Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, its characters, and lands, are the property of Tolkein Estates and New Line Cinemas. This story was written for my enjoyment and the enjoyment of others, not for profit.

Chapter Two: A Dark Sunrise

The Steward watched the darkness emanating from the east with dread. So it was true. The Quest had failed. His heart sank. He was the last one to have seen the Ringbearer and his friend before they crossed into the Dark Land. He felt that he could have helped this somehow, though in his heart, he knew that he could not.

He shuddered. Dawn had come, but it was only darker than the night before. Mordor's darkness was fast falling over Arda. He turned as he felt Eowyn's touch on his shoulder.

"Have you slept at all?" she asked, her grey eyes bright with worry.

Faramir shook his head. "No," he said, "How can I, when the fate of Middle-Earth has been decided for the worst?" He sat down in a chair, lowering his head as his raven hair fell down and covered his face.

Eowyn could offer him no comfort. "I understand," she said, her own voice taut with anxiety, "There is little we can do." She dared not say nothing. Her mind drifted away to the Black Gates, and she wondered if her brother had, by some slim chance, survived. Or Aragorn, for that matter. She knew she owed the Heir her life.

Faramir stood back up. "It is only a matter of time," he said. His face was drawn and his voice pained. "Until we too are overcome." His mind drifted again to his brother, who had been killed brutally. Perhaps it was better for Boromir than for him now. At least Boromir would not have to be brought under the domain of the Dark Lord.

"We cannot give up so easily," Eowyn replied, "There may be few of us left, but we can still join together and battle the dark forces of Mordor." Her expression hardened with determination.

Faramir managed a sad smile. "No, Eowyn," he told her, "The men of the Free Peoples have been mostly killed in the battles with the Dark Lord and his minions. There is none left to fight." He glanced at the sky again, wondering if it was, perhaps, still a few shades darker.

"I am not a man, yet I killed his greatest servant," Eowyn retorted, "There are other women like me, I am sure. And the North is all but untouched by the Enemy." She turned him towards her.

Faramir looked her in the eye. "You are right, Eowyn," he said, "We must not give up all hope yet. We must gather the Free Peoples who will come to join us before the storm comes. We must stand and fight for this city until the last. But not only this city. We must fight for all of Arda." He turned back to look over the Pelennor.

Eowyn held his hands between hers. For all of Arda, she thought, And for those who have already been lost.

0o0o0o0

"Get up!" A gruff voice accompanied a sharp kick in Aragorn's back. He rubbed his eyes groggily, unsure of exactly what had happened, and why he was being kicked.

When he was dragged to his feet by two orcs, the memory of the Battle at the Black Gates flooded back to him. And the hopelessness. He wondered how Frodo and Sam had been killed, and shuddered, knowing that it would have been no easy death. Was he now going to his own death?

He didn't fight his captors, knowing that it was useless. The Enemy had regained his Ring. And this time, there would be no one to cut it from his hand. He would make sure of that.

Aragorn was dragged through the black-and-red halls of Barad-Dur to a room lined with various torture devices. He was shoved roughly against the wall, which seemed to be coated with some type of poison, for it burned his skin, and held there. The door opened, and the Dark Lord strode in.

"Welcome, Isildur's heir," he spoke, and his voice made Aragorn shudder. It was pure evil embodied in words, and the hatred for everyone and everything so evident. "It is so nice to meet you at last, in these circumstances."

Aragorn did not reply, and he did not lower his eyes. Though Sauron's hatred of him, and the way he spoke to him, made him want to cringe and cower and beg for mercy, he would not do that. He stood firm.

Sauron laughed, a horrible, thundering sound that made Aragorn even more afraid than he already was. "So, you are going to play the courageous one with me, are you?" he said, "Well, that has been done before. And there are none left to tell the tale. If you simply tell me all that I would know, I will let you live, either that, or kill you swiftly. If you do not, you will be tortured until you do, then killed, slowly, and painfully. Make your choice, Heir of Isildur; time is running out."

