Chapter 2 - Caradhras the cruel

Darkness crept over the land as the Fellowship neared the towering heights of Caradhras. The sun was hidden behind the shadowed peaks as the nine walkers drew closer. Gandalf was leading the way, his mind heavy with responsibility. He looked over his shoulder for a moment as they neared the top of a small rise. It was strange, he thought, that the fate of Middle Earth had come to this, a mismatched group of strangers, who held the weight of the world upon their shoulders.

Behind him, Gimli and Legolas walked quickly along, immersed in an argument that had been raging for over three days. Gandalf shook his head at them, wondering at how quickly they had formed a close, if not a little unusual friendship. Their relationship seemed to be made entirely from arguments and provoking insults.

Faramir walked a short way behind the Dwarf and Elf. Gandalf was more than a little relieved that Denethor's younger son had been the one to make the journey to Rivendell. His brother Boromir was a valiant man, a leader of men, but inside Gandalf had an idea that Faramir's qualities would likely prove more useful. Faramir had been very quiet the last few days, and seemed to be lost in silent contemplation.

Behind Faramir the four Hobbits struggled forwards as quickly as they could. Over a fortnight ago, during the first few days out from Rivendell, Gandalf and Aragorn had led with Legolas as rear-guard and the Hobbits had been excited and talkative. But as the way got steeper and the track narrowed, it was all they could do to keep up. Gandalf was especially worried about the younger two, Merry and Pippin, for although it was he that had advised Elrond to let them join the company, he was concerned they would not make the distance.

Gandalf had told Aragorn to walk behind and make sure the Hobbits did not stray but it was Bill the pony that caused the most trouble. Although very useful as a baggage carrier, Bill seemed to be one of the slowest creatures in Middle Earth! Sam literally had to push him up the steep inclines.

"Mithrandir? Is anything amiss?" Legolas asked as he and Gimli almost ran into him.

Gandalf shook his white beard and blinked away his personal thoughts, "We have reached the base of Caradhras, we will make camp here for a few hours."

Breathing sighs of relief, the Hobbits threw themselves to the ground.

"Aragorn," Pippin began, "there wouldn't be a chance of some food would there?"

"Good idea," Merry agreed, "I'd say it was time for dinner."

Aragorn smiled slightly and turned to Faramir who was carrying much of the supplies, "What do you say, Faramir? Do these young Hobbits deserve something or should we save the supplies in case of emergencies?"

Before Faramir could blink, the two young Hobbits had jumped onto his back, throwing him forwards. He fell on to the grass face first and Merry sat on him while Pippin pulled out various food packages from his bag.

"This 'is' an emergency," Pippin informed Aragorn, "if Merry and I do not eat, you will be forced to listen to our stomaches grumbling all the way."

Faramir found it impossible to breathe while the Hobbit was sitting on him, not to mention how hard he was laughing at the way they had worked together to ambush him.

Satisfied that they had enough food to last them till the supper that they hoped they would get, the Hobbits climbed off Faramir and Aragorn had to help him get up.

"Whoever said size does not matter is to be congratulated," Gandalf chuckled, "for today Faramir has proved him right."

"I have Aragorn to thank for that," Faramir smiled, glaring at the man who stood by his side.

"I am sorry my friend," Aragorn said, almost serious, "I made a 'little' mistake."

Everyone groaned. "If that was a joke it is the worst one I've heard," Gimli growled.

"I have to say I agree with the Dwarf," Legolas said, a faint smile on his lips.

Pippin who had stood up after his meal pretended to faint while Merry applauded.

"Who would have thought it?" Gandalf smiled, "you two actually agreeing on something."

"Nonetheless," Gimli said, "an axe is better than a bow whatever Master Legolas may say."

"Not so!" Legolas said and everyone groaned as the argument began again.

Gandalf gazed up at the sky above as he kept watch. Dark, menacing clouds swept above and hid the stars from sight. The fellowship had been traveling during the night to avoid unwanted notice and Gandalf knew it was almost time to wake everyone.

He was startled for a moment, although he did not show it, when a dark shape came from behind him. Aragorn came into the circle of firelight and sat down near the Wizard.

"It is almost time," he said, Gandalf nodded assent.

"Tonight we shall be on our way high up, towards the Redhorn Gate. We may be seen by watchers on the narrow path but the weather may prove a greater enemy. What do you think?"

Aragorn replied quickly as though he had come to Gandalf only to speak on this subject, "We must not delay the passage over the mountains, further south there are no passes save the Gap of Rohan and I do not trust that way since your news of Saruman and his desire for the ring."

"But there is another way," Gandalf said in a rapid whisper, "the dark and secret way we have spoken of."

"And may we not speak of it again, say nothing to the others, unless . . . there is no other way." Aragorn's eyes were dark and Gandalf could see something akin to fear in them.

Gandalf looked down at the chasm of darkness to his right and inadvertently shivered. The towering heights to the left made him feel like a fly on a wall, vulnerable and in plain sight of anyone who watched them. Not long ago, a swirling shower of snow begun to fall, whipping about them and flying into their faces. A chilling mist stung their hands and faces, Gandalf could feel the cold seeping even into his boots.

The Hobbits were the worst off, their small bodies were no protection against the swirling wind and the whirling snow.

"I don't like this at all," Sam said, pulling on Bill's rains to make him move. "Snow's alright on a fine morning but I like to be in bed when it's falling."

The snow had become a blinding blizzard, none of the fellowship save Legolas could see two feet in front of them. Gandalf felt fear clutch at his heart, he did not like to scare the others but this was like no natural storm he had ever seen.

"There are fell voices on the air!" Gandalf heard Legolas' fair elven voice rise above the wind.

"And those stones are aimed at us," Gimli shouted as giant boulders crashed down the mountain to their left. "The enemy, it is the mountain itself! Caradhras was called the Cruel, and had an ill name long years before the name of Sauron had been heard of."

"It doesn't matter who it is!" Pippin shouted, seemingly fed up with the snow that was freezing his blood and the ice that flew into his eyes, "it's attacking us!"

"We must either stop here or go back," Gandalf decided, bitterly. "The storm will only get worse as we get higher."

"It is no use trying to go back while the storm holds! This is the best shelter we can find." Aragorn added.

Sam looked up at the cliff wall that rose to immeasurable heights above the narrow path. "If this is shelter, then two walls and no roof make a house!"

Chapter 3 - The white hand closes

Dark eyes followed the nine figures as they struggled through the blizzard. A faint smile played on his lips as he carefully studied each of the nine. He had overestimated the grey fool's intelligence. To walk openly bearing the weapon of the enemy was a mistake even he had not foreseen Gandalf the Grey making. He had thought the Wizard had more intelligence than that.

He looked with derision at each of the travellers who followed blindly in the old man's wake. He narrowed his eyes and gazed deeper into the palantir, willing his mind to draw closer that he might see the faces of the men. With a weak smile, he recognised the self-styled King of Gondor, ragged and covered by a thin grey cloak, shouting over the wind.

He sneered when he saw four of the creatures Gandalf valued so much, toiling in the waist-deep snow. For the life of him, he could not understand what the grey Wizard saw in worthless Halflings.

His smile broadened as he watched the tall, golden haired Elf walk lightly over the snow leaving not so much as a footprint, and the stout dwarf beside him using so much of his energy to get through the snow drifts. He knew them both and their names. He had watched Gimli and his father's journey to Rivendell from the Lonely Mountainand he had watched with interest as Thranduil and his son tried to control the wild forest of Mirkwoodand keep their realm free from danger.

He looked away from the stone for a moment, regaining some of the energy he had expended. Gathering his white robes around him, he stood for a moment in quiet thought. He knew much of the minds and men but unless he was gravely mistaken, these lone wanderers held the fate of Middle Earth in their hands. One of them carried it. He knew that the bearer was most likely a Halfling as Gandalf would not have trusted the men, nor himself for that matter, to be able to resist the temptation. The Dwarf and the Elf would not suffer each other to carry it so that left only the Halflings. These nine were all that stood between himself and absolute power. He would have had it by now had Gandalf had been wise enough to accept his offer. But when he did receive it they would all suffer for the trouble they had caused him, and Gandalf would be made to watch and see what he had done.

He looked closer into the stone and his mind wavered for a second as he looked at the last man. It was not who he had expected to find and his vision blurred with shock. What did this mean for his own plans? If Gondor supported the alliance, would not have Denethor sent his eldest on a quest that so much depended on? Was this a sign that Denethor had decided against war? That he had thought of his people, those who would die and those who would be left behind? Perhaps Denethor was content to make peace between Gondor and Mordor. If so . . . What did that mean for himself?

He had found out much of the son's of Denethor from his spies, being next in line to the Stewardship. Boromir, the eldest would be a great leader like his father. Resolute and valiant in battle, the strongly built man would command and be obeyed. As for Faramir . . . He looked down on the young man, and was startled when Faramir seemed to know he was being watched and his own dark gaze was met by determined grey eyes. The physical resemblance between the brothers was not strong save dark hair and grey eyes. From the information he had gained, he had found that although Faramir was a skilled warrior, he disliked conflict and preferred to spend his time furthering his knowledge of lore and music.

He wondered whether it was more likely the youngest son of Denethor had taken it upon himself to seek out answers and that Denethor had made no plans regarding war.

"If this is so," Saruman said aloud, "I must re-think my position."

Gimli cursed the Elf for the hundredth time as he pressed himself further against the cliff wall. Why did Elves have all the luck? They could walk over the snow as if it were a road, and if that was not enough, Legolas had just told him he did not feel the cold! Blasted Elf! He drew his cloak further around him and tried to stop shivering. Hours they had been here, long freezing hours that dragged on and on.

Beside him, Frodo and the two younger Hobbits sat huddled against the rough stone wall, blue in the face and shivering. On his right, Sam stood with Bill the pony, refusing to rest while the animal could not. Faramir stood and talked in a low voice with Sam who was nodding agreement to what the man was saying.

Gimli was surprised at Faramir. He had gradually gained the trust of everyone by occasional quiet comments and simply taking notice of their needs. Gimli did not need to do this to make friends, he was well aware that by being as loud and argumentative as possible, he could take everyone's minds away from the arduous journey. Although they did not say it, Gimli knew that everyone appreciated the distraction.

Gandalf, Aragorn and Legolas stood in the edge of the snowy path, looking up at the heights above. Although shrouded in mist, Gimli could just make out the jagged white peaks of Caradhras. Hard and sharp like knives glinting in the sun.

The snow still whirled around them, making it impossible to go on or back. Gimli was sure they would be stuck here till they froze to death. Could not Gandalf do something? Was he not a wizard? Did he not have powers? Gimli sighed and watched as Faramir passed him, and wrapped Frodo in his own cloak and got up to ask whether Merry and Pippin would like to share his own.

"We are alright thank you Gimli," Merry replied, "Legolas has already lent us his cloak. He says elves do not feel extreme cold." Gimli let out a low growl, the Elf had outdone him again!

Faramir walked over to Gimli, his arms wrapped around his chest. "Gimli, I could do with some help. Will you come and help me explore something I saw earlier?" Glad to be of service, Gimli followed Faramir back along the path until they came to place where the snow was so high they could not tell where the path led.

"What now?" Gimli growled in frustration.

Saruman knew it was there, winding its way through the whole of the mountain, and it was there he could lay his trap. He knew he had to talk to the wizard, alone. He would make Gandalf tell him their plans, what they were doing with the weapon of the enemy. Then he could plan what to do next. But how could he bring the grey wizard here?

Ah . . . He remembered now, he had touched it when Gandalf came to Orthanc, he had taken it from him. But somehow Gandalf had it now, he had regained it. But Saruman had touched it, and with great strength he could complete his plan.

Chapter 4 - As white as snow

Gimli watched as Faramir forced his body through the snow. It was a difficult task, for although Faramir was strong, he was lean and did not possess the brute strength needed for such a task. Gimli helped as best as he could but in some places the snow rose over his head. It was slow work, not only because of the thickness of the snow, they had to continually check the direction of the path for they did not want to go tumbling into the abyss. What kept them going was the thought of the others back there, freezing. Gimli had no idea what Faramir was looking for, only that it must be in the cliff to their right for the man kept shifting his eyes to the wall.

After what seemed like an hour of exhausting work, Gimli heard Faramir sigh and stop in front of what seemed to him like the normal wall.

"Well?" Gimli asked impatiently, "What was that all for."

"I . . . thought I saw something," Faramir narrowed his eyes against the sleet.

"You . . you thought you saw something! You moved half a mountain of snow, dragging me behind you for something you thought you saw?" Gimli pounded his fist into the wall of snow by his side..

"Please Gimli, calm yourself, I'm trying to think," Faramir pleaded, not taking his eyes from the wall.

"I will not be quiet!" Gimli shouted. There was a rumbling from above as Gimli's voice echoed around the mountain. Gimli looked up fearfully and watched with motionless disbelief as a small avalanche tumbled down the mountain towards him. He could not make himself move and stood frozen to the spot as the snow crashed down on top of him.

Everything was white and freezing, he could not hear anything until a firm arm gripped him by the collar and dragged him up out of the snow.

"Foolish Dwarf!" Faramir smiled through blue lips, "I cannot believe that you caused an avalanche by the power of your voice! This will be an interesting tale to tell Master Legolas!"

Coughing, Gimli thought of the look on the Elf's face, forgot his pride, and began to beg Faramir not to say anything to Legolas.

"If you be quiet and let me think, I will say nothing," Faramir told him and they shook hands on it.

Faramir asked to borrow Gimli's cloak and wrapped it around his hand. To Gimli's surprise, the man stuck his hand into the rock wall to their right and when he pulled it out, it left a gaping black hole in the wall beyond. Small cracks ran from the hole and as he and Gimli tore apart the wall of ice, they revealed a small cave entrance, no bigger than a Hobbit's front door.

Gimli clapped Faramir on the back, making the man cough, "Let us fetch the others!" he said, "I'm sure the Hobbits will feel quite at home."

Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas and the four Hobbits, not forgetting Bill the pony, walked along the path, following the tunnel that Faramir and Gimli had cloven between the drifts of snow. Faramir was pleased that he had been right about the cave and he led them all towards it.

"How did you know there was a cave here?" Merry asked him.

"I saw the different textures of the walls," Faramir told the young Hobbit, "Gimli and I have not looked inside yet but anything must be better that being outside in the wind and rain."

Gimli led Gandalf and the Hobbits into the cave but Sam found it hard to convince Bill to enter. In the end, Faramir had to help Sam push him in and even then, the pony would not move away from the doorway. Faramir was about to enter when he realised the Legolas had not passed inside. Faramir had not spoken many words with the Elf on account of the tension after their first meeting, and now he found it hard to know what to say.

"Are you coming?" he asked, looking back at Legolas who stood on the edge of the path, his arms wrapped around him as though he were cold.

Legolas did not answer for a moment, he only met Faramir's steady gaze with his own. Legolas' face was blank but Faramir could see something in his eyes, fear?

"I do not like caves," Legolas told him. "The stone shields the stars and the tree..."

"I did not know Elves feared anything," Faramir said, trying not to sound derisive.

"Men are not the only ones who fear," Legolas said, his eyes dark, "But like men, Elves must confront their fears . . . and defeat them." Taking a deep breath, Legolas passed into the cave.

Faramir stood for a moment in thought, wondering at what the Elf had said.

Chapter 5 - The strongest of us

It took several minutes for Faramir's eyes to adjust to the blinding darkness of the cave. Soon he could make out the silhouettes of each member of the company. Three of the Hobbits were back against the wall, as far away from the freezing entrance as possible. Sam was still attempting to pull Bill further into the cave and Gimli was at the back, apparently collecting sticks to make a fire. Gandalf stood in the very centre of the chamber and although Faramir could not see his face, he knew the wizard was worried about something.

"What is it Mithrandir?" Faramir asked quietly, moving closer to the wizard.

"Nothing escapes your notice, does it Faramir?" Gandalf said, and Faramir could tell there was a slight smile on his face. "I can hear a voice on the air," Gandalf told him, growing solemn, "Do you hear it?"

Faramir listened intently, searching for anything out of the ordinary. He could hear the low whispers of Merry and Pippin, Gimli's heavy footsteps and the uneven breathing of Legolas behind him. Nothing unusual.

"I am afraid I hear nothing," he said, "but as we climbed I felt a strange presence, as if we were being watched."

"It is strange," the wizard said gravely, "and I do not like it. But it cannot be helped, we must try to make a fire. Merry? Pippin? Will you help Gimli collect some sticks from the cave floor."

"Do you think there will be enough to make a blaze?" Faramir asked.

"I have explored a little," Aragorn said, coming over to them. "The cave floor is full of debris, perhaps some can be of use."

"We've found plenty of wood," Merry said, bringing a small pile of sticks to the centre of the cave. Aragorn bent down to pile them up for the fire and a small gasp escaped his lips.

"These are no sticks," he whispered, his face pale in the faint moonlight, "these are bones!"

Gimli grunted in disgust as his pile of wood and bones crashed to the sandy floor and there was a cry from Pippin as he realised what he was holding. Everyone started talking at once and through the racket, Faramir felt Legolas' slender hand touch his shoulder. He drew back slightly at the touch but the Elf did not notice. His white face was turned upwards towards the roof and Faramir knew his superior elven hearing had picked up something no one else could hear.

"Quiet!" Aragorn had turned his head to the roof also, and silence immediately followed his warning. He looked around at the startled faces of his friends. "Listen..." he whispered. A great rumbling shook the cavern and the rain outside grew heavier. Thunder roared and the black clouds outside rolled like giant waves at the ocean.

There was a shriek as white lightning streaked down, splitting the sky in two. An ear-splitting crack shook the air as the lightning struck the mountain above.

Darkness. There was nothing, only the haunting blackness of the cave. He heard a low moan from the Elf behind him as the realisation dawned. They were trapped, trapped in the dark. They had only a little food and . . . no air. Faramir could hear Sam desperately trying to push away the boulders that blocked the entrance but obviously they were immoveable. The shouts that had echoed round the cave as the lightning struck the rock that now blocked the entrance, still rang in his ears. Everyone was beginning to panic in the terrible darkness until finally Gandalf's calm, dry voice cut through the voices.

"Do not fear," he said, "I will light my staff so that we may see."

Faramir noticed that already a strange luminescence hung around the head of Gandalf's staff and he was about to speak out when the Wizard evoked the incantation for light.

A blinding flash filled the room and Gandalf's staff glowed red. An explosion, louder than the thunder outside, filled the cave and he could not help crying out as his back slammed into the wall. He sank down as the darkness engulfed him

Faramir drifted slowly back to consciousness. He carefully lifted his hand and felt warm, sticky fluid on the back of his head where it had hit the wall. Wincing at the touch, he groaned and pulled himself into a sitting position.

The darkness that filled the cave felt like a smothering blanket. He got to his knees and began crawling along the cave wall, running his hand along its rough surface to find his way.

His knee struck against something and he heard a groan from below him. He bent down and cautiously reached forwards, his trembling hand making contact with Legolas' shoulder. The Elf pulled away sharply, leaving Faramir's hand wet with blood.

"Legolas?" he murmured.

"What has happened?" Legolas asked, his question interrupted by a harsh cough.

"We must check the others. You see to the Hobbits, I will find Gandalf.

A thorough search of the cave found no sign of the wizard. Gandalf had gone.

The Dwarf grumbled as Faramir pulled up the back of his tunic and felt the bruises and cuts beneath. Aragorn had discovered a small crack in the wall that seemed to expel a fresh supply of air to the cavern and had deemed it safe to light a small fire. At first he had been concerned about the flames using their precious air but with the discovery of a hole, or perhaps a tunnel, he allowed a fire with which to examine the cause of Gandalf's disappearance. By the dim, flickering light, Aragorn studied everyone's various hurts and made sure everyone was, at the least, not in too much pain.

Frodo sat against the wall, his head buried in his knees. Gandalf's sudden departure had seemed to affect him the most and although he had sustained no serious injuries Faramir was worried about him.

Pippin had found it hard not to weep when Gandalf first vanished. Being one of the only ones to stay conscious due to his position during the blast, he had crawled around in the dark until he at last found Sam and Bill. Faramir watched as the two Hobbits, joined by Merry, comforted themselves by making sure Bill had not been injured.

Aragorn examined the deep wound on Legolas' shoulder and told the Elf that although it looked serious and was at the moment, painful, the Elf's superior healing ability would heal the wound quickly.

Faramir gave the Dwarf an encouraging pat on the back, "You'll be quite alright, Master Dwarf. You will not let a few scratches hinder you."

Gimli growled and tried not to wince as Faramir's hand touched his sore back.

Faramir moved over to the far wall where Aragorn had found the hole. He began scratching away at the rock and was surprised when it fell away easily in his hands. Wondering how the wall came to be blocked, he broke off more and more pieces of the dry stone. He narrowed his eyes as he thought he saw a pale light beyond and worked harder, his curiosity overcoming his weariness. He drew back as a large chunk came away and peered through the dust and crumbling rocks to find a small passage beyond. And lying in the centre of the sandy floor... Gandalf's staff. It was broken.

Chapter 6 - Shadows and nightmares

A faint glimmer of light caught Legolas' eye as he paced unceasingly across the sandy floor of the cave. It seemed to the Elf that long hours had passed in the time they had been trapped in the dark. Long hours of controlling his breathing and forcing himself to forget his fear.

As he noticed the spark of light, Legolas also heard someone mutter an exclamation. He followed his keen hearing over to where Faramir stood and looking over the tall man's shoulder, Legolas gasped when he saw Gandalf's staff lying broken in half on the floor. The wall Faramir had pulled apart marked the start of a long twisting passage that plunged into darkness ahead. Even Legolas' superior sight could not penetrate the gloom.

"What does it mean?" Merry asked from beside Legolas. He and Pippin had come over when they saw the light. The dim light was radiating from the tip of Gandalf's staff. Although the bottom half of the staff lay useless by the wall, the head still seemed as though it were alive.

Faramir bent forward to pick it up and as his skin made contact with the wood, Legolas was sure he saw a strange light spring into Faramir's eyes for a second, before they returned to their gentle grey. He was not at all sure what this meant but promised himself to keep an eye on the Man of Gondor.

"Is Gandalf . . . dead?" Pippin asked quietly, seemingly unable to comprehend the thought that the Wizard, the strongest of them, had fallen.

"It is impossible to tell what happened to Gandalf," Aragorn said, "But one thing is clear, Gandalf would have wanted us to carry on with the quest without him no matter what. The whole of Middle Earth is depending on us. Still, there is a good chance he is alive and that he will return."

Aragorn spoke with confidence, bringing hope to the hearts of Gimli and the Hobbits. But Legolas, who had known Aragorn longer than they, could see the grief and fear in the Man's eyes and saw also that Faramir's face remained grave, unchanged by Aragorn's words.

"As there is no other way," Aragorn continued, "we must take the tunnels and hope for the best."

Legolas looked at the dark tunnel that must wind around the inside of the mountain for miles, like a black snake coiling through the earth. He suppressed a shudder and picked up his bow and quiver from where they lay against the wall. He swung them over his right shoulder and winced as they jarred his injury. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he cautiously shifted his weapon to the other arm and returned the tunnel opening.

"Aragorn," Gimli said loudly, "may I lead the way through the passage. Dwarfs have a good sense of direction and I believe the stone will not confuse me as it would the Hobbits or Master Legolas here. Gimli gave Legolas a friendly whack on the back, determined to begin a new argument. Obviously the Dwarf had not noticed how quiet Legolas had been while they had been inside, for this the Elf was glad. As Gimli's strong hand thumped his back, Legolas had to bite his lip to stop himself from making a sound, but nevertheless, Gimli had seen the expression on the Elf's face and looked worried.

"Actually, Gimli," Aragorn went on, not noticing the silent incident going on between his two friends. "I was thinking Legolas should go ahead of us, for he would be the first to see or hear danger and we want to be prepared should enemies come upon us."

Gimli growled deeply.

"But I'm sure Legolas would not object to you walking after and deciding the way." Aragorn quickly added, making sure he did not hurt Gimli's feelings.

A slight nod was Legolas' only answer. He feared that if he tried to speak, the lump that fear had made in his throat would stop him from replying. He swallowed with difficulty and walked, straight-backed into the darkness.

As far as he could tell, more than an hour had passed as they stumbled through the twisted, winding passages. The pain in Legolas' shoulder was almost unbearable, aggravated by the fact that he could not stretch it. His back ached, as must have Aragorn and Faramir's. The jagged roof of the passage was so low, the Elf and the two men had to duck their heads although the Hobbits and Gimli could pass with ease.

It had been a struggle to convince Bill to follow them into the long dark of the tunnels and Sam was still finding it hard to lead the pony. A short while ago, they had stopped for a short rest and some food.

Legolas had asked Faramir if he could take a look at the base of Gandalf's staff which the man still carried. Faramir handed it over rather reluctantly and Legolas was disappointed that the man still did not trust him. He turned the smooth wood over in his thin hands, running his fingers over the few impurities in the wood and a strange idea came to him.

"Faramir?" he asked, "would I be able to keep this?"

"What use could you have?" Faramir asked sharply, then his brow creased in deep confusion and worry. "I am sorry," he said, "I did not... of course you may keep it. The staff is useless now it is broken." The man spoke with finality but Legolas noticed he still held onto his half of the staff tightly.

Time passed slowly in the tunnels, and even for an Elf who had already lived some three thousand years, it seemed as though they had been toiling for days and had not moved at all.

Luckily there had not been too many divisions in the path and when the occasional choice had to be made, it was always easy to tell which was the main path.

Legolas half-listened to Aragorn's conversation with Faramir to take his mind off the horrible blackness.

"Something other than us has travelled this path in the last few days." Aragorn said, his voice quieter than a whisper so that he would not alarm the Hobbits. Legolas' sharp hearing managed to pick up most of the conversation.

Faramir agreed with Aragorn, like the heir of Isilder, he was a Ranger and could see the signs on the ground that told him others had been here. Legolas looked down at the ground and noticed that although the small leafy fungus that grew on the floor beside the walls, the moss in the centre of the path had been crushed by what looked like heavy boots.

Legolas looked up and stopped abruptly, causing Merry and Pippin to crash into him.

"Legolas! What have you stopped for? I almost fell over!"

"Aye, come on, Elf! What's the meaning of it?" Gimli asked with an angry voice.

"Sshhh . . . Listen, I heard something," Legolas whispered, trying to get them all to be quiet.

Everyone listened and gradually they began to hear what the Elf told them of. It sounded as if a group of creatures were either having a fight, or a roudy meal. None could tell which for sometimes the hideous shouts sounded angry and sometimes loud evil laughs could be heard.

"Where are they?" Gimli asked Aragorn, "in front or behind?"

Aragorn listened for a moment longer, his eyes narrowed. "I cannot tell," he said at last, "but I do not think they are in the tunnel ahead. We should move foreward quietly and try to avoid whatever they are."

So it was that Legolas found himself leading again, his soft shoes making no sound on the rocky floor. At every footfall of Gimli's heavy boots, Legolas cringed and expected enemies to fly around the corner. The sounds were louder now and it seemed as if they were surrounded by the loud voices.

Legolas felt the floor of the tunnel change and grow less rocky. He looked down but could not see the texture of the ground. After a few steps he turned around to warn the others about the change of terrain. Merry and Pippin had already stepped, almost slipping over, onto the smooth floor and Legolas opened his mouth to warn Gimli but it was too late.

At the fall of Gimli's foot on the new floor, Legolas felt a tremor beneath him and looked down to see a dark crack split the smooth ground. He looked up and saw Aragorn grab Gimli and pull him backwards out of danger. All at once Pippin disappeared, screaming as he fell through the thin layer of clay that was the floor. Legolas reached out for Merry but before they could leap to safety, the ground failed under their feet and they plunged into the blackness below.

Chapter 7 - Deep under the earth

Legolas felt the cold air rush past as he fell down the vertical shaft. The thin tunnel that he and Merry were falling through was cluttered with dust, webs and other things Legolas did not even want to think of. He felt horrible things brush his face and raised his hands to cover his head, only to have an outcropping of stone strike his arm as he passed.

Merry was yelling while he kept a firm grip on Legolas' arm. Together they plummeted down, until the tunnel ended and the Elf and the Hobbit were thrown into the centre of a dimly lit chamber. Legolas landed on his knees of the hard stone floor, jarring his body even more when Merry landed on top of him. The Hobbit rolled off and while Legolas tried to regain his breath, he thought he heard Pippin whining.

At the noise, Legolas came back to his senses quickly and first noticing the red, flickering light that bathed the cave in eerie light and the unbearable stench that seemed to be all about him, he feared the worst. He dragged himself to a kneeling position and raised his head. The tips of more than ten swords rested less than an inch from his face, their Goblin owners grinning twisted, mutated smiles down upon him.

"NO! Gimli stop!" Aragorn was shouting as the Dwarf struggled with all his might to follow the Elf and the Hobbits into the crevasse. "What good will it do? We need you here Gimli!"

Gimli heard the words but was not listening. His only thoughts were for his friends, who, without him, would never have fallen.

"Let me be, Aragorn!" he roared, "I must help! I am to blame!"

"Foolish Dwarf!" Aragorn tried to get a firm grip on his flailing arms. "Faramir, help me!"

Gimli knew that once they both had a hold on him, he would not get away so he made one last desperate effort. He relaxed for a moment, letting Aragorn think he had won, then quick as a Dwarf could be, he slammed his foot down onto Aragorn's toe and wrenched himself out of the man's grip. With a quick look back, he cast himself into the crevasse.

The terrible stench of the Goblins made Legolas feel as though he would be ill. Not for the first time in the Elven prince's life he felt the meaning of true fear. He was afraid. Afraid that he would never escape the darkness, never see the stars again. Afraid for the Hobbits who lay shivering beside him, expecting him to protect them. Afraid he would fail them. The Goblins were the most hideous things he had ever laid eyes on, they went against all he lived for, his very being.

Several of the smaller Goblins stepped back now that they knew the newcomers were not going to attack them. One of the larger Goblins remained before him, looking down at the Elf with disgust. Legolas could see that while their darkness affected him, the light he held inside seemed to affect the Goblins also.

Only one sword was close to him now and Legolas began to think of escape. Perhaps if he could get this Goblin's sword and somehow fight his way to the chamber entrance, he and the Hobbits could run through the tunnels until they met up with the rest of the Fellowship. It was a desperate plan, he knew, but some plan was better than no plan. He took a shuddering breath and waited for the right moment.

The large Goblin lent closer to the Elf to get a better look at him and his sword moved a few inches back. Legolas took his chance. He drew the long white knife he carried in his boot and swung it upwards, knocking the sword from the surprised Goblin's grasp. He caught the hilt of the heavy sword without too much difficulty and swung it in a wide arch. The large Goblin was slow in response and although he jumped backwards, the Elf's sword slashed a deep cut across its horrible face, drawing black blood. Other Goblins rushed at the Elf, angry that he had dared to wound their leader and that anyone would try to fight them.

Although Legolas found the blade heavy and cumbersome, he managed to kill more than five of the smaller Goblins and wound two others. He made sure the Hobbits were behind him as he fought, determined to escape from the dark. The dark blood of the Goblins coated his sword and his clothes had black streaks all over them.

A terrifying yell sounded from somewhere above and Legolas recognised the voice. Gimli! Before he could think of moving, the heavy Dwarf crashed down on top of him. His shoulder screamed with the impact and when the Dwarf was pulled off him, he found it was barely movable.

Rough hands grabbed the Elf by the shoulders and pulled him upright. Legolas tried hard not to cry out as the Goblin's callused hand gripped his painful shoulder. Blood was trickling down his face and his mind was swimming.

Gimli was being held beside him, as were the hobbits. The Dwarf was struggling violently to be free of the hands that held him and Legolas could tell the Goblins were getting impatient with him.

"No!" Pippin shouted as one of the Goblin's fists slammed into Gimli's chest. The Dwarf slumped forewords and stopped struggling. Legolas turned his head away in contempt and looked to the hobbits beside him. Merry's face was deathly pale and Legolas could see Pippin was close to tears.

Legolas recoiled violently as the large Goblin he had injured brought his face close to the Elf's. Unable to pull away because of the Goblins holding his arms, he turned his face away from the hideous creature and its repulsive breath. The Goblin reached out and grabbed the Elf's hair, pulling it back so Legolas had to look into the creature's eyes.

Black blood still seeped from the wound the Elf had made in the Goblin's face and an angry blaze smoldered in its eyes.

"You are a very stupid Elf," the Goblin growled in common speech. "You'll be punished for attacking us." He gestured to the slash on his cheek and raised his arm to strike the Elf.

"You are not to touch the prisoners!" Another voice Legolas had not heard sounded from behind the Goblin. It grumpily lowered its arm but did not take its eyes from the Elf.

It was an Orc that had spoken from behind and when Legolas' eyes fell upon the newcomer, a chill swept through his body.

Unlike all the other Goblins who were quite short, bow-legged and long armed, the new Orc seemed to be of a different breed. Tall, strong and suited more for war than crawling around in caves. What was worse was that he knew orcs had originally been elves. Legolas was glad the hobbits did not know this.

"These are not just things for you beasts to play with! They are the property of my Master!" The tall Orc towered over the goblin leader as he spoke.

"We are not the property of anyone!" Gimli shouted indignantly and was silenced by a blow to the head from a smaller goblin.

"Did you not hear me?" the Orc challenged the Goblin that had struck Gimli. Before the slow-witted Goblin could react, the Orc's sword flashed from its sheath and the small Goblin's body fell to a bloody heap on the cave floor.

Legolas felt sick as he gazed at the body at Gimli's feet.

The Orc turned back to the large Goblin, "Let that be a warning to you," he said, motioning for the goblins to gather around him. "If you wish to defy my Lord you will face his wrath!" He could wipe out your tiny band without raising his hand. You will keep the prisoners until we get the others. If any harm comes to them I will hold you responsible."

"More of these rats are crawling around in our caves?"

"Orders are eight are to be taken. Dwarf, Elf, four of these," he said, grabbing Pippin and showing his face to the twelve or so goblins receiving their orders, "and two men. Find the men and two of the little 'uns and you will be compensated for your efforts. Lord Saruman will not fail to reward, or forget to punish those who fail in their trust."

Saruman. The name struck Legolas' heart like a knife as he thought of what would happen if the ring fell into his hands. Gandalf had warned them of the danger . . . But perhaps Gandalf had underestimated Saruman. Perhaps Saruman had been watching them all along, even now . . .

Legolas was startled out of his train of thought as the Leader of the Goblins, the one he had injured, wrenched his bow from his back, tearing at his wound. Legolas watched helplessly as the goblins tried to grapple Gimli's axe from the Dwarf's stone-like grip.

He was forced to his knees as a Goblin tied his hands tightly behind his back with strong cord. The four of them were them dragged out of the main chamber and away from the taunting Goblins and the terrifying Orc. The Hobbits were carried under the arms of two goblins, and they were all taken along a short passage and into a smaller room of stone.

Gimli and Legolas were thrown onto the floor with the hobbits following soon after. The room was dark and the only light came from a dim red torch on the stony wall. Legolas felt his heart clench painfully as the Goblins bound his feet. But his pride overwhelmed his fear of the dark and remained silent unlike Gimli, who thrashed about wildly until the Goblins were finished.

The goblins left the room, laughing with harsh voices, and Legolas raised his head to see the doorway. A noise like grinding stone reached his ears and his eyes widened in horror as the light from the passage began to diminish. The giant boulder was rolled across the circular entrance like the moon passing the sun in a eclipse. The darkness brought despair to the four inside the tomb-like room and Legolas' only hope was that Aragorn would be wise enough to take the ring as far from the caves as he could.

Chapter 8 - The decision

Sam's gentle hazel eyes peered into the darkness. His breathing was uneven and though it had been more than an hour since their friends had fallen through the hole in the tunnel, he could still feel salty tears in the corners of his eyes. He shifted his position slightly as the rocky wall stuck into his back. Frodo stirred slightly in his troubled sleep, his head resting on Sam's shoulder.

Sam knew the disaster had been harder on Frodo than himself because of the responsibility he felt towards his cousins. Sam had tried to tell him that if they had left the young Took and Brandybuck at Rivendell, the two young Hobbits would have followed on their own anyway, but Frodo had not listened to him.

Aragorn sat opposite from the two Hobbits, his head resting on his hands and his grey eyes closed. Sam knew he was not asleep and was trying desperately to decide what was best to do next. Responsibility weighed heavily on him also, as the leader of the company since Gandalf's sudden departure Sam could see Aragorn blamed himself for what had happened.

Sam turned his head slightly and looked at the man on his other side. In the dark, if he had not known them intimately, Sam would have been hard pressed to tell Aragorn and Faramir apart. Both had deep eyes in which Sam always could see both care and wisdom and dark hair that reached past their shoulders. Both were of around the same height and build and to one who did not know them, they could have been considered brothers.

Sam listened to Faramir's quiet, regular breathing and relaxed slightly. The man was seated against the wall like himself, his head tilted back as he stared blankly at the ceiling. Although at first Sam had thought Faramir too quiet and secretive for his liking, always watching out for his master as usual, Sam now realised that it had just taken the man a while to judge the people around him so he could understand them better. This way of getting to know people was proven wise as now Faramir could talk with anyone in the company with ease, except perhaps Legolas to whom he did not seem to know what to say. He had discovered everyone's favourite topics of conversation and was able to make them relax.

Sam noticed Faramir had treated Gandalf differently from the rest, often content to sit quietly with him as the old wizard smoked his pipe. He did not seem to need to question Gandalf as he did with Merry and Pippin, telling them endless stories by request. He did not tease him as he did with Gimli and did not even talk about things they had in common which Sam was quite aware Faramir did with himself. It was as though they shared a silent understanding.

Faramir looked in Sam's direction and offered a reassuring smile. "How is Frodo?" he asked, gazing at the sleeping Hobbit.

"He's just plain tired out," Sam told him, "this business, well . . . it's taken its toll if you take my meaning, Sir."

"And yourself, Master Samwise? How are you?" Sam was surprised, he had not thought about himself.

"Well, Sir, what doesn't kill you can only make you stronger, as the Gaffer would say. Don't you worry yourself about me, though I'm a bit worried about Bill. How's he goin' to get over that great hole in the ground?" Faramir did not answer and Sam could see he was holding something back.

Faramir could not bear tell Sam they would have to leave Bill if they crossed the crevasse. Luckily at that moment Aragorn raised his strong care worn face, his dark sunken eyes pools of worry and remorse.

"As I see it," he said slowly, "we have three options. First, to attempt to jump the crevasse, second, to prepare ourselves for battle follow our friends into the darkness below, or third to turn back and hope to find another way. In my mind all choices seem ill, we jump and some of us may fall, we fall and risk bringing the ring into danger, we go back and waste time that could mean the lives of our friends, not even considering the fact there may not be another way."

"Perhaps we should take a vote," Sam suggested, "that way you won't have to decide on your own." Aragorn seemed grateful for the suggestion and after a moment's thought, he agreed.

"Should you wake Frodo?" Faramir asked Sam.

"He's in no fit condition to be worrying, perhaps we should let him rest and decide without him. Just the three of us."

"Alright Sam," Aragorn assented wearily, "what do you think?"

"Well, as Bill could never make the jump, nor could he follow us down the crevasse, I vote we turn back. I can't leave him to be eaten by the horrible creatures who live in the caves!"

Aragorn nodded, unsurprised. "I'm sorry Sam, but in my opinion it would be unwise to seek another path. Our friends may be in dreadful danger and time is valuable. I believe Bill would not wish us to sacrifice the lives of our friends' in his place."

Aragorn's face was pained when he saw Sam cringing at his words. Sam swallowed as if there was a lump in his throat and failed to speak. Faramir knew he was asking himself how could he ever just leave Bill in the dark after all they had been through together? His tearful brown eyes met Faramir's grey ones, pathetic hope reflected into the man's eyes.

"What is it to be, Faramir? I fear the choice is yours, to jump or turn back." Aragorn said quietly.

Faramir tried to ignore the Hobbit's desperate eyes that pleaded with him, those of Aragorn, his friend, his King. His heart was wrenched in two ways at once and taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and spoke, "I'm sorry . . . my Lord . . . I must agree with Sam . . ." the title came awkwardly as never before had he called Aragorn by anything other than his name. He wanted to be sure Aragron knew he had his respect and loyalty, it was so hard to go against his choice.

Aragorn's heavy hand was on his shoulder, "my friend, you chose what your heart told you was right. This you must not regret for I would not wish it. Then it is decided, we will turn back and seek another way."

A black webbed hand felt around in the blackness, his nose searching for a scent, his body searching for the feeling that drove him on. Perhaps it was an unconscious attraction, perhaps the dark emaciated creature did not know what he sought. Ignorant or otherwise, he followed his unnatural sense around the circular cave until he found something on the wall. A dark liquid covered a sharp out cropping of rock. He sniffed it and it brought back terrifying memories of the tall folk, their shining eyes piecing him, their horrible ropes and prisons that had held him. He sat shivering in the dark for some minutes, then reached out and touched the blood. He screeched as the dark liquid burned his skin.

"Cursses it! Nassty elveses blood . . " The smell was familiar, he knew the Elf whose blood now burned his black fingers. Other smells he knew as well, the grey man who had caught him by the dead marshes years and years ago. "We hatess them all we do . ." the creature hissed, a deep hate growing with his fear. He crept towards the tunnel opening and crept along the twisted passages.

Chapter 9 - Retribution

Aragorn led the way back along the light-less tunnel. An hour of walking and still they had not seen any sign of a side passage. Aragorn wished he had paid more attention to their progress last time for he could not remember how far back it was. This was what he had feared, that it would take them so long to reach another path that they would be too late to save their friends. Even now, he thought, they could have been seriously injured or even killed.

Sam had asked him only once whether they would find Merry and Pippin. Aragorn could not make himself lie to the Hobbit and he had replied that there was hope, however thin.

Gandalf had gone; disappeared or taken. It had been up to Aragorn to lead the company and he had failed. First Legolas and the hobbits, then not even being able to save Gimli. From the shouts and sounds of battle they had heard, chances were slim they were even alive. Yes, it was he who had failed.

Frodo was walking, but only barely. He stumbled along in the dark, like one who had never slept. Gandalf's disappearance had impacted deeply on the young Hobbit as it had on Aragorn himself, but the latest disaster had really drawn Frodo's last strength. Sam was doing his best to give Frodo hope with constant talk of their home in the west. Faramir seemed also to be walking in a dream. Faramir listened to Sam's stories with apparent interest and yet his brow remained creased with worry. Aragorn regretted putting him in the position of having to choose between his two friends, but in the end he realised Faramir's choice was probably wisest. With Frodo as he was and all of them fatigued with worry and long nights under the earth, they could not have made the jump. Aragorn knew now that he had been too concerned with his other friends' safety to consider the position properly.

"At last!" he sighed as they reached the split in the path, "we are here!"

The passage plunged further down taking the four travelers down to ground level although they were still trapped within the caves. The passage had grown uncomfortably narrow during the decent and the air was hot and sticky. Aragorn wondered what could have caused the temperature change but did not have time to ponder as the tunnel suddenly widened into a small chamber. Three passages branched from the chamber; the one they had come from, one to their left and one straight ahead. At once Aragorn smelt the foul stench of goblins and knew the left passage must lead to their caves.

Faramir was exploring the other passage and called out to them, "Aragorn! Fresh air! Can you not smell it? We have come to the end of the darkness."

Aragorn could not feel the joy the others did at the end of the tunnels. He knew now was the time of choice.

"Faramir," he said gravely, and Faramir's relief soon faded at the sight of Aragorn's face. "You will take Frodo and Sam out of the caves and as far from here as you can by nightfall. I leave the choice to you whether you take the Gap of Rohan or the Mines."

Faramir's eyes narrowed in suspicion, "Aragorn, what do you mean? What are you going to do?" his voice wavered slightly as he spoke.

"Faramir, take the Hobbits and leave! The ring cannot be taken into danger, I entrust the safety of the Ringbearer to you. Wait no longer than an hour at the mouth of the tunnel for us, if we do not come . . . you must go alone."

Faramir shook his head in disbelief, "we cannot leave you to fight the goblins alone!"

"You need our help!" Sam insisted.

"I do what I must." Aragorn's voice was thick.

"No," Faramir raised his voice so it echoed around the chamber. "What good will it do if you find our friends only to die with them?"

"They were my responsibility," Aragorn's voice rose above his usual calm exterior and the fear and guilt for his friends was clearly visible in his grey eyes.

Faramir approached him slowly, "None of this was your fault, Aragorn," he said quietly. "You cannot blame yourself for something you could not control." He placed his hand on the man's shoulder and Aragorn let the tenseness in his muscles relax slightly. "The quest must come first, this you know in your heart."

Aragorn did not understand what he meant until Faramir turned towards the left passage.

"We will meet again Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Wait but a little while for our return. Sam? Will you join me?"

"Faramir! No . . " Aragorn was torn between what he knew was right and his feeling that he should be the one to find the others. Sam was also struggling to decide which way to go. Should he follow his Master or help rescue his friends? Tears welled up in his eyes at the thought he would have to leave someone behind. A sob escaped his lips as he tore himself from Frodo's side, "Look after Mr Frodo for me, won't you Bill?" he sobbed, giving Bill an affectionate rub behind the ears.

Aragorn placed his hand on Faramir's arm, "You do not have to do this," he said, looking hard into Faramir's eyes for any sign of resentment, but he found none.

"If I do not return . . . And when you come to Minis Tirith..." Faramir began.

"When?" Aragorn smiled sadly.

"When you come to the White City - Will you tell my father..."

"Do not fear," Aragorn assured him, "you shall return to your city."

Aragorn pressed his hand over his mouth as Sam and Faramir disappeared into the tunnel. Silent tears flowed down Frodo's calm face as they turned and headed for the fresh air.

Faramir's eyes, now well adjusted to the dark, spotted a looming shape ahead of them in the passage. He grabbed Sam and pulled the Hobbit to the floor, stifling his cry with a gentle hand over his mouth. Sam nodded and they both crept forward silently. Carefully drawing a knife from his belt, Faramir closed the distance between him and the Goblin in less than a second. One of his hands covered the creature's mouth and shoved it back into the rocky wall, Faramir grimaced as he stabbed his knife into its chest and felt the Goblin grow limp under his hold. He let the body slip to the ground. He was jerked out of his thoughts when Sam grabbed his hand and tried to lead him onward.

Faramir resisted effortlessly and bent down to whisper his new idea to a horrified Sam.

Pippin breathed in the thick air with disgust. As the entrance to the small room was blocked, no fresh air could reach those inside and with the smell of goblins infecting everything every breath he took made the Hobbit feel sick.

He had squirmed, pulled and twisted his hands until they were red and sore, but nothing could loosen the cords.

At first Gimli had tried to make conversation, but finding the other three deep in their own thoughts he had quickly given up. An uncomfortable silence filled the cave and Pippin was almost glad when he heard a noise outside. A sound of rock scraping against rock reached his ears and Pippin hoped the goblins were bringing food and drink. The boulder moved slowly, almost carefully and a thin beam of light shone into the black room.

The Goblin's bent form squeezed through the gap and his squinted eyes looked about the room. It was the leader of the goblins who had threatened the Elf earlier. Merry and Legolas' bodies were caught in the light while he and Gimli remained hidden. Pippin was relieved he could not be seen for he could see that while the Goblin had not brought food, something else was in its hand, something that flickered in the light from the open door, metallic and shiny. The light caught the edge of the blade and the Goblin advanced further into the cave.

"He's got a knife!" Pippin shrill voice echoed as he tried to warn the others.

"Shut your mouth, little rat," the Goblin growled, "or you'll be next."

Pippin fell quiet and watched as the Goblin move towards Legolas who was the closest to the door.

"No one makes a fool of me," he said, hatred and the need for revenge burning in his eyes.

"You can't kill him!" Merry shouted, stalling the Goblin's hand, "the Orc said you can't hurt us."

The Goblin hissed at the mention of the Orc.

He knelt down by Legolas' side and slowly raised the knife, "Scream an' I'll kill your friends too," he growled. Legolas tried to pull away but the Goblin's heavy hand on his injured shoulder stopped him from moving.

"No! Stop, you great ugly beast! Untie me and I'll cut every limb from your body!" Gimli's distractions were useless and the knife plunged downwards . . .

Over Gimli and Merry's desperate shouting Pippin heard a whooshing sound. The knife fell from the Gobblin's hand and the bloody arrowhead could be seen protruding from the front of its neck. The great body toppled forwards onto the Legolas and behind it Pippin could now see the Goblin who had fired the arrow. At first he thought it must have been an orc for its limbs were straight but it wore goblin armor. It's bow did not seem like a goblin's and the sword at its belt was silver, narrow and strong.

The Goblin rushed into the room, and behind it was Sam! Pippin was overjoyed to see him and called him over at once. The new Goblin began dragging the dead body away from the Elf and immediately dropped to its knees at Legolas' side. The Goblin drew a small knife and reached towards the Elf. Legolas tried to pull away and the Goblin faltered for a moment before reaching up and throwing off his helmet.

"Faramir!" Legolas breathed. Faramir's gentle green eyes shone from out of the muddy disguise that hid his identity.

"Foolish man!" Gimli's voice shouted, "get over here this minute and get me out of this undignified position!"

"A moment if you please, master Dwarf," Faramir smiled to himself as he cut through the ropes that held Legolas' arms.

"How do we get out of here?" Merry asked when they were all on their feet once more.

"If we go quickly and quietly there is a chance we will be able to slip out without being noticed," Faramir said, "but there must be two or three guards still in the area for they showed us to your prison when I pretended to have captured Sam."

"Be on your guard everyone," Gimli growled, "we will not be caught unaware a second time."

"We would not have been caught once if you had not foolishly thrown yourself down the shaft," Legolas smiled. Merry had offered a shoulder for him to lean on and to make the Hobbit feel useful, not to mention the support he needed, he had accepted.

Gimli scowled in frustration at the annoying Elf and set his eyes to the passage ahead. Before they realised what was happening, goblin arrows were striking the rock walls around them and the battle had begun!

Chapter 10 - Daylight

"Behind me! All of you!" Faramir shouted, grabbing Pippin by the shoulder and yanking him backwards. He turned back to the enemy and the arrows that were badly aimed at the six members of the fellowship. Shielding his friends with his body, he drew his own bow and fitted an arrow, well aware that he was the only one armed. The first goblin that appeared around the corner was felled by an arrow to the throat before it had time to raise its axe.

Faramir heard a gruff exclamation from behind him before Gimli barged past him, shoving him into the wall.

"Gimli! What-?"

"My axe!" the Dwarf shouted, "I will not leave without it!"

Faramir heard a muttering of Elvish behind him and before he knew it Legolas was pushing past him as well.

"Get back here you foolish Dwarf! What do you think you're doing?" Legolas' voice was strong but Faramir noticed the Elf was swaying on his feet as he pulled himself along the wall towards Gimli who had disappeared around the corner.

Faramir clenched his teeth in frustration at the two friends, matching each other in their stubbornness they were managing to put the quest in grave danger.

He slung his bow on his back and drew his long tapered sword, "stay here," he said to Sam, indicating for him to tell the others.

Before Legolas had reached the corner, Gimli appeared at the bend in the path, grinning broadly and holding his axe in one hand and Legolas' bow and quiver in the other.

"No one touches the axe of Gimli the Dwarf!" he declared proudly, before a Goblin arrow almost took his head off.

"Make haste!" Faramir yelled.

Gimli strode forwards, thrusting the bow at Legolas who was leaning against the wall. The Elf's hand faltered and the bow crashed to the ground. Faramir could wait no longer, he rushed forwards, scooped up the bow in one hand and thrust his other under Legolas' uninjured arm. He half supported, half dragged the Elf away from an astonished Gimli who ran after them on his short legs.

To Faramir it seemed like hours until they reached the circular room and started down the passage to the fresh air.

"Why are we running?" Gimli yelled, outraged. "Those creatures need to be taught a hard lesson for what they did to us! Look at the Elf, they must pay!"

"Gimli, please-" Faramir panted. He was finding it extremely difficult running while holding the Elf. Legolas had lost a lot of blood and was barely conscious. Although he was light, Faramir found it awkward and could do without Gimli's constant need for revenge. He was surprised when Gimli, showing his true character, carefully grabbed the Elf's right side and helped Faramir to drag him forwards.

The circle of light grew closer and closer. The hobbits reached the exit and disappeared into the pink sunlight. The evening light exploded around him as Faramir emerged from the dark tunnels. He closed his eyes against it and felt someone take Legolas' weight. Faramir dropped to his knees and breathed the cool fresh air.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and someone helped to his feet. Squinting in the brightness, Faramir's eyes fell upon Aragorn's calm face.

"You have done well, my friend," Aragorn said, admiration clear on his face. "Yet there is still more to be done. The enemy has not been destroyed and with Legolas injured, there are but three of us."

"Do not forget us!" Pippin said, waving the small sword Gimli had retrieved for him.

"We may be small," Merry said, "but we may be of some help."

Aragorn smiled at Faramir, marvelling at the hobbits' bravery. "So be it."

Three bodies lay on the grass outside the tunnel mouth, too far away for the goblins to tell whether they were alive or dead. They advanced, noting one body as an Elf and two as the small, half-men creatures. Unsure at first, the goblins crept slowly out into the darkening twilight towards the figures on the grass.

A yell broke the quiet of the evening and a flock of dark birds erupted into the sky from their resting place amongst the trees. Two goblins were crushed under the weight of the Dwarf who had jumped them from the rocks behind and several more fell with arrows to their hearts. Faramir noticed he only had two arrows left in his quiver and after firing one at a newly arrived Goblin he drew he sword and jumped down from the rocks.

He and Aragorn fought side by side for a time, driving the goblins backwards towards their darkness. Faramir was amazed at the skill with which Aragorn fought. He had held high expectations for the lost King of Gondor, but the real thing exceeded even his imagination. Andúril swept through the air before them, a deadly weapon that acted both as an attack and a defence, preventing any enemy coming close to the one who wielded it.

The way Gimli used his axe also amazed Faramir and he began to realise the reason for Gimli's love of battle. The energy the Dwarf seemed to suddenly posses was astounding after the exertion of their escape.

As he fought, Faramir's bright sword darted skilfully between enemies, his kills instant. But all to soon fatigue began to weigh down on him and he felt the burden of too many sleepless nights finally taking their toll.

Less than fifteen goblins remained standing and Pippin and Merry began checking each fallen body for signs of life. Frodo and Sam still lay by Legolas, pretending to be dead, ready if any of the goblins broke though and decided to make sure if the hobbits and Elf were really dead. Before they had prepared for the attack on the goblins, Aragorn had done what he could for Legolas' shoulder but he was weak from loss of blood and would take a few days to fully recover.

Faramir tried to keep an eye on the Elf and the hobbits, staring through the mass of black goblins. Although he and Aragorn tried to force their enemy between themselves and the cave they were gradually pushed back by the superior strength and the sheer weight in numbers of the enemy. Gimli and Aragorn were soon trapped between the cave and the enemy, unable to provide any help to their friends on the ground.

Faramir tried to force his way through the line of goblins to give Gimli and Aragorn a break in which to turn the battle around. He found himself confronted with a giant Goblin who held its rusty scimitar in readiness before him. Faramir dodged the first blow with an effort but his enemy was quicker than he had given it credit for. Another lethal swipe with the scimitar and Faramir only had time to stumble backwards, falling to the ground. The Goblin raised its weapon and Faramir struggled to his feet. He raised his sword to parry the attack and his arm jolted as the heavy weapon struck with the crash of steel against steel.

The Goblin struck at him over and over, forcing him backwards. His arm trembled as, with each terrible blow, he struggled to avert the attack. The Goblin brought a last crushing blow down upon him and finally Faramir's arm gave way and the sword flew from his hand. He was knocked backward with the impact and fell on his back, unable to reach his sword. The Goblin raised the scimitar above its head and Faramir's eyes fixed on the weapon that would destroy him.

His arm moved up almost without conscious thought, his hand closed around the shaft of his last arrow and snatching it from his quiver he lunged forwards, plunging the sharp metal into the Goblin's neck.

He wrenched out the arrow and scrambled out of the way as the Goblin toppled forwards. He lay on the grass for a moment, breathing and taking in the battle. The goblins were closing in on Aragorn and Gimli who seemed to have been wounded. Faramir saw a great gash on the Dwarf's leg and began climbing to his feet.

Pippin was bending over one of the largest of the goblins, checking to see if the creature was alive. The Goblin had managed to get disturbingly close to the three on the ground and Faramir did not remember killing him. Perhaps Aragorn had, he thought, stumbling wearily to where the others were fighting. No, it could not have been Aragorn, he never moved from . . .

"Pippin!" Faramir yelled, praying he was wrong, "Pippin, run!"

Merry looked up at him, startled. He turned back to talk to Pippin when Faramir saw the Hobbit's face change from confusion to horror.

The giant Goblin's yellow eyes flashed open and his great hand wrapped around Pippin's throat. The look of terror on the Hobbit's face burned in Faramir's heart. If only he had realised more quickly!

The look on the Goblin's face clearly expressed its threat.

Faramir swallowed with difficulty, "Aragorn! Gimli! Put down your swords!"

He heard a grumble of anger from the Dwarf, followed by a grunt of exclamation at the sight of Pippin. The Hobbit was being held a long way from the ground and his face was beginning to turn blue. Merry beat against the Goblin's leg and pleaded with it to leave Pippin alone, which only made the creature laugh and kick Merry away.

Faramir never took his eyes of Pippin but he knew the others had dropped their weapons because the sound of battle had ceased. He shook his head in disbelief as one of the goblins grabbed his arms and pulled him back towards Aragorn and Gimli. In his mind he cried out for Gandalf, anyone . . . The fate of Middle Earth had been placed in their hands and they had failed.

"Take them inside," the Goblin growled, "tomorrow we march to Isengard."

"Saruman..." Faramir heard Aragorn mutter beside him. Pippin had stopped struggling in the Goblin's grasp and was slipping into unconsciousness.

"Put him down, Goblin, or there'll be nothing to march to Isengard with!" Gimli's voice rose in anger over his friend being hurt. The Goblin laughed and shook the poor Hobbit, causing Merry to shout.

Faramir closed his eyes for a moment, desperately trying to think of a way out of the situation. A cry from Merry brought his eyes darting open and he looked just in time to see Pippin fall from the Goblin's hand and roll on the ground. Merry grabbed the almost unconscious Hobbit and dragged him away from the giant Goblin. A dark liquid suddenly spurted from the creature's mouth and nose and it swayed, turning its head to look behind. It toppled forwards, an Elven arrow still embedded in its lung.

Chapter 11 - Shining eyes

The bow passed fluently from Frodo to Legolas' outstretched hand. The Elf lay on his stomach, his tired eyes watching the scene that played out before them. He knew he could not have helped his friends in battle, in fact he could have proved a distraction if he had forced himself to fight. But neither would he let the conflict turn against the Fellowship. He would soon heal, but not fast enough.

When the Goblin had grabbed Pippin, its back to them, Frodo had been quick to take in the situation and realise the three were the only ones who could save them now. He recovered the Elf's bow from where it had been placed upon escaping the caves and passed it across to Legolas.

Legolas could not bear to think he was destroying the Hobbits' faith in him so he struggled to raise himself onto his elbows, tilting his weapon sideways as if it were a crossbow. Keeping as flat as he could to the ground, for if one of the goblins saw them, their one chance at escape would be lost, he slowly drew back the bow string.

He felt the wound in his shoulder, freshly treated by Aragorn, begin to tear with the pressure. He clenched his teeth against the pain, squinting to perfect his aim. Heavily clad in armour, the only parts of the Goblin that seemed unprotected were its face and a small gap between its breast plate and shoulder guards. As its face was turned from them, Legolas realised his only choice was to place the arrow between the armoured plating. His eyes blurred with pain and exhaustion, only one shot, one chance.

