If you recognize it, it's not mine!
Do Not Go Quietly Into the Night
Summary: Faramir, deep in fever and the Black Breath must choose between two masters.
Fire and flame. Everything burning. As I look down upon the field everything shimmers in the waves of heat. The houses are glowing embers, the field nothing but ashes. With an alien joy I am steadily drawn towards the dark inferno, to join with the joyous fury of destruction. The heavy darkness spreads for miles, beyond the horizon, past all eyesight. An incontrollable fury comes upon me, a wave of bitter passion wells up and threatens to overcome me in one torrential wave.
"Lo! I have found him! He lives yet, but only barely." Men weep openly at the news of their leader's fall and even more so when an arrow buries itself in his prone figure as they bear him away. Denethor greets the news with no response, only gazing upon the face of his ill son with a coldness unlike any other before he goes once more to his master in a high tower.
Another building crumbles with a roar in the distance, my feet propel me forwards and I eagerly follow. At long last, it seems, I can do enough to satisfy my betters.
A strange light seeps from the high tower of the steward while his son lies burning with fever. Denethor lays prostate before the Stone, broken in mind by what he sees there. At last he crawls out, seen by no one. He has made his decision to follow this master bound by stone and now must do his bidding.
A sudden voice comes from behind, calling my name like a spell of light. At first I ignore him, but he calls again, coming closer. Reluctantly I turn to face the figure. He cuts a startling form silhouetted against the flames and utter darkness behind, a tall kingly man robed in black and sliver with the Tree of Gondor upon his breast- reminding me yet again of my failures.
Troubled, the feverish form of Faramir wrestles with those who carry him before hastily leaving the sick prince. For hours he remains alone, wandering and fighting unseen enemies born of the fever while Denethor wrestles with the will of Sauron.
This man had been the same that I had dreamed of so many times before, he was the one to whom I would someday pledge my allegiance. For a third time he calls out, speaking my name against the darkness, but with a note of urgency, of weariness, of warning.
As I turn once again to the never-ending inferno before me the kingly man calls my name, begging. I realize in that instant what would become of me if I were to do as he pleads. I would leave this land of joyous destruction, but serve a better master than that of the Wraithes.
Hours after he was brought from battle, Faramir is finally brought to the Houses of Healing. The Healers are at a loss for what to do, the wounds and fever they can cure but for the Black Breath they have no remedy. A rhyme of old is spoken, and a man from the shadows comes forth and stands in his true honor.
For a long moment we both stand silently as the flames roar behind me. Putting my trust in his hands I step towards the robed figure, turning my back to the eternal night of flame and swear my allegiance to him.
The King kneels before the Steward as life is returned to the dying by one who long ago forsake his inheritance but now claims it.
"My lord, you called me. I come. What does the King command?"