~Shlee Verde~: Yep, Boromir and Faramir are definitely there for one another; that's what makes them such cool characters. Even though you never see them together at all in LOTR, I think they were very close. ~acacea~: Yes, it's an evil cliffhanger, I know.... *runs away from crazy readers* lol ~Arwen~: Glad you like my writing; here is the next chapter right now. ~Agador-of-the-woods~: Thanks for the continuing reviews! Faramir should be allright.......maybe......possibly...... ~AzNnEgGrOePnOi~: Glad you still like the story; I am trying to keep up on the quality of it. Here's the next part... ~Spike's Lil Black Vamp~: *wields flaming torch, Strider style* No! No stalkers! Lol, j/k Thanks for the reviews, especially the comments about my writing. They are muchly appreciated! ~Maria~: Here's the next chapter, for your reading pleasure :) ~Lady Berenice~: Here's more to read :) Thanks for the review! Yeah, the cliffhanger is a bit much... ~Elessar~: Ahhhh! More crazy people. hehe j/k Don't worry, there is more to read... ~Susan~: And now, the story is updated again :) ~Ing~: It wasn't my fault, I swear! Sauron made me cut the story off.... Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope this chapter isn't quite so bad of a cliffhanger! ~eowyn~: Yep, Boromir is very cool (especially when he is younger)! Here's the next chapter... ~Lirenel~: Yes, I have kept writing :) As for Boromir and Faramir, well, you have to read below... ~the kid mdd~: Hehe, I like the men too, but I fancy Aragorn, then Boromir as my fav characters!

!!!! Author's note: Beregond and Denethor do not know each other, excluding the fact that Beregond obviously knows that he is the Steward, and therefore the father of Boromir and Faramir.......!!!

And so, the story continues below...

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Beregond was stunned by the scene unfolding below him. Only seconds before, he had seen Boromir carrying Faramir towards the rapidly closing gate. At first, Beregond had not believed the sight, for surely his friends had not managed to trap themselves in such a situation. When he realized that his eyes were not deceiving him, he had snatched the nearest rope, and bolted towards a spot on the wall directly above the two trapped figures.

The intention had been to rescue both from the deadly peril they faced. But now Beregond stood atop the wall, holding only Faramir, while the Haradrim bore down upon the elder brother.

"Boromir!" Beregond found himself yelling. "Get out of the way!"

Beregond had no way of knowing whether Boromir had heard. The last the former saw of the other was a terrified figure, pressed with his back to the wall, faced by a horde of enemies. Within seconds, Boromir disappeared from sight.

Beregond felt a sick feeling spread throughout his body. His mind hoped beyond hope that his friend might still be alive, might somehow have escaped the blows of the Haradrim injured, but not dead. However, in the very depths of his dark thoughts, Beregond knew he was asking for the impossible. No one could single-handedly face the swarm of men below and survive. He watched for a few seconds more, straining for a glimpse of Boromir, as the enemy filled the space below, and continued their attack upon the city.

Suddenly, Beregond snapped back to his senses. Dead indeed, Boromir might be, but no matter what had happened below, Beregond could not allow himself to be consumed by dispair. He realized that he still had a responsibility to the living, and turned his attention towards Faramir, whom he was still holding.

The younger brother seemed to be on the very brink of death. It occurred to Beregond that Faramir felt strangely cold, and he noticed part of an arrow embedded into his skin.

Pushing aside thoughts of his friend, Beregond forced himself to turn away from the wall. He spoke outloud, with words that seemed aimed at no one in particular. "How did you two get into this mess?" he mused. "Aiii, it seems like the whole city is on the brink of destruction!"

With that, he began making his way down, off of the wall. He slipped a few times, attempting to fight his way through the mass of soldiers, but as the minutes passed, he became more aware of the desperation of Faramir's situation, he moved more assuredly. Eventually, Beregond pushed his way through a few more people, and was able to walk more freely along the outside of the crowd.