The arrow sped through the air, silent and deadly. Legolas grimaced with pain as the pressure was released and he let his bow fall to the grass. He only just saw the Goblin's body jerk as the arrow struck its mark before the darkness took him.

It was over. Aragorn wiped the last of the Goblin blood from his sword upon the grass.

The surprise that had possessed him the moment the Goblin leader had fallen was short lived and his long practiced reflexes served him well. Shoving his elbow into the chest of the paralysed Goblin behind him, he flicked his foot upwards and Andúril landed neatly in his outstretched palm. His strong fingers closed around the familiar hilt and before the Goblin behind him had time to duck its ugly head, it did not have one to duck. Faramir had managed to take down his goblin with a quick stroke to its heart and in the time it took, three goblins were felled by Gimli's vengeful axe.

The small remnants of the goblin party, the cowards, had retreated back into the safety of their underground home. Aragorn let his eyes rest for a moment, catching his breath, before he rose resolutely to his feet.

His eyes rested on each of his brave companions, how much they had already suffered for a burden none should have to have had to bear. Gimli crouched on the ground, leaning upon his axe and holding one gloved hand over the gash in his thigh. Aragorn's eyes quickly turned towards Pippin. Faramir had lost no time in reaching the young Hobbit and was bending over his chest, searching for breath. Merry watched in silent dread, his red eyes fixed to the still body of his cousin.

Aragorn came up beside him and knelt down so as to bring himself down to the Hobbit's height. His grey eyes searched Merry's though he could not think of what to say. For a moment he was utterly confounded, unable to bring to words his own feelings that Pippin's safety had been his own responsibility. He wanted to make sure Merry did not blame himself for what had occurred.

"He breaths!" Frodo's voice broke the uncomfortable silence with a beam of sunlight that warmed each of their hearts.

"His pulse is weak, but Master Peregrin will be quite alright." Faramir turned and gave Aragorn and Merry one of his occasional smiles. "We have come through!"

Aragorn had to smile as his eyes travelled across the bloody battlefield, Gimli's leg, the unconscious Elf and the bruises that already marred Pippin's throat. He shook his head in disbelief and bent down to lift Frodo to his feet.

"Where is Sam?" Frodo asked, his brow creasing in confusion.

"Never you mind about me!" Sam's cheerful voice called as he emerged from behind the rocks, leading a disgruntled Bill from where he had been tied. "You didn't think I'd forget ol' Bill did you. I can see none of you have given him a thought. Poor old Bill, an' after you being so brave in the tunnels." He stroked the pony's nose affectionately and Bill snuffled in contentment.

The dark clouds that had blackened the sky all evening had finally cleared and at last the stars shone brightly above. Aragorn was glad, perhaps it would do Legolas some good to see them again after being in the dark so long. Over and over he cursed himself for not realising the implications of the dark. If he had not been so preoccupied about taking Gandalf's place as a guide, he might have noticed the feelings and trepidation of his friends.

As he lay on his back, his head resting on his hands, a small movement beside him caught his eye and he turned his head slightly. To Aragorn's great relief, he saw Legolas' eyes had reclaimed their brightness, no longer dimmed by the oppressive dark. A slight smile rested on the Elf's lips as he gazed at the stars, marvelling at their beauty.

The white bandage on his shoulder stood out in the moonlight and Aragorn knew the wound would soon heal. He would feel uncomfortable until it did for the archer was invaluable protection for the company. As had been proved that day.

"Aragorn?" Legolas somehow seemed to know he was awake. "You should be resting, your watch is not for many hours. Trust in the Hobbits, they will not let anything run amiss."

"I do trust them," Aragorn replied, "it is not that, It's just I keep thinking what would have happened if Faramir had not taken you all from the cave, if you had not killed the Goblin. Pippin would have died. The quest would have failed!"

"Nay," Legolas said, "you must have more faith in yourself. There would have been another way. You have led us well, it is not easy to be responsible for the souls of so many."

"Alas for Gandalf! If he had been here . . How things would have been different. It was my resolve, Legolas, to climb Caradhras. Gandalf wished for another road. Darker than the caves we have just escaped... Moria."

Legolas did not speak for some moments and Aragorn turned his head, thinking that the Elf had fallen back to sleep. He had not. Something more consuming than sleep possessed his friend, not showing on the pale face but in the depths of his eyes.

At first Faramir thought the same dream had returned. Night after night had it haunted him before and during his journey to Imladris, and even on arrival it did not leave completely. So familiar was the vision before him that his body began to shake in dread anticipation.

Rumbling thunder shook the earth under his bare feet and the sky above was a waste land filled with light and dark. His eyes stared fearfully to the east, awaiting the terrible darkness that he knew would come. He turned then to the west, praying the light would conquer the dark. He was not conscious of the fact he stood alone, a single figure on the barren landscape stretching in both directions. But something was not right, the light in the west had not come, darkness held the world under its blanket as Faramir stretched out his hands in blind desperation towards the west.

A blinding flash struck pain into his mind and through the agony, his only thought was that the light had triumphed. Upon opening his eyes, he saw it was not so.

No longer was he standing on the bare plains, instead he stood upon Henneth Annûn. A deep sigh escaped Faramir's lips as he looked again upon the fairest of all the falls of Ithilien. Here his heart dwelt ever, the Window of the Sunset. Forgetting everything he gazed through the thin curtain of rainbow water, ever changing in the rays of the setting sun. Perhaps, he thought, it had all been a dream. Never had he abandoned his duty as Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, never had he felt the need to journey leagues upon leagues facing events he had pushed from his mind, before reaching Imladris. All had been a fancy of his own, believing that he could be the hero his father would never believe him to be. He reached out a gentle hand and felt the cool waterfall onto his palm. But, the water was not cool and clear . . . It was warm, warm and the colour of blood.

With a cry of dismay he withdrew his blood soaked hand and turned away from the terrible sight before him. In turning from the bloody falls, his frightened eyes falling on something far, far worse. Boromir, his brother, lay before him, his body torn and broken. Faramir stumbled backwards in complete fear and horror. What was happening! He felt the blood drip from his hands and knew it was his brother's.

"Boromir! How come you here, brother? What has happened?" Faramir had never felt anything like it, panic and confusion and terror flooded through his entire body.

The terrible shade of Boromir raised his tortured eyes to meet Faramir's and their meaning was all too clear.

"No! Boromir, I didn't do it! I . . ." he looked down at his hand and saw he clutched a sword, dark with blood. "No!"

"No!"

The terrible scream split the air and Faramir jerked upright, tears in his eyes and his fists clenched so tight they were numb. But it was not him who had screamed. He clambered out from beneath his blanket with difficulty, the material sticking to the cold sweat of his body. The realisation that it had been a vision only slightly relieved his tension for if it had been a prophecy, what did it tell for the future?

He found Aragorn, Gimli and the Hobbits gathered around something on the ground. Legolas stood back slightly, holding his shoulder and hardly acknowledging Faramir when he came up by his side. Faramir tried to see what was going on and peered over Gimli's shoulder for a better view. Frodo sat stifly upright, one hand gripping Sam and the other reaching out for Aragorn. His face was deathly pale and Faramir wondered what he could have seen while on watch to create this kind of terror.

"Strider,"

Faramir could only just hear Frodo's urgent whisper and lent forwards, brushing shoulders with the Elf who was also anxious to hear.

"He was here, Strider . . Here in the camp," Frodo's eyes never focused on those of his friends, instead they were searching the low bushes and rocks that lay around the camp. "Shining eyes in the dark, like two great moons, he was following us . . . he spoke to me." Frodo had to force the words out.

"Who? Who was it Frodo? You must tell us," Aragorn's gently persuasive voice helped Frodo to focus back on his friends.

"Gollum."

Faramir's breath caught sharply in his throat and he felt an involuntary shudder pass through the Elf's body next to him. He could not believe it! Surely the creature could not have followed them here. All the way from Mirkwood! How could it have known where they were?

"Are you sure you were not mistaken, little one?" Gimli's gruff voice asked and was met by a pair of scared, yet firm, eyes.

"I speak truly. He knows where we are, where we are going, and he will not stop until he has it!"

Chapter 12 - Grey dawn

The sun hid behind the mountains as the chill of the grey morning lay dew on the crisp grass and frost upon the leaves. Eight figures could be seen moving like ants along the bank of the mountains. Weighed down by supplies as well as exhaustion, their progress was slow and frustrating.

Faramir let his eyes roam over the scenery, glad that he did not mind the land as it was, bare and stripped of all its finery. It had a harshness to it, of course, but also an underlying strength. Watching the darkness flee from the hard dawn had given Faramir a kind of relief. Only an hour after Gollum's supposed attack, Aragorn had decided that since no one could get any sleep, they would press on through the night and rest when morning came. And he had been right. The stark light seemed to make the shadows of the dark fall away as though they had just awoken from a nightmare. And even Faramir's own vision, as terrible as it had been the night before, seemed only that, a vision. He was yet to tell Aragorn about his dream, for although he intended to, the man had enough to worry about.

Faramir heard a small pattering of feet and looked down to find Sam by his side. The Hobbit's legs had to work twice as hard to keep up with Faramir's long strides.

"Mr Faramir, sir?" he panted, quite out of breath. Do you think there'd be any chance of us stopping for a rest? Mr Pippin is asleep on his feet, has been for some time if you ask me. An' poor Mr Frodo, he's had no sleep either after that horrible creature came in the night. My feet are so cold they're numb! A short break would do us all a world of good."

"It is up to Aragorn," Faramir replied gently. "But I will have a word with him, if you wish."

"That would be right kind of you sir," Sam flustered, relieved that someone would listen to him and Pippin's complaints might be stopped.

The sky was still overcast and the weather bleak as ever when the fellowship finally stopped to rest. Faramir flung himself down upon the wet grass and pulled his pack from his shoulders. He stretched his shoulders to relieve the pressure of carrying supplies, as well as Pippin who had clung to his back for what seemed like hours. Aragorn had resisted stopping earlier, he was determined to cover a greater distance before it was fully light and they could be seen by unwelcome eyes. He had taken Frodo on his own shoulders while asking Faramir to take Pippin, who was smaller. Legolas and Gimli had shared out much of the mens' load between them but still the burden had been heavy.

Although he was deadly tired, Faramir feared to fall asleep. The visions of the night still haunted his thoughts, his brother's face foremost in his mind. What did it mean? Was it related to the sudden appearance of Gollum, or a separate warning? He realised he hardly knew anything of the creature. Perhaps if he knew more, he might find a clue to its meaning.

He looked around for Aragorn, meaning to ask him for information. Seeing that Aragorn was deep in thought, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed, Faramir decided not to disturb him.

A deep rumbling sound reached his ears and Faramir twisted to his right. Gimli lay comfortably on his blanket, the loudest snoring Faramir had ever heard coming from the Dwarf's open mouth.

Faramir looked over Gimli's body to where Legolas also watched the sleeping Dwarf, an amused smile on his face. Legolas was carving something, a small knife whittling away at the smooth wood. Faramir recognised what it was, the base of Gandalf's staff. Faramir had a sudden urge to snatch the wood away from the Elf, keep it safe from the knife. He frowned, wondering at the thoughts that plagued his mind. He could see why Legolas was cutting the wood; he was trying to make arrows. Each time the Elf sliced off a piece perfect for an arrow and began smoothing it, the wood rebelled and split. The frustration was clear on Legolas' face. Faramir did not want to say anything about the staff, he still felt confused and embarrased about the way he acted when he had given Legolas the base. Instead Faramir focused him mind back on Gimli.

"He snores loud enough to wake the dead!" Faramir said, resisting the urge to poke the annoying Dwarf.

"I sometimes think he does it on purpose," Legolas laughed, "just to annoy me!"

"I would not be surprised if you are right," Faramir smiled back. A sudden idea came to him and he rose to his feet and tiptoed past the Dwarf. He sat down next to Legolas and the Elf gave him a questioning look.

"The creature, Gollum," Faramir began, "you know of it, do you not?"

There was a slight pause before the Elf answered, "I do. More than I wish."

"Will you tell me of him? I wish to know what we are up against?"

Legolas looked uncomfortable. "There is not much to tell; he is a dark creature, full of malice and wickedness. He is small but not to be underestimated. Aragorn thinks perhaps that when he escaped from Mordor, he was let to go . . . on an errand."

Faramir was silent for a moment, thinking over what had been said. "Mithrandir said he may yet have some part to play in our journey. What do you think he meant by that?"

"I know not," Legolas said then added with a sad smile, "but perhaps he only meant to lighten my heart. He could see how my feelings of guilt were affecting me, perhaps he felt I would be more valuable to the company if I were not worrying over the past."

"Why would you feel any responsibility for what happened?" Faramir asked, "anyone could see the odds against the Mirkwood Elves surviving, let alone preventing Gollum's escape, were set highly against you."

"This, I know" the Elf sighed, "but still I regret the ill fortune that saved me while killing dear friends. And that the terror that has come upon us, upon Frodo, could have been destroyed when we had the chance."

"In my mind," Faramir began, "Gandalf says nothing he does not mean. Perhaps he is right about Gollum, he may not be wholly evil." Faramir did not like to believe that any creature could be fully evil although Orcs came very close. "Of course the death of your friends is to be regretted, but you should hold yourself blameless in the matter. If you had died by their sides, the Fellowship would not be standing, or sleeping in Gimli's case, where we are now. We would be in Isengard, watched over by Saruman. I for one am glad fate placed you among us."

The look on Legolas' face was hard to determine. At first Faramir thought it might have been gratitude, for having heard someone else speak so fully on his personal worries, then again he might have been offended Faramir had even commented. Faramir could not detirmine which. Elves were a strange folk, so intriguing, and yet they held a distance that was hard to break. Perhaps trust was all that was needed. Still, whatever Faramir did, he could not seem to gain Legolas' trust.

Faramir picked up his bow and quiver, trying to look as though he had a purpose in his actions. He reached inside his quiver to see how many arrows he had left. Five . . only five. The arrows that were not broken from the battle with the Goblins had been collected and divided amongst Aragorn, Legolas and himself. There was something else in his quiver, something that made his hand tremble even looking at it. The head of Gandalf's staff.

Faramir could not explain his feelings towards the object. It served as a memory of Gandalf, and also of how he was taken from them. But it was more than that, it had always seemed as though it were alive. Faramir could not help himself, he reached out his hand to touch the staff.

Darkness swirled about him, it was as though night had come and was swallowing him whole. His body still lay on the grass by Legolas and Gimli, his hand clutching the glowing staff, his mind . . . somewhere else.

Faramir opened his eyes. It was dark, slits of hard light shone through the jagged cracks in the roof. Where was he? Where was everyone else? He had promised himself not to fall asleep, not to return to the dreams, but if this was not a dream, what was it? He moved his head slowly, painfully. Every movement sent shards of pain rushing through his body and mind.

He looked down at his hands, again blood was upon them. He closed his fist, trying to block out the terrible fear inside him. Something about his hand worried him. The skin felt strange, little cracks criss-crossed his palm and he could see wrinkles on his usually smooth fingers. What was happening to him?

He raised his hand so as to see it more clearly, perhaps it was only a trick of the light. He unconsciously brushed a strand of white hair away from his face. White hair? He looked down and saw the white hair that grew from his face. Panic washed over him followed by a quick realisation.

"Mithrandir," he whispered, his whole body trembling at the realisation that he was seeing through the old wizard's eyes. There was a noise from somewhere near by and in a second Faramir was blinded by the intense light in the doorway.

"Gandalf the Grey," a terrible voice sounded from the figure in the doorway. It was Saruman...

Chapter 13 - Renegade

"Gandalf the Grey." The voice chilled Faramir to the bone. For a moment he could do nothing but stare at the worshipful figure in the doorway. He squinted into the light that reflected off Saruman's robes. They seemed at first to be white, but as the Wizard moved forwards into the chamber, they shimmered and changed, pale colours shifting in the light.

"Perhaps, my old friend, you would be glad of another chance to unburden your mind. I have given you time to think, generous I have been, but my patience is not inexhaustible." The voice was entrancing, mesmerising, Faramir felt himself wondering how anyone could have accused Saruman of treachery.

Through Gandalf, Faramir felt the irresistible need to rise before the Wizard, and a sharp pain in his back as he tried to stand. Gandalf had been hurt, not only physically, and Faramir was not going to let Saruman's voice fool him again.

At last Gandalf did manage to drag himself up, gritting his teeth and using the wall the pull himself to his feet.

Faramir looked into Saruman's eyes and was frightened by what he saw. Malice, hate for Gandalf's pureness, lust for power. But there was strength also. What could not have this Wizard have achieved if only he had resisted the temptation of power?

"I will ask you again," the voice was still benevolent but persistent. "The name of the bearer. A simple answer, that is all I ask. Be not unwise, Gandalf, in your choice of allies. What do you hope to achieve by joining with those pathetic fools? Even now they are being brought to Isengard. Make it easy on yourself, on them."

Gandalf hid a confident smile behind his white beard. Saruman, he thought, you may be wise but you underestimate the 'pathetic fools' who hold your one desire. You will never get this thing, nor will I reveal anything to you now he knows your mind.

"When they come you will spare them much pain and torment if you tell me what I wish to know." Saruman was still persistent, but Faramir could see Saruman was growing angry at his silence.

Gandalf drew himself up tall, straightening his sore shoulders, "You are a greater fool than even I guessed, Saruman, if you believe I would betray my friends this easily."

An angry light flashed in Saruman's eyes, "So be it." Immediately Faramir felt a crushing weight on his mind. He barely stopped himself from crying out as the terrible pain grew too great to bear. He sank to his knees, his hands pressed to the sides of his screaming mind. He realised what was happening, Saruman was trying to break through the barrier in Gandalf's mind and read what he wanted from his head.

Saruman's staff glowed brightly in his hand and a horrible light shone in his eyes, "You cannot resist forever!" Saruman's voice rose over the pain. Angry tears blurred Faramir's vision as the weight grew too much to bear. The world spun and dissolved into blinding light . . .

Gimli's silently twisted and rubbed his hands together. He felt so useless not being able to think of anything to do to help. When Faramir had first called out, Gimli had jumped up, his mind still half-asleep, to find Faramir lying on his back, clutching Gandalf's broken staff in his outstretched hand. His eyes were squeezed shut and his face contorted with either confusion or pain.

Legolas had already bent over him, looking for a sign of what could be wrong with the man when Faramir had began to shake. The Elf drew back, not knowing what to do. He turned his head and met Gimli's worried gaze. Legolas' face was mostly blank but Gimli saw the deep concern in the Elf's green eyes.

"Aragorn! Quickly!" There was no need for Gimli to call him for the Ranger was already hurrying over, the Hobbits close on his heels.

Aragorn dropped on his knees by the trembling body. He pushed Faramir's dark hair away and placed his steady hand on the man's forehead.

"He is burning up. We need to bring his temperature down. Sam, some cold water, quickly!"

"But he is shaking, Aragorn, surely than means . . ." Legolas trailed off, not knowing what to say.

"Gimli." The Dwarf looked up upon hearing his name and noticed Aragorn giving him a meaningful look. Merry and Pippin watched, their eyes wide and scared.

"Young hobbits," Gimli put a hand on each of their shoulders, "I can trust you to find a blanket for Faramir, couldn't I?" Glad to help, the two Hobbits scurried away.

Aragorn took the water from Sam and held a wet cloth to Faramir's brow, hoping to cool the burning skin. Frodo also knelt by Faramir, his small hand calming the shakes that passed through the larger hand he held. Gimli was touched by the gesture, almost wishing he was not a proud Dwarf so he could display similar feelings so innocently.

Gimli pointed his stubby finger at Faramir's other hand. "Look, the staff! That is what ails him." Gimli lunged forwards, determined to prevent any further harm from being done to his friend. His fingers had only just made contact with the wood when a searing pain ran up his arm. He pulled his hand away at once, groaning as his fingers throbbed and burned. He looked down at his hand and was alarmed to see the skin on his fingers red and blistered.

He tried levering the staff from Faramir's hand with a stick but on contact with the wood, the stick burst into flames.

"What devilry is this? Saruman's I do not doubt."

Frodo's hand was wrenched from Faramir's as the man's body convulsed. Gimli could stand it no longer. What if his friend was dying? He rushed forward and threw himself on the ground next to the Elf, "Aragorn, can't you do something? What is wrong with him? What can we do?"

"Peace Gimli," Aragorn said calmly, "there is nothing you can do by panicking. Help Legolas hold him so he cannot hurt himself."

Gimli angrily blinked away the tears that blurred his vision while reaching forwards to place his large hand on Faramir's trembling shoulder. He was surprised when it landed on Legolas's slender hand which had been quicker, and both of them withdrew their hands at once.

Slightly embarrassed Gimli met the Elf's gaze and saw the same expression on his own face. United in their concern for their friend, they managed to restrain Faramir's body so that the convulsions passing through his body would not do him any harm.

Suddenly, Faramir's body went limp, a gentle, peaceful expression spreading over his tired face. Legolas and Gimli both sighed, relieved it was over, but Aragorn was less optimistic. He reached forwards for Faramir's pulse. Gimli realised what Aragorn could be thinking, there might have been another reason the convulsions had stopped.

Gimli held his breath for what seemed like minutes...

Faramir felt sick. His stomach was complaining and his head felt heavy. But he was back, back among his friends. Aragorn, Gimli... They were all there, staring at him as though he could disappear any second. He felt Frodo's warm hand slip into his own and breathed a quiet sigh.

Chapter 14 - Paths of dread

Aragorn raised his grey eyes to the similarly grey sky and felt the first drops of rain fall on his upturned face. It was going to be a dreary day, the weather growing worse as time passed. He was afraid, although he would not have admitted it. He was scared that he would make the wrong choice. It was not long before they would have to decide their course and Aragorn felt the majority of the burden of the decision lay upon himself.

He watched as Frodo snuggled into Faramir's cloak, the quiet Hobbit obvious in his relief of Faramir's recovery from the morning's scare. The man wrapped his steady arm around the Hobbit, sheltering him from the grey drizzle. Aragorn was yet to ask Faramir what had taken place. All the man had said was that he had had a terrible dream, but Aragorn knew it was more than that. He also noticed Legolas and Gimli giving Faramir strange looks as if they too did not believe him.

Aragorn had to be content to wait until they could get a quiet moment when the Hobbits would not overhear. Frodo had enough to worry about and Aragorn was constantly concerned about the little ones. It would be no good having them being frightened more than they had to be.

As Aragorn had suspected, the rain grew worse as the afternoon faded. The dark clouds above made the day seem even more unpleasant and everyone was in low spirits. They had been stuck there all day, sheltering behind bushes and low rocks to keep out of sight as well as sheltering from the rain. Aragorn paced restlessly, his grey coat drenched and muddy, trailing behind him. The others all sat, leaning against rocks or anything else they could find while eating a miserable dinner.

"Aragorn, I can not take it any more!" Gimli's voice surprised everyone as no one had spoken for a long time. He put his plate on the ground and put his hands on his hips. "Stop that infernal pacing! It is making my head spin. Come and sit down and tell us what is wrong!"

"It is almost dusk, we should be on our way in a few hours."

"You didn't answer my question, what is it that troubles you?" Gimli looked like he enjoyed drawing attention to Aragorn for now everyone was staring at him and Gimli had a satisfied smile on his face.

"Really, my friend," Aragorn smiled, "It seems your beard has grown too big for you boots, I am not the one in trouble."

"What do you mean?" Gimli asked warily.

"It seems as though Merry and Pippin were too hungry to wait for an arguing Dwarf to finish his meal." Gimli's mouth opened in surprise as he noticed his plate had disappeared. With a cry Gimli jumped to his feet and chased after the two Hobbits who, a moment ago, had felt very proud to have got a free meal.

After three times around the campsite, Gimli was out of breath and still no closer to catching the thieving Hobbits. He changed his course and Aragorn had no time to jump out of the way. Gimli fell flat on top of him, growling threats about his malnutrition.

Aragorn scrambled to his feet, laughing along with the rest and handed Gimli his own plate. Gimli looked at him strangely for a moment then snatched the plate before Aragorn could withdraw his offer.

Aragorn was well aware of three pairs of eyes staring at his back as he bent over to pull a blanket from his pack. He knew he would have to face it sooner or later, better that he got it over and done with. He turned and sure enough Legolas, Faramir and Frodo quickly averted their gazes, trying to make as if they weren't worried. Gimli on the other hand narrowed his eyes as he ate, clearly showing Aragorn that the Dwarf was no fool.

He ignored them and walked over to where Merry and Pippin were devouring what was left of Gimli's meal while Sam tried to convince them to give it back to Strider. Aragorn smiled that Sam still used that name for him and Sam looked up, his face flushing red from talking about Aragorn while he was standing behind him.

"I think it would be wise for you three to get some sleep," he said, "It is going to be a long road through the night and you will need all your senses to be alert."

The three Hobbits nodded and caught the blankets Aragorn gave them, grateful at the chance to catch a small nap while the rain was holding off.

"Where's Mr Frodo?" Sam asked, trying to see past Aragorn.

"He will join you soon, I just want to take another look at his shoulder." Aragorn did not like telling the Hobbits an untruth but it was true that they needed rest. Aragorn was also sure that Frodo would not be so easy to escape from. As much as the Ranger wished to protect the Hobbit, he also respected Frodo's right to know what was happening.

When Aragorn returned to the fire he found all four waiting expectantly. Aragorn's eyes shifted over the grim faces of his friends, the firelight casting strange shadows over each.

"We await your orders," Gimli growled sarcastically, slightly annoyed that the Hobbits got to sleep when he had to remain alert.

Aragorn smiled slightly and settled himself down by the pitiful blaze, "Faramir."

His friend looked up, slightly startled at being addressed first.

"I think it is time you told us what is really going on."

The four listeners were silent throughout Faramir's somewhat emotional recollection of his dream and grew grave when Boromir was mentioned.

"I'm sure it was nothing but a dream, Faramir," Frodo comforted, patting Faramir's hand, although Aragorn could see the doubt in his eyes.

"When you have had these dreams before," Aragorn began, "do they ever . . . prove to hold any truth?"

Faramir met his eyes for a moment, then lowered his gaze, giving Aragorn the answer to his question. He sighed, "Your brother is a valiant man, whatever happens you cannot blame yourself, even if the dreams came to you first as a warning."

The words held little comfort, Aragorn knew, but he could not lie and say everything would turn out for the best.

"There is something else, Aragorn," Faramir said quietly, reluctant to give his Lord more to worry about. "When I touched the staff, it . . . was not just another dream."

Gandalf was alive. This lightened Aragorn's heart much, although the thought of his good friend in the clutches of the power hungry Saruman was like knives in his heart.

But Gandalf was not a god, nor was he immune to pain. Would Saruman keep pressuring Gandalf's mind until one time he relented before unconsciousness could take him, or would Gandalf die rather than have the information forced from him. Neither of the options were heartening and Aragorn wished the responsibility of their next move did not lie so heavily upon himself. If he were free to go where he would, he would go to Isengard himself, and if not able to free Gandalf, he would die with him. Gandalf had been the mover of all things, only through Gandalf was his own destiny to become a King a reality rather than a mere dream. But this was the reason he could not venture to Isengard, if Saruman held the heir of Isildur, all Gandalf's long years of planning would be in vain.

Aragorn cringed at what Gandalf must be going through at that very moment and in a way he wished he himself had seen Faramir's vision. But perhaps it had been better that he had not. Aragorn could not help but think that if Saruman had been looking into Gandalf's mind while Faramir had been seeing through the Wizard's eyes, would not have Saruman seen Faramir's thoughts? Aragorn shuddered, if Saruman had seen into his own mind, it would have been the end of all hope.

He drew his shoulders back and spoke in a low voice, "whatever is happening to Gandalf, we must find a way to cross the mountains before either Saruman gets his information from Gandalf or another. We have two choices before us and neither are hopeful or pleasant." he paused and four sets of eyes watched him carefully. "We either pass through the Gap of Rohan, risking passing Orthanc and hope for the aid of the Rohirrim. Or we enter the gates of Moria and seek a path through the darkness. We must decide tonight for we are in a within a night's walk of the gates. What is it to be?"

As Aragorn spoke, he studied the faces of his friends. At the mention of Moria, Gimli's eyes brightened while Legolas paled, his eyes growing dark. Faramir remained impassive and Frodo just seem small and afraid.

"I will follow you to Moria," Gimli said loudly, "It is long since Balin led a party of Dwarves to the mines but perhaps they remain and would welcome us. I have long desired to look upon the home of our forefathers. But Aragorn, will you be able to open the doors? Dwarf doors are not made to be seen!"

Aragorn nodded, he had expected Gimli's support, "This I know well, and we must hope the Dwarves have not been too cunning for us, Gimli,"

Legolas began to laugh and Aragorn realised what he had said too late. Gimli swiped at the Elf angrily, "you may laugh Master Elf but the Dwarves take pride in their secure homes, if Elves had any sense they'd do the same. If any Elf has the wit to open a Dwarven door I'll eat my axe!"

Aragorn quickly rushed to change the subject before the argument could fully get going and before Gimli could say anything he would regret.

"Frodo? What would be your choice?"

The small Hobbit's face stopped smiling and at once he seemed overwhelmed by fatigue, it pained Aragorn to see it. "I do not wish to go to Moria," he said and Aragorn silenced Gimli's protest with a wave of his hand. "And yet neither do I deem it wise to pass so close to Saruman's stronghold." He raised his large eyes to Aragorn's and placed all his trust in the man he had come to rely upon, "I will follow your advise, Aragorn, wherever you lead us and Sam will do the same."

"Legolas? What do you think?"

The pale face was as impassive as ever but the Elf's eyes were dark. "I do not wish to go." It was what Aragorn had expected and he opened his mouth to go on, but was interrupted, "but I will brave Moria if that is the ringbearer's choice, and yours, Aragorn," the low voice shook as he spoke, "if you can lead us through the dark."

There was a uncomfortable silence for a moment as the others digested the unexpected answer.

Legolas coughed slightly, as though the previous tremble in his voice was due to a slight chill, "Though I do not believe master Gimli will cease in his endeavours to convince me of the greatness of the underground, I am willing to let him try."

No one smiled and Legolas' lame attempt at his usual light conversation did not fool any of them. Aragorn was sure the Elf's comment was directed to Frodo to dispel any doubts the Hobbit had about dragging them into the dark so soon after they had escaped from it.

But Frodo was by no means as naive as Legolas had hoped, "Your support means much to me, Legolas, but I would not lead any friend through the torment you will endure if we pass through the caves. You were sent on the quest to protect us, and that you have. To represent your people, that you have also, great honour should you receive if ever this 'business', as Bilbo would say, comes to an end. But you were bound only to come as far as you may, and it seems that if Moria is chosen, your part in the adventure has come to an end."

"Before we make any choice," Faramir said lightly, taking the attention from the Elf who looked decidedly uncomfortable, "we should ask the Hobbits what they think. I do not believe it is fair to keep them in the dark while we discuss matters without them."

Faramir's words again gave Aragorn a twinge of guilt about the innocent Hobbits.

"Quite right, Mr Faramir, sir!"

Aragorn almost jumped from the ground as Sam stepped into the small circle of firelight. "Keeping us in the dark, indeed! Do you think you need to protect us that badly that you won't tell us what's going on?"

The Hobbit's cheeks were flushed pink and Aragorn felt the need to apologise. Sam had obviously been listening to their whole conversation.

"You're quite right when you say I'll follow where Mr Frodo leads, but I think Mr Merry and Mr Pippin might have been consulted!"

"Quite right!"

Aragorn opened his mouth in amazement as the other two Hobbits stepped casually forwards. "You thought you had us fooled, Strider, but you should know by now that Merry and I are not ones to be left out."

"As it is," Merry continued, "Pippin and I have decided that another journey through the dark would slow us down and if we are careful, we could go the other way and perhaps Saruman would not catch us."

"The Gap of Rohan seems the better choice but we will follow Frodo and Aragorn in their choice too."

Aragorn smiled, their innocent way of putting things made everything seem so simple. He might have been persuaded if Saruman did not pose such a threat to Frodo and the ring, and all of them it seemed.

"What do you think Faramir," Frodo asked, reminding everyone that Faramir was yet to state his opinion.

"Frodo, although I fear another journey in the dark, I fear it less than other things. I have seen Saruman . . . looked into his eyes and felt his gaze upon me. And though it was not my mind he tried to read, I never wish to feel that way again."

Frodo lowered his eyes as Faramir spoke.

"I am afraid for you, Frodo . . . for all of us . . . his hate and need for revenge is great . . . I would not see you harmed. But the greatest danger is from the thing which you carry. Saruman has power beyond perhaps even Mithrandir, what would he become if he broke faith with the dark lord and claimed the greatest weapon on Middle Earth for himself?"

Aragorn grimaced after this. Now finally his heart spoke of what he must do. Faramir and Gimli opted for Moria, Legolas and the two young halflings chose the lighter path though the gap in the mountains, therefore his own decision ruled. Frodo would follow him and Sam would follow his master, making Aragorn's choice the majority vote.

Aragorn sighed, he had feared it would come to this. He would be the one to cast the vote that would count. He would decide the fate of middle earth in one word.

"Moria, I choose Moria."

Chapter 29 - The lady of the golden wood

The ground seemed to shift beneath him as Faramir turned his back on Legolas and Frodo. The forest floor tipped, and the trees lurched closer. He tried to appear unaffected by the pain ripping across his shoulders, but once out of their sight he slumped against the nearest tree, breathing hard. Closing his eyes he focused his mind on the rough bark beneath his fingers until the nausea faded. He was relieved that there was no one nearby to see him in such a state and cursed his own weakness.

Breathing slowly he thought back over the conversation he had held with Legolas and realised with some satisfaction that the Elf had never received the answer to his question. Since leaving Rivendell, Faramir had tried not to ask himself whether he would have the strength to stand with Aragorn against his family... for he thought he already knew the answer.

"Faramir?"

His eyes flew open, and he turned swiftly, ignoring the burning sensation across his shoulders. Pippin stood before him, staring up with wide, concerned eyes. Faramir breathed a quick sigh, relieved that it was not Legolas or Frodo who had caught him off guard.

"I came to bring you to the council," the Hobbit began, staring at Faramir in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. "Merry is searching for Legolas and I..." he stopped suddenly. "Faramir, are you well..."

Faramir nodded quickly, though already he could feel the pain of old wounds and fresh terror overtaking his thoughts.

"You are bleeding," Pippin said, reaching up to touch the young man's back.

Faramir glanced down at the sleeves of his white shirt and realised the blood drawn from his wounds must have shown through for Pippin to see.

He turned away from the Hobbit's concerned ministrations, giving him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Let us go to the council."

The Hobbit watched him closely as they walked, and Faramir at last consented to rest his hand upon the Hobbit's shoulder for support.

The glade beneath the trees was cool and flushed with golden light. As Faramir moved with Pippin out from the shadowy trees, he saw that the other three Hobbits had come there before them.

Merry came to Pippin's side as they approached. "I could not find any sign on Aragorn or Legolas," the breathless Hobbit told his cousin. "And Gimli would not come when I asked him."

"I simply said, Master Hobbit, that I would not be drawn away ere I had finished my pipe." Gimli spoke from behind, and they all turned to see the Dwarf emerge from the trees. "So where is this Elvish Lady then? If this is a ploy, young Hobbits, to draw me away from my lunch then you will regret..."

Gimli's threat remained unfinished as the sound of soft voices and gentle singing wafted through the trees towards them. The Dwarf raised his hand to where his axe hilt should have been and narrowed his eyes. None of them spoke, and Faramir felt a strange sense of awe envelop him in the silence.

Then it seemed as if the sky was suddenly a shade lighter and as though the trees before them were bending their boughs to give passage to the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim.

Both were clad wholly in white, and as they approached the small group everything else seemed of a darker colour.

Celeborn held the arm of his lady and together they took the chairs brought forth for them. Faramir felt his heart lightened by the sight and forgot awhile the pain of his wounds.

A woman's voice, spoken not aloud but seemingly within his mind, said, "So we have come together at last under the trees of Lothlorien." The words were of his own tongue, yet seemed more gentle and beautiful when spoken by the melodious voice of the Elf Lady. He looked up to meet her eyes.

Faramir had known men of strength and loyalty who had traveled in secret to Lórien. Most did not return. The majority of those who did return did so only in body, for there was something in their eyes that showed where their hearts had truly remained. Faramir had long wished to see her with his own eyes, the Lady that died not, though he had also been afraid of what such beauty could make one forget. And he wondered, at that moment, whether the wildly beautiful lands of Ithilien or the magnificent White Tower would still seem so beautiful after such a meeting.

And as the Lady looked away, he thought he could then understand a little of the hearts of those who had remained in Lorien, for it would take a strong will to leave such a place even in winter. But he thought that he also understood those who returned. Too much remained uncertain in a place where time slowed, and a man would find himself ever wondering and unsure of what he had left behind.

Faramir hardly noticed the arrival of Aragorn and Legolas, so bewitched he was by the voice and face of the Lady. But it was what he had seen in her eyes that most affected him; deep wisdom and understanding beyond that of mortal men.

Aragorn took his place by Frodo, placing a reassuring hand on the Hobbit's shoulder. Briefly speaking with Aragorn in the Elvish tongue, Celeborn stood. "Guidance we of the Galadhrim cannot give, but if you seek council we may aid you. Time is flowing swiftly, and every day the hand of Sauron tightens its grip. If your quest if ever to be completed, you must harden your hearts to leave this land on the morrow."

Faramir listened to the Hobbit's protests with pity, and thought he saw Aragorn's influence in the decision. Perhaps the news of Gollum, which Legolas must by now have revealed, had forced Aragorn to act swiftly.

"We will provide you with boats," Celeborn was saying, "for I can see that you have not yet decided your course. Though, in the end, the boats will not decide for you. You must choose... the east bank or the west."

A thick silence fell and in that time Galadriel gazed at each of the Fellowship in turn. None of them, save Aragorn and Legolas, could endure her gaze. Sam and Merry's faces flushed, and they quickly looked away. And into Frodo's eyes crept a great longing for something far away. Pippin too seemed troubled and disturbed by what the Lady revealed to him.

Through Gimli's shoulder Faramir felt the Dwarf start as the Lady's gaze came to rest on him. He was amazed to see Gimli's face actually growing red, not in anger, but in what appeared to be tenderness. He heard the Dwarf's loud sigh as the eyes left him and, in their turn, moved to Faramir himself.

Again he saw the depth of wisdom in those eyes, and was drawn into them until he was aware of nothing else. Then he felt her inside his mind, searching for something though he knew not what. It was not an unpleasant feeling because her whole being emanated trust and security; only it was strange for him to see a thing of story and myth become reality.

He gasped suddenly as her golden visage was overshadowed by another image, clear and familiar. It was an image of dreams, his dreams for peace and a life where no one need fear for the ones they loved. Upon a stone balcony, high above the land and the city below, were two figures. The wind tugged at their dark hair, and they laughed together about something he could not hear. Faramir knew the figures to be his brother and himself even before he had looked more closely and knew also that this scene might have been if Gondor had been at peace and the threat of Mordor never realised.

And at that moment it seemed more than a simple dream. It was a reality if he were to just speak one word of acceptance. But something held him back, and he knew inside that taking peace for himself and his family would force others to walk darker paths in his place. With an effort he dispelled the vision and dropped his gaze from that of Galadriel.

Afterwards the Fellowship took their rest together for one of the first occasions since entering Lórien. They lay long on the soft grass and spoke of the Lady Galadriel.

"It was hard not to believe she could just do what she promised," Sam was saying. "When you looked into her eyes she seemed, well, as though she could magic you back home and make it all disappear."

"And yet you chose to go on," Aragorn said, smiling slightly at the simple way Sam explained the feelings they had all experienced.

"I said to myself when this all began; I'll go with Mr Frodo til the end, and we'll return to the Shire... together."

There was a silence as all considered Sam's unwavering devotion.

Faramir did not feel ready to discuss his own choice; Boromir's face still lingered in his mind and he could not help wondering whether his brother would have made a similar decision.

He lay awake for many hours after the others had fallen asleep. The stars were bright above the treetops and, as he rested, he traced the well-known shapes and recounted their stories. He imagined standing on the battlements of Minas Tirith with a clear sky above and the promise of a fine day. Gondor had been too long at war, and the people had almost forgotten the meaning of peace.

"You often look to the stars, do you not, son of Denethor?"

The voice startled him, gentle though it was, and brought him back to the present. He raised himself to his elbows and looked up at the Lady standing above him. He rose quietly to his feet, so as not to waken the others, and bowed his head.

"The stars hold a special meaning for you, I see, as they do for the Elves who dwell here." The Lady turned and moved away across the green lawn. Faramir was compelled to follow.

Silently she led him down the southern slopes of Caras Galadhon, and through a tall arch shaped in a hedge. The Lady moved with silent purpose, and it seemed as though her feet barely touched the curving steps as she led him onwards into a bare garden open to the sky. Faramir lifted his eyes to the stars once more and saw that in that place, where the stream reflected them, the stars seemed more bright than any he had seen.

"The star of Eärendil, ever the hope of the Elves." As she spoke she lifted her white hand to the brightest of all the stars. "And when you gaze upwards, do you look for hope? Or perhaps contact..."

Faramir did not try to deny his secret reason for gazing at the stars, for he knew the Lady saw all things and had already seen into his own heart.

"When one of us was away from Minas Tirith," he began, realising that she was the first to whom he had spoken of this, "I looked to the stars as a way to reassure myself... It is a terrible thing to be in constant fear of losing a brother... I thought that perhaps if he were looking up too..." He took a breath and found her eyes upon him. Then he tried to smile. "Old superstitions remain, and I still look to the stars for comfort."

"You are afraid to return to Minas Tirith, are you not? Do you fear what you may find there?". Her voice remained ever gentle, and he did not feel the need to conceal anything.

Hoping she might ease his mind he said, "Since I left, I have dreamt many times of his death... I am afraid that I should never have left my city, and that dark deeds have come of it.

"You see with a keen eye," she said after a moment, and her words made his heart sink in that she could not reassure him it was not so. "That is why I have brought you here... That you may look, if you will, and learn what you may."

She went then to the stream, and filled a silver basin with the clear water. She breathed upon it and waited til it stilled.

"Will you look?"

Chapter 30 - The Mirror

The mirror was as black as the night sky, with stars shining back at him as though reflected from above. But the water of the mirror was somehow deeper than the sky, and darker than the blackest of nights. And the stars within it seemed cold and clung only to the surface.

Faramir almost looked away from the water, wondering what the Lady had meant him to see. But something compelled him to look on. And it was only a moment before the stars suddenly faded, leaving the water empty. He felt something rising within him, a feeling of anticipation... of dread.

The emptiness drew him closer, filling the whole of his vision with darkness.

Then it was as though parts of the darkness fell away, revealing shapes of light. And the shadows that remained formed a mass, like a great army moving across bare plains. He could almost see the glint of their armour in the sun.

Then the shadow army was gone, and light shone brightly before him. The land was bare and windswept, and his vision was drawn to the only settlement in sight. Edoras. He recognised the citadel on the peak by its description. Set high upon a great hill, its only miliary advantage being its great height above land. The land of the horse-masters. It was indeed a spectacular sight!

Then Faramir thought of the army and was afraid. These people who lived in the small houses on the windy hillside would not stand long against such a great force.

The green banner of the white horse fluttered proudly above the highest building, and Faramir was amazed by the architectural skill of the ones who had built in such a desolate place.

A white flower grew beneath the city gates, and he wondered at his ability to see such a small thing from that distance. But it seemed to call to him, cold and proud amid a place where no life flourished in comfort and prosperity.

The vision changed, and Faramir felt himself despairing at its loss. For the beautiful white flower was gone and in its place was the white tower of Ecthelion, and he feared what he might see within the walls of his home. A shadow surrounded the city, and the outer walls seemed tainted with blood. He could feel the fear that rose from the city and smell the stench of death from bodies heaped beneath the walls. His stomach heaved at the sight.

Vaguely Faramir realised he was holding his breath. Barricades had been placed on the walls and the great gate, yet he saw with horror that the Gateway was open and the shadow was already streaming through!

The vision changed again, and he drew a sharp breath of relief. He could not have watched the defeat of his home knowing there was nothing he could do to prevent it! He saw the tower once more, and felt his body relax as he saw that it still held its majestic beauty.

Yet something was still amiss, for at top of the White Tower a red light shone forth. In that instant he was reminded of the great eye on the highest tower of Barad-dûr miles across the river, and saw with horror that the light originated from the chambers of his father...

Rushing forwards he felt the flames before he saw them, felt the fire leap towards him with intolerable heat. He cried out when the flames touched his skin, the image of the Balrog and its fiery whip jerking his memory. The smell of burning flesh, his own, reached him, and he could feel the red tongues touching his bare arms with pain. He stumbled back, but the fire still came. He choked, breathing in the dark fumes as the tapestries on the walls were reduced to charred and blackened threads. He dropped to his knees, closing his eyes against the vile fumes and taunting flames.

His eyes stung, and he knew the flames to be upon him. He called out for his father, just once, but there was no reply save the roar of flame - and his own weak breathing as he lost hope.

Faramir opened his eyes as a rush of cold air brushed his face. He was alone. No longer was he kneeling weakly amid the destruction of his father's chambers, he was in the clearing beneath the stars, surrounded by the silent night of Lorien.

Trembling, he breathed the clean air, yet still the flames seemed upon his skin. He felt the perspiration on his brow begin to cool, but could not forget the heat of the burning room, nor the smell of burning flesh. He glanced down at his trembling hands, fearing what he might see. But they were clean and there was no sign of flame or ash. Yet he could feel it even now, a slow burn beneath his skin.

He looked up and saw a thin trail of smoke rising from the mirror. He forced himself to stand, swallowing at the burning sensation clinging to his legs.

Looking around for the Lady Galadriel he saw that she had left him and wondered if her absence could be due to what the mirror had revealed. But she had offered him the chance to look into such an instrument of magic, and he must seek her out for any explanation she could give.

Faramir moved slowly up the staircase, clenching his hands into fists as if he could rub away the burning from his fingers. His vision seemed to be blurred, and he thought of the smoke filled air in the tower.

Perhaps in truth he was still there, waiting to die with the ashes of his house. Perhaps all this was a smoke induced fantasy... But then he remembered the mirror, and that it had been a vision. He had seen someone's death... His father? brother? Or was it that he had felt the manner of his own end? Was that why the fire clung to him still?

"Faramir?"

He looked up at the speaker, his vision blurring with each step. He could make out the background of trees behind, and a figure with golden hair. "Legolas?"

"No. It is I, Haldir. Here, take my arm. You are unwell." The voice sounded sympathetic and Faramir wanted nothing more than to tell the strong Elf what he had seen. But too long had he guarded his emotions from those around him, and he let himself by led onwards in silence.

Haldir made him sit with a back to a tree and crouched beside him in concern. When the Elf's cold hand touched his shoulder he felt the fire that had taunted his senses disappear, leaving his body numb and weak.

They remained in silence some moments, and Faramir, now beginning to regain his senses, felt ashamed that he had acted so weakly.

"There has been an attack on the border," Haldir said after a time. "A scouting party of Orcs. They Lady sent me to you."

Faramir suddenly felt very tired. There did not seem to be any hope for Middle Earth. He had seen his city fall to Sauron, and now it seemed as though even the haven of the Elves was not safe.

"She was worried that you might have seen something," Haldir prompted.

Faramir sighed, seeing the Elf was not going to leave him. "I believe my brother is dead and my city on the edge of ruin."

Haldir's calm facade broke for a moment, and Faramir caught a glimpse of the turmoil within. "The mirror shows many things, not all of which come to pass," he said. "The future can always be changed by wise or foolish decisions, and there is always hope."

The Elf stood, looking down for a moment. Then he reached up and removed his cloak, passing it down to Faramir. "You should sleep here tonight. I shall see to it that you are not disturbed."

"Thank you, Haldir."

The Elf left him, and Faramir felt like a child that had been sent to bed. He was so weary that he did sleep, yet his dreams were dark and full of fire and death.

It was still early when Faramir returned to the canopy the rest of the Fellowship had slept beneath. Gimli stared at him with narrowed eyes, expecting an instant explanation, and he felt the eyes of the others upon him when he was looking away.

Aragorn came up to him as they were packing for the journey and looked hard into his face. "Are you well, Faramir?"

"Aye," he replied, not meeting Aragorn's eyes. "Though I will be more so when Gimli removes his eyes from by back!"

Aragorn glanced over the other man's shoulder to see Gimli's gaze still upon them. He did not smile, and said instead, "I believe some of us will be glad to leave the Golden Wood, for here we have seen things ahead that might make us want to turn back."

Faramir's face remained blank at Aragorn's perceptiveness and with a sigh the other changed the subject.

"Our departure has been delayed till after noon. The Galadhrim need time to grieve the news of last night."

"Grieve?" Faramir asked, feeling an unknown fear creep inside him.

"You have not been told?" Aragorn sighed, "There are three dead. And among them is Haldir's brother Orophin. This is a black day for the people of the Golden wood."

Faramir did not hear Aragorn's last words, he had closed his eyes and was remembering his selfish words the night before.

I believe my brother is dead

Had Haldir known then that his own brother had been slain. Of course he had! That was what Faramir had seen in the Elf's eyes when he had mentioned his trouble."

"Faramir?"

He realised Aragorn was talking to him, but his eyes would not focus. Tears of self-reproach blurred his vision, and he knew he would have to go and find Haldir. "I am sorry Aragorn, I must go."

He did not look back to see if he was followed.

He found Haldir on the banks of the Anduin. The Elf did not sense his approach and Faramir found it hard to speak past the tightness of his throat.

"If you have come to offer your sympathies there was no need."

Faramir was surprised and slightly taken aback by the blank note of the Elf's voice and he did not move any closer.

"I am sorry Haldir, for what I said and did last night." He felt relieved to have said it, but no less wretched knowing that the Elf had spent time caring for him when he should have been grieving with his family.

The Elf turned slowly, looking at him carefully. "Would dwelling on my loss have made the pain any easier to bear? Was it not better that my attention be given to one that could be helped than one already lost to me?"

Faramir could make no reply. Again he felt like a child.

"You must remember this, should something similar happen to you." The Elf turned his head to look at the river once more, and Faramir felt compelled to leave.

But as he moved away the Elf spoke again, "I have brought this for you."

Faramir looked back to see Haldir holding out a bow he had seen before on the grass.

"It was Orophin's, and there is no one to use it now."

Faramir's hand trembled as he took the bow, and he felt the last person who deserved such a gift.

"May it protect on your road home to your brother."

Faramir grasped Haldir's outstretched arm but could find no words to express his gratitude.

"What I said, Gimli," Faramir explained, slightly frustrated, "was that my love of a weapon is for what it defends, not what it destroys."

The Dwarf shrugged, sighing slightly as the last of the supplies were moved into the boats. "I wonder if I shall ever recover..." he said, "for surely nothing after could compare to her beauty."

Faramir groaned, this had been going on for over an hour!

"The boats are prepared." The voice from behind startled them both. "they are said to be strong, though I wonder if they can hold your weight, master Dwarf." Legolas stepped lightly away from Gimli's swipe of the hand as the Dwarf snapped out of his dreamy mood. "I for one," Legolas continued, "will enjoy the sight of a Dwarf with a wet beard."

"And I," Gimli said with a smile," will be just as entranced by the sight of a drowning Elf! We are traveling in the same boat!"

Legolas' smile fell away, and he gaped at the Dwarf for a moment. Then his eyes moved to Faramir for confirmation. The man shrugged, unwilling to get involved.

Gimli began to laugh as Legolas ran past him.

"Aragorn!" Faramir heard the Elf saying, "I will not travel in the same boat as that Dwarf!"

Chapter 31 - Flying horrors

Frodo trailed a hand in the cool water, somehow not feeling the sensation upon his skin. He felt numb and empty leaving the land of the Elves. Although, as he had told Sam, he had begun to feel that they could no longer prolong the inevitable, he still felt a great sadness at the thought that this could be the last comfort they found till their quest was done, or proved vain.

He could not resist the temptation to look back one last time at the Elven home that would fade after their passing. This, revealed to him by the Lady when he and Sam had gazed into the mirror, had struck a great sadness into his heart. It seemed wrong that such beauty would fade whatever the outcome of their quest.

The Lady was standing on the shore, one hand raised in a final farewell. Her white garments shone brightly, and Frodo glanced down at the starglass in his hand. He felt his mind return to something of itself. With help from such fine folk there would always be hope.

The Fellowship were vastly different from when they had stumbled into Lorien days before. They had found rest and strength to carry on the next stage of their quest, and Frodo wondered what new horrors it held in store for them. The darkness they had stumbled into in the Mines of Moria seemed like a bad dream, though Frodo perceived even darker paths lay ahead.

They rounded a bend in the river, and Lorien was lost to them.

Frodo heard Sam's sigh, and saw Aragorn's shoulders droop slightly as he continued to paddle.

"It's strange to think we should never see it again," Sam murmured, his eyes still fixed on the bend in the river.

Frodo smiled sadly, "Is it not better to remember the trees of the Golden Wood in their splendour, than to stain memory with another visit?"

"I suppose you are right," Sam said, dragging his eyes away and turning back into the boat. "I wish I had not seen the Shire in the mirror, for now when I think of it I see smoke and trees that aught never have been felled."

They had been drifting for many nights, and the light of morning was beginning to show. Merry had not counted the time or even the passing of days. The landscape had changed slowly as they meandered south, imperceivably, and with a slowness that belied his senses to reckon when exactly the bare hillsides had been grown a forest of thin trees then become rocky and grey.

Merry gazed ahead through the stillness, unaware of the presence of Pippin and Faramir behind him. The silence had lasted for so long he felt as though it was choking him, and he longed to become involved in the conversation of which he had caught murmurs between Gimli and Legolas in the other boat.

It was the eighth day, by Merry's vague reckoning, and the rocky land had risen to tall cliffs seemingly overnight.

They had brought the boats together in the middle of the stream to discuss their course.

"The Rapids of Sarn Gebir lie ahead," Aragorn told them, shifting his paddle to steady the boat, "though by my reckoning it is many miles before we shall reach the impassable region."

"It is said none have passed through the Rapids to tell the tale!" Gimli said loudly, with a hint of warning in his tone.

"Have no fear, Gimli," Aragorn assured him, "I would not risk the rapids even if it cut days off our journey."

Merry looked ahead down stream. There was no sign of rocks or even the current quickening its pace. Though in the early morning mist it was hard to tell whether the rapids were before them.

"We must post a firm watch on the leading boat," Legolas said gravely, "it would not do to recognise the rapids only as we are sinking."

"Dwarves are fine swimmers and would have no trouble braving even such waters as these!" Gimli turned to the Elf behind him as a challenge.

Legolas shifted the paddle, leaning it dangerously close to Gimli's head, "I would be honoured to test my strength braving these waters with you master Dwarf, though you seem to have an advantage."

Gimli raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Elves have little in the way of.. padding. And when we came to the Rapids I would..." Legolas ducked as Gimli swung an angry punch at his head.

"Very well," Aragorn laughed. "We will rest on the bank at first light and travel on once more as soon as the day grows dark."

Beneath Merry's feet the muddy bank was cold and wet. It had been raining again for some time and Merry felt damp to his bones. However well his Elven cloak hid him from unfriendly eyes, it did little in the way of keeping him dry and warm.

He had been sheltering beneath a low bush with Pippin, but had began to feel restless and eager for the Fellowship to be on their way. Pippin was sleeping fitfully, groaning quietly as he manoeuvre himself in order to find a comfortable position on the wet bank.

As Merry scrambled out from beneath the foliage, he almost tripped over Gimli. The Dwarf was pacing unceasingly, grumbling to himself about the need for a fire. Legolas had disappeared suddenly, revealing nothing of his location, and Merry suspected this had irked the Dwarf far more than the lack of warmth.

Beyond the small camp Aragorn was crouching on the bank close to the water with Faramir. And as Merry approached, the two men looked up with grim expressions showing from beneath their hoods.

"Is something wrong, Aragorn?" he asked, looking around himself to try and perceive what was troubling them.

Aragorn hesitated for a moment before answering, "I can be sure of nothing, Merry. Through our tracks I can see little, and I wish we had been more cautious when we came ashore. For something strikes me as strange..." The man stopped, shaking his head slightly at his own thoughts. "But I speak in riddles that are the product of my over cautious mind..."

"It is better to be more cautious than less," Faramir said, and Merry was somewhat surprised to hear him speak after the long days of his silent contemplation in the boats.

Aragorn sighed, straightening his shoulders and rising to his feet. "I feel something other than ourselves has been here... though I cannot say who or what could have been walking the banks of the Anduin."

"Orcs?" Faramir suggested with a shrug, "Sauron's minions have been sighted across many lands. It would not surprise me to learn they had crossed to the western bank of the river."

"You may be right," Aragorn nodded, "but it is also the birds on the cliffs that worry me."

Merry had seen the large black shapes flying around the rocky outcrops above the river. They seemed to have followed the Fellowship in the previous days, ever watching as they camped during the day. Sometimes Merry had sensed a presence above them as they paddled, though it had been too dark to make out shapes.

Aragorn had narrowed his eyes while Merry was thinking, as if listening to something he alone could hear. Merry concentrated too, though he could not pick out anything other than the gentle rain and the rushing of the river.

"Something approaches," Aragorn murmured, grasping Merry's shoulder and slowly drawing the Hobbit back towards the camp, his eyes searching the sky.

"Aragorn!"

Legolas' warning came only a moment before the creature itself. A great dark shape above blanketed the evening sky, covering them all in darkness. A shrill cry pierced Merry's ears as the thing swooped towards them.

Merry felt himself thrown upon the ground, his face hitting mud as Aragorn's body held him firmly down. The creature shrieked again, and Merry's heart shrunk at the sound. He felt venerable and in clear sight of the Thing above. Aragorn's cloak was covering them both, though the thin material did nothing to shield him from the eyes of the Nazgul, now mounted on a terrifying winged steed. Merry drew in on himself, feeling despair envelop him as the shadow loomed closer.

Then the darkness diminished slightly as the Wraith pulled out of its dive. Merry felt the black cloud, he had felt once before in Bree, lift slightly. And he thought that perhaps the Wraith had not sighted them and that it was only by chance that it had been searching the river banks.

But Aragorn was taking no chances, and the moment the shadow passed them Merry felt the Ranger's strong grip pulling his him up, and then they were running to the safety of the higher ground.

Merry saw the others of the Fellowship, wide eyed and as fearful as he himself had been looking up to where the Wraith blackened the dark sky.

"It is coming again," Legolas said, squinting into the night, "take cover!"

The Elf was right, and Merry was once again flung down by strong arms as the creature approached. This time he had landed on his back, and he saw with horror that Legolas had not hid with the rest of them. The Elf was outlined by the growing moon as he drew back his bow. Merry felt a rush of fear as the black shape grew larger. Surely it would see them!

Legolas' arrow flew straight and true, and his shot was rewarded by a harsh shriek from the creature. It reeled in the sky, veering backwards and away from its enemies. Merry did not see where the Wraith landed, but he heard the dying shriek from the flying beast as it, and its rider, crashed to the earth.

"It has come down on the western back," Legolas said, jumping down from the perch he had been standing on and helping Merry to stand.

The Hobbit's legs felt weak and it was only a with a great strength of will that he forced himself to remain standing. Pippin's hand was suddenly on his, and Merry felt grateful for the comfort.

"What was that thing, Aragorn?" Gimli asked, leaning on his axe as he regained his breath.

