Disclaimer: It isn't mine. It still isn't mine. And no matter how many times I type it, it will still belong to Tolkien.

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Chapter Twenty-Five
The Lines are Drawn

Huddled together, Sam and Pippin stared off to the east. Mardril and Mablung had been sent to Osgiliath, which they could see in the distance. It was growing darker, and the stars were beginning to show. Yet neither of them suggested sleep. They had both slept late that morning, feeling somewhat safe at last for the first time in a long while.

A man had brought their meals, and had bade them not wander, lest they get lost. Pippin had suggested several times that they should have a look about anyway, but Sam always refused. Other than these short conversations, neither Hobbit had spoken much. Pippin had tried at first to start a discussion, but as Sam continued to sow no interest, the younger Hobbit eventually gave up.

Nevertheless, he was about to try again when the door opened suddenly, and Radagast entered. Pippin brightened immediately. "Radagast! We haven't seen you all day!"

"Nor will you see me again for as long as our luck holds. I am leaving now to aid in the defense at Osgiliath. Denethor bade me give you this, Sam, before I go." He held out a small bottle. Sam looked inside. It as full of ashes.

Radagast nodded in answer to the Hobbit's unasked question. "Perhaps once you have returned to the Shire, you may find a place . . ."

Sam buried his face in Pippin's shoulder, shaking uncontrollably. Pippin wrapped his arms around his friend.

Radagast came over and laid a hand on each of the two. Sam looked up, tears streaming down his cheeks. "You're leavin'?"

Radagast nodded. "Denethor believes it will aid our deception. The Enemy will believe Osgiliath is truly our last defense if I am there. What Sauron doesn't know is that at least half our forces are to remain here in the City. If Osgiliath falls, Minas Tirith will still have a chance."

"I don't understand," Pippin admitted. "Why does it matter if you're there or not? You're not exactly the leader of Gondor's armies."

Radagast shook his head. "No, I am not, which is why Lord Denethor will be accompanying me to Osgiliath. He knows the importance of this plan. The Enemy must be caught off guard, or we will have no advantage."

"You'll be killed," Sam insisted. "You'll all be killed! With only half the army, the city won't hold! It's impossible!"

Radagast managed a smile. "Are you now an expert on Gondor's armies, Sam Gamgee? I realize you want to see no more death, but this is war."

"Then let me come."

Radagast looked at the Hobbit in surprise. "So you can be killed, as well, and join Frodo? Is that what you want?"

"So you admit it would mean death?"

"For you, yes. You are not a warrior, Samwise."

Sam lowered his gaze. "Neither was Mister Frodo."

---

It was quiet. Faramir slowly opened his eyes, allowing the silence to wash over him like a beautiful wave. But it was more than the silence; it was what it meant. He was alone.

He was lying on the ground, bound hand and foot, but he could move a little. He cast his gaze towards the window. Maybe, just maybe . . .

Fruitless? Well, if it was, he'd lose nothing. He had nothing left to lose. Slowly, inch by inch, he made his way towards the window.

Before long, he was out of breath from the effort, and his body gave way. This was impossible. The window seemed so far away. Inches looked like miles. It was too far . . .

Still, he caught his breath and forced his body to keep moving. Once he stopped going, he knew, he would be even more unable to start again. So he struggled on, his gaze fixed on the window.

With only about a meter left to go, his stomach gave a lurch, and he collapsed to the floor in a heap. The moldy bread he had eaten came pouring out onto the floor. Faramir coughed and sputtered, but somehow started moving again.

At last, at long last, he reached the wall. But the window was still a meter above him. After coming all this way, he realized, he hadn't the strength to pull himself up. His muscles simply would not move one inch further.

He had failed. This was the end. He was going to die here, in this tower, without one shred of hope. At long last, it had all been lost.

He would never return to Gondor. He would never see Boromir or his father again. Never again would he hear the sound of trumpets ringing loud and clear from the White Tower, or see the Tower of Ecthelion glistening in the sun. He wouldn't even see the sun again -- just this endless darkness.

He would never know the end of the story. If the Ring was, indeed, destroyed, he would be long dead by then. He would never see Minas Tirith as it once was, in its full glory and splendor. But he could hope that somehow, it would still come to be . . .

Faramir closed his eyes, and he could almost see it. Mordor was gone, and Minas Tirith stood proud and brilliant against the morning sky. The sun shone down and the sky was a beautiful shade of blue. Only a few white clouds danced in the sky. And there, at the Great Gates, his arms open wide to greet his brother, stood Boromir, with Denethor by his side, at last smiling proudly.

But behind them, in the distance, stood a man Faramir did not know. He was tall and dark, and his clothes were well worn, but on his head was a crown -- the Crown of Gondor.

Faramir stared at this man. He had never seen him before in his life; why should he now appear in his thoughts. Still, the very thought kindled a fire within the Steward's son. The King of Gondor! Could it be true? Was it just wishful thinking, or could it somehow be true?

Faramir opened his eyes, and the vision faded. All that was left of it was the hope, and that hope, however impossible it seemed, gave him the last bit of strength that he needed. Slowly, leaning against the wall, he got to his knees, and was at last able to stand unsteadily on his feet.

