As night fell across Mordor, the three travelers moved with great speed back towards Minas Tirith. With the aid of Legolas' far-seeing vision, they went on through the night, pausing only briefly to rest and eat, the same object on all of their minds: home.

Thus it was that by the next dawn, they had covered as much ground as on one full day of their initial journey, when they had been slowed by the necessity of having to follow the slower Orcs. The White City lay but two day's march ahead, and even less if they were able to maintain their present pace. With hope of gaining shelter and seeing their loved ones soon, they paused beneath the breaking sunrise to take their food, with Legolas maintaining his vigilance for the slightest sign of danger.

Faramir frowned as he ate his portion of lembas bread and glanced up at the sky overhead. The clouds moving overhead glowed scarlet in the growing light; a red morning, foretelling doom, and its presence did little to ease the dread that lay over his soul. He gazed at the sky for a few moments longer, then lowered his eyes to stare at the bread in his hand, and sighed.

All during their night's journey, Faramir's mind had seized on nothing but the memory of the sight of Karil's army, and the mere thought of it lay a terrible dread upon his heart. He had feared the worst, prepared to meet it as the Captain that he was, but still the reality had shaken him. Still, so much evil remained in Middle-earth; still, Sauron's darkness lived with the aim to spread once more throughout the lands of the free peoples.

Still, men of Gondor, and Rohan, and Elves, and Dwarves, would have to meet that darkness upon the field of battle.

And still, grief born of war would rise, to strike at new hearts and tear loved ones apart forever.

Faramir shuddered, his appetite gone as he stared sightlessly at the bread in his hand. He had so dearly hoped that there would never again be a need for soldiers to ride to war across the Pelennor Fields, that the peoples of the West could rebuild their lives without fear of having them torn asunder by the sword and arrow. He had wished for little else but that no other would ever have to bear the sorrow of violent loss that had so painfully rent his own soul.

His face was solemn as he thought upon the moment he had first beheld Karil's terrible army as it seethed across the black plains of Mordor, preparing its engines for war. At that instant, his hopes and wishes had shattered; and as the searing warmth of dreadful realization flooded through him, he saw not the vast army of the Harad prince, but the inevitable, deadly consequences of its eventual use. Anguish would be visited afresh upon the West, and she had only just begun to heal from her previous wounds.

The answer seemed simple, he mused as he looked back up at the crimson sky, now mingled with bands of gold. Karil's army had to be subdued, or destroyed. But even there the grief would not be turned aside, for it was highly doubtful the Harad prince would raise such a force and then agree to its abandonment without a struggle. He would fight, warriors would fall, and perhaps with them Karil himself, thus ending forever any hope that Adir would ever be able to reconcile with the son he still dearly loved.

The young Steward shivered at this idea, and dropped his gaze again. Such an event would likely break the old Harad's heart. Faramir had hope that somewhere within Karil's darkened soul there yet lurked a spark of love for his father; surely, such a thing never died out completely. As Faramir finished his meal, he resolved to do all in his power to make certain that, whatever happened, Karil be taken alive at the end. Adir deserved at least a chance to see his hopes answered.

"Sir?"

Faramir looked up. Lieutenant Henvain was standing nearby, watching him with concern. With practiced speed, Faramir pulled himself from his reverie and gave the young man a slight smile, thinking how pleased he had been with the way Henvain had carried himself during this difficult journey. He would definitely have to speak with the soldier's commander.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" he said aloud.

The other man shifted a little uncomfortably. "Oh-just wanted to make sure you were all right, sir," he replied with a bit of hesitation. "I saw you were looking at the sky quite a bit. Do you think it will rain again?"

There was a pause as Faramir threw one last glance towards the clouds, which were now turning brighter and pinker with the spreading dawn. Then he smiled again and turned his eyes back to Henvain, shaking his head a little. "I am grateful for your concern, Lieutenant, but I was merely watching the clouds," he answered, rising from the rock he had been sitting on and rearranging his cloak. "They say a red sky at dawn is a bad omen."

