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Minas Ithil :: The Courtyard
Ereinion Gil-galad

The king was shocked, quite frankly, that his counselor had not only finished composing his report so quickly, but also that he seemed to have changed to drier clothes in the meanwhile. "Menegil, it can't have been five minutes since I sent you on your way," said the king. "Can you truly have gathered reports on all defenses in such a short time? If so, I am wary; should I applaud thee or scold thee?"

All fell quiet, however, as Menegil gave his report. Finally, the counselor finished, letting Gil-galad speak. "I have much to say, so be patient," he said. "Truly, the Orcs stand no chance in assailing this city. It is Osgilath that I fear for, for the Vales of Anduin are open all about that city." He glanced about, noting the nods of agreement that issued forth. "However, Osgiliath is also better manned, and it is here, I am sure, that the Nazgûl shall come." He glanced warily towards the west. "The Dúnedain are courageous, however. I am sure that we shall find victory."

He looked upon all he remained in the courtyard. "It is fortunate that many High Elves are here this day. We live at once in both worlds, and so the Nazgûl hold no dominion over us." He glances at Glorfirith, Kareswen, and the Elf-warrior he had not yet met. "By now I reckon it to late to flee. I trust you do not fear to wield a blade in the coming battle? If not, you would find it best to retreat into the citadel, where you shall be safest."


North of the Crossroads
Akhôrahil of the Nine

It rose, at long last. That accursed sun was finally rising. The Númenóreans liked to say Anar was made for them, but the Númenóreans were also a bunch of gullible fools. He hated the sun, he hated the light, he hated the Dúnedain. But most of all, he hated his dark master, and he would rue the day he ever accepted his Ring, and he would rue the day it was taken back.

It mattered not, of course. Akhôrahil of the Nine could rue all he wanted, but the lord's desires were as final as orders from the All-father himself. And even if he hated Ilúvatar just as he hated Sauron, the comparison was just, for he was eternally bound to his jeweled ring.

Akhôrahil paused. So caught up in his burning hatred was he, that he had for a moment forgotten his task. Dusk had come, and now it was time to march eastward. His fell-beast rose in the ear, and in his rasp voice he issued commands for the fifty Orcs of the eastward company to march. Within hours they would be upon the accursed moon-tower, and there they would die. He grinned, of course. Even though he knew the Men of Gondor would be the ones to find victory, at least the fact that it was them who would need to bury the rotting Orc-corpses could bring some faint semblance of happiness to the wraith.

It would start at sun-fall.

Minas Ithil - Citadel

Anárion rises late in the day, having slept poorly the night before. News of his wife's departure from Minas Anor en route to his Father's kingdom in Arnor has deeply disturbed him. His worry for his beloved daughter coupled with the stress he feels regarding the Enemy's advancement has taken a toll on his physical and mental well-being. Leaving the gathered Men and Elves early the night before, the Prince wandered alone in the tranquil citadel gardens, trying to calm his nerves and soothe his troubled mind. He tossed and turned all night, unable to find peace.

Distraught and his clothes hastily put on, Anárion descends the front steps of the citadel of the Tower of the Rising Moon and enters the courtyard. Silently nodding to all who dwell in the quiet yard, Elendil's second son positions himself slightly away from the group but close enough to listen.

Osgiliath - Eastern Walls

Neniel rested her elbows on the wall, and her chin in her upward hands. She could see the orcs now, just barely, and their winged commanders. Neniel had never been afraid of orcs, or her duty and honor, her father had seen to that. But Neniel was mortal, not matter how much of an elf she tried to be. And that knowledge made her fear the Nazgul. She was not afraid if they killed her, she was afraid if they won the battle and let her live.

She took a deep breath, looking at the elves to her left and the Osgiliath Rangers to her right. She was standing between her two worlds. And for the first time in her life, she did not mind.

Minas Ithil :: The Courtyard
Ereinion Gil-galad

Gil-galad smiled at his niece, delighted to see that she had the courage to stand and fight; much like her father, the great Elf-warrior, the elder son of Fingon. He was worried, however, at her lack of preparation. "If you wish to fight, Glorfirith, then perhaps you should go to the smithy. It is ill-news to fight against the Nine in naught but the robes of our people; foolishness, I would say. I should ask that you go now, in fact, along with all others present who are not now armed."

He grinned. His armor, of course, was kept in the Houses of Healing, along with Aeglos and Gurthang. The Nine would not find the Elf-king unprepared, that was certain.

Enedwaith - Lond Daer en route to Tharbad

Isilien wakes the following morning to the same dreary sky and unrelenting rainfall. After a hot breakfast, the elf princess and her party of Gondorian guards wrap themselves in their warm cloaks and thank the Master of the manor for his generous hospitality before guiding their rested horses out of the stronghold. The journey through the woods of Enedwaith is slow and tedious. Great sections of the woods were cut down as the Numenoreans expanded their kingdoms and the party finds themselves struggling through these regions. Thick mud slows their progress as the rain continues to pour.

Raising her brown eyes to the grey sky, Isilien sighs, knowing it will be a long day.

Minas Ithil - Citadel

Anárion quietly listens to the council of assembled Men and Elves. His heart is gladdened in hearing the determination of his companions and is most grateful for their aid. Gondor is most fortunate and the upcoming battle does not seem as grim.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Prince catches a glimpse of his servant Galen descending the steps out of the citadel and positioning himself not too far off from the group. Anárion is surprised to see him, unaware of his arrival from Osgiliath. Galen catches his Master's eye and bows slightly. Slipping away from the small group, Anárion approaches Galen and smiles warmly.

I was not aware of your arrival. I must say, I am very glad to see you.

The slightly older man returns the smile.

