Unexpectedly turned into a cat, Kat falls into Middle-earth with the mission to prevent a death. In a feline form she can only communicate with the elf Legolas - and that he is such an attractive specimen is certainly not helpful...
A humorous (but...
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"There is a curse. They say: May you live in interesting times."
― Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times
44. On the Fields of Pelennor
Shaking with a combination of cold and fear, Beregond huddled under a dense thicket of thorny bushes. He had to leave his hiding place soon, or he would either freeze to death or die of dehydration, but though Osgiliath was quiet now he didn't dare move. Not yet.
Why had he accepted the stupid mission to carry a demon cat from the city, right on the brink of war? Now he would die out here in the darkness while his city was destroyed. His city, where he against all caution had allowed his son to linger. Had Bergil managed to escape before the enemy arrived? Beregond would probably never find out, because soon he would die like everyone else.
He wiped away a tear. He missed Runner, even though it was his fault Beregond had become stuck here. It had happened when they fled from the enemy host and ran into a company of Haradrim with oliphaunts. The huge beasts caused the horse to bolt in panic, taking a turn away from the road, and when Beregond finally managed to regain control the retreat path was cut off.
Runner had left some time during the second night, probably in search of grass and water, and since then Beregond had been utterly alone. Peeking out from the thorns, he had watched the largest and most frightening army he had ever seen pass by, with legions upon legions of orcs, oliphaunt riders, trolls and foreign axe men, and a leader that was a worse horror than all the others together: a ghost on horseback. Together with his fellows, the flying monsters that circled above the host, the black wraith's presence added to Beregond's terror manifold, taking away his last hope that he or his people would survive.
Thus powerless to do anything but listen and sob quietly, Beregond had heard when the Osgiliath guards were easily defeated and forced to retreat, and then the enemy had built temporary bridges for their wagons and waded across the Anduin. Shortly thereafter rumbling explosions from the other side indicated that the Rammas Echor had been struck down somehow – possibly with magic – and by now the army would have arrived at Minas Tirith.
Beregond could still hear battle sounds, but mostly distant booms now. Poor Minas Tirith, whose walls were breaking. Poor Gondor. All was lost.
His teeth chattered. He was ravenous and his throat was dry with thirst, and he desperately needed to pee. He didn't want to pee in the bush again; it had begun to stink rather nastily. Perhaps he should venture out? It actually did seem calm outside now, and with the black wraiths so far away, the sickening dread was slowly leaving his heart.
Deciding to risk it before he wet his hose, Beregond very slowly and cautiously crawled out of his hiding place. He kept his ears open, listening intently for spies and stray orcs, but the coast seemed clear.
