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Sorry for the late post- stupid server wouldn't let me upload.

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Chapter 14: Survival

A strangled cry burst from Boromir's throat. He staggered across the floor and dropped to his knees beside the huddled figure. With trembling hands, he turned him onto his back. His heart stopped and his oxygen was cut off. Faramir lay on his back, his eyes closed and his lips a dark blue. His face, behind the patchwork of dark bruises, red cuts and dried blood, was pale and cold. Gandalf was kneeling beside him now, watching with numb acceptance. Boromir grabbed his shoulders and shook him, screaming for him to wake up. Faramir remained, still and silent, cold as ice. Boromir clutched the broken body to his chest, rocking back and forth, sobbing in complete abandonment. Gandalf put a hand on his shoulder, but said nothing. They sat for some moments in the semidarkness, grieving together.

Gandalf looked up, peering uneasily through the open doorway. He did not know if Boromir's cries had gone unheard, but he was all too aware of the highly dangerous situation they now found themselves in. He tugged gently at Boromir's arm, trying to get him to release the body. The distraught man only clung tighter to his brother, refusing to let go. But Gandalf persisted, carefully prying his fingers away, until he gave in weakly, a child ready to be lead.

"Let him be, Boromir; we are too late." Gandalf made his quiet voice heard over Boromir's weeping. "We will return, I promise, with an army. An army to vanquish these slaves who have wounded your house." With startling suddenness, Boromir leapt to his feet, his face hard, his eyes two bright sparks.

"What does it matter? What does it matter now? Why do I care what happens to them or me or anyone when my brother is dead? He is dead!" Boromir screamed, then stopped abruptly, his breath caught in his throat. It was the first time the words had been said, and it hit him like an arrow through his heart. Dead. He turned and fled from the room, leaving Gandalf sitting on the floor beside all that remained of Faramir. He sat with his head in his hands, his eyes tightly closed. He had known both of them from boys, and had taken their well being to heart. To be here now, to see Boromir torn apart, was near impossible to bear. He leant forward, removing his cloak, and placed it gently over Faramir's face. He placed a hand on both of their hearts, murmuring a prayer. Then he began to weep. Silent sobs shook his frame, and tears poured down his wrinkled cheeks.

It was as he sat, his hand resting on Faramir's chest, that he felt it… the faintest fluttering under the palm of his hand. His head snapped up, and his heart leapt into his throat. It was not possible. Could it be… Faramir was alive? He rose to his knees, peering keenly into Faramir's pale face. He put both hands carefully near Faramir's heart, and held his breath, feeling for anything. There it was again: that brief, barely detectable pulse under his hands. With a cry of joy and fear, Gandalf began to do all he could, which wasn't much. It seemed hours that he worked feverishly on him, hardly daring to hope that he would ever meet Faramir again. He breathed air down the boy's throat, said every spell he could think of, anything to try and keep him alive. Then, with a rasping sound, Faramir's eyelids fluttered slightly, and his chest rose. Gandalf leant backwards, gasping for breath himself, his eyes filling with tears once more.

It took him a few moments to realise that all was silent out in the hallway. He rose quickly to his feet and listened closely. His skin prickled, and he knew without checking that he was alone. He looked down at Faramir, fully aware that he could not carry him any distance alone. But they certainly could not stay here; he had no idea how long it would be before new guards would arrive to replace the old ones, or indeed even if Boromir's actions had alerted them to come investigate. He moved to the small window and looked out. It was a small square hole which led to a shaft about two feet long that allowed sun to trickle in for a small part of the day. The view was simply that of the opposite wall of the canyon stretching far above. He leant out and looked down. Several dozen feet below the window, he could see the path carved into the cliff, mostly hidden by its overhanging shelf of rock. A sudden inspiration struck him. If he could somehow lower both of them down to the path, they would have a chance of escaping and bringing back help. He inspected the window carefully. It would be a tight squeeze, but he was fairly sure they could make it.

