Thanks to everyone who reviewed! Sorry that I did not have a chance to thank you yet, but I will definitely do so in the next chapter!

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The scene inside the outermost city wall was nothing short of chaotic. An insistent drumming seemed to fill the night air; the sound of a battering ram being hurled mercilessly against the gate. Only moments before, the gate was still holding up securely against the invaders, yet it now began to shudder and crack before the Haradrim. Men struggled to brace this one vulnerable spot to the city, as the attackers ceased the firing arrows and focused solely on this one goal: enter the city.

Boromir had found it difficult to navigate through the archers on the walls in his dash to reach Faramir. Now that he was on the ground, attempting to make his way along one of the main streets, it seemed nearly impossible. Men ran back and forth, carrying more arrows for their bows, and large timbers to brace the main gate. Other people were fleeing. Fearing the worst, they were drawing back, heading towards the second city gate with any supplies they could carry. The worst part were the soldiers who littered the streets, some dead, some dying, and some too injured to move. Boromir hated the idea of passing up so many who needed help, but each small groan from the injured Faramir made him painfully aware that time was slipping away.

He needed to get help.

********

Denethor was no longer playing so passive a role in the battle. Instead, he was now outside, ordering some of the men back, to fortify the second gate. The Steward had been given poor news concerning the fight, and surveyed the damage with a scowl.

Another man, one of his leaders amongst the troops, was with him.

"How much longer will the main gate hold out?" questioned Denethor, though his observations already gave him a grim answer.

"Not long," was the man's reply. "If they continue on at this rate, it could fall within minutes. We still shower arrows upon the Haradrim, but they are far too many to deter, and even as we speak, the gate is failing."

The Steward's face darkened at the confirmation of his own thoughts. "I have ordered the archers off the wall. They will retreat past the second gate and regroup. Most of the weapons have already been moved."

"And what of the men who remain here to fortify the gate? If they leave, it will undoubtedly fall now; yet if they stay, they will have no way to escape the onslaught of our enemies when they break through."

Denethor's response was firm. "Keep only the number of men here necessary to hold the gate for a few minutes longer. Get everyone else out of here, now!"

The man nodded, then quickly added, "And what of the dead and injured?"

"How many are their number?"

"I don't not know, but there seem to be many; I'd say at least 150, 200 perhaps."

"Help those that you can, but leave the dead. We still have a responsibility to protect the living."

"Aye."

With that, the man left to order the retreat to the second gate. Denethor surveyed the damage once again. He could only hope that Faramir had been able to avoid the battle completely, and that Boromir would follow the other men to safety.

********

Boromir was quick to notice that nearly all the men were heading in the same general direction; back towards the second gate. He realized that a retreat must have been ordered, for he knew the men would not otherwise run away in such a manner. Two thoughts ran through his head simultaneously. He believed that Denethor, and therefore some aid for his brother, might be somewhere nearby.

He also understood that the battle was growing more desperate as time passed, and it was vital for him to leave the area immediately.

Unfortunately, the nervous excitement that had driven Boromir earlier during the night had vanished, replaced by dread. He was growing very tired with each footstep, and his arms ached under the weight they were now forced to bear. Mere minutes before, the street had seemed crowded with men, rushing back and forth. Now Boromir realized with a jolt that many had left the area. In fact, the migration of men to the second gate was gradually leaving him behind.

He certainly did not want his only company to be his quickly fading brother, and the bodies of dead men scattered about the street!

With panic rising in his body, Boromir struggled to walk faster, fearing that the next gate might be closed before he ever made it. His feet no longer seemed to be a part of his body, but he willed them on.

Suddenly, he stumbled in his weariness, causing both he and Faramir to crash into the hard stones of the main road. There was a small cry from the younger brother, but he neither opened his eyes or moved.

Boromir groaned as he sat up, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He was terrified that he had injured Faramir further, and reached over to touch his shoulder. "Faramir?-" he attempted to ask, but stopped short when he realized how cold his brother felt. Time was running out.

Boromir gently picked up Faramir again, and crawled back to his shaking feet. He glanced around for a second, noticed the increasing gap between himself and the retreating men, and continued towards them. Boromir managed to forget some of his weariness for a moment as he walked on, and gained a little ground on those in front of him.

Though dread continued to haunt him, he was struck by a tiny glimmer of hope when he spotted the second gate. It was still a ways in front of him, but now it seemed to be a reality. Perhaps he might make it after all.

Of course, fate often has other plans for people, and now it seemed to be dealing yet another bad hand for Boromir and Faramir. Only seconds after Boromir saw the second gate of the city, he heard an earsplitting crash echo from behind. The main gate, which had taken so much abuse at the hands of the invading Haradrim, finally failed. As the remaining defenders retreated from their duty at the gate, the enemy roared into the city.

Everyone heard them coming, but to Boromir the horrifying sounds seemed a death sentence to himself and his brother. He broke into a halting run as the pursuit of the Haradrim grew loud behind him. The distance that seemed to take him so long to cover was being swiftly devoured by the quick feet of the invaders. They easily overtook those soldiers who had defended the gate until the end, and made short work of them.

Now, they were closing the gap between themselves and the second gate.

Boromir was of little interest to the Haradrim, though he knew he would be at the mercy of their swords if he did not make it to the gate. One small soldier meant very little, but he would not go unnoticed. He hazarded a glance behind him, eyes widening as he saw how close they were coming.

As he turned back, however, his heart seemed to stop for an instant. The gate was being closed.

It was not an unwise move on the part of Minas Tirith. After all, had the men waited any longer, they would have been unlikely to get it completely closed and barricaded in time to fend off the Haradrim. And, of course, it was entirely possible that those who were now at the gate had not stopped to notice Boromir's approach, for the street had grown much darker when the retreating men had extinguished their torches.

Now all of Boromir's hopes seemed to die. He still struggled towards the gate, but he knew it would be impossible to make it. Within minutes the Haradrim would be upon him. There were already archers beginning to fire their arrows from atop the second city wall. They seemed to be raining down upon the very streets of the city.

Suddenly, Boromir realized that the arrows were not the only things being hurled from the wall. A familiar voice drifted into his mind. "Boromir! Get out of there!" It did not quite register in his mind that someone was trying to get his attention. "Boromir!!!"

He looked up, attempting to spot the source of the voice. Eventually he managed to see Beregond, standing on top of the wall not far from where Boromir now stood. Apparently Beregond had noticed his friends below, and somehow made his way above the spot where Boromir was. He held a rope in his hands; then threw one end down the wall.

"Hold on, and I will try to pull you up!" Beregond shouted above the noise.

With the last of his energy, Boromir stumbled over to the wall, and holding Faramir in one hand, he firmly grabbed the rope with the other. Then, Beregond began to pull.

Soon both boys realized that they had a problem. Their time was nearly up, for the Haradrim were closing in, but Beregond could not pull both Boromir and Faramir up by himself. He simply did not have the strength, and there was no help available, for the remaining men were all centered around the gate, to prevent it from falling to the invaders.

Boromir could see the shields and swords of the Haradrim from where he stood, causing a shudder to run through his body. At the same time, he was aware of the fact that, with each second that passed, Faramir slipped further and further into darkness. Boromir took a ragged breath; then took the only solution he could think of. He quickly tied the rope to Faramir, and yelled at Beregond to pull his brother up.

Then, he turned to face the hordes of enemies that awaited him.