A/N - OK, I won't deny it - I suck. Four months without an update is
pretty rotten, especially considering the place I left off in. I am truly
very sorry.
I am one of those people who does things sporadically. I am very gung ho about something for awhile and then I leave off for awhile. This would be the case here.
If there are any people who were reading my fic before and can find it in their hearts to do so again please accept my apologies. I am suddenly feeling very much inspired (thank you, PuterPatty, you're the best!). So, I will be updating on a regular basis (at least for a while). This fic is nearing its end, and I feel pretty certain that I will finish it before I decide to take any future leaves of absence.
Thank you again, to everyone who has reviewed and inspired me along the way.
Disclaimer: all characters, settings, and elvish language are strictly from the mind of J.R.R. Tolkien or inspired by him.
Chapter XVI
Sons of Ithilien
The orcs were everywhere. Their hideous countenances could be seen approaching from all directions. He drew his sword and prepared to fight. The sword glinted in the sickeningly bright light of the sun. With as much strength as he could muster he swung downward and cut a wide gash in the first body. The orc fell easily to his blade. He had not even tried to defend himself. The sword was lifted and swung towards another of the miserable creations of Morgoth himself, and yet again the orc fell without the slightest acknowledgement of his slayer. Angrily he crashed into the approaching ranks swinging wildly, and still none took heed. No matter how many he killed they continued their relentless march forward.
Finally, out of breath, he ceased his actions. The evil horde kept moving past him either unaware of his presence or uncaring. Gulping down air his mind raced furiously trying to make sense of the situation. The orcs continued to shuffle around him, eyes focused forward. He turned to face the direction the orcs were going. Ahead of him he could discern something vast and black as night. It lay directly in the path of the moving orcs. Logic dictated that he follow the orcs to their destination.
As he moved along with the orcs the object slowly came into focus, and before long he realized it was a high tower. Closer he came, and the details became more and more real. Staircases lined the outer walls and the top was shaped like the bulb of a flower. With shock and horror he realized it resembled Minas Mallen, only the stone was of the deepest black, and the tower itself seem to pull the light from the very air. Near its top a small figure stood, golden hair shining against the Stygian hue.
Nearer he approached and he soon realized that the figure was Eowyn. He cried out to her, but she could not hear him over the din of the orcs congregating at the foot of the tower. There were other figures beside her. Their black robes blended with the dark tower to make them nearly invisible. Only the bright faces of the Daequendi could be discerned. He tried to push his way through the throng of onlookers, but the orcs had crowded close together and would not let him pass.
Suddenly the orcs began to shout louder and were pointing towards the tower. There was a lone man running up the tower steps, sword in hand. It was Boromir, Eowyn's son, and he was rushing up one of the staircases of the tower to rescue his mother. Suddenly, a single dark elf emerged from the tower, sword raised high above his head. Too intent on rescuing his mother Boromir did not notice the dark elf approaching. With all his might he screamed a warning to the young man, but to no avail. A flash of steel and Boromir tumbled over the railing of the staircase and fell to the cold earth some fifty feet below him.
A bile full of rage and panic bubbled up from the pit of his stomach. He was surprised to find his blade in hand, and he lurched forward cutting a path through masses of orc bodies. His enemies fell before him, but his going was slow. It seemed he must have slain a hundred orcs, but still the tower seemed no closer.
A piercing scream from high above caught his attention, and his sword froze in his hand. Without looking he knew the cry had come from Eowyn. Raising his head he could see the Daequendi surrounding her. Her head was thrown back and she appeared to be convulsing. It looked as though a shadow had fallen over her and the elves, but the darkness increased. Where once had stood the golden shieldmaiden and Princess of Ithilien a shadow was growing. It was as if the very light that was within Eowyn was being consumed.
Horrorstruck, he could no longer move his legs, but stood rooted to the ground watching the hideous event. The white, hot sun bore down on him, but the light seemed illusory. It illuminated nothing but the darkness. The sky was now fading as the darkness which was consuming Eowyn stretched out to take even the countenance of the heavens from sight.
The darkness had nearly permeated everything when there came suddenly a bright flash of white light. He covered his eyes, but the explosion had rendered him temporarily blind. The sounds of the orcs had lessened greatly, as even they appeared awed by whatever was happening. Then, from high above he heard a cry. But this was not the cry of the Princess of Ithilien. This cry curdled his blood, and pierced his very soul. It was a sound he had heard several times in his life, but had never thought he should have to endure again - the cry of the Nazgul.
"My Lord, can you hear me?! My Lord?!"
The man's voice seemed far away, but Faramir clung to it as a drowning man to a piece of wood. He fought the heavy shrouds of sleepiness which threatened to retake him. It was not the battle at hand that gave him such strength of will, but the desperation of not returning to that hateful dream. He would rather endure the pain of consciousness, and even possible defeat at the hands of their enemy than return to that hideous vision.
"Prince Faramir, you must awaken!"
Gray eyes fluttered open. He struggled to focus on the face above him. Slowly the face of Caradhon, one of Ithilien's archers, came into view. "My Lord, thank the Valar, you're awake."
Faramir attempted to rise, but was greeted with searing pain in his left shoulder. Gritting his teeth against the pain the prince fell back once again. Memories came flooding back, and he grasped Caradhon with his right arm. "What . . . news?" he managed to hiss through the pain.
