Disclaimer: This story is not mine. Neither is the chapter title, really. That came from Jekyll and Hyde. Oh, well, half the chapter titles I use aren't mine.

Warning: Because I didn't last time, I'm warning you again. Faramir is in Cirith Ungol. Ergo, there is character torture in these chapters. Ergo, my rating is well deserved. If you don't like character torture, skip anything where you see Faramir mentioned.

Chapter Twenty-One
'Til the Day that I Die

Aragorn slowly opened his eyes. He'd done it. His plan had worked. He had a bit of a headache, but Mardril was gone. He'd left to find help, no doubt, and would be back soon, but Aragorn would be long gone by then.

Slowly, the Ranger got to his feet. He'd hated to do that to the boy, but there had been no other way. He'd gotten Mardril talking so that he'd have the boy's attention when he fell. Otherwise, the boy may have simply thought he'd fallen from his horse, and might've simply stayed and waited for him to regain consciousness instead of running for help.

Actually, he hadn't run, Aragorn corrected himself. The boy's horse was gone, but his own was still standing there, as if waiting for him. He still had some supplies, but they had been packed to last the three-day horse-ride from Gondor to Rohan, not a long trek both to and through Mordor. He would have to gather more along the way.

That wasn't a problem, though. The problem he knew he had to face was how to get into Mordor. The obvious answer was through the Black Gate, but was it even possible to sneak in there undetected?

He had heard of another passage, Cirith Ungol, which was much closer. It could save him time. The way was rumored to be dangerous, but Moria had been, as well, and he had come out alive. But Gandalf . . .

No, this wasn't the time to think about that. He had to make a decision, and it had to be the right one. Time was everything now. He had to leave before Mardril got back, and he had to have some idea of where he was going.

Cirith Ungol was so much closer, and would guarantee him the ability to sneak in. What was there that could be more dangerous than trying to sneak past Sauron's guards at the Black Gate?

Aragorn mounted his horse and raced off to the East, towards Cirith Ungol. He had to go far enough to the South, he knew, for no one from Gondor to see him. He couldn't take that chance. He turned south a little. It would make the journey slightly longer, but it was better than having to explain to Denethor what he was doing riding like the wind towards Mordor.

Pippin yawned sleepily as they made their way to the border of Fangorn Forest. He couldn't help it. He felt like he could sleep for days. Merry looked the same way, though he wasn't yawning quite as loudly.

Boromir simply looked worried. Pippin watched him sadly. He couldn't imagine how it must feel. He tried to think of what it would be like if Merry had been captured, but he couldn't even picture that. The thought was too terrible.

And yet Boromir had to go on and do what was best for Gondor, not just his brother. Right now, he would have liked nothing better than to march up to the Black Gate and attack with the combined strength of all of Middle-Earth. But that couldn't possibly be done at the moment, so the human satisfied himself by kicking loose sticks and rocks out of the way.

The three Wizards led the way, followed by Legolas and Boromir. Gimli and the Hobbits were next, with Thiris bringing up the rear. Pippin realized for the first time that their numbers once again made nine. It was an odd coincidence, he thought as the end of the forest came into view.

Five horses waited for them there, four brown and one a brilliant white. Gandalf motioned to Pippin to come with him, and lifted him onto the white one. Boromir helped Merry up onto another and then climbed on himself. Legolas did the same for Gimli. Thiris leapt up on her own, followed by Radagast. Saruman mounted the remaining horse carefully, as if unsure whether the animal would bear him.

Sure enough, no sooner was he on than the horse reared up out of control. Saruman was thrown to the ground, uninjured, but definitely shaken. "I was afraid of this," he mumbled as Gandalf helped him to his feet.

Pippin carefully jumped off of his horse. "Gandalf, let me try," he offered. Gandalf lifted him up, hesitantly, as if unsure what the Hobbit had in mind. Pippin scooted forward on the horse, then motioned to Saruman. "Try it now."

Saruman looked at Gandalf, who nodded, and he climbed on. The horse whinnied a little, but stayed put. "Well," Saruman said, surprised. "Halflings have strange abilities, indeed."

Gandalf shrugged and mounted the white horse. "I'm the first to agree with you there, Saruman. The important thing is, though, that it worked." With that, they were off.

"Whatever made you do that?" Saruman asked once they had been riding for a while.

"I don't know," Pippin admitted. "I just thought it was worth a try. If he knew you were a friend, maybe he'd let you ride him."

"You consider me a friend, Peregrin Took?"

"You're with us now, aren't you?

"That seems to be the question on everyone's mind. How long will this last? If I get the opportunity to turn against you, will I take it? Do you think I cannot see the doubt in even your face, Peregrin?

"It is more than justified; this I know. In your place, I would be asking the same questions. And I would want answers, just as you do."

"Really?" Pippin asked, surprised that the Wizard would admit to having anything in common with him.

"Yes, and I would be just as frustrated as you are that I appear to have no answers to give."

"But it's a simple question, isn't it? We're working together, so we're on the same side, right?"

