Twilight dawned and stars ever alight swept far and wide in the night sky. So long had darkness plagued the majestic realm of Gondor but never had young Captain Faramir seen one as long as this, eternal even he deemed. Indeed, too long had he stood waiting under this dead tree, watching the heavens for signs of first light, but none broke through the mass of gray clouds. He forgot how long he had been here, but he knew he had walked far across the plains. He saw nothing; not a blade of grass nor a scurrying ant. Nay, as far as his grey eyes could see, here he was alone. Faramir wondered if he were dead. He felt no wind against his face, no thirst in his throat, no hunger and no pain. Memories of weeks before returned and in his aching wake, he let himself down onto the dusty ground, his back against the peeling tree bark. He remembered first how Osgiliath was overrun with the Enemies. They were vastly outnumbered and Faramir would not have any more Gondorian blood spilled on a lost battle. But the Enemy was relentless. He sent also his most wretched agent; the Nazgul upon his winged beast descended and besieged what was left of the ruins of Osgiliath. All hopes were lost and with his might he cried out for his men to pull back. He was one of the last to abandon his post. With his staunch bow and arrows he kept the orcs at bay, and with his blade he fell any that dared to come close. Amidst the wails of terror, the Dark One sensed courage still for It then turned to the Captain, and the Captain saw It.

A darkness he never knew crept into the crevices of his heart and a strange feeling of iciness claimed him. But Faramir was strong. He wrestled his fear and fled the fallen city. The Nazgul was upon him in the next but even the swiftest of horses could not have outrun the beast, and Faramir closed his eyes in one last silent prayer. He bade his steed to fall back for he knew the Nazgul had its eyes on him. Perhaps the Captain could proffer himself as a bargain for the lives of the riders before him? He felt that callous coldness seep into him again. This time, Faramir bade his horse farewell. But the fearsome claws of the Nazgul did not reach him. A white light so blinding yet warm shone on him. Then it grew to cast its brilliance over the Field of Pellenor and in that one brief second, Faramir cried out to his men to haste! The galloping hurried and the horde of orcs began trailing behind. The Mithrandir it seemed had come to their aid again. The Nazgul too backed away and the men rode through the gates of the White City. Faramir dismounted and hung his head. This few had returned though they set out with ten companies more? Then Mithrandir himself broke through the circle of mourning men and reached for him. He could feel the strength of the Wizard's grip on his arm. He looked up and noted the concern etched in the lines of his aging face. When he spoke, Faramir heard naught, and the grip on his arm tightened evermore.

The Wizard cupped the side of his head and whispered in an arcane tongue that Faramir did not understand, still he took peace in the warmth it bestowed him. His eyes cleared though he did not when they were veiled. At last he could hear Mithrandir.

"Faramir, the battle had taken too much of you."

He searched for his men; many were now with wet faces in the arms of their families. "Too many lives were sacrificed. And for naught! Mithrandir, the Outer City has been taken! It is only time before they march across the Field and we have not the number to meet such forces!"

But the Mithrandir's eyes were piercing. "Nay, you do not now, but your ally is riding to your aid."

"Then pray be they make haste for I fear the worse will have passed by the time they arrive and there shall be nothing left to defend. Does the Steward know of this?"

"He may, but what he makes of this news, I do not know."

"Then he should be told as well that Osgiliath has fallen, and that the darkest moment of war is upon the City."

And then Faramir heard multiple cries of "Captain!" and arms catching him. He shuddered, for that very chillness that seized him at Osgiliath had returned to wreak his body. What he dismissed as fear when he lay eyes upon the Nazgul now he worry to be something else, but he had not the time to spare for a petty cold, if so. He shook himself free of his men's hold.

"Rest, eat and mourn for our losses, and prepare yourself for another battle for war has darkened our doorsteps. Alas I shall go and met the Steward now for I still bear the ill news of Osgiliath's capture."

Then hHe started for the long walk upstairs to the hall where his Father sat awaiting.

