The day had been especially warm, even for the middle days of June. As dusk fell and bright stars appeared in the darkening sky, the heat of the sun could still be felt, emanating in warm waves from broken stone walls and crumbled masonry – all that remained of the once great city of Osgiliath.

From his vantage point atop an elevated terrace of tumbled flagstone not far from the great stone bridge spanning the Anduin River, Boromir gazed out across the water to the eastern shore, veiled in silent shadow. The enemy was there, lurking in the darkness. Any day now, they would come – a horde of Orcs awaiting only the signal from their Master to attempt passage of the bridge. If that passage was won, then Sauron would gain for his armies a straight path into the heart of Gondor.

That must be prevented at all costs.

"Only a matter of days now until loëndë, the Middle-day," sighed Boromir ruefully. "It should be a time of festival and merry-making! Yet here I am, awaiting certain battle – if word received by my father of the Dark Lord's movements is accurate..."

Boromir scowled.

'Twas a fine way to spend one's birthday!