Hi and again, sorry for the long update. Thank you for being so patient with me. Even Evil Skittle thought it would be nice to post a long chapter as a reward.

Reviewer Responses

arwens-light= Thanks for reviewing. Hey that's cool that all of you are on ff.net! Yah, I like Beregond so I decided to go more into his family, though unfortunately that is probably all you will see of them. How were the SATs?

Raksha= Sorry for the wait. I know the feeling, there are so many good stories that haven't been updated in forever and it drives me nuts!

the evil witch queen=  a few more answers here. But this is certainly not the end. We have at least one more chapter of action before the end.

Callie3= Not do anything bad to Faramir? Why would I do that? I like Anariel as well so I decided to let her survive the story.

Also thanks to everyone else who reviewed!

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Éowyn's hand closed tightly around her husband's seal ring, trying to quell the fear rising in her heart as she listened to the little girl, Anariel, speak. Apparently the girl and her father had been snatched off the road as they were heading to Emyn Arnen to try and begin a new life. Separated and put into cages with other people, usually the dregs of society, Anariel and her father had been held for several weeks with little food or water. As the nights continued, more and more people were taken away and her daddy had told her to close her eyes tightly each time as they were killed. Except the last night when her father was killed and Faramir had saved her.

            //Oh Faramir, always the gallant rescuer. Why do you always have to be so noble?// A small smile flickered on her face and she sighed. //But that is what I love about him. I wouldn't have him any other way.//

            When Anariel finished her story, Aragorn stood up and walked over to a window. The rain had stopped and the evening sun was struggling to come out from behind the blanket of clouds before disappearing into night. "We must move as soon as possible."

            Anariel, who was sitting in Beregond's lap, giggled softly as the  Captain unconsciously tapped his fingers on her head as he had done with Bergil years before. "The Ithilien Company is not due back from Henneth Annûn till tomorrow at the earliest. We have only the White Guard and your own men."

            "That should be enough if we are able to pull off a sneak attack." Aragorn turned back to the table and knelt to be eye level with Anariel. "Do you think you can show us how to get back to the place where you last saw Fa…the nice man?"

            Anariel ignored him and looked at Beregond who smiled apologetically at the king. The little girl, true to her word, had told the story to 'the man in a green shirt with a white tree' and only him. "Anariel, you can answer his question. He is the king." The look on her face told him she didn't understand. "It means he is…is a sort of father to all the men in green shirts and white trees."

            Although Aragorn raised an eyebrow at this metaphor, Anariel accepted it. "I can show you, Mister…" She again looked at Beregond.

            "Lord Aragorn."

            "Mister lord Aragorn. I can take you there."

            "Absolutely not!" Beregond winced at his wife's fury. "But Cali…"

            "Do not 'but Cali' me, you are not taking that child into a forest, at night, where there is an almost certain possibility of bloodshed! I am ashamed of both of you for even thinking it!"

            Éowyn bit her lip as Beregond and Aragorn hung their heads at Caladwen's recriminations. Aragorn tried bravely to stand up to her. "Milady, she is the only way we can find Lord Faramir."

            "Find another way, my lord." The woman's eyes blazed with a mother's wrath.

            Deciding to end the argument, Éowyn stepped forward. "Perhaps you could ask Anariel for directions instead of hauling her back to a place that is no doubt filled with bad memories for her."

            The two men stared at her, unused to this strange concept of 'asking for directions'. Taking advantage of the silence, Anariel spoke up. "All you have to do is follow the little white stream, it takes you right there."

            Aragorn looked at the girl, then turned to Beregond. "Captain, assemble your men."

