June 21, 3018, West Osgiliath

Last night Osgiliath was attacked by a great force of Orcs, Easterlings, and Haradrim from Mordor. We were vastly outnumbered, but it was not the number of enemies that defeated us. There was a power there, like none I have felt. Some reported a great black horseman, others a dark shadow under the moon. Whatever it was, its presence filled both foe, friend, and beast with a madness, so that even the boldest man and horse gave way and fled.

I commanded the small remnant that held out the longest. Faramir would have stayed as long as I commanded him, for he looks up to me and would sooner die than to give in before me, but the Steward is old and I would not leave Gondor without a clear successor in these troubled times. When I deemed further defense of the city hopeless, I sounded the retreat. We destroyed the last bridge of Osgiliath behind us and swam across the river Anduin to the western shore. Only four of that unit survived, myself, my brother Faramir, and two others.

I am not heartened that my unease proved right, for we took many losses, the numbers of which I have not yet ascertained. Those that fled will face little penalty, for Faramir and I felt that same nameless dread. Instead we will regroup and forge a new strategy here on the western shores.

I think it was only the dread of facing Father and trying to explain why we ran and hid that held us firm. I wonder what competing fear kept those other two rooted to the spot? Perhaps they have wives sterner than Father.

Boromir