Faramir blinked just as thunder clasped yonder and he stood up, startled. He had grown accustomed to night and silence but not that, the thunderous din that accompanied brilliant flashes of light. A rainstorm in the making perhaps? But here there were no shades to take refuge from. So with a heavy heart the young Captain traipsed sullenly towards the mountains, hoping to stumble upon a cave to hide away from the impending weather. He reached to his waist where he always kept his ranger blade and was troubled to find it not. He was weaponless, defenseless! Where indeed had he placed them? Faramir turned around and decided to return to the dead tree. He would be soaked to the bones when the rain comes but to the comfort of his heart, if any orcs or goblins make appearance, from here he will see them first.

When Faramir lay himself at the bottom of the dead tree again, his memories drifted to what took place after the meeting with his Steward. He remembered agreeing to recapture Osgiliath. It was folly, suicidal and he knew it plainly.

Yet he would ride for his Father demanded it, and for all the grief in the world Faramir would rather lay his life down than to live with his Father's scorn. Perhaps with his passing would his Father finally come to regard him as his son? For the longest of time Faramir stood from the balcony of his chamber that oversees Osgiliath. Death he hoped would come swiftly. He feared not the pain of his soul torn from his body, but he wished that his grief would pass as quickly as he stopped drawing breath. And just as that thought came to him, his heart was suddenly gripped by coldness and Faramir trembled where he stood. He clutched at his breast, fearing that this time he would fall. His knuckles whitened as he held the walls. Nay, just one more night, and all would be well.

The rainstorm finally caught up to him. It poured, and in minutes his tunic stuck to him like a second skin. The dead branches above him howled with the wind, yet he felt not the cold. There was no doubt something evil and ancient that was at work here, that Faramir could not fathom. No books that he had read so far spoke of such restlessness that had long nested in his heart. And in his restlessness he remembered his last ride with the gallant Gondorian. They rode to Osgiliath, but not to victory; in all their hearts they knew it was folly, but they would answer to their Sire's call, and if their Captain rode to death, so to death they would follow. He watched the clouds of arrows rain on them, yet he charged onwards. He saw his men fell from their horses, yet he charged onwards. He felt a foul arrow pierce the barrier of his plate armour, yet he charged onwards. From that second forth he felt neither pain nor despair, for he welcomed the weariness and darkness that quickly followed. The last that he knew was a blurry of motions, and he knew not if he ever fell off his steed at all.

Then he was here.

Just as suddenly as the rain came, they stopped. Then the first ray of light breached the barricades of storm clouds. The mountains beyond stood quiet, no longer could the thunder and lightning be seen or heard. Faramir swept a stray wet lock out of his eyes and rose to his feet. He felt for the first time a gentle morning breeze in his hair. He realized he was cold. He pulled his thin clothes tighter about him and realised too that his flesh was warm. The day was getting brighter. What sorcery was this alas, that could overthrow the ceaseless darkness Faramir had come to welcome?

"Faramir son of Denethor," a regal, kind yet firm voice fluttered along the wind. "I bid you to come hither, come back to where you belong!"

Faramir did not heed the formless voice. He tossed his head around, seeking the one who knew his name. Then it came again, bidding Faramir this time to step into the light. Right before him an ethereal pillar of beam shone and within it a figure stood, beckoning the young Captain to come forth.

"You have wandered enough in the shadows. Come back to the living!"

Faramir peered into the white ray. A crown first formed, a crown that Faramir had seen only in old tapestries and scrolls, and it sat on a tall, proud man. His benevolence and kindness filled the void of Faramir's soul, banishing the darkness shrouding them.

"Gondor needs her Captain. Come, Faramir!"

This time, he heeded.

Faramir stirred, and he opened his eyes, and he looked on Aragorn who bent over him, and a light of knowledge and love kindled in his eyes, and he spoke softly. "My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?"

In the House of Healing Faramir lay rested, but the road to recovery was not easy. Though he was now awake, his fever did not leave him. Weak and bereaved of his father's passing, he was made to lay in his bed by the healers. But this was time of wars and needs and oftentimes Faramir was left to himself in his House. So at these times he pulled himself away from the bed and attempted to leave the confines of his chamber, but after three tries he found himself leaning heavily against the walls and was forced to remake his way to his bed.

