Faramir pulled his sword free of the dead body of the last of the group of orcs, its torch guttering on the ground near those of its fellows. He rested his sword against his thigh and calmed his horse, allowing it to step backwards nearer to home. As it did so he lifted his horn to his lips and gave the signal for the rearguard to re-group.

"To me, Knights of Gondor!" he called.
"Keep good heart! There is but little more to do; we are nearly home," he added more quietly, once they were near enough to hear him, forcing a smile for the benefit of his few remaining men, whose weariness and tension showed clearly. He gathered them together and they galloped a short way towards the city until they were close behind the main body of marching men. They halted; and turned back to face the advancing foe and Faramir strained into the gloom. Another charge will break us, unless my father has planned a sortie to help us in, he thought grimly. His head swam; the blood pounded in his ears. He felt hotter than he had thought possible and more thirsty than he had ever known, but he shivered. How can I be so hot and so cold at once? he wondered vaguely. He tried to swallow but his throat was dry and painful. His limbs felt heavy and slow, and his body ached everywhere. His horse moved again and he swayed. His eyes stung as he blinked the sweat out of them and looked briefly at the city. Two furlongs more and we will be home, he thought.

Then another attack started, dimly visible through the fog, approaching swiftly in silence, some mounted and some on foot, saving their fierce cries until the last moment to give the men of Gondor the least possible warning. He shouted an alarm to his men and they braced themselves for the fight as cries rang out from their foes. Here they come …. thought Faramir.

He raised his sword again with an effort as a leader approached on horseback through the gloom. Larger than most. Looks a very capable warrior. One for me to deal with, he thought, assessing his foe as he turned to intercept him. They paused, each looking for an opening and not finding one.
There was a long shrieking cry, gradually coming closer and louder as a Ring-wraith approached. Faramir's blood ran cold. The Southron in front of him blanched, but each kept their concentration on the other. Then the enemy champion urged on his horse and with a loud cry launched his attack. Faramir parried the blow as his horse side-stepped; but he was too slow in his counter-attack. He let his foe pass and wheeled about to confront him again. The champion turned back to Faramir, aware that the way was not yet open to the foot soldiers he wanted to cut down. They circled each other warily, each turning to put his back towards his own lines. They are getting past me, Faramir thought grimly, but there is nothing I can do about it until I have dealt with this one. We are too few now to hold them off!

Suddenly there was another shriek, much closer. The air was filled with a cold stench of corruption and death. Faramir's next breath felt like ice; lifeless cold filling his breast and freezing his heart. There was a roaring in his ears and a black curtain started to spread across his sight; he felt the cold seeping through his body like a miasma.
His enemy's eyes gleamed as he spurred his mount forward to attack his weakened adversary. His sight returned, dimly, and he saw as through a haze the approaching foe. He raised his sword, but it felt like lead in his hand as he fought to keep his eyes open. A dark tide of terror rose up in him; he forced it down. He gasped for breath, but with each breath he took in more of the cold which froze his blood and paralysed his limbs. Suddenly a heavy blow struck his side and after it he felt a sharp pain. He did not compensate fast enough and lost his balance; but it saved his life for his enemy's sword sliced through the air where he had been. As he fell he heard a trumpet call from the city:
"Charge! Charge!"
I am sorry, father, I can't, he thought in confusion. He hit the ground with a crash and more pain. A horse screamed.
Then there was a cry of many voices:
"Amroth for Gondor!"
Imrahil! he thought with sudden relief. Now the men have the best hope there can be: Imrahil can take them home. There was another cry:
"Amroth to Faramir!"
He was vaguely aware of a horse near him, a shadow above him with sword raised. The stench still hung in the air. Then the light was blocked out by a darker shadow and with the darkness came fear. He screamed in defiance, but no sound passed his lips. He made a last effort to roll away from the falling blade, but his limbs would not obey him; he did not move. Then the world went black and he knew no more.

The blow aimed at Faramir fell wildly as the Southron champion saw one of the knights of Gondor bearing down on him and realised that he would pay with his life if he delayed to make sure of the man on the ground below him. He turned east and spurred his horse to flight.

Denethor gazed out intently over the fields. When will he come? Will he yet come? O Faramir, have a care for yourself! Come home safe to me! I was angry and frustrated in the council meeting, but you know that I love you, do you not? Even if your deeds bring us all to ruin, still I love you, my son: how could I not? O come home safe to me, Faramir!

