Faramir gave a cry as he lunged forward, thrusting the point of his sword through yet another another Orc. The creature howled and collapsed, its carcass falling among the several corpses littering the round about Faramir's feet, its black blood adding to the sticky mass already caking the Steward's sword. Yet before a moment had passed, another fiend took its place, and Faramir began his fight anew.
Their blades clashed, and Faramir found himself not only contending against the hulking beast now facing him, but several of the other Orcs as well. As he slashed at one Orc with his sword, he struck out at another with his dagger, and a third with the hard sole of his boot. They churned around him in a roaring, swarming mass, driving him over and across the rocks in their effort to subdue him.
Yet still Faramir's blade flashed and sang in the air, still he beat the Orcs back with every ounce of strength he possessed. In his heart, he knew he would likely be killed or taken, knew the odds were long against them, but such knowledge did nothing to quell his fighting spirit. The enemies of Gondor stood between him, his friends, and their homes and loved ones; his one purpose now was to defeat them, and into that goal he poured his entire effort. If the bitter end was reached and still he fell, he would not fall easily.
As he plied his sword against the Orc, he searched to find the fate of his companions. Henvain had disappeared, but he saw Legolas perched atop a high point, sending his deadly arrows into the Orcs. Cheering his comrade in his heart, Faramir returned to his pursuits with added vigor, refusing to quell the small spark of hope within him that they might yet escape the fray alive.
His newest victim fell mortally wounded, and Faramir quickly turned his eyes to see how Legolas fared. His heart tightened with horror; the perch where the Elf had been was vacant, and he could see the Orcs surrounding a motionless form at its base, amid much laughing and cheers.
In one timeless instant Faramir caught sight of his friend's figure lying still on the black ground, blood soaking his shirt, his eyes staring unseeing into the sky, and the Steward felt himself go cold with sorrow. A shout of rage filled his throat, and his blue eyes blazed as he redoubled his attacks upon his foes. There was little time for thought now, only a simple, driving grief, and he used it to viciously assail the Orcs as he sought to avenge his comrade.
They surrounded Faramir now, striking at him with sword and club and mace; those who had gloated over Legolas' downfall had abandoned the still corpse to entertain themselves with fresher game. Ages seemed to pass as he dealt blow after blow to the enemies that surrounded him. He knew their blades had struck his flesh, saw his red blood mingling with the black upon his garments, yet he felt no pain, only an all-consuming desire to stand his ground.
Somewhere within his mind he knew it was hopeless, yet hope remained, for Henvain's fate was unknown to him. If Henvain lived, and knew enough to find and bear the map to Aragorn, they might still end Karil's madness, even if Faramir did not live to see it. For that chance, he would continue his battle, and increase Henvain's hope for success with every Orc that fell to his sword.
He had slain many Orcs, but more were pressing in on him now, some fifteen in number, and Faramir could sense his strength beginning to wane at last, even as he swung his weapons against all that challenged him. It was becoming impossible to ignore the pain from his wounds now; the sword and dagger were becoming more heavy, his arms less obedient to his will. Blood and sweat blinded him, yet his stance was courageous and erect, as if he were backed by an army instead of standing alone.
As the enemy approached him on all sides, Faramir gripped the blood-slickened hilt of his sword, clenching his teeth as he swept them with his defiant gaze. A moment passed, then one Orc sprang forward, tearing the air with his piercing shriek. The young Steward did not shrink from the attack, despite the pain and weariness now wracking his body. With raised blade he met his foe, knocking the creature's sword aside before burying his weapon deeply into its chest with the last of his strength. The Orc gargled and toppled to the ground, and Faramir toppled with it, utterly spent by his valiant exertions.
The Orcs fell upon him then, and he was taken.
--------------
Henvain gasped for air as he paused in mid-crawl. He had to be near the top now.
Trying to pay not attention to the fact that his leg felt as if it was slowly being torn from his body, Henvain turned his head and looked at the narrow passageway that stretched behind him. It was hard for him to believe now that he'd managed to drag his bruised, battered body all that distance, first walking along the uneven floor of the crevice, then doing his best to climb the dusty, rocky pile of debris that would hopefully lead him to a way out of the cleft. It seemed to be working-the rubble rose almost all the way to the surface, and he was almost there. Very tempting, now, to stop and rest; his whole being was demanding it, now that he was covered with dirt and bleeding cuts from the sharp rocks.
Henvain gulped for breath and considered for a moment. Never in his life, even in the army, had he tested the limits of his strength in so severe a manner. The trembling of his limbs hinted at how exhausted he was; surely he could stop moving for a few minutes to renew himself. No one would deny that he had earned it.