"Is it so simple? Do allies always work together? Are they always friendly towards each other?"

"Well . . ."

"What of the Dwarves and the Elves? Surely you know the story, of how the Battle of Five Armies was very nearly a battle between the Dwarves and the Elves, with a little help from the Men of Laketown."

Pippin nodded. "And at Council . . ."

"What happened?"

"They all ended up arguing. Nobody trusted each other. And not just the Dwarves and the Elves. The Men were upset, too. I'm not exactly sure why."

Saruman nodded. "This is the world we live in, Peregrin Took, a world of uncertain alliances. How can I hope that any of you will ever trust me? You can't even trust each other."

"You're wrong, Saruman," came Boromir's voice from behind them.

Saruman whirled around, apparently unaware that anyone else had been listening. "How so?"

"You spoke of the Battle of Five Armies, how it was almost a disaster because of the disputes between the different races. Yet in the end, it wasn't. They were willing to work together. When push comes to shove, two people, or two races, can set aside their own disagreements to defeat a common foe.

"I was there at the council. Once it was decided what was to be done, even I was willing to help. I, who had wanted to use the Ring to save Gondor. I went along with the decision, not because they had swayed me, but because it was what they thought was best.

"That is the only thing in question here, Saruman. It's not whether you think we're right, and agree with our decision, for that is out of all of our hands now. The question is whether you will help us in spite of it. Whether it was foolishness or some strange form of wisdom, it is done. The Ring is going to Mordor in the hands of Frodo Baggins, and we are going to Gondor. Nothing is going to change that now."

Saruman smiled. "So certain, so determined, in spite of all that has gone astray. And everything could again go amiss. This Halfling whom you trust so much could stumble into an Orc camp, and that would be the end. He could be found while trying to sneak into Mordor. Your beloved brother may not prove as strong as you believe. Or, knowing that both of you are away, the Enemy may strike Gondor hard while you are not there to defend it. By the time we arrive, there may be nothing left to defend."

"There is strength yet in Gondor. My father--"

"Your father is an aging old man who will now be worried sick about his sons."

"Wrong. He'll be worried about me. In any case, our men know their duty. They will fight to the death to defend the City."

Saruman smiled smugly. "Really? So will my Uruk-Hai, to defend Isengard. But what will come of it, Boromir of Gondor. The end is the same. Any way you look at it, disaster is on our doorstep. And there is nothing we can do to prevent it."

Boromir shook his head. "You're wrong. We can fight. And we will fight. And there is nothing Sauron can do to prevent that."

All was silent for a moment. Suddenly, Pippin spoke up. "Wait. Gandalf, you still have that black ball, right?"

Gandalf turned. "The Palantir, yes, but how did you--"

"Oh, Boromir told me Saruman gave it to you. What I'm trying to say is, we used it to talk to Boromir's father before. If he's really going to send help, we could just use it again and tell him not to, tell him we're coming."

Saruman shook his head. "It is too risky. The Enemy would know you are still alive, Boromir. You may not even get the chance to speak with your father. I am not sure whether Sauron allowed you the opportunity before or was simply unprepared for your resistance, but you cannot depend on it happening again."

"Then you, or Gandalf--" Boromir started.

"No," Gandalf interrupted. "None of us should use it. The risk is too great that the Enemy would learn something of our plans."

"He didn't learn anything from me," Boromir objected.

"You were lucky, Boromir, for whatever reason. As Saruman has said, we cannot assume that it will happen again. And if Sauron learns that we are coming to Gondor with the army of Rohan, he will attack swiftly."

Saruman nodded his agreement. "We may arrive in time to defend nothing but a pile of rocks."

Boromir clenched his teeth but said nothing. How could Gandalf listen to Saruman? Denethor, he knew, would go to any length to save him. Surely Gandalf knew this. He would send an army, and leave the City open to attack.

But the Wizards were right. They couldn't let the Enemy know that he was still alive, because then Sauron would know he would go to Gondor, and would strike the City hard. Still, there had to be something he could do.

He looked around. Gandalf and Saruman were adamant. Radagast would do what they decided. Legolas and Gimli would listen to Gandalf. Merry and Pippin, as well, would side with the Wizards.

But what of Thiris? She had shown no overwhelming loyalty to any one of them in particular. She had welcomed Saruman, but not recognized him or Gandalf as their leader. For the most part, she had been content to follow the others' lead, but still . . .

Now she was watching him, obviously curious. He knew that she understood. A Dwarf of the Lonely Mountain, one of Dain's close kin, surely she would understand loyalty. He needed to do what would help Gondor. She would understand that.

Finally, to his relief, she spoke. "Boromir could be right. Minas Tirith is our last real defense. If it falls, if Gondor is taken, the war is lost, short of a miracle. Even if the Ring is destroyed, the Orcs will have overrun much of Middle-Earth. We cannot allow Denethor to send his men to Isengard, to fight a battle that no longer needs to be fought. Gandalf, Saruman, we cannot allow Gondor to fall."