His sleeps too were beset with Evil. He dreamed of fire and smoke, and the stench of burning flesh, and deafening shrieks of the Nazgul. He woke up drenched in sweat, the horror lingering and yet, though three days had passed his wounds still pained him greatly. His despair grew as he knew so long as the One Ring survives, Sauron still stands and war will come someday to Gondor. And for that he needed his strength, yet strength evaded him. There were times when Faramir let the silent tears fall for he understood not all tears were evil. At this hour when his body lay still his mind meandered to his brother and he sought to have been able to see Boromir again. He knew though that there was no comfort wading in such memories, and with that he let sleep take him once more.

The next morning brought more than sunlight and breakfast to Faramir; a visitor, clad in gray cloaks fastened at his neck with a brooch elven-made. Aragorn strode into the chamber with ease though ease described not the perils of what news he brought Faramir.

"The last of free men will march to Mordor tomorrow. The last stand against evil, and may Frodo find his way unhindered to Mount Doom."

"A diversion," Faramir sighed, "to wrest the attention of the Eye."

Aragron watched his Steward with great intent. He noted the wince that Faramir failed to disguise, the flushed skin and the much too quick pulses and breathing. But he made no mention of it for he knew Faramir was young and proud and desired no sympathy.

"What will you command me to do, my lord?"

And wise, Aragorn added, for the young were always rash and fearless, but nay, not this Faramir who knew of his limits. And here Aragorn thought the young man would beseech his King to not leave him behind when all rode for battle. But Aragorn's heart clenched at the sight of Faramir's swollen, red eyes. Traces of dried tears remained on his cheeks but he realized nothing of them. When Aragorn reached to wipe them away, Faramir flinched. As the King withdrew, he quickly wiped his face with his sleeves, scolding himself for troubling his Sire with the unnecessary.

Aragorn waited in patience for the Steward to be at ease, then he gently took Faramir's hand in his.

"My lord?"

Aragorn then sang an old Elvish hymn that resounded in the halls of Rivendell. It spoke of silver blossoms in the moonlight, and of the endless seas. It lightened hearts and lifted sorrows, and it brought back beautiful memories that were thought lost and forgotten. Upon hearing it, Faramir's troubled heart was soothed and he felt strength return to him. A single tear escaped his grey eyes but he bothered not to dry it.

"My lord, I –"

"I will not tell you to forget the fallen, nor pretend it hurts you not. These we cannot undo, but what lies before us is uncertain. Gondor needs her Steward here. Your people love you, dear Faramir, do not forsake them!"

"Nay, what we need most is our King!"

Aragorn smiled ruefully. He rose from his seat and leaned towards the younger man. "I do not ride to mere death, I ride to hope. If Frodo succeeds, peace will be restored on Middle Earth. It may become the duty of the ruling Steward to return Gondor to its glory."

In his weariness Faramir reached out to grasp Aragorn's forearm. All protocols disregarded, he held his King as tightly he could. His heart raced and his vision wavered, yet he refused to relinquish his hold on the King he just came to know.

"You ask too much of me!"

"I do not ride in despair, Faramir! Peace unto you, friend, I do not ride because I have surrendered. Too many blades and shields shattered, too many lives taken! And all will be for naught if the Ringbearer does not triumph!"

"Nay my lord," Faramir shook his head slightly, "I understand what is at stake here. You say that you ride with hope, and I am glad. Should you return however, do not turn away from your destiny, for Gondor shall be restored to her glory by the hands of her rightful King!"

Faramir let Aragorn go and withdrew deeper into his pillows. He had spoken too much and out of place. But Aragorn cared not. He laughed and it filled the silence of the chamber with mirth. When he left, the warmth he harboured stayed, and so did hope and joy that chased away the shadows in his dreams. In days to come Faramir would look eastwards, and he knew in his heart that his King would lead his people home.