I arrived only a couple of hours ago. Travel through Gondor is dangerous during these dark times. I was almost discovered by enemy soldiers twice.

The man's smile dissipates.

Prince Anárion, the enemy will be here by nightfall.

Anárion nods gravely. So it is this night that the battle will commence.

M'Lord, I have laid out your armor. Shall I fetch the Lady isilien and see that she is well taken care of?
Anárion shakes his head.

Nay. The Lady is no longer in the city. She is on her way to my Father's kingdom in Arnor to visit our daughter. She is ill and the Lady worries.

The Prince turns silent for a moment before continuing.

It's probably a good idea for me to prepare myself. Let us go.

Galen bows once more and walks along side his dear childhood friend as they head back into the Citadel. Both men climb the stairs and head for Anárion's bedchamber where Galen helps him with his silver Gondorian breastplate, the intrically etched White Tree brilliantly gleaming. A midnight blue mantle is draped from his shoulders and Anárore is hung at his side. Anárion dresses in silence, mentally preparing himself for the battle to come.

((Galadriel was in the courtyard the whole time, Falathrim. I posted that in my last post, which was, admittedly, a long time ago.))

Minas Ithil ~ Courtyard

Galadriel nodded as she listened to the conversation between the High King and the others, but said nothing, for hers was not the way of direct intervention between a battle lord and his soldiers. She would serve well and strongly, as strongly as any Noldor could, and doubtless this citadel would need every one of the High Elves present to turn back the Nazgul who were undoubtedly coming to this battle.

As the Council ended for the last time, and the sun dropped below the level of the towers, casting a blood red glow on the beautiful city, Galadriel, too, took her leave and headed to her own quarters where her saddlebags sat. Upon arrival there, she noticed a handmaiden standing next to her things. The younger woman bowed her head and swept a curtsy at the White Lady's arrival.

Pardon my intrusion, White Lady. It was thought that perhaps you would wish some assistance in preparing for the upcoming battle.

The woman remained in her curtsy until Galadriel walked over to her and gently lifted her back to a standing position with a finger under her chin.

Whoever sent you was most kind. It will indeed be beneficial for me to have help into my armor and to buckle Dormeith over the top of such. Thank you for coming.

The woman nodded and blushed under Galadriel's kind gaze and warm smile before bending over and unbuckling the saddlebags. She pulled out a thick woolen shirt and cotton pants that would protect the White Lady's body from the coarseness of the metal armor. When she had assisted Galadriel in removing her beautiful dress and the silk shift underneath, the maiden rolled up the woolen shirt and assisted Galadriel to slip it on over her head before the White Lady pulled on her pants.

Once Galadriel stood with the plain underclothes covering the important parts of her body, the woman rummaged again in the saddlebags, pulling out this time a seemingly paper thin breastplate that was molded to the White Lady's full bosom and engraved all over with laurel leaves and a representation of the Trees.

As the woman buckled the armor around Galadriel's undershirt, she spoke again.

Forgive me, Lady, for not introducing myself. I am Morscha. It is an honor to serve one such as you. Tell me, does this citadel stand any chance tonight? I have heard the Ringwraiths are coming.

Galadriel turned, for by this time, the armor was well and firmly buckled on, and faced Morscha.

Well met, Morscha. Indeed, if any stands a chance against the forces of darkness, it is Gondor, and Minas Ithil. Trust in the leadership of Anarion and Gil-Galad - they are hardened warriors and will lead well through whatever may come.

Morscha nodded and swallowed hard at Galadriel's lack of denial that the Nazgul were indeed coming, but bent over and pulled out the plate guards for the White Lady's legs, buckling them on. They, too, were of the same seemingly thin mold, engraved with twining laurel leaves.

Yes Lady. I will trust in my Lord's leadership. You are ready for battle

She says so, for by this time, the leg guards are buckled on firmly. Galdriel picks up Dormeith from where he lay on the bed and slings him around her shoulder, strapping him across the back of her plate mail for easy drawing. She turned and examined herself in the mirror. The plate mail glowed faintly in the dimming light outside and the light of the small candle that Morscha had lit before Galadriel had arrived. Though the mail looked thin, it was not weak, and would turn nearly any blade that attempted to puncture it.

The White Lady's beauty was not diminished by the fact that she was garbed as a man preparing for battle - rather, it was hardened, almost fearsome. The heated glint to her eyes spoke of the utter fury with which she could and would defend that which she loved against the forces of Sauron. With a swift hug for Morscha, Galadriel turned from the mirror and headed toward the citadel proper, where she found Gil-Galad and walked over to him, standing silently next to the High King.


Road to Osgiliath ~ Forces of Mordor

Three hundred Orcs moved out at the sun reached its zenith on the sixth day. Formed in rigid ranks, they marched at a near running pace, intending to reach Osgiliath by nightfall. The leaders shouted in the harsh guttural defilement of the Black Tongue that was Orc Speech, urging their underlings to ever greater speed, even in the harsh light of the sun.

As dusk fell, the Orcs found themselves able to run more swiftly, and so, by the last light of the day, just as lamps were truly necessary, the regiment of 300 Orcs find themselves standing before the gates of Osgiliath. In loud voices, the commanders ordered their forces to hold fire - instead, simply to stand in formation and wait outside the doorway to Osgiliath.


Crossroads ~ Forces of Mordor

Dusk fell on the sixth day, and the last of the Orc regiments moved out of their campsite at the crossroads. Spurred by fear of the Nazgul, they soon came into the vale leading to Minas Ithil from the crossroads. The Nazgul themselves flew high overhead, waiting for the coming Orcs to distract the Men of the citadel, that they could sweep down and wreak havoc amongst them.