The bigger problem was what to do for rope. He had not thought to bring any, and there was nothing in a prison cell to use for rope. He looked about the room. The chains on the walls would produce maybe five feet altogether. With a quick stroke of his staff, he severed them and joined the two shackles together. He reluctantly left Faramir where he was to go through the other five cells, severing the chains from the wall and attaching them together. Trailing them back to them back to the cell, he knew they would not be long enough. Spotting his cloak still lying on the floor, he tore it into strips and tied them to the chain, hoping they would hold. He would need something to anchor it to. He shrank from the idea, but the only thing he could thing of was using one of the dead bodies as a counterweight. However, he didn't have much choice, so he dragged the closest one in and fastened one end of the chain around its waist. Then he tied the torn strips of fabric under Faramir's arms, and, taking a deep breath, lifted him up. As he moved him, the boy's breathing came quicker, and Gandalf could feel him stiffening. Don't wake up, Gandalf begged silently. Not yet. With a great difficulty, he lifted up to the window and lowered him carefully out. Releasing the chain bit by bit, Gandalf lowered him down until he was out of slack. Holding his breath, he carefully released his hold, exhaling as the carcass remained in place, lifting slightly as Faramir's entire weight was put on it. Then he took a deep breath and began the difficult task of climbing out the window.

He managed to get himself into a sitting position on the windowsill and looked down with consternation. Faramir looked quite macabre, dangling lifelessly from the end of the rope, his head lolling limply back. Gandalf realised with a sinking heart that the rope stopped over six feet short of the ground, and that there was only a narrow ledge protruding out from under the overhang. He looked uneasily back inside at the feeble anchor that was to be holding them both up. How could one body counterbalance two? Well, he had to try it. He would just have to hope the body would get wedged in the narrow passage out. He gripped the chain and, inch by inch, began to lower himself from the ledge. As he put his full weight on the chain, there was a nasty drop and a jolt, and Gandalf breathed a sigh of relief. It was as he had hoped; the body was wedged- for now. He began to slide laboriously down the chain, hand over hand, unsure as to whether he could feel the chain inching lower. It was a slow process, but he finally paused just above where Faramir hung, and deliberated what to do next. He supposed he should cut the rope and let them both drop down, but he was rather wary of the narrow ledge below, and he was not eager to drop Faramir six feet in the state he was in. Then, above him, he heard a rasping sound, and the rope jolted down a few inches. He looked up, his eyes wide with horror. His anchor was beginning to give. He whipped out his knife and instantly severed the rope above Faramir, who dropped the distance and landed with a sickening thud in a heap right at the edge of the drop. Just as he was freed from the rope, there was a loud noise, and Gandalf felt himself dropping. He fell back away from the wall, hovering over the dizzying drop below him. He clawed at the rock, searching for a handhold, but found none. Then he was falling, grabbing at nothing.

He felt as though his lungs had collapsed as his chest slammed onto the ledge, his legs dangling over, threatening to drag him off. He closed his eyes as the chains and carcass pitched by to silently strike the distant ground below. He scrabbled frantically at the earth, wriggling painfully forward, and he was finally on firm ground again. He lay on his back beside Faramir, gasping for breath, blinking his eyes to try and clear his vision. Then he heard loud yells coming from below. Before he realised what was happening, Boromir was running towards him, his face set in grim lines. Wordlessly, he halted before them, and, pulling off his cloak, slid Faramir onto it. He seized two corners and Gandalf, picking himself off the ground, took up the other two, and they were off, running full out up the hill with the shouts growing closer behind them.

Boromir raced down the empty corridors, his sword in his hand, his mind completely numb. He was like a mad dog, driven by some mysterious force beyond his control. He no longer cared if he lived or died; he could feel no pain or exhaustion; all that mattered was the overwhelming, blinding rage and sorrow. He heard a shout behind him and whirled around. He saw one of the cloaked men standing there, looking confused and angry. He did not raise his sword until it was too late; he was dead before he had the chance to yell again. Boromir moved on, ready for more now that he had gotten a taste. A group of three walking along gave him no trouble as he came up behind them. Another one only stood stupidly as he disposed of him, and Boromir still ran on, blindly berserk. He was spattered with blood now, and saw nothing through the red mist over his eyes. The sling on his arm did not slow him down as he dropped soldier after startled soldier. Soon shouts rang through the cold stone halls, raising the alarm, and more and more enemies came to meet their doom. Three men turned and fled as their four companions were slain almost instantly, and Boromir screamed a challenge to the empty hall.