The window was certainly big enough, he realized. All he had to do was lean over the edge . . .

He didn't even have to do that. At that moment, his legs gave way, and he fell over backwards out the window. He was free! He'd done it!

Then everything went black.

---

"Take some rest," Èomer advised. "In the morning, we leave for Gondor." What few men were left in the room departed. Only Boromir remained by Èomer's side, watching the army that was gathering nearby. Èomer turned. "Will it be enough?"

"It will have to be," Boromir replied. "Time is growing short. And numbers are not everything. I would rather have a few good men at my side than thousands of cowards."

"As would I," Èomer nodded.

There was silence for a moment. Then Èomer sighed. "Is courage truly all that matters?"

"I would say it is the most important thing," Boromir replied. "Why do you ask?"

"My sister, Èowyn, wishes to ride with us."

Boromir nodded his understanding. "And you can no longer find the grounds to oppose her. She is a woman, it is true, but so is Thiris."

"Thiris is a Dwarf."

"And Èowyn a king's niece, who wishes, I suppose, to avenge her uncle's death."

Èomer nodded, obviously frustrated. "She will not leave the matter to me. And how can I deny her that?" He looked up. "She has the courage, Boromir, and, what's more, she has the ability. She has the skill of any of my riders."

"It sounds as if your mind is made up, then."

"My mind, but not my heart. She is my sister, Boromir. If I am killed in this battle, she is the Heir of Rohan. If we both go to war, our people would have no one. Would you have me do that?"

"I do not know," Boromir admitted. "I do know this, however. I know what both of you must be feeling. My brother. Your uncle. Both victims of the same evil. We are all asking the same questions. Could we have done anything? And what can we do to avenge the one we love?"

"He would not have had her put herself in danger."

"But she will. If you do not allow her, she will find some way to accompany us, or to follow us, unless you lock her in a tower and throw the key into the Anduin. She has the spirit of her fathers, though she is a woman, and she will not be kept here."

Èomer nodded slowly. "You are right. But I . . . How would I forgive myself if something were to happen to her?"

Boromir shook his head. "It would not be yourself you would have to forgive. It would be her."

---

"What did your little friends have to say?" Denethor asked, mounting his horse.

"They believe this is madness," Radagast admitted, following the Steward's lead. "They believe we will both be killed, and the City will fall with only half our forces to defend it."

"Your friends have some sense," Denethor remarked grimly. "That is certainly one thing that may happen, and a likely one."

"Then why take my advice?" Radagast asked. "Why ride to Osgiliath with me?"

Denethor looked up. "Because it was you who advised it. I do not know you well, but your reputation for honesty is well deserved, Radagast the Brown. You told me all that I wished to know, even of the Weapon of the Enemy, and though I did not enjoy what I heard, it was the truth, and for that I am grateful.

"And you were right about another thing, Radagast. Without leadership, Osgiliath will fall. Boromir is gone, and Faramir as good as dead. The people trust in my house to lead them, and I shall not fail them." He patted the sword at his side, his mail clinking beneath his clothes.

Then he smiled. "That you yourself ride to Osgiliath is also in your favor. You have no hidden plans, or else you would remain in the City and save yourself. Your purpose is the good of Middle-Earth, and that good depends now on our ability to hold Osgiliath until King Théoden and his armies arrive. Come! Let us depart!" He hesitated, then gave a loud cry. "To war!"

His cry echoed through the night, and Radagast's after it. Then the two of them rode out together, into the darkness.

---

Aragorn stared out into the darkness that seemed to engulf all of Mordor. Here the path split in two. To the left it led off into the mountains, to the Pass of Cirith Ungol. Straight in front of him was the Tower of Minas Morgul, dark and foreboding, and yet gleaming with a pale green light.

Aragorn knew he must turn left, and yet a strange presence seemed to call to him from Minas Morgul. No, he corrected himself. It was not calling him, but the Ring. Slowly, he tore his gaze from the tower and back to the Pass.

What awaited him up there? What strange terror dwelt in these mountains? Could it be any worse than the things he had already encountered? Should he, perhaps, continue straight along the path? Was an unknown danger worse than one he already knew well? He could feel his eyes turning unwillingly back to Minas Morgul.

Angry with himself, he tore his gaze away. When had he ever turned from an unknown peril to confront something more familiar? But this was not about his courage, some other part reminded him. Nor was this about proving to anyone what he could do. It was about the Quest, and what he could do to best fulfill it.

He could feel his legs moving along the path to Minas Morgul. No! The Nazgûl would surely be drawn to the Ring! He could not allow himself to go that way! With the last of his remaining strength of will, he fought the Ring, fought Its desire to return to Its master, fought that tugging feeling inside his pocket, beckoning him on into Mordor. No!

Suddenly, his mind gave way. He could feel the power of the Ring taking over. It was as if he was watching, helplessly, powerless to do anything, as the Ring dragged him on, towards Minas Morgul.

---

Muahahahahaha. How's that for a cliffhanger? At least I'm pretty much done with the Faramir torture. Well, maybe not. Who knows? And what about those Hobbits:) We'll just have to wait and see.