I claim credit only for my characters and their actions, everything else belongs to Professor Tolkien.

The First Day Closes

The last of the pale light from the setting sun shone faintly on the White City, signalling the end of another day of waiting and restless suspense. Quiet stole over the walls like a white dove, giving a false impression of calm. The silence barely contained the tension that hung in the air as thick as the sea-fog that sometimes rose from the mouth of the Great River Anduin, or the clouds that swept down from the highest reaches of Mount Mindolluin to cloak the city at the break of day.
Atlanté stood on the walls looking over the fields of the Pelennor towards Osgiliath. When Osgiliath had been lost that day Minas Tirith, the last defence of the realm of Gondor, the last hope of Men, had become the last obstacle between Sauron and his taking over of Middle Earth. Shivering in the twilight she turned to return to her house. It was a few seconds before she realised that she was going the wrong way, heading for the gate to the lower level instead of up to the fourth circle of the city. Pausing, Atlanté saw she was in a nearly deserted street.
Many men had rushed to the aid of the garrison at Osgiliath knowing that if it should fail, the war was as lost. The woman and children had fled to the mountains seeking refuge in townlands such as Lebennin. This emptiness, the hollow feeling of helplessness, was the result of this flight. A single tear slid down Atlanté’s cheek as she realised that many of the men had not returned.

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It was not Atlanté alone who was feeling the oppressive horror of war. Symana, rider in the Éored of King Théoden, was having trouble controlling both his own fear and that of his horse, Cúrondhae, Moonshadow, who had spent the last few days prancing and restless in the manner of a true war horse, nearly unseating him on one memorable occasion whilst riding a narrow path on the edge of the haunted Mountain.
Gathering his courage Symana kicked on towards the King’s tent, ready to explain that he could not do this, could not ride on knowing that few, if any, men would return and that those who did would be changed. It was mostly in the eyes. Soon, he supposed, you got used to the fact that your only friends must be killed or killers to survive. The older men had accepted this fate long ago but Symana, in the time of doubt and confusion, considered himself to be, not a man, nor a Rider, but a boy. Many, he guessed, would be feeling this, much of the camp was composed of young men, immature in battle.
Upon this last thought Symana closed his thighs and took a gentle check on the reins. Feeling his horse stop on command, he felt ashamed of his emotion; there were not many who could better or equal his riding skills. Only two summers ago, at only 15, Symana had taken his father Hessa’s horse Arod and raced the best riders of the Mark from Dunharrow to Edoras, coming a close third. Of course the men had little thought that he had been a little less than a league to the North of them the whole time.
Thinking of his father still caused Symana pain, and he fought the memories that came flying into his head, unbidden, at the thought of Arod. His mother, crying. His uncle, recalling how he had died in battle defending the Third Marshall, Éomer, from the orcs that had killed the King’s son. Éomer himself visiting the grave and paying his respects by spilling a few drops of blood in return. Worst, how Arod had been given to an Elf who had wandered across their path just days later.

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Atlanté stood alone in the deserted street, looking around but seeing nothing. She had remained hidden for nearly a week, not wanting to desert her city, not fearing war. Her mother had left and her father was in the employ of the Steward Denethor, a guard of the Citadel. They would not miss her, she had stayed out of her father’s sight, hoping he would think she had left. But she would not, could not, go. She would stay here.
Steeling her nerve she stepped over the bare threshold of one of the ragged houses, inhaling deeply the musty smell of neglect. It had been but a week since the occupants of this house had left, and the area was habitable enough for Atlanté’s needs. She settled down to rest on the cold stone floor, her mind still occupied with the loss she felt had befallen the White City.

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A man stepped out of the shadows and came slowly to the King’s tent. At least, Symana thought it a man through having no better word with which to name it. He was evidently known to the guards, who let him pass without a whisper of discontent or annoyance. He stepped into a soft pool of moonlight, and Symana saw him clearly for the first time. His skin was of a greenish brown hue, as if he was part of the living forest, wrinkled as if from living outside. When he spoke to the doorwarden it was not in an accent Symana had ever heard, it was clear that Westron was not his native language. Symana sat up on the cold ground to see the better. The man walked into the tent, and very soon was in debate with the King and his closest advisors.
Somebody had crept up behind Symana as he had been eavesdropping and whispered in his ear: ‘He is the chief of the Woses, the Wild Men of Drúaden forest. He comes to advise us on the state of affairs near the White City.’
It was Elfhelm, marshal of the Èored in which Symana’s father had ridden. He spoke quietly, not wishing to be overheard. ‘You should be sleeping. We leave as soon as the King sees fit, and that may be as soon as our visitor departs. He wishes us to go soon so that we may arrive at Minas Tirith at dawn.’
‘How? Does he not say the roads are all blocked, that orcs guard every pass and cleft in the waiting hills?’ As the question was asked there came a reply from within the tent almost as if the old man had heard the question. The words used were spoken in Westron, but were so guttural that Symana could not make sense of what was being said, but Elfhelm translated.
‘He says there are old roads that are not watched. The Wild men will act as scouts for us. They do not take sides but they wish to avenge the destruction of the trees by the orcs. They will not fight but will let us know when it is safe to attack’

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Sitting in her quiet hideaway Atlanté reviewed the day’s events in her mind. Her thoughts wandered back two days to when her lord, Faramir, had left after having arrived only the day before that. “They give him no rest” muttered many, but Atlanté knew that, as the Lord Denethor said, much must be risked in war.
The risk had failed. Faramir and his men had retreated back to Minas Tirith barely 24 hours later after the foray to Osgiliath, arriving amid an attack of the Nazgûl from which not all the men had returned and Faramir himself had been wounded. He was laying now under fear of death, and the Fields of the Pelennor had become overrun with orcs in the past few hours. They were to be seen all over the Rammas and the Field, in total control of all passage into and out of the city.
There was no hope of any assistance being able to reach the city. Denethor had sent for the Riders of Rohan, but nothing had been yet heard of the Riders or of Hirgon, the errand rider of Gondor who had borne the Red Arrow forth to seek aid. As the ill-fated messenger had said, the strength of Rohan would be better within the walls of Gondor than without, yet it had not come. The city was set for a siege and there was little anyone from anywhere could do to prevent the forces of Mordor prevailing.