Like Boromir before him, he was forced to walk past the dead and the dying who had plummeted from the wall, though there were not quite so many here. The scene seemed to push thoughts of Boromir, likely to be in a similar situation, to the front of Beregond's mind. He had to rapidly shake his head, in an attempt to banish them; then began mumbling to himself again.

"Don't think about it.....just keep walking.....there must be a healer around here somewhere...." His eyes darted back and forth, partly in an effort to locate a healer, and partly to distract himself from the scene.

After what seemed like an eternity (though in reality, it was all of a few moments), Beregond spotted a small, makeshift sign on a door, indicating that a healer was present. He ran over, as quickly as he could considering the weight he was carrying, and pushed open the door with his shoulder.

Not even the horrors of the battle raging outside could prepare Beregond for the sights within the crowded, temporary quarters of the healer. Though the interior was filled with the sick, the injured and the dying, the boy found himself frozen in place by a sight that, to him, seemed far more terrifying.

The Steward himself was standing in the small room. Prior to Beregond's entry, he had been engaged in a heated discussion with one of his advisors. Now, both men were facing the door, and Denethor's steely eyes locked with those of the boy.

The Steward swiftly approached. "What has happened?" he demanded, recognizing immediately his son in the arms of Beregond. "I was led to believe that Faramir was perfectly safe, having not been seen anywhere within the vicinity of the battle!"

Beregond could not even begin to answer the question. His mouth felt as though it was filled to the brim with sawdust.

At the moment, however, no response was necessary. Denethor realized that his younger son was in graver condition than he had first guessed, and turned his attention to summoning a healer. One appeared shortly. Making a quick, almost instant inspection of Faramir, the healer took the boy from Beregond, and carried him into an adjacent room. Denethor followed.

Beregond too, felt the urge to rejoin the men, for he wondered if there was any hope left for Faramir, but he did not wish to face any more of the Steward's questions. In any other situation, Beregond realized he was no more than another face in the crowd to the Steward; however, this was different, and the boy had no desire to be under the scrutiny of Denethor any more than necessary. Beregond had to satisfy himself with listening to the muffled conversation of the two men through the doorway of the other room.

He caught a few of the words from the healer. "The arrow wound seems to be poisoned..... not an uncommon practice of the Haradrim....not strong poison....but he's been exposed to it for a while.....why so long to get here?"

Denethor's reply was more difficult to discern, for the Steward's voice was dangerously low, in an effort to hide the various frustrations at the moment. ".....tower.....not even near battle.....save him?"

Beregond guessed that the Steward's final words had been an inquiry to whether or not his younger son could be saved. The eavesdropping boy was unable to hear the reply, for the healer's voice grew very low, but he knew immediately that Denethor did not like the other's answer.

"You must!!!" The Steward seemed to have lost control of his temper, generally a rare occurrence, and his yells caused Beregond to jump. "He is young, he is strong (though not so much as his brother), and will live if cared for! You will save him!"

This last command seemed to unnerve the healer, who could be heard trying to respond. However, Denethor burst through the doorway, back into the room where Beregond was listening. The latter attempted to slip outside unnoticed, but the Steward's shout of "Halt!" stopped him in his tracks. Beregond turned unwillingly to face the other, though he could not bring himself to look into the Steward's eyes.

Denethor spoke to him almost immediately, the former failing miserably to keep his frustrations out of his voice. "I must thank you for bringing Faramir in here, though his future looks very grim. At least now he has a chance."

Beregond thought he heard gratitude in the Steward's words, though he knew not how to reply. What appropriate response could one possibly make to the father of a dying son?

The Steward had not been expecting any reply however, and simply continued. "I must ask you, since you have obviously been exposed to at least a part of the fighting; do you know my other son, Boromir?"

The look of recognition in Beregond's face was unmistakable, and, upon noticing it, Denethor continued speaking. "Ahh, you are familiar with him then? Have you seen him at all during the battle, for he has not sent any word to me at all since this battle began."