"Oh," said Henvain, squinting into the sky. "Oh, yes, sir, I'd heard that."

Faramir checked his oil-skin bag, still smiling. "And what is your opinion?"

Henvain seemed to start a bit as he looked back down at Faramir. "Oh-mine, sir?"

The Steward nodded. "If you are not offended by my curiosity," he said kindly. "I suppose I am just wondering how our old traditions are faring in today's ranks."

"Hm." Henvain twisted his lips in thought for a moment. "Well...honestly, sir, I've never held much with omens and such. A red sky doesn't bother me. It's the large black rocks on the ground that bother me, sir, and the sooner we're over those and home, the better. That's my thinkin', sir."

Faramir laughed a little, feeling his heart lifting. "That is a wise statement, and I am precisely in accord with it," he said, "although I shall tell you that I have found times when omens have proven useful to me; someday we should share an ale, and discuss the matter."

Henvain suddenly looked terrified, his pale eyes becoming round. "I meant no disrespect to your beliefs, sir," he said quickly. "I mean-if you believe in omens, of course-"

But Faramir just as quickly shook his head and placed one gloved hand on Henvain's shoulder. "Fear not, Lieutenant, our difference of opinion does not anger me," he said in as reassuring a tone as possible. "I thought only that such a discussion might prove interesting, when all of this is behind us."

The young soldier continued to stare at him as if he did not quite believe him, but he managed to squeak out, "Yes, sir," when he finally found his breath again. "We'll have to do that. I'm, er, certain I can find the time."

"I hope so," said Faramir, quietly amused at the memories of how uncertain he himself had been around his superior officers, when he had first been a soldier. Thinking more on this, he added, "Lieutenant, you ought to know, I did have a few uncertainties about allowing you along on this mission."

Henvain eyed him almost expectantly, as if he knew what Faramir was going to say next and dreaded it. "Yes, sir?"

Faramir smiled. "I must apologize to you, for they were all unfounded," he continued. "You have proven an excellent soldier, as I had hoped, and I wished for you to know this before we went any farther. You have done well, Lieutenant, and you have my gratitude, and that of Gondor."

The young soldier looked a bit startled for a moment, then beamed, and Faramir felt his own heart lighten a bit more. He could have told Henvain about his own wary days as a young soldier, and how he knew that well-earned praise from a commander lightened a warrior's load as nothing else could. But now was not the time for such talk; perhaps later, over the promised ale. They had work to do, and a road to travel.

"Now, my friend," Faramir said, adjusting his cloak, "let us go home."

He resumed walking, keeping his eyes on Legolas who was ahead of them again, having finished his own meal. He heard the crunching of Henvain's boots close behind, and for a moment thought with hope that he had eased the young man's heart, for this day at least. Harder times undoubtedly lay ahead, for Henvain and all soldiers of the West. At the end of their journey home lay battle, perhaps war, and when his young friend marched next against the Orcs and Haradrim of Mordor, he would need every comforting thought his heart could summon. It was the most Faramir could do for him now.

--------------

They walked for several hours, until the sun struck its zenith and began its descent towards the horizon. Still their strength did not falter, despite the pressing pace, for all knew the vital urgency of their mission. It was only a short matter of time until Karil's army would be ready to march.

At length they reached an area of Mordor where the land grew more flat, leveling out into vast fields of large, jumbled rocks and deep crevices where the exertions of the earth had long ago torn the ground asunder. Crossing these open plains was dangerous, but along this path lay the fastest route to Gondor, and so they set out across, each one ever vigilant.

Time and nature had arranged many of the rocks into something of a road, raised several feet above the boulder-strewn, uneven land that stretched into the distance on either side. The landscape was barren and black, with steam rising from a few of the cracks that split the hard gray earth.

They had not gone halfway across the plain when Legolas, who had been walking ahead, suddenly turned, his blue eyes wide as he stared behind them. Faramir and Henvain saw this at once and stopped, both instantly on alert.