But then a massive figure almost filled one end of it. Boromir turned and looked at this new challenger, unimpressed by his intimidating size and the look of rage on his face. Then he saw the blood on the man's boots, and the marks on his massive fists, and a cold chill ran through his body. With an animalistic scream, he hurled himself at this foe of all foes. Dreyd was shocked by this vicious onslaught, and was knocked off his balance for a moment. But he quickly regained his composure, and, snatching up his sword from where it had fallen, leapt with almost equal brutality at his attacker. Their swords met with a vibrating clang, and they wrestled each other's blades for a moment until Dreyd knocked Boromir's sword out of the way. Boromir came quickly back with a rapid upswing, but his blade glanced off the other's gauntlet. Dreyd yelled in pain, whirling about to meet him. They clashed blades again and again, neither gaining any ground. But eventually, Dreyd caught onto the fact that he was both bigger and stronger than his opponent, and began to use it to his advantage. He leapt at Boromir, raining blows from above, forcing him to lean back to meet them. Judging the moment was right, Dreyd hurled himself bodily at Boromir, knocking him off his feet. Boromir, with the practised skill of an experienced soldier, rolled over and quickly leapt to his feet. But, as he was recovering himself, Dreyd took a swipe at him, and the tip of his blade sliced across Boromir's back and over his arm like a whiplash, leaving a long line of blood behind. Boromir yelped in pain and scrambled away a few feet, clutching at his cut arm. Whirling about, he raised his sword in defence, his hand still pressed over his wound. The blood seemed to madden him further, and his eyes burned like two coals into the other. The two men circled each other, searching for an opening. Dreyd made the mistake of charging first- it was his last. Boromir leapt quickly aside, spinning about and burying the blade deep in his side. Dreyd grunted and dropped to his knees. Boromir raised his stained sword and brought it sweeping down, severing the man's head. The decapitated body flopped down, and the severed bloody head rolled away down the hall, coming to rest at the feet of some twenty men, watching in horror. As they looked down at the remains of their leader, Boromir decided it was time to go.

He turned and fled down the hall, the enraged shouts echoing after him. He had no idea where he was going; he just ran. He could hear the shouting coming from all directions now, closing in on him. He ran down what seemed like the quietest hall, turning corner after corner, but still the murderous voices drew closer. As he came to a bright annex, he halted, his sword in hand, his pulse pounding in his chest, turning around to face his foes. And then, as he turned a full circle, lo and behold, there stood the same massive wooden doors that he had looked upon with such awe from the other side. Not pausing to ponder his good fortune, he leapt for the heavy crossbeam which barred them closed. The massive spar must have been three times his weight, and was meant to be lifted by two significantly more rested people, and at first he could not budge it. Then, into the hall behind him burst twenty men, bristling with weapons. Spying him, they bellowed with renewed venom and charged for him. Setting his shoulder to it, Boromir gave a heave that could only be brought on by total desperation. With a grating and a creak, the bar slid to the side, and Boromir flung himself on the doors. They slid outwards, and he slipped through the small space between them. Not pausing to see how close his pursuers were, he pelted up the slope, his lungs burning and his throat threatening to close up. At least when he had to turn and fight he would have the high ground.

Then, as he rounded the second turn in the path, he saw two figures on the ground. For a moment, he felt a cold fear clutch at him; were they both dead now? But no, Gandalf was rising to meet him. Tearing off his cloak, Boromir rolled his brother's body onto it, never looking into his mutilated face.

A moment, and they were off again, both of them, running, considerably slowed by this new burden. The path seemed steeper than ever before as they battled their way up it, fighting for breath, the shouting growing ever closer behind them. Gandalf stumbled, and he knew they could not go on much longer. They seemed to be only delaying the inevitable, wearing themselves and their enemies out before the final stand.

