Faramir's eyes widened as Denethor continued to point at Estelwen like a prophet of doom. "You cannot be serious. She was not even here when we were attacked!"

Denethor glared at Estelwen and ignored his son. "Why did you come here?"

Estelwen barely flinched, even though all she felt was defiance.

"She came here because I sent for her!" Gandalf marched into the room, eyes smoldering.

Denethor sank back into the throne. He reached over to the silver platter and plucked a grape off a large cluster. "You did not mention bringing foreigners into my terrain, wizard." He reached for a goblet.

"You have other matters to worry about, Steward!"

Denethor shot up, spilling wine from the goblet onto the floor. "The throne of Gondor is mine!" He shook with fury. "And no other's!"

Gandalf firmed his mouth. He turned and stomped out of the room, his white cloak billowing out behind him.

Estelwen looked at Faramir, though she addressed them all. "I came to help in whatever way I could best." She turned and walked out.

Denethor spat. "Then you will give the Witch King what he wants!"

Estelwen stood still after the doors shut behind her. She hated it, but Denethor had a point. Why was she holding back? Had there not been a prophecy about her? Was she not gifted with her connection to water, as well as being trained by one of the best elven swordsmen? She flexed her fingers before feeling the handle of one of her three ice daggers, which had been preserved from melting by her power. Three was not enough for what she had in mind.

Estelwen scampered down to a well and drew a bucket. If I plan this well, I should not need many. No one was around. She took a deep breath, created three ice daggers, and them into her belt. Unfortunately, she would not be able to make anything larger without Gandalf's help. And no one else needs to be brought into this. She pulled her cloak around her and headed towards the entrance of the city as quickly as she could.

"Estelwen!" Gandalf hurried towards her. "Where are going? The enemy can attack at any moment!"

Estelwen did not stop to answer him until she reached the city walls. "I am not going to hide."

Gandalf opened his mouth, about to protest her foolishness, until he realized what she meant. "You are not going out to meet him."

"Gandalf-"

"Did Denethor put you up to this?" Gandalf's beard shook. "He has no right to tell you anything! He is not the king. You know who the throne of Gondor belongs to!"

"This is no fool's errand, Gandalf. Even if Aragorn should succeed in summoning the dead, it will be too late! We must give him more time. You must continue to rally the men-"

"How did you know I was doing so?"

Estelwen paused, recalling all that Amariel had shown her through her dreams. "I had a vision."

"A vision." Gandalf looked at her suspiciously. "Estelwen, I cannot stop you. In more ways than one, you are different than any others I have met. I do not know where your future lies." He sighed, lowering his head. "But I do know that we have never won a war by a single power or force, but by our friendships and allies."

Estelwen touched his wrist, which was tightly grasping his staff. "Maybe this time, we can."

Gandalf looked up, knowing that she was attempting to console him, but failing to do so. "You know I cannot allow you to face them alone. Lead the way." He signaled the men on top to open the gates. They did so, unaware of its significance. Estelwen strode out, Gandalf following.

They were only halfway across the flat, grassy land separating Minas Tirith from its fortress. The sun was inching further west as they walked. Estelwen stopped and shaded her eyes. Out of the fortress they faced, a lone figure emerged. Estelwen squinted. It was an orc riding a horse. As it neared, Estelwen realized the horse would not live much longer. She could practically count its bones.

Estelwen stood her ground, waiting for it to come to them.

Once the orc was in hearing distance, it snarled. "Only she comes, or you both will die."

"What does your master want with her?" Gandalf said.

The orc backed the horse away, unable to look the wizard in the eye. "The Witch King will allow an audience with her alone. Go back before he changes his mind!"

Estelwen lay a hand on Gandalf's arm, her voice firm. "Wait here for me."

The orc jerked the horse's hair forward. "She is to ride with me."

Estelwen took one look at the orc's grotesque features that were twisted into something that resembled a smirk. Before Gandalf could blink, Estelwen had slung an ice dagger into the orc. It toppled to the side and fell, never to speak again.

"I am not to be trifled with." Estelwen raised her hood over her head and continued towards the fortress.

Gandalf stood there, watching her and wondering who exactly she was speaking to: himself, the orc, or to whom she was about to meet. He shook his head. He did not like this at all, but there were forces in play that he could not stop, not anymore.