"We have beaten them back once more, my Lord. King Thranduil led some of his elves down on horseback, and helped to push the enemy back into the pass. Our archers are holding them for the moment, but the arrows are running low. Danethil is preparing for one last assault, sir, but I do not think we will last the hour."
Faramir groaned. He needed to be out there with his men, his people, not lying as an invalid upon the ground. "You must . . . remove . . . this arrow." His right hand gripped Caradhon's arm strongly, and his eyes carried all the weight of his resolve.
"My Lord! I am no surgeon. If the arrow has pierced an important artery then you would die from loss of blood!"
Faramir gripped the man's arm tighter and took a deep breath, "Our deaths may already be assured. I am willing . . . to take that . . . risk."
The archer looked as if he would protest again, but then looked upon the battlefield below, and changed his mind. "Yes, my lord." Grasping the point of the arrow in his hand, and taking the fletching knife from his belt he gently cut through and slowly unwound the cord holding the steel tip in place. Once removed the archer grasped the shaft firmly in one hand while he pulled at the arrow point with the other. It gave way reluctantly, and all of a sudden so that Faramir's body was rocked backwards when it released. The Prince cried out from the sudden movement.
Caradhon checked the end of the arrow for splinters or anything else which might hinder its removal. Satisfied, he moved to Faramir's back and grasped the fletched end of the arrow firmly in hand. In what seemed to Faramir an excruciatingly long amount of time the archer slowly worked the arrow out of the prince's body. The pain was tremendous, and Faramir cried aloud in his torment. But the thought of his dark dream of Eowyn kept him focused on remaining conscious. One last forceful pull and Caradhon wrenched the arrow from Faramir's shoulder. The Prince screamed, and then let his body sink back to the earth. The pain remained, but it did not compare to having an arrow removed from one's body.
Caradhon examined the wound from behind and in front. "I hope your luck will extend to the battle, sir. There is little blood. It seems the arrow missed anything vital."
"I thank you, Caradhon, for your aid. Now, please, bind my wound quickly."
Caradhon used strips of his own tunic to dress his prince's wound. As soon as this was done, Faramir rose, with the archer's help, to survey the battle below. It was only now that he realized how much his head hurt. Placing a hand on his brow, Faramir felt dried blood flake off. It was not until then that he remembered he had suffered a blow to the head as he fell from his horse. Faramir steadied himself and fought back a wave of nausea.
The field below him was littered with bodies. There were hundreds of orcs strewn across the vale, but there were also the broken bodies of men, elves, and dwarves among them. At the mouth of the pass the bodies of orcs lay piled on top of one another as the arrows of the archers on either side of the River Poros held the enemy at bay, but only just. In all likelihood the orcs and Easterlings were preparing another assault like the one that had provided him with an arrow in his shoulder.
The sun had now risen above the peaks of the Ephel Duath, and was making its way towards its zenith, but the day was still early and King Elessar and his army would not arrive for hours yet. Faramir knew that the enemy could not be allowed to escape the vale into the surrounding countryside. If they did then even King Elessar and King Eomer would find it difficult to fight such a large force.
A determined look crept over the prince's face, "Caradhon, who is the fastest rider amongst the archers?"
"Idhril, sire."
"Find me Idhril, and bid him come to me as fast as the Anduin flows."
Caradhon bowed quickly, then ran off in a crouch up the mountainside. In a matter of minutes he returned with a young man at his side, "This is Idhril, sire."
The boy was so young that Faramir would have been surprised if he were able to sprout a single hair upon his cherubic face. The prince stifled a sigh at the cruelty of his duty, "Idhril, I need you to take a message to King Thranduil. Tell him at the next assault all of the army on the northern bank must move into the vale, as far as they can go. Tell him to reserve only 20 of his archers, and the rest must fight with their blades. At the mouth of the canyon we will make our stand. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sire," Idhril looked somewhat nervous at speaking to his prince, but otherwise he was a mask of determination.
"Good, once you tell him, have his standard bearer wave the red flag with the blue to let us know all is in readiness." Faramir, placed his right hand upon the boy's shoulder, "You're peril is grave, Idhril, but your mission is graver yet. We must get you to a horse."
The Prince of Ithilien turned back to Caradhon; "I thank you for your help, son of Ithilien, now I charge you to select 20 of the best archers. When the bannerman on the north bank waves the red flag with the blue all but those 20 archers must move to the mouth of the canyon and fight with their swords or knives. Those 20 will follow behind them and offer their support. Is that clear?"
"It will be as you command, my lord," Caradhon placed his right arm across his chest then turned to perform his duty.
"Come, Idhril." Faramir led the young man down the mountainside to where the cavalry were waiting.
The prince did not notice the pain of his wounds; instead it was the pain of fulfilling his duty that preoccupied him. He was preparing to take a last stand against the forces out of Mordor, and he knew that he was signing a death warrant for every man, elf, and dwarf who had followed him to this hateful place. His stomach churned at the thought of the wives who would be made husbandless and the children who would be fatherless. The guilt was overwhelming, and the prince nearly stumbled under the weight of it.
The prince's only consolation was that Eowyn would remain, and she possessed more strength than all of the men of Ithilien combined. She would rally what remained of their people together, and help to rebuild Ithilien anew. He offered up a silent prayer that Boromir would return and help her through this gruesome task, but he would not allow himself to even consider the alternative.