Aragorn looked troubled, "I will not speak of it here, Gimli. Night is approaching fast and we have no time to waste in talk."

Gimli was not satisfied with the answer, but he could see the warning in Aragorn's eyes and did not speak on it. "A fine shot, I must admit," he said after a moment, thumping Legolas hard on the back. "Never have I seen such precision! Not even the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain could be so accurate in their mining."

"I thank you for the complement, master Dwarf," Legolas touched a hand to his forehead. "That is fine praise indeed... from a Dwarf."

"Is it dead," Sam asked, looking up at Aragorn hopefully.

Aragorn looked pained. "The Wraiths are not so easily destroyed, Sam. You saw this in Rivendell when the Wraiths survived the waters of the ford. While their steeds may perish, they live on."

"Do you think it saw us?" Frodo asked. "The boats were in plain sight on the bank."

Everyone turned and saw that the Hobbit was right. They had forgotten to disguise the boats!

Aragorn said something under his breath that Merry could not catch. Then he said, "We will take no chances. We will travel on the bank for a few days and carry the boats, they will not expect that."

Merry agreed heartily with the suggestion, somehow the thought of travelling in plain sight along the river terrified him.

"Aragorn," Frodo whispered suddenly. "There is something moving on the bank. There, see? By the boats."

Merry looked, holding his breath. There was something there, something small and shadowy creeping around the boats. But Merry could not make it out in the gathering darkness.

"It is Gollum," Legolas hissed after a moment, and again Merry was amazed by the sight of the Elves. "Do I shoot?"

Aragorn hesitated long, his brow creased with worry. He did not seem as surprised to see the creature as the others were.

"We must kill it," Gimli hissed, "it has followed us far too long. Now is our chance to free ourselves."

Aragorn still hesitated. At last he said in a whisper Merry could hardly catch, "Do not shoot to kill, we would learn much from questioning the creature."

Legolas and Aragorn shared a hard stare, and Merry could not understand what either of them were thinking. Then Legolas lifted his bow...

Chapter 32 - Sméagol

Aragorn held his breath, waiting for Legolas to release the arrow that would bring down the creature skulking on the shore. His body was stiff with tension, and he clenched his fists in frustration at their position. Rain streamed down from dark clouds, soaking through the elvish cloak he wore. His mind felt heavy at the dark possibilities that would arise from this decision. His common sense told him that they should kill the creature, yet his heart screamed in protest to this. Did Gollum's presence in their camp mean they had already been betrayed to the enemy? Aragorn reached for his own bow, wishing to be ready if they were taken off guard. The rain grew more insistent, and still they waited.

"What is it, Elf?" Gimli hissed through his teeth, "what stays your hand?"

Aragorn stared intently at Legolas' face. The Elf seemed outwardly calm, yet more pale than usual. In his eyes Aragorn could see more emotion than the Elf would have chosen to display, and he was suddenly aware of a great conflict battling inside his friend.

"Legolas?" he asked, glancing quickly at the dark shape that was the object of the Elf's distress. Gollum was sheltered, half hidden, behind the boats on the shore, seemingly unaware of the Fellowship standing not six metres away. Aragorn could hear the quiet movements of its feet as it shifted in the mud of the bank.

The Elf stiffened at the sound of Aragorn's voice, and a slight tremor shook his hold on the bow. Then Legolas turned, lowering his bow and dropping his gaze.

"I cannot, Aragorn," he whispered so quietly that the Ranger barely heard. "I cannot trust myself not to kill it."

Aragorn was stunned, seeing perhaps for the first time how deeply his friend had been affected by the deaths in Mirkwood this creature had caused. He should never have forced such a responsibility upon the Elf, yet could trust no one else to hit such a target in the dark and the rain without killing the creature.

Someone shifted a foot, one of the Hobbits, though he could not detect which one. The black shape on the bank stiffened instantly, frozen to the spot. Aragorn could see it was ready to flee, and knew he could not let that happen. As Gollum sprang into motion, Aragorn fitted an arrow to his bow and fired. There was a screech from the black shape as it fell, then a splash and muttered curses from the water's edge.

With frantic speed Aragorn rushed forwards with Faramir and Gimli, leaving Legolas standing wide-eyed on the bank. In the shallows Gollum was thrashing to be free of the arrow that had pinned him to the earth. Falling to his knees in the dark water Aragorn was surprised see that there was no blood upon the pale flesh, nor a wound of any kind. Grasping the arrow shaft in the midst of Gollum spitting curses and struggling, he saw with wonder that his arrow had not injured the creature in any way, only stuck in the dirty cloth that was the only garment Gollum wore, and entrenched itself in the mud of the bank!

Gimli lunged forward, attempting to grab the creature around the neck, but Gollum evaded his touch, squirming away with a screech and leaving Gimli floundering in the mud.

"His arms, Faramir, quickly!" Aragorn moved with a swiftness that surprised Gollum, and he managed to catch a hold of one of the flailing arms before he could twist away. There was a tearing sound as the cloth stuck by the arrow tore free.

Gollum splashed to his feet, trying to wrench himself out of his captor's hold. The pale skin was slippery beneath his fingers and Aragorn felt himself losing his grip. He yanked on the arm, so that Gollum lost his footing and fell face first into the water.

Then Faramir was able to catch hold of Gollum's other arm, though the creature struggled violently, trying to strike out at the men who held him. Aragorn tightened his grip. He was determined not to let Gollum escape now they had him. He well remembered the last time he had pursued Gollum almost to Mordor itself in order to capture him. He had no desire for another such chase.

Nodding to Faramir to follow his lead, Aragorn hauled on Gollum's arm as he stood. Dragging the creature between them they moved to higher ground, followed by the disgruntled and very wet Dwarf.

Under normal circumstances Aragorn would have expected an amusing comment from Legolas on Gimli's appearance, but the Elf had not seemed to notice his stout friend, and had eyes only for the creature.

Looking up at the startled faces of his companions Aragorn felt a sudden surge of helplessness. What were they to do now? For safety's sake they could not let Gollum go free from here, yet taking him with the Fellowship would be near impossible.

"We need rope," he managed to say, breaking the others out of their stupor.

Sam jumped. "I knew it would come in handy!" he exclaimed. He went to his pack and rummaged inside for a moment.

Aragorn felt Gollum twisting within his grasp, and shared a dark glance with Faramir as they struggled to restrain him.

Gimli, after brushing himself off thoroughly, had now recovered his dignity and was quite ready for the next challenge. "Here, Master Samwise, this is the job for a Dwarf!

We Dwarves, it is needless to say," he remarked as he took the elven rope from the Hobbit, "excel at tying knots!"

Aragorn grimaced at the scream of fear Gollum gave as they tried to bring his arms together behind him. The wretched creature seemed so small and weak surrounded by the tall figures of the two men and the stout Dwarf that Aragorn almost pitied his fear.

Gimli pulled the rope tight, and almost immediately Gollum went slack in their grasp, and began a constant whine that continued on into the silence. Aragorn was not careless enough, however, to fall for this ploy and he gripped the creature's arm tighter still.

His eyes wandered to Legolas, where the Elf stood slightly back from them. For once Aragorn could not read the Elf's features and he wished he then had the time to speak alone with his friend.

Gimli seemed to sense this, pulling slightly in the cord attached to Gollum's hands. "I will take care of this while you three bring in the boats. We have had quite enough visitors for one night."

Aragorn gave Gimli a grateful nod, relieved that he could leave Gollum in dependable hands.

Motioning to Legolas and Faramir he moved back down to the shore, picking his way over the treacherous ground.

When he reached the boats he stopped, waiting with his back turned and one hand resting on the prow of the nearest vessel. He noted with some annoyance that the boats were gathering water with all the rain that had fallen.

Legolas and Faramir appeared beside him soon after, and before Aragorn could speak Faramir asked, "What will you do?"

Aragorn sighed, unsure, and flashed a worried glance at Leoglas. The Elf returned the gaze steadily but said nothing.

Faramir had perceived the uncomfortable tension between the two friends and changed his line of questioning. "Do you think the appearance of the Nazgul is related to Gollum's presence?"

Aragorn nodded and said darkly, "Perhaps. And I see your point. We cannot let him go free from here." He saw his own fears reflected in the eyes of his friends. There was no way now that they could risk freeing Gollum. It was too dangerous. They could not be sure whether Gollum was in league with the enemy, revealing their location to others who might watch. Had the Nazgul's sudden appearance been just a coincidence?

Once again silence fell and the tension grew between them.

"What say you, Legolas?" Aragorn asked, feeling irritated that his friend would neither support his judgement nor reveal his fears.

Legolas glared at him, and there was sad determination in his eyes. After a long moment the Elf spoke, "You know what I would say, Aragorn. I would council you to destroy the creature now and rid us of this threat."

"He is defenceless in our hands," Faramir said, "surely it would be better to wait and understand more of our enemy than kill out of fear."

He felt Legolas stiffen beside him The Elf's eyes darkened and Aragorn knew he had taken Faramir's words as an insult to his pride. "I am not afraid." he hissed, angrily.

"Then why condemn a piteous creature so swiftly to death?"

"Piteous?" Legolas spat. "You pity him?"

Aragorn heard the exasperated sigh and knew the Elf was riled by more than anger. Legolas' mind was with those who had died that night in Mirwood protecting this creature. He was afraid the Fellowship might face the same fate if they kept Gollum with them. His fear for their safety mixed with his pride quickly turned to bitterness "Tell me, 'Captain' Faramir," he asked, using the title as a slur, "what would be your judgement if an enemy spy infiltrated Gondor's refuge? You would kill him, and do not deny it!"

"I would not wish to deny it," Faramir answered coolly, and Aragorn saw that the man's stoic control of his emotions further irritated the Elf. "But I do not kill in haste or without reason."

Aragorn decided to stop the situation before it escalated. "We will decide nothing until I have spoken to the others," he said glancing sternly at both of them, as if daring them to protest. Then he spoke more quietly, his voice betraying his weariness, "It is a dark night for such decisions. We will see what light the new day may bring upon our problem."

Faramir looked ashamed, having heard the exhaustion in Aragorn's voice. His face, that had been intense during the argument, darkened to the blank expression of the past days. He looked as tired as Aragorn felt.

Aragorn turned his back to them both, not missing the angry hurt still blazing in Legolas' eyes. He had quite forgotten their purpose in going down to the shore, and would have left the boats where they were. But as he turned he stopped short, finding Frodo standing before him.

"Frodo!" he began. But the Hobbit interrupted him.

"You cannot kill Gollum, Aragorn. You cannot!"

The night progressed slowly, and Legolas watched the dawn with quiet anger that burned within him. The red light growing on the horizon was very like his own frustration, eager to vent itself yet unable to do so.

His body felt stiff, and his back ached from lying on the hard ground. It was not like him to feel so wretched! And he could not help but feel angry at Aragorn for putting his mind to such unrest. It was Aragorn's duty to make decisions for them, but his friend had not heeded his advise and he felt betrayed. His mind admonished him for blaming Aragorn, but his own pride seethed with hurt.

Behind him he could here the quiet snores of one of the Hobbits, and Gimli's animal-like snorts. He would have smiled, but his heart felt heavy with the knowledge that the creature for who his friends had died was sharing camp with them.

Gollum seemed to be asleep, though Legolas did not trust the creature enough to check. He could not see the pale, haunted eyes, though knew that Gollum was most likely awake, waiting for an opportunity to escape.

Legolas could not understand Aragorn's reasoning. Surely they could not take the creature with them! With the boats it would be near impossible.

He looked up at the sky, hoping to gather some serenity from the stars. But dark rain clouds, that even the moon could not penetrate, blackened the sky.

There was a noise close by, and at first Legolas thought it was one of the others talking in their sleep. But the sound came again and this time he could make out the words.

"It burnss. It burns, it doess."

Legolas sprang quickly to his feet, wincing as he forced his sore body into action.

"Take it off, preciouss." The voice came again, and this time Legolas caught a flash of pale light as the two moon-like eyes glanced in his direction.

Legolas realised he was less angry than he thought he'd be at the sound of that familiar voice. There was such sadness in it that he could understand why others had pitied him. He looked down at the cowering creature, overwhelmed by mixed emotions.

"Nice Elf," Gollum said tentatively, looking up into Legolas' eyes pleadingly. "be nice to us and take it off. We won't run, precious, no..."

Legolas shuddered at Gollum's fawning gaze and turned his back, blocking his ears to the pleading voice.

"It is cruel to keep him like this," a voice from beside him said. The Elf recognised Merry's voice and did not turn. "At the Council we were told he was like a Hobbit once."

"What choice do we have?" Legolas asked more angrily than he meant to be, "Would you have it kill Frodo for what it seeks?"

There was a stunned silence, and Legolas closed his eyes, regretting he had spoken at all. Then he turned around and grasped the Hobbit's shoulder in a way he hoped was comforting.

"Forgive me, Merry. I spoke in haste. You are right to be compassionate." He could see Merry' eyes shining with confusion and fear. He cursed himself for being so callous. "I am tired and full of fear for what lies ahead," he began, "All creatures deserve a chance to prove themselves, however wretched."

But Legolas knew Gollum had already had his chance, and destroyed it when he ran and let the woodelves die for him.

"Legolas?" Aragorn's voice startled them. "Merry? What are you doing awake? I was sure it was Sam's watch."

"I told Sam I could not sleep," Legolas said, feeling Aragorn's gaze boring into him. "I have taken his watch."

"You need rest, Legolas," Aragorn said sternly, "You may not think it, but..."

"I know my own strength." Legolas interrupted angrily, feeling his frustration rise as Aragorn thought to give him advise. If Aragorn did not listen to advise, why should he?

Then he felt a rush of tiredness, and saw how childishly he was behaving. He sighed deeply, and searched inside himself for the strength to appear unaffected.

"We should move on as soon as it is light," Aragorn said, glancing down at Merry reasuringly. "We will carry the boats for some distance, until we have made sure we are not being pursude."

Legolas glanced down at Gollum, wondering at Aragorn's decision on that matter.

He heard his friend sigh, "We will take Gollum with us."

Legolas looked away, clenching his fist in anger. Gollum would bring them into danger, he knew it! Why did Aragorn not see it?

Chapter 33 - Heavy burdens

The light of the midday sun shone in Merry's eyes as he walked, dodging behind the trees for a moment before blinding him once more. His legs were numb with walking, and his back stiff and sore with the seemingly endless load they transported from the lower slopes of the western shore to the rise above the rapids.

The trouble with this part of their journey, he had decided, was that the boats, while light enough for the Hobbits to bear on flat land, were a dangerous burden to them on a slope.

The Fellowship's second trouble came from Gollum. He was a slippery creature, and more than once had he attempted to escape his watchful guardians. But Gimli had taken it upon himself to watch over the creature, and beneath the Dwarf's fiery gaze Gollum's whining had shrunk into obedience.

This, it seemed, had pushed Legolas to scout ahead and escape the company of the creature he so fervently disliked.

Merry was not sure whether he understood Legolas' feelings. There was certainly a sly air about Gollum that spoke of deception and wickedness, but there seemed also to be a part of the pale creature that deserved pity.

Legolas was now nowhere to be seen. At times Merry had thought he caught glimpses of the Elf's golden hair through the thin trees, but he could never be sure.

He sighed, frustrated once more, and shrugged his shoulders to even out his burden. With Aragorn and Faramir carrying the boats, one by one up the hill, the hobbits had been left to shoulder much of the supplies and belongings of the Fellowship.

Behind him Pippin was thrilled to be carrying Faramir's bow. It stood a foot taller than the Hobbit and Merry would have laughed were it not for the solemness with which his cousin took to the task.

He had been worried about Pippin for a long time now, sensing a building anxiety within his friend that would, he felt sure, come to a head close in the future.

Merry himself was carrying some of Aragorn's belongings, and even when divided between Sam, Frodo and himself, the load was astoundingly heavy. He marvelled at how the man could have carried it so far without complaint of the back-ache he himself was already beginning to feel. And remarked as much to the man as he drew level with the boat.

Panting, he gathered his breath, "I cannot understand how you carry all this!"

Aragorn looked down at him amusedly, raising an eyebrow to the comparatively small portion Merry was supporting. "It is all in the shoulders," he said, hefting the boat into a more comfortable position.

As Merry looked up at him, he noted the darkness of the other's eyes, and with further scrutiny picked out the slight limp with which the Ranger moved. It was obvious the weight of the boats was taking a larger toll on the man than he would show.

"I have never seen such strength before," Merry exclaimed, attempting to distract the man from his arduous task.

"Believe me, my friend," Aragorn replied, "Rangers are little known for their strength, but rather for their stealth and intelligence, is that not so Faramir?"

Merry glanced back at Faramir for his answer. The young man's face was creased in strain, and again Merry saw the similarities between him and Aragorn.

"Aye, it is as you say," he nodded, shifting the weight on his shoulder. "Were you to come to Minas Tirith, Merry, you would see warriors taller and stronger than any you could imagine. My brother..."

Merry glanced back at the sudden pause in the light conversation, and saw that the young man's eyes had misted over in recollection.

There was a long silence in which he hesitated to speak. He glanced up at Aragorn, who always seemed to have the right answers, and found the man searching his own face for what had happened. The silence continued, and only the tread of their feet on the slippery ground, and the low conversation of the three Hobbits behind, disturbed the peace.

"Can you see ahead, Merry?" Aragorn asked at last, causing Merry to jump slightly, "Legolas should have returned with news of the path we are to travel."

Merry looked up, scanning the skyline for any sign of Legolas. He gasped at what he saw, though it was not the Elf who had caused his surprise. To the left, through the trees, the river was foaming on the banks, pushing and shoving to crowd into the channel formed by the great pillars of stone on either bank. And the pillars were carved into the shape of two great figures of men, standing high and proud above the landscape, palms outstretched as if to ward away enemies from their mighty land.

He heard Aragorn sigh, "The pillars of the Kings, the Argornath. Long I have desired to look upon this place."

And as they continued on, the great sentinels rising every moment of the horizon, majestic and somehow threatening in their grandeur, Merry looked up at the silent Ranger who walked by his side. And he saw not the ragged stranger whose dark eyes had first fixed upon them at the Prancing Pony. This was Aragorn uncloaked. There was a strange look in his eyes, and even as his back bent beneath the weight of the Elvish boat, he grew taller and the wisdom he had gained in years of exile revealed itself in his eyes. And Merry thought, as they passed the crest of the rise and stood for a moment looking down, that the sun glanced upon his dark head, and that there was a white star upon his brow. But the moment passed, and the clouds drifted across the sun.

Below them Merry could make out the figure of Legolas in a small clearing. He was turned from them, and Merry could almost feel the alertness of the Elf's senses, even at such a distance. His body was tall, and the bow he held did not waver.

As they began their decent the Elf turned and jogged lightly up the hill to meet them.

"I have looked ahead, Aragorn," he said when he reached them. He said nothing more, but his countenance was dark.

Aragorn looked at him gravely, "What have you discovered?"

"There is nothing to be seen," the Elf replied hesitantly, "and yet I feel there is something amiss. The trees are unusually silent, as though they are afraid."

"We should not forget that your bow-work a few nights before brought down an evil upon these hills, a remnant of that evil may remain on this shore."

The Elf and the Ranger shared a dark look, and Merry felt excluded from their confidence. He thought it might be better if he hung back and walked beside Faramir or one of his fellow Hobbits, but at that moment Legolas spoke to him, "Are you well, Merry"

"Quite well," he assured the Elf, "but how long will it take to bring the other two boats to this place, and then where will we rest? The bank here is muddy."

"Fear not," Aragorn said, "it is not yet midday, and if fortune shines upon us we shall be through the Argornath before dark, I would not brave that great chasm at night."

"And which boat will carry Gollum?"

Legolas visibly flinched, and upon seeing Aragorn's eyes darken, Merry felt ashamed he had asked the question.

Without hesitating Aragorn answered, "Frodo and Sam will travel with Legolas, Gollum can be taken in my boat."

Merry nodded silently, trying not to notice the strain this decision was putting on the friendship of his companions. If this went on, he thought, the Fellowship would be weak and vulnerable if placed in any tight situations. Their loyalty and unquestioning devotion to Aragorn had enabled them to escape Caradhras and Moria, without it their Fellowship would be broken.

It did not take as long as Merry had thought it would to transport the two remaining boats and the rest of the baggage to the clearing beneath the pillars of the kings. They were to launch their boats immediately, for the sun was sinking swiftly, and Aragorn, it seemed, feared to make the journey in Darkness.

Keeping the middle of the stream was a harder task than any of them had expected, for the water, although clear, rushed swiftly towards the chasm beneath the great pillars, and it took all the strength of Faramir, Pippin and Merry himself to guide the boat safely.

As the passed beneath the tall stone men they bowed their heads. A sense of the greatness of these men, and of those who had created their likenesses came over them, and they were humbled beneath their stony shadows.

Then they passed into the chasm, and all was darkness and rushing water. Merry wondered whether they would ever return to the sunlit land, and was beginning to fear that they were trapped within an endless whirlpool. It was then he realised he could not swim. Swimming was not high on a Hobbit's list of important things to learn, though now Merry regretted he had not taken to the Brandywine and learnt before it was too late.

And then, just as his despair began to choke him, the boat shot out of the chasm and they were in the sun once more. They were now cruising upon an open lake, and the sun, that was shining pink from the midst of dark clouds, gave the whole place a rather romantic atmosphere.

"Faramir," Pippin asked quietly, his curiosity obviously defeating his reluctance to disturb the silence. "Who were the men carved from stone back there?"

"They are the likenesses of Isildur and Anárion," Faramir told them, and Merry deemed his clear voice perfect for telling tales of old, for he could hear the reverence with which the young man spoke. "They are Aragorn's ancestors, and were the founders of Minas Tirith, which was then called Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun."

Pippin was strangely silent for a moment as Faramir steered the boat to the western bank, then he smiled, "I thought I recognised that frown. Aragorn certainly takes after his ancestors!"

"Watch your tongue, little Hobbit," Gimli growled from the other boat, "I would not wish our very own king of old to capsize this flimsy boat in his wrath."

The shore seemed solid enough even after the days of rain. The boats were drawn up and set half in, half out, of the water so that they were ready in case of a quick departure.

And then the Fellowship moved under the cover of the trees and gazed around at each other. They had come to it, though no one had really the courage to mention the decision they would now make. Even Merry himself was startlingly clear about the dangers ahead. Thought, he thought, at least my choice is simple. I began this quest to help Frodo to the end and nothing has changed. For Pippin, though, he could not speak. This saddened Merry, and frightening him to think his cousin had a different resolution in mind. His loyalty and feeling of debt towards Faramir was strong, and Merry sensed Pippin's determination more keenly every day.

"It is a hard choice," Gimli said at last, speaking for them all. "And it is hard that the final decision should lay with but one of us." Eyes turned to Frodo, and Merry saw his cousin tense. "But I say bad weather is coming, by the looks of those clouds, and whatever decision is made I am sure we will all stand by it."

"I know that haste is needed," Frodo said, his voice strained so much that it pained Merry to hear it, "But I cannot decide, not yet. Give me an hour, and I will speak. Let me be alone."

Some nodded, but Merry felt as though a hand was tightening around his heart as he gazed around the circle and found the bright, moon-like eyes of Gollum to be fixed on Frodo. There was malice there, and greed, and Merry cringed in fear. The clouds swept over the moon.

They sat in silence. Waiting...

By Merry's reckoning Frodo had been gone quite a long time. He was sitting against the trunk of a thin tree, Pippin by his side. Sam was pacing restlessly by their feet, muttering to himself. Down on the shore, Aragorn spoke quietly with Legolas, every so often glancing up at the trees at their backs.

"We should not have let him go on his own," Gimli grunted to Faramir, hefting his axe in his palm. "It was most unwise."

"Frodo needed time alone to think," Faramir responded calmly, "it is a perilous decision."

The Dwarf grunted, then sighed, "Aye, I suppose you are right. And who would not need solitude with those eyes fixed on every moment."

Merry followed Gimli's gaze to Gollum. The creature's rope had been secured to a tree some distance away, and still Merry was unnerved by the pitiful stare those large eyes bestowed upon him.

"I still feel it is cruel to keep him like this," he muttered.

"Some things just have to be done," Faramir said, "for the greater good."

Merry was not sure if Faramir believed this to be true himself, for the Hobbit could see that even as he said the words he was questioning their truth. But Merry could find some little comfort in the thought. There had to be a way to justify imprisoning a poor creature, for surely Aragorn had never made a wrong or an immoral decision in the past.

As though he had heard Merry's thoughts, Aragorn walked up to them at that very moment. "It is long since Frodo departed, he said, his darkened eyes revealing his troubled thoughts, "The hour has passed and still he has not returned."

"Should we search for him, then?" Gimli asked, bounding to his feet in his eagerness to do something.

"I will go," Aragorn said, "Ready the boats for our return."

"Are you so sure he will choose the road to Mordor?" Gimli asked, his face showing frustration at being ordered to stay.

"Frodo knows his duty to the quest," Faramir said, "He will make the right choice. I will come with you, Aragorn."

Aragorn nodded slowly, and Merry could see he was resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder to where Legolas was angrily watching them. Although Merry had not over heard their conversation, he easily comprehended the subject of their disagreement.

He glanced over to Gollum's tree, wondering if the creature knew just how much trouble he was causing within their company, and gasped. For a terrible moment he was unable to speak. His heart pounded horribly and he did not breath.

"He's gone!" he finally managed, "Look, look there! see?"

The others turned in bewilderment to the direction of his mortification. The rope Gollum had been tied too was frayed and lay abandoned beneath the tree, he was gone.

Frodo had wandered long, and had come at last to the top of a high hill. Rowan trees grew there, and upon a rock he seated himself, feeling the weight of his burden more heavily than ever. The wind blowing in his hair felt refreshing, as did the small drops of rain that splattered against his cheeks from above.

He knew he should go back, and that the others would be worried about him. He was also sure of his decision, which seemed strange to him after so long pondering the consequences of the choice he would have to make at this moment. But he had seen, as he left them, the eyes of his companions, and how his own fears were reflected in them. They were all afraid, it would be foolish not to be, but they all accepted his choice now as the only way.

So he stood, and looked out one last time over the valley. There was a dark mass below him, a patch of blackish leaves perhaps. And as he looked his heart quickened. They seemed to be moving. He shut his eyes, willing away his foolish thoughts and chastising his imagination. But when he opened his eyes they were still there, and now he could make out their true forms.

He bit back a startled cry and he began backing away from the crest of the hill. He knew he should run, but his eyes could not leave the forms of the black Orcs swarming towards the base of Amon Hen in great lines. The leaders were issuing orders, Frodo could see their plan all two clearly as the group split into two halves, each taking a side of the hill.

His foot struck something as he moved backwards, and again he stifled a cry. He felt himself tumbling backwards, rolling down the slippery slope. The fresh rain did not aid him in his plight, for again the ground was wet and slicked with mud as he tried to grab onto something.

His back struck hard rock, and he stopped rolling abruptly. He struggled to control his breathing, feeling all the aches of his newly pained body. Then he struggled to his feet, feeling his ankle twist painfully beneath him. With a great effort of will he was able to remain standing, and catching the scent of the terrible black creatures swarming towards his friends at that very moment, he began to run.

Branches reached out to grab and trip him as he passed, and the rain-soaked earth beneath his feet slid precariously with each step. His Elvish cloak felt heavy with the thick mud that clung to it from his fall, but he knew better than to cast it aside. It was his only hope to remain unseen till he could reach his friends.

His wet hair fell before his eyes, blinding him for a moment. And in that moment a think root of a tree slammed into his ankle and he fell once more. This time he could not even find the strength to look around him, and when he heard footsteps running in his direction all he could do was shiver and hope the magic of the elves would shine upon him, and that he would not be seen.

He cringed as the steps slowed to a walk close to him, and he reached his hand beneath him to clutch the ring. If it came to the worst, and he was discovered, he would put it on and disappear, even if it meant drawing the eye of Sauron in his direction.

A hand clamped down upon his shoulder.

Chapter 34 - Promises in blood

Frodo flinched as the firm grasp on his shoulder pulled him to the side, rolling him onto his back. His eyes were squeezed shut painfully tightly in fear, and although his mind screamed at him to move, to place the ring on his finger, to strike out, he could not. As his body was shifted by his attacker, cold rain splashed onto his upturned face and he gasped in shock at the sensation.

Then came an exclamation that was not his own. His eyes flew open.

"By the Valar, Frodo, I thought you dead!" Faramir's strong hands gripped both his shoulders, and Frodo felt them tremble in relief. Frodo let his head sink back onto the wet ground, relaxing now he knew it was a friend who had discovered him. He felt himself shaking, so sure had he been of his own death.

He could feel Faramir's eyes searching him frantically for injuries, yet somehow he could not speak to assure him there was none.

In a moment Faramir discovered this for himself, "Speak, Frodo, what has happened?"

Hearing the imploring tone in the words Frodo swallowed, calming himself enough to say, "I am well... but..." He closed his eyes, recalling the repulsive scent and sight of the black creatures coming towards them.

He shivered, as though with cold. But Faramir's body leaning over him was sheltering him from the chilling rain, and he knew his reaction to be one of fear and panic.

He felt himself pulled upwards into a strong embrace, and only then, with such strength in the arms supporting him, could he speak of his fear. "Orcs," he whispered into Faramir's damp shoulder, "They come from the west side of the hill... even now it may be too late to escape... They will find the ring."

Keen grey eyes searched his own, seeing the fear and doubt that lay within. "Nay, your warning has come in time, we will tell the others."

Frodo was pulled to his feet, and immediately his sore ankle collapsed under the pressure. He stifled a cry, fearing any noise would bring the Orcs over the hill towards them. Faramir caught his arm, preventing the fall, and Frodo leaned on his for a moment, cursing himself for his weakness.

A sudden rush of thoughts filled his mind. The river was far from here, and he too weak and slow to reach it before the Orcs came upon them. Faramir could not carry him, that would be too slow.

There was only one solution, then. His blood ran cold at the thought, but the throbbing of his injured limb restored his resolution, and he brought forth the ring upon his palm.

There was a dreadful silence as they both stared at the beautiful object. The rain fell hard upon them both, and Frodo could feel its chill soaking through to his skin. The ring seemed warm upon his palm, as though the blustering rain could not touch it. It was hard to see through its beauty to the malice that lay within.

At last Frodo tore his gaze away, pushing his hand towards Faramir.

"Take it!" he said, "take it to Sam."

Again, silence. Faramir had dropped to his knees before him, and when Frodo saw the dark look that had crept into his eyes he almost pulled his hand away, forgetting his resolution of a moment before.

A million questions attacked his muddled senses. The ring was his, his! Only he could protect it, only he had the right to possess it. No one else could be trusted!

But even as his mind was buffeted by doubt, his hand did not waver, and he knew that he could not now have pulled away. He watched the other with fear and trepidation. Long he had trusted and admired this man, was the ring so evil that it could corrupt so noble a spirit with one glance?

It seemed to Frodo, even as Faramir stretched out his hand to take the ring, that there was a struggle raging within him. The hand he had stretched forth for the ring trembled, and drew back slightly, and then Frodo saw the man's eyes return to a gentle grey. With a shuddering sigh Faramir turned his eyes away.

His fingers, so close to Frodo's own, reached forward and closed the Hobbit's hand about the ring.

Frodo caught Faramir's mumbled words as he rose to his feet, turning his back on the object of temptation, "If Minas Tirith is lost ere I return to her, so be it. I have made my choice."

Frodo did not know how to feel. Relieved, because in the darkness the ring had brought to Faramir's countenance he had seen the foolishness of his decision, yet fearful, for he knew now that the quest was his alone to complete, and that there was only one road from here.

"They are coming," Faramir said suddenly, and Frodo glanced up at the tree line above. "Quickly, hide behind that fallen tree."

Faramir's hand on his shoulder pushed him aside to the place where a large tree had crashed down sideways. It was spotted in green moss that appeared the same shade as his elven cloak. If they crouched down behind it, with their cloaks about them, there was a chance they would not be seen.

He reached a up hand for Faramir to join him, but the man had stepped backwards and taken his bow in hand. "I will draw them away," he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

But his heart cried out in protest, "No!"

At Frodo's desperate plea the man turned back to him "I made a promise to protect you and that which you carry, you would not ask my to break faith in this for my own safety?"

Frodo knew well now of the honour and pride of men, and that promises were not made lightly. He sighed, "No, but my heart would."

"Then listen not to your heart, and think only of duty. We may yet meet again." And he turned and was gone into the trees and the rain.

"Farewell," Frodo murmured, feeling that deep sadness that always accompanied thoughts of his future.

But his mournful contemplation was cut short and there was no more time to consider, for the voices of the Orcs were heard above him. Shouts echoed past his dulled hearing as Frodo threw himself behind the bough of the fallen tree. They were triumphant shouts, and they grew more distant as the violent wind tore their voices in another direction. Frodo could imagine them sighting the figure of the lone ranger on the hillside, and turning aside to give pursuit.

Frodo curled in on himself, trembling in guilt and fear. It was not right that such noble friends had to risk their lives to save him.

And from his small cocoon of swirling emotion he heard shouts of dying Orcs, and saw in his mind the blood that would fall from arrow wounds. He hoped, though knew somewhere inside that he was being optimistic, that the Orcs would be few in number, and that Faramir could kill them quickly and return to him. But the sheer volume of the Orc shouts betrayed his hope.

And then later, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, as to him time seemed an endless pool spinning in circles, there was silence. His own breathing was suddenly terribly loud, and every breath piled more fear to upon his already petrified heart. He would have preferred shouts of pain and suffering to this horrible, endless waiting.

And then there was laughter, and the sound brought tears to his eyes. He knew what the rasping sound meant, and grief and anger rose within him. He half thought to draw his sword and cut out their cruel throats, but the word sacrifice came to his mind, and he knew that if indeed the man had died to save him, he would make that sacrifice worthy.

And so came his chance, and he had to take it and bare the pain of his injury till he had reached the others. Using the slippery branch to help him stand, he did not look towards the Orcs, he did not want to see what they might do to the body, he turned back towards the river.

Suddenly he was blinded by a shape slamming into him. He was thrown backwards by the weight, and his head struck the trunk behind him, hard. Even through the pelting rain he could make out the figure of Gollum above him, and his breath froze as he felt clammy fingers groping at his throat.

"Keep off!" he cried, struggling to peel the fingers away with his right hand, but Gollum was strong, far stronger than he seemed. The rain slicked their hands and Frodo felt himself losing control.

At last the fingers forced through his grip and reached beneath his shirt. "We wantss it!" came the violent hiss, "give it to us!"

Then suddenly the hands stilled, and the light that flared within Gollum's pale eyes warned Frodo that he had little time to escape.

"Tricksy Hobbit!" Gollum cried, "Where is it, my preciouss, the nasty Baggins has stolen it!"

Frodo clenched his left fist ever tighter around the ring, and tried to shove Gollum's sickening weight from atop him. He would not loose this fight! He could not! The frog-like legs were curled about his own, pressing him down into the mud with incredible strength, and the fingers tearing violently at his were beginning to win in their quest.

Then Frodo realised his only way out. Gollum would chase him to the ends of the Earth to claim his 'precious,' he would follow him to Mordor itself. He did not know Aragorn's plans for the creature, but at this moment, squirming beneath the pale body, he could only see one solution.

Freeing his right hand from the tangle of limbs, he reached for his belt...

Holding his breath, he tried not to feel the blade pass through Gollum's chest, and the dreadful shudders that racked the slender form, tried not to hear the pitiful whine that pre- emanated death. But when the body became limp above him, and the head with its wretchedly pitiable eyes lolled upon his chest, staring sadly, desperately, he could no longer distance himself. The blood spreading from the wound soaked through his clothes, and it was too horribly real.

With sudden violence he shoved the body away from his own, and rolled to the side. His stomach heaved, and emptied itself to mingle with the blood and the muddy earth.

There was silence. But it was a cursed silence where the pale eyes, still open in death, stared sadly at him. At last he looked towards that pale body, he who had been the means of draining a living creature of its life and hope. It was so small and pathetic, curled in on itself and so very still. And Frodo felt a sob rise in his chest once more, but refrained from expressing his grief. In that body he saw himself, tormented beyond endurance by that which he carried, becoming only a shadow of despair.

Then he lay upon the ground, resting his cheek numbly on the cold earth, and his tears mingled with the rain until they became one.

"This is folly!" Gimli grunted for the third time, feeling frustration beyond belief heat his blood, despite the falling rain. "Something runs amiss with them, I know it!"

Legolas sighed, lifting another load of baggage to the boat, "I fear you speak the truth," he said, "but we can do nothing until Aragorn and Faramir return."

"I should never have left him," Sam chastised himself, "and at the worst possible time, too!"

Merry, who Gimli deemed as the least agitated of them all, said, "There is nothing to be done now, but wait. It is only Gollum that worries me."

Gimli felt his heart clench painfully, beneath his anger and frustration was a deep guilt that he had placed Frodo in danger. If only he had kept a sterner eye on that slithering creature! He glanced back over at the tree to which Gollum's rope was still attached, and watched angrily as it slid among the moving mud like a snake.

"There is no use in thinking of what might have been," Legolas said, as though reading his thoughts.

Gimli opened his mouth to speak a harsh retort to the Elf who always seemed to be able to see into his head, but the Elf was gone! Pushing the Hobbits silently out of sight Legolas already had an arrow to his bow. "Take your axe in hand, my friend," came the quiet words, "someone approaches."

Gimli was surprised, he had heard nothing! He felt a rush of gratitude to the Elf, how fortunate it was Legolas had remained with them! Then suddenly he realised what he was thinking and growled at the paradox that lately seemed to torment his mind when the Elf was near.

He knew enough of Aragorn to know little was done by chance, and it was by design that the Elf's senses had remained here to aid them. Moving his hand carefully to his axe hilt he felt its comforting weight. Whether enemy or friend he would be ready!

Whatever it was, it was taking no care to be silent, for even Gimli now could hear the pounding footsteps and the heavy breathing his Elven companion had before detected.

And then it crashed through the trees and out onto the bank.

"Mr Frodo!" Sam's cry was loud enough for them all, so surprised were they that the frantic sounds they had heard had emanated from Frodo. In his surprise, it took another moment for Gimli to notice Frodo's bedraggled appearance and paling features.

Legolas, with his sharp senses, saw almost at once and rushed to the Hobbit's side, catching him as he collapsed. Laying him gently on the ground the Elf removed his hands and gasped at the blood on his palms. Gimli was stunned, and his first thought was that Frodo had been stabbed.

Having come to the same conclusion Legolas quickly worked open Frodo's tunic with able fingers. Blood mingled with rain and mud, making the task of finding a wound difficult and confusing. Gimli stared confusedly at the amount of blood that seemed to have no source.

It was another tension-filled moment before Merry, who seemed to be level headed in a dire situation, discovered Sting clasped tightly in Frodo's hand and the puzzle of the blood was explained.

"But who has he attacked?" Pippin gasped, seeing perhaps for the first time, the amount of blood a dead body could expel.

"Who else could it be but that sneaker Gollum?" Sam asked incredulously, "that filthy creature must have tracked him down and tried to take the ring."

"The ring!" Gimli exclaimed, "Prey somebody search him for it! Perhaps Gollum was not killed, and is even now making off with his prize!" Gimli thought it strange that he felt no pang of mistrust as Legolas plied apart Frodo's fingers to reveal the golden circlet shining there, as innocent as ever. Perhaps, the Dwarf thought, this is proof that I have actually begun to trust that infuriating creature.

"Ai, it is well," Legolas exclaimed, "it seems we have won this battle."

Gimli recognised satisfaction mingled with relief in the Elf's voice, and realised that his companion was pleased by the fact that Gollum had been killed. Gimli frowned, this was a side to Legolas of which he had been surprised and worried. It did not seem in the Elf's nature to kill needlessly or hate without reason.

Pippin spoke up from behind them, "But where are Strider and Faramir?"

"I'm sure they'll be alright," Merry assured his friend as he knelt by Frodo and took the Hobbit's bloody hand in his, "They're probably just still looking for..."

Merry gasped as his Frodo's hand tightened around his, and Gimli bent forwards to hear Frodo's mumbled words. The Hobbit's face was tense in horror, and Gimli had never seen Frodo in such agitation, his heart began to fear that there was something far more sinister than the plotting of Gollum at work here.

Legolas slipped a hand beneath Frodo's shoulder for support, but Frodo did not seem to be fully aware of himself, and it was as though he was trapped in a painful dream. "Orcs..." he muttered, "orcs..."

Legolas glanced up at Gimli, eyes wide. Glancing back at Frodo Gimli saw the Hobbit's grip on his cousin's arm tighten.

"Where are Aragorn and Faramir?" Legolas probed gently, trying to disguise the urgency in his tone. Gimli held his breath, and tried to ignore the feeling that something terrible had happened. As a dwarf he did not believe in predicting the future.

Merry winced as his skin was bruised beneath the grip.

"Dead..." Frodo whispered and was still.

There was a shocked silence as everyone tried to accept the words. Gimli's first reaction was denial, "No," he growled, "no." His heart shouted that it could not be true, it could not! Surely they would have heard something, been able to do something! It could not end like this!

The stillness of the others was unnerving, and only the trembling of Legolas' hand betrayed the life that still ran through the other's limbs.

Then suddenly the Elf grabbed Frodo's shoulder, wringing a small moan from the unconscious Hobbit. "Frodo," he shook him slightly, "Frodo, where are they?"

Gimli reached forwards and placed a heavy hand on the Elf's shoulder, and to his horror felt it tremble. "He is gone, lad, we cannot wake him."

Legolas turned angry eyes up at the Dwarf, and Gimli saw perhaps more emotion there than he had ever betrayed. He felt his own face searched, and then the fire in the Elf's eyes diminished, and he sighed.

"Pippin!" Merry's voice was startlingly loud in the silence, and Gimli whipped his head around to see what had happened.

Merry's face was pale in "He has gone!"

Chapter 35 - Indecision

Aragorn wiped blood from his mouth with the back of a dirty sleeve. He stepped backwards, unconsciously berating himself for allowing the enemy to gain a foot. His hair, soaked with rain, hindered his sight, and his feet struggled to keep a grip on the muddy slope beneath his feet. He was distracted, his mind far from the battle with the Orcs before him. His mind tunnelled to Frodo, ill prepared for such an encounter, and to those left on the shore of the Anduin equally unaware that this black hoard of Orcs had surprised them from the opposite side of Amon Hen. The hill of sight! He almost laughed at the irony, he had been blind! His own sense of haste and tentative musings had brought this upon them.

Growling in frustration he raised his heavy sword arm for another bout. From every side the Orcs closed in, taking the place of those already slain. The dead were many, and Anduril shone a dull black against the falling sun.

He took a small step forward as though to engage the closest Orc in combat, but at the final moment he lunged to the side, taking another of the creatures off guard and thrusting his weapon through the dark gap left by the Orc's unprepared shield. Wrenching his blade out from the resisting flesh he felt the dead weight fall to join the black heap of the dead already lying in the mud at his feet.

Then the others were upon him and he was enveloped in a mass of black limbs and twisted weapons. Crying out in frustration as he struck at them, his sword found flesh more often than resistance. The shields the Orcs carried were heavy iron, splashed with red as a symbol of their dark master and his dominion, and although strong, they were cumbersome.

Aragorn knew well the weaknesses of mass produced armour. Between the arm and chest plates there were often weaknesses of which a carefully angled strike could pierce the black heart of an Orc. Yet Aragorn was in no mood to be careful or precise. His thoughts were as black as his enemy's skin, and his mood as foul as their stench.

His frustration at being separated and unable to aid his companions caused him agony of mind, and he had already sustained several blows to his arms and shoulder as a result of his straying thoughts. The rain splashed on his exposed skin and stung with its harsh touch.

Miscalculating another attack Aragorn stumbled as a heavy shield slammed into his side. He retained his balance, his feet slipping slightly on the muddied ground, yet felt the impact of the blow shoot up from his previously injured leg. Despite the rest in Lorien it still troubled him, and he had to lean his weight upon his other side to compensate. Striking out angrily at the Orc that was again attempting to throw him off his feet with its superior strength and bulk, Aragorn managed to sever the Orc's shield arm from the elbow. Black blood spattered his own arm and chest but he remained steady and thrust his sword into the side of the crippled Orc, felling him with one blow.

Turning back he realised with surprised relief that he was almost alone amid the circle of Sauron's dead creations. The orcs he could see through the trees would take a moment to reach him, and he took some of that time to steady his breath and wipe the sticky blood from the hilt of his sword.

Now he had time to choose his course he realised with yet more frustration that his attempt to aid the others would most likely result in him drawing more Orcs in their direction. Was his only purpose then, at this, the darkest moment of their quest, to stand aside and let fate take its course? How cruel that in his moment of trial he could do no more than abstain from bringing more danger to the paths of those he had vowed to protect! He clenched his fist and felt the wound he had sustained there tear and spill more blood upon the wet earth. The pain brought him back to himself.

'It doesn't seem like you somehow,' he could hear Sam saying in his mind, and Aragorn smiled slightly at the revelation. "No Sam, it would not do my character in credit in your eyes," he said under his breath, seeing now something he could do.

Frodo could be out there upon the slope somewhere, hiding until chance gave him an opportunity to move back to the shore. He could find him and guard him! Yet with archers hunting them he could in truth only bring Frodo into more danger. Would it be better to let Frodo make his own secret way back to the others?

Curse this indecision! He was to be a king, and a king with such indecisiveness would not last one day as a leader of men. Never before had he been so indecisive!

I will find him, he said at last, feeling tremendous relief of having finally a course of action. He turned his steps westwards, to the crest of Amon Hen.

"Pass that bag up here, Master Brandybuck. Quickly now, use those Hobbit muscles of yours." The Dwarf's tone was light, and his order meant to reassure, but Merry could feel nothing but empty shock. Pippin had left him. And he had not even had the chance to say farewell!

Numbly he lifted the bag and passed it with difficulty to the Dwarf who stood with his ankles in the dark waters of the Anduin. The sky was already dark, and no moon shone to light their task.

They had already laid the unconscious Frodo in the boat, and Sam sat with him now with his masters head resting on his knees. He was ashen faced, as was Merry felt himself to be.

Gimli had looked troubled ever since Legolas had left them in search of the others, promising to Merry that he would find Pippin and protect him. The Dwarf had tried to look confident for Merry's sake, but the Hobbit could easily see through the facade to the confusion beneath.

It all seemed like a dream. First Frodo had disappeared, then Aragorn and Faramir, now Legolas and Pippin. Although Frodo had returned to them his news had been a blow to each of them, Legolas most especially. And although the Hobbit could not resent the Elf for using Pippin as excuse to search for Aragorn, he was concerned that perhaps ill would come of it for others of their company.

Gimli ushered Merry into the boat, saying little. He seemed to be thinking deeply, and his brow was furrowed with anxious thought. When Merry had settled himself in the bow of the craft he handed him the paddle.

"Now you row hard, young Hobbit," Gimli said firmly, placing a strong hand on the Hobbits shoulder, "all the way to the other shore and do not stop for anything."

Merry opened his mouth in shock, surely the Dwarf was to accompany them! "Where are you going?" he stammered.

"The western shore is my road, young Hobbit, I see that now."

For a moment Merry thought he saw tears in the Dwarf's crinkled eyes, but then they were gone and once more glinting with determination.

"Wait for a while on the other side," Gimli advised, stepping backwards towards the shore, "some of us may follow. But keep out of sight!"

Merry heeded the warning and knew that the Dwarf was speaking directly to him. This was his time to prove his worth on this quest and he knew he must not fail, however much of his heart remained waiting for his cousin on the western bank.

The he remembered Pippin's words when they had escaped Moria, and knew that even as he took his charge of protecting Frodo on his quest, Pippin was endeavouring to repay the debt he felt towards Faramir.

And so they would part.

Gimli thrust the boat out into the lake with incredible strength, and Merry felt tears well up in his eyes and spill over onto the paddle he gripped tightly in his hands.

The darkness was a dense cloud about him as Legolas ran through the trees following what he hoped was Pippin's trail. There was no moon, and although he kept a keen eye out for signs that any of his companions had passed this way, he had so far discovered nothing.

His heart burnt in a keep panic that he kept trapped within himself. If he let it rise up to the surface he would be overwhelmed by grief or despair and he would lose the ability to focus on his surroundings.

Surely, he reasoned, Frodo had been in a great panic and agitation after his killing of Gollum, how could he have been sure of the death of his companions? In his mind this theory seemed sound, though his heart cried out that something black had tainted these woods, darker than any orc he had encountered this night. His arrow count was still fresh, though he had killed five of the black creatures in the distance he had travelled.

Glancing around through the darkened forest he was careful to check for any movement. There were archers among the Orcs, he knew, for he had found their arrows further back.

His eye suddenly caught something on the ground not far ahead, it was something pale for it shone out and caught his eye especially as nothing else had. He approached cautiously, squinting to make out the distorted object, and when he realised that it was a body he almost choked.

He had seen many dead, friends and enemies alike, but none had he ever wished dead so vehemently than this pale creature twisted and left rotting in the mud. He approached still, not knowing what possessed him to do so, and knelt beside the body of the one he had despised.

Gollum's face seemed so sad and innocent in death, and the eyes, animated and bright in life stared piteously at him now from the dead sockets. A dull sickness raged in his chest, and he felt terrible shame and remorse for every vengeful word, every thought in which he had denied this creature a second chance.

Reaching out he touched Gollum's shoulder and shuddered with the feeling of the dead cold skin. He whispered under his breath an apology, and felt the enormous inadequacy of his remorse. He saw now what Frodo had been trying to tell him, why Faramir and Merry had pitied Gollum for his misled past. The power of the ring had destroyed many lived, and Legolas saw now how his own hate and disgust for Gollum must have wounded Frodo deeply. Frodo saw Gollum as a vision for his own future, and his own scorn had made this image even more repellent.

He sighed, and stood, breathing anew. He had blundered, and knew it now keenly, yet he would not shelter beneath his shame. He would find the others and attempt to put things right once more.

He continued up the slope, shuddering at the feeling of those dead eyes that were still staring in his direction. He veered slightly to the right as he himself would have done if trying to lead an enemy away from the spot where Frodo lay hid. Orcs scattered the ground beneath his feet, white arrows of Lórien embedded in their chests and necks. He peered through the darkness ahead, his heat beating wildly. He knew either Aragorn or Faramir had been at this very spot, though he could not tell which because they had both carried arrows of Lórien is their quivers.

Frantically he searched the ground for any sign, and was dismayed to find dark arrows also, protruding from the ground with their tips buried in the earth. There had been Orc archers here too then, that did not bode well. As he himself knew well, the only sure defence against a flying arrow is a shield, and neither of his friends carried such a tool.

He moved forwards once more, and suddenly cried out as his foot slid on the slippery ground, and he had to scrabble backwards amid the mud to regain his balance. There was a drop directly before him, and he had not noticed it because of his intent perusal of the ground beneath his feet. He thought of Gimli for a moment and was relieved that the Dwarf was not there to observe such an amusing display of Elven grace.

Peering over cleft, Legolas' breath caught in his throat. In the slight moonlight that suddenly peeked out from beneath dark clouds he had caught sight of something that made his blood freeze.

Without consideration for his own safety he began scrabbling down the steep incline, his feet slipping down the muddy bank at a frightening speed. He landed on his knees at the bottom with a painful jolt, and scrambled on his knees to the body he had sighted from the top of the cliff.

Without knowing what he did, he hesitated. The man had his back to him, and with the dark hair and mud-caked cloak draped around the body Legolas could not tell whether it was Aragorn or Faramir he had discovered. Then he could stand it no longer, he grasped the shoulder that was turned from him and gently rolled the man upon his back. He gasped as his hand made contact with a large patch of sticky blood upon the shoulder, and felt a mixed rush of emotions as he beheld the pale face of Faramir. Legolas reached forward tentatively and felt the man's throat for a sign of life. The skin was cold beneath his fingers, but he felt the pulse was there. Legolas sighed, glad that he had come in time to prevent further bleeding. Faramir needed help, despite Legolas' minimal knowledge of healing he could see that much. Yet, he wondered, what evils would he cause by staying here. What if Aragorn were in more dire need of assistance? But looking down at the pale face beneath him he knew he could not leave Faramir's life to the mercy of fate, even if his heart cried out that Aragorn was in greater danger than he realised.

The pale light of the sky above the crest of Amon Hen emphasised the silhouetted monument that stood there, crumbling with years and battered by weather.

Aragorn approached the spot cautiously, checking each possible hiding place for signs of Frodo. The rain still splattered down upon his face and made his task difficult and tiresome. As of yet he had found no sign of any of his companions, and he was actually beginning to hope that they had escaped to the eastern shore before the orcs had discovered their presence. Perhaps Faramir had come across Frodo and brought him back to the boats, it was a possibility.

Aragorn squinted against the rain as he looked up to the dark building above. Perhaps Frodo had thought to hide himself on the roof. As he looked, his heart suddenly gave a jump as a black shape merged away from the silhouetted rock and stood facing him. It was no Hobbit.

Man sized it was, as far as he could tell, though he knew it was neither orc nor one of his companions. A sudden wave of dread washed over him and he almost cringed away in his fear. But knowing that he had been sighted and that there was nowhere to run, he stood firm, grasping Anduril tightly to contain the black hand that seemed to be tightening around his heart.

The figure upon Amon Hen moved once more, seeming to grow against the dark sky. A pale blade was in its armoured hand, and Aragorn recalled with a sickening horror their last encounter upon Amon Sûl when he had used fire to protect himself and the Hobbits. But he had no weapon now save his sword and his bow, and he had no doubt these would avail him little against such a foe.

"So," the voice from above spoke, "you have come at last."

Chapter 36 - Bitter rain

A shadow had fallen over Parth Galen, darker than the night's clouds. Aragorn now knew the source of that shadow, and looked up to the imposing Nazgûl with horror and awe. A wave of evil washed over him and almost enveloped him with its smothering cloak of fear. Yet he would now turn his back upon this meeting. He could not. There was nowhere to run, and turning away from his fear would only bring this black plague upon the rest of the company.

The black voice still hung on his dulled hearing, 'So you have come at last,' and he realised that the Nazgûl had been expecting him! He breathed deeply, not allowing his fear and horror blind him to fact that this creature could not read minds, nor could he even harm him further than the fetters on his dark master's desires allowed. The knowledge that he was equal to this dark king bolstered his spirits, and he gripped Andúril more tightly in his fist. Surely, as the dark minions of Sauron cowered beneath this terrifying leader, he, the heir of Isildur was stronger still. All the free people of Middle Earth stood at his back, and he was both the equal of elves, and the leader of men.

He stepped forwards, knowing that this confrontation had always been inevitable, though wishing it had come at a later hour. "You stand in my way," Aragorn said steadily, knowing that despite the distance between them the Wraith would hear his words. "I would look west, yet your foul darkness hinders my way." Aragorn's words were bold, and said with far more confidence that he felt.

"I sense your fear, king of Men," the Wraith hissed in anger, drawing nearer to the edge of the crumbling watchtower, its shadow looming over the place where Aragorn stood, "do not think to shelter behind your sharp tongue. Beware lest it cut your own throat, or that of your companions."

Aragorn felt his stomach tense, and a bitter taste rise at the back of his throat. He had been a fool not to already expect the dark king to have knowledge of the fellowship. Perhaps Frodo's body already lay at the feet of the Nazgûl, and the ring...

"You thought you were saving their miserable lives by facing me, did you not?" The Wraith laughed, a deep, horrible sound that cut through his mind like a blade. "I have waited long for this meeting, yet now I see the king of men is nothing more than a foolish child, weak because of his devotion to the living."

Again the Wraith laughed, and indeed Aragorn did feel like a child. His mind spun endlessly, repeating over and over the mistakes he had made that night. Frodo should not have been left alone, Gollum should have been more carefully guarded! Ai, what damage had his convoluted and indecisive mind caused?

The Nazgûl watched him silently, and Aragorn felt its enjoyment at the way his own guilt and confusion tortured him.

A sudden swell of rain whipped against his body, and he gasped at the sudden sensation. The Wraith seemed unmoved by the elements, but the startling touch of rain against his skin had awakened Aragorn to his situation. He suddenly wondered whether the Wraith really did hold something over him, or whether it was merely a lie spawned by the creature's forked tongue, and bolstered by false confidence and the knowledge that Aragorn would fear him. Perhaps the Nazgûl was merely playing with his loyalty and affection for his companions. Fear was a powerful enemy, and fear for loved ones perhaps the most deadly of all.

Aragorn felt the heavy cloud fear had formed upon his senses dissipate, and he realised also that in his haze of fear he had failed to notice the trees shifting behind him, and the black shapes of Orcs rimming the hill. He was surrounded.

"You may walk away from here free, if you wish it," the Wraith said quietly, its black form shrinking slightly against the sky.

Aragorn did not move. Anticipating the cruel choice, he had began frantically forming the possibility of the Wraith already having taken his companions captive. Choosing to save himself now would surely mean death to them. Could he take the risk the that the Nazgûl was lying?

Suddenly something dark and thin struck the earth close to Aragorn's feet. He steeled himself not to flinch from the object he had so often avoided in battle. He stooped to retrieve it, and raised it up, holding it gingerly between his fingers. It was an orc arrow, and the metal head glinted wickedly with fresh blood.

Raising his eyes to the dark king who had flung the arrow down to him, he realised that he had been given the assurance he had so desperately craved. The solid walls he had built as a defence for his mind crashed down around him. The blood was red, and freshly drawn, falling from the foul arrow-head to mingle with the rain splashing upon his shaking palms.

At that terrible moment there was a series of shouts behind him, and a familiar voice that turned Aragorn's blood to ice.

An Orc moved out from the circle of trees, dragging with him a small resisting figure brandishing a short sword. Blood spread from a small wound on the arm of the Orc who was holding the Hobbit, but he seemed not to have noticed the Halfling's attack. He was thrown forwards towards Aragorn, and the Orc retreated back a few paces, as though deeply afraid of his own captain.

"Aragorn!" Pippin cried upon seeing a familiar face, "forgive me, I never thought to..." The Hobbit trailed off, staring with horribly wide eyes over the Ranger's shoulder.

Aragorn turned his head slightly, clenching his fists in agitation at what he knew must follow. The Wraith had descended from the dark watch tower, and now stood only a few feet away. He could feel its evil more strongly now, and it seemed to permeate his clothes and skin and work its way into his bones like maggots. Pippin felt it too, and seemed frozen in horror at the sight of the black hooded figure.

Aragorn turned back upon the Wraith, feeling his face grow hot in anger and frustration. Pippin's appearance had cursed him with responsibility, the Nazgûl would utilise his affection for his companion. There was no hope.

"Would you not turn your back, king of Men?" the Wraith asked with such obvious pleasure that Aragorn's skin crawled at the sound.

He did not answer. There was nothing to say. Walking away from here would condemn Pippin to a painful death, and if he could do anything in his power to prevent that, so be it.

"This is not the Halfling," the Nazgûl murmured, circling the two figures with interest. "I see it in your face, and thus he is no use to me." The Wraith waved his hand to the Orcs a little behind Pippin, "kill him."

Aragorn stepped toward the dark king with frantic haste, failing to hide the panic from his eyes. "Do not kill the Hobbit," he said in a voice seemingly unlike his own. "he is nothing to you, or your master."

"And that is the reason he will die." the Wraith's voice was without emotion, and Aragorn knew he was loosing this fight.

Andúril fell from his grasp and struck the earth with a dull thud. He lowered himself to one knee, taking the blow to his pride without protest. "I will submit if he remains unharmed."