Then Henvain thought of Lord Faramir and Lord Legolas, both still in trouble and needing him, and found himself moving again, climbing hand over hand, hauling himself up the sloping mound of black rocks towards the dangerous world above. he could not even truly say what was driving him to this madness; a week ago he would have been perfectly content to stay hidden until the peril had passed, as long as he remained safe, or spurred his actions with the thought of the long-sought recognition he would earn for them when he had rescued his grateful superiors.
Now the idea of preserving his own skin at such a time seemed cowardly, and he cared nothing for any possible reward. He only knew that he had to aid his comrades; he pushed all other confusion aside, to be dealt with later when he had the wit to think on it.
Finally his gained the surface, and very carefully poked his head above the ground. Two towering rocks stood before him, and from the noises he heard, they sat between him and the Orcs. Gingerly he crawled out of the crack, easing his protesting form behind the sheltering rocks with as little noise as possible. He listened carefully to the horrible sounds coming from the other side of the rocks; the battle sounded some twenty feet away, and all he could hear was roaring and shouting.
There was a space between the two rocks large enough to allow him to view the scene without detection. Eager to know how they stood, Henvain cautiously bent his eye to the opening and peered through it.
The scene before him almost made him wish he had stayed in the crevice.
A short distance away, the huge boulders that formed the bed of the road they had been traveling on stretched into the sky. At the base of a group of large rocks to his right lay Lord Legolas, still, bloodied, his large blue eyes staring sightlessly into the sky. Henvain almost cried aloud, his breath stopping for a moment. Lord Legolas, dead! He didn't think Elves could die, and it was strange to see one of those beautiful, perfect beings lying still in the black dust of Mordor, forgotten and ignored like a dead dog.
Henvain stared at the Elf in horror for a moment before tearing his eyes away, wildly seeking. A scene of savage battle lay to his left, several dead and dying Orcs, a few of the survivors wandering among them and brutally dispatching the wounded. It looked as if it had been a mighty battle, but before Henvain could contemplate it, another sight caught his eye, one that chilled his soul to its core.
Another group of Orcs was beyond the first one; a violent struggle seemed to be taking place in their midst, as several of the creatures fought to subdue someone on the ground.
"Mind yourselves!" cried one of the struggling Orcs. "This one's still got some fight in 'im!"
"Hold still, you maggot!" a muffled voice exclaimed from beneath the pile. "Curse you bone-brained humans-don't know when you're licked-there!"
A satisfied rumble of grunts and growls came from the group of Orcs, and they parted enough so that Henvain could clearly discern the object of their attention. To his horror, he saw that it was Lord Faramir, his gray clothes torn and heavily stained with blood, his hands now tightly bound behind him.
No words passed through Henvain's paralyzed mind; he was aware only of the sickening sensation of his insides knotting up in shock.
"Hold 'im fast!" roared the Uruk as Faramir continued to struggle, even as they hauled him to his knees. Three of the Orcs obliged, two grabbing his arms and one throwing a coil of rope around Faramir's throat and yanking it back, forcing the Steward to be still or risk choking to death. As Faramir's head flew back, Henvain could see how pale it was, the blood trickling down his face and caking in his long hair. The Steward's fighting had ceased, yet as the Uruk approached him, Henvain saw the defiant way Faramir regarded his foe, even as he sat panting and helpless in the grasp of the Orcs.
'Oh, Eru,' thought Henvain, awareness returning as a wave of helplessness swept over him. He had to do something, had to...
For a moment the Uruk stood studying his prize while Faramir stared at him silently, blue eyes blazing.
At length the Uruk growled and barked, "Search him!"
As the Orcs ransacked Faramir's cloak and tunic, Henvain felt his throat go painfully dry. Now they'd find the map and know why they were here! Then they'd doubtless kill Lord Faramir right on the spot, or perhaps torture him first and then kill him, and Henvain was certain he couldn't bear to see that. His mind sought wildly for a course of action to take, but with no sword and a badly injured leg, his options seemed, at best, severely limited.
"Ha!" he heard one Orc shout, and looking out saw the creature rip something from Faramir's body and hand it to his commander. To Henvain's astonishment, it was not the oilskin bag with the map, but merely the Steward's provisions pack.
He blinked, wondering, as the Uruk violently rifled through the canvas bag. 'He hid it,' he thought suddenly, of course. But where?