Through the murk came a large band of men, marching steadily, homeward bound. Denethor's heart leapt with fear and pride, and savage exultation. See, Grey Fool: my son has held his men together. You doubted him? Is he stronger than you thought – not as easily overcome as you had expected? You think to rule all through him, but it is his father's command he follows. You said he would need help, and help I had prepared for him ere ever you spoke of it, and a chance of glory to enhearten Imrahil's men and those who see their magnificence, but mayhap he will not need it. Did you think I was intending to send him to his death?
A small band of horsemen appeared behind the marching men, then turned, pausing, to hold off the foe. Denethor waited in suspense. Come home, Faramir! Return to your city, return to your father! O Faramir, my son, come home to me!

Prince Imrahil walked slowly up and down the lines of his knights, his mount shaking its head occasionally in impatience. He talked, encouraged, calmed and distracted as called for. The waiting was the worst part, drawn up outside the walls near the gate, ready on command to cover Faramir's retreat as soon as he was close enough and had need. Denethor had calculated the earliest possible time that Faramir could return, then asked Imrahil to be ready two hours before to be certain that the retreat would have the cover it might need. And for four hours they had waited, straining into the gloom, willing the fog to disperse to no avail. Straggling groups of men had come, weary and fearful, some wounded, but few, very few. Always they said: Faramir is coming behind, but he did not come, and the cavalry of Gondor waited. Gandalf joined them, and waited, as columns of fire came closer and closer.

They heard shouts from the gate towers – a large body of men was seen, marching, still holding together – Faramir's men! Soon they could see them themselves a little less than a mile away, marching steadily home. There were horsemen suddenly galloping up behind them, but not to attack for they turned back towards the foe to fend off any assault. The rearguard, but there is little left of it, thought Imrahil. Where are you, Faramir lad? He scanned the troops anxiously and picked out a familiar figure in bright armour. There. In command of the rearguard himself – where else would I expect to find him? he thought with a smile. He watched with affection and admiration Faramir's calm demeanour which steadied and sustained all under him. He raised his voice to his men. "Any time now, be ready!"

Suddenly, out of the stifling fog came fierce cries and frenzied attack as men and orcs poured onto the men of Gondor, from behind, from the sides, numberless foes overwhelming them. Then came the Nazgûl, stooping from the sky, their cries instilling terror into the hearts of all who heard. Imrahil watched in dismay as three together assailed Faramir; then the men of Gondor broke and fled wildly. In the confusion Faramir was lost to Imrahil's view. His men say he bears a charmed life. May they be proved right, thought Imrahil, then: Come on, Denethor! Give the signal, or we will be too late!

Finally the trumpet call came. "Charge!" repeated Prince Imrahil and with a ferocious roar they threw themselves at the enemy, not even the Nazgûl impeding their defence of their kin. Imrahil's force of knights split into two, one company each side of the fleeing men, to attack the enemy forces at either hand. At the last moment the Haradrim noticed the charge and started to fall back, but too late; and the wrath of the knights of Gondor fell upon them. And the men of the retreat saw the onslaught of Gondor, gained new heart and turned back to victory.

From the citadel behind them the trumpets rang out clearly, repeatedly:
'Retreat!… Retreat!'
The pursuit of their fleeing enemies ceased and the knights of Dol Amroth fell back and formed a screen, two deep, facing the river and the impending onslaught. They paused, breathing heavily, as the companies of infantry behind them re-formed rank and file. No foes were visible now in the murk that covered the plain. Calls and commands filled the air as the commanders of each group of soldiers accounted for each of their men. The milling crowd resolved into discrete blocks of men with space between them as order was restored.
As the formations drew up, the scattered rearguard drew back together, but there was no voice of command calling, checking, accounting for each man. "Where is the Captain?" one asked another, each thinking he was in the wrong place. They all drew together, the only men leaderless, looking round, but the familiar figure they all sought was nowhere to be seen.
One of the older men spoke, urgently:
"We must stop moving and form up. The Captain put Mablung leading the companies. Ecthelion, go and tell him that we have not found the Lord Faramir. Keep your voice low. It would not do to start a panic." He raised his voice, so all could hear, and gave the orders to put the small remains of the rearguard back into formation. One horseman rode off to the front of the column where another was overseeing the companies in the gloom.
He saluted the commander.
"Sir, the Captain, Lord Faramir is missing from the rearguard," he said. Mablung's eyes widened in consternation then closed momentarily. A thought flashed across his mind: Say not so! then: Would it be worse to hear that he is dead or that he is made captive? Suddenly he felt sick. Then he decided not to think about it.
"Take five men from the rearguard, inform the Prince Imrahil, then start to search for him this side of the screen, but the prince may take over the search himself – you and the other five searchers from the rearguard are under his command if he does. Have you a replacement commander?" he said.
"Yes, we have Mardil," answered the horseman.
"Good. Tell him he commands the rearguard until such time as he is relieved by the Captain or by me. Inform me as soon as the Captain is found. In the meantime, do not let the news that he is missing be generally known." he added. Ecthelion saluted and turned back to his company, worry settling into dread in his heart. He gave the messages to Mardil, then turned towards the line of Dol Amroth with his companions.

