A/N- Written for Shirebound and Grey_wonderer's b-days.

It did not seem hopeful at all. Between Denethor’s growing madness and Minas Tirith becoming more and more inhospitable, I did not know where to go and how to serve. There was no instruction; there was no structure.  What was a knight of Gondor to do at this time of utter destruction?

Denethor looked more unbearable than wrath upon learning his son was mortally wounded from his attempt.  He was bringing him somewhere, but all I knew that Faramir was ill, not dead …yet. Denethor would not heed my words but it was apparent Faramir needed medicine.

Never did I feel so helpless, not even when I was in the clutches of the Uruk-hai had a felt so very heavy-hearted.  And I was all alone. What would Merry have done?

“My lord, we must help Faramir!”

“Save your words for another time; it is too late! The Dark Lord has found it!”

I shook my head in defiance. Frodo had failed? I could not believe that!  Surely, it wasn’t so. 

But my attention went back to the attendants preparing the Steward and son for their burial.

I must do something quick before Gondor loses another one of their very best.