A furious roar interrupted his thoughts as the Uruk finished his search and hurled the useless bag and its contents to the ground. A few steps brought him before Faramir, who peered steadily at him, waiting.
"Why are you in Mordor?" the creature snarled.
Faramir said nothing, and Henvain marveled at how calm he was. He, himself, was trembling in the most awful manner.
"Your companions are dead," the Uruk went on, its ugly voice dripping with malice. "Speak, or you will join them."
Henvain held his breath, waiting, willing his commander the strength to stay silent yet dreading what would happen if the Uruk was not appeased.
After a few moments the Uruk took another step forward. "SPEAK!" he bellowed, and crashed his sizable fist across Faramir's face.
Henvain jumped, gritting his teeth as Faramir's head snapped to the size from the force of the blow, as if he himself had been struck. A horrible sickness came over him, to see the man who had been so kind to him treated so savagely. The urge to leap out and come to the aid of the Steward, regardless of the consequences, consumed him. One leg moved to obey this thought, but agonizing pain swiftly followed, and he fell back, cursing, unable to do more than watch.
Never had he felt so miserable.
He saw the Orc holding the rope that bound Faramir's neck roughly jerk the Steward's head back to face the Uruk. Blood now ran from the young man's mouth, but still he glared at his captor and said nothing.
Orcs began to mutter among themselves.
"Bet the Prince's bastard father sent 'im here," squeaked one, "tryin' to find where our army is!"
"He knows where that traitor filth is hidden, I'll wager!" a tall, thin Orc rasped as he came forward and grabbed Faramir by the hair, their faces only inches apart. The beast held a sword in its other hand, its blade now pressed against the Steward's cheek as the Orc snarled, "Tell us where your bastard King has the Prince's father, dung-pile! We'll take both your heads back to our master!"
Faramir seemed to ignore the blade, and held his tongue as he stared defiantly at his tormentor.
"Break 'is bones 'til he talks!" suggested a third Orc, among many growls of encouragement.
"Build a fire and roast 'im alive!" offered another.
"I say we chokes him," rasped the Orc holding the throat-rope, shaking it viciously. "Make 'im beg for breath!"
Vile words flew back and forth, and Henvain looked away, too disgusted by his own helplessness to watch further. His eyes fell once again on Legolas' body, and he regarded it sadly, almost glad the Elf didn't live to see what an end they had come to.
Then he sat up, staring.
Had he just seen the Elf move?
Unblinking, he stared at the bloodied body, and with great wonder saw the Elf Lord's arm move, however slightly, then be still. One blue eye twitched as well. Henvain stifled a gasp, certain that he was not witnessing the death-spasms of a body whose spirit had already flown. Amazement flooded through him, rekindling the small spark of hope that had all but gone out. Lord Legolas had survived, and perhaps all was not lost after all.
Henvain looked back at Lord Faramir, and saw that he, too, was gazing at Legolas. There was an odd look in his eyes now, almost a smile on his bruised face, and Henvain knew that he'd seen it as well.
Then Faramir's eyes turned, and he looked straight at Henvain.
Instinctively, Henvain ducked down, almost completely hiding himself behind the rock, yet his eyes stayed locked with Faramir's. There was no doubt, Faramir was looking at him, his expression one of urgency. None of the Orcs were watching him as they argued among themselves, and Henvain saw him shake his head at him once, firmly, then look away.
'He doesn't want help,' Henvain realized with surprise. Was he supposed to just let them kill the Steward, then? What would the King say? But how could he stop it, with no weapon, and pain crippling his every move?
Before he could think any more, he heard the Uruk give a loud angry grunt, and swiftly eased himself up so he could see what was happening. The creature had come forward and seized the rope around Faramir's neck, pulling the bound Steward slightly off the ground.
"Silence, you worms!" he shouted, and the din subsided. "The Prince will reward us well for this prize, and the dungeon there will loosen his tongue. Leave the dead - we return to the fortress!"
As the Orcs yanked the dazed and bleeding Faramir to his feet, Henvain watched, feeling as if all the breath had left his body. Soon they were marching away, the air filled with their coarse cries and shouts as they climbed up the rocks to the road above. He could see Lord Faramir among them, being pushed and dragged up the stones; in the last few moments that Henvain could see him, the Steward seemed unbowed, his head held erect even as his captors shoved him onto the road.
Soon they had all ascended from the plains, and became lost to his view. He heard the Orcs' heavily shod feet as they began tramping back towards the fortress and their foul-tongued curses as they urged Faramir along, the unpleasant noises growing fainter until Henvain could hear them no more.