For a few moments Legolas stood still, listening, then exclaimed in a loud whisper one word:

"Orcs!"

Henvain and Faramir turned to look behind them; the raised road turned and disappeared behind some much larger hills of stone, still shielding them from the view of the Orcs. With no time to spare and little choice for a hiding place, all three travelers leapt to the rocky fields below.

Some ten feet below the surface of the road, they found themselves faced with the gigantic boulders that formed the pathway's backbone. They were none too deep or inviting, but certainly enough to conceal them until the Orcs passed, and each of them swiftly chose a boulder and hid behind it as best he could.

As Legolas and Henvain positioned themselves, Faramir swiftly threw himself into a deep nook formed by two rocks leaning against each other, their stony tops barely touching. Drawing himself as tightly as he could into the niche, he went quickly into a crouch, his breathing hushed as he listened to the world over his head. Sounds came to him now, the shuffling of booted feet and loud, brutish voices drawing closer with every second. A contingent of Orcs, most definitely, and a large one at that, marching towards Gondor.

Faramir sighed and dropped his head, pursing his lips in thought. They had but to wait until the Orcs went by, and they could continue, although a different route would have to be quickly found.

His hand fell on the oil-skin bag containing his papers and maps. He glanced down at it, thought for a moment, then silently pulled it off and slid it far behind the stone out of sight. Then his hand slid to the hilt of his sword and rested there as he held his breath, waiting.

The voices and footsteps were drawing closer now, and he could hear their unpleasant tones raised in argument. Many voices.

"I don't care how important the Prince says this is," he heard one Orc whine in a shrill tone. "I don't like bein' 'volunteered' for this sort of work."

Half of the Orc-voice were lifted in agreement, the other half shouted them down.

"That's enough out of you!" roared another Orc, in a much deeper, more powerful voice. Faramir frowned at this, wondering if it might be one of the Uruk-hai warriors he had heard of. "I'm not listening to any more your noise. Obey the Prince and be silent!"

The Orcs were almost on top of them.

"I'd be silent if they'd got someone else to march all the way to Gondor and rebuild the bridges across the river," groused the first Orc. "I was almost done with my siege tower. Now someone else will finish it and take the credit."

He heard another deep snarl; there appeared to be a second Uruk-hai there. "Just as you took over the work from someone else who'd already done most of it!" it growled. "Stop makin' excuses, you just don't fancy moving that fat carcass of yours."

There was an explosion of arguing voices, and what sounded like a great deal of pushing and grunting.

The group of Orcs had stopped not ten feet away from them.

Faramir made no sound as he gripped the hilt of his sword, eyes wide, listening.

There was a loud thud, followed by an 'oomph!' and the sound of someone falling heavily above Faramir's head. The yelling began to subside.

"Said that's ENOUGH!" bellowed the first Uruk's voice over the smaller ones. "Karil put me in charge of this division, and I won't waste one more minute on your stupid Orc belly-aching!"

"If that Prince likes your Uruks so much, let 'im send your ilk to build those bloody bridges!" cried one of the Orcs. The shouting grew louder.

"Us Orcs have done your dirty work long enough," agreed another. There was much scuffling of feet, and the sharp sound of grappling.

"Right!" hollered the first Uruk, rage clear in his voice. "You want to stay here? Suits me fine!"

There was a loud squeak, followed by a piercing scream, and Faramir watched in horror as a fat, leather-clad Orc went plunging over the side of the road, thrown with considerable force to land not ten feet in front of him.

The Orc wasted no time after striking the hard, dusty ground. With an outraged yell, he jumped back up to his, shaking the dirt from his clothes and looking up at the road above him, his large fists balled with anger.

Then his paused, scowled, and looked with considerable puzzlement straight at Faramir.

Faramir felt the breath leave his body; for a moment he had no thought, only the dread realization that they had been discovered. Quickly on that feeling came another, far more familiar sensation: the determination to fight, and gain victory if at all possible. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

As for the Orc, he simply blinked in surprise, straightened, and said loudly, "HEY!" before drawing his own weapon and lunging straight for Faramir.