Faramir and Idhril mounted one last rise and found themselves overlooking the readying area for Ithilien's cavalry. As the two made their way down into the midst of the horses one of the men spied them and shouted, "Prince Faramir, Prince Faramir! The Prince of Ithilien yet lives!" The others took up the cry, and Faramir removed his sword from its sheath and raised it triumphantly over his head. Peering upwards he saw the bannerman had waved the blue flag, and was preparing to raise the green, signaling the cavalry to advance. Taking the last few steps at a run, Faramir cursed his spinning head as he grasped the reins of the nearest horseman. Just then the others leapt forward crying Faramir's name as they went to engage the enemy one more time.
"I have need of your horse, soldier of Ithilien. Make your way to Danethil and join his men on the ground."
"As you wish, your highness." The man saluted him once, then dismounted and ran towards the awaiting battle.
"Up you go, son," Faramir patted the horses saddle. Idhril climbed deftly onto the horse's back. "Take care, Idhril. Ride low in the saddle. Your message is of the greatest importance."
"Yes, my lord." Faramir slapped the horse on its haunches and the animal burst into a full gallop taking Idhril with him.
Faramir watched the horse as it sped across the open plain, Idhril low in the saddle. He rode the edges of the vale, and Faramir could discern no arrows or any of the enemy that might hinder his progress. The prince was unaware that he was holding his breath until he saw the horse safely ford the Poros and find its way into the safety of the brush of the mountainside. He could barely make out Idhril as he leapt from the horse's back and began to make his way along the far shoulder of the Vale of Poros.
The boy quickly blended into the surrounding countryside and was lost to Faramir's sight. It was not long after that when the cavalry began to return. Faramir motioned for them to gather around him. It was only a few moments before he had gathered the remnants of the cavalry. Faramir noted with some sadness that the number was far fewer than had arrived here the day before.
The prince steeled himself to his emotions and turned indomitable eyes on his men, "Our current method of attack will be unable to hold the enemy at bay much longer. We must fight, and hold them within the canyon until King Elessar and his armies arrive. We must do this, or else all is lost. When the bannerman on the northern shore holds the red flag aloft with the blue -- that is our sign. We will engage the enemy and push them back into the canyon where we will hold them until the armies of Gondor and Rohan arrive, or until the last man has fallen. Our families and our king have need of our lives today, sons of Ithilien, and we will not fail them!" Faramir raised his sword high, "Ithilien will never fall! We will fight, and we will be victorious! Ithilien! Ithilien the Fair!"
The men erupted in a throng of voices shouting and cheering as though they were not all so tired they could fall from their saddles or so injured they knew nothing but pain. Pride welled within Ithilien's prince, and for a moment the guilt, which was now a constant, gave way. One of the riders dismounted and handed the reins to Faramir, "I will go and fight by Danethil's side, my lord. You have greater need of this horse than I."
Faramir nodded, "Thank you, son of Ithilien, I shall treat him as my own. What is his name?"
"Curuthalion, highness."
"I thank you for Curuthalion, soldier of Ithilien, and by the grace of the Valar I hope to return him to you."
The soldier bowed low, placing his right arm across his heart. "By your leave, Prince Faramir?"
"Yes, you may go, soldier, only relay the news I have given you to Danethil. He and his men are not to fall back this time. Go and fight, and keep Ithilien within your heart." The soldier turned on his heel and then ran to find Danethil.
Faramir gave Curuthalion's reins to another rider and turned back to where the wounded were. He quickly found the man he had placed in charge and went to him. "You have done good work here, but our situation has now become desperate. It may be that soon we will ride to our final battle. Relay to the wounded that any man that wishes to join the battle will not be hindered no matter his injuries, and give a weapon to those who are able to hold a blade. Every man must make his own decision."
The man with the wounded leg showed no outward sign of surprise or fear. He merely saluted his prince and said, "As you wish, your highness," then turned to relay the news. The guilt began to well up once again as Faramir turned to find his newly gotten horse.
Another glance up in the direction of the bannerman said that he was about to raise his blue flag. Faramir peered across the vast expanse to the mountainside where Thranduil and the others were biding their time until the next attack. The bannerman on the north side also held his blue flag at his side, but Faramir noted that the other hand held the red flag. Swift work, Idhril. May your efforts not be in vain.
"If this is to be Ithilien's last stand, then let us make it a glorious one! See the bannerman on the north holds the red flag! Our time is come!"
More voices joined in to cheer as Faramir climbed into his saddle. His head swam, threatening to send him toppling over, but Ithilien's prince fought the dizziness and once atop the horse he sat straight up in the saddle looking every bit a piece of well-wrought iron. If they could give their lives so freely, then he would not fail them as their leader.
From far on the north side of the Poros the bannerman lifted the red and blue flag high above and began waving furiously. With a shout of "Ithilien!" the men charged forward into the vale itself. Faramir's head felt as if it would explode as Curuthalion's feet pounded furiously beneath him, but the Prince maintained his position in the saddle.
Quickly Faramir and his other horsemen sped past Danethil's men. The footsoldiers erupted into cheers as they watched their prince speed by. Faramir swore out loud, thankful that the thundering hooves covered his slip, as he turned his aching head to the side to peer in the direction of the elves and dwarves. From this vantage he could see many elves gracefully riding towards the awaiting enemy. Although they were too far away for Faramir to be certain, he could have sworn that Thranduil himself was riding at their head.