"No, Aragorn!" Pippin cried, fighting against the Orc who had grasped is arm. Aragorn cringed at the sound of the Hobbit's distress, but knew there was no other way.

The black sound of laughter echoed over the hill and left silence in its wake. "The king of men bends his knee before me!" the Nazgûl retrieved Andúril lifted it as though it were its own. "So be it, you come quietly and the Halfling lives."

Aragorn closed his eyes in relief, clasping his hand tightly around the arrow in his hand. Suddenly he turned, his eyes sweeping over Pippin in a search for injury. There was nothing but a few scrapes and bruises. Who then, had been injured by this arrow?

The Nazgûl had turned his back upon them, shouting orders to the orcs in the black speech that made even such black hearted creatures as they tremble in fear. "Curunír will enjoy matching his wits with your own," he said to Aragorn in passing. "Yet I am afraid you will lose this battle, king of Men."

Aragorn said nothing in reply, the reprieve granted on behalf of Pippin made him wary enough to sport no more words with the dark king.

"I will find your companion on the west bank, will I not?" The

Nazgûl ran an armored hand over Pippin's dirty cheek as he spoke, and Aragorn saw the Hobbit's face lose colour as the Black Breath began to take effect.

"Enjoy your swim," Pippin managed to murmur as the Wraith turned its back upon them, before slipping to the ground in a faint.

Aragorn felt heavy arms descend on his, and he was shoved onto his stomach. Peering up as far as his position allowed, he saw the metal boots of the wraith moving away from him through the bitter rain.

The trees were moving. Faramir could sense black shapes shifting and looming closer behind him. The Orcs were in pursuit, and he knew with a growing dread that stole his senses that the darkness of his surroundings meant he would not be able to distinguish the dark bodies of the Orcs from the trees. But he could hear them at his back, and that was all the more terrifying.

The glade in which he moved was enveloped in a tight shadow, darker and more stifling than the place in which he had bidden Frodo to hide himself and the ring... The ring! It taunted his senses still! His mind was slowed by a terrible feeling of loss, and even as he drew the Orcs away from the cursed object, it called to him with its sick promises to return and claim it for his own.

He shuddered. He knew now his own venerability to its evil. Even the very best intentions and dreams, a father's love, a country's salvation, were twisted into putrid desires by its evil. He knew well that a man with a more violent nature than his own would have killed to gain such a treasure. He could only breath his relief that each of the Fellowship had been strong enough to resist the temptation.

There was a sudden sound, and he threw himself to the ground almost without thinking. Wincing as his left knee struck hard rock he saw the black arrow strike the ground several metres in front of him. He barely breathed before another arrow from a different direction slammed into the earth to his left, spraying mud up from the ground like fireworks. Then he scrambled to his feet and bounded forwards, hoping desperately that he could bring himself out of range, if only for the moment he needed to take aim.

Steeling himself, he turned and raised his bow. Here perhaps he had the advantage over the Orcs. While a swordsman might have found himself riddled with arrows in this situation, Faramir's training as a ranger and archer in Ithilien

enabled him to determine the most probable position for an archer, and therefore anticipate the direction of attack.

The slight rise to his left struck him as a possible vantage point for an enemy archer, and he knew himself to be correct as the sound of bowstring being released. He stumbled backwards, gasping as the arrow embedded itself in the place he had been standing. He raised his own weapon, and felt the comforting weight of Orophin's bow in his sweaty palm as he drew back on the taught string. Ignoring the slight ache in his back from the wounds he had sustained in Moria, he slipped into the calm he needed to steady his aim.

The arrow flew straight, and was rewarded with a cry of agony. Hearing the Orc's body slump to the forest floor, Faramir did not allow himself a moment of relief. Squinting ahead into the dark trees he felt his blood rise at the dark shapes that moved towards him at a great pace. These were no archers, for they lacked stealth in their thunderous footfalls, and the dull sheen of metal through the trees revealed them to be soldiers.

White arrows pierced their skulls and throats as each revealed their position. It was no difficult task for Faramir to pick them off one by one as he would when staging an ambush in Ithilien. But when another black arrow found its mark in the body of an Orc close to his feet he knew himself to be the hunted, not the hunter.

The earth slipped precariously beneath his feet as he shuffled backwards, and the weight of his cloak, soaked with mud and rain hindered his movement as he sought to fire another arrow towards the next invisible foe. Suddenly he realised the ground behind him fell away sharply into the crest of a precipice. He had been so distracted by the orcs that he had not even sensed the danger before it was too late. Even as he leant his weight forwards and scrabbled in the mud with his free foot to retain his balance, the earth beneath his other foot began to shift and slide.

A noise invaded his panicked senses, and he barely had time to realise his peril before the arrow slammed into his shoulder, throwing off his already teetering balance. Pain flowered through him, and in that vague moment he realised he had been hit. Then he was falling, tumbling down the jagged slope. The world spun, and he barely felt the rocks and plants that tore at his reeling form. It was a seemingly endless tumble, in which his grasping limbs and clutching hands were only further battered for their trouble.

Then everything was still. Sucking in a shuddering breath, Faramir felt the shock in his mind slowly subside. And then there was only pain. He was on his side, and opening his eyes through the red haze of blood that clung there, he saw the thick black shaft still protruding from his shoulder. How it had not broken in the fall, he knew not, but somehow seeing it lodged deep in his own flesh made his body shake with nausea, and his mind reel out of the range of logical thought.

The sound that broke him from his haze of pain and delirium was that of footsteps. Someone was making their way down the slope towards him. He tried to roll onto his back in an attempt to see who was approaching him, but the movement sent more stabs of fire through his arm, and a dull ache to his head. His faint hope that is was Frodo come to find him was replaced by fear in the next moment, when he recalled that there was another orc lurking above somewhere, the one who had shot him...

He was left in doubt no longer, however, when the footsteps neared and the sound of heavy breathing grated upon his mind. Then an iron-shot boot slammed down upon his chest, ripping him onto his back with such violence that the arrow shaft shifted in the wound. Gasping for breath that would not come, he writhed beneath the crushing weight of the Orc's boot, struggling to regain some semblance of self control.

The Orc took one look at him, as far as Faramir could tell through blurry eyes, and called something course and insensible up the hill to another Orc who stood there. Faramir could not see far enough into the gloom to see the other creature, but it seemed to have retreated as the Orc above him turned back his attention to the man beneath him. The foot was lifted, and Faramir instinctively curled his body to the side. Violent coughing took hold of him, and in the midst of the haze through the jerking spurts of pain, he wondered how the Orc would kill him. He spared a thought for Frodo, and could only hope that the other Orc who had retreated had not discovered the Hobbit's hiding place.

His hand brushed against something as he gripped the edge of his cloak against the pain, and he recognised the sword gifted to him by Galadriel. He had lost his bow in the fall, but this one weapon might give him the chance to secure Frodo's safety.

The Orc's foot slammed into his back when he began to lie still once more. Gritting his teeth against the pain of moving, and of the impact of the Orc's metal boot, he grasped the hilt of his blade in his right hand and swung the blade behind him, into the Orc's unprotected ankle.

The blade went deep, and Faramir felt warm blood spilling onto his hand, before the Orc howled in pain, and ripped his leg away before Faramir could drive it deeper. It was not enough. The Orc would not die from this small wound, but perhaps the pain would drive away the thought of searching the area for other enemies.

Faramir hoped it was so, and struggling to keep the cries of pain from leaving him as the Orc roughly threw him on his back once more, he hoped also that his death would not be in vain, and that his father would take some pride in his son for dying in defence of his realm.

Then the Orc grasped the arrow-shaft and the pain as it was wrenched from his body rendered him senseless.

Faramir shuddered beneath Legolas' touch as he tentatively probed the bloodied wound upon the young man's shoulder.

It had been made by an arrow, he had discovered, and had thought, on first sight, that Faramir must have removed the arrow himself, or that it had been torn from the wound in his fall. But upon finding a streak of black blood upon Faramir's cloak, and discovering with dismay that the Ranger's wrists had been crudely bound together, Legolas knew the Orcs had not simply left the man to die.

This was black news, for it meant they would return for the body. Legolas sat back on his heels, clenching his jaw in agitation. He was no healer, and even from his perusal of Aragorn's skills, his own talent for the healing arts had remained minimal.

Dispite his lack of expertise he knew that loss of blood could be fatal, and from the torrent of sticky fluids that tainted the ground and his own hands a deep crimson, he knew his first task was to stop the bleeding. But he had nothing with which to work! All the baggage had been left upon the shore with Gimli and Hobbits.

For a moment he considered running for help, but with the thought that the orcs might at any moment return to carry off the body convinced him that he could not take that risk.

Taking his knife from his belt he bent over the body. With trembling fingers he placed the knife against the thin ropes binding Faramir's wrists and carefully severed the strands.

Then swallowing uncomfortably he looked to the shoulder injury. Helplessness rushed over him as he gazed at the gushing wound, and he felt the terrible inadequacy of his own skills.

He breathed deeply, and gently touched the torn leather of Faramir's jerkin, prying the breach in the material wider for a better view of the wound. Warm blood gushed over his fingers and he felt the man's body tense beneath him. Realising he would have to remove the barrier of the material, he reached for his knife.

Faramir's body suddenly jerked beneath his hand, and Legolas drew back in surprise and alarm. Gently laying his palm flat against Faramir's right shoulder he firmly pushed the trembling body back to the earth. The man's eyes suddenly flew open, and Legolas was surprised and disturbed by the depth of turmoil he saw staring back at him.

Again the body shifted beneath him, trying to dislodge the hands causing him such pain. Legolas winced as he held the shoulder to the ground, realising that Faramir likely thought him to be an Orc. Some dark memory seemed to be moving across Faramir's countenance

"Dartha ah enni," [stay with me] he murmured as he slid the knife into the thick leather, and began working it to one side. The stuff cut with relative ease, and it was the trembling of his own fingers, usually so firm and still on a bowstring, that truly impeded his movements.

He was almost through his task when Faramir's blood soaked hand gripped his own. Legolas looked down, startled, and was pleasantly surprised to see recognition in the pale face.

"Legolas?"

He grasped the weak hand and lowered it back to the other's chest. "I am here."

Chapter 37 - Nowhere to run

Leaves tickled his face as Merry crouched over his cousin's limp form. Sam hovered near by, his eyes showing the helpless Merry himself felt coursing through him.

Frodo's face was pale and streaked with blood and dirt. He looked so thin and drawn, and Merry used a clean edge of his cloak to brush away the worst of the stains, as though it could restore his cousin's health. He wondered at Frodo's bravery, and thought how he himself would not have had the courage to fight with Gollum and still keep the ring safe.

He felt another overwhelming rush of grief drown him with the thought of the last few hours. How could he ever hope to be as brave as his companions when he felt like crying over Pippin's departure?

"I should never have left him," Sam muttered for the twentieth time.

Merry sighed. They all had regrets, but dwelling on them would not right anything. As soon as Frodo woke they would have to move on a little way towards the rocky hills they could see behind them. Gimli had named them Emyn Muin, an impassable labyrinth of razor sharp rocks. Sounds inviting, Merry thought wryly.

The air seemed unnaturally silent around them, as though the orcs who had been hunting them on the western bank had taken a break in their destruction to eat morning tea. Yet Merry did not like the stillness, there was a sense on impending disaster in it that made his flesh creep.

He did not have long to wait before his supposition proved sound. Noises echoed from the far bank, and as Merry and Sam watched wide-eyed, they saw the stout form of Gimli emerge from the trees, holding aloft his axe.

Hope flowered through Merry at the appearance of a dear friend. The Dwarf's back was to them, and Sam stood to wave him over. All at once a flash of horror shot through Merry and he launched himself at Sam, knocking the other Hobbit to the ground with an exclamation. He shoved his hand over Sam's mouth, and listened.

A cry from Gimli... then the sound of axe hitting sword. The orcs had followed the Dwarf to the shore!

Sam managed to writhe out from Merry's restraining hands. "What are you doing!" he exclaimed, gasping air. Then he caught sight of the orcs and froze. Then glaring at Merry he hissed, "We have to help him!"

Merry buried his hands in the soft earth by his knees, his knuckles white against the dark ground. He was hesitating. His heart raged within him, screaming out the terrible betrayal it would be to abandon Gimli. But what could they, two Hobbits, do against an army of orcs? And they were on the other side of the river! Rowing across now would draw the enemy towards Frodo and the ring. There was no choice.

Sam had seen this too, though he was less willing than Merry to abandon his hope. "Surely," he hissed, "we can't just leave him!"

"We must!" Merry exclaimed, "what possible use could we be to him?" It hurt. Even saying it with so much conviction to Sam did not convince him that it was the right choice.

Sam's shoulders slumped as yet another regret was heaped upon them.

And so they sat and listened and cringed as the battle raged. Every moment Merry felt the guilt and betrayal swell within him, and he wondered whether he would ever forgive himself.

Finally there was silence, and they both dared to peek out over the bushes to the scene of battle.

The orcs had gone, disappearing back into the trees. Gimli was nowhere to be seen, and the two remaining boats had been smashed... Merry felt his heart plummet, for surely there was no way for the others to follow. They were now truly alone. Merry hoped with all his heart that the Dwarf's absence meant he had been taken alive. How could he live with himself if it was not so?

And then Merry seemed to hear the orcs barking orders to each other, yet it was strange, for they could not be seen on the far bank, which was a great distance from the three hobbits, and the wind was not blowing in their direction.

Sam was also glancing around them, trying to determine from whence the sounds originated. And then a groan was heard, and Sam was rushing to Frodo's side.

"Mr Frodo," he murmured, "Mr Frodo."

Merry was about to drop to his knees beside the others when the wind blew suddenly across his face, and a putrid smell reached him. He almost choked as the stench invaded his nostrils, and dropping to his knees he followed the direction of the wind with his eyes.

Grabbing onto Sam's hand he gestured to the rocky path-like area above them. The green bushes surrounding where they sat hid the area somewhat, but the dark shapes approaching were plain to see. These orcs were larger than any he had seen, even the ones from the mines of Moria seemed small in comparison. As Merry peered through a small gap in the branches he saw they they walked almost like men, without the bent, loping stride of those unaccustomed to living in caves. A recollection suddenly swept over him, and he was back in the caves beneath Caradhras with Legolas and Pippin. There had been an Orc there who resembled these creatures. High in stature, and marked on the face with the same white shape, like a hand.

After a moment of hopeless hesitation, Merry pulled at the tie of his cloak, and swept it off. Kneeling by the others he did his best to pull it over all three of them, hoping the orcs would simply pass by without noticing them.

But they were out of luck, for the sounds grew nearer, and Merry heard them speaking in their black language, arguing fiercely. He clenched his jaw, trying to contain the trembling of fear in his body. What would happen if they were found? If the orcs discovered Frodo was carrying the ring?

Merry peeked beneath the fold of the cloak that did not quite cover him, feeling the trembling of Sam's body pressed close to his. He almost jumped when his eyes met with the metal of an Orc's boot, standing not less than a metre away. Shutting his eyes he knew all he could do was hope.

His hearing became acute, and he heard every word spoken by the orcs, every shift of a boot on the rocks, every bird call. Bird call? That was how it had sounded, yet not quite…

The orcs had also quietened down, obviously disturbed by the strange sound, and with relief that made him dizzy Merry heard the Orc's foot move away from them and tread back up to the main group.

Then Frodo groaned before either he or Sam could stifle the sound. Merry held his breath, waiting for the cloak to be ripped off their backs. But the stampeding feet never came, and instead came a great cry from overhead. None of them could see what had made the sound, but the fearful coldness that gripped at their hearts and made them want to sink into the earth upon which they lay was more information than they needed. The Nazgûl had returned!

Frodo was gripping Sam's arm with white knuckles, and Merry knew how vulnerable they were from the air. But Merry remembered that the Wraith had relied rather upon smell than sight, and perhaps with the hoard of orcs so near to them their scent would be disguised.

And so it proved. Merry heard the great beat of wings recede and with it went the echoes of orc voices. After a moment of fearful waiting he dared to peek out from beneath the cloak, and gasped when he saw that the orcs had disappeared. They must have been frightened off by the Wraith's passing. He sighed, nodding to Sam who also breathed out in relief.

Then all at once the cloak was whipped from their body's and they were lying exposed beneath the hooded figure who stood above them

While it was no longer raining, the wind that blew across his body was bitterly cold and chilled Pippin's bones as he slowly awoke from unconsciousness.

His body ached as though he had been stepped upon by an Oliphant, and somewhere inside he felt that something was terribly wrong.

No sensible thought came to him, save a sense that something had crawled inside his body, like an ant in his clothes, yet somehow frighteningly deeper. It scared him more than the pains in his body and the lack of memory of where he was or how he had come here.

The wind swept over him again, slipping beneath his cloak and touching his skin like ice. He realised he was lying on his back on hard earth, and that there were sounds other than the wind. Voices, harsh and loud, grated upon his hearing and he opened his eyes.

The sight that met him was that of a nightmare. Silhouetted against the dark sky were the figures of orcs, their grotesque forms blots on the landscape. As far a Pippin could reckon from their surroundings, they had left the forests of Parth Gallen and were now crossing open plains. Pippin felt a sudden regret that he had not taken the chance to study maps in Rivendell as Frodo had done. Frodo... Had he been captured also? And the ring..?

He groaned as he shifted positions, feeling the aches of his cramped body, and that strange dark feeling inside him come to the fore. His hands were bound together in front of him, and he groaned again as he tried to manoeuvre his hands out of the tight ropes.

"Quietly, little Hobbit," a gruff voice said close to his ear.

Pippin jumped, and it took him a moment to recognise the familiar voice. When he did so he was shocked. "Gimli!"

"Aye," the Dwarf replied quietly. "Slowly now, you've taken a nasty bump on the head."

Pippin was absurdly comforted by the Dwarf's presence. Surely it would have been better if Gimli had been free, but the gruff creature had always shown such affection and protectiveness towards the Hobbits, Merry and himself especially, that it was a comfort to have him near.

He squirmed until he could see Gimli's face. The red beard was caked with dried mud, a fact that in any other situation might have been comical, but the Dwarf's eyes were more dark than Pippin had ever seen them.

"Is Legolas here too? And the others?" he whispered, taking to heart Gimli's warning to remain quiet.

"The Elf went looking for you, young Hobbit, yet it appears I have beaten him to the prize." Gimli tried to smile reassuringly, but failed miserably. "We have only Aragorn for company."

Pippin cringed. That blunder had been his alone. If it had not been for him Aragorn would have been free to fight his way out and would have escaped. The memories were flooding back to him now, and a cold wave of horror immersed him at the recollection of the Nazgul's hand brushing his cheek. Somewhere inside him that dark, cold feeling redoubled in intensity, and he shivered violently.

A moment later, or perhaps longer, for he seemed trapped in a void of fear of which time held no meaning, he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He jerked, then remembered that Gimli was beside him. He let out his breath in relief, suddenly feeling cold all over and tired beyond his strength.

"Sleep now," Gimli said. "We will be moving again soon, and you will need all your strength for the journey."

"Where are we going?" Pippin asked, closing his eyes slowly.

"To Isenguard."

The sky seemed to have shed all its tears, and Legolas felt relieved. The memory of the horrific struggle he had played out to bring Faramir's health back to the stage where he felt he could run to the shore for supplies and perhaps aid, was still fresh. The rain had swept over them the entire time, and even Legolas, who rarely felt the elements, had cursed the sky for its cruelty.

Legolas' cloak now flapped raggedly in the wind, the lower regions having been sacrificed in desperation to staunch the flow of blood. He was uneasy in his mind over leaving Faramir alone, but he had needed supplies, and the help of Aragorn, if he could find his friend. Memories of the anger in their parting rushed back to him, and he sorely regretted his selfish actions. He had been right to be cautious, yet dreadfully wrong in the way he had expressed his worries, turning to hate and dark thoughts above logic.

And then he had reached the shore, and found it deserted. He did not know what to think. One boat had gone, and several bundles of belongs gone with it. Surely this was a good sign. Frodo must have been taken to the eastern shore with one companion at the least. The ring was safe.. for now.

The other two boats had been smashed beyond recognition. Wooden shards and remnants of the once elegant Lorien crafts were splinted and strewn across the muddy shore. Bags left abandoned had been carelessly thrown to the earth, and Legolas picked amongst them, searching for food, and something with which he could bind Faramir's wound.

He found Aragorn's pack amongst the others, and cringed as his fears were confirmed. His friend had not returned, or perhaps had been prevented from doing so. He picked up the bag, perhaps more for sentimental value than from what it held. But as he rummaged inside he discovered a small package of healing plants, and thought perhaps they might be useful to ease Faramir's pain.

His own thoughts had turned quickly towards pursuit, and finding a sign of what had befallen the others of the fellowship. But he could do nothing with Faramir injured and weak. The selfishness of his thoughts nagged at him, but he could not help feeling frustrated over his situation.

He turned his back on the shore and plunged back into the trees. Perhaps he would return there later to search for a trail, but now he knew he must return to Faramir. It had been a great risk leaving him to fend for himself, however much the man had assured him he would be well.

Guilt stabbed deeply into him as he saw Faramir's dark pain filled gaze in his mind. The young man had plainly seen the way he itched to search for signs of the others, and he had given him to opportunity to do so. Legolas gritted his teeth together in agitation. Perhaps he should not have left the young man in his pretense to find supplies.

The empty feeling in his boot made him run all the faster, reminding him that his knife would do little to aid Faramir against their enemy. He had found Faramir's bow a few metres away from the Ranger's body, but he knew that with his shoulder barely usable a bow would be no protection.

Manoeuvring the bag to sit higher on his back he moved between the trees, attempting to place himself in relation to the place he had left Faramir. He sighted the precipice from the side long before he came to it. He was approaching from the east, and he could see the place where it began to rise. He remembered his panicked scramble down the steep decline, and winced as a sharp ache in his hip, that he had not known to be there, flared in pain at the memory.

Squinting into the growing darkness he endeavoured to distinguish the shape of the man against the tree by which he had left him. The silhouette of the gnarled trunk seemed almost to jump out at him in its loneliness, and Legolas felt a burning rush of fear flood over him. Where could he have gone! Surely in such a weakened state he could not be far! Unless the Orcs had come...

He thought to call out Faramir's name as he neared the place, but thought twice before doing so. If Orcs had come to take Faramir's body, the young man might have hid himself.

He swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat and considered for a moment. It was dark, and there were many shadowed places in which the man might have hidden.

Then a hand grabbed at his wrist, and he was almost jerked off his feet. He knew well the grasp of those fingers upon his own, for they had held him like a vice all through that long ordeal of removing the arrow head.

He dropped softly to his knees, pressing himself against the small niche in the wall as Faramir has done. He had no opportunity to express his relief at the other's safety, however, for the man pressed his hand over his lips as a gesture of silence.

Legolas was suddenly frightened by the intensity of Faramir's gaze, and by the white knuckles with which the man gripped Legolas' knife.

He opened his mouth in confusion but Faramir waved his good hand to cut him off. "Something draws near," he said, so low that Legolas barely caught the words. "Listen."

Legolas did listen, but heard nothing. He thought that perhaps Faramir was suffering from the effects of his injury, and had simply imagined the orcs returning. But the fact that the man had dragged himself all the way to the lower end of the precipice for an imagined fear seemed unbelievable. So he tried harder, and realised that his mind had been playing such havoc with his thoughts and fears that he had ignored his inner senses. So with a breath he forced himself to focus, and he felt it almost immediately. A dark creeping sensation touched him with such malevolence that he marvelled that he had not felt it sooner.

He looked to Faramir, and saw that the young man's face was white and ashen - as pale as when he had removed the arrow from his shoulder - and the blood upon it seemed dark against the unusual whiteness of the skin. Legolas knew his own face must look similar.

He had instinctively gripped his bow in his hand, though he knew not what hunted them. He only knew that it was no orc or wild creature. Only something with a will as dark as night could exude such evil, and only twice had Legolas felt the like of it before. Once, on a scouting trip to Northern Mirkwood, when he and he companions had passed by Dol Guildor, and once three nights before, when he had shot the Nazgul from the sky onto the western bank...

He heard Faramir gasp at the same instant as himself, and knew they had come to the same conclusion. He felt a fool that he had not understood sooner. He had felt the darkness of the place, and even warned Aragorn, yet had been too preoccupied to realise what it had meant!

And now... What hope was there for them if the Nazgul was hunting them like beasts? He knew now why his fears for Aragorn had been so vivid. In some part of his mind he had known! Yet he had not listened!

Then came the cry of the Nazgul, and it echoed over the whole of Parth Gallen, emanating fear and darkness. Legolas resisted the urge to press his hands over his sensitive ears to block out the foul sound, but he fingered his bow instead. He knew it was unlikely he would receive another chance to bring down the Wraith but he was determined to try.

Again the cry, then the black shape appeared above them, high up in the dark sky. Legolas endeavoured to sight the beast through the canopy of trees above them, but they were so dark against the similarly black sky that it was an impossible task.

And then it crossed the moon.

"There are two of them!" Faramir hissed.

"Nay," Legolas shook his head, his Elvish sight giving him the advantage over the man. "There is but one stead. But there are two Wraiths!"

Legolas resisted the urge to shudder as the beast flew above them. Then he realised something that turned his blood to ice. "The Hobbit's have crossed the river."

Faramir stared at him in horror.

Legolas shook his head, "There is nothing we can do. The Boats are destroyed."

Faramir leaned his head back against the dirt wall behind them, and if it were possible his face became paler still.

"Here," Legolas said, standing, "let me bear some of your weight down to firmer ground." He cringed as he watched Faramir struggling to his feet, stubbornly refusing aid. "Nay, I can manage."

"Why refuse aid when I offer it freely?" Legolas asked, frustration rising within him at the stubborn of the man.

"You once refused my aid..."

With amusement he had not felt at the time, Legolas recalled their first meeting, when Faramir had collided with him on the balcony in Imladris.

"Then 'twas you who had knocked me down, and a matter of principle to refuse aid."

Faramir laughed, and it seemed to Legolas that a great weight lifted from his mind at the sound. Or perhaps it was something that had stood between them for so long beginning to fall away.

"Are all elves so proud?" Faramir countered steadily, but he faltered in his step and Legolas caught his arm before he fell..

Legolas took care where he positioned his feet next as he considered his answer. He smiled suddenly and turned his head away, mumbling, "are all men so clumsy?"

If the light had been stronger Legolas was sure he would have seen Faramir blush. Evidently the son of the Steward had never before been accused of clumsiness. "What was it you said to your Elvish companions when I knocked you down?" Faramir asked as they reached the small clearing below the cliff.

Legolas smiled again. The thought of the question plaguing the man all the way from Rivendell, and of he being too proud or embarrassed to ask, was highly amusing.

Legolas regained a dignified silence, letting the young man stew a little longer as he helped him to sit with his back against the tree.

Then he dug into Aragorn's bag for a spare cloak, and felt a slight pain that he could do nothing for Aragorn until Faramir could travel. But promising himself that the next day he would devote himself to finding what had become of their other companions, he was able to focus again upon making them comfortable for what remained of the night.

"I will have to re-bandage your shoulder," Legolas said, removing the strips of cloth and setting them upon the green cloak.

"Legolas," Faramir muttered darkly, "do not think me a slow witted fool. I am still waiting for an answer!"

Legolas could not resist the smile that tugged at his lips, "I said that your clumsiness could equal that of a dwarf tripping over his own beard."

Chapter 38 - Trust

Sam fumbled with his blade, his shaking fingers finding no purchase on the weapon.

The cloaked figure had made no move to attack, but that was all the more suspicious regarding his sudden appearance.

"Keep back!" Merry cried, his success at drawing his sword having been more accomplished than Sam's had been. "Don't come any nearer."

The figure did not move, and it was only when Sam struggled to his feet, shrugging off the useless cloak that had failed to hide them, that the figure leaned forward, surveying Frodo's body over Sam's shoulder.

"Is your companion in need of healing?" the man asked (for it seemed from the voice that it was simply a man). The tone of voice was younger than Sam had expected, perhaps the age of Legolas had the Elf been a man, but the voice was less melodious, and possessed that strange quality Sam had heard in both Aragorn and Faramir at times. Something the coarse men at Bree had never shown.

Despite Sam's initial pleasant revelations about the stranger, he still had enough sense to question the man as to why he was wandering the forests of Amon Hen. "What's your business lurking about, then?" he spluttered with far less grace or appearance of intelligence than he had intended.

"Lurking?" the stranger repeated, and Sam imagined the man's brows rising in surprise beneath that dark hood. "I had expected to find a party of eight as welcome, not to have had the necessity to 'lurk' beneath the cover of trees to rescue three Halflings from an army of Orcs"

"Rescue?" Sam exclaimed, "Fat lot of good you were, hiding until the enemy were gone, twere the bird calls and the black rider that saved us."

"Those 'bird calls' were of my making, yet I expect no recompense for my services. I have been sent to aid you in your quest."

Sam resisted the urge to glace across at Merry. How did this man know of their mission?

Merry had the sense to look confused. "Quest? What do you mean?" But Sam could hear the restrained surprise and panic behind his tone.

"A quest that has brought you all the way from you comfort of your homes in the North. But tell me, where is the rest of your company? Two men, a Dwarf, an Elf, and one more of your kind, if I am not mistaken."

Sam was taken aback by the man's knowledge, and he took a moment to look him over more completely.

The man's cloak was a deep brown, not black as Sam had originally thought, and he carried nothing but a cloth bag and a tall staff. Sam immediately felt suspicion fill him. A man with a strange, compelling voice who carried a staff... Could this be some trick of Sauron or Saruman to persuade them into revealing the Ring?

"Show us your face," he demanded. "We would know who we're speaking to.."

Merry nodded his agreement.

"Certainly," the man said, lifting a hand to his hood.

Sam tried not to flinch at the sudden movement, his already strained senses jumping at every new revelation. He was surprised then by the plain appearance of the man. Yet what had he been expecting? A half man, half orc creature would have been less of a shock to him then than the ordinary man who now stood before them. His thin face and prominently sharp chin and nose, despite reminding Sam of an eagle, struck him as nothing unusual, and his brown eyes were simply that: brown. Sam considered for a moment as he met the expectant gaze of the stranger. Perhaps there was something to be weary of in this new meeting. If he had once told Faramir he resembled a wizard in the way he looked in to you and seemed to see what you were thinking, then this man was even more worthy of the description.

It was a long moment before Sam could tear his eyes away, and after he had done so he felt empty and confused.

"Well then," the man said at last. "Can you bear my appearance, or shall we stand on this bank staring at one another for what remains of the night?"

Merry jerked suddenly, as though woken from a dream. He glanced across at Sam before asking what was upon both their minds. "Why should we trust you?"

The man shrugged and said, "You have little choice, unless you fancy asking a wraith for his healing skills." There was little mirth in the statement, for Merry and Sam felt cold and confused with the thought of entrusting a stranger with Frodo, and the man himself seemed frustrated at the stubborn resistance of the two Hobbits.

He could have overpowered us by now, Sam thought. Perhaps this was an indication that he really meant them no harm.

"Come," the man said, holding out one arm in a gesture of peace and moving forward a step. "We will introduce ourselves and then perhaps you will allow me close enough to friend to tend his wounds. I have knowledge enough to guess two of your names... Frodo, Samwise.. and Peregrin perhaps..?"

Sam felt Merry stiffen beside him.

"I have come from a mutual friend. Gandalf the Grey has sent me to you. He would have come himself were it not for some pressing matters in the north."

"Gandalf!" Sam exclaimed before he could stop himself, his heart pounding with the mention of a name that inspired such images of steady direction.

"Yes, Gandalf, Mithrandir to some. I came in his place to do my duty as his kin. I am Radagast."

"How do we know you're not some spy of Saruman?" Merry asked, throwing a bucket of cold water over Sam's hopes. "The last time we saw him was when Saruman expulsed him from the cave beneath the mountain. Why, you could be Saruman himself, trying to snare us with fine words!"

The man laughed, surprising Sam and Merry. "You are suspicious creatures!" He shook his head in what seemed like despair. "Gandalf has told me many redeeming traits of your race - but this stubbornness, I have never seen the like of it before! I am beginning to wonder what I can say to convince you. That I have neither the power, nor the wish, to change my..." he ran a hand through his damp brown hair, "less than pleasing appearance, should show you that my aspirations do not reach that of Curuinir. But perhaps a message from my cousin would show you that I am indeed in earnest.. " Radagast hesitated slightly, seemingly unsure of who he should address. "He says to the Halfling Frodo to trust himself in this, and not to be swayed from his purpose. He also passes a warning to the youngest of the Hobbits, Peregrin, is it?" He turned to Merry.

"Merry," the Hobbit replied icily, his eyes flashing with hurt at the mention of his lost friend.

Radagast sighed at the anger he saw in Merry's gaze, and shifted his eyes to Sam for a moment, perhaps wondering which of the Hobbits would be easier to break through, Sam thought.

"Merry, then," he said turning back to the younger Hobbit. "Trust me but for little while, take my staff, hold a knife to my throat if it eases your mind, just give me the chance to prove my purpose in being here."

The sun had finally appeared behind the trees after a bitter struggle. It seemed to Faramir as though the forests would never see the light again.

Neither he nor Legolas had found much rest through the cold night. The damp ground beneath them had soaked into their clothes and chilled them to the skin. Despite the rain, the smell of blood choked him with its intensity and made his stomach turn with the thought of how much blood he had lost upon his cursed hill. More than this, however, was the uncertainly of what had become of their friends. Legolas' worry, breaking spasmodically through his usually stoic expression, was enough to convince Faramir that was something was seriously wrong.

The easy camaraderie of the night before had crumbled into a tense silence, and when the Elf spoke it was with an abrupt, cold tone that made Faramir feel even more at fault for their delay.

He trailed on the heels of the Elf now, feeling heavy in body and mind. They had not stopped in their search since day break, and still had made precious little in the way of progress.

Pressing a trembling hand over his aching shoulder he clenched his jaw against a wave of nausea. He had discovered it was advisable to relax during the frequent battering to his senses, rather than fight the sensation. No real friend had he to aid him in this ordeal, no soldier or ranger who had sworn by oath to follow him, and he would not have Legolas think him weaker still for delaying their progress more than he had already.

Some part of his mind was sure that Frodo, Sam and Merry, perhaps Gimli also, were safely upon the eastern side of the river, and the other almost choked him with concern for Aragorn and Pippin's plight, and whether his own injury would hinder them in providing the aid Legolas thought the others so urgently needed.

They had traipsed to the shore, and attempted to pick up a trail, but the rain of the day before had swept away the topsoil, and with it any hope of discovering tracks.

Legolas had then suggested that they climb to the summit of Amon Hen, and from there decide their next manoeuvre.

So now they struggled upwards, Faramir ever hindmost, knowing little awaited them at the top of the slope but another painful tramp down the other side.

He took a moment to catch his breath, leaning heavily against a tree before raising his eyes to the slope above. There was no sign of Legolas, and felt his heart quicken at the realisation that the Elf was so focused upon his task he might not even have noticed he had left the man behind. But he felt disorientated and weak, like a man who had spent weeks in a sick bed and was trying to learn to walk again.

He knew he should warn the Elf he was lagging behind once more, though found it somewhat difficult to suppress his nagging pride enough to do so. The previous hostility between them was not forgotten, and though he recognised it as a childish, nonsensical reaction, his pride railed against being pitied by the Elf.

"Legolas," he called at last, and receiving no answer but the soft whispering of branches, pushed himself unsteadily onto his own feet and struggled upwards once more.

His feet slip in the soft mud, and a strange worry seeped into his thoughts.. why had Legolas, with hearing ten times that of his own, failed to answer his call? He called out to the Elf twice more, then, almost stumbling, broke out of the trees and topped the rise.

Standing grey and proud against the dawn, the tower of Amon Hen loomed over the clearing.

His eyes darted quickly around the space as he struggled to catch his breath. It was not until he peered into the shadow of the stone monument that he caught sight of the Elf. He was kneeling, head bent over to gaze at something which he held clasped in his hands.

Faramir approached slowly, feeling the strange dread grow within him at the rigid posture and clenched jaw of the Elf. Legolas did not look up at his approach, and peering over the archer's shoulder Faramir could not restrain a gasp of surprise as he saw Andúril, a dull sheen of abandoned metal against the bloodied grass.

"He is wounded badly, Aragorn; he fades even as we speak." Gimli met the eyes of his friend with heavy doubt, "Is there nothing we can do?"

Aragorn pressed a bloodied hand over the pale cheek of the Hobbit and sighed, saying, "I do not know, Gimli. Truly I cannot think what has befallen him."

"The Orcs, they forced him to drink that foul brew... perhaps..."

"Nay," Aragorn shook his head, wincing at the recollection of the Orc draft. "Hobbits are more like to men than Elves. No concoction could cause such in an able body."

Gimli heard pain in the other's voice, and studied his features closely. "You also seem pale."

Aragorn's mouth twisted into a thin lipped smile, and Gimli noted the blood clinging there, a painful reminder of stifled cries as the Orcs had questioned him. Gimli felt guilt rise within him at the fresh reminder and could only be thankful the young Hobbit had not been forced to endure the torture of being able to do nothing as a friend was in pain.

"Aragorn," he said after a moment, not wishing to put the other through more than he had already endured, but knowing that if he could just force a recollection they might be able to discover what had caused Pippin's sudden ailment. "What happened upon Amon Hen?"

Dark eyes stared back at him, and the Dwarf was almost frightened by the intensity he saw there. He was holding his breath, and knew that if anything he was frightened that one of their number had fallen upon that hill and that he had been able to do nothing to prevent it. He knew he had managed to protect Frodo, Merry and Sam, if but for a short while, but it was that blasted Elf who plagued his thoughts. In his mind horrible images played and replayed, tormenting him with the possibility that those events might have come to pass.

"You recall the night upon the Anduin, when one of the Nine flew across the river." Aragorn's voice startled him out of his thoughts.

"Aye," he nodded, "it was felled by the Elf's arrow and landed in the trees on the western bank."

Pain filled eyes locked upon his.

Gimli's breath caught in his throat. "You don't mean...?" The enormity of the suggestion rendered him speechless for a few moments, and the fears that had been taunting his mind intensified a hundred fold.

"There was an arrow," Aragorn said, "a bloodied arrow. I have considered that it was most likely a blind, to false trick to turn my mind, yet somehow..."

Gimli could see it in the other's face, Aragorn had felt it too! Some strange dread over what they had left in the darkness of that cursed hillside... alone, bleeding... He shuddered, the gloomy atmosphere of this place was getting to him. More likely than anything, Legolas and Faramir were tracking them even now, or perhaps regrouping with the Hobbits.

Gimli looked up, realising he would never be satisfied until he grasped each of his friends by the arm once more and knew they were well. A strange gleam had come to Aragorn's eyes, and Gimli saw the seed of an idea forming in the other's mind.

"What is it?" he asked after many moment of daring not to hope. He reached out with his bound hands and grasped the other's wrist. "Tell me."

"The black breath," the ranger said it so quietly Gimli barely heard. "I am a fool not to have seen it sooner! Help me Gimli, here..."

Aragorn shifted his body to the side, wincing as the torn skin of his back protested against the moment. "Lift up my cloak, quickly! Now see... in that small pocket."

Gimli found the task difficult with the harsh Orc rope biting into his flesh, but somehow he managed to slide the small pouch from Aragorn's cloak.

Aragorn tore at the package, and Gimli recognised his haste. They had rested long, and from the noises of the Orcs they did not have much time before they would be moving once more. Could Pippin live through another day of endless marching?

The leaves Aragorn crushed between his fingers seemed as normal weeds to Gimli, though he remembered their sweet smell that had been so much aid in healing them after they had escaped the mines of Moria. The same curative aroma reached him now as the Ranger breathed upon the leaves, he even fancied that some colour rose to the Hobbit's cheeks.

Chapter 39 - Horses and smoke

Days had passed with nothing but the light tread of Legolas and his own heavy footsteps for comfort. Disregarding all weariness, all sense of pain, they had run on, chasing ever the shadow of an enemy who had vanished and left naught but heavily trampled grass as a trail.

A brief respite upon a windswept outcrop of rock left Faramir standing winded and pained behind the steady Elf. They had barely spoken, and the heavy silence was beginning to press down upon him.

In an effort to change the pressures upon his sore body he dropped to a crouch, narrowing his eyes to look outward, over the plains. He shrugged his bow from his shoulder and let it rest upon the rock beneath his feet, allowing the wind to sweep his damp hair away from his face.

Above him he heard the Elf sigh, and Legolas' tone, when he spoke, was more bitter than he had yet heard it to be. "There is no hope to lessen their lead; they are over three days ahead."

The Elf gripped the hilt of Andril with white fingers. "It is as if they have run with the whips of their dark masters at their backs. orcs should take some respite under the light of day, if only to eat, yet these creatures have not done so! They will reach Isenguard while we yet traverse the plains, and once within the stronghold of Saruman there will be no escape."

"There may be some hope in the strength of Rohan," Faramir suggested, rising with difficulty. "The Rohirrim do not suffer Orcs to invade their borders, and perchance our quarry may be delayed, or even destroyed by the men of Rohan."

Legolas sighed, turning to Faramir with almost a defeated glance. "It is a small hope."

"It is all we have."

Pippin awoke to shouts and a foggy head. His first idea was that he and Merry had spent the night in the Green Dragon, and had drank too much ale, and smoked far too much Longbottom Leaf. The pain in his head and the parched nature of his throat
certainly seemed to confirm this supposition, though a stinging pain in his back seemed alien and forced him to wriggle and open his sore eyes.

The expected hazy fog of pipe weed seemed to cloud his vision, but the scene that followed surpassed even the most frightening of dreams. First there was a face above his own, rotting and distorted, its features twisted horribly in something between intense fury and the agony of death. A stench suddenly assailed all his senses, the putrid, acrid smell of death and smoke combined. The smoke was not the sweet pungent odour of Old Toby; it was a dense black cloud. Pippin had never before smelt the stench of burning flesh, but now it smothered him, causing his eyes to sting and his throat to ache.

He felt a sudden all-mastering desire to flee, to escape this nightmarish reality - for, he realised, this was really happening. Somehow the Orcs that had held them captive had been themselves attacked. Pippin realised suddenly that he might be seen as
an Orc, or overlooked altogether, which would perhaps be worse still. He could see it now in his mind; one Hobbit standing alone in a field of rotting orc corpses and burning bodies.

He scrambled for a hold on the earth beneath him, but his hands were tied and he had difficulty rolling onto his stomach to crawl. He managed it at last and mustered all the strength he had to shove the heavy orc body from atop his own. The heat
from flames struck his face, and a horse thundered past with a roar of hooves and flying dust.

He realised it would be wise to remain where his was, lest he be trodden into the earth by a stampeding horse.

He would wait until the Orcs were dead, and the riders were less preoccupied before making his move. He rolled onto his back and let his head rest against the earth while he waited. He only hoped none of the Orcs would recognise him before he had a chance to appeal to the riders. He closed his eyes as he tried to think of what he would say to the riders...

"Captain!"

Pippin groaned at the loud noise so close to him, wondering why someone was shouting.

"Captain. My lord, this is no orc."

"Let me see..."

Pippin opened his eyes slightly as a large hand grasped him behind the shoulder and raised him to a sitting position. He felt as though he would be instantly sick, and indeed the bitter taste of bile rose to the back of his throat, but he swallowed
just in time.

"If it is not an orc..." The sentence was left unfinished as the strong hand searched for signs of life.

Determined to prove himself alive, Pippin managed to say through sore lips and a dry throat, "I'm not an Orc..." He opened his eyes and found himself looking up into the faces of two men. One was wearing a shiny helmet that came down into a horse head-shaped guard to protect his nose.

The other held his helmet under his arm and in Pippin's eyes seemed to be blurry with a layer of gold blowing across his face. Pippin felt a great relief swell within him.

"I'm a Hobbit, not an Orc," he said again to make sure they understood him. "Just smell my breath if you don't believe me!"

The two men looked at each other in surprise, then the one without the helmet laughed. The sound allowed Pippin to relax his taught muscles and lean back against the hand holding his head, until he remembered...

"Aragorn!" Starting back into motion he looked pleadingly up at the golden haired men. "Please, you must find my friends!"

The man holding his head looked at him intensely. "You had companions?"

"Were they... Are they of your kind?" the other man asked hesitatingly.

Pippin saw the worry in their eyes and struggled to conjure a description of Aragorn and Gimli to his mind. "One is a man, like you, only his hair is dark. The other is a Dwarf. He has a red beard." He blurted out all the facts he could think of, realising as he did so that if Aragorn and Gimli were dead it would be his fault. But he knew the first thing to do was to try to find Aragorn.

One of the men shouted orders to the others, and Pippin felt himself lifted in two pairs of strong arms.

"I am Éomer. What is your name?" the man with the golden hair asked him.

"Peregrin Took," he answered, and then added, "but most people just call me Pippin."

"A strange folk indeed," he heard the other man saying as they lowered him to a stretcher next to the wounded of their own company. Pippin felt small among so many tall warriors, though the comfort of rest dimmed this feeling to the merest discomfort.

When he next awoke and turned to the side he was overjoyed to find a stretcher bearing Gimli laid out beside him. The Dwarf seemed very pale, and the bloody gash across his forehead did nothing to change the impression, but nevertheless Pippin was overwhelmingly relieved to find him alive.

He looked around for Aragorn, but could see very little from his low vantage point.

Orders were being shouted across the camp, and Pippin saw that some time must have passed between his last waking moments. The bodies of the orcs had been piled into a great mound, and were now smoking. The wind blew away from the makeshift camp. For that he was glad, as he thought a reminder of the smell of death might cause him to be ill.

He let the sounds wash around him, too exhausted by his recent experiences to rise.
Through bleary eyes he saw a tall man picking his way across the field towards the injured. He recognised the fair hair and bright eyes of Éomer and saw his hope brighten in them.

He swallowed uncomfortably as Éomer came up beside his stretcher, feeling notably smaller in the presence of the great rider.

Éomer knelt heavily down beside Pippin, asking kindly, "How are you feeling now, master Hobbit?"

Pippin felt his eyes widen. "How did you..?"

Éomer glanced behind him. "Let your mind rest easy. Your other friend has returned from the smoke and fire of battle with the orcs. We had thought him dead as we found no body - but from the fray he returned like some spirit, bloodied but still standing!"

Pippin barely registered the words, or the admiration in the man's gaze. His eyes were fixed upon the familiar face with tired but smiling lines about the eyes that appeared above Éomer's broad shoulder, and he gasped with surprise and joy.

"Aragorn!" You're alive!"

Aragorn took his place by Éomer's side and grasped Pippin's hand in his. Pippin heard Éomer's deep hearty laugh at the Hobbit's delight and the sound warmed his blood. Aragorn's hand squeezed his own in a gesture of true affection, and though, Pippin saw, he was bruised and bleeding upon his arm and the side of his head, his grip was strong and his face smiling
with relief.

"Where are we to go now, Aragorn?" Pippin asked, turning to look behind him as Aragorn settled the saddle so they could ride more comfortably.

"To Edoras," Aragorn answered. "There the king of Rohan sits in the hall of Meduseld. He is Éomer's uncle."

"Have you met the king?" the Hobbit asked with a dreamy look on his almost blackened face. "In the Shire we don't have a king; I think I would be frightened to meet such a man."

Aragorn shook his head and smiled inwardly at Pippin's complete ignorance. What had the Hobbit been thinking of all these months not to gather clues enough to see Aragorn's true reason for this quest? He could almost see Gandalf muttering 'fool of a took!' as he shook his wise head, baffled still by the behaviour of hobbits.

Gandalf... What had happened to his dear friend? He sighed. He had thought perhaps that they might have discovered the answer to this long asked question had they been taken to Isenguard, though then they too might have met the same fate.

"I did meet Theoden..." he replied, seeing that Pippin was awaiting an answer, "though it was long ago, when his father was on the throne."

Aragorn saw Pippin's eyebrows rise. "How old exactly are you?"

Aragorn hid a smile, "Older than..." he thought for a moment, "...Faramir."

He noted the puzzled look on Pippin's face and wondered what was going through the young Hobbit's mind.

"And how old is Faramir?"

Aragorn thought for a moment, recalling what he knew of Hobbits, and the age of Faramir when he himself had served Ecthelion in Gondor. He scratched his chin. "Exactly that of Samwise."

Pippin laughed, thinking of the difference in height. "And Legolas?"

Aragorn almost choked, hoping he did not have to calculate the answer to this question. "Older than your uncle Bilbo, at the very least."

"Older than Bilbo?" Pippin sighed. "I couldn't imagine having that long a history. You would become tired of things, and of people. Imagine putting up with in-laws for that long! Bilbo gave up and ran off after eleventy-one years with his relatives knocking on the door of Bag End."

Despite the absurdity of the answer, Aragorn could see a profound truth within the words. Elves did tire of the world and feel an unutterable pull to escape Middle Earth. But Legolas... As of yet he had seen no sign of sea-longing in the heart of his dear friend. He was truly lucky that none of the elves closest to him had felt that desire to leave. Though he sometimes feared that Arwen was simply hiding it from him in her desire not to hurt him. He sighed and wondered how the simple words of a Hobbit could affect him so. He was tired, having not rested since the Orcs' cruel treatment of the night before. He needed healing for the wounds upon his torso, hidden from Pippin beneath his clothes. Gimli, when he woke, would fuss over him if he knew the Dwarf. For the moment, though, he could rest easy in the Hobbit's company as they rode to Rohan with Eomer's men, safe in the fact that Pippin had been still recovering from the touch of the Nazgul and had not seen his pain.

Frodo stared down at the jagged drop below, the noon-day sun lighting the crevices and peaks so that even a simple drop seemed deadly. He felt frustration rise within him. "We must get down today, somehow..."

"Well I can't see how," Sam said with a shrug. "Surely, we'll break our necks if we try climbing down that gully."

Frodo had to agree, though he was too frustrated and angry to admit it. His back ached from his fight with Gollum, and the face of that pale creature haunted him. He was afraid of his own reflection, fearing that day by day he would become closer to that skeletal form destroyed first by the ring and then by the hand of one following in his footsteps.

Frodo feared for his own future; he feared that his abrupt outbursts of anger were due to something darker and more sinister than frustration. But it was out of his control to stop them.

"Perhaps you should rest."

The kind voice of the wizard behind him, instead of calming him as intended, caused his temper to boil over, "What do you care?" He spun around to face them, feeling unnatural anger churn within him yet being unable to prevent it. "You pretend to care, just to gain our trust! Do not think you can take Gandalf's place!"

The red haze faded slowly, and he found himself confronted by the sad, confused gazes of Sam and Merry and the sympathetic expression of Radagast.

All of a sudden an immense weariness took hold of him. He felt ashamed. He had no right to cast such accusations upon one who had come to help them, one who had already shown his worth in healing Frodo's own wounds.

He turned away, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the desolate landscape and the wounded faces of his companions. "Forgive me," he whispered, feeling himself sway on his feet as tiredness washed over his senses.

A firm hand took his shoulder, steadying him, and another, smaller and familiar held his arm. "Please Frodo, listen to me."

He opened his eyes and reluctantly met Radagast's brown eyes.

"I do not ask you to replace Gandalf in your heart, nor do I ask even to protect you as he would have done. I have no such power." The sincerity in the soft gaze was impossible to miss, and Frodo sighed, wishing he had recognised it before his outburst. "I only ask that you tolerate my presence and trust me to do all I can to help you."

Sam gently squeezed his arm. "There, Mr Frodo. You can't say it more fairly than that."

In Sam and Merry's eyes Frodo could see a desire for protection, for guidance. And if this man, wizard, was indeed Gandalf's cousin, sent here to aid them in their journey, then surely he would be a fool to refuse it.

"Ah," Radagast said, not waiting for a reply, "it seems I have forgotten my rope. I never was much of a traveller..."

Frodo could not help the glimmer of a smile as Sam's jaw dropped open. A series of muted curses followed as the Hobbit ferreted around in his pack until he pulled out the silver elven rope he had acquired in Lorien.

"I had clean forgotten about it." He sighed. "Made by the Lady herself too, I reckon." He held the silken stuff proudly out to Radagast, as though he was a child seeking admiration.

Radagast took the offering, running the rope between his long fingers with appreciation. "A vine planted to grow upon this would grow well indeed."

Frodo smiled as he saw the heat of passion rise to Sam's face. "Ah, but you see it would have to be a beautiful vine, for it'd be wrong for something from the Golden Wood not to remain beautiful and loved."

"You have the mind of a poet, Samwise." Radagast passed the rope back into Sam's awaiting hands. "But have you also the mind of a sailor? How are you at tying knots?"

Sam grinned. "Not only sailors are good at knots; gardeners must also be good with their hands." With renewed energy Sam looped the end of the rope around a sturdy boulder at the lowest point of the cliff top.

The friendly chatter seemed the warm the atmosphere, and Frodo found himself sharing a knowing smile with Merry.

They started over to where Sam was arguing with Radagast. "Another poetic gardener?" Merry mused, shaking his head. "What ever shall we do?"

Pippin woke to a gentle shaking of his shoulder. He blinked as the ground seemed to sway and move beneath him. His body felt sore and strained. They were still riding and somehow he had managed to fall asleep while still on the horse. He wiggled uncomfortably, wondering how many hours they had been riding.

The gentle shake persisted and Pippin turned his head to meet Aragorn's gaze. The ranger was not looking at him, but ahead and upwards. Night was falling fast, and he had to squint into the blushing sun to make out the object of Aragorn's interest.

A tall mountain rose before them, shadowing the land that lay before it, and backed by other such peaks, tipped with glimmering snow. On the very top of the rise there was a castle, or so it seemed, glinting gold as the dying sun. A flag of a white horse on an emerald banner seemed to beckon to them as they approached the foot of the slope.

The city was surrounded by a large fence of wood and a wall and lower dike formed from the stream that issued down from the snows.

Muted conversations from their fellow riders reached his ears, and it seemed as though the horses gained speed with the love their riders felt for their homeland.

Pippin felt a sudden rush of loneliness, and the harsh wind seemed to seep right through to his bones. He longed for the comfort of his own fireside on a winter evening, of the sunlight that streamed through his window in the morning, and, most of all, he missed Merry.

Behind him Aragorn seemed to sense his dismal thoughts, and the arm holding his tightened in a gesture of comfort.

Pippin looked once again to the great golden hall above them as they were let into the city. The guardsmen at the gate stared curiously at him as they passed, yet Pippin was too tired to care. He leaned back into Aragorn's chest and let the colours of gold and red blur his vision.

He blinked as he saw a white speck of colour pierce the sky before the Golden hall, though when he looked more closely it was gone.

Chapter 40 - Isengard

The dull clatter of horse-hooves brought many of the citizens of Edoras from their houses. Meeting suspicious and even hostile stares with his own gaze, Gimli tightened his grip on Eomer's tunic. Being unseated from the temperamental beast on which he was precariously balanced would not only be embarrassing but also painful.

Eomer turned his head, unconsciously flicking the long golden strands of horse hair that adorned his helmet into Gimli's eyes. "You must not blame our people for their suspicion," the horseman told the Dwarf. "It is long since strangers have been welcome in Edoras."

"And why would not strangers wish to visit this..." Gimli stopped himself lest he express his true observations, "this charming, windswept hill."

Eomer raised his eyebrows. "I have heard Dwarves are for the underground. Edoras may not be to your liking, yet it is our home, for we have known no other. At Helm's Deep, the stronghold of our people, there are many great caverns and chambers built into the rock. They are vast and fair, and I would that times were peaceful so that I might show you."

"I would deem it an honour." Gimli had already begun to visualise the greatness of the caves, the shining pools beneath the earth and great pinnacles of sparkling stone. "You seek times of peace? You are at war, then, with Saruman?"

"The men who ride with me have the foresight to see Saruman's deception. Was it not clear to you, who travelled with the Orcs for many miles, that their destination was Isengard and not the Black Land?"

Gimli considered that. "There were many of their number who bore the sign of the white hand."

Eomer's eyes flashed dangerously, and Gimli felt the man's body tense with anger. "There are those close to the King's ear who speak craven councils. We are not at open war with the Black Land, yet war is coming.

Saruman has offered the Rohirrim protection, an alliance of sorts. He proffers us his army to fight alongside orcs and goblin creatures of his own creation."

Gimli felt fear swell within him. The touch of Saruman's power reaching out to cover all the lands was a darkness more subtle and perhaps even more deadly than that of Mordor. "Surely your king must question..."

"The King's ear is drawn by advice other than mine." Eomer's voice was a harsh whisper. "Though I may be closest in kin since the passing of his son, he will not hear a word against the white wizard. I would say one spell-weaver and Orc-driver is much like the next, whatever the colour of his robes."

"Have you no other help on which to rely? Surely other men would come to your aid should you call." Gimli was thinking chiefly of Gondor and attempting to discover all he could while they had the opportunity. He glanced across to Aragorn, seeking his friend's eye.

Aragorn was listening carefully, though his eyes were not upon them. The harsh wind tugged stubbornly at the man's dark hair as he rode, and he held the sleeping Hobbit to his chest, yet the concentration upon his face was unmistakable.

"There was once an alliance with Gondor, though, since Faramir passed in July of last year, we have had no news from Denethor."

"Faramir, you say." Gimli's mind returned to his lost companions and a deep exhaustion seemed to take hold of him.

Eomer's eyes alighted on the Dwarf with eager interest. "You have met with the son of Denethor?"

"He and an Elf travelled with us down the Great River. We lost them at Parth Gallen, above the falls." The distress of their capture by the Orcs and Pippin's brush with the black death had driven the despair and worry for his companions from his mind, but now it returned in full flood.

"Lost," Eomer murmured, seeing the Dwarf's misery. "Were they slain by the Orcs?"

"Nay, not slain," Gimli replied, aware that Aragorn's gaze was upon him.

"We were separated."

Eomer did not broach the subject again, and Gimli was glad of it.

Aragorn drew his horse closer to Eomer's. "Could you not send messages to Gondor? Surely Denethor would honour the old alliance."

Eomer did not quite meet the other's eyes, and Gimli realised that in his respect he was aware of Aragorn's real identity. "We have heard rumours."

Gimli was not one to trust the whispers and secrets of the night, yet it seemed these people were highly superstitious and weary of strangers.

He had seen the surprise and trepidation in the young lord's face as he had mentioned Legolas, and that was enough to convince him that any rumours, however misguided, would be taken to heart. "Of what rumours do you speak?"

Again Eomer's eyes shifted uneasily to Aragorn, though the rest of his face and posture remained calm. "They say Denethor is considering parley with Mordor. For the safety of his people they say he would ally with Sauron."

There was a long pause. The wind tugged angrily at their cloaks and hair, yet did not touch the awkward stillness of the moment.

Then Gimli laughed. The ludicrous nature of the proposal caused him to shake his head in disbelief. "Who would suggest such a ridiculous idea?"

Eomer did not answer, and Gimli saw with growing dread that Aragorn's face had remained grave.

They had come to the summit of the slope, and Meduseld lay before them, its golden facets and carved columns stretched skyward, gold and crimson in the dying light of the evening.

As Eomer slid easily from the saddle, Gimli found his foot stretching to reach the stirrup, and he struggled to lower himself, with dignity, from Eomer's mighty steed. It was a challenge, yet Gimli had stared a Balrog in the eye, and he would not turn back from this simple beast of

burden. His eyes widened as he realised his boot had become caught in the finely crafted stirrup of Eomer's beloved friend, and he found himself hopping as the creature shifted and shuffled in an attempt to be free of the bushy bundle of Dwarf hanging at his side.

Heat rose to Gimli's cheeks, and it was as much as he could manage to mumble his gruff appreciation as Eomer attempted to extricate his foot.