Suddenly Boromir felt the corners of fabric ripped from his hands, jerking him backwards. Gandalf cried out in pain, and fell to the ground. Recovering himself, Boromir turned and saw Gandalf face down, an arrow in his back. On the path below stood a dark-haired woman dressed in blue, a bow in her hand and her arm still held up behind the departed arrow. Her face was deathly white, and her eyes burned into his with a rage that made Boromir quail ever so slightly. But then, as he looked at the body of his brother on the ground where he had fallen, the murderous hatred stabbed through him again with renewed vigour, and all he wanted to do was kill anyone who stood in his way. He drew his sword, standing over his fallen companions, ready to face anything. Undaunted, the woman seized another arrow from the quiver at her side and prepared to fire again. Boromir did not give her the chance. Charging at her, he met her just as she drew back the string and directed the tip at his heart; he placed his sword to her throat, hesitating. She did not bat an eye. Behind her, the men came running up, ready to attack.

"Stop!" She screamed, never removing her eyes from Boromir's face. "I will deal with it!" Boromir cast a quick glance at the men behind her, never believing for a moment that they would not attack as soon as they had the chance. Her gaze pierced him with ferocious intensity, and he stared back at her.

"All I have to do is push," he growled, twisting the point of his sword at her throat.

"All I have to do is let go," she replied quietly. The stood frozen, both checked. Then, with lighting quickness, Boromir whipped his sword out, severing her bow, and swung the sword back up towards her head. She ducked down, seizing a knife from her side. She leapt forward, ducking under his raised arm, slicing at his side. He jumped aside at the last moment, whipping about to face her. She was now on the high ground, between Boromir and Gandalf. But she was not interested in them; she had eyes only for Boromir.

"You killed my husband," she snarled at him, the dagger in her hand raised high. "And you will die for it."

"You killed my brother!" Boromir screamed back. She gazed at him with contempt.

"He is not dead!" Boromir's breath caught in his fury.

"Yes he is! You destroyed him- I barely recognised him. I held his body in my arms. He is dead."

"No Boromir!" The voice came unexpectedly from Gandalf. Boromir froze and looked back at him. He had pushed himself up to his knees, his hand clutching the back of his shoulder. "No Boromir," he shook his head, "he is not dead. He is alive!" Boromir's eyes rested on his brother's body. It wasn't true; he could see it: he was cold and breathless. Then, just for a moment, the chest rose. Boromir choked, his throat closing. It was too much. To have to convince yourself someone is dead and then have to be convinced they are not. Then, he felt something hit his chest, and he staggered backwards. Looking down, he saw a feathered shaft sprouting from his chest. The woman had seized a bow from one of her soldiers, and was already fitting another arrow to the string.

"And now, Lord, you will all die. I will have the great pleasure of watching you die as you have watched this country die." Suddenly, a rumbling, clattering noise filled the air. The men all turned and fled, and, after a moment, the woman followed them. Boromir slid down the rock as dozens of horses thundered past him in pursuit of the fleeing enemies. A horse slid to a stop in front of him, and Alban leapt from the saddle, kneeling before him. He quickly examined the arrow, and smiled slightly.

"Caught in the leather, my Lord. Only nicked you a bit. Knocked the breath right out of you though. I think I should pull it out now."

"Gandalf… my brother."

"They're being seen to, sir." Alban looked at the two soldiers bending over the others, and flinched at the sight of Faramir. He had known him well, and had been with him in Osgiliath. "That was quite foolish, sir, going off alone." He took hold of the shaft. "If your lovely bitch hadn't come frolicking home, we wouldn't even have known. Good little animal that, sir. Obligingly led us right to that Keep on the cliff-top." With a quick tug, he jerked the arrow from Boromir's chest. Boromir grunted and stiffened. "You can slug me now if you like, sir." Alban smiled. Boromir looked past his shoulder to where three soldiers were lifting Faramir carefully from the ground. He had his brother again, but he was not sure for how long.

A/N: Well, well, well! You all chose to keep him alive, so alive he stays… for now. Last chance! Dead or alive? Hooray for evil people being dead!