Turning forward he could see orcs and the Easterling men pouring out of the pass into the open vale. He could see no archers among them, and a brief thought flickered in his mind that the number of bowmen was far smaller than would be normal for an army of this size. But there was no time to contemplate the thought. In no time the cavalry had engaged the enemy, and Faramir found himself surrounded by foul creatures of Mordor.
There were so many that Faramir began chopping haphazardly at any motion that caught his eye. The orcs fell easily under his blade, but the evil men were more difficult to bring down. While dueling with one of the Easterlings he barely noticed as a second wielded a dagger aiming for his leg. The prince swung his sword down next to his body to ward off the blow, but had done so with so much strength that he saw the man's hand fly off taking the dagger with it.
Despite their being only 40 in number the archers were able to bring down many of the enemies who were spilling from the mouth of the pass. Slowly, the men on horseback were making their way around to the back of the vale, surrounding the enemy. If the archers could keep up their furious assault within minutes the cavalry would have defeated the forces already in the vale and could then proceed to the pass itself.
Faramir's sword hacked furiously at the orcs surrounding him. Once again the creatures, realizing they were being surrounded, began to panic and forgot to defend themselves. Orcs ran in every direction heedless of the men of Ithilien and their blades. The few Easterlings in the midst were so enraged at the cowardice of their cohorts that they too could be seen slashing the throats of the creatures. Faramir smiled a cruel smile. Even in the great War of the Ring, it was often the enemy itself that brought about its own downfall.
Swinging his sword in a wide arc Faramir made a large gash in the bare chest of the Easterling to his right. The man's eyes were wide in disbelief, but Curuthalion sped past before the man had even fallen. Faramir's eyes searched for another foe, but found only his own men nearby. "To me! To me!" shouted the prince as he urged his horse forward toward the mouth of the pass.
Up ahead he could see Danethil and his men hard at work fending off the enemy. They had moved past the horsemen during the first battle, and were now at the front lines. The terrain became steep and small rocks underfoot caused Curuthalion to slide backwards for every two steps he took. Faramir reined the horse in. Several of the other horsemen rode past him before they realized he had stopped. The rest gathered around him waiting for his instructions.
"We must dismount here! Our horses will only hinder us on the steep slopes! Spread out in a wide arc to the river! We will fence them in and then move inwards!" Faramir shouted to the rest of his men. Without hesitation the men dismounted. Faramir did the same and then slapped Curuthalion on his haunches to send him away from the fight.
The prince grasped his sword tightly in his right hand. His left arm hung limply at his side. Faramir was unsure if he could even feel the injured limb at all anymore. Slowly the men scrambled their way up the slope to help the others. Suddenly a large orc came tumbling down the mountain from up above. Faramir jumped out its way only just in time, but landed on more loose gravel. His feet came out from underneath him and the prince fell forward into the rocky slope and began sliding backwards until rough hands grasped him by his chain mail and hauled him to his feet. "Are you all right, your highness?"
Faramir groaned at the punishment his body had received, but he nodded his head and began climbing upwards once more. Only twenty feet above him the remainder of his army was fighting their way toward the pass. The ground they stood on was a small escarpment where the ground was more level. Faramir fought his way up the steep slope, and had barely enough time to pull himself to the more level ground when he was attacked by one of the Easterlings.
Faramir was still on his knees when the man was unexpectedly directly in front of him. He did not need to look up to know the killing blow was already on its way. Instinctually he rolled to his left keeping the sword out in front of him. He heard the thud where the man's blade had hit the bare earth where he had just been. Swinging his sword around and up he struck the man behind his legs sending him to his knees. Leaving his sword upon the ground he reached inside his left gauntlet and pulled the small dagger from its sheath. The Easterling was trying to rise as the Prince's dagger landed in the side of his neck. The man cried out in pain and his right hand shot up to grasp the hilt of the dagger and pull it away, but Faramir spun around sending his heel into the back of the man's knees. Instantly the Easterling fell forward over the edge of the escarpment and down into the vale below.
Faramir struggled to his feet and grasped the sword he had left on the ground, but before he could rise he was suddenly thrown to the ground. Fire exploded in his head. The prince tried to force unwilling limbs to roll him over, but his body would not cooperate. His mind reeled knowing death was imminent. He flinched as a great weight fell on his body, but with the exception of the throbbing in his head there was no pain. His right arm grasped the edge of a nearby boulder and with his remaining strength he pulled himself from under the heavy weight. Turning over he could now see the orc's body which had pinned him to the ground. Several elven arrows protruded from its back.
Faramir's vision whirled, and his stomach began to churn uncontrollably. Leaning over to his side he vomited what little there was in his belly onto the earth. His ears were ringing. From somewhere up above he could hear someone calling to him, but his mind was unable to concentrate on what they were saying. The ringing in his ears was growing louder making it difficult to concentrate on anything else. Dimly he was aware of someone grabbing him. "Faramir! Prince Faramir can you hear me?"
Faramir struggled to understand. If only the ringing would go away, then maybe he could think straight. But the ringing only grew louder.
"Prince Faramir! Wake up! King Elessar is here! And King Eomer as well! Wake up, my prince! The armies of Gondor and Rohan have arrived!"