A few minutes after they halted Prince Imrahil looked over his shoulder to survey the retreat. Order was returning to the infantrymen, but the rearguard seemed still to be in disarray. Where is my nephew? he thought, I would expect him to have come to speak to me by now. Then a picture came into his mind, glimpsed in the dim light, of a lone horseman, standing when all others broke, holding back a champion of Harad, a huge warrior on horseback. In their final approach he had seen, out of the corner of his eye, the horseman of Gondor fall from his horse, seen the horse scream in terror and flee even as the Nazgûl had wheeled away from the fight, pursued by Mithrandir on his magnificent stallion of Rohan. Imrahil had roared with ferocity as he fell on the enemy who gave way before them, while the once-brave Southron champion hesitated a moment, then turned and was borne away eastward as fast as his horse could carry him. The prince had swept past the position of the man of Gondor whom he had seen fall, but suddenly in his mind's eye he saw the man with sickening clarity.Was that man Faramir? He turned in alarm, and saw six men with anxious and weary faces riding towards him. It was him. We have lost Faramir! Where did he fall? He surveyed the field around him, looking for landmarks, wondering if he knew where it was that he had last seen his nephew.

The horsemen of Gondor rode up to Prince Imrahil.
"Lord Prince, the Captain Lord Faramir is missing," they said. Imrahil nodded. His face was grim and set.
"I will lead the search for him. I saw a man fall from his horse as we came upon you. We will start the search there," he answered. He called for another four men to follow him, and left the line of Dol Amroth, searching where he thought he had been. They spread out to cover more ground, but could not separate far in the fume that covered the land.

There was a shout to Imrahil's left. He at once followed the voice to its source, and saw the body of a man of Gondor sprawled on its side in a hollow in the ground, a blood-stained sword lying near the outstretched right arm. As he came closer he saw an arrow shaft protruding from the side of the man's chest, having pierced his armour. Fear grew in his heart he recognised the bright and glorious armour in which he had watched his nephew leave Minas Tirith two days before, now disfigured by mud and dust and blood but undoubtably Faramir's.

As he came up to the body on the ground Imrahil hurriedly dismounted, throwing his reins to his standard bearer, and knelt beside the crumpled figure. He turned the man onto his back, but his limbs fell lifelessly, and he made no sound.
"Faramir? Faramir lad?" he called. There was no reply. Imrahil worked quickly at the buckle securing the helmet. He laid the helmet to one side, took Faramir's hand and touched his face. He draws breath still, thought Imrahil with sudden relief.
"Faramir? Faramir lad?" he called urgently. "Faramir, open your eyes! Come on lad, show me you're still with me." He clasped Faramir's hand more firmly.
"Can you press my hand?" he asked. There was no response, and Imrahil's fear grew. Faramir's eyes stayed closed, his face pale, his hair soaked with sweat, his breathing deep but far too rapid.
"Faramir lad, tell me where you are hurt." Even if that arrow is in your lung, you shouldn't be in this state yet. You were hit only a few minutes ago, he thought. "Tell me what's wrong, lad." He removed his gauntlets and worked fast, searching his nephew's head and limbs and trunk for injuries, but found none beyond the obvious arrow, to which he now turned his attention. It had pierced both breastplate and hauberk, but near the side. He looked again at Faramir's face, and laid a hand on his brow.Faramir, you are fevered! What is wrong?
"Was he well this morning?" he asked sharply, looking up at those of Faramir's men now surrounding them.
"Yes, I think so, lord," answered one of the soldiers, sounding puzzled and anxious. Then the arrow is poisoned, thought Imrahil, with rising dread. O Faramir! Are we to lose you to a dart from the air? To the poison of those foul servants of the dark lord?
 "Then the wound is poisoned, for he has a fever. It is best to draw the dart forth here, to take the poison from his body as soon as may be."