If the Steward's other questions had been beestings, pricking Beregond's courage bit by bit until he could no longer speak, this last inquiry could only be likened to having a massive swarm of bees intent on attacking their victim. Beregond could no longer hear the sounds of battle outside, though they had been easily audible from the room. He could no longer think of the Haradrim, or even of Faramir. He could only recall the fall of Boromir, vividly, as though he had witnessed it only seconds before.

Beregond tried to conceal the pain in his mind, and indeed managed to keep a straight face. He choked out a few words, knowing that Denethor would not accept silence as an answer. "Haven't....seen....him.....recently," he finally stammered, staring intently at the ground.

Not for nothing was the Steward renowned for his intuitive abilities, for he was not fooled for an instant by Beregond. Instead, he grabbed the boy, forcing him to meet his gaze.

"Something has happened to Boromir; I can see it in your eyes," Denethor stated, his suspicions confirmed by the way the other was flinching. "Now, you will tell me where my other son is!"

********

Though he would not have admitted it to his friends (were they present), Boromir was frozen in place with terror. He saw the glinting eyes of the Haradrim as they hurled themselves forward, brandishing every weapon imaginable. A thousand thoughts seemed to run through his mind simultaneously, most of them concerning the possible escape he had been offered.

"I could be up on the wall right now, boasting a little to Beregond about my narrow escape. Faramir might already be dead anyway."

At the same instant, he knew he had could never have left his brother alone, handing him a certain death sentence at the hands of the invaders. Boromir hoped Faramir was safe.

Suddenly, there was no more time for thoughts. The blunt side of a particularly huge ax connected with Boromir's skull, causing him to be thrown against the wall. There would be no mercy from the Haradrim.

However, the fates seemed to have some other plans for the son of the Steward. Perhaps the man who had delivered the swing believed it to be a death blow. Indeed, it was certainly strong enough to knock Boromir completely senseless, and the Haradrim, seeing no movement from his limp body, had every reason to believe him dead. They saw no further use for the boy, soon becoming more concerned with the flaming arrows and oil that had begun to rain from the Gondorian bows. Their newest victim was ignored, at least temporarily.

But apparently, it was not yet time for death and Boromir to become aquatinted. Slowly, he awoke from his unconscious nightmare into a painful reality. His head felt as though it had been cracked into a dozen smaller pieces, blood was beginning to run down his face, and his thoughts consisted of a blurred mess of confusion. Yet, he lived.

As the battle continued to grow, until finally emerging into a full fledged assault on the second gate, Boromir became more aware of his surroundings. Carefully, he opened one eye.

His vision was strangely blurry, and he had no idea why he was sprawled upon the cold ground, with evil-looking men nearby, attacking a wall. He couldn't figure out why his head seemed to be on fire. Only two things registered vaguely in his mind: he was in serious pain, and in a very bad situation.

Nothing could be done about the pain. Boromir didn't dare move, even to rub his aching skull (and find the source of the blood). He wasn't thinking about the possibility that movement might alert the enemy to his situation, but he somehow knew that he should stay still.

The other problem might be possible to solve, though thinking clearly was difficult. Boromir had no idea where he was, or how to escape his current situation. He tried to sift through the haze of thoughts for an answer.

In the end, luck proved again to be on his side. As another volley of flaming arrows fell from above, one, poorly aimed, happened to strike the ground no more than a foot from the injured boy. It emitted a hollow "clink" noise.

Somehow, the sound cleared a small part of Boromir's brain. He recalled that he must be somewhere in the city, and the noise probably came from one of the many drains near the walls. Boromir also knew that the grates on them were sometimes loose, and, although a grown man would not fit through such a small hole, he might still manage to squeeze through.

He closed his one open eye, trying to focus on rolling towards the grate. Boromir didn't think about the possibility that the grate might be tight, or too small to fit through; he couldn't. He moved slowly towards the grate.

Immediately, Boromir cried out in pain, alerting a few of the Haradrim to his movement. They lunged at him, with weapons outstretched. The boy was three inches from the grate....then two......then one.

As the Haradrim weapons fell, Boromir slid into the loose grate, causing it to fall. One spear managed to connect with his arm, but the rest struck the ground harmlessly as the boy slipped through the small hole under the wall.