I am one of those people who does things sporadically. I am very gung ho about something for awhile and then I leave off for awhile. This would be the case here.
If there are any people who were reading my fic before and can find it in their hearts to do so again please accept my apologies. I am suddenly feeling very much inspired (thank you, PuterPatty, you're the best!). So, I will be updating on a regular basis (at least for a while). This fic is nearing its end, and I feel pretty certain that I will finish it before I decide to take any future leaves of absence.
Thank you again, to everyone who has reviewed and inspired me along the way.
Disclaimer: all characters, settings, and elvish language are strictly from the mind of J.R.R. Tolkien or inspired by him.
Chapter XVI
Sons of Ithilien
The orcs were everywhere. Their hideous countenances could be seen approaching from all directions. He drew his sword and prepared to fight. The sword glinted in the sickeningly bright light of the sun. With as much strength as he could muster he swung downward and cut a wide gash in the first body. The orc fell easily to his blade. He had not even tried to defend himself. The sword was lifted and swung towards another of the miserable creations of Morgoth himself, and yet again the orc fell without the slightest acknowledgement of his slayer. Angrily he crashed into the approaching ranks swinging wildly, and still none took heed. No matter how many he killed they continued their relentless march forward.
Finally, out of breath, he ceased his actions. The evil horde kept moving past him either unaware of his presence or uncaring. Gulping down air his mind raced furiously trying to make sense of the situation. The orcs continued to shuffle around him, eyes focused forward. He turned to face the direction the orcs were going. Ahead of him he could discern something vast and black as night. It lay directly in the path of the moving orcs. Logic dictated that he follow the orcs to their destination.
As he moved along with the orcs the object slowly came into focus, and before long he realized it was a high tower. Closer he came, and the details became more and more real. Staircases lined the outer walls and the top was shaped like the bulb of a flower. With shock and horror he realized it resembled Minas Mallen, only the stone was of the deepest black, and the tower itself seem to pull the light from the very air. Near its top a small figure stood, golden hair shining against the Stygian hue.
Nearer he approached and he soon realized that the figure was Eowyn. He cried out to her, but she could not hear him over the din of the orcs congregating at the foot of the tower. There were other figures beside her. Their black robes blended with the dark tower to make them nearly invisible. Only the bright faces of the Daequendi could be discerned. He tried to push his way through the throng of onlookers, but the orcs had crowded close together and would not let him pass.
Suddenly the orcs began to shout louder and were pointing towards the tower. There was a lone man running up the tower steps, sword in hand. It was Boromir, Eowyn's son, and he was rushing up one of the staircases of the tower to rescue his mother. Suddenly, a single dark elf emerged from the tower, sword raised high above his head. Too intent on rescuing his mother Boromir did not notice the dark elf approaching. With all his might he screamed a warning to the young man, but to no avail. A flash of steel and Boromir tumbled over the railing of the staircase and fell to the cold earth some fifty feet below him.
A bile full of rage and panic bubbled up from the pit of his stomach. He was surprised to find his blade in hand, and he lurched forward cutting a path through masses of orc bodies. His enemies fell before him, but his going was slow. It seemed he must have slain a hundred orcs, but still the tower seemed no closer.
A piercing scream from high above caught his attention, and his sword froze in his hand. Without looking he knew the cry had come from Eowyn. Raising his head he could see the Daequendi surrounding her. Her head was thrown back and she appeared to be convulsing. It looked as though a shadow had fallen over her and the elves, but the darkness increased. Where once had stood the golden shieldmaiden and Princess of Ithilien a shadow was growing. It was as if the very light that was within Eowyn was being consumed.
Horrorstruck, he could no longer move his legs, but stood rooted to the ground watching the hideous event. The white, hot sun bore down on him, but the light seemed illusory. It illuminated nothing but the darkness. The sky was now fading as the darkness which was consuming Eowyn stretched out to take even the countenance of the heavens from sight.
The darkness had nearly permeated everything when there came suddenly a bright flash of white light. He covered his eyes, but the explosion had rendered him temporarily blind. The sounds of the orcs had lessened greatly, as even they appeared awed by whatever was happening. Then, from high above he heard a cry. But this was not the cry of the Princess of Ithilien. This cry curdled his blood, and pierced his very soul. It was a sound he had heard several times in his life, but had never thought he should have to endure again - the cry of the Nazgul.
"My Lord, can you hear me?! My Lord?!"
The man's voice seemed far away, but Faramir clung to it as a drowning man to a piece of wood. He fought the heavy shrouds of sleepiness which threatened to retake him. It was not the battle at hand that gave him such strength of will, but the desperation of not returning to that hateful dream. He would rather endure the pain of consciousness, and even possible defeat at the hands of their enemy than return to that hideous vision.
"Prince Faramir, you must awaken!"
Gray eyes fluttered open. He struggled to focus on the face above him. Slowly the face of Caradhon, one of Ithilien's archers, came into view. "My Lord, thank the Valar, you're awake."
Faramir attempted to rise, but was greeted with searing pain in his left shoulder. Gritting his teeth against the pain the prince fell back once again. Memories came flooding back, and he grasped Caradhon with his right arm. "What . . . news?" he managed to hiss through the pain.