Henvain stayed where he was, motionless except for his trembling, watching and listening for any sign that the Orcs might return. Silence descended on the scene, save for the whistling of the cold wind as it rustled the clothes of the dead Orcs, and the pounding of Henvain's heart.
After a small amount of time had crept by, Henvain took a deep breath, braced himself, and very slowly eased himself to his knees. Agony lashed him everywhere at once, but he resolved to at least pretend to ignore it. Once more or less upright, he crawled slowly but steadily to where Lord Legolas lay, not bothering now to bite back the moans of pain that escaped him with every breath.
By the time he reached the fallen Elf, Legolas was stirring slightly, blinking, still gazing upwards at the sky.
When he was within a few feet, Henvain swallowed, trying to moisten his dry mouth enough to speak. "L-Lord Legolas?" he gasped. "Sir?"
The Elf drew a deep breath but did not turn his head. "Henvain," he muttered faintly; it was a statement of recognition, not a question.
"Yes, sir," the soldier panted as he knelt beside the archer.
"Mm," was Legolas' response; he was moving more now, a little, trying to sit up, although he was keeping his left arm close to his chest. "Are you...injured?"
Somewhat awkwardly, Henvain reached forward and carefully helped the Elf into a sitting position. Blood streaked his fair hair and stained the Lord's gray traveling clothes, and Henvain saw one large blot on his side.
"Yes, sir, afraid I am," sighed the young soldier; there was no point in acting heroic about it. "It's my leg, sir, and maybe a few other things as well. I think I'll know better later; it all hurts now."
Legolas was upright, still not moving his left arm, and blinking rapidly as he looked around.
The Elf's silence made Henvain even more nervous. "And...how do you fare, sir?"
His comrade sighed, cradling his arm. "My left arm was broken in the fall, and some ribs as well," he replied, his melodious voice thick with pain. "We may bind the wound in my side; it is not very deep, I think. And..." He lifted his head and turned to Henvain. "You may have to be the eyes for both of us, Lieutenant. To me, the world is shrouded as in a fog."
Henvain's face fell in dismay. "You-you can't see, sir?"
Legolas shook his head, looking away. "Some shapes-light and shadow. It may pass-I have known of others who have suffered thus, and recovered. But there is no method of Man or Elf that may hasten this healing, that I know of. We must only wait."
The young soldier fought down the panic flooding his chest, determined to believe that Lord Legolas would soon regain his sight. He did not want to think about what would happen otherwise.
"Yes, sir," he said aloud. "But...but...Lord Faramir..."
A look of sharp grief crossed Legolas' blood-smeared face, and he bowed his head. "The Orcs have taken him," he whispered with great sorrow. "I know."
Henvain gasped a few times, the feeling of helplessness washing over him again. "Sir," he said at last, "can't we...shouldn't we try to help him?"
Legolas sat still for a few moments, then slowly lifted his head and looked at Henvain, his handsome features wreathed in sadness. "Alas, my friend," he said in a soft tone, "If I felt that either of us could aid Lord Faramir, I would march to the very seat of Morgoth to do so. But we are unfit for battle, and those who have him are many and strong. I fear any attempt to aid him through force of arms would only hasten our deaths, and bring fresh suffering upon him."
Henvain tried to think of something to say then, but nothing came to him, except a feeling of utter misery. He knew the Elf Lord was right, that there was no way the two of them, crippled as they were, could defeat a host of armed Orcs, yet the thought of leaving Lord Faramir to their mercy left him sickened. He'd heard stories, from men who knew, of what the Orcs did to people...
The young man swallowed in horror and looked at Legolas. "Then... there's nothing we can do?"
The Elf hesitated, then gave a slow nod. "There is but one way we may aid him now," he said, in a firm tone, "and that is to return to Minas Tirith, and tell them what has happened."
"Return..." Henvain's voice broke and trailed off. Minas Tirith was two day's travel away for healthy men; earlier it had not seemed so far, but now the road stretched in his mind before him as if it were a thousand miles long.
Legolas nodded, and reaching slowly up rested his right hand on Henvain's shoulder, his eyes distantly searching Henvain's face. "It will be very difficult, Lieutenant, I know," he admitted, "but it must be done. Lord Faramir had great faith in you, and you have proven yourself thus far."
He paused, the hand on his shoulder gently tightened, and the blue eyes looked directly into his own. "I must ask you now to prove yourself once more, my friend," he said. "Until this mist is lifted from my eyes, I am powerless to find my way. I now rely on you, Henvain, to guide us back to Gondor."
