A/N: So, I'm finally back from vacationing, and, I must say, it was very productive. So expect the next chapters follow soon. This is just a very short one, so to say the "gap-filler" between the fight in Minas Tirith and the …..  – I will not give it away – but the thing with Aragorn. Yes, we're finally coming to it!!

Enjoy reading! Please review! Huge thanks to all who've done it so far!!!

Disclaimer: The same as in each chapter.

Faramir, steward of Gondor

Unbelieving, Gandalf slowly stood up, brushing the dust off his cloak. Men appeared beside him, surrounding the wizard, all staring down the way the Nazgûl had taken. No one wanted to trust his eyes anymore: The Lord of the Black Riders, the Witch-King had vanished from the world.

Faramir laid his hand on the wizard's arm. "Can you believe that?" he whispered quietly. "Why did he flee? There was no cause for it!" 

Gandalf turned his head and watched the young man intently. "I hardly dare to say it," he murmured, "but the only reason I can think of, is, that maybe Frodo fulfilled his task in the very second ere the Nazgûl wanted to kill me. You know, Faramir, Sauron's life is bound to the Ring and all of his servants are connected to the Dark Lord. See, even the Orcs are running away, terror is in their eyes!"

And indeed. All the Orcs had turned and fled from the city. They left behind men slain, houses burned, but no one thought of staying. In a confused mass they ran away, in all directions, and not even the river was able to stop them. Many leaped into its waters and drowned, the others who had found another way to escape fled eastward – to Mordor. Within some minutes, the city and the Pelennor Fields were free of Sauron´s servants, the only thing that remained of them, were the thousand bodies covering the grass and the streets of Minas Tirith. The Nazgûl in the air had disappeared, either, and the wind carried away their foul smell. The air soon was clean again and the chill breeze refreshed the surviving warriors still surrounding Gandalf.

Quietly as statues they stood, wonder was in their eyes, but slowly they seemed to realize. One began to shout out of pure joy, and, after seconds, the others joined in. They embraced each other, clashed their spears and swords, clapped their hands and wept. So great was their joy that some could not hold back their tears and within all this laughter, they were running down their cheeks.

"Gondor has not fallen!" they cried, "the Dark Lord is overthrown!"

And so they went on, running through the streets, fetching their families out of their hiding-places. For hours the only emotion in Minas Tirith was joy, none thought about the fallen and the future. Only when dawn came, the surviving warriors gathered around the White Tower, waiting for Gandalf and Denethor to come out. They still did not know that the steward had not lived to see their victory.

The wizard and Faramir had gone to the Tower as soon as the first shock of triumph had worn off. Inside the High Court, just in front of the throne, they found the body of Denethor lying on the ground, his sword still in his hand. Blood was spilt on his mail-shirt and the golden rod of the stewards lay beside him. Faramir knelt down and gently took the father's hand. Silently he wept and Gandalf did not dare to disturb the son's grief. For still Faramir had loved his father, by far not as deeply as his brother Boromir had, but nevertheless there had been feelings for the old man in his heart. Never had he treated him like a son, had even wished that he had been dead instead of Boromir, but in the hour of his death, he forgave his father. Slowly he loosened the cold fingers from the sword, laying it aside. Then he took the blanket Gandalf had brought and covered his father's body. Faramir´s face was stern as he rose again, lifting the golden rod from the floor.

"Now you are the steward of Gondor," the wizard softly said.

Remotely Faramir nodded. "A duty I never wanted to have. Alas, that Boromir has fallen. My brother should have become our father's heir!"

Gently Gandalf laid his palm on the other's shoulder. "Fate would have it thus," he said, and neither you nor I can change it."

"But I am sure," the wizard went on, "that you will not fail. Your people love you and this often makes things easier. Unfortunately, however, I have to leave in the morning, Faramir, so I will not be able to be at your side for long. An important errand awaits me and I also have to fulfill my duty!" While speaking the last sentence, Gandalf´s expression had become grim and a shadow of grief had appeared on his face.

"Which errand?" Faramir asked softly, noticing the change. "What is so important that you have to leave the place of our final victory?"

"Naught that belongs here," Gandalf tried to smile, but sadness overshadowed his attempt.

The young steward did not question him further, never would he have urged the wizard to reveal things he did not want to share. Not many men his age would have been so understanding, and hardly any Gandalf would have trusted to lead a people, but he considered Faramir differently, and he knew that Gondor would get a good steward.

