I

5. The condemned

Anborn

Once, long ago, I sat up all night with a man condemned to execution at dawn. At the outset I was not well disposed to him, for he was justly condemned; but after sharing with him those hours which were like a first and more terrible death, I no longer cared anything for justice and felt only pity.

As we waited by the River, in the darkness, I remembered that man, and could have wept  with renewed pity for him, and for ourselves; for we were all condemned.

When our company first arrived, there was some rejoicing among the garrison already there, even some mirth and song; but after we had eaten – knowing that it was likely to be our last meal – we fell silent, our ears straining for the first break in the ominous silence of Osgiliath, which was a silence of satisfied waiting. They would come when they were ready; theirs to choose the time. For us, the waiting was the first and more terrible death: waiting for death, in the hours before a dawn that would never come.

But when we heard the long-feared tramp of feet, it was not from before us but from behind. Our first feeling was terror lest the City should have fallen already to some impossible foe; but as the clear, quiet challenges were exchanged through the darkness, we knew, with an unspeakable lightening of the spirits, who it was who had come to us. The Captain had not abandoned us after all.

He had brought a thousand men with him, as many as could be taken from the City and still leave enough to man the walls and keep the guard; and every man a volunteer. There was no joy among them and no hope, but there was resolution like a pale, steely light that came from the Captain and spread itself among us.

When the fatal dawn came, long ago, the man I had sat with nerved himself and made a good end. With the Captain beside me, I knew I could do the same.