There was a moment of silence as Henvain stared at the Elf, his jaw dropping and eyes growing a little larger as the meaning of the words sank in. "You want...me to get us back, sir?"
The Elf nodded. "I shall still be able to hear the Orcs, if any approach, but I fear that is all the aid I may presently give." Legolas' expression softened with sympathy. "It is a heavy burden, I know. I shall help you bear it as well as I am able, for much rides on our success-the fate not only of Lord Faramir, but of peace for our people. Will you aid me?"
For a short time Henvain could not speak; he could only stare at his superior, a cold sweat breaking out all over him. At first, his thoughts stubbornly resisted all efforts at coherency, and when they did finally relent, the result was far from pleasant. Lord Legolas was relying on him-him, Henvain, whom nobody ever relied on for anything-to lead them all the way through Mordor and back to Minas Tirith. This was a situation he had never dreamed possible; the mere thought was overwhelming.
It felt now as if the weight of the entire world was settling on Henvain's shoulders, and for a brief instant he felt nothing so strongly as the impulse to leap to his feet and run as far away from the responsibility as possible. Several silent moments passed as he struggled with this turn of events. Then the memory of Lord Faramir came to his mind, bound and bleeding, yet still unbowed even as he was led away a captive. Shame brushed Henvain's mind at the memory of the brave Steward; if Faramir could face his dark, undeserved fate with courage, surely Henvain could try to do so as well. He owed Lord Faramir that much, at the very least.
He swallowed and looked up at Legolas; the Elf was watching him as keenly as he could and waiting patiently for his reply. Fear gripped his heart, but he did his best to push it aside. As Lord Legolas had said, the Steward had had faith in him - more faith even than his own commanders - and Henvain knew now that the best way to repay the kindness Faramir had shown to him was to accept his duty, however unwanted and unpleasant, as the soldier of Gondor that he was.
Even if he found the prospect completely terrifying.
He squared his shoulders and looked full into the Elf Lord's face, paying no heed to how loudly his heart was hammering. "I will do my best, sir," he promised, in as firm a voice as he could muster. "For Lord Faramir and our people."
Legolas clutched his shoulder for a moment, then released it with a pained smile. "I am sure you will do them both proud, my friend," he said with a nod. "Now, let us gather ourselves for our journey. First we must bind our wounds. Did the Orcs take Lord Faramir's pack?"
Henvain looked around, and quickly spotted the abandoned bag, broken lembas spilling out of its mouth. "No, sir, it's over there."
Legolas nodded. "It will have some more food and bandages, as well as another water skin," he gasped, his voice becoming tight with pain. "And...can you reach into my pack? It is under my right arm. There is a bottle there; we shall need that as well."
Puzzled, Henvain obeyed, and after a short rummaging pulled out a long container wrapped in canvas.
"What is it?" he asked, unwrapping the bottle.
"Miruvor," replied the Elf, as he carefully tried to position himself upright. "It is an Elven restorative."
Henvain nodded as he gingerly eased off the bottle's stopped, then immediately felt stupid because Lord Legolas couldn't see him nod. "I see, sir," he said, handing the open bottle to Legolas. A faint, delicate scent somewhat like that of wine wafted through the air, an odd touch of beauty in such a desolate place.
The Elf wrapped one hand around the bottle and gracefully tilted it to his lips, taking what looked to Henvain like a very small drink. Once finished, he extended the bottle towards Henvain.
The soldier gaped. "Me, sir?"
A slight smile flitted across Legolas' face. "Do not be afraid, my friend, it is quite safe for men, and we will both need it if we wish to survive the entire journey. Drink; it will give you strength."
Henvain eyed the bottle skeptically, then took it, willing to do just about anything to end the terrible pain in his leg. After a slight hesitation, he put the bottle to his lips and took a mouthful. It tasted very much like strong wine, sweeter perhaps, and when he swallowed it, he felt a curious warmth flow through his body. The pain did not disappear, but it did fade, to a small extent.
"Hm," he said with a cough, looking at the bottle as he lowered it. "Thank you, sir. That is, um, better. Is one drink enough?"
"It should be for now," Legolas answered. "You will find it will sustain you for at least the next several hours. Now let us tend our wounds and depart with all possible haste; every hour that passes will only prolong Lord Faramir's suffering."
They washed and treated their injuries as best they could, moving as quickly as their pain would allow. Legolas' broken arm was splinted with broken arrows and tightly bound, although Henvain could tell he was still in agony from it.