In one graceful motion, Faramir jumped to his feet and sprang from his hiding place, long hair flying, bringing his sword down in a sweeping motion and knocking the Orc's blade aside. The Orc staggered back, then struck again, roaring in fury. As Faramir drove the creature back into the rocky plains, he was dimly aware of the cries of shock coming from the Orcs above them, and the thuds as more of them jumped down to the ground to join the fight.

Faramir quickly traded a few more blows with his eager adversary before wounding the Orc and finishing him off with a single thrust through the chest. He wasted little time, hurriedly withdrawing his sword before the beast had even fallen. Gritting his teeth, he whirled in time to clash swords with three more Orcs that were charging him from behind, and the cold air was soon filled with the noise of battle.

As he stood his ground, his sword flashing as it sliced repeatedly through the air, Faramir quickly looked to the road to see what they were facing. A large group of Orcs stood there watching, perhaps thirty in number, three much taller than the rest. Another small group of Orcs were hurriedly clambering down the side of the onto the plains, and Faramir saw them fall onto two figures clad in gray. Henvain's shouts and the sound of flying arrows joined the din, and the Steward realized that his companions had joined the fight.

Uttering a sincere prayer in his heart for assistance and protection, Faramir plunged into battle.

-----------

From the moment Legolas had seen the large Orc thrown into the air, he had readied his bow. Now as the Orcs came pouring over the side of the road, he began firing before even coming completely clear of the rocks. Within seconds, five of the creatures fell dead, cleaved by Elven arrows.

Swiftly Legolas looked about, judging the foe; many more Orcs were on the road above them, several had targeted Faramir, and Henvain had his hands full as well. Choosing a suitable-looking rock, the Elf climbed its height as smoothly and rapidly as a cat, swinging himself around so that he could easily target any Orcs who ventured onto the plain. There was a clear view of the road as well, with its chaotic mass of Orcs all running about as their commanders hollered orders.

Settling himself, Legolas began to once more ply his bow. His first missile sent one of the Uruks to the ground with an arrow through its skull. It had barely struck the rocks before Legolas' second arrow went flying, striking another of the creatures in the neck.

As he drew another arrow out of his quiver, he heard a roaring noise from below him. Looking down, he saw a swarm of Orcs about the base of his perch, brandishing weapons and howling for his blood. Quickly he brought his bow down and fired off a shot, catching the lead Orc in the forehead.

With a strangled cry it fell back, and as it did so Legolas grasped another arrow, already selecting his next target. It was at that moment that something slammed into his left side, followed instantly by searing pain. He gasped and dropped the arrow to grab the rock, momentarily sent off balance, and glanced down to see the ugly hilt of an Orcish dagger protruding from his flesh.

For an instant the Elf's senses reeled as he fought to regain his breath. With his free hand he pulled out the dagger, dropping it to the rocks below; the wound was not deep, but blood still flowed freely from the wound. A mingled roar surrounded him, and his wit righted itself soon enough to perceive several Orcs scaling the rock towards him. Undaunted, Legolas nocked another arrow, ignoring the horrible pain now shooting up his side, and fired it. It buried itself in the shoulder of the Orc closest to him; the brute choked and fell from the rock, but the rest surged heedlessly on.

Ignoring the blood now soaking his side, Legolas forced his left arm to reach for another arrow. Suddenly a heavy weight fell on him from behind; the rock slipped from his grasp as the shrieks of Orcs filled his ears. Black rock flew up to meet him; there was a very loud THUD! as he felt his head strike the merciless stone, an instant of sharp, agonizing pain lancing through his body, and then darkness.

-----------

Henvain was definitely beginning to regret his decision to volunteer for this mission.

Never had he faced so many Orcs with so few comrades by his side to help fight them off. Of course, he thought as he plied his sword against the two Orcs now bent on killing him, he would have come to Lord Faramir's defense no matter what, but now that they had come out into the open and truly seen what they were facing, he thought that there seemed to be hundreds of them.