            As he watched the stars come out and the half-moon rise, Faramir rubbed his arms in a vain attempt to warm himself, and tried to ignore the evil emanating from the cave behind him. Still damp from the day's rain, he cursed his blindness for what seemed like the thousandth time. //How could I not see this trap? Even little Bergil could have smelled that one a mile away.//

            It all made sense now, though. During the last days of Numenor, a family of the Faithful had to go into hiding: the father and son together, the mother by herself, and the daughter with the leaders of the Faithful, Elendil and his sons. All were found and killed but the girl who came to Middle Earth and became his several times great-grandmother. But the ghost of the mother, Miriel, stayed to watch over her descendents who were being killed by Dark Acolytes every 150 years. //But why do they wish to kill us and why every 150 years on the half-moon?// He looked over at the stone alter, stained with blood. //Perhaps I don't want to find out.

            Aragorn surveyed the assembled Guard. Even some who had retired after the War had answered the call to help their Prince. He looked over at Éowyn who stood next to him, though her eyes were drawn to the darkened forest. "We will save him, my lady."

            Glancing up, Éowyn nodded. "I know we will." It was then Aragorn noticed she had changed into a soldier's uniform, obviously Faramir's since it hung loose on her shorter body. A sword was girded at her waist.

            "My lady…" The cold glare Éowyn leveled him with stopped the sentence.

            "We will save him, Lord Aragorn." Her blue eyes grew sad and her voice lowered to a whisper. "We must."

            It was late at night when Faramir heard the Acolytes coming toward his cage. Bracing himself as they opened the door, he shoved through the men and broke for the trees, only to be subdued by more men hidden in the forest.

            His hands bound tightly, Faramir was yanked to the altar where the Head Acolyte waited for him. The Steward's frustration was building. He knew that at his full strength he might have been able to break free and escape, but lack of sleep and little nourishment had drained his energy.

            The Head Acolyte gave his men a signal and they lifted the struggling prince onto the altar, tying his wrists and ankles down in a heart-chilling reenactment of the sacrifices of Númenor.

            A dark chant started quietly among the Acolytes who were all draped in black robes. The Head Acolyte raised his hands to the black sky. "Lord Melkor, we beseech thee, except this sacrifice in your fearsome name!" He turned to 6 Acolytes who were standing by a long box that was decorated with evil runes. "Bring forth the test." The six Acolytes opened the box and pulled out a long, silver sword that glinted in the moonlight.

            //And apparently it is made of a solid block of stone.// thought Faramir as the Acolytes struggled to carry it over. The Steward was startled when another group of men held down his right shoulder as they slipped his hand out of the bonds. As Faramir struggled to free himself from their hold, the 6 Acolytes dropped the sword with a clatter on the altar beside him. The Head Acolyte forcibly wrapped the Steward's hand around the hilt. "Lift the sword."

            Faramir stared at him in disbelief. "It takes six men to carry that thing here and you expect me to lift it with one hand?"

            With a glare at the Steward for destroying the solemnity of the sacrifice, the Head Acolyte dug his surprisingly long and sharp fingernails into Faramir's hand. "Lift the sword."

            Trying not to wince, Faramir acquiesced. "Very well, just let go of my hand."

            Grasping the hilt tightly, he breathed in deeply and lifted. Remarkably it took almost no effort to raise it and Faramir felt like a small bolt of lightning had hit his hand.

            The chanting of the Acolytes grew louder as their leader smiled evilly. As the sword was wrestled from Faramir, the Head Acolyte grabbed the Steward's hand and carefully studied the palm. At last the Head Acolyte shouted loudly, "At last, the true heir!" and the other Acolytes cheered. Faramir's hand was quickly rebound to the altar. "And now, the blood to wake the Dark Beast from its sleep." Pulling out a silver knife, the Head Acolyte sliced down into Faramir's left shoulder.

            Faramir gasped from the pain and his head spun. As the first drops of blood hit the stone, the ground shook, jarring his shoulder even more. "What the Void was that?"

            As the Acolytes chanted and swayed, the Head Acolyte grinned maniacally. "The Dark Beast awakens with the shed blood from the line of he who imprisoned it over 3000 years ago. Every 150 years more blood is needed to keep it alive until the true heir is found. Now as you lose blood and life drains from you, it gains life and freedom. Then the heir of the King shall die and the Beast will live, bringing terror and death to the land!"