"We have beaten them back once more, my Lord. King Thranduil led some of his elves down on horseback, and helped to push the enemy back into the pass. Our archers are holding them for the moment, but the arrows are running low. Danethil is preparing for one last assault, sir, but I do not think we will last the hour."
Faramir groaned. He needed to be out there with his men, his people, not lying as an invalid upon the ground. "You must . . . remove . . . this arrow." His right hand gripped Caradhon's arm strongly, and his eyes carried all the weight of his resolve.
"My Lord! I am no surgeon. If the arrow has pierced an important artery then you would die from loss of blood!"
Faramir gripped the man's arm tighter and took a deep breath, "Our deaths may already be assured. I am willing . . . to take that . . . risk."
The archer looked as if he would protest again, but then looked upon the battlefield below, and changed his mind. "Yes, my lord." Grasping the point of the arrow in his hand, and taking the fletching knife from his belt he gently cut through and slowly unwound the cord holding the steel tip in place. Once removed the archer grasped the shaft firmly in one hand while he pulled at the arrow point with the other. It gave way reluctantly, and all of a sudden so that Faramir's body was rocked backwards when it released. The Prince cried out from the sudden movement.
Caradhon checked the end of the arrow for splinters or anything else which might hinder its removal. Satisfied, he moved to Faramir's back and grasped the fletched end of the arrow firmly in hand. In what seemed to Faramir an excruciatingly long amount of time the archer slowly worked the arrow out of the prince's body. The pain was tremendous, and Faramir cried aloud in his torment. But the thought of his dark dream of Eowyn kept him focused on remaining conscious. One last forceful pull and Caradhon wrenched the arrow from Faramir's shoulder. The Prince screamed, and then let his body sink back to the earth. The pain remained, but it did not compare to having an arrow removed from one's body.
Caradhon examined the wound from behind and in front. "I hope your luck will extend to the battle, sir. There is little blood. It seems the arrow missed anything vital."
"I thank you, Caradhon, for your aid. Now, please, bind my wound quickly."
Caradhon used strips of his own tunic to dress his prince's wound. As soon as this was done, Faramir rose, with the archer's help, to survey the battle below. It was only now that he realized how much his head hurt. Placing a hand on his brow, Faramir felt dried blood flake off. It was not until then that he remembered he had suffered a blow to the head as he fell from his horse. Faramir steadied himself and fought back a wave of nausea.
The field below him was littered with bodies. There were hundreds of orcs strewn across the vale, but there were also the broken bodies of men, elves, and dwarves among them. At the mouth of the pass the bodies of orcs lay piled on top of one another as the arrows of the archers on either side of the River Poros held the enemy at bay, but only just. In all likelihood the orcs and Easterlings were preparing another assault like the one that had provided him with an arrow in his shoulder.
The sun had now risen above the peaks of the Ephel Duath, and was making its way towards its zenith, but the day was still early and King Elessar and his army would not arrive for hours yet. Faramir knew that the enemy could not be allowed to escape the vale into the surrounding countryside. If they did then even King Elessar and King Eomer would find it difficult to fight such a large force.
A determined look crept over the prince's face, "Caradhon, who is the fastest rider amongst the archers?"
"Idhril, sire."
"Find me Idhril, and bid him come to me as fast as the Anduin flows."
Caradhon bowed quickly, then ran off in a crouch up the mountainside. In a matter of minutes he returned with a young man at his side, "This is Idhril, sire."
The boy was so young that Faramir would have been surprised if he were able to sprout a single hair upon his cherubic face. The prince stifled a sigh at the cruelty of his duty, "Idhril, I need you to take a message to King Thranduil. Tell him at the next assault all of the army on the northern bank must move into the vale, as far as they can go. Tell him to reserve only 20 of his archers, and the rest must fight with their blades. At the mouth of the canyon we will make our stand. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sire," Idhril looked somewhat nervous at speaking to his prince, but otherwise he was a mask of determination.
"Good, once you tell him, have his standard bearer wave the red flag with the blue to let us know all is in readiness." Faramir, placed his right hand upon the boy's shoulder, "You're peril is grave, Idhril, but your mission is graver yet. We must get you to a horse."
The Prince of Ithilien turned back to Caradhon; "I thank you for your help, son of Ithilien, now I charge you to select 20 of the best archers. When the bannerman on the north bank waves the red flag with the blue all but those 20 archers must move to the mouth of the canyon and fight with their swords or knives. Those 20 will follow behind them and offer their support. Is that clear?"
"It will be as you command, my lord," Caradhon placed his right arm across his chest then turned to perform his duty.
"Come, Idhril." Faramir led the young man down the mountainside to where the cavalry were waiting.
The prince did not notice the pain of his wounds; instead it was the pain of fulfilling his duty that preoccupied him. He was preparing to take a last stand against the forces out of Mordor, and he knew that he was signing a death warrant for every man, elf, and dwarf who had followed him to this hateful place. His stomach churned at the thought of the wives who would be made husbandless and the children who would be fatherless. The guilt was overwhelming, and the prince nearly stumbled under the weight of it.
The prince's only consolation was that Eowyn would remain, and she possessed more strength than all of the men of Ithilien combined. She would rally what remained of their people together, and help to rebuild Ithilien anew. He offered up a silent prayer that Boromir would return and help her through this gruesome task, but he would not allow himself to even consider the alternative.