Most of the Orcs seemed to be focusing their attention on Lord Faramir and Lord Legolas, he noticed, looking about even as his sword rang against his opponent's blades. Lord Faramir, in particular, was surrounded and beset, although he seemed to be holding his own even against such large numbers. He could no longer see Lord Legolas.

"Looks like we got stuck with the runt of the litter," snarled the first of his adversaries with a disparaging grin as he hacked at Henvain.

The young soldier scowled and quickly blocked the creature's move; they were both driving him back onto the plains, away from the road.

The second Orc, a small skinny creature with large teeth, gave an ugly laugh in reply. "Yeah, he's sure a poor one," he rasped, looking Henvain up and down with his tiny yellow eyes. "They bring you along to haul the gear, maggot?"

Henvain had never gained a skill for witty responses to taunts, so he did nothing more than screw up his face and lunge ahead, pushing the two Orcs back towards the road with all of the aggressive energy he possessed. A few moments later, the smaller Orc made a fatal mistake, and Henvain's sword passed with a quick thrust through its body.

There was little time for rejoicing as the first Orc fell dead, for barely had Henvain watched its twitching form slide from his weapon than he saw the second creature, with a howl of rage, rear back and leap on him with the full weight of its hulking body behind it.

With a resounding "OOF!" the two enemies fell to the ground, the Orc grappling and kicking with animalistic fury. Once he had recovered from the surprise, Henvain found himself fully capable of kicking and punching back, bashing the Orc with the hilt of his sword and gouging at him with his free hand. It was not very different from the few times he had fought with his brother, aside from the deadly intent.

For several minutes the man and Orc rolled violently about on the ground, the Orc slicing at Henvain with his dagger and sharp claws, Henvain fighting back with sword, fist and knee. He scarcely felt the sharp rocks biting through his clothes as they thrashed about, or the deep bruises and gouges the Orc was raining upon him, or the rivulets of blood trickling down his face; he thought only to kill the Orc and help Faramir, and then to go home-

-and then he was falling.

Gasping as he felt the ground suddenly disappear beneath him, Henvain understood several things all at once: the Orc had released him, everything was growing rapidly darker, and he was going to die.

Before he fully realized what was happening, Henvain felt himself slam very hard against a sloping surface of solid rock. Pain exploded through his body as he slid away and continued to fall, too dazed to stop himself. Helplessly, he sensed his body turning over, just in time to see another ledge of rock rushing towards him. He struck this with full force, yelling as another sheet of agony engulfed him, and still he tumbled downward. Suddenly the sky was above him, pulling quickly away; he had just enough time to recognize what he was looking at when he smashed onto a third floor of rock.

For a moment, he blacked out, stunned by the shock and pain. Then that passed, and as his thoughts reassembled themselves, he realized that somebody was screaming, very long and loud, and it sounded as if it was echoing forever.

Light seemed to be shining in his face, and he very slowly opened his eyes, uncertain as to what he would see. Pain such as he had never felt before arched through his whole body, and at first that was all he could think of. Every bone felt broken, and he felt blood seeping into his clothes. Then, gradually, he understood that he was lying on his back, looking at the sky; that he was surrounded by two very high walls of stone that reached some thirty feet above him, with several jagged shelves of rock jutting out from each side; and that he could still hear the scream.

He really didn't want to move, because he knew it would be quite painful, but a part of his mind that hadn't been knocked out of reason was urging him to rise, for Lord Faramir and Lord Legolas needed him. He tried one arm; the pain was awful, but he could move it. The other arm was the same, not bad if he took it slow. But he couldn't take it slow, not now.

The legs next, and that proved much worse. There was a piercing agony in his left leg that spoke undeniably of a sprain, at the least, and it would barely move. Henvain gasped, bracing himself; there was no time for this-

He next lifted his head and looked around, trying to figure out where he was. He had apparently fallen into one of the huge crevices that tore through the Mordor landscape, and not two feet away to his right was another crack, one that seemed to drop much farther into the earth. Shuddering, he realized what had happened to the Orc he had been grappling with, and the meaning behind that long, awful scream.