            Faramir shuddered at the evil in this man. Ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder, he continued to struggle against the ropes that held him captive. "Listen, I think you have the wrong person. I am not of the line of Kings, I am just a Steward."

            The Head Acolyte barked out a laugh. "I speak not of the Kings of Gondor and Middle Earth, but the mighty line of Tar-Minyatur of Númenor through Tar-Palantir who bound the Dark Beast in elvish chains and enchanted sleep."

            This didn't make any sense to the Steward who was an avid scholar of history. "The line of Tar-Palantir ended in the Downfall of Númenor with the death of Ar-Zimraphel his daughter."

            "Ah, but you are wrong, Tar-Faramir. The line of Palantir endured through Zimraphel's daughter who would have been Queen after her." The Head Acolyte's eyes glinted obsidian. "But perhaps you did not know that Ar-Zimraphel had an elvish name. Miriel."

            Faramir gaped at them. //They are mad! They have twisted history into their own warped thinking.// The ground shook again and the evil in the clearing pressed heavier against him as all the Acolytes danced and chanted around him. His eyes turned to the sword that now lay on the grass nearby, having grown too heavy for the Acolytes to place it back in the box. In the trees only a few birds sang, fewer and fewer as the darkness grew. But there was this one annoying sparrow that still trilled incessantly as if talking to him.

            The Steward stifled a gasp of realization. The chirping was for him, but it was not bird. It was a signal from his Guard, calling for him. //They must be nearby!// yet he had to resist calling back, for the Acolytes would surely realize what was going on and all surprise would be lost. Faramir's breath caught in his throat as the Head Acolyte approached the altar and again drew the sacrificial knife. //Hurry!//

            Beregond shook his head and lowered the bird-whistle. "He is not responding. That means he is either in a position in which he cannot call, or he is…incapacitated."

            Éowyn clenched her hand tightly, her fingernails almost piercing her skin. //You mean dead. No, Faramir is not dead! I refuse to even consider that option.// A sense of urgency clutched at her heart as the sound of chanting drifted towards them.

            Faramir's frightened gray eyes focused on the knife held above him. As the Head Acolyte began a dark prayer in the tongue of Mordor, the knife fell lower and lower until the sharp metal pressed against his throat. Faramir willed himself to keep his eyes open, to face death bravely. //At least I have gone through this before.// he thought ironically.

            But this time he would not wake. His thoughts went to his parents, to Boromir who it seemed he would soon be joining. Then Éowyn's face flashed before him and his heart twisted. //I don't want to leave her! Éowyn!.// The chanting escalated and Faramir tensed as the Head Acolyte's smile grew and the knife pressed harder, cutting into his skin. "Éowyn," he whispered, wanting her name to be the last word on lips.

            Aragorn, Éowyn, and the White Guard crept forward, surrounding the clearing. The king hissed through his teeth at the sight of Faramir bound to a bloodied altar with a knife at his throat. A ghostly pale Éowyn touched his shoulder, a signal to hurry. Drawing his bow, Aragorn thought to slay the man holding the knife with an arrow in his throat, but that might not stop his hand in time. Focusing on the knife-hand, Aragorn held his breath. If he missed, they wouldn't be able to get another shot in, or he could even hit Faramir. Banishing these thoughts, the king took careful aim.

            The chant ended, but as the knife moved to end his life, Faramir heard a twang and felt a fast breath of air brush his cheek as an arrow lodged in the Head Acolyte's hand, inches away from his own face. The pressure of the knife instantly disappeared as it clattered on the stone next to his head. As the Head Acolyte clutched his hand, more arrows filled the air. Yet is seemed that they glanced off the Acolytes, only piercing through an occasional underarm or knee. A thought struck Faramir. "They are wearing mail! Beneath the cloaks!" They must have heard him because the arrows stopped and he heard swords unsheathe.