The man at the door of the great hall, whose beard and hair were as bright a hue as Gimli's own had been watching the whole escapade and now was trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile.

"Hama," Eomer said, greeting the man.

"My lord Eomer," the man replied with a nod, and his face became grave and solemn. "Late is the hour you return to your people. You were absent without the King's leave; surely you must have known you would be missed."

"Absent without leave?" Gimli muttered, feeling their situation worsen by the minute. "Now he tells us."

Eomer seemed to have risen in stature in the last few moments. "There were Orcs to the north. Our scouts saw them crossing the plains yesterday." Eomer's eyes darkened with bitterness. "Surely Grima would have reported this to the King?"

"I fear for you, my lord." Hama shook his head, and Gimli saw conflict swell within his gaze. "You trust to ties of blood, yet other council sets the King's mind against you." The voice had lowered to a whisper, and Gimli could barely make out the words. "It is not my place to question the King's decisions, yet this time I fear you shall not escape without severe consequences."

"Where is the King now?"

"The King is in council with Grima." Hama's face was almost as dark as Eomer's own, and Gimli wondered at the fact that this man could inspire such hate and yet still live. "The lady Eowyn is waiting, my lord. She wishes to speak with you when you are at liberty."

Eomer turned, gesturing to one of his men. "Eothain, tell the men to stable the horses and return to their families tonight."

"My lord." The young man dipped his head and was about to return to the men.

"Eothain, also tell the men to be ready to ride at dawn."

Gimli met eyes with Aragorn, and they shared a puzzled glance. The welcome of such a high lord was decidedly unfriendly, and Gimli recalled the angry stares of the people of Edoras as they ascended the slope to the hall.

"Come, my friends," Eomer said, shrugging off his cloak and tiredly rubbing his eyes with a dirty hand. "My sister will show you to the guest rooms, and in the morning we will see the King. He is evidently otherwise engaged."

Gimli and Aragorn, who yet carried the sleeping Pippin, followed Eomer to the side of the Hall, where there was a door into a kind of antechamber. It looked like a stable to Gimli, but then again, he thought all the buildings in Edoras resembled stables, or sported some horse motif.

Eomer opened the heavy door quietly, and ushered the man and Dwarf through it before sliding the heavy bolt across after them.

Following the horse lord down the narrow corridors Gimli felt a great desire to sleep once more upon a soft surface. For many days they had been forced to lie upon solid earth with hands and feet bound. His wrists still bore the recent scars of orcish rope, and his back the marks of the whip. Yet still, he thought, while the morrow might bring shadows of corrupt councillors and wizards manipulating men as though they were merely pieces on a game board, he would sleep comfortably until the dawn.

The room was darkly lit when they entered and the shimmering light of the moon played upon the bed and furniture like white fire. At first Gimli only had eyes for the comfort of the bed, draped with warm furs and calling to him with a lulling song.

Peering past Eomer's broad body, he saw then that a lady stood facing the open window, the moonlight shining brightly upon her figure. She seemed to glow white in the darkened room, like the spirit of the place, tall with golden hair that seemed softly ablaze. His mind rushed instantly to the figure of the Lady of the Golden Wood, and how she had ever illuminated the darkest of his dreams during their captivity with the Orcs.

He was speechless, and Aragorn too seemed to be transfixed by the sight. Eomer, however, moved into the room and spoke. "Sister."

She turned in a sweep of white and gold, and despite the dark hollows beneath tired eyes the lady's face seemed to come alight with joy at the sight of her brother. "Eomer! You have returned."

He laughed and seemed more at ease than Gimli had yet witnessed as he fondly embraced his sister. The Dwarf felt touched by the sight, although he knew it was unseemly for a Dwarf to be moved by such tender emotions.

Eomer turned to face his guests, "Here, Eowyn, is Gimli the Dwarf, Pippin the Halfling and Aragorn, the heir of Elendil, whom I have had the honour of rescuing from the Orcs."

"We owe your brother a great debt, Lady Eowyn," Aragorn said as he bent his head in respect, and Gimli followed suit, seeing her eyes widen as he did so.

She looked to Eomer and back to Aragorn, surprised.

"I was fortunate indeed in my discovery, sister, was I not?" Eomer smiled. "To find a lost king upon our fields. Surely it is a sign that the tighter Saruman closes his fist upon us, the more we slip through his fingers."

The note of determination in Eomer's words caused Gimli to feel caught up in the young man's energy, when the lady caught his arm with an almost violent grip.

"You are wrong, brother. Only today Grima sent messengers to Isengard accepting Saruman's aid."

Gimli heard Aragorn suck in his breath beside him, and he himself felt his heart clench in surprise.

"We have heard from Gondor, a spy from the council of Minas Tirith rode in secret through the night. It seems the Steward has indeed began negotiations with the Dark Lord. The King, seeing there is now no defence between Rohan and Mordor, has asked for all Saruman's forces to help us combat that of the dark land."

Aragorn stepped quickly past Gimli, causing Pippin to start and wake in his arms. "Saruman comes to Edoras?"

Eowyn looked helplessly at Aragorn, and Gimli seemed to see her hope in Aragorn's strength alight even as she gazed at him. "I did my best to persuade the King, yet he would not listen. In his mind he is convinced that Gondor has betrayed us and that without the aid of Saruman we will fall. The messengers will reach Isengard by the tomorrow at the earliest..."

"Saruman will muster his force swiftly," Eomer interrupted, meeting their eyes with a dark finality that caused even Pippin to fall into a shocked silence as Aragorn set him upon his feet. "We have but a few days..." The tall man's shoulders seemed to slump in defeat, and shaking his head, he murmured, "They will come, and the wizard's twisted creations will destroy us all."

"There is naught you can accomplish tonight, Eomer." Aragorn shook his head, and Gimli recognised the dark lines of exhaustion in the man's features as they were also upon his own. "Had you the support of the King, and the time to muster your people you could ride out and meet Saruman's force upon the plains. As it is..."

"As it is," Eomer spat angrily, "we must sit here like children on sandcastles while the tide is flowing, until we welcome Saruman through our gates and Edoras is burned to the ground."

"Brother." Eowyn laid a calming hand on Eomer's arm. Gimli noted the pallor of her skin, yet he saw that the despair that had been written plainly in her bearing at their first meeting had gone, and in its place seemed to have grown a determined resolution. "You must ride at first light, taking all the men who will follow you. Escape from this place before Saruman's army comes."

Eomer shook his head. "I will not leave you here. And the King..."

"I will stay with him."

Eowyn glanced in Gimli and Aragorn's direction and a hidden message seemed to pass between brother and sister. Eomer finally sighed, breathing out angrily through his nose in a way that seemed to Gimli's exhausted and befuddled mind to be very much like that of a disgruntled horse.

Eowyn bowed slightly in Aragorn's direction, formality hiding her obvious annoyance. "If it please my lord, I will show you to your room."

"Goodnight, Gimli," Pippin said. The Hobbit touched the Dwarf's hand in a way that made Gimli smile inside before Pippin followed Aragorn out of the room.

"As you see," Eomer remarked as he opened the door leading into the passage, "my sister can match any horse in her stubbornness."

It was a silent world that surrounded them. Cloaked in a dense haze of wispy cloud, the four figures finally reached the edge of the great expanse that lay before them.

Sam wrinkled his nose at the smell that invaded his nostrils, breathing in the thick, foul scent. He prodded the damp pool before him with a cautious toe. "It's some kind of bog!"

"At least there are no midges to be seen so far," Merry said, bending down to peer into the murky depths. "The Midgewater marshes were enough for me."

Frodo came up beside them, staring out into the swamp with what appeared to Sam to be a haunted look. "Perhaps it is the mist," he said after a moment. "I haven't seen a living creature since we entered the fog."

Indeed, Sam reflected, there had been no sign of life for many long miles, since they had left the craggy heights of Emyn Muil. He turned back to see Radagast standing thoughtfully behind them, peering with narrowed eyes into the growing mists.

"What is this place?" Frodo asked, turning away from the pools with a shiver.

"Some still name it the Battle Plain," Radagast replied. "The graves of those who perished in the Battle of Dagorland lay here before the marshes spread and covered all the land between here and Mordor."

"Is there no other way?" Merry asked, holding the back of his sleeve across his nose against the smell.

Frodo slumped down on a rock, pulling his pack upon his lap, and said, "At least no Orcs will follow us. Should we eat here before going on?"

Sam followed the others as they settled themselves down on the damp ground, and began pulling a packet of lembas from his bag. Before he could maneuver the elvish bread from its leaf wrapping Radagast tossed him a small chunk of dark coloured stuff. Sam fumbled, almost dropping the precious food, but managed to keep his grip. He sniffed gingerly at it, not recognising the smell. He looked up and asked, "What is it?

Radagast raised his eyebrows. "Dried meat. Courtesy of Saruman the White."

Sam saw Frodo frown, and Merry almost choked on the large mouthful he was in the process of swallowing.

Radagast shrugged at their bewildered glances. "Saruman will not miss it, and surely we have a more pressing need for supplies than he. Gandalf said he thought your supplies might have been running low."

The Hobbits looked at each other, and Sam felt the dread he had been suppressing during the toils of Emyn Muil rise up within him. He had thought with certainty for so long of Gandalf's demise, that to believe in such a hope now would surely be devastating if proved false.

"You have told us nothing," Merry said warily, looking at Radagast with hopeful yet uncertain eyes.

"You have not asked."

Merry rolled his eyes in exasperation, clenching his hands in the dead grass that lay beneath their feet. "You must tell us what happened, I mean, how did you fight Saruman?"

"There was no fight," Radagast said simply. "I waited with the Ents until..."

"Ents?" Merry asked. "What are they?"

"Tree shepherds."

The hobbits looked at each other, yet Radagast seemed not to notice, or not to care, and went on. "Saruman's army passed out through the gates; we watched it pass. Saruman was at its head." The wizard seemed more somber now, and in his eyes lay something that made Sam shiver, though he had not witnessed the sight himself.

"We moved in, and, as it was dark, the deception was not difficult. The Orcs Saruman had left to guard his doors were weak of mind, and in the tunnels below Orthanc, amid all Sarauman's foul works of smoke and metal, they did not suspect that I was not their master returned."

Frodo's eyes widened and Merry's small gasp filled the silence that followed. Frodo, his eyes still staring, began, "You pretended to be Saruman?"

"They let themselves believe that I was. There was little need to give orders. One of the Orcs suggested I had returned for the prisoner's body, and I only had to follow."

"Body?" Frodo repeated, and the same dread Sam heard in Frodo's words was echoed in his own heart.

Radagast nodded. "I feared at these words that Saruman had found his prisoner to be no more use and had disposed of his rival before departing with the army. But when the Orc led me down in the depths of the tower, and opened the door of a small chamber I found my cousin still breathing, though when I called his name he did not answer."

Sam saw that Radagast seemed to wince at this part of the tale and noted in the wizard's ancient face the guilt that had eaten away at him since his discovery. "You could not have come sooner," Sam declared in an attempt to be comforting, though he felt rather absurd in trying to ease a mind that was so much more complex and wise in comparison to his own.

Merry nodded. "If you had come sooner, you too would have been trapped by Saruman."

Radagast pressed his lips together in a thin smile, though Sam saw that it would take more than the assurances of hobbits to ease such guilt.

"I discarded my own disguise, for I knew that by now the Ents would have surrounded Isengard and moved in against the Orcs. I took the white cloth and carried the body within it until I had reached the summit of the stairs. From there, I could exit to the tunnel workings, through the door the Orc had unlocked. The great diggings were empty, and I could hear the battle with the ents above.

"The wooden platform to the land above was ablaze, no doubt the fault of the orcs in their attempt to destroy the Ents. I could see there was no other way to escape from the diggings. Lying the body of Gandalf upon the wooden floor, I used the pulley and rope to move the lift, yet the metal of the turn wheel was burning, and it was an arduous task."

Radagast held his palms flat out to the hobbits, and Sam saw the angry, red burns upon his skin.

"The fire was spreading, and I saw also flames were catching at the corners of my own clothes and the white cloth I had used to cover Gandalf," he continued. "The edge of the great pit rose up, and the battle came into sight. The ring of Orthanc was burning. Some of the Ents had been lit by the torches the Orcs wielded. For the most part, the Orcs were losing the battle, and, just as I dragged Gandalf's body away from the pit, the Ents broke the supports of the great dam, and the water flooded into the dike and flowed over the land towards us."

Radagast shook his head, and Sam was so frightened by the intensity of the tale that he could scarcely believe that it had occurred just three days before.

"We would have been washed back into the great pit then had not one of the Ents lifted us and dug his roots into the soil."

Even Merry was so engrossed in the story that he did not comment on the fact that the strange creatures with whom Radagast had travelled had roots for feet.

"The great wave of water struck us, yet the Ent held firm. After it had passed, and all the Orcs had been washed away back into the great hole in the earth, the kind Ent bore us to the steps of Orthanc and there he set us.

"And it seemed we had passed through fire and water, earth and air in the space of a few moments. Something happened, and even now I have not the words or the knowledge to explain it. The sun rose, and the dirty cloth about Gandalf, burnt and drowned in our escape, seemed to glow bright in the new sun, and I shielded my eyes against the blinding radiance.

"A change in the order of things seemed to take place, and time itself seemed to pause. And I opened my eyes, and he was returned to us, no longer grey, but white."

Dark eddying currents of water moved about him. The sky seemed dark with unshed tears over a broad sweep of shore and waves. He breathed heavily, as though the air was thick with smoke, yet before his eyes it was clear, though grey and sombre. No waves broke the steady flow of water about him. The dark liquid seemed to be a part of him, as though if he were to step further out into the dark stream he would become one with the drifting tides.

He looked down at his hands. They showed the familiar scars, yet this place was foreign to him. Not the place perhaps, for he had little doubt it was the waters of the Anduin washing passed him on their way to the sea, yet he was bemused as to why he was here.

The sinister horizon grew darker still, and from that obscurity of shadows and night came a shape drifting in the waves. And it passed him, tipping gently with the roll of the waves beneath its prow - and there lay a warrior, asleep it seemed, for there was colour in the face where all else was grey and desolate.

The boat of Lorien glided on, away from him, and he seemed to sink back into the waters with a great heave of breath, like a sob yet swallowed by the dark stream. For the warrior lying so peacefully had been Boromir, borne of the tides of the Anduin out to sea.

The sorrow and despair that came upon him was suffocating, and he seemed to drown in it. He was unable - nay, unwilling - to rise from the murky depths, content to sink further into desolation.

It seemed as though someone was grasping him, pulling him back to the surface, calling his name. He would have fought against the feeling, yet he had not the strength. He was dragged higher until light suddenly surrounded him, and he began to cough.

Gentle hands turned him to the side, and held him until the spasms ceased.

When he opened his eyes and sank back upon the grass, staring blearily at the sky. It was grey, and he feared for a moment that he was still trapped within the dream. Then the concerned face of Legolas appeared above him, leaning over to place a comfortably warm hand upon his forehead. He shivered, feeling soaked through, though he knew his clothes to be dry.

"Do you feel cold?" Legolas asked, not waiting for an answer before unclasping his own cloak to wrap around the man's shivering body.

Faramir felt weak and exhausted. He could barely focus upon Legolas' face as the Elf sat back to study him, though he could see clearly enough to recognise lines of worry marring the Elf's features.

"I am well," he managed, letting his eyes slowly close against the glow of the before dawn light.

Legolas made a noise in his throat that caused Faramir to open his eyes again. "I think we both can see that is not so."

Faramir sighed wearily. "A nightmare. There is no cause for concern."

"You were calling out." Legolas frowned at him. "Calling out so violently that I would have thought we were being attacked by all the forces of Mordor."

Leaning his head back on the grass Faramir recalled the dream and was tempted to ask Legolas what he had said while in the clutches of the dream world.

Legolas seemed to consider his next words carefully. "Has something befallen your brother?"

It was more than Faramir could do to remain unmoved. He raised a shaking hand to his forehead and swallowed deeply to calm himself. "I do not know."

"You called for him." Legolas' tone sounded so cautious, so caring that Faramir realised he must have frightened the Elf enough to shake him out the stoic silence that had for days possessed his entire being. "Over and over, you called."

"Just a dream," he said firmly, avoiding the Elf's piercing stare. "A simple dream. Forgive me for causing such a scene..."

"Faramir." Legolas held his arm in a iron grip, though it went lax almost immediately as the Elf stared at the spots of red upon the man's palm. Faramir pulled away, but Legolas was already tugging at the fabric of the man's cloak, searching for the bindings beneath.

He stopped suddenly, and Faramir felt himself grow tense waiting for the reaction.

"It is bleeding again." Legolas shook his head. "Why did you not tell me?"

Faramir struggled up into a sitting position, growing lightheaded. When the feeling subsided, he realised he was leaning on Legolas for support.

The Elf had already began removing the blood-soaked cloth from the wound.

With thoughts of Aragorn and Gimli and how much more they must have endured at the hands of the Orcs, he pulled away from Legolas' grasp and rose to his feet unsteadily.

At that moment the sun peaked above the horizon, shedding golden light across the bare plains. Faramir's eyes alighted on the horizon, widening as he realised what it was he could see.

"Smoke!" A great bonfire was billowing great white clouds of ashes in a northward wind.

Legolas came up beside him fixing his keen eyes on the distant pyre. In little more than a moment he turned back to Faramir, the fiery light reflected eerily in his wide eyes. "The bodies of the Orcs; they are burning."

Chapter 41 - The dark before dawn

Aragorn stepped out into the corridor, feeling the chill of the morning air upon the bare skin of his face and hands. The new day had not yet arrived, and there was time before dawn would come to Rohan, bringing with it, perhaps, the blight of Saruman and his dark creations.

Aragorn gathered his cloak about him and felt vainly for his weapon, realising, as his fingers met air, that his sword lay still upon the summit of Amon Hen. He clenched his jaw at the thought.

Taking the corridor to the left, he followed the passage around, trailing the tips of his fingers upon the carven walls. The torches that had burned brightly the night before had long since burned to nothing, and the way ahead was covered in shadow.

It was then that he first caught the sound of voices. Indistinct it was at first, a ghostly whisper in the dark before dawn. Yet it came again, and this time with more substance, and Aragorn quickened his pace, hoping to find Eomer amidst those preparing to leave Edoras as first light.

The voices seemed to resound ahead of him, and, as Aragorn turned the corner into a much narrower space, he realised he had entered one of the two passages that were secret passageways, which led to the tapestries behind the great hall.

He quietly listened and found that he had walked in upon a private meeting.

"My lady seeks solace from the shadows of the night."

The words reached Aragorn's ears as he stood motionless behind the dark curtain. The sound was clear to him now, resonating from the lofty ceiling and walls. The voice seemed to Aragorn to be at once fawning in tone and bold in the choice of words, and he recognized at once that it was not that of Eomer. There was a rustle of cloth, and Aragorn deemed that the other figure had moved away across the room.

"You need no words," the strangely compelling voice persisted. "I see your grief as clearly as it is written upon your face."

"You see nothing of my mind." This second voice was familiar to him, and Aragorn recognised it as that of the Lady Eowyn. Yet the tenderness he had witnessed as she had welcomed her brother earlier that evening had gone, and in its place was a cold hatred of which he had never before heard the like.

The other man, however, was not deterred by her obvious distain. "Oh, but I do see your thoughts."

Aragorn carefully pulled the curtain back, not liking the tone of the conversation any more than he liked the man's voice. Peering into the gloom he made out the shadowy figure of a man garbed in a black so heavy that only his pale skin shone in the darkness.

"Finally your brother has given the King reason enough to have him locked away. You are grieved by his betrayal, for now you will be utterly alone."

He was near to her now, and Aragorn took his opportunity to slip out from behind the curtain and approach with quiet steps upon the stone floor. He could see the distress growing upon the Lady Eowyn's face as the man slowly forced her against one of the great stone pillars, and he felt his own heart ache for her struggle.

She fumbled at her waist, drawing out a short knife that glinted softly in the grey light from the eastern windows. "Approach me, Snake, and I will cut your throat."

Aragorn's eyes widened slightly at the sudden movement, yet the slight shake in the hand that held the knife and the wild desperation in her eyes warned him that, despite her boldness, she was not in complete control of the situation.

The other man saw it also, and, reaching out his pale hand slowly towards her, he said, "Do not be foolish. You forget that I hold your brother's life in my hands."

The tremors of her hand increased, and Aragorn heard her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her hand lowered, and the knife slipped from her frozen fingers. A hollow thud sounded as it struck the stone floor.

The man reached out, almost hesitatingly, towards her face. "So cold, yet I see your pain. Watching over your king in growing doubt and fear, you curse your womanly form for its weakness, hiding your desire behind this facade of ice."

Aragorn had heard enough. He covered the space between them in three long strides and hurled his weight into the dark figure, throwing the hunched man onto the floor, ignoring the cry of surprise and fear that emanated from him.

Eowyn stepped back in alarm, and quickly Aragorn looked to her, finding her wide, frantic eyes upon him. He grasped her shoulders gently, the pallor of her face making him afraid she would fall. She stood straight and tall, though he could feel her body tremble as he held her, and it seemed to him that her shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly with exhaustion and relief.

The man had scrambled to his feet and now stood a safe distance from Aragorn, wiping at a cut upon his forehead. Aragorn felt immediately disturbed by the pale eyes upon him.

"You will regret this," the man hissed, with a shake of his dark head. He side-stepped the couple, never turning his back upon Aragorn, his dark matted hair moving about his face like black serpents.

As he melded into the shadows, Aragorn thought to follow. He abandoned the idea, however, as Eowyn fastened her ice-cold hand upon his wrist. "That was the king's counsellor," she said, and the cold dread had returned to her face. "For many months now his word has been law." She met Aragorn's eyes with a mingled gesture of both hope and despair. "You must leave now, yet I pray that it were not so. There has been little light in our halls of late, yet with your coming there has also come hope."

There was a silence between them, for Aragorn could sense her desperation keenly, yet he knew not how to ease it. The eastern end of the hall had been growing steadily lighter, and great shafts of sunlight, which streamed down through the great windows set high above them, basked the entire hall with golden light. Day had come.

On the heals of the new morning came others, moving out of the shadows at the back of the hall as the two gazed up at the golden dawn. Aragorn sensed their presence immediately, yet knew he could do nothing. They were men of Rohan, and in all things men should be allies. He had to trust to this, for there was little else to which he could cling in the face of an approaching enemy.

He let the men surround him, holding his palms open at his sides in hope that they would recognise that he meant them no harm. The looks they gave him spoke of suspicion, and the darkness beneath their eyes held much doubt and fear.

One of the men approached, his wary eyes fixed upon Aragorn. He reached out to the Lady Eowyn and motioned for her to move away from the ranger.

Nodding to Eowyn, who would have still stood by his side, he appealed to the soldiers for their clemency. "Loyal soldiers of Rohan, I mean you no evil. It may not have come to you, but I am a guest in this house. The Lord Eomer kindly welcomed my companions and me to his home."

His explanation did not appease the men, and, if it was possible, it seemed their faces grew darker still. The man who appeared to be their leader glared hard at him and drew closer as he spoke. "The Lord Eomer is charged with treason. You, stranger, would do well to comply lest you, too, be implicated in his treachery."

With a smooth step, Aragorn moved towards the soldier, thinking that if he could convince this man not to hold them prisoner there might just be a chance.

But one of the younger soldiers had not the same shrewd judgement as his captain and, panicking, struck out with his sword arm. His heavy blade sliced easily through Aragorn's surcoat and into the tender skin of his side.

Aragorn pulled away sharply in surprise at the boy's sudden action and sucked in a breath at the sudden flare of pain and the rush of warm blood as he pressed his hand to the wound.

"Halt!" The captain grasped the young man's sword arm angrily. "I gave no order."

"But sir..." The young man's face was pale and damp with perspiration, and Aragorn almost pitied him. When war came to Rohan, this boy and many like him would not survive the harrowing brutality of the battlefield.

"Our orders are to escort the prisoner to the gates of the city." The leader looked to Aragorn and then away, as though he could not suffer to hold his gaze.

Two of the soldiers moved and took Aragorn's arms, and the captain fell into step behind them. The ranger then heard him speak to the young man. "Keep your wits, lad. War is coming, and against these traitors of Gondor your wits will be your best weapon."

It took little time them to reach the main door. Aragorn had a thought to ask for an audience with the king, yet it seemed Theoden no longer held sway over Rohan or its people.

A blast of heavy wind caught him full in the face as the heavy door swung open. The weather was grey, and the sun was as guarded and restrained as he himself felt at that moment in which he stood between the two stony guards. Yet the ferocity of the wind caught even the soldiers by surprise as they struggled down the great steps, shielding their eyes from the dust that sprung up in their faces.

A line of guards flanked the steep road to the gates, and all were silent, caught up in the wild weather and its sombre expression. There were no murmurs - only the voice of the wind and the crunch of feet as they followed the line to the gates. Aragorn stumbled frequently, for the ground beneath his feet was rough and the soldiers holding him stern and unbending. He recognised many of Eomer's men among the throng, their faces dark as they met his gaze.

He saw Hama's distinctive figure from across the road, and tried to attract his attention as the man glanced in his direction. The door warden quickly and discreetly made his way between to the group of soldiers to Aragorn's side. His face, when he reached him, betrayed his annoyance and distress. "I warned Eomer that his rash actions would come to this." The man shook his head, and it was very clear to Aragorn that his admiration and love for Eomer ran high, higher perhaps than his desire to mindlessly follow orders. He looked earnestly at Aragorn, noticing the other's strained expression. "You are wounded!"

He reached for the man's side, ignoring the restraining limbs of those who still held the ranger captive.

"A scratch," Aragorn murmured, pressing his arm more tightly against his side as though it could staunch the pain along with his blood. "What of Eomer?"

"He comes now." Hama's voice was grim as he gazed further down the road to where Eomer was being escorted between two guards. In the gale that swept across them Eomer's pale hair flew about his face, and it seemed strange that, even as a captive, his bearing was far prouder than those who held him. The horse lord was brought up to the large wall, before the great gate, and there Aragorn recognised the now familiar figure of Grima. The councillor stood upon the ground, and, though he had not the stature of a warrior, Aragorn's eyes felt drawn to him as if he embodied the spirit of this grey morn and all its powerful forces.

Aragorn watched the situation unfold with growing dread. Grima's pale eyes rested on Eomer for a moment, and the side of his mouth twitched. He then shifted his gaze further up the slope to where Aragorn and Hama stood, and again behind them, to where, if Aragorn turned his head, he could see Gimli.

The Dwarf had evidently been dragged from his sleep, for his thick hair was tousled, and the soldiers were attempting to restrain his ire. Aragorn almost pitied them. The fellowship had learned quickly that an irate Dwarf in the morning was a thing to be avoided at all costs.

It was a few moments before he could spot Pippin amongst the crowd, and at last he was relieved to see the Hobbit standing with the Lady Eowyn at the side of the proceedings, his curly hair strewn about by the wind.

One glance at the lady's face filled Aragorn with pity, for now she would lose her brother as she had lost father and cousin. Grima's eyes seemed to linger on Eowyn too, yet pity was not what Aragorn saw stirring in those pale depths.

At last Grima lifted up a parchment. "Eomer, son of Eomund, you are charged that you did willfully defy the orders of your king, and ride forth from Rohan in hindrance of our allies, thereby committing treason. The punishment for treason being banishment, there is no other choice but to banish you and all that follow you from this land."

Eomer strained against the arms holding him, and it pained Aragorn to see the desperation and frustration upon his features. "Snake! What says the king? What says my uncle? You may poison his words and make lies to rid yourself of those who oppose you, but the king is not the dullard you make him. What says he?"

Grima smiled, his thin lips curling back to reveal sharp teeth. he turned the parchment he held to face the crowd, and clearly visible upon the sheet was the signature of Theoden.

Eomer was silent then with shock, and, as Aragorn was pushed closer to the gateway, the disbelief upon Eomer's face seemed that of the young man he would have been had war not ravished his childhood. Grima approached him, and, as he passed, Aragorn barely managed to catch the whispered words. "I also expect more welcome news. I am sure your uncle will give his consent in this also." The man's pale eyes flickered meaningfully to the place where Eowyn stood with Pippin. Eomer stared at the man for a moment, and it seemed the wind had paused in anticipation. Then with a great yell threw himself forward. Grima had expected anger, grief perhaps, but this terrible rage shocked even Aragorn, who knew Eomer to be one of hot temper and great protectiveness for those he held dear.

Grima was knocked to the ground for the second time that morning and received a blow to his head before the guards recovered the strength and ability to drag their enraged captain back from the man upon the ground.

Eomer finally went down as a fist caught him in the chest and stole his breath.

Legolas knew now that something inside him had died when first the fires on the distant horizon had burned in his sight. Hope, perhaps. Faith. He could feel the loss now, eating away at him. Nothing could be said now of the glories of war, the valour of Elves, Men, Dwarves... and Hobbits. The thought of little Pippin almost choked him with sorrow. Even now the red haze from the fires clouded his vision, though he kept his eyes upon the trampled grass.

"The fire, it may not be what it seems." Faramir struggled to keep up with the Elf's long strides, yet it was now beyond Legolas to care. The words were hollow, without meaning or hope, as the man knew as well as he. There was nothing now that could quell the fires within him but the truth. Yet even then, though the burning ache might be appeased, he would drown in despair and grief.

He topped the rise, and the wind rose up, spitting ashes and foul fumes in his face as he stared down at the smoking pyre. He coughed, consumed by the realisation that the ashes... His eyes watered, whether from the smoke or the growing ache of despair and guilt, he did not know. He broke into a run, feeling the wind in his face. Faramir called out to him, not being able to follow, but the voice was caught in the wind, and he heeded it not.

The great pile of bodies rose before him, a black, charred array of limbs, armour, twisted weapons all smoking.

He picked his way through the rubble, helpless confusion fogging all his thoughts. Ugly heads with gruesome expressions of pain and anger glared down at him from the poles upon which they had been displayed. Their glares seemed to taunt him, blaming him for being too late. He did not know what he was searching for. Some sign, some indication that the horse-men, whose foot prints and hoof marks were clearly visible, had found Aragorn, Gimli and Pippin alive.

"No, Aragorn, you cannot ask this of me!"

Aragorn dropped to his knees before Pippin, taking the Hobbit's small shoulders in his hands and imploring him to understand. He was aware of the need to leave swiftly, for their horses were prepared and Eomer was already mounted, his normally open face darkened with bitterness and a bloody gash across his cheek, a parting gift from Grima.

"We will return," he promised. "I would not leave you here were it not so."

The look upon Pippin's face was enough to tear Aragorn's heart in two. "I will not be a burden to you," he pleaded. "I don't want to stay here. I want to ride with you and Gimli."

Aragorn sighed. "It is for your own protection." Pippin's expression told him that tact would get him nowhere. "And it is your duty!"

Pippin's eyebrows rose tiredly. "Duty?"

"I need you to do something for me. I can trust no one else. I need you to protect the Lady Eowyn."

Pippin sighed, seemingly caught between his fear at being left behind with strangers, and his desire to help in their fight.

"Eomer needs someone he can trust to protect his sister, and you are the only one who could do this. She is proud, and will not accept the aid of other men. She trusts you."

Pippin bit his lip, staring at the dust beneath his feet. The noise of shuffling horse hooves increased Aragorn's desperation, yet he needed to make sure Pippin decided for himself. "Saruman could be here at any moment. I want you to keep Eowyn out of sight. Do you understand?"

Pippin nodded, and with a sigh he finally met Aragorn's gaze.

Aragorn gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze. "Do not let yourselves be seen."

He stood and took the reigns of the horse he had been given, looking back to see Gimli take his farewell from the Hobbit.

"I see you are abandoning me to the companionship of that scruffy ranger." The Dwarf patted Pippin fondly on his curls. Aragorn saw Pippin's attempt to smile fail as he grasped the Dwarf in an farewell embrace. "Mind that you take care of yourself, Master Hobbit, til we return."

With difficulty Gimli clambered up behind Aragorn, looking behind to see if Eomer was following. The horselord gazed up at his city, and Aragorn felt for him as he rode from the gates of his home perhaps for the last time. Something else, though, had caught the rider's eyes, and even as the three companions passed through the gates a horn sounded clearly.

"A salute?" Gimli suggested, glaring up at the city with narrowed eyes.

"Nay," Eomer shouted, turning his horse about. "A charge. My Eored, they come!"

And as Aragorn turned about his own steed he heard the thunder of the horse-hooves through the city, and the gleaming glint of helms of steel. They thundered from the gates, and it seemed as though the love they felt for their captain had held strong, for their number was hardly less than the patrol that had destroyed the Orcs the previous day.

They rode north, for it was Eomer's desire that they should wait and watch and be there should Edoras call for aid. For himself and Gimli, Aragorn had decided, they would ride with Eomer until safely out of the path of Saruman's approaching army and then make west for Isenguard. There, he hoped, they would find the answer to their long awaited question. What had become of Gandalf?

Aragorn looked back over his shoulder, and saw, or perhaps only imagined he saw, the small figure of Pippin standing by the tall gates.

Legolas shifted another charred orc helm with his foot, closing his eyes for a moment to regain his composure. The wind threw his hair into his face, as though trying to break through any sense of sanity that still remained. They had been here perhaps an hour, and not for one moment had he halted his quest. He felt though that, for once, he was coming to the end of his endurance.

He stared blearily over at Faramir, who seemed to have given up some time before. The man had lowered himself to the ground, lying with his head on his hands while he stared vacantly at nothing. Legolas gritted his teeth angrily, realising pathetically at the same time that his own search was proving no more useful than his companion's.

He dropped to a crouch, resting his aching limbs, and wishing, with confounded irony, that he had Aragorn to help him decipher the ground beneath him. While Legolas valued his own tracking skills, somehow Aragorn had always managed to best him. Growing up with the devious Peredhil twins had no doubt honed his senses.

That, though, had Legolas wondering how he could ever break the news to Aragorn's adopted family, to Arwen... He closed his eyes and took a few shuddering breaths.

"Legolas!"

He looked up, catching some excitement in the other's tone, and feeling uncertain hope rise within.

Faramir was kneeling upon the grass, his eyes seeming wild and his hair brought upwards by the wind.

They ran, all weariness seeming to have fallen from them. Legolas grasped the small dirty golden belt in his hand tightly as the grass whipped against his legs. It seemed a miracle that Faramir had happened to choose the place where the Rohan wounded had been laid to rest, and further still that he had happened to notice the dust covered end of Pippin's belt aligned with the mark of where the litter had pressed against the earth. Surely this meant Pippin had been rescued from the flames and taken with the soldiers to Edoras.

He was aware of Faramir lagging behind now, and he slowed in his pace though it irked him to do so. Hope filled him and his morose state of mind seemed to have dissipated.

He waited till the other man reached his side, and a moment more till Faramir had caught his breath once more.

"Forgive me," Faramir said after a moment. "I am a burden, I know. I would move faster were it not for my shoulder."

Legolas shook his head, worried suddenly by the man's pallor. "It matters not, now, at least; we can hope they are safe."

Faramir nodded, raising his hand to press against his shoulder, "You should go on. I understand your haste. He has become a brother to you and losing him would be losing a part of yourself."

"Nay," Legolas smiled, feeling his wildly beating heart slow and a calm finally come upon him. He realised, perhaps for the first time, that Faramir and he were not so very different. The man had understood him despite Legolas' determined idea that he was trying to take Aragorn's place. They had both been striving for the same thing: to see Aragorn reclaim the throne of Gondor and to win their fathers' approval despite their personal loyalties. "It is not far now, and we can walk it together."

Chapter 42 - Poison

For a long time the golden hall had merely been a faint hint of colour on the horizon, a hazy vision mingling with his watery eyes and the hair that the wind threw across his face. Yet now the gates were closer than he had thought possible, and open, gleaming in the sun.

"There is something approaching," Legolas lifted a hand and peered across the bright field ahead. "Riders, I am certain."

Faramir looked also, calming his strained breath as gradually the figures came into view over the rise a short way ahead of them.

"Do you recognise anyone?" The Elf looked to him hopefully. "I would that it were someone we could trust. Men have little love for strangers at the best of times, and they will not take kindly to finding an Elf traversing their lands."

Faramir nodded, the Rohirrim were suspicious of foreigners, yet to ones known to them their hospitality and generosity, especially with ale, was unparalleled. "I wonder what they made of Gimli."

Legolas raised an eyebrow, and in his faint smile Faramir saw the Elf's imagination rise to the interesting thought.

As the riders drew nearer Faramir was surprised. "I can make out the first rider. He is well known to me. Hama, doorwarden to the king, and captain of his guard." He squinted into the bright light as the brilliant dark horse turned before them and circled, his guard following until they had formed a tight ring around the two companions.

"Is he trustworthy?" Faramir caught Legolas' eye as the Elf spoke, hoping with equal fervour that the man he had known for some years would give them the news they both longed to hear.

Hama's usually cheerful face was surprisingly dark as he lowered his spear to meet the eyes of the man and Elf. "Name yourselves quickly strangers, I have little patience this day."

"You were never one to murder your guests, Hama." Faramir lifted his arm to shield his face against the sun, wincing as he did so for the unconscious movement had sent a rush of pain and nausea from his shoulder through his entire form.

Hama peered more closely as Legolas laid a steadying hand on the man's shoulder in case he should waver. Faramir could feel the captain's eyes studying him as he dismounted. Hama gave Legolas a weary look, and did not yet give the order for his guards to lower their spears.

It seemed such as strange thing to see a familiar face after all this time that Faramir could feel a slight smile lighting his face despite the pain. "Well met, Hama.

"My eyes do not deceive me!" The man's eyes widened after another moment of scrutiny. "It is Faramir returned at last! Forgive me for my caution but I did not recognise you under all that grime."

Faramir looked down at himself, noting that his once neat and clean appearance had been utterly transformed, first by the rain and trip down the Anduin, and then by his fall down the muddy slope upon Amon Hen. The clothes which had been cleaned and mended for him in Lorien were now torn and dark with mud, and the ragged bandage about his shoulder had soaked through till it was blood streaked and dirty. A glance at his companion further dampened his pride as the Elf seemed hardly to have a hair out of place.

"I see what it is." Hama smiled fondly, and his eyes seemed to be laughing silently at some memory. "You have begun to take after your brother. He never minded the weather or the mud, but you, Faramir, were always perfectly turned out. I sincerely hope you do not plan to follow in his footsteps. If that were so then I would suggest that you have misplaced the horse we lent you when last you were here."

Legolas' baffled expression at this speech was enough to cause Faramir to smile broadly and to grasp the warden's arm in welcome. "It is a joy to me to see you safe, Hama. I have sorely missed your good humour." Faramir felt his good spirits fade quickly again as his thoughts turned. "We have come many miles on the trail of our companions who were taken by Orcs. Can you not ease our hearts with news?"

Hama's expression too had become glum, and Faramir could now see clearly the heavy darkness beneath his eyes.

"Some cursed fate pursues you," Hama said, shaking his head.

Faramir felt Legolas start almost violently beside him, so sure they had both been of their friend's rescue. The Elf interrupted the man before he could go on, "What mean you? Are they dead?"

Confusion twisted Hama's features, "Nay, I meant only that they departed but a few hours since, exiled on the King's orders."

Faramir sucked in a sharp breath, barely able to think over the sudden elation that took his senses. Legolas seemed similarly affected, and grasped Hama's arm in his excitement. "They were well?"

"A little bruised," Hama smiled, "and the Dwarf none too pleased by being dragged from his sleep."

Faramir realised he had rarely seen Legolas smile, and when he did so then it seemed the light and mischievous glimmer in the Elf's eyes kindled his own joy at the thought of seeing Gimli's gruff countenance once more. "The foolish creature," Legolas smiled, shaking his head. "Sleeping while we traipsed over these endless fields.." He met Hama's eyes, realising what he had said. "Forgive me, I mean no offence to your lands."

"And none taken." Hama smiled, reassuringly. "But come, we have tarried here too long. Your Halfling is still within the city."

"Pippin remained behind?" Faramir felt a shadow of doubt drift over him, and wondered on what grounds could Aragorn had left the hobbit in a strange city with no other friend.

"Aye, and having been so recently abandoned he will welcome friendly faces."

"The same cannot be said for the king." The voice came from behind him and Faramir looked up as one of the rider's dismounted neatly and approached Hama, pulling on the captain's sleeve as no common soldier aught. He was small in stature and Faramir realised with surprise that he was only a boy, dressed in the battle gear of a man twice his age.

The boy turned to Faramir and Legolas and bowed slightly. "I mean no disrespect to his lordships but Rohan's gates no longer welcome strangers." The boy was young, and round faced so that would have appeared cheerful were it not for the deep lines of weariness beneath the eyes.

Hama placed a hand on the boy's head, tousling the hair that was the same shade as his own. "Hiri, I let you ride out with me, and then you speak out like this?"

Hiri looked up at his father, and asked in a voice that tried to hide his hurt confusion, "but I am right, am I not?"

"I would not have put it quite like that." Hama smiled fondly, giving Faramir and Legolas a knowing glance. "But come. Hiri, you must take Faramir behind you, and master.." he paused.

"Legolas." The Elf nodded.

"Master Legolas can ride with me."

Faramir grimaced at the thought of climbing into a saddle, and then again as he was forced to admit his pain to Hama. "I fear I cannot ride."

Hama's eyes swept over the bloodied bandage that wrapped his shoulder and seemed to take it in his stride. "I will take you before me then, for I have much news you must hear."

With his good hand, Faramir gripped Hama's outstretched arm and managed to climb into the saddle with only a small grimace of pain.

Beside him, Legolas was already mounted and Faramir smiled as he saw the expression of Hama's young son as he looked up at the Elf in front of him. It seemed he was barely resisting the urge to touch the Elf's silken hair of which the boy had never seen the like. Legolas' face did not betray his impatience, but the touch of his hand upon the horse's long neck, and the way he shifted in the saddle told Faramir he was longing to lay eyes on Pippin and see that the Hobbit was safe.

The great doors opened onto a dimly lit hall. Hama led the way through the low room, an antechamber where the flickering light from the torches mounted on the walls cast strange shadows on the floor beneath their feet.

It was a relief to Legolas to hear the heavy bolt of the door behind them come to, and to be out of sight of the prying gazes of the suspicious onlookers of Edoras. He had never before felt so keenly what it was to be an Elf. Finally he understood some of what Gimli and Faramir must have felt in Lorien, and perhaps even among the elves in distant Imladris.

Their feet sounded loudly on the stone floor, patterned with many coloured tiles. There were men guarding the door to the king's hall, as there had been outside, and their faces were suspicious and, he thought, somewhat unfriendly, yet they moved aside as they recognised their captain.

The warm-feelings Legolas had begun to develop for the sturdy Hama, having been momentarily chilled by the news of the dangerous political situation in the south, rose again as the man bid them farewell.

Hama's own expression was glum as he reached to take Legolas' arm in turn. "May you have more luck than your companions," he said. "The King has as keen a wit as any, if left to his own devices, but if I were in your place I would guard your backs."

"We will not forget your aid, Hama. Perhaps we may even be able to return the favour, and set right some of what has gone amiss." Faramir touched his hand to Hama's son's curly head. "Farewell, Hiri. Look after your father, and make sure he takes care of himself also."

The boy set his chin, and said "I will."

An almost stale odour closed about them as they entered the hall. The air was so still it seemed as though Legolas' own breath stirred the dust that swirled slowly about them, lit up by the great windows slanting light down from the rafters. There were others in the hall also; standing in the darker corners, watching the entrance of the two companions.

Together Legolas and Faramir moved forward cautiously, and Legolas saw with some relief that Faramir's expression was as determined as his own. Their reception had been discourteous at the very least, and from what Hama had told them about Aragorn and Gimli, the situation could quickly become far more dangerous.

Faramir touched his arm as they skirted the large brazier set in the floor, and murmured, "I do not like the sound of this councillor of which Hama spoke. If I were to guess I would say he is the cause of this unrest."

Legolas nodded almost imperceivably, feeling the man's eyes upon him, waiting for his assessment. "Whether or not he is an agent of Saruman or simply seeks to gain control of Rohan for his own purposes, he has the ear of the King."

The thought brought to light memories of his own father's court, and the thought brought a faint smile to Legolas' lips. Gaining the King of Mirkwood's ear in any matter that concerned his people was a trial indeed, one in which even his own son had never quite mastered.

The figure on the throne, as they approached, however, was as unlike to Thranduil as could be imagined. Dark eyes, sunken into dark hollows, followed their progress through the hall, and the gaze unnerved even Legolas, who had expected for not all to be right. With hands clasped deadly still upon his lap, and backed by proud shields of green collecting dust, the King of Rohan regarded his noble guests.

Legolas watched Faramir out of the corner of his eye, not knowing the proper procedure and feeling strangely vulnerable.

"Hail Theoden King."

It was difficult to conjure the blank serenity that was required with all the worries and fears filling his mind, yet he would attempt it, if only for a little while. Fortunately Faramir had managed to adopt a manner that was a pleasant mixture of old friend and the respectful visitor. More stark a transformation Legolas had rarely seen.

"It is not so long since I was last graced by your hospitality, my Lord," Faramir had said to the King, "yet once again I must thank you for your welcome."

Theoden shifted slightly in his chair, "You might once have looked for welcome here, son of Denethor, and once we would have offered it freely to friends from Gondor. But the days have grown dark, and darker still are the tidings that have come to us from the south.

"I was counselled to cast you from the city, you and your strange companion." Legolas felt the King's sunken eyes come to rest on himself, and he held Theoden's gaze, yet not without feeling great unrest. He had the sudden sensation that something was staring out at him from those dark hollows. At last the eyes looked away, and returned to Faramir. "I would know, however, what we are to face in the coming days." Faramir seemed untroubled by the keen gaze, for he spoke with an elevation and comradery that Legolas could not himself feel. He thought for a moment that perhaps it was heightened Elvish senses that enabled himself to perceive this shadow of a threat in the face of the king, yet then he looked sideways he saw that behind the animated features and fine words, Faramir's eyes remained hard, and the face was smiling with strain rather than mirth.

Behind the King, Legolas noticed that another man stood almost shadowed by the great green banners. He moved for the first time as Faramir was speaking, and Legolas was sure that this was the Grima of which Hama had spoken.

"My lord, I come not from Minas Tirith," Faramir was explaining in defence of his ignorance of the volatile political situation. "I come out of the north, and with me comes Legolas of Mirkwood. We had heard nothing of your fears ere the lord Hama spoke with us, but believe me when I say that my father does nothing but for the good of Gondor. He would think no more of betraying our allies and fellow men than laying down our swords before the Black Gate itself."

Theoden seems slightly moved "you speak with sincerity, and your words may indeed hold some truth, but I will not be so easily swayed by hollow promises."

Legolas saw quickly the impossible nature of the situation. There was nothing they could say to dissuade the King from believing his own councillors. Frustration had begun to eat away at him, and he longed to escape the stagnant hall and its corrupt councils.

Legolas shot a look at Faramir as Grima moved out of the shadows, receiving a similar glance in return. "You do well to question, my lord," the counsellor nodded, placing a white hand on the arm of Theoden's chair. "After all, why should we believe you, son of Denethor? Is it not your blood that has betrayed us? What can you tell us of your father's mind save that you are not privy to his thoughts. It is well known you are not even deemed fit to attend his council."

Faramir's lips were pressed together and bloodless. The genial facade had been dropped, and Grima's mouth twitched as he saw how deeply he had struck.

Legolas felt his anger rise once more, and this time did not bother to restrain it. "My lord Theoden," he said, ignoring the King's quickly raised hand. "You speak of deceit, of hollow promises and yet this snake whispers poison in your ears even as you cast away the only ones who could bring you aid."

Legolas saw at once that Theoden was beginning to waver, and Grima saw it too. "What aid do you bring, Elf?" the counsellor asked quickly, stepping down from the dais to approach him. "Archers to protect our walls? That I would call aid. If Gondor has forsaken us and laid us bare to the red eye we must turn elsewhere for aid."

Legolas felt disgust rise in him as Grima found yet another way to twist their words in his favour.

"Where would you suggest, Lord Grima?" Faramir inclined his head as the counsellor passed by Legolas and came to him. Legolas saw that something of the old fire had returned to his companion's eyes. "That the King turn to Saruman in his plight, as you did once, did you not?"

Grima rounded on them, and the transformation was alarming even to Legolas who had felt the evil about the man from the very first.

"What does the wizard pay you Grima? What has he promised in return for your service?"

The man's lips were drawn back from his teeth in a snarl, and Legolas felt as though he could do nothing but watch in horrified fascination as he turned on Faramir. The ferocity of the man's bearing and the uncontrolled anger in his eyes was enough to cause Legolas to instinctively reach for his weapon, realising too late that it had been requisitioned at the door. Grima struck out at Faramir, but he was slow, encumbered by heavy robes and lack of recent activity. Faramir easily caught the wrist of his assailant and grasped it, drawing back the sleeve before Grima could defend himself.

The pale skin was blotchy in places but the old scar showed out clear and damning, the mark of the white hand. It was not a hard deduction to make, Legolas had suspected it himself, having only lacked the proof to speak on it. Now that had that proof.

As Faramir attempted to turn Grima's arm as evidence towards the king, the man managed to twist out of his hold swivelling around until he was able to drive back, throwing his entire strength into Faramir's right side. He went down immediately, clutching his injured shoulder. At the same moment Legolas swiftly made a grab for Grima, realising their only chance was slipping away like water through their fingers, but the worm slid safely out of reach, signing his recruited men in the hall to form a protective circle.

"You see my lord how these conspirators hoped to lull you into idleness, and then strike out as our backs are turned," Grima spoke again to the king.

Legolas clenched his fists by his sides as he knelt down by Faramir. The man groaned, half with pain, Legolas thought, and half with the frustration he also was feeling. The lies the counsellor was spitting out would more than convince the already confused king. Their attempt at proving Grima a traitor appeared no more than an unprovoked attack without the evidence of Grima's brand to support their argument, and there was no way now that Grima would risk giving them a second chance at exposing his secret.

"I am afraid there can be no other explanation," Theoden said, and he seemed almost to sigh. "Yet I am saddened by the fact... That Gondor could betray us to the enemy without a thought for all the innocent children..."

"Do not worry, my king. You need not fear for Rohan, Saruman has already gifted us all his forces and they will arrive before long. You must not trouble yourself," Grima met Legolas' eyes as he spoke, "I will take care of these two."

"You had a chance, and you took it."

"And failed in the attempt." Faramir clenched his hand into a fist as Legolas prodded attempted to assess the damage to his shoulder.

"Some blood, and no doubt bruising." The Elf drew the cloth back over the wound. "I do not like the look of it and I would that Aragorn were here."

Faramir stood, pulling his cloak back around him. It was dark and damp and his feet echoed on the stone floor. "They will go to Minas Tirith, most likely." He crossed the small floor in a matter of three or four steps, then turned back. "Aragorn will not have waited. We have to have trust that they will reach the city in time to warn against the coming of Saruman. As fate would have it, we will not be given the same chance."

"There will be another time to make an appeal to the king." Legolas was attempting to be reassuring, and the tone of his voice was not particularly convincing.

There was silence for a moment, neither of them having anything comforting to offer. The sound of Faramir's breathing and his footsteps upon the floor seemed loud to him in the dark cell.

He looked up suddenly as Legolas sprang up and moved over the far wall. "Must you pace backwards and forwards in such a manner?" Legolas had leaned his hands against the stone of the wall, his back to Faramir. "The space is small enough for my liking without being constantly reminded of it."

Faramir stopped his pacing, hearing the tremor in the other's voice. "Forgive me," he said, looking for any sign that the Elf was listening. "I had not thought "

There was, in the silence that followed, another voice.

At first it seemed merely an echo of the previous conversation, but it came again. Legolas turned quickly, his face pale but his eyes alight. Together they made for the door in time for it to open a crack, showing a small figure in the candle-light beyond.

"Pippin!"

The broad grin of the Hobbit brought joy to Faramir's heart in a rush, and soon he was bending down by Legolas to give the young Took a mighty hug.

"We have found you at last!" Pippin spoke quietly, pushing the door to and bolting it once more. "We have taken longer than we meant, for there are hundreds of cells below the city and the guards moved too quick for me to give chase."

Following the Hobbit round a bend in the dark corridor, Legolas asked "How did you get into the prison?"

"Not that you could not achieve the same result by yourself." Faramir smiled.

"Not at all," Legolas nodded.

Pippin went on, "I did have a little help, Eowyn and I have schemed for some time in an attempt to rescue you. She has lived here all her life, you see, and knows hidden passages that that horrid man could never find."

They turned the corner and there she was, waiting for them. She held a candle, the light of which was eclipsed slightly by a curtain of golden hair. She was wearing white, Faramir saw, and was very pale. It was the appearance of her face, he realised, more than her dress that surprised him; her expression so very calm and cold and yet her eyes burned with life such as he had never seen.

They followed her throughout the twisting rooms, like a bird guiding lost sailors back to shore. Faramir could not but be aware of his heavier tread compared to that of Legolas, and the desperation he felt lest that white figure should fade and leave them alone in the dark.

They emerged at last up a winding stair into a small dimly-lit hall. The Lady Eowyn turned finally to face them, and in the light of the room the mystery of her person faded. She seemed tired and worn out with care, yet her bearing remained straight and she did not show anything upon her face. The look of her eyes, however, would not leave Faramir, and even as he thought of it after, the pain he had seen there seemed to pierce him also.

"You must forgive my uncle, he does not know his own mind," she was saying. "The lord Hama has prepared horses for you, and we will go now to the stables, there I must say farewell."

"Will you not ride with us, my lady?" Faramir found himself asking.

Legolas glanced at him sternly, his eyes expressing annoyance and confusion. "It would not be wise. We will ride long and hard to reach Minas Tirith before the army of Saruman."

"That is precisely why she cannot stay here."

"My lords." Eowyn's tone held anger, and both man and Elf looked to her. "I come and go at my own will. I thank you for your concerns but I will do what I discern to be for the best. My duty is to the king."

Faramir knew then that he could no longer pity the lady of Rohan for her trouble, for she was too proud and wilful to even pity herself.

"Well said," Pippin said, pressing his lips together in satisfaction. "Now shall we go? I for one would rather not spend breakfast with Saruman."

"Nor second breakfast either, I suppose?"

Pippin frowned good-naturedly at Faramir. "If you had an appetite as large as a Hobbit, you would not be laughing about it."

Legolas shook his head at both of them, exchanged a glace with Eowyn, and ruffled Pippin's curly hair

The hall was ominous in the dark but they reached the great gates without even a murmur of trouble. Passing out into the antechamber Faramir listened carefully for the slightest sound that might be following them.

He could not hear anything distinct, it was what he felt that disturbed him. The ground seemed to be moving beneath their feet, shaking slightly as though they stood in the path of a herd of stampeding oliphants. Legolas was standing still, his body seemingly attuned with his senses. Faramir watched him fearfully, a growing dread swelling inside him.

Pippin however, had not noticed the others, and was already reaching to open the heavy door.

"Do not!"

Legolas' shout was too late. Pippin had tugged on the door until it swung open on its heavy hinges. A blaze of light took them all in the face, blinding them. The vague awareness that it should be the calm light of dusk outside came to him, and the unnatural light faded slightly so they could see what was spread before them.

They stood at the very pinnacle of Edoras, the steps leading down from the great hall. From here the plains of Rohan were spread out before them in their green splendour. Yet now they were not green. It did not occur to Faramir at first that the black mass covering the fields was moving, shifting like some black stretch of water out as far as they could see. When his eyes focused and he could make out the dark helms glinting in the failing sun, the thousand tiny spear heads, the armour, he recognised the army. The dark figures of orcs were in the city also, cloaking the streets in black ants crawling up the steep slope to meet them. At they head, the only white figure among them, holding a staff aloft from which shone forth the light that had at first blinded them, was Saruman the White.

Hello everyone, after many, many years I have returned with the last chapters of this tale. Please check back once a week for updates.

I have renamed the story, I hope anyone interested can still find it.

My warmest thanks to all those who reviewed and emailed throughout the years with words of support, I wouldn't be finishing it without you!

Chapter 43 - Pain

Pippin gripped his blade so hard that his fingers had begun to ache.

The sun was rising and every moment the shadows on the plains around Edoras grew lighter, revealing more and more Orcs. Pippin had never seen so many, not even on the banks of the Anduin. It was hopeless, and yet somehow it was not in him to believe there was no chance of escape.

"We cannot give up like this!" he cried, looking up at his companions.

Legolas pushed them back further into the dark as the new light of morning stretched through the open doorway of the great hall. "The city is completely surrounded, the army have formed a great ring around the city. There is no escape, and our hiding may only bring down the wizard's wrath upon the people of the city."

As an Elf, Pippin supposed, Legolas could see far more of their enemies than his own Hobbit sight could reveal.

Eowyn stepped around Legolas, retaking her position at the door. She shook her head when Legolas again attempted to draw her back, and hissed, "It may be hopeless but we can still fight."

In only a day with her at Edoras Pippin had seen the lady's great determination, but he knew that this time it was in vain. Her eyes were wild and desperate, her brow and the hand which gripped her sword glistening in the light. She knew as well as Legolas that there was no escape for them. Pippin could only imagine what he would feel like if it was his own dear little house surrounded by Orcs.

"Saruman is not here for Edoras," Faramir said in a low voice. A stillness had come upon him and Pippin could see the man's mind working. "He is here for her men and her horses."

"When he finds us," Legolas said darkly, "he will force us to reveal where the object of our quest now lies." His eyes flickered to Eowyn, unwilling to speak openly before one not of their fellowship.

"Then we must not tell him," Pippin put in, feeling that this was obvious but not understanding why it needed to be said aloud.

"Saruman has created a force just as devastating as that which spills forth from Barad-dûr, has spent years infiltrating Rohan to strengthen that army and gain a force that could rival the dark tower itself..."

"If we must die to protect our secret then die we must."

Talking of noble deaths was all very well, Pippin thought as he stared up at his two companions, but facing up to the reality of it would be another matter. How could he hide what he knew under threat of pain and fear? He had not been tested and as such he could not know his own strength.

"Perhaps we can achieve more with our knowledge than die to protect it." Faramir had a dark twist to his mouth as he spoke. "Perhaps we can convince Saruman of another truth..."

Legolas' eyes were suddenly alight, but Pippin had no idea what was being proposed. "If we were sure enough of our story..." Legolas trailed off, his brow creased as he fingered the fletching of his arrow. "And there was reason enough to believe it was the truth..."

Faramir nodded, "Precisely, and there is reason enough. Fortunately the fellowship have always taken the least logical of paths."

Eowyn was watching the exchange with eyebrows raised and Pippin almost expected her to interrupt and tell them how foolish they were being.

"This would be a deadly road to take if we did not believe our companions will succeed in their endeavour," Faramir was saying.

"It is your city at stake," Legolas looked to the other with some trepidation.

"I placed my faith in Mithrandir long ago," Faramir said quietly, "and after all, what is another unconquerable army when one already knocks at the gates?"

A smile touched the corners of Legolas' mouth at this, but after a moment he looked grave. "Saruman will not easily take this bait. We may need to make him believe that the knowledge, our truth, is given only under coercion."

"We have no choice but to make him believe it the truth." Faramir's voice was steady, although Pippin saw his gaze shift towards himself.

"You sound like children playing at war-games". Eowyn shook her head scornfully, but Pippin saw understanding and something akin to affection in her words.

Pippin jumped as he heard iron boots climbing the many steps leading up to the great hall.

Faramir stepped forward and grasped Eowyn's wrist, meeting her slightly softened gaze with his own. "Please, lady, go back to your rooms. You are the first daughter of the city and must stay safe to protect your people."