"Now," Gandalf said when he had heard the noise of the warriors gathered on the lawn in front of the High Court, "talk to your people. They are waiting outside and they have a right to know that Denethor has perished and what will happen further. You can be proud of them, Faramir, and I am proud of you. You have been brave in this night and I saw, that there could be no better steward. Do not change, my friend!"

The young man silently looked at the wizard. He, though, could think of nothing to reply and so he finally turned and made his way over to the door. Slowly Faramir opened it and stepped on the threshold. At once shouts of joy arose among the waiting warriors and would not cease. The new steward beckoned them to calm down and their whispers dying down, his men did what he requested. An expectant silence settled on them and Faramir was licking his lips nervously. For years now he had been a captain of the hosts of Gondor, but never before had he been in such a situation: Having to tell the men that their steward had killed himself while they had been fighting to defend his city.

Gandalf quietly stepped beside him but did not utter any reassuring word. Glancing at the wizard, Faramir finally began to speak.

"Men of Gondor," he said in a loud voice, "I am proud of you! Without you our city had fallen ere dusk, and our women and children had been slain!"

Great cheer arose at this, but Faramir again bade them to be quiet.

"Unfortunately," he went on in a grim voice, "I have to tell you that our Lord did not survive the battle. He will be brought to the Silent Houses and I ask you to honor him although his death was not very respectable: He killed himself with his own sword. I am deeply sorry to have to tell you this, but also I hope you will not remember my father as a coward! Certainly he was none, but he had gotten old and my brother's death confused his mind. Do not forget the years he achieved great renown for Gondor and Minas Tirith!"

Silent whispers ran through the gathered man. This had they expected least. "Denethor has slain himself," they said, "what an end for such leader!"

"Fear overcame him," some murmured, "we should not be angry, for many of us were on the brink of despairing. He was old and grieved, his son's death took away his will to live. Let us forgive him."

Unmoving, Faramir stood beside Gandalf and listened to what his ears could catch. But although not each man thought that Denethor had had a right to kill himself, he did not regret telling them. In his whole life he had hated every lie, and as often as it had been possible, Faramir had said the truth, even if it was to his disadvantage.

Suddenly something cold hit his head and Faramir lifted his eyes to look up. A slow smile spread over his face: Snow was falling down from the sky, winter had finally come. Quietly the flakes were falling, covering the city in a white coat. For days and weeks it had been cold, and thus the snow did not melt at once when coming down to the ground. And with the snow, peace came back to Minas Tirith. The Pelennor Fields, soaked with blood, turned to white, covering the ugly red. Bodies of men and Orcs disappeared under a soft blanket, as if already buried.

"Faramir, our steward!" The cry, first uttered by one man, went through the crowd and all joined in. "Faramir, we will follow you! Lead us! For your praise we will live and die!"

And laughter found its way into the young man's eyes and he smiled.

"Do not think of dying again," he cried. "We have survived and regained our life. From this year on, this day – December 9th – shall be a day of celebration and feasts. Gondor has not fallen and everyone shall remember that as long as this world exists!" Swiftly he then went down the few steps separating him from his people, and many of the warriors embraced him tightly. Further blood stained his mail and if one had not known that the new steward had stayed unhurt, he would have believed him to be deadly wounded.

After some minutes of laughing with his men, Faramir glimpsed back at the threshold. Gandalf had disappeared and had left behind no sign. The young man sighed heavily. 'What errand he has, I would wish to know. His expression became grim when he spoke of it, and sadness appeared in his eyes. In the hour of the greatest victory ever gained in Middle-earth, he was overcome by gloom. Great grief must dwell in his heart!'

But soon Faramir could not think about the old wizard anymore. Too busy was he with trying to put Minas Tirith back in order. Many things had to be done, tasks had to be fulfilled. The dead had to be buried and for long, sorrow did not leave the city. Each family had lost at least one of their male members: Children had to grow up without fathers, husbands left wives behind and brothers would never again play with their siblings. Wailing arose among the survivors, and only for some graves could be dug, if each of the fallen had gotten a tomb, no green would be seen on the Pelennor Fields anymore.

In the next days the wind carried away the ashes of many proud fighters.

A/N: Anything I should know? Please tell me!