            Suddenly a sharp pain ran through Faramir's shoulder, his head dizzying. The Head Acolyte was pulling himself up from where he had fallen to his knees, using the Steward's injured arm for support. Using his good hand, the crazed man picked up the knife again. "You will not escape the will of Melkor!"

            As his men charged, Beregond tried to head straight to Faramir, frustrated by the dark men that stood in his way. Finally he got a clear view of his lord and his breath caught. One of the dark men was moving to slay Faramir who lay helpless, still bound to the altar. Pulling out his dagger, Beregond flung it at the Acolyte, only to have his arm shoved at the last moment throwing off his aim. Turning to fight one of the dark servants, he could only pray that the blade hit its target.

            All of a sudden, Faramir felt the bonds loosen on his right hand. Pulling free, he grabbed the hilt of the knife as it plunged towards him. Now it was a struggle of strength that would determine if he lived or died. A struggle Faramir didn't intend to lose. With a sudden burst of strength, he threw off the Head Acolyte and wrested control of the knife. Quickly freeing his other hand and his feet, Faramir rolled off the side of the table. Struggling to his feet, he dodged through the melee towards the 'heavy' sword, intent on arming himself.

            Dispatching another Acolyte, Éowyn heard their leader shout, "Do not let him reach the sword!" She turned and saw a now freed Faramir headed for a sword that lay on the ground. But the Acolytes rallied together and while most focused their attention on the Steward, some started for the weapon.

            //Oh no you don't. If you don't want Faramir to get that sword than that sword is exactly what he will get.// Shoving through the fight, Éowyn made her way to the sword along with three guards. As the guards fought back the onslaught of Acolytes, she reached down to pick the sword up…and it didn't move. Frowning, she used both hands and all her strength to lift it. It moved an inch at most.

            "Éowyn! Get him the sword!" yelled Aragorn who was trying to make his way to her side.

            Looking up, Éowyn saw that Faramir was cornered near a tree. //No!// "Lord Aragorn, help me! It is stuck." Reaching her, Aragorn took hold of the sword. He gasped at its weight, like it was made of stone, but he felt an elvish smith's work in it. Like his own sword, Andúril, this one had only one bearer. Somehow the King was able to lift it. Bracing himself, Aragorn slowly began turning in a circle, swinging the weighted sword around, faster and faster, before letting it fly towards the Acolytes that were closing in on the unarmed Steward.

            Instinctively ducking to avoid the heavy object flying towards their heads, the Acolytes let the sword sail over them. It landed about three feet to Faramir's left. The Head Acolyte screamed. "Do not let him touch it!" Then everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Faramir dove towards the sword, pain ripping through him as he landed on his wounded shoulder. Yet he still managed to grab the sword, light as a feather in his hand, and stand.

            The lightning that he had felt at the first touch returned, but it was short lived for the earth rumbled again, this time so hard that everyone fell to the ground. A loud roar followed. With an evil laugh, the Head Acolyte picked himself up. "The Dark Beast awakes! The heir must be sacrificed for the chains that bind it to fall away!"

            All the Acolytes now headed after Faramir. As they stalked towards him, the Steward saw the men who had come to his rescue trying to break through. //And woman.// he noted, not very surprised. Turning his attention back to his attackers, Faramir lifted his sword so that the half-moon glinted off it. "Kampha kaleme e Isel!"

            His shout reverberated through Aragorn's heart. //Hold the shine of the moon!// He could see the nobility in Faramir's countenance, a nobility not just of Stewards. Of Kings. "White Guard to Faramir!" Aragorn shouted, brandishing Andúril.

            First Éowyn, then Beregond and the rest of the guard echoed the King of Gondor's call. "To Faramir!"

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Hmmm. Should I leave you there? After all, I didn't get very many reviews. Luckily for you I don't hold grudges so another chapter it is!