Faramir and Idhril mounted one last rise and found themselves overlooking the readying area for Ithilien's cavalry. As the two made their way down into the midst of the horses one of the men spied them and shouted, "Prince Faramir, Prince Faramir! The Prince of Ithilien yet lives!" The others took up the cry, and Faramir removed his sword from its sheath and raised it triumphantly over his head. Peering upwards he saw the bannerman had waved the blue flag, and was preparing to raise the green, signaling the cavalry to advance. Taking the last few steps at a run, Faramir cursed his spinning head as he grasped the reins of the nearest horseman. Just then the others leapt forward crying Faramir's name as they went to engage the enemy one more time.
"I have need of your horse, soldier of Ithilien. Make your way to Danethil and join his men on the ground."
"As you wish, your highness." The man saluted him once, then dismounted and ran towards the awaiting battle.
"Up you go, son," Faramir patted the horses saddle. Idhril climbed deftly onto the horse's back. "Take care, Idhril. Ride low in the saddle. Your message is of the greatest importance."
"Yes, my lord." Faramir slapped the horse on its haunches and the animal burst into a full gallop taking Idhril with him.
Faramir watched the horse as it sped across the open plain, Idhril low in the saddle. He rode the edges of the vale, and Faramir could discern no arrows or any of the enemy that might hinder his progress. The prince was unaware that he was holding his breath until he saw the horse safely ford the Poros and find its way into the safety of the brush of the mountainside. He could barely make out Idhril as he leapt from the horse's back and began to make his way along the far shoulder of the Vale of Poros.
The boy quickly blended into the surrounding countryside and was lost to Faramir's sight. It was not long after that when the cavalry began to return. Faramir motioned for them to gather around him. It was only a few moments before he had gathered the remnants of the cavalry. Faramir noted with some sadness that the number was far fewer than had arrived here the day before.
The prince steeled himself to his emotions and turned indomitable eyes on his men, "Our current method of attack will be unable to hold the enemy at bay much longer. We must fight, and hold them within the canyon until King Elessar and his armies arrive. We must do this, or else all is lost. When the bannerman on the northern shore holds the red flag aloft with the blue -- that is our sign. We will engage the enemy and push them back into the canyon where we will hold them until the armies of Gondor and Rohan arrive, or until the last man has fallen. Our families and our king have need of our lives today, sons of Ithilien, and we will not fail them!" Faramir raised his sword high, "Ithilien will never fall! We will fight, and we will be victorious! Ithilien! Ithilien the Fair!"
The men erupted in a throng of voices shouting and cheering as though they were not all so tired they could fall from their saddles or so injured they knew nothing but pain. Pride welled within Ithilien's prince, and for a moment the guilt, which was now a constant, gave way. One of the riders dismounted and handed the reins to Faramir, "I will go and fight by Danethil's side, my lord. You have greater need of this horse than I."
Faramir nodded, "Thank you, son of Ithilien, I shall treat him as my own. What is his name?"
"Curuthalion, highness."
"I thank you for Curuthalion, soldier of Ithilien, and by the grace of the Valar I hope to return him to you."
The soldier bowed low, placing his right arm across his heart. "By your leave, Prince Faramir?"
"Yes, you may go, soldier, only relay the news I have given you to Danethil. He and his men are not to fall back this time. Go and fight, and keep Ithilien within your heart." The soldier turned on his heel and then ran to find Danethil.
Faramir gave Curuthalion's reins to another rider and turned back to where the wounded were. He quickly found the man he had placed in charge and went to him. "You have done good work here, but our situation has now become desperate. It may be that soon we will ride to our final battle. Relay to the wounded that any man that wishes to join the battle will not be hindered no matter his injuries, and give a weapon to those who are able to hold a blade. Every man must make his own decision."
The man with the wounded leg showed no outward sign of surprise or fear. He merely saluted his prince and said, "As you wish, your highness," then turned to relay the news. The guilt began to well up once again as Faramir turned to find his newly gotten horse.
Another glance up in the direction of the bannerman said that he was about to raise his blue flag. Faramir peered across the vast expanse to the mountainside where Thranduil and the others were biding their time until the next attack. The bannerman on the north side also held his blue flag at his side, but Faramir noted that the other hand held the red flag. Swift work, Idhril. May your efforts not be in vain.
"If this is to be Ithilien's last stand, then let us make it a glorious one! See the bannerman on the north holds the red flag! Our time is come!"
More voices joined in to cheer as Faramir climbed into his saddle. His head swam, threatening to send him toppling over, but Ithilien's prince fought the dizziness and once atop the horse he sat straight up in the saddle looking every bit a piece of well-wrought iron. If they could give their lives so freely, then he would not fail them as their leader.
From far on the north side of the Poros the bannerman lifted the red and blue flag high above and began waving furiously. With a shout of "Ithilien!" the men charged forward into the vale itself. Faramir's head felt as if it would explode as Curuthalion's feet pounded furiously beneath him, but the Prince maintained his position in the saddle.
Quickly Faramir and his other horsemen sped past Danethil's men. The footsoldiers erupted into cheers as they watched their prince speed by. Faramir swore out loud, thankful that the thundering hooves covered his slip, as he turned his aching head to the side to peer in the direction of the elves and dwarves. From this vantage he could see many elves gracefully riding towards the awaiting enemy. Although they were too far away for Faramir to be certain, he could have sworn that Thranduil himself was riding at their head.
