**Author's Notes:
Okay, last one for awhile... I am sorry, but with Liam working it may be awhile before I can update it. And this one is just a teaser.**


***************Chapter 24***************


He opens his eyes and looks at the darkened chamber. He reaches over and pulls a bug off his right arm and promptly eats it. At one time in his life, he might have found this disgusting, but not now. He was bred to survive. And survive was what he was doing. They didn't feed him much, once every few days. And even if it was moldy and disgusting he didn't care. It was edible. His stomach had gotten used to it. With a sigh he swallows and then leans back against the cold wall. He hated this place. He really did. He wished to be home, having dinner with his father and Faramir. The thought of his baby brother brings tears to his eyes. He was dead. That was right. He was killed in an orc attack while trying to defend Osgilliath, or so he had been told. Maybe if he was more sensitive to things, like Faramir, he would know his brother was just fine. But he wasn't, so with tears trickling down his face he tries not to think of his brother, or how his body had most likely been pulled apart by hungry orcs. He feels sick suddenly at the thought of his poor brother and deposits what little he has in his stomach into a far corner of the cell he was in. Then he once again breaks down into a fit of tears. It hurt more than anything he had ever felt before, the lose of his beloved brother. Faramir was the only one who truly understood him, looked out for him. It was Faramir that would find him and comfort him if something went wrong or if he had gotten so drunk he couldn't make his way home. Faramir had always been there. And then there was the guilt. He had promised his mother he would always protect Faramir. And what had happened? He had gone off and not been there and Father probably pushed Faramir to do something and Faramir, poor Faramir, would have done just what his father said. Damn Denethor! He loved his father but damnit he should have been nicer to Faramir! He was his son! So he was sickly and he would rather read than fight. He was still a great son! Greater than himself. And now poor Faramir was probably not even given the burial he deserved. Denethor probably hadn't even acknowledged Faramir's death. He wipes at his tears, angry with his father once again. If he lived and got out of his damn cell, he would make sure Faramir was buried with the respect he deserved, and that Denethor never forgot how he had treated his son and lived with that guilt for the rest of his life.

He rests his head back against the wall behind him, stretching his legs out in front of him. Looking at his legs he once again sighs. One knee was mangled, something he had received from the trip he took over the falls. his other knee wasn't much better though he could at least bend it, though with pain. His right arm was useless. He could feel it but he couldn't move it. And then there was his right eye. It was almost constantly blurry. No matter what he did he couldn't get it to focus unless the object was an inch from his eye. So all in all he could never really be a soldier again. That is what depressed him the most. He would never again protect his people in battle. But what people? After all, the war was over. Mordor had won. There was no Gondor. Anyone alive was either being killed or enslaved. He lowers his head and sobs softly. And it was most likely his fault. If he had just fought the rings pull. If he had not tried to take it from Frodo. Guilt starts to gnaw at him again, his heart heavy with it for he blamed the worlds downfall on himself. And his brother's death. Laying down on his side he curls up into a ball as best he can and lets himself fall into despair until he just can't keep his eyes open anymore. The pain in his heart and body were too much. Maybe death would take him this time. He hoped so. Then he could be with his brother and they would both be free from the pain.