Pippin hoped for a moment that she would agree, but she turned away her head and shook herself free of his hold. "What good would it do to hide now? We must not let the people of the city be taken in their beds, we must raise them to the danger!"

"That would be unwise." The voice came from behind them. They turned as one to see Wormtongue and a group of men cutting off any escape back into the hall.

The figure sitting with his back against the remains of what had once been a rampart of stone did not look up at their approach.

"The towers." Eomer looked across at his two companions in wide-eyed wonderment. "They are beaten into the dust."

Gimli felt equal amazement. Around them was a ruin, where the dwindling remains of a battle of elements still fought on. Their horses' hooves were forced to pick delicately amid a great lake of water, waist high (for a dwarf), with small flames still clinging desperately to the floating debris.

Gimli looked around with some disappointment, feeling it a pity that they themselves had not been given the chance to participate in the destruction of Saruman's fortress.

"Some devilry has been here."

"Not devilry, perhaps, but something with a stronger power than that of Saruman." Aragorn was looking towards the old man sitting not far off. They could not quite see his face, as he was turned to face the forest ringing the outer rim of the rim of Isengard. He seemed the only living thing in the place.

Gimli felt a strange doubt come upon him, and unconsciously clenched his fist around the head of his axe. He exchanged glances with Eomer beside him as Aragorn nudged their horse forwards. The ground was unsteady beneath them, yet Gimli did not fear falling. The horse of Rohan's feet were steady, and together they ploughed through the damp wreckage until they came within a few steps of the old man.

His hair was white, and he wore no hat. White garments, the lower portion grey with murky water, clothed him. He did not seem to hear their approach. This disturbed Gimli more than anything, and an uneasy feeling began to grow inside his chest. The similarity of this figure to Eomer's rumoured description of Saruman was disturbingly close. Eomer too seemed to have sensed this likeness, and his horse was skittish as if disturbed by its rider's feelings.

Gimli sniffed as the smoke from the old man's pipe blew in their direction. It was a wholesome, satisfying smell that reminded him of something far off, or long ago.

"You must excuse us, good sir," Aragorn said as a beginning. Still the figure did not turn to face them, choosing instead to blow a smoke ring in the air. Aragorn glanced back at his companions, raising an eyebrow. "Will you not give us news of what has become of the citadel of Saruman?"

The pipe was removed and carefully set aside. When he still did not face them Eomer drew his mount closer to theirs. "He is a deaf old fool," he said in a half whisper, his eyes intent on theirs. "Or if indeed he is the White Wizard, playing a part, let him turn and face us. We are being poisoned by the smoke of his pipe most likely without knowing it."
The figure seemed to turn slightly as they looked back at him, as though finally acknowledging their presence at last. "White Wizard, son of Eorl? An interesting choice of words, yes, an interesting choice indeed."

That voice! In just a few words Gimli felt his resolve wavering. It seemed almost duelled in its tone. Cold and yet compelling, foreign yet strangely familiar. Gimli began to regret his long standing argument with Legolas over the merits of axe over bow. He would give much for the skill of a bowman at this moment.

Aragorn seemed to have maintained the use of his wits. "Will you not show us your face."

Gimli felt no such calm, fearing that giving the White Wizard another chance to speak would destroy his resolve all together. "Do not hesitate," he hissed to Aragorn.

From his right he heard Eomer speak, "It Is Saruman! We must strike now!"

"No!" The figure turned at last to face them.

"Gandalf! It cannot be!"

Gimli felt himself staring open mouthed as Gandalf, who they all thought they had lost, once again stood before them, holding up his familiar pipe. "There really is nothing like the pipeweed of the Shire."

Aragorn was upon the ground in a moment, and to Gimli it seemed as though the ranger's body had visibly relaxed and shed much of its previous burden. "My dear old friend," he said, "I see you have not changed."

"Ah, but there you are wrong." The familiar face smiled tiredly up at Gimli and Eomer in greeting, then beckoned Aragorn to sit beside him amid the rubble of Isengard. His face had changed, Gimli noticed. He was almost unhealthily thin, his once bright eyes dark and sunken slightly. A vivid bar of flesh had been raised in a line from his eye to the cheek, but his manner and voice remained familiar. "We have both changed much - I have passed through fire and water, and now, at the turn of the tide I return to you as Gandalf the White. All things are now set in motion, and we must also be moving."

Dismounting clumsily from the great height and giving his horse a thankful rub, Gimli asked, "But where are we to go, now you have finally returned to us?"

"To Minas Tirith. Little choice is left. Even now the claw of Mordor strikes them from the East, and unbeknownst to them Saruman and the army of the white hand marches to Edoras and then on into Gondor."

Eomer, it seemed, still did not trust the wizard. It was little wonder, Gimli thought, after being so recently betrayed by another. "You give up my people as a lost cause," the man said with fists clenched in helpless frustration, "yet I cannot so quickly abandon hope for their survival. Why go we not to Edoras?"

Gandalf shook his head quickly, his brow furrowed. "The people of Rohan need fear nothing from Saruman yet," he told Eomer. "They are of use to him, at least for the present, or he would not have formed such a scheme. I have found out much from my inhospitable stay here and I can see now how his mind works. With Rohan's army allied with his own he will march on Gondor from the south, as though on Sauron's orders."

Aragorn rose quickly, "The people of Minas Tirith must be warned."

"They will be," Gandalf assured him.

Like many of Gandalf's answers his vague response was not enough for Aragorn. "I will go"

"You will not overtake the army," Eomer shook his head, "They will have reached Eodoras at first light."

Aragorn went to the reigns of his horse, and stroked the creature upon his nose reassuringly. "They will be delayed a while at Edoras, and now no time can be lost. I do not ask any to follow me."

Gimli had expected such a response and almost smiled at his friend's predictable resolve. "Oh no you don't. You're not leaving me behind."

They both looked to Eomer, yet the young man shook his head. "I would come with you, yet I fear for my sister and uncle. I cannot ride to Gondor until I know they are well."

Gandalf rose to his feet also. "I will also ride with you to Edoras, to see King Theoden," he said. "In time, I hope, we may be able to muster a force to send to Minas Tirith."

Aragorn shook his head. "I fear we have little time - and yet to part again so soon..."

"Fear not, my friend," the wizard said kindly, "Go to the aid of your city, and I will do what I can."

Aragorn raised a faint smile in reply. "It is not yet my city"

"Trust to hope and it may yet turn its face upon us. And do not forget that mountains paths are long and the open plains watched by unfriendly eyes. There is yet another way. You are in haste, and should not forget the road that runs beneath all others, that which no other man may walk. But no more time can be spared for talk. Let us say farewell."

"That would be unwise." The voice came from behind them. They turned as one to see Wormtongue and a group of men cutting off any escape from the hall. …

Pippin gritted his teeth at the voice.

"You had better think carefully before doing anything foolish," the hated man said, never taking his eyes off the lady. "There is more at risk here than your own lives."

Eowyn rounded on him, swinging up her shining blade to point at his face."How long have you been at the call of Saruman, snake? How long have your words poisoned my uncle's thoughts?"

"Be kind enough to leave my emissary in tact, Lady of Rohan."

Pippin spun at the new voice to see the white figure of the wizard slowly ascending the last steps to enter the hall, followed by a large accompaniment of Orcs.

Pippin hadn't known many wizards in his time, and Saruman was as unlike to Gandalf as he could imagine. A long face with a sharp nose and thin lips. His hair was a colour Pippin found difficult to describe; it seemed white, and yet seemingly not through age, drawn back from the face in a harsh way that made Pippin long for Gandalf's familiar, weather-beaten features.

His sharp gaze swept the four figures quickly, and Pippin, meeting the gaze, suddenly felt as though he was laid bare, his innermost feelings read and cast aside.

"Lordly and heroic Grima may not be," the wizard smiled with an air of benevolent amusement, "but he has his uses."

Pippin knew Saruman to be old, older perhaps even than Gandalf, the wizard gave a deceptive air of youth and seemed intense and alive. What disturbed Pippin most, however, was his smile.

Eowyn's hand faltered, and her sword arm fell to rest harmlessly by her side. Pippin saw confusion in her eyes, as though she knew not what she did.

Pacified, Saruman turned his attention to the members of the fellowship who still gripped their weapons. "Your company is somewhat diminished from the hopeful band who set forth from the home of Elrond half-elven many months ago."

Pippin felt as though something was crawling inside him as he resisted the impulse to tell this man everything he had ever known. It was the voice, so kind, warm and compelling - like Gandalf... Then, resisting that association for what seemed like agonising moments, he finally felt the wizard's presence withdraw from his mind.

"You need not try your tricks with us, Saruman," Legolas said coldly, and the Elf's clear, firm voice shook Pippin from the smoke that seemed to have filled his head, "we will tell you nothing."

"Tricks?" The Istar smiled, his tone lightly amused as the edge of his mouth curled upwards. "Such crude devices were sure to have no effect on your mind, Legoloas, son of Thranduil, but there are lesser minds that might have been bent to my will." His gaze flickered to Pippin and the Hobbit drew himself up, resisting the sluggish feeling in his head for the sake of his pride. "What Gandalf sees in these halflings I cannot guess."

Saruman's gaze was raking the Hobbit's mind again, probing gently but insistently into his innermost feelings. Pippin struggled against it but he felt himself becoming more and more confused.

"How then," Faramir interjected, "did they slip so easily through all your nets?"

The wizard's smile hardened. "Sharp your mind may be, son of Denethor, but for all your fabled foresight you see very little."

"But there is no time now for bandying with words. My need is pressing and I will have answers." He moved forwards and slid the lady Eowyn's arm into his. "Bring them," he told Grima, and grasped Pippin's arm also, moving off towards the centre of the hall, dragging the Hobbit with him.

Twisting in the wizard's painful hold, Pippin struggled to keep up with the great strides, while craning his neck around to see what had happened to Legolas and Faramir. They had been seized by several Orcs that had followed their master into the hall and were having their wrists bound before them.

Pippin realised that he was breathing hard, his heart fit to break out of his chest. Saruman's long nails were digging into the soft skin on his arm and he focused on the pain - that at least took his mind off what was to come.

They came into the circle of light cast by the great burning brazier near the centre of the hall, and Pippin looked around at the strained faces of his companions.

"Now my lady." Saruman removed his arm from Eowyn's. "You will draw your King from his hiding place."

"If you think I will raise one hand to aid you..."

"I would consider before you make any threats." Again the wizard seemed amused at their resistance. "There is an army surrounding Edoras that could run your city into the ground while your horsemen still lie a bed. But that is not my wish. Or yours?"

When she did not respond Saruman's eyes became dangerous. Pippin felt fingers suddenly grasping him around the throat, pressing so hard that at once he was choking and spluttering for air. He flailed his arms, trying to break the wizard's grip but every second he grew weaker. His vision was almost consumed by sharp points darkness when suddenly the pressure was gone, and he fell to the floor gasping and sucking in great mouthfuls of the cool air.

When Pippin finally came to himself Eowyn's footsteps were receding as she hurried away to do the Wizard's bidding. Pippin was lying on the floor, still short of breath as his neck had been bruised by the wizard's cruel strength.

Saruman was no longer facing him and was already seeking answers.

Pippin spared one last thought for Frodo, Sam and Merry, and then tried to wipe all memory of them from his thoughts. He concentrated on trivial facts and hoped that the rumours he had heard from the men of Rohan concerning Saruman's mind reading were only idle talk.

Saruman moved forward, and despite his determination to be brave Pippin flinched backwards, now frightened of the wizard's painful touch. But this time Saruman was only stepping closer to Legolas so that the Elf, who Pippin had always thought of as tall, suddenly appeared a slender grey figure against the blazing white of the wizard's robes. "Realise now," Saruman whispered, his long nails that had cut into Pippin's throat now raking the Elf's cheek, "that if any of you attempt to match your will with mine, you will lose."

Legolas met the wizard's gaze but Pippin saw him pale.
"Reveal to me the bearer of the One Ring. Tell me where Isildur's bane can be found."

Only the crackling of the fire broke the silence that followed, and Pippin shrank back, clenching his teeth as the wizard seemed to grow in his anger.

The Orc holding Faramir, at some unspoken command, forced him towards the brazier. Saruman drew a poker from the flames, lifting the heated metal rod so that the thick glowing end was reflected in their eyes.

Pippin squinted through bleary vision as Legolas' calm facade splintered and he lurched forwards, almost breaking his captor's hold. "Do not do this, Saruman," he shook his head, "there is nothing we can tell you."

Pippin couldn't tell if Legolas' plea was part of the plan or a true appeal for mercy, but the Hobbit felt real panic rise within himself.

The Istar calmly ignored the Elf, with his free hand gripping Faramir's bound hands, baring his forearms. "You feared fire, even as a child," Pippin heard the wizard say quietly. "Why was that? The smell, bodies, flesh burning..."

Pippin felt sick. As Faramir gritted his jaw and fought Saruman's hold there was something Pippin recognised in the man's eyes: a dark blinding horror fighting all rational control.

Legolas' voice when he spoke was quiet and imploring. "What can we tell you? We know nothing..."

Pippin, knowing he had to do something, lunged forwards without any thought of what he would do afterwards, just hoping to knock Saruman away from his purpose. He should have known better. A vicious hand caught him about the waist before he had covered half the distance and an Orc gripped his struggling body. He fought, but could not break the hold.

The hiss of the fire on flesh filled his ears and he cried out, unaware of everything but anger for his friend. He struggled, but the Orc pressed him firmly to the paved floor of the hall, a knee in his back and a large hand on the back of his head. After a brief struggle he forced himself to be still, making his body limp and his breathing calm.

The room suddenly seemed very quiet, the fire crackled, and the Orcs' metal shod feet shifted across the hard floor. There was another sound also, that of laboured breaths, which he took to be Faramir's.

"What are you willing to sacrifice?" Saruman's voice now echoed in the quiet space, and Pippin craned his neck upwards to try and see what was happening.

At last the pressure eased and he was dragged to his feet by the broad-armed Orc who gripped him by the hood of his cloak and held him upright. His head swam and he felt he would be sick.

He caught Legolas' eyes first and the anger in them mirrored his own. The Elf was sagging slightly in the Orcs' hold, his face very pale.

Pippin shifted his gaze and saw with a sudden horror that the wizard was holding Faramir close to the brazier, gripping his hair as he thrust the man's face over the flames. Pippin could already see the ends of Faramir's long hair melting in the heat, as the man struggled for breath and tried to turn his head away from the heat and the fumes.

"Please," Pippin said, forcing the words through his aching throat, "please stop."

"I will tell you all I can," Legolas followed, reaching his bound hands forwards. "That is all I can do, you must believe..."

Pippin was sure this was the truth this time, the situation had rapidly tumbled out of their control.

"Tell me then," Saruman said, making no move. "Tell me... where is the One Ring?"

Legolas licked his lower lip as he tried to recount a swift and coherent account of the events at Parth Gallen, of Gollum's death, Aragorn, Gimli and Pippin's capture by the Orcs."

As far as Pippin knew, this much had been truth, but as Legolas spoke the next words Pippin nearly needed to hide his face to not show his disbelief.

Legolas told of a decision – the remaining Hobbits set out towards Gondor, holding to shadows in the footsteps of the Orcs until they were able to rejoin with Aragorn and Gimli. With both Isildur's heir and the Ring, Minas Tirith would become a stronghold for the enemies of Sauron.

"...And we three stayed behind," Legolas finished, his eyes showing nothing of the lie he had told, "to muster the forces of Rohan and lend extra strength to Gondor's victory." The Elf slumped now, as if he had told all.

Saruman finally stepped back, letting Faramir fall from his hold. The Orc holding Pippin also loosened his grip and he struggled free, running to the man's side.

"Too simple. You are far too easy to persuade. Every creature has its breaking point. The very first of my Orc creations discovered this very quickly."

Pippin could see that Legolas' entire figure was straining with anger. "You sicken me, Saruman. Much of this was known to you already..."

"Violence serves its purpose. You will be less likely to defy me in the future."

Pippin turned his head to see Legolas spit at the wizard's feet, and instantly wished he hadn't. The Elf was immediately beaten to the ground under the fists of an Orc.

"Get them up," Saruman met Pippin's furious gaze with a steady smile as his friends and he were dragged to their feet.

Faramir was already sagging in the uruks' hold, his hair shading his face from view, and Legolas was pale, his eyes darker than usual, bruises already appearing on his pale skin.

"I wanted to hear the story from your own lips - defying me is foolish, and learning so now may preserve your lives that little longer."

There was silence for a moment before Faramir lifted his head and spoke. "I once defended your name." As he addressed Saruman his voice was not without strength, but it seemed to gain conviction as he continued. "I justified your noble past as falling under the weight of a trial too great. But you have lost all nobility you might once have possessed, nothing remains save a twisted desire to befoul anything you cannot conquer. I would not defend your name now were it to save my own life."

Saruman did not seem angered by this, and Pippin saw instead a look of calculating interest. "Perhaps it is that you simply do not understand. Your weakness for others blinds you to what I aim to achieve."

"Nay." Legolas shook his head, breathing out softly. "There is nothing noble in your intentions Saruman, nothing that can justify what you have become."

Hope everyone enjoys this new chapter ~ thanks so much to Agape4Gondor for the lovely reviews this week :)

Chapter 45 – Games

Legolas was shivering when he awoke, his body pressed against the sodden earth. He did not remember feeling cold since the endless dark of Moria, and even then he could not recall such a chill as this. It seemed to be soaking into his flesh not only from the cold mud beneath his body but from the knowledge that Saruman had outmanoeuvred them. They had evaded him long, through the mines and then with the aid of the Elves in Lorien, yet their luck had now ended.

A light rain was falling, and the sky was dull and darkening above. A sea of black Orcs stretched into the small valley to their left, their odour rank and their voices drifting up to Legolas' ears as they crowded together to receive orders.

To their right a field of tents was pitched a hundred paces away, as though keeping their distance from the Orc and wolf masses. Legolas could see green Rohirric banners raised above them, and figures of men moving warily about the newly constructed camp.

The space around the three companions was unoccupied apart for one small tent and one large, Saruman's Legolas presumed. Fallen trees and tree stumps must have provided a small area of conference for the wizard, for boot prints from the largest Orcs had trampled the earth around them into flowing mud.

Legolas finally moved his body, biting hard on his lip as wounds from that morning awoke and made themselves heard. Every inch of his body felt bruised, and he shuddered with remembrance of the pain the Uruks had inflicted as they had searched them. Levering his restrained arms beneath him, he finally recognised Pippin and Faramir lying unconscious beside him. Violent dark bruises had formed on the Hobbit's neck where the Istar's fingers had choked him, and Legolas could see others beginning to form on his pale face where the Orcs had been less than gentle.

They were all three of them streaked with mud and soaked to the skin. Legolas worried that Pippin, who felt the cold so much more than he himself, would freeze if he did not soon find warmth. He edged himself closer to the Hobbit, pressing his body against him just enough to warm but not waken.

It was a moment before he took his eyes from Pippin's childlike features, for they reminded him of brighter times, and when he did so he found Faramir's half-open eyes upon him, watching his movements.

He heard the young man sigh quietly as he eyed their surroundings with a weary gaze. "Breakfast with Saruman after all." Faramir gave him a weak smile. "Pippin will not be pleased."

Legolas did not even bother restraining his short laugh at the absurdity of the comment, though it turned quickly into a hoarse cough as he felt bruised muscles tense excruciatingly.

It eased after a moment, and he shook his head as far as he was able. "I have noticed," he said, his dry throat making speaking painful, "your tenancy towards flippancy in times of peril."

He thought he caught a ghost of a smile on the other's face at the suggestion. "It is far better than indulging fear," Faramir replied after a moment of thought, "and generally more entertaining."

Legolas raised his eyebrows. "I would drink to that, as Gimli would say. There's certainly little enough humour to be found in this situation."

Seeing Faramir's gentle smile of amusement all of a sudden forced into his mind the image of his friend's features contorted by fear and pain as Saruman held him over the brazier in Meduseld. He shuddered at the recollection.

"Legolas, are you in pain?"

He licked his lips and met Faramir's concerned gaze, wondering what words could express his remorse. "It is I who should ask this of you," he said after a moment. "I would have saved you pain of Saruman's touch..."

The man looked relieved at knowing Legolas' concern. "Our plan went as intended. It was a show of power to frighten us into submission, but we have gained our small victory."

Hearing what he knew to be true did not make it any easier to bear. "I would that our places had been exchanged, that you would not have had to face that fear."

Faramir seemed touched by the sentiment, however futile. "I should have guarded my thoughts more carefully, leaving parts of my mind... unprotected."

"I thought I could take any pain to support our truth, and yet when the blade was turned upon another and I was asked to choose..."

"That is the power of the shadow for without loyalties there is no limit to our actions." Faramir sighed and rested his head back upon the muddy ground, looking up at the first stars in the night sky. "And yet we may yet hold the advantage; Saruman knows no ties of allegiance and even as he follows the Dark Lord's commands he seeks to use Sauron as his weapon and supplant him..."

"As Sauron no doubt thinks to use Saruman," Legolas finished.

Pippin was stirring, and Legolas looked down at him, sad that the little Hobbit should be caught up in this.

"They are coming for us." Faramir nodded over Legolas' shoulder to where the Elf could pick out the voices of Orcs growing louder. "There is one thing that gladdens my heart," the man said solemnly.

"What might that be?"

"At least now you are as muddy as I." The man's face broke out into another small smile.

Legolas sighed in amazement, straining at the cords that bound his arms as he felt his strength returning. "Please," he begged, "Do not make me laugh, it hurts too much."

Frodo could feel the wizard's hawk-like eyes upon him in the dark, yet somehow it was comforting. They had been sitting side-by-side for sometime, as the others slept quietly. Their clothes were beginning to dry now, and the mud from the marshes no longer swamped the ground upon which they slept.

"I had never thought to ask Gandalf," he said softly, "why wizards involve themselves in the troubles of the world."

He thought he had not been heard, and yet after a long pause Radagast spoke. "We were sent here, long ago."

Frodo could not see his face in the darkness, just the outline of his sharp features against the sky, but there was a wistful tone to the words.

"But now our time has come, and we too are uprooted from out homes and comforts - to fight for the land, even against one of our own."

Mist moved around them, swept up by the cold wind. The wizard's hair seemed to stir also, caught by the breeze.

Frodo thrust his hands further into the warmth of his cloak, speaking softly so that the words were nearly taken by the wind. "Saruman."

"He was great once, strong and possessing knowledge higher that all the rest. Saruman the Wise, we named him, not knowing then that the knowledge gained was not wisdom but something far more dangerous. A leader should never treat with contempt those less mighty than himself. Saruman lost sight of this and began to truly believe that others were not fit to govern their own fates."

Frodo nodded, "I understand, and begin to see that perhaps it is right that the smallest most insignificant people of all should take up this quest."

"But you wish it had not fallen to you?"

He looked out into the dark night, stretching with his mind for Bag End and his fireside. "Do you think me selfish?"

Radagast replied quickly and with feeling, "Nay, none who have witnessed your struggle or seen the strength of your heart could do so."

"You begin to sound like Gandalf."

"I sincerely hope not. If I become half so fond of cryptic riddles you must promise to put me out of my misery."

A companionable silence followed. "At any rate," Frodo said at last, "you have not yet begun to smoke."

Something resembling a snort followed. "Eccentric habit."

Frodo decided to voice something that had been weighing on his mind for some time. "Before I left Rivendell the Lord Elrond showed me several maps of Gondor and the ways east into Mordor, but that was long ago, and I remember little. Perhaps I never thought to make it this far. Besides, we had Aragorn with us then, a company of nine full of hope and of people greater than I. In the end I did not expect the burden to fall to me."

"I am no traveller, as you know already, but nevertheless I am more familiar with charts than you might think. I have an idea, if you will hear it, of a way to pass through the black mountains undetected..."

"How could I have fallen asleep?" Merry jerked up into a sitting position as he heard a step close to his ear. It had been a terrible rest, full of dark eyes and golden scimitars.

The rangers of Ithilien had returned late in the morning bearing stretchers. Merry had heard them talking, their conversation able to be overheard from where he slept in the corner of the small cave. There was a sandy floor beneath his feet, curved walls and a rocky roof overhead. If not for the fact that the ceiling was the hight of a man rather than a Hobbit, and that the entire cave was perched above a waterfall, he might have considered Henneth Annun as Hobbit-like a dwelling as he had seen for many months.

Merry absently pulled at the bandage on his wrist. The joint was stiff and sore, having been crushed under the Harad Captain's boot for so long. It was a small hurt in the expanse of wounded and dead brought into the cave after Merry had alerted the rangers to their plight. Few had survived it seemed, the dark arrows and spears picking out their victims where the soldiers had been at their most vulnerable.

They told Merry he had saved the lives of the wounded. A degree of freedom had been granted to him for this service, though he was not to stray from the cave. The rangers' stern eyes warned him that questions would be asked once all the wounded had been seen to.

He sat, then, by the side of the man he had given everything to save, reprising the decision in his head over and over until he thought he would go mad. He stared at the man on the litter beside him, trying to find comfort in what seemed to him as the only familiar or friendly features in the cave.

The lord Boromir was, however, unaware of the Hobbit's hopes. Merry watched as the strong body fought off the poison, lying deathly still for long intervals in which Merry barely dared to breath. If this man dies, he could not help thinking, it will all have been for nothing.

He massaged his wrist once more, wincing at the movement.

"You are hurt."

Merry started at the voice, it was strained, but touched with a caring and sincere undertone that caused Merry's heart to jump slightly as he looked down to find the grey eyes of the lord Boromir fixed upon him.

"I know your face." The man's eyes shifted across the Hobbit's features as though unable to bring them together. "In a dream... a halfling."

"Not a dream, my lord." Merry reached forward and grasped the man's limp hand eagerly, so overwhelmed with relief that he could barely speak.

"The sky grew dark..."

"Try not to speak," Merry hushed, seeing that the man had lost sense and how it was taxing him.

"His errand and no other's. Chasing shadows, I said, yet he has not returned..." The man's breast heaved and he looked away from Merry for a moment before calming and looking once more as if to refresh his memory. There was blood on his lips and Merry began to grow concerned.

The Hobbit half rose to his feet, looking for assistance from the healers when he felt the slack grip of a hand at his sleeve. Boromir was still looking at him with half closed eyes, as though holding onto the tail of a dream.

"Of whom do you speak, my lord?" Merry asked as a way of calming the man while he silently urged the healers to come quickly.

Boromir did not reply. His eyes were closed now, and there was something of a smile on his lips.

The healer arrived, giving the Hobbit a suspicious glance as he felt his patient's wrist. "What has happened?"

"He awoke," Merry told him, "and spoke. He made little sense. He said I reminded him of a dream, and that he had lost someone... Perhaps the man who died beside him in the forest?"

"Nay," the healer shook his head, placing his hand gently on his lord's heated face. "Our Captain-general has lost many men fighting on the front line, but no grief can fell so heavily as that of a family, I can understand that. I lost a cousin at the river under the lord Boromir's command - nor can I blame him - a better leader you cannot find - but it hits hard."

When Boromir woke later in the afternoon, Merry was still sitting beside him. He regarded the Hobbit carefully, as though his mind was trying to make sense of what his eyes told.

Merry thought he seemed weaker than before. "I thought I had dreamed."

Merry touched his hand to reassure him that he was real. "Fear not, my lord. I am no apparition."

"I can see that you are flesh and blood - more so, perhaps, than I."

Something hard rose in Merry's throat and it was difficult to speak. "Do not say so. You are wounded, but you will heal."

The man smiled, as though touched. "You were very brave, little one, under the spears of the Haradrim, and yet I do not know your name."

"My name is Merry, my lord, and little courage I can claim. I could only lie still and hope not to be seen."

Boromir swallowed before speaking again, "And run for aid under threat of arrow and spear. I call that bravery."

Merry heard the deep voice praise him and knew at once why the healer spoke with such regard for his Captain, why any man would do all in his power just to earn his favour.

"How many of my men survived?"

Merry looked down as he answered, trying not to picture the arrow that had sliced through the Lieutenant's throat before Merry's eyes. "Five, my Lord."

Boromir's voice was broken when he finally spoke. "A foolish errand. The Haradrim are savages." He closed his eyes, leaning back against the cot. "I will not ask you now why you were in Ithilien, for I see you would not tell me. But why risk your life for mine?"

"You remind me of someone, a friend," Merry said, and he could not disguise a glimmer in his eyes as he said it.

"I find it hard to believe any of your friends would be of my stature," was Boromir's gruff reply.

"Nevertheless it is so - and I believe he would have wanted me to look after you."

Familiar grey eyes narrowed on him with shrewd inquiry, despite his pain. "Of whom do you speak? Give me his name."

"He has grey eyes," Merry said, enjoying finally revealing some good news that he had longed to tell, "and hair just like yours, though perhaps longer."

"Speak! speak!" There was no anger in the man's voice, only eager anticipation.

"...and already I see your temper is greater than his, and you lack his skilful way with words!" Merry did not think the other would resent this jest.

"Is it possible? You have seen Faramir?"

"I have travelled many miles by his side!"

"Then tell me! Where is he now?"

Merry suddenly stammered, "I do not know... we parted some time since, above the falls, North."

The man sunk back against the sheets, the flush of hope fading from his cheeks as his strength rapidly failed him.

After a short paused filled with laboured breathing Boromir spoke once more. "And what errand sent you in to the Southlands? Was Faramir returning to Gondor?" "He said he would follow the decision of the company."

"That is very like him. But what was the errand and what was decided?"

Merry hesitated, wondering what he should say to the injured man, and suddenly frightened that he already knew something of their quest. "We were separated by Orcs and... I came south..."

"It is a long way from Ithilien to the falls of the Anduin, you must have had some companion?"

Merry hesitated, unnerved by the feverish glimmer the man's eye. "I..."

Suddenly Merry felt his wrist being grasped more tightly than was comfortable.

"You can tell me, Merry."

When Pippin woke the world was upside-down. Everything hurt, especially his head. He heard harsh laughter, and then he was being shaken until his teeth rattled in his head.

"Now, keep the little imp alive or you will answer for it." The wizard's measured voice was now familiar to him, and Pippin ground his teeth to hear it.

Each day since their departure with Saruman's army he had been tied to the saddle of a horse and jarred along until his bones ached. Each night the small circle of Urukai by Saruman's tent had treated him as their personal slave, making him fetch meat from the fire, mead from the giant barrels. They slapped him to the ground when he hesitated, large bruises forming wherever their great fists connected. These Orcs were larger and more intelligent than those that had dragged him from Amon Hen to Edoras, but no less vicious. Pippin did not know how much further it was to Minas Tirith, but he had had more than enough of Orcs to last several lifetimes.

He closed his eyes tightly as he was once again shaken viciously in the Orc's fist.

"Wake up little rat, it's time for our games."

Even as he was dropped to the ground he felt his heart drop also. Saruman was beside him now, the Istar's robes shimmering faintly in the torchlight. Pippin saw him turning towards his tent and dared to grasp a corner of the cloak.

"Please," he gasped, "not tonight."

Saruman looked down at him, and the wizard's stare made Pippin feel like a worm in the mud. He ducked his head and let go of the cloak, not daring to meet that stare any longer. The fear already mingled with shame at his own cowardice.

"Heed my limits, Gulruk." Saruman pointedly shifted his staff into the largest of the Uruk's sights. "I have other plans for these captives." The wizard turned and left the Uruks to their fun.

Pippin choked on his breath, his eyes averted from the bloody pole set in the centre of the Orc circle and the two figures being roped to it.

Merry hesitated. He was only too willing to discuss his own part in Boromir's rescue, but he shied away from revealing the fact that Frodo, Sam and Radagast were still close.

Boromir was looking at him with eyes that seemed alight in the torch-lit cave. "I owe you my life," he said. "I only wish to understand more more about you."

Merry was sure now that this man knew something of their quest, but clearly not the turn it had taken from Rivendell.

"Tell me Merry," he asked again, and all weariness seemed to have fallen from him, "were you planning to come to Minas Tirith? Was there something of importance to be taken to my city?"

"I do not know what you mean." Merry for the first time became of the great difference in size and strength between a Hobbit and a man, and was unsure of this man he had come to admire.

Boromir's fingers were suddenly resting at his throat, and Merry saw nothing recognisable in the fevered brow and frantic gaze.

"A dream," he mumbled slipping once again into some private turmoil, "Isildur's bane is found - but where is it Merry? where is it..?"

The grip at his throat became unbearably tight and Merry only barely managed to speak. "My lord, please! You are hurting me."

Merry choked, and Boromir's grip suddenly slacked, his large fist clenched rapidly in the air as he fell back against his support.

Several agonising seconds passed in which Merry could not dare to look lest the man still be possessed by the strange fever that had taken hold of him. He wondered if nearness to the Ring in the forest clearing could have had such an effect.

After some few minutes the healer returned, checking his patient and noting his agitation. Merry said nothing, gaining his breath by degrees until he was able to breath normally once more. After the healer moved away Boromir was quiet for a moment before Merry felt the touch of a hand upon his own. He flinched away before he could stop himself, but when he looked down he saw eyes half open and so full of feeling that the Hobbit could hardly bear to meet the gaze.

"Forgive me. I hurt you."

Merry realised at once that he had already forgiven. "It was nothing. Though you frightened me. Perhaps it is the fever..."

"Nay, a madness took me - but that is no excuse. I should never have asked you to betray your secret."

"I would tell you my lord," Merry shook his head, feeling tired and confused, "but it is not my secret to tell."

"Perhaps not. Even so nothing will avail us now... the darkness is spreading across the skies, and it will be at the gates of my city where the first blow shall fall."

"Lie back, they are going to take you to the city soon, you will need your rest."

"I hope," Boromir said quietly as he rested his head back on the pillow, "I hope that my brother is well, that we may meet once more before this fever takes me."

"I hope we will meet him again," Merry said under his breath, "and Pippin too."

"Don't like to watch our games, little rat?"

A large hand clamped over Pippin's jaw and brought him up to his knees, forcing his head up. Another hand grasped him about the throat until he opened his eyes. He had witnessed the Orc games nights before, and this time had hidden his face throughout, not desiring to witness it again.

Faramir's wrists were being untied from the top of the wooden pole that had held man and Elf upright as the Orcs tested their bets. As he was freed the young man fell heavily onto the blood splattered the ground beneath the pole. As before, Legolas had outlasted his companion and was still conscious, but Pippin saw the Elf was now supported mostly by the ropes that held him.

Pippin let out of soft breath as he saw that the Uruks had kept to the wizard's orders and had not done any permanent damage. Great red slashes marred his friends' torsos, but the creatures had shied away from causing any true harm. This worried Pippin in a way, what could Saruman be saving them for? Why keep them alive?

Out of the corners of his teary eyes Pippin could see Orcs exchanging weapons and large hunks of meat in acknowledgement of their winnings and losses. One Orc beat another to the ground instead of handing over his takings and Pippin squirmed out of the grip that held him, turning his eyes away and not wishing to witness any more of the infighting.

Legolas let out a soft moan as an Orc cut him down, and a whip caught the Elf across the ankles as he was slow to rise again.

"Take your man-friend before we decide we need more meat, Elf," one of the Orcs said, and laughter followed.

Pippin swelled in anger, but for once the Elf held his temper and bent to lift his companion with difficulty.

Faramir stirred but seemed calmed by the Elf's face bending over him. "Legolas?"

"Come, my friend." Legolas hefted the man's arm over his shoulder, "I have won again." There was a twist to the Elf's lips as he said it, and something was returned in the man's eyes.

Pippin waited for them in their place by Saruman's tent, where the Orcs tied them for the night. At least, Pippin thought, Saruman still considered the Hobbit unimportant and did not tie him. It was upon this small neglect that their hopes rested for escape, yet with the Orcs' brutal diversions he had had little opportunity to do more than clean and tend his friends' fresh wounds before the morning.

Sometimes Pippin caught sight of a rider of Rohan keeping well back but watching the Orcs at their entertainment. He never saw them for long, but imagined he saw sympathy in their watchfulness.

In a small dark place at the back of his mind Pippin wondered if his care was only prolonging the agony of their journey, but he saw gratitude in his companion's eyes as the raging fire of lash burns left them tormented and sleepless.

Hope everyone is enjoying these new chapters. Thanks again to Agape4Gondor again this week for all the lovely reviews! Was particularly nice on my birthday to receive some nice feedback. Hope you enjoy this new chapter ~

Chapter 46 – A hidden truth

The red light of sunset woke him, and Faramir lay still for several moments, gazing toward the East. His back and sides raged with fiery pain, and he wondered how he could have slept at all. It could not be long now before they reached Minas Tirith, two, maybe three days at most. His heart ached to see the white tower once more and for this torturous journey to come to an end one way or another.

All was strangely quiet. Legolas lay sleeping, or perhaps unconscious, beside him. Pippin was not in sight, but this did not worry Faramir greatly. After it was clear Pippin was not the bearer of the weapon of the enemy, Saruman had considered the Hobbit beneath his notice. Pippin was allowed some freedom, and some spent some of it in the Rohirrim camp, talking to the men held under the wizard's thrall and attempting to break through to them with words.

Pippin had seemed disquieted of late, and Faramir suspected something more than their dire situation was on his mind. The Hobbit's eyes strayed often to the Rohirrim tents, and some secret knowledge he had discovered there seemed always to be on tip of his tongue.

Saruman's tent at their backs was dark, perhaps the wizard too was making a visit to the men of Rohan, perhaps renewing the words of persuasion and valour he had bestowed upon them in rallying their forces in Edoras.

Just as Faramir propped himself onto his elbows to gaze down at the fire he could see in the riders' camp, a small hand suddenly covered his mouth. Pippin quickly came into view, the Hobbit's breath coming in great heaves. He held a small rusted knife which glinted scarlet in the setting sun, and as Pippin took away his silencing hand, Faramir grew more concerned at his wild eyes and a fresh double gash across the Hobbit's chin and chest.

'What has happened?" he breathed, as Pippin went to work on slicing through the bindings holding his wrists and then his ankles. As the Hobbit sawed away at the cord Faramir leant forward and turned Pippin's head a little so he could see the Hobbit's new wound. "Who has done this?"

"I promised not to tell," the Hobbit gasped. "But you must come and help... I tried to help but," he held a hand to his bleeding chest and took a great shuddering breath.

"I will come." Faramir pulled himself stiffly to his knees, feeling all his hurts complain once more as he did so. He went to shake Legolas but the Elf did not stir, and seeing the new blood drying at the side of the Elf's head he suspected him to be unconscious.

He pursed his lips, wondering whether there was anything he could do for Legolas now that his hands were free, but Pippin's forceful tug on his arm drew him away. He turned and followed the Hobbit, squinting into the red sun that lit their way. Ducking between the shadows of other tents, Pippin led him to a tent at the very edge of the Rohirrim camp.

At once he could hear stifled cries from inside, and a voice easily recognised.

"...watched for days. I would know your eyes amid a thousand men..."

The sound of fist striking flesh was unmistakable, and at the sound both he and Pippin began tearing at the tent opening.

"...waiting for some mistake, for you to be alone."

At last they tore the tent fabric back, casting dull light over the two struggling figures.

Grima had pinioned a woman to the ground, trapping her writhing body beneath his own. A short bladed sword remained in her outstretched arm but Grima was tearing at her wrist with bony fingers to try and loosen the grip on the weapon.

Catching sight of Pippin around the curtain of his greasy hair he merely snarled at the Hobbit, "Back for more, halfling? I thought I had given you enough to remember me."

As the man spoke, Faramir caught sight of the lady's face and drew a short breath. Golden hair spilled beneath her and there was blood on her lips and bruises on her neck where the Dunlending had held he down. He felt his heart twist. Above all else that she should be here! Eowyn.

Upon catching sight of Faramir her eyes widened and she increased her struggles, more hopeful now of escape. Grima turned back and bashed her across the face. Her head was flung back against the ground and she cried out, but kept her hold on her sword.

Faramir lost no more time in driving all his weight into Grima's side and throwing the man off her. Wormtougue let out a guttural moan as he rolled, taken by surprise. He had thought the Hobbit the only challenge to his conquest.

Despite his surprise, Grima righted himself quickly, the narrow fencing blade that had already wounded Pippin in his hand. "Step aside, son of Denethor." Grima's eyes were dark with desire as he looked to Eowyn who held a hand to her bleeding mouth. "Do not interfere in this. Go back to your Elf and lie quietly like obedient dogs until Saruman decides your fate."

The words rankled and Faramir could not help but recall their last skirmish when Grima had thwarted their appeal to Theoden. Flinching, he took a small step backwards to avoid Wormtongue's quivering blade. Grima was no warrior, but he himself had no weapon and his reflexes had been dulled by many days of captivity.

"Pippin!" Eowyn held her arm out and Faramir saw gratitude and affection in her bright eyes as the Hobbit helped her to her knees. He was relieved to see that apart from the bruises to her face, Eowyn seemed unharmed. She was still in riding clothes but her hair fell free about her shoulders, as though Grima had surprised her in removing the disguise she had been wearing.

"Stay on your knees where you belong, woman of Rohan." Grima moved another step closer. "There are many hours left in this night."

Grima's slack jaw and hot breath turned Faramir's stomach and he took his chance, lunging for Grima's sword arm, hoping to twist it back on itself. He succeeded, wrenching the blade out of the shocked man's fingers, but could not sustain the motion, his own shoulder giving way at the crucial moment. Grima regained a hold on the hilt, dragging it down so that must let go, then driving a sharp knee into Faramir's chest.

He doubled over, breath knocked out of him. Warm blood blossomed from healing wounds and he gasped for air, unable to rise.

"Leave him!" Eowyn's voice, panicked.

Grima stepped slowly passed him, closer to Eowyn and Pippin. He felt the blade trace along his back as he shuddered and struggled to breath. "You asked me once, son of Denethor, what price Saruman paid for my services." Faramir managed to lift his head slightly, nauseous not only from the blow to his chest.

"Perhaps now, my rightful prize, my white lady..." Grima levelled his narrow sword to Pippin's throat. "Perhaps now you will realise that all your resistance has only caused harm for those you love. Remember Theodred..."

Eowyn looked up at him, and there was such hatred in her gaze Faramir was surprised Grima did not back down. But beneath her hatred was fear also, and her eyes betrayed her as they flickered to Pippin.

Grima lowered his sword slightly, seeing defeat in her face, and grasped her chin, bringing her face to his.

Faramir flinched, the pale man's blade now rested against Eowyn's bared neck. He could not lie still and watch this.

Pippin scrambled up from ground, clutching up the candle from the side of the tent and throwing hot wax into Grima's bared arm.

With a last burst of strength Faramir lunged forward in time to grasp the man's sword arm and bring it back clear from Eowyn's throat. At the same time Grima gave a cry as Eowyn's blade plunged into his chest.

Pippin cried out with shock as blood sprayed from the wound.

Grima gave a gurgling cry and fell back, and Faramir gasped as the dead weight of the man fell full upon him.

Eowyn sank forward onto hands and knees, short sword now red with blood still in her hands. She shook and did not take her eyes from the body, as though he might rise again and pursue her.

Grima's death cry had shattered the quiet of the camp, and with the candle extinguished Faramir could see flickering torches approaching through the tent material, and could hear the baying of wolves

"They have heard us," Pippin whispered, and the Hobbit looked as though he could not endure much more of this night. "They are coming from all sides."

The new danger was clear. Pushing Grima's body from him and dragging himself over to Eowyn, Faramir gently pried the bloodied sword from her grasp. Her fingers were clenched so hard about the hilt that it was difficult to remove them. Holding both her hands in his he looked her in the face and she met his gaze steadily at last.

"Faramir," she said softly.

"He is dead," Faramir with the finality he felt she needed. "He will pursue you no more. There is nothing more to fear."

Pippin's huff of breath highlighted that there was much yet to fear.

Faramir recalled her strength in Edoras, and her care as she tended his own wounds, and did not relish the thought that their positions had been reversed this night.

"I followed the army", she said. "I hoped to find an opportunity to free you. And my people."

She had clearly seen enough not to be caught under the wizard's spell. Saruman's rousing words had not touched her heart as they had the rest of her people. "Do you know what will happen if they find you here?" his voice broke slightly as he asked it, but he pushed on, "You must regain your disguise."

She still hesitated in taking the helmet and cuirass he pushed into her hands. "They cannot kill me, the riders would rise up against him."

"Saruman's voice is poison, your people are not in their own minds."

"Please, Eowyn," Pippin begged, and for his sake, Faramir thought, the lady pulled the armour over her chest and hid her telling face and hair from sight.

Faramir looked about the tent and found her sword resting there. He pushed the hilt into Eowyn's slack hand, bidding her rise and take position by the door as though to hold them prisoner.

"I would stand beside you," she said softly through the helmet, and he wished he could see her face. "I would make the stand you have made and not hide in the shadows."

"Nay," he said, "There is nothing to be gained and all to be lost by showing your true face to the wizard."

"It could only make things worse," Pippin sighed, for looking down at the body of Grima.

Something prodded Legolas' shoulder and he woke with a start, eyes flying open to the sight of three men standing over him. It was dusk, and he felt dazed, his head aching from some blow he could not recall.

"Who are you?" he asked, and his voice was hoarse.

They were men of Rohan, their chain amour and deep green cloaks silhouetted against the sky. The one who had just prodded him with the base of a long spear stepped forward. Unlike his companions he wore no helmet, his dirty blond hair blew in the light breeze and stern eyes flickered between Legolas and Saruman's empty tent behind him.

"Where is the son of Denethor?" the rider asked, and Legolas suddenly realised he was alone. Dread flooded him. The ropes that had bound Faramir lay severed near by. Where could his companions be? Surely if they had been freed he would be free also.

"Where is he, Elf?" the man said, and prodded Legolas with his spear once more.

Anger flared within him. That these men could push him like he was a sack of grain...

Sweeping his bound legs into the man's feet, he brought him to the ground easily.

The surprise on the rider's face as he fell heavily was some satisfaction, but the snickering of his two companions more so as they helped their friend to his feet.

"I know not," Legolas said at last, feeling there was no harm is saying as much. "Do you come all this way to join the Uruk-hai's games?"

The men had the grace to look abashed. It was clear they had witnessed the Orcs' brutality.

"We came to find out the truth," one of the other riders said defensively. He sounded young, and was clearly afraid to show his face. "We have been speaking with the halfling."

Legolas knew Pippin had been at work in the riders' camp, attempting to spread the reality of Saruman's treachery.

"And what truth is that?" he murmured, still somewhat aggravated.

"We do not know," the younger man said, his voice confused. He shook his head as though to clear it. "But something feels amiss. There have been deaths... Grimbold.. and Gamling... those who questioned our riding forth... and it is hard to believe..."

The helmet-less man spoke once more, clarifying their thoughts. "The wizard has been a friend to Rohan, we do not deny it, but Gondor have long been our allies. We hoped the son of Denethor could tell us the true situation in Gondor. Could the Steward really have taken up with the enemy to save his own people?"

"Free me," Legolas said suddenly, hoping to spur them into action. "Untie me and I will find Faramir, you will have your answers."

They eyed him warily, almost as suspicious of the Elf as they were of Saruman himself.

Legolas sighed, appealing instead to their kindness. "There is no escape for me from this place; we are surrounded by orcs and wolves in their thousands. But if we are to live but a little longer I must find my my companions."

The youngest men hesitated another moment, but then lifted his visor and moved towards the Elf.

His hand was at his belt to retrieve his knife when Legolas sensed the movement close by. He cried out a warning but it was too late. Bound as he was, he could only watch as the thick black arrow slammed into the young man's chest, tearing through the thin chain mail.

He turned his face away as the other two men were slaughtered in the same fashion, blood spraying across him.

Uruks appeared, their crossbows slung over mountainous shoulders, and laughed to see that he had turned away from their carnage.

Then he heard a familiar voice. Pippin!

The Hobbit was being carried along by his wrists amid several great orcs that were moving toward him. Faramir was there also, held bodily so that he struggled to walk.

"Mellon nin!" Legolas cried as they approached, desperately wishing to know what was happening.

Faramir made eye contact and opened his mouth to speak, but was shoved onwards before anything could be revealed.

Legolas' sharp eyes caught another shape in the orcs' hold. A dark-haired man slung as though lifeless between them. There were not so many dark-haired riders amid the Rohirrim, and he wondered at the man's identity.

Pippin was suddenly dropped half on top of him, and Legolas wished briefly that Hobbits did not eat quite so much as his legs were crushed beneath the weight. The orcs left them there and marched on towards Saruman's tent. The Elf and Hobbit remained quiet until they knew they could not be heard, then Pippin told all.

Faramir shivered as the chill wind slithered in through the open folds of Saruman's tent and touched the damp skin of his face. The enclosure was some comfort against the wind but it had been constructed swiftly in a crude fashion, so that it might be dismantled when the army was ready to move on each day.

He remained on his knees for some time, keeping his eyes fixed on the door lest Saruman surprise him. His mind worked over all that had happened. How would the wizard react to the murder of his servant? How hard would it be to keep Eowyn's name hidden, to keep her face and voice from his thoughts?

But he realised this was an opportunity they had not yet gained; he had the chance to see what secrets Saruman concealed.

Dragging his eyes away from the doorway, he surveyed the objects upon the small table without much success. His hands were free yet they shook with exhaustion as he moved over and carefully pried open a large wooden chest to peered inside. A cloth wrapped bundle of weapons lay there. His own sword and bow of Lorien shining dully in the light of the single candle called to him hopelessly.

Another glance at the doorway showed only the silhouettes of the orc guards that had brought him there. Breathing shallowly, as though the wild beating of his heart would give him away, he stood and ran his eyes over the other objects lining the boundary of the enclosure.

The wizard's staff leaning against the canvas wall attracted his notice for a moment, but the other sides of the tent revealed nothing of interest. Then his eye fell upon a small chest, ornately carved. He moved towards it, barely breathing as his heart sounded loudly in his ears.

Closer scrutiny revealed dark fabric draped over a small spherical object. Hesitating, he sunk to one knee beside the chest. A low humming sound was emanating from beneath the thick material, and it was somehow familiar to him.

Himself as a young child climbing the steps to the tower and peering in at his father's door.

Denethor bent over, eyes closed and hands grasping a shiny black orb. The eeree light had frightened him, yet it had been difficult to draw away.

He had considered it a dream, but now he was not so sure. He had thought on it afterwards, and remembered too the kind Mithrandir's songs.

Seven starts and seven stones. And his many tales of Numenor...

He did not dare touch the thing, but his mind was stirred by possibilities.

Covering up the orb lest Saruman know he had glimpsed it, Faramir sifted through the items on the table. A few sheets of paper, marked with ink in swirling letters of a language he could not understand, and beneath these a small slab of stone set in a checked pattern for chess.

"Surely you knew you could be observed?"

Faramir stopped breathing, the sudden ache of fear making his chest contract. It was a moment before he could draw the courage to rise to his feet, turning to face the wizard.

Hope you all enjoy some Saruman/Faramir interaction in this one ~

Agape4Gondor, thanks once more for your epic reviewing, has made me so happy to follow along your journey as you read the story - glad you've caught up :) Thanks also to obsidianj for the messages, so happy you're finding the story exciting ^_^

Chapter 47 – A trial too great

"Surely you knew you could be observed?" Saruman unclasped his hands as he entered and gestured Faramir to a seat. His voice was less imposing than previously, more sincere and even slightly amused.

Faramir lowered himself onto the spare seat painfully, keeping eye contact as he did so. "The mind tires easily," he said, silently processing what he had just discovered and trying to wipe any expression of it from his countenance. "It is always seeking stimulation; why else we still alive?"

The expression on the wizard's sharp-featured face was almost a smile, but his eyes remained as steel as studied his guest carefully. "You are correct. I lack intelligent conversation. Orcs have their uses, but they can provide little in the way of a challenge."

Faramir felt anger rise within him. "Your creatures have found sport with us. Are their games not challenge enough?"

Saruman ignored the question. "My Orcs tell me Gríma, son of Gálmód is slain." His ageless eyes showed no emotion or concern at the news, and to Faramir's surprise he brought forth game pieces, clearing the loose pages from the table with a sweep of his hand.

Faramir looked down at the board, tired of games and deception.

"He was," Saruman continued, "as Mithrandir named him, a witless worm, but he had his uses."

The wizard pushed the white pieces towards Faramir, taking black for himself and laying his board with an experienced hand. His fingers were white, almost matching the pallor of his robes, the nails long, and suddenly Faramir recalled the pain as they had bitten into the skin of his arms.

"You were taught to play?"

The swift change of topic made him pause. "Long ago."

Denethor had taught both his sons when they were quite young, representing the board as the scene of a battle. Faramir had taken to the game far more than his brother, but played rarely now that other duties had taken his time.

He forced himself to ask a question before the other grew impatient. "Why choose black?"

"I allow my enemies to make the first move."

Faramir nodded, expecting the answer. "The illusion of hope. A sound strategy, however unkind..."

Saruman smiled appreciatively. "I assume," he said in a different voice, "you will not willingly reveal who slew my servant?"

Faramir was quiet a moment, disconcerted by the wizard's mutable words.

"It was I." He attempted to meet the wizard's eyes with conviction as he claimed the deed, but instantly an acute burning flared behind his eyes and he dropped his gaze. He wondered at Legolas succeeding so convincingly to lie to the Istar's face.

Saruman sat back, regarding him. He became suddenly more aware of his own limbs. Worn boots and cloak torn and streaked with mud, the steady burn of wounds recently inflicted, even the strands of hair that had come loose and strayed now before his eyes, no shield from the Wizard's gaze.

"Your father taught you to play, did he not?"

At the words Faramir could not fail to think of Denethor. He did not often dwell on his father, yet in the wizard's presence his least pleasant memories seemed to be sifting to the top of his thoughts. "He did," he said, keeping his eyes on the game, not wishing to meet the hooded eyes.

The wizard continued as though unaware of Faramir's discomfort. "And you still look for his good opinion in all that you undertake, hoping one day to meet his expectations, hoping one day to match your brother in some small achievement."

Finally seeing an opening, Faramir took his bishop to the other side of the board with a sweep, removing Saruman's knight and setting it to the side of the board with a steadier hand.

He could feel the wizard's eyes on him, waiting for some reaction to the goading words. The emotions expressed were far less complex than his current state of his mind. They were, he suspected, those of long ago when he had visited Orthanc as a boy with his father and councillors of Minas Tirith. The wizard had seemed kind and wise then.

"You are wrong," he said slowly. "The sentiments you read are those of a child who stood on the steps of a great wizard and marvelled at his lofty dreams."

To his surprise the wizard laughed, and the sound was would almost have been pleasant if it were not for the sensation it brought with it: that of the earth falling away before his feet.

"I begin to understand what Mithrandir sees in you. You are quick witted, yet too high-minded and idealistic."

Faramir did not respond, it was a criticism often bandied about by his father.

"Perhaps I can teach you the dangers of idealism," the wizard said, and there was something in the words that made him wish to draw back from the table.

Making his point visually Saruman reached forward and swept Faramir's white castle from the board, replacing it with his own. "Idealism is to believe that all would sacrifice for you what you would for them." His tone changed. "Is it the Halfling you protect?"

Faramir had been waiting for the question and stayed quiet, thinking of Pippin.

"It was not the Elf," the Istar continued, "for he is still tethered. Who else would you stay silent to protect?"

"Teaching the dangers of trust and companionship through asking me to break faith is an unusual lesson."

"The lesson has not yet been given," Saruman said, without anger. "It is not only idealism in the worthiness of men I seek to dispel. What could not a great lord over men achieve in bringing learning and wisdom to a savage land? Petty skirmishes, war itself could be subsumed under a mantle of knowledge. But this may only be if I have the power to shape the world to my own ends. Would you not fight, one last time, for such a cause?"

Faramir felt the full power behind the wizard's voice; his breathing faltered and the rising elation threatened to consume rational thought. In his own struggle he understood the Riders of Rohan better.

He met the wizard's eyes at last, but had to wrench against the part of himself that yearned to fall in with the compelling tones. "I am fighting for just such a cause..."

"The one for which you fight is no scholar, no master of lore. He is a warrior, powerful in command and deed, but a warrior still."

Faramir struggled for words then, the force of the wizard's will driving all before it until he barely remembered his own name. "You paint images in which a man might willingly lose himself..."

He dropped his gaze to the board, and saw through blurred vision his knight and the white figure of his queen set beside it. His thoughts strayed briefly to another white lady and the haziness in his head lessened a little. "You describe only the highest branch of a tree," he said slowly, "you say nothing of what would become of those without the power or influence to better their situation. Show me the entire picture and then ask me again."

"The child I met long ago on the steps of Orthanc would have taken the hand I offer."

Saruman was regarding him with something akin to admiration, and this riled him more than all else.

"Perhaps, but I am a child no longer." He clenched his jaw against the trembling that threatened his resolution, and went on, "I would that Beren's hand had withered before he granted you the keys to Isengard. I see your dream for what it is: a veil to shelter your twisted desires and justify the darkness you willingly allowed to enter your mind."

The wizard stood and the table tipped before him, scattering the game pieces to the earth. His voice was no longer pleasant, but bitter and dangerous. "I have heard enough," he began, and it seemed to Faramir that his eyes showed an unearthly light. "Reveal to me the one with the blood of my servant on his hands."

When Faramir did not respond Orcs appeared at the tent entrance.

Prepare to move," the Istar said, "and take the man with you, I am tired of him. Let him walk behind the horses."

Faramir did not look at the wizard as the Orcs took him from the tent, closing his eyes briefly and already regretting his last words.

As they passed through the tent entrance the wizard called out one last order. "And let the halfling walk beside him, we will test the fabled strength of the little folk and see if an answer is forthcoming."

He shrank inside. It was not difficult to see that Pippin could never make the distance. The stamina of the horses and Orcs would far outreach that of a man, and a Hobbit even more so.

He wrapped his fingers around the small chess piece, the white queen, hidden in his fist.

They had come at night, grey horses through the silent trees of Ithilien. Merry had been borne off with them into the dark among the wounded, until the trees opened out onto the plains and the group of horses spread into a line, racing for the city. The dark shapes of mountains rose before them, a great row of giants marching west against the sky. The soldier to which he clung was unknown to Merry, and the wind against his face so chill that he did not ask whither they were bound. He knew only that he went where the lord Boromir went, now the only familiar face among these strange grave men.

It was later when he stared down upon the vast plains. He was alone, and had a painful awareness of being so. He dared not leave the chamber lest he become lost in the expanse of the city and never find his way back. Everything was tinged grey, a strange light spreading across the sky and shining through into the dark little room. It was not moonlight, nor indeed was it night! The darkness seemed to have spilled out of Mordor and be covering up the sun over the city.

He had searched for a candle but upon finding one could not find the means to light it.

He looked out upon the plains once more, seeing stirrings of black shapes before his eyes and feeling the prick of tears. The city was so large, and he so insignificant. What if he should be forgotten?

It was then he realised that the black shapes that had swum before his eyes were not the product of his own exhaustion, they were really there. There were small dots of red, also. Torches, he realised, hundreds and hundreds of torches flaring to life before his very eyes.

A cry went up from somewhere below, and it was taken up through the silent streets. There was a great rush of noise and Merry heard the banging of doors and the beating of drums. He stared, open mouthed as the torches revealed the expanse of the first wave of Mordor approaching!

He knew now what fear was. For all the time since their journey had begun long ago, he had walked blind! How could they have ever thought they could win against such numbers? He recognised his own fear, and knew at last that it was not for himself - but for Frodo, who walked into the very mouth of that darkness which now battered its breath against the gate of Minas Tirith.

He jumped up and ran to the door only to have it flung open in his face.