As Estelwen neared the fortress, orcs snarled and slammed their crude weapons against the ground and the walls. Estelwen dared not breathe as she entered. The air trembled before her. She could sense his magic, the addicting pulse that grew with every step she took up the half-standing stairs. It filled the air around her, overwhelming her senses. She could barely hear the orcs. Once she reached the flat at the top of the stairs, she nearly fell.

The Witch King stood taller than any elf. His form was covered by thick, black cloth and cold armor that seemed to absorb and null any light that touched it. He wore a mask, forged into one piece with a spiked helmet.

Estelwen had never felt such power radiating from a living presence.

The Witch King spoke without moving. "Why do you bear the same mark, the same scent, as Isildur's heir?"

Estelwen wanted to keep silent, but the pulse of his magic was the only thing she felt, the only thing she could hear besides his voice. "Our destinies are tied by fate."

"You are not like them...earthborn."

Estelwen clasped her hands over her ears. The way he said it was too much like the Eye: mocking and haunting. Her eyes screened the area, searching for water, for light, for anything to help her clear her mind.

"You will find no relief fighting as you do. You will fail, as you feel it to be so."

"No!" Estelwen's eyes flared. "The earthborn prophecy stands!"

"But 'magic shall not be the dark king's fall.' You cannot defeat the Dark Lord. It was never meant to be."

Out of nowhere, a fell beast screeched. It swooped down from the darkening skies and landed on the broken bell tower, stones breaking and toppling beneath its weight.

The Witch King reached to his side and pulled out a massive sword hilt. He called out in a language unknown to Estelwen, but the words caused her to shudder. A loud hiss was heard before both flame and darkness bound together where the blade of the sword should have been. "The darkness beckons you. Only then will you learn the arts to become all that you can be."

A force pounded against Estelwen's skull. Dark magic swirling around her like a storm. It battered against her spirit over and over. Estelwen knew what it meant. Relent and it would be hers to control. Accept the dark arts and there would be no more questions about her destiny. She would have the power to carry out whatever desires she had.

The fell beast on the tower stretched its head in her direction and snapped its jaws.

"Give in, save this city. Give in, and you may command them as you please." The Witch King stepped towards her. "You could even command the orc army to their deaths, and they would have no choice but to obey you."

Estelwen's hands slowly left her ears. By sheer force of her will, her daggers flung themselves at the Witch King. His magic deflected them. Five orcs immediately died, ice blades buried deep inside of them.

The Witch King made no movement, but the magic in the air, the addicting pulse, ceased.

Estelwen gasped. "I will defend these people to the death, but Isildur only has one heir, and he will reign. But not until the darkness falls, and all who toy with its arts go down with it."

Nearby, an orc that was missing an eye strung a particularly large arrow. Estelwen's eyes widened. Its elegance and make was unmistakable. The third Black Arrow was aimed at her.

The orc quickly lowered the bow after the Witch King hissed. "No. There are punishments that can outlive even death." With an unexpected swiftness, he twisted around and stabbed Estelwen, allowing the unearthly blade to linger in her.

Estelwen screamed. No sound came out. She fell to the ground under the force of the dark magic. Estelwen wished for a solid, metal blade. The Witch King's sword was much worse. It was a sharp coldness that struck her core, piercing, draining, and burning. In an instant, it was yanked out of her. 

Empty, defiled, cold. She should have been afraid, but she felt nothing. The Witch King's voice was the only thing that reminded her she was still alive.

"Foolish you are to have come! You have forgotten too much."

At the sharp sound of the Witch King's command, the fell beast screeched. It beat its wings, lifting its massive body into the air. It snatched the earthborn, one sharp talon grazing her right leg. Halfway to the city, it swooped down and released her near Gandalf, zooming away as soon as the delivery was made. Estelwen's body rolled in the grass before coming to a stop.

Gandalf shouted her name and ran to her. He turned her over. Her face was pale, but she was conscious. She bore no physical wounds other than her bleeding leg, which was only a flesh wound. Gandalf muttered a spell, terrified that she might have been poisoned like Frodo had been and turning into a wraith. Confused, he found no trace of poison.

Estelwen's eyes were fixed on the darkening sky. "I was wrong, Gandalf. Wrong, wrong..."

Gandalf nearly shook her. "What happened?"

What did the Witch King of Angmar do to her?