Radagast looked uncomfortable; something she had said had struck a chord. Legolas and Gimli, as well, looked uncertain. Merry and Pippin looked rather confused.

"Then you think we should use the Palantir?" Gandalf asked with a sigh.

Radagast looked up. "There's another option. One or two of us could ride to Gondor, intercept any army that may be on its way. It would be longer, but safer than using the Palantir.

"I will go," Boromir immediately volunteered.

Gandalf shook his head. "No, Boromir. We need you. Theoden must be convinced of Gondor's need. None of us can do that better than you."

"But--"

"You will be of little help in Gondor by yourself, Boromir. Rohan must be convinced. King Theoden must be convinced. We need you here, now."

"I will go," Radagast nodded, following an unspoken suggestion, a glance exchanged between the two Wizards. "It would even help our plan. Sauron will see it as a last-ditch defense. Faramir is captured and Sauron may well believe Boromir to be dead. Gandalf, he does not know where you are, and Saruman is defeated as far as he is concerned. One Wizard riding to Gondor to aid a falling city, that is all he will see. He may well bide his time, not strike immediately, if he believes we will be easily overrun. He will wish to play on our fears, drive us to despair before attacking, and in doing so make victory that much more certain."

Gandalf looked surprised at the long-winded explanation, but as everyone nodded their agreement, he smiled. "Very well, but take Thiris with you. Denethor will trust two messengers more readily than one. Or, better yet, take Pippin. He is the one who used the Palantir; Denethor will recognize him as someone who was with Boromir."

"But--" Pippin started, but everyone was stopping their horses.

Thiris leapt down off of Radagast's. "Come, Pippin; there is no time to lose."

Saruman dismounted and helped Pippin down. Radagast helped the Hobbit up onto his horse while Thiris mounted Saruman's. The Wizard remounted after her.

Merry and Pippin exchanged glances. This was all so fast. How had they even come to this decision?

"It's all right, Pippin," Radagast assured him, patting his small companion gently on the shoulder. "This is not good-bye. They will be coming. We are simply going to arrive first."

With that, he turned his horse, and they set off, for Minas Tirith.

Faramir could hear footsteps approaching outside his door. He cringed, knowing what was again to come. The door swung open with a creak, revealing not two, but three Orcs. The two from the last time were there, and so was a rather large Orc with a club.

They all moved slowly towards Faramir. He watched them all, helpless to do anything, but determined not to give in. The one with the knives chose an especially large on, and in one quick stroke, cut both the ropes holding him. Even before he hit the floor, the whip struck him across the back and the third Orc kicked him hard in the chest.

Then he was down, and a swift pain in his shoulder let him know that the newcomer was as skilled with a club as the other two were with their weapons of choice. The whip lashed out again, curling about his legs. A knife slashed across his shoulder. One of them kicked him in the stomach.

Faramir could no longer separate one pain from another. It was all one terrible nightmare of agony, knife and whip and club working as one. He could do nothing but lie there, helpless, as they tore at his flesh. Occasionally, one would hold him up while the other two did their work, striking at his head and chest. His throat was dry from thirst, and he could barely find the strength even to scream.

Eventually, he couldn't even do that. The pain was too great, too constant, even for sounds. He closed his eyes, wishing unconsciousness would take him. But it never came. The pain kept him awake, the constant movement, the arousal of new wounds, the reopening of old ones.

Then there was the laughter. They had not laughed before. They had been serious, angry even. Now they were having fun, amused by the pain they were inflicting. Their laugher rang in his ears, echoing in his mind. It was a cruel sound, unfeeling. They truly didn't care what they did to him.

"Enough!" the one with the knives shouted at last. "He must be kept alive. The Master thinks he may be of value. String him back up, boys!"

So this one was in charge, Faramir thought as ropes were again bound about his wrists. Not that it mattered. They all seemed equally intent on keeping him alive, if not for his value, then so they would be able to continue tormenting him later. He was probably the first victim they had received in a long while. They wanted their fun to last.

Soon he was hanging again, his whole body aching and groaning in pain. Cuts from knives, lines from the whip, and bruises from the club covered his whole body. His left eye had received a slash from their claws that ran from his forehead to his chin; it was completely useless and the pain was terrible. His jaw felt like it might be broken, and he couldn't move several of his fingers and toes, which they had been purposefully careless of stepping on.

Faramir looked up, blood dripping from his wounds, clouding his vision out of even his right eye. They were leaving. But they would return. This would continue until at long last they killed him. Hungry, thirsty, and tired, he knew he would not last long. Time was the enemy now, and it was growing in power. Short of a miracle, he realized, he would die in Minas Morgul.

A/N: Well, you can't say I didn't warn you.Last chapter, yes; this one, I warned you. Believe it or not, I actually like writing this stuff. Muahahahahaha. Poor Faramir. Then I reread it and all of a sudden I don't like myself. :) Oh, well. It passes. Everyone seems to enjoy torturing their favorite characters, if they torture anyone at all. It's not really effective unless you get some pain yourself out of writing it. :)