"Come!" A soldier grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him from the room. "You are called for, and I have no time to waste as your nursemaid. The city is under siege."

However brash the words Merry could hear the fear in the soldier's voice as he rushed the Hobbit along the stretching corridors. A child screamed, woken by the noise. The grey passages were endless and the thunder of boots against the stone merged with the beating of drums until Merry thought he would go mad.

After traversing a courtyard high above the city and a long paved passage way leading into the heart of the citadel, they came to a great polished door. It was opened and he pushed through it before he could even ask who he was called to meet.

All was suddenly silence, the sounds of the ensuing battle below dulled by the ornate stone walls. He turned slowly, staring up at the curved ceiling, his mouth hanging open without realising it. It rose many lengths higher than of men, with deep windows set between dark marble pillars and the stone shapes of men. It was larger than any building he had ever entered in his life!

"Approach."

The voice startled him so that he almost tripped on his own cloak turning around to see who had spoken.

At the far end of the hall, below the dais, stood a single figure.

"Why do you stand staring?" The man motioned for him to come forward impatiently. "The host of Mordor stands before our doors and might at any moment break through. Do you have such faith in wood and stone?"

Merry quickened his steps, rather alarmed at the prospect before his realised that it was only a figure of speech.

"In times past one might have trusted to strong walls and a stout defence. Yes, once it might have been so. In the days of my forefathers when war was war and not this insidious darkness that hides the very sun, bringing with it engines of fire."

The man bent over a figure, placing his strong yet weathered hand upon his brow. Merry recognised Boromir and realised that this man was Denethor, his father.

Denethor noticed the look on the Hobbit's face. "He is fading. What hope is there for Gondor should he perish?"

The strong salty breeze tossed Gimli's mass of hair before his eyes. The bow of the ship tilted beneath them as the two friends looked up over the dark Pelenor to Minas Tirith .

"We have come too late."

Gimli shook his head. "Nay. We have passed through a shadow darker than any that lies ahead, you have only to look behind you to prove it, though I will not look. Their presence freezes my blood. I have never been so afraid, and only by your will and friendship could I endure the journey."

Since they had passed the doors to the paths of the dead Gimli had felt himself within a dark dream, and only Aragorn at his side had held him steady to the road. He knew well why no man who had entered there had returned.

"The city burns," Aragorn said dully, his voice heavy with despair.

"But the gate holds."

Aragorn gripped the rail with white knuckles. "What madness holds the lords and captains of the city? Why are no defences set outside the city walls?"

Gimli ignored the feverish murmurs of his companion, for so it had been since they had come safely out of the shadow upon the river. Instead he sought to focus the man's mind upon what could still be achieved. "Will we meet resistance on the shore?"

"Nay." Aragorn shook his head. "The tale of our coming has been here before us and they have fled in their ships."

"The King of the dead has come." Gimli smiled though there was little humour in his words.

"And perhaps nothing more if we do not make haste!"

Tear stains traced through the dust on Pippin's face and his eyes blurred. His legs collapsed at last and he fell into the dirt. The sharp swipe of a whip into his legs made him jerk forwards but he knew he could not rise again.

Something passed behind him, shielding his body from the hot sun and harsh anger of the Orcs that were always at his back forcing him to walk onwards. His wrists were already rubbed raw and bleeding from the rope that tethered him to the horse. The animal had stopped, but seemed inpatient to move on by the way it shuffled its feet in the dust. It would have to drag him for his feet could no longer bear his weight.

"Stay your whips, more pain will not help him to rise." Faramir's voice, close behind him.

Pippin sunk further into the dark of his mind. The hard ground felt very comfortable to his sore body.

"Out of the way!"

The sun burnt down upon him suddenly again and his head was suddenly jerked upwards by a hand pulling his hair. He looked up into the face of an Orc, barely seeing the grotesque features. Then the hand was gone and he slumped back to the ground.

A harsh voice, "Give him more encouragement boys!"

"He has had enough. I will help him." Again Faramir's voice and shadow bending over him. He tried for his friends' sake to rise, to show that he was still fighting, but there was a dizziness in his head and blackness was encroaching upon his vision.

Hi everyone. Thanks again to those who left me lovely messages (Raksha The Demon, Agape4Gondor). They were particularly appreciated for chapter 47 which was one I got stuck on for many years! Hope you enjoy the new chapter. Not far to go now!

Chapter 48 – Long in the making

Legolas met the wizard's eyes, hoping that his own gaze might betray the loathing he felt. He pressed his bound hands into the soft hair at the horse's neck, and the animal skittered and threw back its head, seeming to absorb the Elf's anger.

The Istar's voice once again made the offer, soft and compelling, "One word and the Elf will take your place, you can rest."

Legolas would gladly have taken his friend's place, knowing his own strength would likely last the remaining distance, but the road to Minas Tirith had taken on some private meaning, and Saruman would not give relent until the man had made the choice.

The wizard's offer remained unanswered. Legolas had already seen Pippin fall from exhaustion and did not think he could endure the sight again.

Risking the spears of the surrounding Orcs, Legolas dismounted and dropped to his knees beside Faramir so that Saruman would not hear their words. "You are at the end of your strength, friend. I have some yet. It is no betrayal to let me do this for you."

Faramir was kneeling also, head bent over the ground, as sweat dripped from the ends of his hair into the dust. Legolas could feel his body shaking beneath his fingers as he spoke beneath his breath. "Our friendship was long in the making. It is precious to me, and I will not give it up so soon."

Legolas resisted the Orc who came to force him away and gripped Faramir's arm tightly instead. "It is not worth your life!" He licked his parched lips, scared by the strange calm in the other's gaze.

Before he could say more, he caught sight of the rider named Ceorl approaching from the Rohirric host, his hair streaming out and eyes blazing with some horror. He rode through the Orc ranks and they made way for him, but Legolas saw hunger and restlessness in the way they gripped spear and axe.

Saruman took his eyes from the two companions and turned to the rider. "Why do you hold the line?"

Ceorl's horse skittered to the side as he fought to reign it in, and in doing so revealed the plains far below them.

Catching Legolas' wearied eyes in the far distance was a brilliant spike of silver reaching high into the clouds before them. Built into the mountain side, the city of Minas Tirith was a blaze of white stone set amid the darkening sky of Mordor. Smoke was rising from the Pelenor, plumbing black into the air as the carnage greeted their sight.

"Faramir," Legolas spoke softly so as not to draw attention.

The man raised his head and followed the Elf's gaze toward his city, eyes widening at the sight.

The first wave of Mordor had reached the Minas Tirith, but the city was still standing.

Muttering had begun in the ranks of Saruman's army as the Orcs looked down upon the field of battle, but the voices of the Rohirrim were louder still.

Ceorl's tall horse approached Saruman, the insignia of Rohan shining brightly upon his chest and his face dark. He no longer showed any sign of respect, and even raised his spear as he spoke. "What is this wizard? What other proof is needed that our brothers in Gondor have not betrayed us?" The rider waved his arm to Legolas and Faramir and there was true remorse in his voice. "These are no traitors. They have done naught but beg for our aid in a time of greatest need. Ai, that we had ridden sooner!"

"Your riders have still their part to play in this war." Saruman replied softly. He had clearly not expected Minas Tirith to be already under siege, but did not seem discomposed by the turn of events.

As though an order had been spoken, though no word had passed the wizard's lips, the shriek of metal rang out as hundreds of Orc weapons were raised against the men of Rohan. Wolves bayed, and panic flared for a moment across the rider's eyes as he remembered his men were surrounded and completely outnumbered by the Orc and wolf masses.

"Let Denethor to make a choice," Saruman smiled. "Parley with Saruman or watch his city crumble as the men of Edoras are slaughtered outside his gate. Your riders will play their part. You, however, are inconsequential." The slightest movement of Saruman's hand warned Legolas to the danger and he jumped to his feet in time only to see the man crumple to the ground beneath the feet of his horse and lie there unmoving.

Faramir had looked up also. "My father will not bargain, Saruman. Not for the lives of thousands would he open the gates."

"Send a rider to the city. What will he give for the life of his son?"

Saruman stood tall on the crest of the rise, regarding the battle playing out at the base of Mindolluin with cool deliberation, not even sparing a glance for the Elf held on his knees before him.

The dawn light caught the white walls of the city below and Legolas almost needed to turn his head away from the blinding sight. He looked in vain for some sign or standard showing Aragorn had entered the city, feeling sure that only with his friend's aid could the Minas Tirith now be saved. His Elven sight was keen, but held as he was he could not see the fields, only the topmost levels of the city

He drew a shallow breath, determined to remain composed and not rise to provocation as he so often had in the last few days. "The way to the city is open," he said quietly, "the might of Sauron will bear the attack and as his servant you can walk in and take what you wish. Why do you wait?"

"Men are weak at heart," Saruman smiled, "But like animals they can be dangerous when cornered. I would know what lies in wait."

Without further preamble Legolas asked the question uppermost in his mind. "Why am I here?"

To his frustration Saruman ignored the question, choosing instead to reach for a blade from the possessions that had been set down near by. "This is a magnificent sword," the wizard remarked casually, turning it over in his long fingers.

Legolas recognised Anduril, which had been taken from him when they were captured. Anger immediately filled him and he strained against the ropes that held his arms. "It is death to any man who draws it from its sheath."

Saruman smiled, undeterred, and remarked. "Save one."

Saruman was now watching him from the corner of his eyes but Legolas could not disguise his anger and frustration that although his friend may be only a few leagues away, fighting for the city, an army divided them.

"When he has entered the city what action will the heir of Isildur take? Will he claim Isildur's bane for his own?"

The question took Legolas by surprise. "You wish me to predict what is to come?"

Saruman was still looking at the sword. "You have known him long. His mind, you understand how it works."

"That may be so, but why you think I would help you?"

Saruman set the sword back in its place with cold deliberation. "You have seen the measures I will take. I trusted that unlike your companions you will not seek to defy me. Do not think I will hesitate to kill you if you do not tell me what I wish to know. I have kept you alive for this purpose alone."

A sound suddenly reached him. Without moving a muscle in his face Legolas recognised the beat of horse hooves upon the earth. His ears had heard the cavalry approach before anyone else in the camp and he silently rejoiced.

His advantage, however, proved unavailing as a moment later Saruman too had detected something amiss. "Guard him," he told the Orcs. "It will be your necks if you let him escape."

Then Saruman was gone, and the thundering of hooves was shaking the earth beneath him like a tremor. The Orcs holding him shifted nervously.

Over the rise the bright tips of spears came followed by their furious bearers. With ease Legolas shook off his captor's loosened grasp and flung himself forwards to where Anduril and their other weapons had been left unguarded.

He relished the feeling of his white knife in his hands, and of the freedom offered through the chaos of the rider's attack. Finally the numbers had turned in their favour, and there was some hope of escape! The Orcs fell in single strokes, and after slicing through the ropes that bound his hands he bent to search amid Saruman's possessions.

Just as he had retrieved their belongings, he heard his name called, and scanned the battlefield for a familiar face. He did not recognise the tall figure on the horse approaching him, for a helmet shielded his nose and brow. It was not Hama, and he wondered who else among the Rohirrim would call him by name.

The horseman reined in, looking him over quickly as if to assess his well-being. "So you are alive! The dwarf will be pleased."

Legolas looked up, his interest kindled.

Eomer was watching him warily, as if he was likely to sprout wings and fly away at any moment, but the Elf's reaction to the news that Gimli was alive was so natural that some of this initial distrust fell away. Despite his obvious relief in finding him alive, Legolas sensed some great sorrow weighing down the heart of this man.

"I am Eomer. Will you ride with me?" the young horselord asked, extending an arm to Legolas. "I must lead our riders to the city, for our King is slain, the fell beasts return, and we cannot hold the advantage much longer. The wizard's forces outnumber our own many times over, and I must take new council and decide what is to be done now our people are as one again."

Legolas realised that the man now offering his hand had recently become powerful indeed, but he shook his head, his eyes already shifting for any sight of his friends. "I thank you." He nodded. "Tell Aragorn, if you see him, that I have something of his that will be returned." He smiled slightly at the thought of seeing his old friend once more. "But for now I must seek for the others who were taken with me, and pray they have survived the battle. Tell me, have you a tinder box?"

After a moment Eomer tossed it down to him, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Legolas sought out the Saruman's supply of fine alcohol from amid the wizard's possessions, quickly dousing the pile. He then struck a flame and lit the area, watching to ensure the flames took flight and began to eat away at all the wizard's belongings.

He hoped he would not meet Saruman hereafter for he was sure the wizard would not take kindly to the sabotage.

An uneasy fear had taken hold of him, and as Eomer spurred away he felt it grow and begin to take shape. He turned west, for the other end of the battlefield, and broke into a run.

Something had taken hold of Pippin's wrists while he was unconscious and was now tugging at the ropes. He moaned in pain and kicked out with his legs at whatever had hold of him, before realising that it was not an Orc but a rider. A helmet obscured the face but even as Pippin stilled his struggles the rider lifted the helmet slightly so that he might glimpse golden hair and a familiar face looking down on him. Eowyn!

Pippin opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out, and while a dagger sliced through the ropes that bound him he could do nothing but stare in disbelief.

It was only then that he felt the pounding of hooves on the ground beneath him, and heard the cries of battle all around them.

"We must make haste," the lady said softly but urgently as she shook Faramir. "I have waited long for a chance to free you, but the wizard will not take long to realise you have escaped."

Pippin looked around. Legolas was not there, and as he did not remember anything of the past few hours he knew nothing of where the Elf might have been taken. The landscape around them was blotted out by a mass of Saruman's creations, forced into a surprise battle as their Rohirric prisoners revolted to join their rescuers from the city.

The rise to their right, once grassy and smooth, had been pounded to dust by the hooves of hundreds of horses, their riders gripping long lances that streaked into the sky above them. The combined force of Theoden's men and a cavalry from Gondor had met the unprepared enemy head on, charging through their ranks and giving the captive men of Rohan a chance to free themselves.

Of all this Pippin could see nothing that made sense. Everything seemed to hurt, his head most of all. His wrists bled from being dragged along by the horse on the previous day and he knew his shirt was torn and bloodied from the whips that had forced him to run. His hair was battered into his face by the wind, but suddenly none of these aches and worries concerned him.

Amid the turmoil of battle another sound had taken possession of his mind. It was a sound he feared beyond anything else, and so forcing himself at last into action, he desperately tried to shake Faramir awake. Without success he finally turned haunted eyes to the sky as the terrible scream of the flying creature took hold of his mind and tore any rational thought to shreds.

The shadow that fell across the sun and the beat of heavy wings seemed to hold his body immobile against the earth. He shook uncontrollably, huddled down as low as he could, as the gaze of those empty eyes searched him out.

Faramir's grasp upon his hand was finally returned, but Pippin no longer had the sense for anything but the thought that winged beast was searching for him alone.

Eowyn took hold of his arm now and attempted to pull him to his feet. There was a shriek as a long sword was drawn from her sheath and Pippin felt a short sword pushed into his slack grip. It felt familiar, and he realised it was his own sword that he must have lost in the hall at Edoras. She must have kept it for him! There was little, he knew, that such a weapon could do against such a foe as this, but it was a comfort nevertheless.

He lost his hold on Faramir as the man moved away unsteadily to find a weapon of his own, and staggered back as the fell beast beat the dusty earth with its heavy wings.

The tall figure of Eowyn stepped up to the Witch King as he rose on his stead to look down upon his prey.

"Give me the halfling." The cold voice bled into Pippin's heart. He felt the stillness creep over him as it had upon Amon Hen, crushing his chest and fogging his thoughts with a terror almost insurmountable.

The Nazgul's steed lunged its long neck forwards, seeking to tear apart the lady of Rohan's flesh with its sharp teeth, but she nimbly dodged away. Its master spoke again, and Pippin pressed his hands over his ears. "Give me the halfling and you shall be let to live."

He thought he would truly go mad if he lay exposed one more moment beneath that hollow stare, but he was thrust back and shielded from sight as Faramir returned, now wielding an Orc blade, his hair streaming out,

"You shall not take him!" Eowyn cried.

Pippin saw Faramir look up in recognition of her voice, and the same horror that was in Pippin's heart flash across his friend's face. They both knew that she would surely be slain alongside them.

"The Dark Lord has no interest in Curunír's skirmishes." The hollow beneath the war mask seemed to exude its distaste. "The day of reckoning has not come yet to this land, and he looks only for the return of his property."

Repressing a shiver of fear as the shadow King's eyes sought him out, Pippin felt a determined pressure upon his arm and knew that Faramir was urging him run.

"Curunír knows what you seek," Faramir was saying as Pippin's heart beat faster, "and he seeks it for his own ends."

Again, the pressure upon his arm, but Pippin just could not bring himself to run, for surely the Black Rider would simply cut down any in its path to find him once more.

"Sauron needs no man's council! He will crush your city, man of Gondor, with or without the wizard. Now move aside."

Pippin could see that the Witch King was rapidly losing patience, and Faramir must have seen it too for he dared to turn his back upon the enemy to urge the Hobbit run. Pippin saw the dark shape of the beast's head lunging forwards once more and felt his own eyes widen in panic. In them Faramir saw the danger, but too late. He turned, driving his thick blade deep into the descending neck of the beast. However the surprise attack had caught the man off balance. Writhing against the fatal blow, the creature struck out at its attacker, its heavy wing slamming into Faramir's side and crushing his body to the earth far from Pippin's reach. From a distance the Hobbit heard himself crying out in shock and watched through bleary eyes as the Witch King's steed ceased its death struggles and lay still.

Eowyn still bared the Nazgul's path to its victim. With its pale sword held before him he slid from the saddle and approached. The anger that now pulsed from the shadow King struck Pippin like a blow, sending him reeling back.

"My steed is slain and I will take vengeance. Stand aside." The King raised his terrible sword that had once cut so deeply into Frodo's flesh. "Do you still defy me? Is it not said that no man may kill me."

"You will not touch them!" cried Eowyn, tearing off her helmet so that he might look upon the face of a woman.

Pippin did not scream her name, could not even form the word. He ran instead to Faramir's side and tried to force the man to rise. There was no one else who could help. The battlefield was clearing, moving west as Saruman's force was slowly driven back to higher ground - and even then no rider approached the Witch King's prey.

With failing spirits he saw all too quickly that his friend had not the strength for this fight. There was blood, nothing in his eyes was clear through tears of fear but the red pooling onto the earth. Looking into the too pale face Pippin saw Faramir was indeed was awake, and he seemed as though trying to speak but his eyes kept drifting closed as if he were fighting unconsciousness.

A cry brought him to his senses and from the corner of his eye he saw the Lady's shield break under the terrible force of the terrible blade.

With a silent vow Pippin gripped Faramir's hand tightly and then scrambled to his feet. He had promised to repay his debt and return the man to his city safely, but he had failed, and if they were all to die, at least they could try and deal one stroke of damage. Skirting round the back of the wraith Pippin crushed all doubt and plunged his small dagger into the gap in the plating at the knee.

There was a shooting pain up his arm as the blade melted in his hand, a swirl of black as the creature turned and then something harder than iron crashed into his skull. Thrown to the ground and burning with pain he saw Eowyn's figure above him, and a blade driven deep into the enemy's throat.

Hi all, just passed the 10 year mark from when this story was first started, and so happy to be back in the lovely writing community finishing the story. Thanks to the lovely Agape4Gondor and obsidianj who left feedback this week :) Enjoy

Chapter 49 - A fool's daydream

Hours passed and Denethor still kept his vigil by his eldest son. There had been no change, and the muffled sounds of the battle raging below barely reached the high hall. Merry stood by the tapered window, peering down to the southern plains where the men of Gondor fought to retain their hold.

"Will you not fight, my lord?" Merry had foolishly enquired.

A low laugh answered him. "It is not the place of great lords of men to fight; they have others to fight their battles, spending even their sons..."

Merry looked again to the window and the mass of shadowed figures far below, seeing in his mind how easily an Orc blade might cut through the legions of frightened men.

"But surely," he said after a long quiet, hesitating in his question, "it would give men courage and hope to know their lord fights alongside them?"

"What is hope but a fool's daydream? Nay, better that each man face the truth, and in that clarity face his own end."

A messenger had entered the hall, and he walked the length towards them with faltering steps.

"My lord Denethor."

Merry noted the haste with which the man handed over the missive to his Steward and left the hall.

Denethor turned the letter over in his strong fingers, and Merry saw at once the mark of the white hand stamped across the paper. The Steward did not speak as he read, but his brow was dark and the letter was quickly crushed and thrown aside.

"My lord?" Merry asked falteringly, his eyes following the crushed letter and burning to pick it up and discover its contents. Not daring to do so, he watched as the other resumed his place by Boromir, taking the man's hand in his and stroking it. The Steward's eyes shone in the dark, and Merry was frightened.

"What King must endure what I endure?" Denethor murmured, so low that Merry could barely catch the words. "I would that things could be as they were in all the days of my life: to be the Lord of this city in peace, and leave my chair to a son after me.

Merry licked his lips, unsure of how to offer comfort.

He eyed the letter yet again, wondering if it brought news of Faramir and Legolas, perhaps of Pippin!

He opened his mouth to brave the lord's harsh words in asking, but the high window caught his eyes. There was some kind of mist gathering to the south; Merry's eyes sought to distinguish its source. Perhaps it came from the river, he thought, squinting as the mass seemed to swell before his eyes.

Suddenly he realised it was no mist, but figures racing towards the city with a speed greater than that of horses. He cried out and moved to the window, yet Denethor did not leave the side of his son to look on as the dread army closed with the ranks of the enemy.

A great fear filled Merry, and while he saw their pale swords gleam in the moonlight. Their weapons were held aloft, but they needed to strike no blow, for both enemy and friend fled their coming. He felt a dread he had not experienced since he, Frodo and Sam were hunted by the Nazgul on the banks of the Anduin.

The army seemed to move like the sea towards Minas Tirith, sweeping over the small figures that scattered before it and engulfing them in its course. Merry held his breath as this force broke against the walls as a wave might against the shore. It was then that he realised all sounds of battle had ceased. This dread army, carrying the fear of the dead before them, was sweeping away the first wave of Mordor as though it had been a dream.

Aragorn was tending to a fresh leg wound when Eomer arrived. "What news?" he asked at once, turning to the horselord with an intensity he could not restrain. "How went the rescue?"

The time was drawing near when he must reveal his true identity to the city, but current concerns remained uppermost in his mind. "Did your men free any prisoners? Any news of Legolas or Faramir?"

"Legolas sends word," Eomer reported, happy to be the bringer of good news.

Aragorn's exhalation of breath could not convey his relief and joy at the news. "They live!"

"The Elf lived certainly when I left him, but we were in the heart of the battle, and he sought his other companions. He said too to tell you that he has something of value he will return when you next meet. Of the others I found nothing." Eomer lips pressed tightly together. "I am sorry."

Aragorn had expected nothing, so news of Legolas was at least some comfort. Knowing that his friends were safe from Saruman's manipulations was the only news that could put his mind at rest. Gimli's unwavering support he could not have done without, and Gandalf's return had been a wonderful surprise. He missed, however, Legolas' strong reliable presence at his side, and realised that relying on Faramir had become a second nature.

"Will you enter the city?" Eomer asked, and Aragorn could see in the young horselord's face that he did not yet understand what was at risk if Aragorn chose to enter Minas Tirith.

The coming of the Army of the Dead and the raising of his standard upon the field would have revealed to Denethor his arrival, though he did not expect anything to come of that. "It is not so simple."
"You passed through the Dark Door of the Dwimorberg and emerged with a shadow army in your wake. There is little that can now stand in your way. But with Saruman's army so close, why did you not order your ghost army to remain?"

"Gimli asked me the same. They had fulfilled their oath, and it was not their part to fight the hoards of Saruman. Their oath was to Isildur against Sauron - and likely their swords would have failed against another foe."

"I think I understand. Though it is a pity."

Aragorn smiled grimly.

"I must see to the wounded men," Eomer said, restless, "and to Theoden King also, for I would not see him borne into the city by strangers."

"The riders are entering the city," Merry said. His body was stiff and the events of the night still mixed up in his head.

At last Denethor rose from his vigil and joined Merry by the window.

Merry looked desperately for any sign of his friends, but could only see hundreds of riders, their helms shining.

There were temporary tents being pitched on the plains, marked with the insignia of Gondor but clearly marking the coming of some other figure. Merry had a secret hope that it was Aragorn, for who else could command the power to wake the dead and make them fight! He was wise enough, however, to say nothing of this to Denethor, for the Steward had gained a sour expression as he eyed the tents.

Muffled voices reached them from outside and a figure entered the hall.

"My lord. My lord Denethor." The winded Gondorian soldier bowed stiffly, his face tense.

"Lord Eomer sends his respects and will remain with his men as they are brought into the city."

"See that the Rohirrim are given supplies and their horses tended."

"The lord Mithrandir has come to the citadel, m'lord. He seeks audience."

Merry started with shock, his heart suddenly racing.

"Mithrandir is known to you I see," Denethor said, watching Merry carefully.

"I thought he was lost!" Merry cried.

The calculating gaze of the Steward showed no surprise, but the slight inclination of his eyebrows indicated to Merry that his estimation of his Hobbit guest had risen. "Let him come."

The soldier left and after a time that seemed too long to Merry, Gandalf entered.

Running the length of the hall to greet his old friend the Hobbit saw that while seeming the same in essentials, the wizard had changed much since their last meeting. He was no longer dressed in grey, but a robe of blinding white. His hair was white also, and while this should have made him look older, he seemed full of vigour.

"You are not dead!" Merry blurted out before anything more sensible had time to brew.

"Thank you Merry, it had slipped my mind." The twinkle he had missed returned to the wizard's eyes. "A Hobbit's common sense really is invaluable."

Before Gandalf could say another word Merry had flung himself around the wizard's waist, feeling the burden he had carried alone melt away in relief.

Gandalf rested his old hand on the Hobbit's curly head, and seemed at once to understand all that had passed.

Still holding Merry's shoulder Gandalf approached Denethor and greeted the Steward with respect. His sharp eyes took in the stretcher bearing Boromir's fevered form and softened with pity. "Why is your son not with the healers?"

The Steward ran a hand across the younger man's forehead. "There is nothing to be done. A Southron poison, close to the heart and working inwards. None have the knowledge or skill to treat this wound."

"None, my Lord? Do you not suspect that the hands which brought a shadow army to save your city might also bring healing? Outside your gates, lord Denethor, waits the means to save your son." Gandalf's eyes had softened with compassion, "Do not let pride deny him this chance."

"Pride?" The simple word kindled more life in the Steward than Merry had yet seen. "You think I am blind? I see your mind and what you would have me do, how you would force my hand. But lost legends have no place in war. Heir of Isildur he may be, but what is he now but the last of a ragged household long bereft of lordship?"

Merry's heart leapt at the news that Aragorn had indeed come to Minas Tirith, but his joy was cut short with the realisation that the Steward was determined to risk the life of his son.

"Nay, Mithrandir, the rule of Gondor has rested long in the hands of the Stewards and so it shall remain, though fate seeks to take my sons from me."

"Sons? Have you had news, then, of Faramir?"

At the words Merry took his chance, and scrambled to recover the parchment crumpled upon the ground. He held it out to Gandalf before the Steward could speak.

As Gandalf took and opened the missive, his brow furrowed as Denethor's had before him, and his eyes grew dark.

"What is it Gandalf?"

"Saruman. The Rohirrim are even now returning from a bid to free those Saruman had enthralled. Here is proof," he said, shaking the letter, "that our companions were taken among the party. Let us only hope that the quest was successful, and that our friends were freed also."

Gandalf did not enquire, Merry noticed, as to whether any response had been made to Saruman's letter. Perhaps its crumpled appearance told the story well enough.

Gandalf watched Denethor return to sit by his son, but then turned his gaze quickly to the Hobbit, as though willing him to speak out.

Merry licked his lips nervously and spoke his thoughts, "Your son is dying, my Lord. He is strong but cannot fight forever. If he dies now when something might have been done to save him you will ever rue this choice."

The Steward's anger seemed to go out of him as he considered the small Hobbit and his words. "Your simple words hold truth." He slumped down into the chair beside his son and spoke with a hollow voice. "Go then, Mithrandir. Do what you will. I see now that it is not my place to prevent it."

Faramir crawled from beneath the winged creature with difficulty. In throwing him to the ground one of the great spikes that lined the beast's wing had sliced into the flesh at his side. When at last he was free he rested his head against the earth, bleeding freely until he summoned the strength to staunch the flow with the side of his cloak. He was weak, but it was not long before his head cleared and he was able to crawl towards the fallen bodies of his friends.

Pippin was very cold, and while this alarmed him at first he could feel the faint beat of the Hobbit's chest. Eowyn's heart seemed much less strong and even after the relief of finding signs of life he let his hand remain as though to assure himself she yet lived. The pallor of her face inspired such a tightness in his chest, wounded as he was, that he could barely breathe. He wiped blood from her brow with his hand but realised with quiet desperation that there was nothing he alone could do to preserve her life.

Cursing the Nazgul's evil, the memory of Eowyn's final victory seeming a pale dream, he looked to the pile of ashes that were all that remained. Something shone there, and he reached out and carefully took it into his hand, his mind working sluggishly.

"Faramir!"

The voice shook him from his distraction, and he quickly hid the thing out of sight. Turning his head painfully he was filled with joy to see Legolas, bow in hand, running towards them. He let himself rest once more in relief, and came to confused some moments after, aware of strong, gentle hands leaning him back upon the ground.

He heard the Elf examining Eowyn and Pippin, but could not gain the strength to sit up. When his vision had cleared and he tried to do so, Legolas returned and pushed him back down again, studying him with anxious eyes.

"Is that your blood?" His friend's sharp eyes had caught the ragged ends of cloth at his side and he was now trying to remove the fold of his cloak with which Faramir had tried to staunch the blood.

"See to Pippin first."

But the Elf's ministrations were persistent and without the strength to do otherwise Faramir relented. But for a small intake of breath, Legolas showed no reaction to the wound. He acted quickly, pressing the cloth back to his side and bringing Faramir's own hands over the area, and said, "it doesn't appear too deep. Can you walk?"

In soft tones the Elf then roused Pippin. The Hobbit awoke at last, pale and stern, but brightening with tears when he realised Legolas had returned for them. His right arm hung limply by his side, and he stared down at his hands as though walking in a dream. Legolas told him gently that they must head for the city as the riders could not hold Saruman at bay much longer.

A grimace touched Legolas' face as he bent and lifted Eowyn in his arms. He carried her gently, yet moved quickly for in her grey pallor they could see the shadow of death and feared lest she die before they reach the city gate.

50th chapter and over 130,000 words, this story has been an epic quest in itself :) Thanks for all the lovely messages ^_^ (Pip, Agape4Gondor, robbie), and to those who had a read of my new story. Hope you enjoy this chapter and a couple of reunions ;)

Chapter 50 - What shall my life be?

It was as "if all lowering Ilion had been burning top to bottom in fire... What shall my life be in my sorrows, now you are dead?"
~ Iliad XXII ~

"Your wisdom does not extend to your own hurts I see." Legolas' brow was furrowed, looking sidelong at Faramir as they walked toward the tent bearing Aragorn's standard. "Should you encounter that healer again take care, she could have breathed fire."

Delivering Pippin and Eowyn into the reliable hands at the city gate and avoiding abduction themselves had been a difficult task.

"I have clean new bandages," Faramir said, "and would not forgo this reunion for all the hearty meals and hot baths in the city."

"At least the temptation of a hearty meal was too much for Pippin, else he may not have got the care he required." Legolas made the jest, but in his heart knew the Hobbit had barely reached the city gates.

They had come now to the tent, and took a short moment to gaze upon the standard Arwen had woven raised high above the entrance. Legolas saw a delight and reverence kindle in his companion's eyes.

Their quiet moment was broken by wonderfully familiar Dwarf tones booming from inside. "You cannot think to perch out here while the wizard masses his forces - and with another wave from Mordor set to cross the river?"

They shared a look before pushing the tent entrance open.

Joyous surprise greeted them and their friends' open arms. Legolas saw in Aragorn's features a greater weight and strain than he had seen before in their long friendship, but great delight also in their reunion. Gimli's embrace crushed his pained chest, but he did not mind so glad he was to see the Dwarf once more.

"And now is the time you choose to return," the Dwarf was saying. "After battle and fear is been and done."

"The war remains," Aragorn said, but his eyes were smiling also, "and the worst is yet to come. But come, my friends, and eat and drink awhile with us. You look as though you need it."

"It cheers me to see you have been made welcome," Faramir said, and thanked Gimli for the food he offered.

"The people of your city, while reserved, are generous in their food at the least!" Gimli shook a leg of chicken to demonstrate his point.

Legolas gazed hungrily at the food and drink, but knew things must be put right before they rested.

"Estel," he said, and Aragorn turned from where he poured drinks for his weary companions. "I return something you have long missed."

Legolas lifted Anduril on his palms, presenting it to his friend with reverence.

"I did not think to see this blade again." Aragorn took it, and his eyes shone with some unknown sadness. "Thank you, my friend. This means much."

They ate ravenously, so long on the march with only the Orcs' foul food for sustenance. Legolas himself felt quite sleepy after the companionable meal.

"And as I was saying before I was interrupted," Gimli began again when they all sat back in satisfaction, "what is to be done? Surely it is not our plan to sit here and feast on the edge of ruin, waiting for both Saruman and Sauron to knock on our tent, or for some mumakil to trample it into the ground?"

Aragorn looked away, his thoughts clearly troubled.

"I must go up to the citadel," Faramir said, and set his cup down. "Now that I have seen you both alive and well." His gaze was steady when he looked to Aragorn. "Will you not walk beside me?"

Legolas watched, and remembered long ago in Lorien when he had foreseen this moment. How different were his feelings now!

Aragorn thought long, hooding his eyes. "Not yet, my friend. But seek out your kin, and I may come after when I deem the time is right."

Faramir stood without showing any surprise, "Farewell then for now, but do not tarry long in your coming. Gondor has waited long for her King, and she grows impatient!"

The three companions remained in Aragorn's tent some time after Faramir had departed, and they exchanged stories of the time they had been separated.

Legolas marvelled at the stories of the Dwimaborg, and saw in Gimli more fear and trembling than ever yet the stout Dwarf had shown. In the coming of the grey company to Pelargir, however, Legolas felt he had evaded a more deadly peril, for what would it be just as Elves were leaving Middle Earth to stand upon the deck of a ship and look upon the sea!

In return Legolas told his own adventures: how he and Faramir had come to Edoras only one day behind Aragorn and Gimli, and of how they had schemed to shake Saruman off the scent of the ring.

"Ah! So we can blame you for the second army on the doorstep?" growled Gimli good naturedly.

Legolas hesitated in describing their journey from Rohan to Gondor, as the memories were still fresh. While they had not suffered beyond endurance at the hands of the Orcs, their helplessness had been mortifying, and the wizard's cold intent still lingered in his thoughts.

"This wizard needs some harsh justice," Gimli said, and reached aside for his axe as though to set out at once. "But at least Middle Earth is less one scheming servant of Saruman," he added, as Legolas told of Eowyn and her encounter. "Grima Wormtoungue will not be missed."

"And yet he played his part," Legolas returned, "but I will not speak of that yet."

In the midst of Legolas' telling of his meeting with Saruman overlooking the besieged Minas Tirith, Gandalf slipped through the gap in the tent.

Legolas bowed his head deeply, the wizard's new white robes almost blinding his sight.

"You have returned to us, master Elf!" Gandalf said, "at the very edge of the shadow may all friends be gathered together again."

Without more speech he swiftly approached Aragorn, gripping his arm in some earnest haste.

"What has happened?"

'Denethor requests your presence inside the city."

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. "I know you too well not to suspect you had no hand in this."

"His son teeters on the edge of life and perhaps your hand alone might draw him back. Saving this man's life will give Denethor the justification you need to command the armies of the city."

"You speak truly? I had not expected this."

Gandalf looked to Legolas and Gimli, already turning on his heel to go. "I will go ahead. Follow fast."

Crossing the Courtyard of the Fountain, Faramir shrugged off his cloak, folding it under his arm to hide the worst of the mud and blood. It was strange to walk amid his people again after so long. Heads ducked in acknowledgement as he passed, and he felt conscious that he had not even found a moment to bathe.

He spared a look for the still barren tree as he passed, before entering into the citadel and proceeding to his father's halls. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridor. What welcome could he expect after so long a journey? From whispers overheard as he passed through the circles he dreaded what might be awaiting him.

On the steps below the king's chair stooped Denethor. His father appeared to have aged many years since their last meeting, not with the unnatural weight of sorcery that had cast Theoden into docility, but with strain and grief.

Beneath his withered hands lay Boromir in a fevered sleep. Faramir's steps echoed to the hollow feeling in his own chest as he approached brother and father.

"So you have returned," his father said as Faramir knelt by the bier, reaching out to feel for himself the sweat dampened cheek of Boromir.

He searched for something recognisable in his brother's features, for they were much wasted with illness and it grieved him to see Boromir laid so low.

His breath was caught up in his throat and he made no reply to his father's words. Though the Steward said no kindly words, Faramir thought his father's eyes softened, and in them he saw one who had been driven to the very edge of a precipice, and with some small mercy had taken a step back from the edge. Perhaps his homecoming was not unlooked for.

He brushed aside as stray hair that clung to Boromir's fevered forehead, then looked to his father, asking the question he could not speak allowed.

Denethor understood him, and his voice became very quiet, though not now with compassion. "He was in Ithilien."

The revelation came as a shock. He swallowed. Aware of the petitioning and vigilance required to maintain Gondor's furthest outpost, and knowing too that their Captain would not have left them to disrepair, Denethor could not have wondered why Boromir was in Ithilien.

Faramir looked up, meeting the accusation with the full force of his anger and grief. "Do not lay this upon me."

With a snarl his father stood, "Why else should he go there? What other voice could turn him from his duty at the forts? Swords are no protection from darts and arrows."

Harad arrows could cut though soldiers easily, Faramir had seen it often, and tended the wounded until the cruel poisons with which their weapons were laced, drained and slowly destroyed the strongest men. The cruellest of deaths... Boromir... His eyes remained dry even at this last revelation, for he knew that a thousand tears would not appease Denethor's grief and anger, or his own.

"And what now is to be done?" he asked, knowing in his heart that his father would lose this war in losing his son.

Denethor waved his arm dismissively, "At this last my hand has been forced. Your ragged King and his tame wizard come even now to the citadel. Await their coming if it pleases you. I care not what you do."

Whispers besieged Faramir's already aggrieved mind as he passed down the halls to his rooms; murmurings of the army of dead warriors that had saved the city from certain ruin. The people were confused, frightened.

The city appeared lost and floundering with no leader. Imrahil had led his swan knights from Dol Amroth by the sea and had been in command of Gondor's forces since the fall of their Captain General. Yet it was clear that not all would follow his orders alone, nor even obey the wisdom of Gandalf who had, it seemed, done much to strengthen the defence of the city since his return. It grieved him that for all his father's teachings, in the Steward's eyes the fall of his son and the destruction of his city were akin, and he would lift no hand to do what might still be done.

Slowing his steps he stood for a while unmoving. All was silent, and even the beat of his own heart was dull. Leaning his back against the wall a moment, he recalled Lorien when he had suspected this would come to pass, but not so soon... he had thought, had hoped that he would come before it was too late.

He heard his named called, and opening his eyes recognised one of Imrahil's men. Brushing off the man's concern he received the man's message, that his uncle and the rest of his companions had taken to the Houses for council.

As the healers carefully bore Boromir to the lower levels of the city, he himself would swiftly wash and find a change of clothes, and thence follow them to the houses.

When he entered the largest room in the houses he found many familiar faces. Mithrandir's white robes caught his eyes at once, and it was a dream to see him there whole and well as Aragorn and Gimli had described.

Merry was seated by Gandalf at the end of the long chamber, his eyes distant and red with unshed tears, and Aragorn and Gimli sat near by. Legolas stood against the far wall and Eomer paced like some caged animal, his mind clearly occupied by thoughts of his sister.

He walked the length of the room, feeling their eyes upon him. Imrahil approached him at once, gripping his upper arms and holding him still as he searched his nephew's face.

"I am not about to fall apart, Uncle," he said, though gently, for he could see in the other's clenched jaw and haunted eyes the restrained fear that must have shown in his own.

Imrahil slacked his grip, nodding. "No," he smiled sadly, "No I can see that." He shifted his hand to his nephew's shoulder and guided him to a chair. "It would take much to break you, Faramir," he said very quietly.

Saruman had once said something similar.

"What of the wounded?" he asked quickly.

"They are both stricken by the same malady," Eomer said thickly, and Merry's sniff showed he was equally uneasy about the fate of his cousin. "One the healers do not understand." There was undisguised anger and fear in his tone, and in the glance he threw at Aragorn.

"I will tend to them as soon as we are done here," Aragorn promised in return.

"Thank the Valar you did not strike out at the shadow king, my friend," Legolas said, "for in daring to strike such a foe both Hobbit and lady have been accursed."

"Your own brother has had some care," Eomer said, and there was only the smallest of bitter feeling in his tone. "And you will find all three in the adjoining room together, though none have yet woken."

Faramir looked quickly to Aragorn, seeking some kind of reassurance.

"He is well for the time-being, my friend, and your father looks over him."

"We must," Gandalf said firmly, speaking for the first time since Faramir had entered, "make decisions for the here and now, and then time can be gifted to the wounded."

Imrahil stood once more, "You are right, we must discuss how we stand."

Faramir eyes flickered to the adjoining chamber, but he took his place by Legolas' side to listen.

"Our position as I see it," Eomer said, ceasing his pacing for a moment to speak his mind, "is that the two armies will converge on the city together, and our forces will be overwhelmed by sheer numbers within one, perhaps two days at the very most. Even if the people retreat into the upper levels of the city, once the great gate has fallen there is little hope of holding such a large force at bay, and no reinforcements at this late hour."

"You think so?" Gandalf was stroking his beard absent-mindedly, yet his eyes were sharp. "I believe Curunír will not wait. He will hope that by attacking first without waiting for Sauron's bidding he will gain faster and surer access to that which he seeks."

"The ring," Merry said flatly.

Imrahil gave a small cough, not having been privy to the fellowship's true purpose - his mind worked quickly however. "Does he believe then that we have this thing?"

"He does not know for sure," Gandalf said, "yet it has always been a possibility - and perhaps he would not suspect us to be so rash as we have been."

Faramir's mind was suddenly alight with ideas - the vague plan that had been forming for days was taking some shape. "Perhaps we should ensure all doubt is put aside," he said, speaking his thoughts aloud.

It was a wild idea, reckless and perhaps foolhardy. "We are outnumbered, trapped. If Frodo still lives and is to complete his task we must give him time. The odds of maintaining a siege are slim if non existent. Two separate armies seek our destruction, and what I have long considered is these two forces turning their strength not to breaking down our defences but upon each other."

"How would such a thing to be achieved?"

The sober nature of Gimli's question forced him to realise his idea had been credited with some hope of success. He looked to Legolas, who seemed already to have understood, and placed the precious object he had taken from the remains of the Lord of the Nazgul upon the table.

The small golden ring shone in the light shining through the bright windows of the Houses of Healing.

Gimli's eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

Gandalf looked at the object warily, and did not reach out a hand to touch it.

Eomer breathed out through his nose at the sight. "More talk of rings and devilry? This is not warfare as I have known it."

"This is not warfare at all, my lord," Gandalf said. "This has ever been a battle of stealth and will, and swords and spears only our veil over the dark tower's sight.

"This is not war as Gondor has seen it," Imrahil said, "but if Mithrandir can summon another grey host to save the city as yestereve I will support the way of stealth."

"But what can be done with this accursed thing?" Eomer's frustration had broken through to his voice. "Surely you do not suggest one of us dons this trinket? All know the rings gifted to the kings of men are deadly, and that any man who wore it would even now be subsumed by the enemy's will."

"It looks," Merry said quietly, "as much like Frodo's ring as no matter."

The others all looked to him, and in his simple words began to understand.

"Saruman already believes the ring lies in Minas Tirith, to make that into certainly, to focus the wizard's mind so that nothing else is noticed."

"But how?"

"There is," Legolas said, "among Saruman's possessions a glowing orb, kept secret. And it lies there still... if it survived the fire I set amid his belongings before we escaped."

"A palantir!" Gandalf breathed, leaning forward, looking with an intense question to Legolas.

"But how can a stone help?" Merry asked.

"The Seeing Stones of old were not only devices of sight - they were also used to communicate in thought."

"So through Saruman's stone," Gimli said, "he communicated with the Dark Lord?"

Gandalf nodded. "Now we know how the link between Isengard and Orthanc may be used to our advantage."

"But how?"

"I have seen," Faramir said, knowing that at this last he could hold nothing back, "another such stone here in the city."

"One with strength of mind and an iron will might turn the stone to his own purpose," Gandalf said, his gaze unfocused. "The Stones of Seeing do not lie, but such a one might, by his will choose what things shall be seen, or cause them to mistake the meaning of what they see."

"I don't understand," Imrahil shook his head. "what advantage is there to make the wizard more sure of his suspicions. Surely his attack on the city will be all the more vicious."

"Saruman would seek out the citadel, and might disregard in his haste the decimation of the city."

Gandalf nodded. "If Sauron too believes Curunír has reached out his hand to claim his possession he may empty his lands to prevent it, bend his full will to crushing the servant who betrayed him. If the conflict can be played out to give Frodo his chance, it would be worth the risk."

"Using the stone would be a dangerous undertaking," Legolas said, "even for you, Mithrandir."

"Not I," Gandalf said at once, "there is only one here who may have the strength and right to bend it to his will."

Thanks once more for the reviews and lovely messages this week (obsidianj, Agape4Gondor).

While I originally hoped to also follow Frodo Sam and Radagast to the end of their journey, I realised it was this that held me back from finishing the tale for many years, so in order to finish the tale I have focused on the events in Minas Tirith. I hope this does not disappoint any fans of Frodo / Sam's Mordor journey.

I enjoyed writing this chapter, I hope you enjoy it too.

Chapter 51 – To labour in healing

Merry's eyes drooped as he sat by Pippin's bed. He was worn out, and while the excitement of being reunited with the rest of the fellowship had held him upright for a while, now he very nearly slept where he sat. He had watched until the Hobbit, happy in his awakening, had returned to a peaceful slumber. Merry's only remaining hope was that Aragorn could perform the same miracle for the Steward's son and the pale lady of Rohan.

Soft murmurings lulled him as Aragorn, Faramir, and Eomer talked across the chamber where Aragorn was seeing to Boromir. The Warden of the Houses of Healing was there also, but he seemed a kindly man and Merry felt as comfortable in his presence as with his human companions.

Denethor alone did not speak, and though Merry's eyes closed in soft slumber he felt the Steward's watchfulness and suspicion like a cloak over the proceedings.

"Sit now in peace by your son, lord Steward," Merry heard the Warden say after what seemed a very long time.

Merry shook himself at the words and looked around, Pippin's slack fingers slipping from his grasp onto the bed sheets.

"Miraculous healing has been done this day of the like we have not seen in many an age. We are blessed, for great heart it will give the people of the city to hear the lord Boromir will yet live!"

Aragorn smiled over at Merry. The man's eyes were as weary as his own, but Merry felt acknowledgement of the part he himself had played in this healing, and in bringing Boromir home to safety.

Denethor approached the Hobbit also, and Merry drew back slightly, fully awake now and a little afraid of the other's intense bearing.

"I thank you now, master Hobbit," he said, and his voice was rough with little speech and much watching. "As I should have done earlier had my grief and fear not overcome my conduct." The Steward's sleepless eyes had frightened Merry at first, but he now saw only one who had loved his son before all else.

Denethor's pride, however, had not fallen under the spell of his relief. Witnessing Faramir's grateful embrace of Aragorn, to whom thanks should have gone in equal part, his nostrils flared and he regained his seat and took to watching once more.

Aragorn did not seem to expect more thanks, and only moved to Eomer, who waited fretfully by his sister, holding her pale hands.

"She is slipping further into this deathlike sleep," the horselord said, and the fear and agitation in his tone grated upon Merry's pity.

Faramir came to stand by Merry to watch quietly, and they shared a thin-lipped smile.

Aragorn said nothing yet, but gently separated the young King's hand from his sister's and himself took the seat by her bedside, pressing one hand to her forehead.

"She is growing weaker, Eomer, but has not slipped so far away that I cannot reach her and attempt to draw her back."

Merry saw the rider's neck muscles tense as though he was finding it difficult to swallow.

Aragorn spoke gently, and so softly that Merry could not catch the words.

Fluttering of the lady's eyelashes met the attempt, and a silent struggle ensured that seemed to draw their friend out of the small room in the Houses where they all were gathered together and into a far off place where no other could follow.

Merry felt Faramir's hand on his shoulder, and seeing the man's white knuckles thought perhaps the gesture was more for his own comfort than the Hobbit's.

Eomer too wrung his hands before him as though wishing this battle could be fought with swords and not patience, but as before, both healer and patient seemed to come back to the room and the lady opened her eyes.

Her soft gaze seemed surprised by so many faces to greet her, and she drew up a little as though to rise.

"Rest a while yet, lady of Rohan," Aragorn said, and her eyes were drawn to him. "Your brother has shown great restraint this day and I would repay him for his patience."

"Patience?" she said, and reached out a hand for Eomer to grasp, "this is not a quality I would have expected."

"Chide me not, Eowyn! For this has been the longest of days and I was all but lost without you."

Aragorn placed a hand on Eomer's broad shoulder solemnly, and spoke to Eowyn. "You see now before you the new King of Rohan."

Her eyes widened. "Our Uncle?"

Eomer shook his head.

She lay her head back on the pillow and looked aggrieved, but Merry thought there was relief in her face also, and some unlooked for wish fulfilled.

"How came I here?" she said after some time. Memories had perhaps come flooding back as they had with Pippin. "What of the shadow beast and those who fell beside me?"

"All is as it should be," Eomer soothed, and helped her to sit up a little higher on her pillows.

The lady's pale face lit up at the sight of the others, and rested a while on Pippin sleeping peacefully. A small smile was on the Hobbit's face, and he dreamed, no doubt, of consuming Merry's pipeweed that he had foolishly offered in the first joy of seeing his cousin awaken.

Eowyn reached out her hand and Faramir stepped forwards to take it joyously, for they had not thought to come alive together out of the shadow king's hold. There was a contented light in the lady's eyes as she rested herself back against the bed.

Merry saw that Aragorn not only leaned upon Eomer's shoulder, but that the rider was bearing much of the ranger's weight. He jumped to his feet, ready to lend aid where he might, but was unsure of how best to assist.

Gandalf entered and in seeing Aragorn weary and unsteady on his feet spoke a few quiet words to the Warden who took the man's arm and led him from the room to somewhere he could rest.

Gandalf's eyes smiled in Merry's direction. "Well master Meriadoc, of all those here you may have come the furthest upon your journey. We must speak together a little and you must tell me of Frodo at your parting..."

Merry glanced to Denethor and Eomer, and was unsure how candid he could be amid the company. After thinking carefully he said, "At the last Radagast had spoken of the path by Durthang."

Gandalf looked interested at this, and not as perturbed as Merry had feared, and Merry continued, telling more of their passing through Ithilien and their meeting with Boromir's company.

Here he paused, and looked to Faramir with a heavy feeling in his chest, for he did not like his words to bring pain. He struggled through the story and ended with his own and Boromir's return to Minas Tirith. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Denethor had turned in his seat to listen intently to the Hobbit's story.

"You have done well Merry," Gandalf said, and Merry knew the wizard did not praise without good cause. "I will worry no more tonight for Frodo and will turn instead to the city's own defence."

"Well might you praise those that follow blindly at your tail." Denethor's voice came from across the room like a chilling rain.

Out of the corner of his eye Merry saw Faramir shift slightly.

The Steward was standing now, one hand on the back of his chair. "But I know enough to perceive at this hour that to send this thing into the land of the Enemy, as you have done, and this son of mine, is madness."

"What then would have been your wisdom?" There was an edge of anger in Gandalf's tone that Merry had rarely heard there before.

"It should have been kept, hidden, hidden dark and deep. Not used unless at the uttermost end of need. But such words are vain. Already you have forced my hand and taken my rule from under me."

"Do not be unjust in your care, Father," Faramir said, discomfited. "By your own command was the Lord Aragorn welcomed to the Houses and surely has repaid any small trust you have granted?"

"Lord?" Denethor did not seemed to have absorbed aught else in the entreaty. "Ever you have looked for some high Lord to sit in Tower Hall above your own kin. So be it. Be grateful for what Mithrandir has dredged up, and come not to me should the tower fall."

Merry caught Faramir's angry exhalation as he moved away to stand by Eomer.

"But we must come to you," Gandalf said quietly, and Merry heard the urgency in the wizard's words. "For two great armies are set to break upon the city and only by a contrivance now can we hope for any small victory."

"You speak in riddles, and I have little patience for games or talk."

"Is there not, my lord Steward, more reason for your bitter words than the fate of your son?"

"Though I would labour in healing to yet hear one word from my son, I know that our time is now short. The eyes of the white tower are not blind, Mithrandir."

"Nor even are those of the two towers, and united their strength must out way any certainty one alone may possess."

Denethor appeared to think long on this, and turned away to feel again the brow of his recovering son. "What would you have me do?"

"Bring forth the stone of Minas Tirith," Gandalf said, naming it at last. "Bring it forth and we will see what can be done to break the ties that bind the east tower to the west. Then we shall see how the armies hold to their purpose."

"So be it then, I will order it done," the Steward said. "What else have I not forfeited this day? This advantage too I shall place at your feet. Send for my chamberlain and leave me!"

"Come, friends," Gandalf said quietly, having achieved his purpose. "We will adjourn to somewhere more comfortable." He took Merry's shoulder and gently turned him towards the doors. "We will go for the present, my Lord," he said, addressing the Steward who seemed not to hear him, "but worry and grief will not defend the walls."

When Eomer made no move to leave the room, Denethor turned to him. "Her life is in the hands of fate, and you can do nothing for her. I wish to be alone."

The tone was not to be questioned, but the new King of Rohan was not to be moved. "Do what you will, sir," Eomer said steadily, "set your guards upon me, but I will stay by my sister until she is moved to her own chamber."

Faramir, leaning both hands on the bedside, appeared to fear a further scene. "Seek for a healer, Eomer," he said wearily, "I will watch over her until you return."

Eomer took a long moment in deliberation, but at last shook his head in defeat. "I charge you, brother," his wide eyes fixed on Faramir, "keep her from harm until I return."

He left, though slowly, and his steps resounded around the silent hall.

It was a long time before Denethor spoke, and when he did it was barely audible. "I would not ask you to leave," he said, "though I would be alone."

"At the least," Faramir said grimly, "allow me to recount what has been decided."

Aragorn sat alone in Tower Hall. It was a long time since he had been so, travelling long with Gimli and lately being reunited with the grey company.

Before him was the palantir of Minas Tirith, and the black orb called to him even from beneath its cloth coverings.

One of the Steward's men had brought it to him, and had eyed him suspiciously, not knowing what this strange man from the North did in the hall of kings. Nevertheless, Aragorn had thanked the man quietly, and he had gone from that place with more hope in his heart than he had entered.

Aragorn was tired beyond measure. The journey through the haunted pass, and subsequent battle had been trying, but nothing compared to what was to come. He only hoped he had enough strength for what remained.

He looked up in surprise as the door at the other end of the hall opened and Legolas stood framed in the doorway.

"I thought you might need some company." The Elf's voice echoed, but his footsteps made no sound on the white stone floor as he approached.

"There is hardly a more perilous place in the city," Aragorn said, but wished fervently for the Elf to stay.

Legolas slowly took a seat by his side, long legs stretching out before him to sit on the low steps below the dais. Aragorn noted his friend's restrained movements and wondered what wounds were still hidden from sight.

"I will stay, for no place will be safe come morning and this city is a strange and barren place. All is stone and nothing is green or flowers. When you are king, Aragorn..."

"My friend..."

"When you are king I shall help to make this city flower."

He looked back down at the palantir. "I look forward to it, but there is much to do before such things can be thought of."

Legolas was quiet then, gazing up at the great stone faces of the kings of Gondor and lending only a comforting, familiar presence.

Aragorn steadied his resolve and drew the cloth from the palantir.

Saruman would be his first target. The wizard would be assured of the power at the heart of the citadel, and the prize seemingly waiting for the taking.

From Saruman's mind Sauron would understand who in Gondor held the will and the strength to bear that which he feared most. He would see where that power dwelt and if all went to plan would empty his lands to counter that threat.

"There is little light for writing." Eomer stepped softly into the chamber holding a candle of his own. The Houses of Healing were a strange place at night, and the city itself deadly quiet.

Faramir looked up from his writing, and Eomer saw in the man's grey eyes the same weariness of care that must have shown his own. "Aye, and the candle is almost burned down, but I have but one line left to write."

"I will wait a moment then," Eomer said, "that we may walk back up to the citadel together." The new King of Rohan could not admit that he had little idea of how to find his way back through the twisting circles of the city in the dark.

He looked to the man in the bed and his brother, dark head bent over to write in the flickering light, and saw the brothers side-by-side properly for the first time; their similarities and their differences.

As Faramir folded the paper and wrote a last on the outside, setting down his quill, Eomer asked, "Of what did you write?"

"Of what is to come," the other the replied, and behind his set jaw was the same doubt that had shown there earlier that day, "and little else for there was no time to say aught but that all will not be as it seems. Lest he wake and find the streets overrun and the enemy hammering at the doors of Tower Hall, only that he might take the time to read what I have written, and not come charging to the citadel!"

Eomer gave a small smile and doubted he himself would take the time to read a letter if he woke to find the city ablaze.

"I have set his sword and shield by him nonetheless," Faramir said grimly, "for if all goes to ruin he would not be without defence." He rose stiffly and set the letter down on the side table. Taking a last look at the face of Boromir he blew out the candle, following Eomer's flame into the hall.

"There is guard enough outside the Houses," Eomer said, for he had passed them on his way in. "But I suppose if the wizard's forces are to be let to proceed to the citadel, the less show of arms here the better."

"That is my thought also," Faramir said, and his voice was less light than it had been now that they had set their steps towards the citadel. "Though it rankles to set no defence where one would order the strongest bastion."

"I did not leave my sister any words but those spoken aloud," Eomer said, regretting he had left nothing more substantial, "and not even those could express my heaviness of heart in seeing her here when I believed her far away and as safe as I could keep her."

"She is not one to be kept safe by another's hand, my friend." Faramir spoke quickly, and with fervour. "Even her brother's, and had she not taken the road to Minas Tirith I would not be here to speak of it."

"I know it well." Eomer nodded, but the heavy weight over his heart was not lifted. "I would see her smile once more, and seek more than death and glory in battle."

"I think you misjudge her in this," Faramir said, as they crossed out of the Houses into the cool night air and the darkly lit gardens. Their footsteps echoed in the paved stone streets.

"How so?"

Eomer had heard that the Steward's son had a talent in reading and understanding the hearts of men, and he wondered whether he was indeed mistaken in Eowyn's thoughts and desires.

No great battle lay at the end of Saruman's road, at least no battle where the Rohirrim would have fought with honour or for glory. In fighting for the redemption of her people and her King, who she feared had sunk beyond all honour, she was not seeking death."

"I had not thought on it this way," Eomer mused, and as they passed through the great gate of the fifth circle, they turned upon themselves and he was glad he had waited for the other to guide him.

"But you are her brother, Eomer, and you know her better than I. All I saw was kindness to aid three strangers, where one who cared less about life might have left all to perish in their own way."