Very, very carefully, and with much groaning, Henvain sat up, staring at the fathomless crevice and thanking his good fortune; a few more feet over and he would have plunged to his death along with the Orc. As he tried to stand, however, he began to question his luck, for every movement was anguish. But he did not have the luxury of pampering his injured body.

He had to get out of there.

His eyes had adjusted to the shadowy light now; the ledge he was on was some three feet wide, and the crevice appeared to be part of a larger series of splits that interlaced along the surface of the plains. There was an opening some three feet wide in the wall nearby, the start of another split that branched off in the direction of the road. Blinking and trying to ignore the anguish that cursed his every motion, Henvain gingerly eased himself to his feet and peered into the narrow passageway. Rocks and dirt were strewn upon its base; perhaps he could find somewhere along the way to climb out, and help his friends.

He took a deep breath and a very hesitant step. Blinding pain instantly shot through his leg, as if a dagger had been driven through his knee, but he had to brush it aside. He had to walk, and climb, and fight, if need be. They needed him.

Bracing his hands against the sides of the passage, he forced himself forward as quickly as he could, although his battered frame protested every step. He could still hear the clamor of battle above him; it wasn't over yet. He had to move.

And so he did, very falteringly at first, then a bit quicker as his body did not fall apart after the first steps. In a few minutes he had made his way into the mouth of the passage.

Suddenly he heard voices and footsteps above him. Gasping, he slid down and pressed himself against the wall of the crevice, his eyes wide as he looked overhead and waited, listening. What if whoever it was could hear his heart pounding?

/Crunch, crunch, crunch/

"This where Kargesh and that human fell?"

'An Orc voice, definitely,' thought Henvain, flattening himself even farther against the stone wall and biting back a cry of pain from the exertion. Blood dripped in his eye; he ignored it.

"Yeah, saw the whole thing," said a second voice, also of the Orc persuasion.
"Looks like that human scum got took care of, all right."

Silence. Henvain held his breath, ignoring the sharp stabbing from what felt like several broken ribs. They hadn't seen him.

"Hm," said the first voice. "Think we ought to go down an' have a look around, just to make sure?"

Henvain stiffened; it felt as if his heart had given up and was trying to climb out of his chest through his throat and make a run for it.

The second voice let out a snort. "You daft? I ain't goin' all the way down there. Bloody dangerous-that split looks a hundred feet deep, at least!"

There was another pause, several years long at least, during which Henvain completely forgot how to breath. Not that he could in any case, with his heart still clawing at his throat.

Then, finally:

"Mm, well, you might be right," mused the first voice. "Not worth fallin' down the length of the earth for that."

"Yeah, don't want to end up like Kargesh. Bet he's still fallin', eh? Hehehe!"

The second Orc laughed as well, and Henvain's blood ran cold at the large amount of amusement the creatures seemed to derive from the death of their comrade. He thought of the scream again, and shivered.

"C'mon-let's go get the last of 'em!" said the first Orc, still chuckling.

/Crunch, crunch, crunch/

And the voices were gone.

Several moments passed, during which Henvain silently gasped for air as his mind whirled. 'Move', he thought to himself, when coherent thought returned to him; 'I've got to move, to go back and help.' He didn't want to contemplate what the Orc meant by 'get the last of them'.

Slowly he turned his head to peer up the passageway he had crawled into. Time had begun to fill its emptiness; a small ways ahead he could see a pile of rocks and dirt, climbing higher as the split wound on towards the road. Henvain swallowed with hope; maybe it would rise high enough for him to climb out and go give Lord Faramir and Legolas whatever help he could. It was his only choice.

Slowly, yet as quickly as he could, the young soldier very carefully got to his feet, favoring his injured leg as much as possible. His entire body seemed to ache, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself onward, moving step by anguished step down the passage to the world above, and whatever fate it held in store for him.