There were gasps of dismay from the soldiers who had formed a silent ring round their stricken captain. Imrahil looked up to see anxious faces looking down at him, some with tears in their eyes. He sought out the oldest face among those of Faramir's men who had been searching for him. "You will hold his shoulders," he said. "He must stay still while I draw forth the arrow." He turned to another man. "Go to my standard bearer and ask him for the cloths from my saddle-bag and bring them to me. Tell him also to get hold of a spare bridle for the ride back to the city.
"I want also three cloaks for him, and another two men to hold his legs."
Immediately the men round him moved forward. Imrahil turned his attention back to Faramir, stroking his face as he addressed his wounded and unconscious nephew:
"Faramir, you have been hit by a dart, and I need to draw forth the shaft. I have asked your men to help you stay still while I do so. I am sorry: I am going to cause you pain." There was still no sign that Faramir had heard, and Imrahil sighed. He unbuckled the lower straps of Faramir's breastplate, and crossed Faramir's arms on his breast, each hand over the opposite shoulder, then wrapped a folded cloak firmly round his shoulders to hold his arms in place. He undid the belt over Faramir's hauberk and pulled the mail up to his waist. The prince wrapped another cloak round his hips and legs, both for warmth and to make him easier to restrain, then he rolled Faramir to lie on his side, with the third cloak pillowing his head. The man brought the cloths from Imrahil's saddle-bag and at a sign from Imrahil the men who were to hold Faramir still moved into place.
"Faramir, I shall start now, but I will be as quick as I can," he said. Imrahil reached up under the mail-coat with a cloth wrapped round his fingers, feeling for the arrow-head. To his relief he found it embedded in the padding at the back under Faramir's mail, and grasped it between two fingers through the cloth in his hand. With a gentle tug on the shaft with his other hand, the head and shaft of the arrow separated. Faramir groaned. Imrahil removed the arrowhead from Faramir's clothes, and pushed thick pads under his armour ready to staunch the bleeding when the shaft was withdrawn. With a smooth rapid movement he withdrew the shaft and cast it away behind him. Faramir's face contorted in pain and he cried out. Imrahil pressed firmly against the wound as he caressed his nephew's cheek.
"There now lad, it's all done. Let's get you home," he said. He re-tightened the straps of Faramir's breastplate to hold the pads in place, then replaced Faramir's belt and helmet.
He stood up.
"I will bear him with me on my horse. Lift him up to me when I have mounted."

Imrahil swung himself up into the saddle, and four men lifted Faramir high. With the bridle of a dead horse, the prince secured the limp body against his own and settled it into his arms.
"Who is his second-in-command?" he asked.
"Mablung, lord."
"Where may he be found?"
"At the head of the column, lord."
"Send him to me."

In the few minutes of the Prince's absence, many of the men had realised that something was wrong. They looked fearfully as Ecthelion returned to Mablung at the head of the column. Ecthelion saluted and looked straight at Mablung. "We have him; the Prince bears him, and wishes to speak with you," he said quietly.
"How is he?"
"As yet he lives."
Mablung took a deep breath and turned his horse towards the screen of knights.

Imrahil looked around him. Companies had reformed and order was being restored behind the screen of cavalry. They were nearly ready to move off.
A man rode up to him, with distress in his face. But he saluted smartly, and his voice was steady. "Mablung, reporting, lord."
"Mablung, your Captain is wounded, as you see. I will take the command of the rearguard, but the infantry are under your command until you are relieved.
"It might also be wise to make some announcement to the men. Some of them know already, but truth is better than rumour."
"Yes, lord." Mablung hesitated. "Lord Prince," he asked quietly, "Is the Captain wounded to the death?"
"I hope not," replied Imrahil, but his face was bleak.
Mablung looked at Faramir as he lay senseless in his uncle's arms. His face was obscured by his helmet and Mablung could not see it clearly. Hold onto life, Captain! We need you! he thought. He swallowed hard. Suddenly he found he had to clench his teeth very tightly to be able to keep from weeping. Then he released his breath; and cleared his throat. He took his leave of Imrahil and returned to the head of the column. When all was ready, he turned towards the worried faces of the soldiers.
"Men of Gondor! The Captain is hurt, but he is bringing us home. Let's make him proud, all the way!" There was a cheer, and with heads held high and proud steps the out-companies marched back the last quarter mile to their beleaguered city. They were followed by the swan-knights, then by Prince Imrahil who watched the returning men. He tightened his grip round Faramir and spoke to him, but with little expectation of being heard.
"Faramir, you deserve the greatest honour Gondor can give for your deeds over the last two days. There is none I know who could have done the like," he said. And may your father realise it, and you live to know our praise, he thought grimly.