alana looked up, her breath catching in her throat as she saw a lone figure galloping toward them, his staff held high and glowing with a radiant, white light.
The Red Wraiths flew lower, their blood-red robes rippling like living shadows. Alana's heart clenched as one of the wraiths swooped toward them, the beast's claws reaching for the retreating soldiers. She could hear its terrifying screech, feel the weight of its presence pressing down on her, suffocating. She held her breath, her grip tightening around Faramir as they pushed their horse faster.
"Mithrandir!" the soldiers cried out in awe and relief. "The White Rider!"
It was Gandalf.
Just as the creature descended, Gandalf's staff flashed with brilliant light, sending the Nazgûl scattering. The beasts screeched in frustration, veering away from the light, their forms vanishing into the clouds. Alana exhaled in relief, though her heart still pounded from the close call.
But the sight of the Red Wraiths remained burned into her mind. Even though they had retreated for now, she knew they would be back. They weren't just any Nazgûl—they were Kitra's parents, bound to Sauron's will, and they would hunt them relentlessly.
As they neared the gates of Minas Tirith, Alana cast one last glance at the sky, her thoughts heavy with the knowledge of what Kitra was facing. She hadn't known her aunt and uncle, hadn't seen them before they had been twisted by Sauron, but now, the weight of their presence pressed down on her. She could only imagine what it must be like for Kitra, carrying that burden.
The gates of Minas Tirith opened with a heavy groan, and as they rode inside, Alana couldn't shake the image of the Red Wraiths. Inside the city, the tension was palpable. Faramir, breathing heavily from the exertion, dismounted his horse and rushed toward Gandalf.
"Mithrandir!" Faramir called out, his voice filled with urgency. "They broke through our defenses. They've taken the bridge and the West bank. Battalions of Orcs are crossing the river."
Gandalf's face was grim as he listened. "Foreseen and done nothing," he muttered in frustration, his gaze sweeping over the soldiers who had survived the battle. Alana dismounted and stood beside Faramir, her body aching from the fight but her mind focused on the task ahead.
Then Pippin, who had been sitting quietly on Shadowfax, caught Faramir's attention. The two locked eyes, and a flicker of recognition passed between them.
"This is not the first Halfling to have crossed your path," Gandalf said, his voice tinged with knowing.
Faramir's eyes widened, his thoughts clearly turning to Frodo and Sam. "No," he said quietly, shaking his head.
Pippin's voice broke through, filled with hope and desperation. "You've seen Frodo and Sam?"
Faramir nodded, his face grave. "In Ithilien. Not two days ago. Gandalf, they're taking the road to the Morgul Vale."
Gandalf's face paled, his eyes widening with horror. "And then the pass of Cirith Ungol," he whispered, his voice heavy with dread.