"I think that will do it, sir," Henvain said as he tied off the last of the strips of cloth holding the splint in place. "Sorry it's not as good as they do at the Houses-I only had the basic soldier's training in these matters."
Legolas shook his head as he cradled the wrapped limb with his good hand. "It is fine, Henvain, thank you," he said in a low tone, before lifting his head and gazing blearily at the distant horizon. "Do you see any Orcish spears lying about? One of them would do as a staff for you to lean on, I would say."
Pursing his lips, Henvain gazed at the Orc corpses littering the ground around him. Their surviving comrades had already stripped them of their weapons, but perhaps...
"There's one," he said, climbing very carefully to his feet, grasping any nearby rock to support himself. The miruvor had eased his fatigue, but the pain was as piercing as ever.
A few steps away, a long wooden spear lay broken on the ground, its metal tip wrenched off near the top. Henvain hobbled over and lifted it up; it was roughly carved but seemed sturdy enough, and as he tested it he found it would bear his weight easily.
"A bit of luck at last," he thought, and was truly thankful for it.
"We must regain the road and set out at once," Legolas said, steadying himself on the tall rock next to him with one slender hand as he stood. "Although the way will be more difficult without Lord Faramir's map."
Henvain had settled the staff into a comfortable position, and was about to return to the Elf when he suddenly looked up and gasped, "Curse me, I almost forgot!"
Legolas frowned as the young soldier began limping back towards the large rocks that formed the bed of the road that had been traveling on. "What is it?"
"Beg your pardon, sir, I should have told you - you were likely still stunned from your fall," Henvain replied as he began combing through the jumble of boulders as quickly as his injuries would allow. "The Orcs didn't get the map-Lord Faramir must have hidden it before the fight started. They searched him and didn't find it."
He heard the Elf give a sigh of relief, and say quietly, "Bless you for your foresight, dear friend!"
"I thought for sure we'd had it when they went through his cloak," Henvain was saying as he went rock to rock, leaning in and peering behind each hulking form, "not they went any easier on him for not havin' it - ah!"
Reaching behind one massive stone, he extracted the large oilskin bag, now dusty and a bit crumpled. He pulled it out and threw the flap open, gazing hurriedly inside. He felt himself relax a bit; the contents were intact, and there was the map, safely folded away.
He closed the bag, looking up to where Legolas was facing him. "I think I can read this map to get us home well enough."
"I have no doubt of that, my friend," said the Elf as Henvain took his staff in hand and began limping back to him. "And from there it will guide our forces back to Karil's fortress, where his madness will at last be ended."
"Yes, sir," Henvain panted as he awkwardly pulled the bag over his shoulder while trying to hold on to the staff at the same time. He thought a bit and paused, a sudden sadness settling over him. "Do you - do you think Lord Faramir will still be alive then?"
The Elf's fair face grew somber. "I cannot tell," he said softly, his eyes dropping slightly. "He is one of the strongest and bravest men that I have ever known, and will endure what he must to stand between them and those he loves; he has done it before. Now we must pray that he has strength enough to last until the armies of Gondor can come to his aid."
The soldier pondered this solemnly, then nodded. There seemed to be nothing else to say.
They began to walk to a place where they could ascend back to the road, Henvain leaning on his staff with one hand and reaching out to steady Legolas with the other.
Some twenty paces along they came upon a slope that seemed to climb somewhat more gently than the others. Legolas reached out his one hand, found a rock to grab hold of, and slowly hoisted himself up.
It had taken some doing, but Legolas now stood on the road, and reached down to pull Henvain to the road. First the soldier handed him his staff, then grasped the Elf's hand tightly as he placed his healthy-or rather, less injured-leg upon the first stepping-rock. With Legolas' help, the effort was only moderately excruciating.
At length he half-climbed and was half-pulled onto the road, and once there, leaned heavily upon the broken spear, gulping for air. Once he had stopped moving, the pain seemed to catch up to him, and its effect left him rather breathless. Then he felt a hand settle gently on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Legolas facing him. The Elf was plainly suffering as well, but still his expression was one of encouragement.
"We cannot falter now, Lieutenant," said the Elf. "The burden of Faramir's life, and the peace for all our people, is with us now. Come! Rest your weight on me, and I shall let you guide my steps, and with the blessing of the Valar we will soon set all to right."
Henvain nodded, braced himself, and lifted his hand, and placing it firmly upon the Elf's shoulder. It was a bit uneven, as the Elf was taller than he was, but it did make the walking easier, and soon they were moving, slowly but steadily, down the road towards home.