Turning forward he could see orcs and the Easterling men pouring out of the pass into the open vale. He could see no archers among them, and a brief thought flickered in his mind that the number of bowmen was far smaller than would be normal for an army of this size. But there was no time to contemplate the thought. In no time the cavalry had engaged the enemy, and Faramir found himself surrounded by foul creatures of Mordor.
There were so many that Faramir began chopping haphazardly at any motion that caught his eye. The orcs fell easily under his blade, but the evil men were more difficult to bring down. While dueling with one of the Easterlings he barely noticed as a second wielded a dagger aiming for his leg. The prince swung his sword down next to his body to ward off the blow, but had done so with so much strength that he saw the man's hand fly off taking the dagger with it.
Despite their being only 40 in number the archers were able to bring down many of the enemies who were spilling from the mouth of the pass. Slowly, the men on horseback were making their way around to the back of the vale, surrounding the enemy. If the archers could keep up their furious assault within minutes the cavalry would have defeated the forces already in the vale and could then proceed to the pass itself.
Faramir's sword hacked furiously at the orcs surrounding him. Once again the creatures, realizing they were being surrounded, began to panic and forgot to defend themselves. Orcs ran in every direction heedless of the men of Ithilien and their blades. The few Easterlings in the midst were so enraged at the cowardice of their cohorts that they too could be seen slashing the throats of the creatures. Faramir smiled a cruel smile. Even in the great War of the Ring, it was often the enemy itself that brought about its own downfall.
Swinging his sword in a wide arc Faramir made a large gash in the bare chest of the Easterling to his right. The man's eyes were wide in disbelief, but Curuthalion sped past before the man had even fallen. Faramir's eyes searched for another foe, but found only his own men nearby. "To me! To me!" shouted the prince as he urged his horse forward toward the mouth of the pass.
Up ahead he could see Danethil and his men hard at work fending off the enemy. They had moved past the horsemen during the first battle, and were now at the front lines. The terrain became steep and small rocks underfoot caused Curuthalion to slide backwards for every two steps he took. Faramir reined the horse in. Several of the other horsemen rode past him before they realized he had stopped. The rest gathered around him waiting for his instructions.
"We must dismount here! Our horses will only hinder us on the steep slopes! Spread out in a wide arc to the river! We will fence them in and then move inwards!" Faramir shouted to the rest of his men. Without hesitation the men dismounted. Faramir did the same and then slapped Curuthalion on his haunches to send him away from the fight.
The prince grasped his sword tightly in his right hand. His left arm hung limply at his side. Faramir was unsure if he could even feel the injured limb at all anymore. Slowly the men scrambled their way up the slope to help the others. Suddenly a large orc came tumbling down the mountain from up above. Faramir jumped out its way only just in time, but landed on more loose gravel. His feet came out from underneath him and the prince fell forward into the rocky slope and began sliding backwards until rough hands grasped him by his chain mail and hauled him to his feet. "Are you all right, your highness?"
Faramir groaned at the punishment his body had received, but he nodded his head and began climbing upwards once more. Only twenty feet above him the remainder of his army was fighting their way toward the pass. The ground they stood on was a small escarpment where the ground was more level. Faramir fought his way up the steep slope, and had barely enough time to pull himself to the more level ground when he was attacked by one of the Easterlings.
Faramir was still on his knees when the man was unexpectedly directly in front of him. He did not need to look up to know the killing blow was already on its way. Instinctually he rolled to his left keeping the sword out in front of him. He heard the thud where the man's blade had hit the bare earth where he had just been. Swinging his sword around and up he struck the man behind his legs sending him to his knees. Leaving his sword upon the ground he reached inside his left gauntlet and pulled the small dagger from its sheath. The Easterling was trying to rise as the Prince's dagger landed in the side of his neck. The man cried out in pain and his right hand shot up to grasp the hilt of the dagger and pull it away, but Faramir spun around sending his heel into the back of the man's knees. Instantly the Easterling fell forward over the edge of the escarpment and down into the vale below.
Faramir struggled to his feet and grasped the sword he had left on the ground, but before he could rise he was suddenly thrown to the ground. Fire exploded in his head. The prince tried to force unwilling limbs to roll him over, but his body would not cooperate. His mind reeled knowing death was imminent. He flinched as a great weight fell on his body, but with the exception of the throbbing in his head there was no pain. His right arm grasped the edge of a nearby boulder and with his remaining strength he pulled himself from under the heavy weight. Turning over he could now see the orc's body which had pinned him to the ground. Several elven arrows protruded from its back.
Faramir's vision whirled, and his stomach began to churn uncontrollably. Leaning over to his side he vomited what little there was in his belly onto the earth. His ears were ringing. From somewhere up above he could hear someone calling to him, but his mind was unable to concentrate on what they were saying. The ringing in his ears was growing louder making it difficult to concentrate on anything else. Dimly he was aware of someone grabbing him. "Faramir! Prince Faramir can you hear me?"
Faramir struggled to understand. If only the ringing would go away, then maybe he could think straight. But the ringing only grew louder.
"Prince Faramir! Wake up! King Elessar is here! And King Eomer as well! Wake up, my prince! The armies of Gondor and Rohan have arrived!"