Time is running out indeed, Sauron, Aragorn thought, For the Free Peoples of Arda, it already has. He had never felt so utterly hopeless. But he would not back down now. "I will tell you nothing," he replied, keeping his voice calm and steady, "Nothing that would endanger those left behind."

Sauron laughed again. "They will all fall," he said, "So why not ease their pain, make it quicker for them?"

Aragorn had to admit that it was a convincing argument. However, he was not going to submit to Sauron's every whim, though he die trying not to. "I will not tell," he repeated, in the same monotone as before.

Sauron's red eyes glared at him, "You will," he persisted, his voice oozing with hatred and menace.

Aragorn, though he knew not what terrible consequences he would receive for doing it, shook his head, slowly and decisively.

The Dark Lord towered over him, "Then I will break you to my will!" He made a hand gesture, and Aragorn was hurled to the floor.

The heir felt a sickening wave of nausea as his head hit the stone floor. Struggling to his feet in one last act of defiance, he met the Enemy's eyes, forcing himself to make eye contact. "I will die first."

Then Sauron's minions laid into him, kicking him, punching him, and beating him with all manner of things. But Aragorn clenched his jaw tightly through the whole ordeal, and did not utter a cry of agony, much to the anger of the Dark Lord, and slipped into unconsciouness.

"The armies of Mordor will come," Faramir listened attentively to his uncle, who currently commanded the city, speak, "Now that the Enemy has his weapon back, there is little hope that they will not conquer." Imrahil's eyes travelled over the council members there in Minas Tirith. "But we cannot lose that hope," his gaze rested on his convalescent nephew, who met his eyes.

Faramir nodded, as did most of the others. A few shook their heads, thinking that they should surrender now and beg for mercy. One of them made the mistake of voicing that idea.

Faramir stood angrily. "Mercy?" he retorted, "You ask the Enemy for mercy, and he'll spare your life- for torment and slavery." He met Imrahil's gaze again, and his uncle nodded in agreement. "The Enemy has no mercy," he said, a note of menace in his voice, trying to convince the council that the only way to expect a merciful death was to fight and be slain in battle. "There are some left here in Minas Tirith, not many, but enough to hold out for a while. I have taken it upon myself to send out messengers to the other lands, that they may come and aid us in our struggle against the Enemy. Perhaps they will arrive in time."

"The other lands?" one of the council members stood and confronted Faramir. "What other lands? Rohan has been emptied. The only Rohirrim left are here. The Haradhrim and the Dunlendings have sided with the enemy. Who then will come?"

The others, including Imrahil, turned questioning glances on the Steward. "I have sent messages to the Elven Kingdoms," Faramir replied, "There was once an alliance between men and elves. Why can there not be another one? If I recall correctly, which I believe I do, that Last Alliance defeated Sauron."

"Yes, but only for a time," the man, whom Faramir recognized as the Lord of Lossarnach, retorted, "And I believe that Sauron was only defeated by Isildur, when he cut the Ring from the Dark Lord's hand. Are you to be the one who does that this time, Faramir, son of Denethor? You think too highly of yourself, Lord Steward."

"That is enough!" Imrahil fixed the lord with a hard stare. "We will hold out against the enemy as long as we can. Once I and my nephew are dead, then you are free to beg for mercy if you wish." His look was one that said that the argument was finished.

The Lord of Lossarnach huffed, but said no more, and sat down. Faramir soon also took his seat.

By the end of the council meeting, Imrahil was sure that they were all agreed. They would fight for as long as they possibly could. They would not surrender, for if they did, Sauron would have won. But if they died fighting him, then he would have failed. The Steward and the Prince of Dol Amroth shared a knowing glance, and Imrahil knew that Faramir felt the same way.

If only there was a way for them to survive this.

To be continued.

Author's note: Nothing much to say about this chapter. Except it's hard to write Sauron.

Please Review, and tell me how I can improve!

Oh, and Chapter Ten of 'A Tale of Two Rangers' will be up very, very, soon.

~Luthien

UPDATE: 7/7/2014 Have fixed a few spelling and Canon errors, with much thanks to Rashka the Demon for pointing them out. Thank you so much!