"You have seen in her more than I in these last three years," Eomer said, and the fears he had been dwelling all that day rose again in his thoughts. "The shadow cast over our home by Wormtounge drove me from our doors with anger and helplessness, and I left her there alone..."

Faramir was quiet in response, and Eomer looked sidelong as they walked, his steps feeling heavy.

"She is healed now Eomer," Faramir said at last, "and we can but trust that she continues in hope at her recovery."

Eomer was troubled to hear doubt in the other's tone, and wondered whether Faramir had again gauged something he had missed. "If there is aught you suspect, my friend, speak plainly and do not hold me too fragile to be trusted with what concerns my heart most closely."

Faramir was quiet another moment, and when he did speak Eomer detected some kind of quiet desperation behind the words that gave him much pause for thought.

"It is not my place to speak of the hearts of others or to gauge the strength of feeling therein, but I will say this much. It seemed to me that in Aragorn your sister encountered the possibility of a new life, and that high hopes may be more disappointment than physcal healing could easily restore."

Eomer narrowed his eyes at this, but he did not trust his own judgement enough to contradict it. Aragorn had brought hope to Edoras, and in him the magnificence of the Kings of Old had walked amid their people for a time. But Eomer considered all he had seen since, and his sister's wakening that very day, and wondered whether in this case he might hold more insight than his companion.

His distress for Eowyn quietened then, for if they lived through this night, the day that followed might be brighter for all that had come before.

"Goodnight brother," he said pointedly, and saw a start of surprise in the other's eyes as they parted.

Another tricky chapter to write, so would appreciate your thoughts on this one :) If there are any characters you'd particularly like to see interactions between in the final chapters, would love to hear from you soon as I'm finishing writing them up now.

Chapter 52 – Only silence

Aragorn's eyes were red with long nights and days without rest. The hilt of Anduril rested steadily across his knees as he sat upon the bottom step of the dais, legs outstretched and eyes closed.

He wished not for the first time that Gandalf might have been here with them. But he knew their small representative number had been wise. How else would Saruman believe that all their strength and hope was already spent?

Aragorn had suggested Legolas follow Gimli to the walls and lend his strength to the defences, but had had little hope that his friend would do so. Now there were just the four of them: The new king of Rohan, the son of the steward, Legolas and himself.

"It will not be long." Legolas spoke softly from where he leant against the tall marble figure of an ancient king.

"By now the cavalry will have been driven aside from the gates and Imrahil will be giving the order to retreat." Aragorn heard Faramir turn away and opened his eyes to see the young man's white knuckled fingers clenched together behind him as he paced.

There was a long silence in which the steps echoed around the large hall before Legolas spoke out, "Your infernal pacing could drive Sauron himself to distraction!"

Aragorn looked up at the unexpected remark, thinking the pressure was finally taking its toll. To his surprise Legolas' severity was marred by the upturned corner of his mouth - and Faramir's eyebrows were raised in return. He realised that some old jest had been shared.

Faramir stopped walking and slumped down on the step next to Aragorn. "Open your own city to the enemy and tell me then whether nerves are understandable." "The gate would have fallen however many brave men had given their lives to defend it," Aragorn assured him. "Better that those lives have been spared, though they may question the sanity of their captains. I believe, however, that they will follow Mithrandir a while yet. Remember that Saruman is cunning and does not need to rely on brute force to have his way."

"How could I forget?" Faramir unconsciously rubbed the place where Saruman had burnt into his arm.

Eomer took to his feet, having sat disconcertingly still for a time as though preparing his thoughts for battle. "And where now lies the stone which inspired this madness?"

Aragorn heard in the rider's voice something of the same suspicion he had encountered amid the Rohirrim.

"It is once more in the hands of the Steward," Aragorn said, but did not look up to meet Faramir's gaze. He felt sure the other would have given much to see that stone as far from the citadel as possible. "Let us hope that Sauron too has enough mistrust of his servant to believe he could be betrayed."

Saruman brought with him some type of devilish fire," Eomer said, his brows drawn together. Aragorn recalled the sound as the explosive was unleashed. "And with it at the last they took the great gate."

"The swan knights hold the third and forth," Faramir said, his brow furrowed also. "They will fight only long enough for appearances to hold."

Eomer and Faramir shared a look, and Aragorn knew they both thought of those dear to them in the fifth circle of the city. What had been done was done, and they could only see this through now and see what remained if they survived.

"Saruman is no fool. He will suspect that we are allowing him access to the citadel for a purpose." Legolas was watching his companions carefully, willing to trust their judgement but fearful all the same. "He will become suspicious and realise that it is a trap."

"He is arrogant, and thinks us weak and leaderless. Blinded by his desire for the ring, and believing it to be guarded at the city's strongest point, I do not believe he will realise his danger before it is too late."

"Until Sauron too has emptied his lands upon us."

Legolas stood suddenly and seemed to be listening. Almost at once the sound of drums echoed through the hall. The enemy had broken through to the citadel.

Horns called Boromir forth from his long slumber. Strange to the ear and carried on the wind they broke into his dreams and after long weeks he awoke, confused.

The small darkened room where he lay under clean sheets held no other person he could question has to where he was or how he had come there. The muffled sounds outside disorientated him further.

Surely he was in the Houses! The glint of green shining through the corner of the window, perhaps the gardens, made him surer of it. It was very early morning, and as he listened could not mistake it... the sounds of battle were clearer now to his ears.

Swinging his long disused legs out of bed he lent heavily, peering through the crack in the shutters to indeed reveal the gardens of the Houses, and smoke plumbing up from the streets. The sounds of men and horses and hundreds of metal shod feet.

Beside the bedside table greeting his searching gaze was his own sword and shield, and twisting he found a pile of extra clothing, not his own armour, but functional enough.

Even if he could not quite remember how he had come to be here it was clear that some enemy had breached the walls and that he was needed!

Wrenching the leather jerkin over his thin white bed-shirt sent a spike of agony running up his side and into his chest like a fire had burned along his flesh. Gasping for breath as the pain eased he felt gingerly around his left side, clean bandages bound tight about his chest giving some indication that his stay here in the houses had been longer than a few mere days.

He bent to pull on boots. He was ready. It did not matter what he was to find upon leaving the houses now, he would face it prepared.

A sheet of a parchment on the side table caught his eye as he took up his sword and shield. His initials were scrawled upon it, and he hesitated a moment, but then thought better of it and moved quickly to the door. There would be time for reading later.

"He said you would not take the time to read it."

Boromir looked down to where the voice originated and saw to his great surprise a halfling, dressed as he was in small statured armour and armed with a short sword. The halfling had one hand on his hip and seemed to be waiting.

Memories suddenly sprang bright and clear into his mind. The pain of spear and blood, the Haradrim and his fallen comrades.

"Merry," he said, the name sounding right despite all the delirium between the time he had first heard the name and their current meeting.

In the dark passageway the Hobbit nodded, passed by him into the room and took up the letter, holding it out expectantly.

Boromir frowned, wondering why it seemed to him that to follow this halfling's advice was the wisest course of action .

"Very well," he said, resigned, resting shield against the wall, "A moment longer will make no difference." His body itched to flee the houses and find out what was happening to the city, but it seemed the Hobbit was not going to move out of his way. He unfolded the paper, fingers finding the fiddly task difficult after so long inactive.

Dearest brother,

If you have taken the time to read this know first that it is no simple siege that breaks upon the gates of the city.

There is no time for explanations here, ask Merry to understand more, but above all else, come not to the citadel. Plans are in motion and one false step may shake the smallest of chances upon which all our hopes are now pinned.

If you have woken to find the city under siege, and I know well that you would not lie idle, turn instead to the lower gates and seek out our Uncle or Mithrandir.
A sorry awakening with no friendly face to greet you save one brave Hobbit who has risked much for your sake.

Pray for once heed my judgement and may we both come through this night/day unscathed for a reunion long awaited!

Faramir

Boromir wrinkled his nose at the request to heed his brother's judgement but felt a calm settle over his strained nerves. Faramir was well and had returned to the city!

"Do not tell me Merry," he said, tucking the letter away in his breast and retrieving his shield, "that I lie injured for one week and they decide to open the gates to the enemy?"

Merry's mouth twisted, "It was far longer than a week, my lord, but yes... we are letting them in."

The last arrow sprang from Aragorn's bow even as the white wizard followed his creatures into the hall. Sparing no time for the now useless weapon he cast it aside, drawing instead the Rohirric steel blade he had chosen in place of Anduril.

Avoiding being skewered by the Uruks' scimitars now that they had closed in for close combat was more difficult than he had anticipated. He lost sight of the wizard in the fray.

To Saruman perhaps it made little difference whether they were taken alive. Corpses could be more easily searched. But their small number had been chosen to reflect no more than those he would not slay immediately without some pause. Aragorn spared a thought for Gandalf's encouraging words at their parting, and again wished his old friend could be here with them at this last.

Aragorn fought viciously at first, slicing through the orcs until corpses ringed his feet and a choking stench filled the hall of the kings that had hours before housed Theoden's reverent laying out.

After a time he feigned a mistake of the kind a battle-wearied soldier might make, allowing the orcs to throw him off balance and recovering himself with difficulty. As he did so he threw a glance to his companions to see how they fared.

Legolas fought nearest and showed no sign of tiring, long knives slicing through orc flesh with seemingly little effort. His jaw was clenched, however, and his eyes dark. Aragorn thought perhaps it had been too hard a request to ask his friend to lay down pride and feign weakness, allowing Saruman to once again close a cage around them.

He could not see Eomer or Faramir amid the orc bodies crowding the hall, but he could hear the sounds of combat so hoped they were holding their own.

Drawn back to the battle at hand, Aragorn allowed another orc to gain the upper hand, merely knocking away its heavy iron halberd where he might have easily skewered the beast.

Saruman's sharp features came into view again. The wizard was taking no role in the fighting, and Aragorn was disturbed to see eyes locked upon himself.

Aragorn faltered in reality then, the calculating malice behind the gaze shaking his confidence. In his moment of distraction, the orc's halberd drove hard into the back of his neck, forcing him to his knees. He gritted his teeth at the impact to his legs, but regained enough sense to let his fingers loosen so that his blade might be struck from his grasp.

He then found himself crushed to the white floor stones with the iron pressing down on his neck and a metal shot foot in his back. As he gestured his surrender he heard the sounds of steel and battle around him slowly diminish, trusting all now to chance and their faith in Frodo.

Saruman's voice emerged out of the new quiet. "Not for the lives of thousands, you claimed, would the gates of your city open to my army, yet it is as though I have been invited..."

Aragorn's sweat-dampened hair obscured his vision as the cold pressure on his neck eased slightly. He could not yet see whether Saruman's derision meant he had discovered their ploy.

Aragorn recognised Faramir's reply, low and bitter, "Much has changed since I last walked the halls of my fathers."

"So it would seem. And where now lurks the Steward of the city?"

Saruman's attention turned to Aragorn as the ranger gingerly raised himself up, seeing his three friends now disarmed and restrained by many orcs. He was reassured they had all survived, but the back of his own head ached and his ears rung as he sought to focus on Saruman's continuing mockery.

"The Steward comes and goes at his own will," he said through gritted teeth.

"Does he indeed? That is well, for I would not have interrupted your bid for the throne."

"Gondor has long awaited her true king," Legolas said with blazing eyes, unable to hold his silence.

"Aragorn entered the citadel by the grace of the Stewards," Faramir fervently added.

Aragorn burned inside to see the ardour of his friends' faith, but was afraid.

Saruman's eyes narrowed, but he made to move to check their words, seemingly still cautious of Aragorn's potential.

"I allowed time enough to present a challenge," he continued quietly, "yet even Mithrandir failed to muster any kind of defence; the gates torn down, his commands ignored as men and boys fled the walls like rats."

All had gone well, Aragorn rejoiced to hear it. He knew the pride of his people - and knew that no Gondorian would turn from battle with only orcs to withstand them if his the city were under siege, unless ordered to do so.

"You have proved less of a King than even I thought you to be," Saruman sneered at Aragorn who said nothing in reply. No orcs had moved to restrain him and he felt the insult in that also. "Hiding away as your city is burning. But perhaps you seek to preserve something more precious than your own worthless skin?"

Aragorn schooled his features. "You were foolish to enter the city." Into the short words he poured all the menace and warning he could muster.

Saruman did not seem perturbed by the tone, and in fact seemed almost more sure of his own cause. "It is little wonder the halfling turned over this burden to one who seemed kingly and high, a mercy that I was here to proffer the hand of friendship before the dark lord himself came to take back what was his. It is pity that moved my incursion, pity for one inexperienced in wielding a power so great as that which has been thrust upon you."

Argorn felt the full onslaught of the wizard's ascendant words and struggled to hold onto his fleeing resolve.

"A guiding hand," the wizard continued, "words of wisdom if you will accept them."

Even Aragorn, who had gazed into the seeing stone and grappled with the will of Sauron himself, felt the pull of these words.

He moved his hand to his chest, as he had seen Frodo do on occasion, as though silently seeking reassurance from a hidden source of power.

The wizard's smile widened, and Aragorn's heart began to beat faster, but he maintained his deadly silence, making no sign that he would either bring forth the weapon of the enemy, or consider Saruman's offer.

At some silent command an orc slammed the hilt of its weapon into the side of Legolas' head, the force of the blow sending the Elf almost the ground before the orcs pulled him up again.

Aragorn could not help but flinch, the suddenness of the violence and the swinging shifts in the wizard's countenance rapidly undoing his resolve.

"Repayment for an old debt," Saruman explained, watching Aragorn carefully and sparing no look for the Elf. "Consider it a small mercy I do not light a fire in his flesh to better repay the inconvenience wrought upon me."

Ai what madness had come over him to allow his friends to place themselves once again in the power of the wizard? Had he faced this alone it may have been an easier trial. He had known it would come to this and had thought he could ensure it, for the sake of keeping all eyes removed from Frodo's task, but in the face of the wizard's apathetic cruelty it seemed a hard and thankless end.

"Very little patience I have for those without the wisdom to take what little help I offer," Saruman was saying, watching him carefully.

Out of the corner of his eye Aragorn could see the orcs that held Legolas twisting his arms against a back still raw from Saruman's previous cruelty. The Elf made no sound, which in Aragorn's mind wounded him further for his friend was not one to hold his tongue against provocation unless in the greatest of need. Your companions have suffered enough to know that I do not do aught without a purpose,"

Without moving his eyes from Aragorn, the Istar addressed his words to Faramir. "I believe you began to understand me, son of Denethor, by the end of our journey. Tell your King that the life of one Elf, of a thousand men means nothing to me."

Though he seemed to tremble, with anger or fatigue, the young man kept his silence also. He was beaten down as Legolas before him and seemed no longer to be able bear his own weight, for he sagged in the arms that held him.

"I can have you watch as each one of your people is torn to pieces. Not all will bear your betrayal as stoically as these. They will scream for their false King's mercy. Spare them that, for in the end I shall have what I came for."

Hi all, thanks this week for the lovely comments (Narya and Robbie). Hope you enjoy this one :)

Chapter 53 – Too long in fear

Gimli looked up to his work and brushed his hands upon dusty knees. The second gate stood tall and strong once more. Only an hour before it had been blasted stone and rubble.

He shook his head as the wearied men cleared the remainder of the supplies away from the archway. To think that before long this gate too would be again destroyed! But better the enemy should rage against wood and stone than against the people of Gondor, as Aragorn had said. Aragorn had not been the one to restore the gate!

"Gimli!"

A familiar voice reached him out of the smoke and ruins of the third circle, and he squinted into the shifting whiteness. "Who calls?"

"It is I, Merry."

The Hobbit appeared, hale and determined, but moving with nervous swiftness toward him. By his side walked a man Gimli had only seen in the depth of fever at the Houses of Healing. Now that he was upright once more, his rugged appearance and large sword rather overawed the dwarf.

"Gimli, this is..."

"No need for introductions," Gimli interrupted Merry's no doubt detailed explanation. He reached out and grasped Boromir's wrist stoutly. "I have just rebuilt your gate Captain, what do you think of it?"

The man seemed somewhat dazed, but he looked to Gimli's work and seemed impressed. "Very fine, but..."

"I was under the impression," Gimli interjected again, "that you were expected to go storming up to the citadel."

Merry gave Gimli a very disapproving look, and Boromir shook his head.

"Is this not my city?" he asked, his attention distracted from Gimli and Merry as he shifted his gaze to the tower. "Am I not free to go wherever I will? Hobbits and Dwarfs – where are all the men of the guard? I have believed your tale thus far, Merry, for the debt I owe you, but how am I to wait and watch while the upper levels crawl with orcs?"

"The waiting will not endure," Gimli said darkly, feeling pity for this man and no longer speaking jovially. "Sauron's force approaches, it will not be long before these gates will tremble again under hammer and fire.

"Madness," Gimli heard the man mutter.

"I can have you watch as each one of your people is torn to pieces. Not all will bear your betrayal as stoically as these. They will scream for their false King's mercy. Spare them that, for in the end I shall have what I came for." ...

Aragorn bore this last stoically, but was sure he must have paled, for he felt light headed and sickness threatened to overturn his stomach. He did not understand how the Istar's words could wreak such confusion and fear on his ever keen senses.

Saruman seemed reluctant, however, to forcibly search Aragorn for that which he believed to be concealed. Perhaps rumours of the ring's abilities had reached the wizard. Even the ability to become invisible at this precarious moment could undo all if he were to impel Aragorn into such an act.

"Strange things too I have seen since we parted," Saruman said, returning to his soft tones.

Aragorn grew still more uneasy. Perhaps he had given away more than he intended in attempting to influence the seeing stone. He eyed the Istar's staff wearily too, for though it seemed only a carven prop, it appeared to pulse and thrum at the side of his vision.

"A pretty thorn in my side from Meduseld to Gondor."

Faramir's almost imperceptible intake of breath did not escape the wizard's notice, and he turned swiftly. "So much futile endurance and concealment," he touched the young man's face with feigned good humour. Faramir paled immediately at the touch, as though nauseated, "but what man would not lay down his life for such a one... in the hope that she might lie down in her turn..." Faramir turned his head away from the wizard's fingers, and Aragorn thought he saw true rather than feigned distress at the words.

Eomer's ireful sound at the slight to his sister broke their joint silence and drew the wizard's attention. Saruman moved to where the rider was being held pinioned on his knees, with his head barely above the ground. Even as tightly as he was being held, the man's great strength almost threw the orcs off balance as he struggled.

"It is a pity Grima did not live out the road to Minas Tirith. A handsome consort for the lady of Rohan... "

Eomer spat blood onto wizard's white robed feet and immediately shrank back as Saruman's long fingered hand brushed his skin also. He shuddered, head shaking as if to throw off some unpleasant dream, and his struggles lessened.

"And where is the lady now? I would repay her for her trouble."

"You shall not touch her."

"Even the greatest of kings were impotent in the face of the shadow in the East, and the kings of this age are as children playing on sandcastles." Saruman's focus slid to the far side of the hall where Theoden's body was laid out in honour, and his eyes became bright with some further malice.

"Stop this," Aragorn said at last, and the orcs who had been muttering excitedly quietened and focused upon him. He could not take his eyes from the blood that was dripping from Legolas' mouth onto the white stones, and the dread in Eomer's gaze lest the wizard wreak some desecration on the body of his Uncle.

There was a long silence in which Aragorn's own heavy breathing seemed to fill the void. The ringing in his ears had risen to a shriek. They had needed to play this right, to make Saruman believe beyond all doubt that they were at their last throw, but his own conviction was now teetering.

Saruman seemed to read this from his countenance, and narrowed his eyes, boring into Aragorn's mind. For a wild moment Aragorn thought his deception had been discovered.

"So you will not willingly give me this thing?" Saruman asked, and there was no patience or amusement remaining in his words.

This was the very moment Aragorn had been waiting for, but before he could take the chance the wizard's knuckles had clenched white about his staff and Aragorn's head was consumed with heat and pain.

"Then, at this last, know what it is to rule with the ring of power!"

Dropping to one knee in an effort to stay conscious he pressed his palms against the cold floor, but Saruman's voice continued to batter him without reprieve.

"No councillors, only slaves. No comrades in arms..."

Legolas' stifled cry broke into Aragorn's red-tinged world and he clenched his teeth, tearing his eyes open a crack in an attempt to see what was happening to his friend.

"...only minions dispatched to die," Saruman continued relentlessly. "No steward to hold your throne..."

Through half-closed eyes Aragorn saw the wizard draw a narrow blade and instead of turning it upon Aragorn as he had anticipated, drove it into Faramir's side, stopping short after entry so that the young man only stiffened in shock. Aragorn clenched his eyes shut, but the darkness was no comfort.

"Only silence."

The pain in his head eased as though it had never been. Aragorn knelt where he was, frozen. He had delayed too long and missed their chance! All was lost.

"If you have this thing," Saruman voice came to him, "which I am now not so sure you do, you have shown you will never choose to wield it."

He opened his eyes, looked quickly to Legolas and saw the Elf kneeling now too, gasping for breath, neck and fingers red with blood where he had sought to tear away strangling hands. He saw Faramir's face, drained of colour, still lest Saruman drive the knife deeper.

The starkness of the scene without the haze of his own pain, the crudeness of a knife in the hands of a wizard of bountiful power, only further damned his situation. If he really held the ring of power surely now he would not hesitate to act.

The soft sound of a step behind him almost froze his blood, yet the sight of the Steward entering the hall set his heart pounding once more.

Saruman watched Denethor enter, and Aragorn saw the saw surprise reflected in the others' eyes that must have been in his own. He made no sign to direct the orcs to restrain the old man.

Outside his confusion and fear Aragorn's ears caught the sound of horns faintly in the city below. They were no Rohirric horns, yet Saruman didn't seem to hear the sound.

Denethor, whose body seemed to tremble as he brushed passed him, looked Aragorn hard in the face. "All is over... give him the ring."

Aragorn heard Eomer's sharp intake of breath and a slight noise from Faramir as Saruman shifted the knife, but Aragorn could only feel his own heart beat rapidly as he shifted his hand to the inside of his cloak, closing it over the precious object.

"You know I cannot," he said. His eyes met Denethor's, so similar to his own, and knew that for the first time he was acknowledged as an equal.

The Steward's hand was shaking violently as he reached for Aragorn and feigned a search for the ring. "This is not your decision to make," Denethor said, for the benefit of Saruman, and Aragorn thought, his own. His voice was deep with emotion as he spoke. "I have lost one son and will not lose another."

Aragorn relaxed, palms outward feigning defeat, and giving Denethor easy access to draw out the ring and hold it up to the wizard.

"We waited in fear too long," the Steward murmured, "and now all is lost."

Saruman's eyes seemed captured by the golden band, all doubts washed away by the conflict played out between the two rivals. The orcs, too, shifted uncomfortably, muttering amid themselves and shrinking back slightly. The ring was so similar, Aragorn thought, to the One. Hi dipped his own head to hide the eagerness in his own gaze. Only fire would tell the truth of their deception and by then it would be too late.

"Give me back my son," Denethor was saying, but Saruman, having seen his prize surrendered, had no further patience for careful words. Moving faster than sight he lunged forward to snatch the golden chain from Denethor's outstretched hand.

While his heart lurched with horror, Aragorn remembered his part and turned to retrieve Anduril from beside the dais.

Legolas, who had freed himself now the deception was safely achieved, lunged forwards, but too late as Saruman drove the already bloody knife into Dethethor's chest, cruelly holding the old man's hand in his as the blood soaked through his fine clothes and the body slipped to the ground.

Reeling back as Saruman turned, Legolas skirted the wizard in time to catch Faramir as he slipped to his knees in a pool of his own and his father's blood. Aragorn saw the Elf's hands trembling in earnest as he pressed against the young man's side, as Faramir's gaze, almost frightfully calm now, watched Saruman's hand that now held the ring.

Wrenching his eyes from Legolas', Aragorn looked also towards the ring with what he hoped looked like true fear, keeping Anduril hidden.

Also freed, with the orcs scampering backwards to the outer edges of the hall, Eomer had crawled over to where the Steward lay jerking in his last breaths.

All scruples lost, Saruman looked down on them and laughed silently, and made to place the ring on his finger. There was no need for words.

The Istar's cry tore at Aragorn's sanity, as though something was being ripped from his own body. A grey mist had taken hold of the wizard's form as the ring that had once adorned the King of Angmar's hand claimed its new host. Saruman realised his mistake too late, for the will of Sauron was already at work in him, and soon he would become merely a servant of the master he had hoped to supplant.

Aragorn knew he must strike now lest the moment of weakness they had all given their blood to reveal passed. The ring of the King of Angmar was not deadly in itself, and only by Sauron's exerted will and Saruman's betrayal might this opportunity be open to them. Lifting the blade he staggered to his feet and drove it into the Istar's throat. The head was thrown back in a scream so terrible that Aragorn swung again and sliced through the body.

His third strike was with the flat of his blade, tearing the wizards staff from his grasp and flinging it across the floor. But the flaring light from its tip had warned him too late what was to come, and he only had time to turn his face away before the blast tore into the walls.

Merry pressed himself closer to the stone wall, feeling himself shaking as the sounds of battle grew further from their position. Gimli's heavy breath was hot upon the back of his neck as the dwarf peered around him to gain a view of the street.

Upon reaching the second gate they had had little time to ponder what action to take. Sauron's force had battered apart the recently repaired great gate with their great siege engine, and the second gate was soon under contention. A great swathe of Saruman's force had swarmed down from the upper levels to now defend the very city they had overrun.

Orc slaughtered orc, the streets were choked with the dead, and the stones underfoot had become a river of blood.

Merry shrank back between Boromir and Gimli as another wave of Sauron's force passed the alleyway in which they hid. Merry saw Boromir rest his head back against the stone wall as they passed and saw too the horror in his eyes at the plight of the city. For he who had only awoken that day it must have seemed more like the nightmare of a fevered mind than reality.

But, Merry thought, beyond the horror of it all, there was relief too. In the armies' eagerness to penetrate and defend the citadel, the people of Minas Tirith were being passed over. Beyond the initial show of arms Sauron and Saruman's forces had largely been concerned with destroying each other.

"No sign of the winged beasts," Gimli hissed. "That is well for I do not know if I could stand my ground were they to enter the city."

Merry agreed, but knew it to be a selfish thought. Their whole aim in this endeavour had been to draw Sauron's eye furthest as possible from where Frodo might even now be climbing the slopes of the fire mountain. All was darkness in the East.

"We have waited long enough," Boromir said, and his voice was ragged, "any attempt at deception must have been played out by now."

Without thinking Merry grabbed hold of the Captain's wrist as he made to move out into the open. "Where are you going?"

"To the citadel. It is beyond me to wait with patience any longer Merry."

Gimli looked up to the Tower, and to the courtyard and hall where they knew their friends to be. "Aye," he said, "I too have no more mind to wait. Let us carve our way back up to the higher levels!"

They moved off, Merry looking ever over his shoulder for more bands of orcs or worse, silent things that might be following. He could hear the horns of the Rohirrim on the field before the city, and even thought he saw, as he looked over his shoulder, the great lumbering figures of rumoured Mumakil far in the distance.

To avoid great legions of orcs Boromir led them through many winding alleys and several underground shortcuts that shortened their journey, but even so Gimli's axe was heavy with black blood by the time they passed the fifth gate. Merry had struck out at many foes also, and his wrist felt numb from the tightness with which he gripped his short sword.

"This might be the end of our journey," Gimli said grimly as hearing the roar of combat they surveyed the next level. The heart of the battle had taken place here at the sixth gate. The bodies of orcs marked with the white hand and the red eye, and men of Gondor too, filled the space, and the battle raged on over them.

Merry's heart sank, there was no way they could make their way past this blockade.

A great light seemed suddenly to pierce Merry's vision and they looked as one up to the base of the tower, where the light sprang forth from high windows. The orcs paused in their savagery to look too, hesitant and fearful.

The blast that followed both blinded and deafened Merry for several moments, and he found himself upon the ground not having remembered falling. Smoke plumbed above them and gazing up he saw the windows of the hall destroyed and the walls black. He heard his companions' cries of horror.

In their own panic they did not see the other great fire storm rising up into the sky in the East, did not hear sounds of battle ceasing on the Pelenor as orc and man of the west paused alike, and did not think of Frodo and Sam until it was too late.

Hi all, nearing the end now. I hope this chapter doesn't feel too rushed, endings are always the trickiest parts. Thanks to Agape4Gondor for the constant support :)

Chapter 54 - By the grace of the Steward

He dreamt of eagles.

In the East the sky was clear and a light breeze rose, as though stirred by the heavy beat of wings.

The bed sheets, when he became aware of them, were cool and soft. Faramir rubbed them between his fingers briefly, feeling soreness in the muscles of his arm as he did so and running his thoughts back beyond waking.

His hand went immediately to his side, feeling there for a wound but finding only thick bandages.

A noise made him aware that he was not alone, and he squinted into the sunlight streaming through the window.

Another figure lay on the other bed in the room, reading a document. Faramir could not see the man's face over the parchment, but the sighs that punctuated the reading were familiar. Despite his elation, it took several moments to speak for it felt as though he had inhaled all the smoke and ashes thrown out by Saruman's parting gift.

"Is it the letters or the pictures that trouble you?" he managed somewhat hoarsely.

Boromir's wonderfully familiar eyebrows appeared over the top of the paper, followed by eyes dark with feigned anger. "I would forgive you that, so glad I am to see you awake at last, if this paperwork was not your fault!"

His brother rolled himself off the bed, for he had been merely lying atop the sheets, and battered Faramir with a fond embrace.

"Do you know how many hours I have been patiently waiting here for you to awake when there are important decisions I should be making?" he asked.

Faramir considered, marking identical bandages to his own through Boromir's thin white shirt, and the lack of any other clothing in the room. "You are confined to the Houses too then?"

"They have taken my clothes, Faramir! My boots, my sword..."

Boromir bore many more cuts and bruises to his arms and face than when Faramir had parted from him the night before. He narrowed his eyes. "Despite you staying safe within the houses throughout the battle?"

"Bah," Boromir said, "You did not expect that of me else you would not have left my sword. But now what can I do? I cannot walk through the streets in just a shirt..."

"People might think you a ghost," Faramir said, and his mind drifted disconcertingly. He shook his head. "I did not think to see you standing here before me at his hour."

"It is no dream," Boromir replied, more serious now, sitting down upon the bed and meeting his gaze keenly. "Many things have passed this day but I am one lucky enough to come through it."

"The quest!" Faramir exclaimed suddenly, wondering how it could have taken him more than a moment to ask. "What of the quest?"

"Those keen wits have become dull indeed," Boromir teased, "does this look like Barad-dûr?"

Faramir slumped back against the bed, feeling the sunlight, hearing now the soft noises of busy people drifting in through the open window. "And Frodo and Sam?"

"I'm sure they will be able to tell you their story themselves, though I have not yet heard it myself, confined to this cell."

"And father?" Faramir asked it, though he knew the answer.

Boromir's jaw clenched, and he did not reply.

Faramir sought to sit up, propping himself against the bed head. "Did they tell you..?"

"They did," Boromir nodded, and his softening eyes told Faramir they had not be unjust in the retelling.

They were quiet then, listening to the noises outside. It sounded as though many of the soldiers would rather have tested their full strength against the invading forces than clean the resulting carnage from the streets.

"There will be much to tell," Boromir said at last, fingering the corner of the paper beside him and tearing it slightly.

Noise in the corridor interrupted their reflections and the room was suddenly alive with friendly voices and Hobbit shaped visitors.

"I told you," the first said.

"And I agreed," the second followed.

They seemed only to notice they had reached their destination when they had settled themselves on the ends of the beds, propping up their hairy feet, and looking around expectantly.

"There is two of them," Boromir said with flatly, his expression bemused.

"Pippin, son of Paladin," the Hobbit said, looking around and bouncing up and down slightly on Faramir's bed.

Merry, who had taken his place on the end of Boromir's, looked as though he was holding something back.

"So," Pippin began, examining the empty plate on the table by Boromir's bed with beady eyes, "we had an idea, that as the most important," he stressed the word, "Captains in the city, you could order some vittles for two hungry Hobbits..."

Merry coughed, as though the request had been too trivial to ask. "If it wasn't," he added, "too much trouble."

Boromir laughed deeply.

Faramir shook his head "Where is Aragorn?"

"He is too busy to bother with two hungry Hobbits."

"So you have not yet breakfasted?" Boromir asked.

"We've had one, yes," Merry said, and Pippin shot him a look.

In a sunlit room looking down upon the city a small hobbit looked down at his hands.

Sam did not yet truly believe the bright sun and cheerful room which he and Frodo shared. Not for the first time that week, he looked to the bed beside him to check Frodo still slept soundly.

His master's pale and drained appearance was not the only indication of their toils, and the white bandage around Frodo's hand still drew Sam's eyes, inspiring all the guilt his own weariness could afford.

He clenched his own hand into a fist, remembering the tearing sensation and Frodo's anguish when Sam had been forced to… had chosen to... strike out rather than allow their quest to be vain. It had been the right decision, he knew it well enough, and tiptoeing to the window and seeing the people of Gondor happy in their restored freedom confirmed it.

A cloud passed over the sun, shadowing the gardens below, and for a moment Sam saw again the tall figure of Radagast against a red sky, Nazgul and Eagles locked in combat above. He did not think he would ever forget the sight, and knew that when he returned to the Shire, when all was well once more, he would wake in the night to the cries of the Nazgul over Mt Doom.

But he had brought Frodo out of the fire. Perhaps that was all that mattered.

Legolas stretched his long legs and leaned his head back against the soft grass. Although he had not been of much use in the tasks that needed doing this day, he still relished this first moment of peace.

The smoke from Aragorn and Gimli's pipes drifted overhead, and passed out over the garden wall. The sky in the East was not dark, and a soft pink shone there, over the ruins of Barad-dûr and the fire mountain.

"This is the first moment I've rested my legs in many days," Gimli said contentedly.

Legolas narrowed his eyes. "While we were being hauled about by orcs you were feasting in the King's tent."

"I am not yet a King," Aragorn reminded them, speaking around the pipe in his mouth.

"I saw Frodo and Sam this morning," Gimli said. "They are looking much more like themselves after food and rest, but they are not quite willing to leave the comfort of their beds just yet."

Aragorn nodded. "Minas Tirith will require many repairs and the death count was high, though it might have been far higher. Let them wait in comfort while the city is renewed."

"That Radagast is a strange one," Gimli said. "He is even now closeted with Gandalf as they discuss their wizardish plans."

"I may have had quite enough of wizards for one journey," Legolas mused, not allowing himself to think too much on the previous days, "but Radagast is known to me. He dwells near to my own people, but he keeps to himself."

Legolas felt vibrations beneath him and opened one eye to see two dark-haired figures making their way across the gardens, one walking with a slight limp.

He drew himself up off the ground as they approached. It was strange to have spent so long in the company of one brother, and to know very little of the other. Today both were wearing sable cloaks and with their dark hair and grey eyes looked more alike than Legolas had seen.

He felt a stirring of unease at their formal appearance, and wondered whether the time had come to discuss the matter of Aragorn's kingship.

Faramir appeared so eager to see them, however, that Legolas' concerns were put aside for a moment. He gladly embraced the man, realising it had been strange to be apart after all they had endured together.

"How are you, my friend?" Faramir asked, eyeing the bandages spiralling up Legolas' arm.

"A little uncoordinated," Legolas returned easily. "You shall not find me testing my bow against Gimli's axe for some weeks."

"Do you know how many times I re-built your gates?" Gimli interrupted. "And this brother of yours," the Dwarf shook his head, "dragged us through all the alleyways and tunnels in this maze of a city."

"Good to see you again, master Dwarf," Boromir said, seeming a little ruffled by the familiar company and Gimli's manner.

"Aye, good indeed," Gimli nodded, softening his tone and looking fondly around at everyone gathered together again.

Legolas saw that Faramir looked a little tense now, eyeing Aragorn as he grasped Boromir's forearm in greeting. The Elf could hear the man's heavy breaths through his nose and could not help but notice the firmness of the grasp on both sides.

"Gondor owes you much, it seems," Boromir said after a small silence.

"There is no debt," Aragorn replied readily. "Forgive me for not staying longer at the houses when we first met."

"It is of no concern. The healers have set us free now, and we have been to Rath Dínen."

Both brothers seemed subdued by the memory, and Aragorn murmured his respects with feeling.

A quiet followed, and Gimli lifted himself to his feet. "Time for me to seek out some dinner," the Dwarf said, eyeing Legolas as though expecting the Elf to follow.

Legolas stayed where he was, wanting to hear the outcome of this discussion. Gimli frowned at him before taking his leave.

The unspoken question was in the air between them, and Legolas let his breath escape as Aragorn voiced it.

"Long ago," Aragorn said, "I promised your brother that if ever I entered the city, it would be by the will of the people and the grace of the Steward. I did enter it, upon you father's bidding and for your sake. Now you are Steward, and it is between us to decide the course of the future. I would know your mind."

Boromir turned, and paced a little. "I have met with the council, and despite all you have done they would not have me step aside."

"Brother..." Faramir's voice was low.

Boromir shook his head."Nay Faramir, I would be foolish to disregard advice without consideration."

Faramir's lips were pressed together, holding back a response, but after glancing to Aragorn he spoke again. "I do not question their loyalty, only that they are father's chosen, and that you yourself may have selected others to advise you."

"Much has changed in the last months. You were not here while we weathered the attacks from the East and South, ever increasing..." Boromir's eyes were dark at the recollection, and Legolas noted the muscles in his sword arm tighten.

Faramir paused, and seemed to consider carefully before speaking. "I was not here, but neither were you at the very end, and from what I have seen and read all was not well in the last days. It was not only father's mind that weakened beneath the shadow..."

"Do not speak ill of him, not now..."

"I do not, I only advise against accepting council that has already proved ineffective. What says our Uncle?"

Boromir paused and took a breath. "Imrahil bids me listen to council I trust, and do what I think is right."

Legolas watched the man carefully, taking in his pale face, but also his set jaw. Holding his own thoughts from spilling forth was difficult. After all they had come through to stand here in Tower of Guard, and at this late hour another battle could face them for Aragorn's right to rule.

"Do not make any decision now," Aragorn said softly, seeing also the palour of the new Steward's face. "Listen to your Uncle who has proven himself the truest of men, and seek wisdom from those you alone trust. If it eases your decision, know too that my own faith in the house of the Stewards cannot be diminished."

Something in Aragorn's words touched the Boromir, Legolas sensed, though he showed little sign and only looked over the walls, towards the sea.

"Stay here a while with your companions, Faramir," he said after some time, turning back to face them. His eyes seemed weary now. "I shall think alone for a time."

Faramir's expression was troubled as they watched Boromir walk back towards the tower, his limp more pronounced than previously.

"You look alike," Legolas said to fill the silence, "but are not so alike in temperament I think."

"It is difficult for him," Faramir said. "He does not know Aragorn as we do, and it is a great deal of trust to place in a stranger. Whatever decision he makes, he must feel that he has done right by the people."

"I believe he will," Aragorn said, and returned his pipe to his lips.

"You wait so patiently," Legolas said, watching smoke rings coil, "do you not yearn to send word to Arwen?"

"Arwen and I have waited many years, my friend. Another week will make little difference." His voice was steady, but his eyes told Legolas a different story.

"I will speak to him," Faramir said, perhaps seeing the yearning in Aragorn's eyes.

Faramir took his dinner with Eomer that night. He was not sure why he sought out the man of Rohan, except that they shared a common loss, father and uncle. They shared also the desire to sit quietly and forget, for a time, their new responsibilities.

After the meal they sat quietly by the open fire and Eowyn joined them, her hair shining deep gold in the firelight. She did not interrupt their silence, and the three watched the flames together late into the night.

Faramir left them after midnight, and took to Boromir's rooms. The chill air in the corridors shook him from his reverie, and by the time he reached his brother's rooms he felt more awake. He knocked softly in case Boromir was sleeping, but seeing candlelight shining beneath the door he entered.

He could see Boromir, dark against the night sky on the high balcony. Faramir had always known it might come to this, yet at the time his concern had been focused on his father's objections.

Though he did not turn, Boromir must have heard him enter. "Do you ask this of me, Faramir? To give up all my life was to be?"

Faramir came out on the balcony and stood beside him, looking down at the circles of the city as they had been wont to do in younger days. Out of the corner of his eye he examined Boromir's shadowed face, but could not read what was on his thoughts.

In his own mind, it was so clear. "Surely it is for all the more noble a duty," he said. "What might two mighty rulers could achieve together to unite the Kingdom!"

The people loved their Captain-general, but Aragorn had raised the banner of the King on the field of Pelennor, had brought with him an army to save the city. If Boromir chose to oppose Aragorn's claim the rift between them could tear Gondor apart.

"To serve as Steward beneath a King... it is not what I have been trained for."

"What is it you fear, brother? That your will would be subsumed under a rule you could not honour. I say to you that never was a man as just or true as Aragorn."

Boromir watched him long, and Faramir wondered whether his brother perceived the change in himself since they had last stood together on this balcony and looked East, the change that had come with the fall of the shadow and the prospect of peace.

"Answer me something," Boromir asked, and his grey eyes seemed almost black as he looked out into the night. "You travelled some time with the halflings... Did you... so easily turn away from that which they carried? Did not your thoughts turn to it at night, wondering if it was the one way to save all we hold dear?"

Faramir did not answer at once. "None who encountered it remained untested," he said at last, thinking back to the forests of Amon Hen, "but its shadow did not weigh on me after it passed out of my sight."

Boromir's head dropped slightly. "Only the faintest trace of the thing passed me by," he said, his voice filled with a self-loathing that pained Faramir to hear. "The glimmer of a hope that I might live to see it, yet even now I recall it haunting my dreams."

"You were ill, fevered." Faramir noticed that sweat had sprung up on Boromir's brow. "Even now you are sick, come inside."

He took Boromir's arm but his brother did not allow himself to be drawn in. "Nay, Faramir. I was ill but had I not been so.. Had I been free to pursue that which I knew was near..." He searched his brother's face. "You do not understand. You cannot."

"Do not blame yourself for wanting the best for our people. Had I not been sure our success did not lie in war I may too have been tested more sorely."

The line of Boromir's mouth showed he did not believe it. "And Aragorn?"

"I do not know," Faramir said.

After a time Boromir finally stood up with resolution, taking his weight from the balcony rail. He seemed more himself once more. "My mind is made up," he said sternly, "But it all depends on you, brother."

"How so?"

There was a steely glint in Boromir's eyes and Faramir braced himself for the decision, still unsure of his brother's mind.

"If you promise... that you will share the burdensome paperwork I will concede and let your ragged King take up his throne."

Faramir grinned, a great weight falling from him. Boromir was a proud man and it had not been easily done, but he was good humoured too, and a decision once made was kept.

"I will share your paperwork," he agreed. He gripped his brother's forearm with steady fingers as the other man grimaced good-naturedly at the thought of the dry work. "You never had a head for letters."

"I would not do this for any other, Faramir," Boromir said, suddenly serious again. "Let my trust in your judgement prove right."

Boromir proffered not only his status, Faramir knew, but the lives and hopes of all in Gondor. Had Faramir had less trust in Aragorn he might have wavered at this reminder, but he had no doubts and so turned to look out over the city, the wind in his hair.

"It is you for whom I grow concerned," Faramir said after a moment, with the hint of a smile. "What shall you do with yourself now that the enemy no longer threatens?"

"While you sit buried in correspondence from complaining farmers whose crops have burned, I shall make it my task to wipe the remainder of the enemy from our lands." Boromir's hand brushed upon his sword hilt, as though eager to begin at once. "Do not forget Minas Ithil. Surely the restoration of the two towers would appeal to your romantic ideals?"

"It would," he admitted with a smile, "and perhaps once I have rested awhile I might join you in an adventure or two."

"Nay, you must stay here and guard the back of your fabled King from scheming councillors. I shall not envy you that task, for they are as deadly as any goblin and one cannot simply go at them with a blade."

"I hope to one day return to Ithilien," Faramir said, more seriously. He looked to the South. "Perhaps," he said, "after the coming of Aragorn's bride."

"And tell me," Boromir said after a time, "Where is your own Elven bride? Surely some fair pointy-eared lass has attached herself to you?"

Faramir made a face, but he was more amused than annoyed by Boromir's provocation. He wondered how long that patience would last now that they were reunited, and smiled considering it.

"You may have wedded twenty times since I departed," he returned. "You should take care, a Steward of Gondor may appeal even more than a Captain-general."

Boromir snorted. "My sword and shield are all the company I require at present. Yet I did chance upon Eowyn of Rohan on my way here. A fitting wife she would make for a Steward. Slayer of the Nazgul King!"

Faramir had tensed at the name. He eyed his brother out of the corner of his eye, but Boromir gave no sign that he might be provoking a response.

"She is a lady high and valiant," he said softly and his eyes strayed to the burn on his forearms. The shape of the horse was still distinguishable there.

Boromir reached out to touch the brand. "Who did this?" he asked, he brow creased. "There is much more to your tale, brother, than you have told thus far."

He said nothing, remembering the smell of burning, but then Eowyn's cooling touch. The fear of fire no longer held him. It had passed with the destruction of the ring, like so much else.

Eowyn's fears may have passed also, but her Uncle had been lost on the field of Pelenor, and Aragorn was to wed another.

"It was necessary," he said, recalling the question.

He shifted his hands out of sight, and curled his fingers around the small white chess piece he still carried with him, the white lady.

Dear wonderful readers, thank you to every one of you who read or left comments throughout the many years of writing this tale. The messages during the years of absence convinced me to return and give the characters their endings.

If looking for something else to read after this story, have a read of the first chapter of my new tale 'East of the Moon': Eowyn, Faramir and Legolas journey to Rhun to save Eomer, King of Rohan from a mysterious threat. A four chapter post-rotk adventure tale written as a self-challenge. http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=7008

Apologies for the short delay in posting this very last chapter, it turned out to need a little more attention than expected. I hope it rewards you for travelling along the journey with me. Enjoy!

Chapter 55 - Ithilien

Golden heads rested together as the moment for departure arrived. The wind whipped around the small party as they huddled together at the sixth gate, and Faramir saw Eowyn shiver as she pulled away from her brother's embrace.

Eomer's men were leading their horses from the stables in a long line down the paved street before them. There was longing in the lady's eyes as she watched them.

"Do not fear, sister, we shall return before the leaves turn brown." Eomer glanced westward, wither the the riders were bound, and in doing betrayed his urgency to be begin the task at hand. "Are you sure you not ride with us Master Hobbit?" he asked, reaching up to secure his saddle with a small smile.
Pippin shook his head firmly. "I have had enough of riding, and the healers will no more let me out of their sight than your lady sister."

The face of the kindly Warden rose in Faramir's thoughts. He unconsciously drew a breath, and the familiar dull ache at own his side seemed a poor exchange for those who had suffered to bring them to this peaceful day. Healing would not be a simple matter of weeks, and much of the kingdom would never be fully healed. There was, however, much to be thankful for.

He gave the curly haired Hobbit a fond glance. "Do not fear, Eomer, we shall send them on when all Gondor's harvest is depleted and our stores empty, so that they can take advantage of Rohan's hospitality."

"Pray do not! I have heard tell of their appetites and I do not know if Rohan has sufficient defences."

Eomer grasped Faramir's forearm in farewell and Faramir could feel the other man's silent amusement as he was drawn into an embrace.

While Pippin shook his head at the jesting and made a face at Eowyn, Eomer kept a firm hold on Faramir's arm. He felt his own gaze drawn to the rider's bright eyes.

"I know your duties are many now," Eomer said beneath his breath, "and it will be long before we can sit before a fire together again in comfort, but I will look to that time with hope."

"As will I, my friend."

He would feel the horselord's departure as keenly as any in the city, for in Eomer he had found an unexpected companion. With a nature more eager and less patient than his own, the man's company had been a refreshing change from the sometimes staid society in the citadel.

"My sister has few friends in this stone city of yours, but in my absence I could not entrust her happiness to one more worthy."

Eomer loosened his grip, aware of Eowyn's querying look, but Faramir silently acknowledged the words before letting his own hand fall, the honour of the sentiment not escaping him.

His gaze strayed to Eowyn, wondering not for the first time, whether her brother's wishes were in any small way mirrored by her own. He could not say, and knew only that she must be sorrowful at this separation, for all that she now stood tall, raising a hand in farewell.

The Rohirrim would proceed now down to the city gates where a formal farewell would take place. It had seemed fitting that their first farewell was between only friends.
In the failing light Faramir and Pippin stood with Eowyn and watched the trail depart the city, turning west.
"The days shall be long without him."
The wind blew chill as they turned their steps towards the now damaged white tower.

"Gandalf promised me," Pippin said, wrapping his hands around his chest, "that with the passing of the shadow would come the end of this bitter cold."

"The Shire may have fine weather all year around, but the nights in Minas Tirith are not so warm as they were."

Pippin sniffed at his words, the prospect of further cold weather clearly not pleasing him.

"But winter too can be beautiful. Recall, if you can through all that has happened since, the first days of Winter in Lothlorien."

"I can remember," Pippin said, and seemed to forget his chill for a moment.

Eowyn looked to them both, always interested to hear more of their journey, and Faramir suddenly remembered the gift he had purposefully brought forth for the lady.

The gardens of the Houses were to their left. "Let us pause here a moment," he said, and drew forth the bundle of cloth he had carried.

Some kind of childish reverence woke as the midnight cloth slipped between his fingers. Hidden away for long years, the starry mantle had not dimmed in beauty, nor had its memories of first grief faded with time.

Eowyn received the cloak with equal reverence, her own fingers brushing lightly against the cloth as he wrapped it about her.

"So valuable a gift should not be given lightly," she breathed as he spoke of it being wrought for his mother."

"Not lightly," he returned, and as she pulled the cloak about her and turned to face the West she seemed to him a queen of fairer days.

"I shall take leave of you here,"Pippin said quietly, a somewhat knowing look in his eyes. "It's about time for me to seek out Merry. Until the wedding!"

They did not speak for a time, standing quietly together where Pippin had left them. Faramir felt that Aragorn and Arwen's wedding had risen between them, casting each into their own thoughts. He wondered whether sadness or bitterness held Eowyn's reflections now, and not for the first time wished he could offer comfort.

"Eowyn," he began at last.

She looked up and it was with a small ache that he failed to meet her gaze, unsure how to lighten the shadow their King had left upon her heart.

"Eowyn it pains me to think you unhappy. Beyond all else I would see you joyful and loved."

When she said nothing, he reluctantly met her eyes. They were bright yet there seemed to be tears behind them, though she did not weep.

Another breath and he pushed onwards, something of bitterness now touching his words. "What a cursed fate that the love of one so valiant and fair could not be returned."

Her mouth opened and he saw sudden hurt in her face and wounded pride, perhaps in it being stated so plainly. She rose to her feet and moved over to the balcony, turning her back on him.

The injuries that yet pained him were little to witnessing her grief, and he lingered a little where he stood, wondering if he had supposed too much of their friendship to speak in this way, but feeling too that saying nothing would have been cold and unfeeling. With faltering steps he came to stand beside her.

"I had wished," she spoke at last, "to be loved by another. When the Lord Aragorn first came to Edoras bringing the hope that the house of Eorl..." she broke off, the reminder of her Uncle perhaps too vivid, "and all that has happened since then... I had believed..."

Without thinking he moved to touch her hand, but she pulled away as though burned. His own heart sank further.

"Aragorn's attachment for Arwen," he said softly when he could speak, as though his tone might soothe the hurt, "has grown out of an exiled past, and the passing of years uncounted among the Elves."

Slowly he realised she was looking at him, eyes wide. When she spoke her voice seemed changed.

"I have heard it said in Gondor," she begun slowly, suddenly placing her arm within his and drawing him towards the furthest, highest balcony, "that the lord Faramir can read the hearts of men, and see what secrets are written in their thoughts..."

He was watching her carefully now as they walked, their steps seemed lighter than before, and they did not feel the cold. Her eyes were bright but not with tears, the corner of her lips curving up into the beginnings of a smile.

"But now I see," she continued, "that he is quite lost when it comes to women."

She reached up and brushed her hand along his cheek, still smiling. The light dancing in her eyes brought a confused smile to his own lips, and everything took a new colour. The stars of her mantle were mirrored in the new night sky.

"I thought I would lose everything," he said when they came to the balcony and looked down upon the battle scorched earth, thinking for the first time that he truly understood her, "but it appears I have gained something more wondrous without seeing it."

His gaze moved further a field to where the deep ocean seemed to sparkle in his eyes. Something leapt within and on an impulse he grasped her hand once more, searching her face earnestly for the truth. "You truly want this?"

It was a long moment before she looked back at him, for the distant horizon where Ithilien stood north of the river seemed to hold her. "We stood together to face the shadow," she said, "When you next stand by my side I would have it be as my husband."

He embraced her then, holding her tight and fearing the darkness no more, thanking all the graces that had brought them out of the darkness to this happy end.

Eowyn lightly tapped on the door, too lightly perhaps, for there was no response from within. The Houses were one of the only places she felt at home in the great stone city, and within the last weeks she thought she had seen the same restlessness in Faramir as was in her own heart. Longing to leave the stone city and ride into the hills. Much must be done before that could happen, and she was not patient.

She pushed the door open slowly, wondering if perhaps she might again find her betrothed, how strange to think that word, asleep while working.
She smiled seeing the dark head bent over in concentration. The room was in full sun, and she saw that he was in his shirtsleeves, cloak folded over the chair.

She glanced around to see that they were alone. "I can think of better ways to spend the afternoon."

Even as she spoke, she knew her mistake.

The head turned and she half opened her mouth, not knowing what to say as she beheld the lord Boromir.

There was a mischievous sparkle in his eyes and his amusement was so infectious that she gave it up and laughed along with him.

He stood with some small difficulty and ushered her into the room, moving a pile of papers from the spare chair onto the bed.

"You look so alike," she managed at last, still feeling her cheeks heated.

He flexed his hands, looking with displeasure at his arms. "You would not have said so last fall. I will have none of bows and knives. The broadsword was my weapon of choice, and to even lift it now is a challenge. But my full strength shall return, and you shall have no excuse for mistaking us."

"I did not think to find you here... I thought you had taken up your own chambers."

"That I have, but I have discovered the key to avoiding the councillors and questioners is to keep on the move."

"You are in hiding?"

He swept his hand dramatically into the pile of papers, letting them float to the floor.

"Would you not were you in my place? I have no patience for this."

"But surely during your Captaincy accounts were a matter of course?"

"Supply orders and accounts of battles are are a far flung thing from damage reports and requests for drain maintenance."

She took up the pile, sifting through it. "The key to this is to employ someone you trust to sift through and deal with the less important correspondence for you."

He was quiet, and she looked up to find grey eyes upon her somewhat pleadingly.

"I am not the one to solve your administrative burden! Faramir is already snowed under as it is." She took a breath, realising she was talking to this man she had hardly exchanged ten words with as though he were her own brother. As she looked over the papers she was slowly realising that she had likely exchanged the management of Edoras' administration for a more onerous task in Ithilien.

He was grinning, and she raised her eyebrows in question.

"I am happy to see you will take a firm hand with my brother, and will tell him firmly when he has taken too much upon himself."

"As far as I can see you both need to be taken in hand and made to rest before you do yourselves more damage." She wondered if she had gone too far, but the other man only continued to smile.

"Faramir mentioned you were considering hanging up the sword in return for a healer's robe?"

"After our stay here I am interested to learn more, but that was not quite my words. While the peace lasts we shall have no need for swords." She thought she saw a shadow pass over his features. "Should another darkness threaten I shall be as willing as any to take up my sword."

"And how about now?"

"Now?"

"Aye, I am tired of trawling through reams of correspondence. Let me try my sword arm against that of the slayer of the Witch King."

She laughed, sensing no mockery in his words, and delighted that he should think of her thus. "That arm is not yet fully healed, but you may attempt to defeat the other." She glanced down at her skirts, "I am not sure I am dressed for this."

The alley behind the Houses drew Faramir away from the bustle of the street and into the quiet of a courtyard. His conference with Mithrandir had been brief and he had been saddened to hear that his old friend planned to stay no longer in the city than the Hobbits.

He paused to rest a moment, setting his armful of papers upon a stone corner marker, and taking several breaths of the fresh morning air.

Looking up at the sound of laughter, he wondered whether he had ever truly woken from his injuries, so strange the sight that met his eyes. Two figures, one crouching, one leaning against the curved stone wall raised their arms in welcome.

Even at the distance, the golden hair of the second left him in no doubt as to their identities. "Eowyn!"

"Do not fear, brother," Boromir stumbled to his feet as he approached and slapped a sweat-dampened hand upon his good shoulder, we are both already too injured to do any damage. He shook the narrow blade in his brother's direction. "Who would call this a sword?"

"I would, it is my sword." Faramir made a snatch for the blade, but his brother twisted it away.

Eowyn smiled and he felt his own face light up to see her flushed cheeks and the competitive look in her eyes.

Suddenly recognising the tunic Eowyn had donned, he followed it down to find her feet looking unusually large. "I see my spare clothes are being put to good use also."

"I did not think you would mind."

"Take care, she shall be attending your councils and commanding your labourers soon enough."

"And welcome to them, as I am already attending in your stead." Faramir shook his head.

"You work too hard, brother. But you must not blame me for taking advantage of you both while you yet remain in the city. Too soon you shall scarper to Ithilien and leave me with all the drudgery of court." Boromir feigned deep disheartenment at the thought.

"True enough."Faramir moved forward with a hand outstretched to comfort his brother, but at the last moment stepped smartly on his foot and twisted the blade from his surprised fingers. "But first give me the chance to better your efforts!"

Eowyn narrowed eyes full of laughter and raised her sword.

"I shall not complain if Gimli comes to Emyn Arnen for a time." Even as Faramir shouted the words over the wind it threw them back at him, whipping his hair into his eyes. He trusted the Elf had heard, but tugged on his horse's reigns, urging the animal to move a little faster up the slope.

Legolas was quite a way ahead, peering back over the landscape and paying no attention to the blustery day.

"You can see Minas Tirith clearly from here," the Elf said as Faramir reached him, breathing hard. He had had far too many hearty meals since their return to Gondor, and felt out of shape compared to his days as Captain in Ithilien.

"I shall not miss it," Legolas continued, "marble and stone. I look forward to making our home here amid the trees."

"You may be able to see the city," Faramir said between breaths, "but I can only see a white shape on the horizon. I do envy your eyesight. But you have changed the subject."

Nothing had pleased Faramir more than the news that Legolas had decided to establish a home for his kin alongside theirs in Ithilien. He had seen a twinkle in Aragorn's eye at the news also, and would not be surprised if the new King slipped off to his Eastern outpost for some time with his friends away from the pressures of council. After Legolas and Gimli's travels together to Fangorn and Helm's deep, the Dwarf had expressed an intent to 'ensure the foundations of Legolas' colony were to the standards of a Dwarf.'

"If the Dwarf wishes to come and help establish the colony I cannot stop him," Legolas said with a sour expression, but there was humour behind his words. "I cannot promise, however, that he will not be outnumbered by Elves, and if he insults them as he does me he will find his beard in a twist faster than he can say Dwarrowdelf."

"You are beginning to sound like him," Faramir said, because he knew it would annoy the Elf.

"Your brother," Legolas began in cheerful retaliation, "has been telling me interesting stories about when you learned to shoot a bow..."

"All lies," Faramir returned too quickly, then laughed before he had a chance to be convincing. "I shall have to speak to him - what respect can I command if he continues to tell anecdotes at my expense?"

Legolas smiled, "Never fear, here shall be our home and no Dwarves or elder brothers shall disturb our peace."

Faramir smiled too, knowing the falsity of the sentiment. "I am happy you agreed to come to Ithilien, my friend."