"Nothing! After all this time? Incompetent fools!"

Only the fact that the words were bellowed in outrage allowed them to cut through the thick fog of exhaustion that shrouded Faramir's mind. Slowly he struggled to pull himself back from the depths where he had been languishing, waiting for the day's torment to end. He had begun to believe that this time, it would never cease.

With great effort he emerged from his lethargy, even as the angry words fell upon his ears. Too weary to lift his head or open his eyes, Faramir soon knew nonetheless that little had changed since his last moments of complete consciousness. Tight ropes and cold chains still bound him upright to the wooden frame, on his knees, arms stretched out and above his head. The air was oppressively hot around him, and even through his closed eyelids he could see the harsh glare of dancing flames.

He was still in the Orc's chamber, he dully realized, and he shuddered inside. Doubtless they would soon continue, and a question fluttered sluggishly across his mind, as it had more and more during the slowly passing hours.

Why had the armies of Gondor not yet come?

Faramir swallowed, his dry throat rasping from the motion. He ignored the discomfort, determined instead to use this rare respite and gather his strength. He would not despair, he firmly told himself; the safety of Gondor depended upon his strength, and despair would only hasten his death. Legolas and Henvain lived; by this time they would surely have reached Gondor, it had been so long. Even now they were doubtless marshaling their forces, and he would soon be free. He had only to endure, just a few more days, perhaps merely one.

But even as his soul urgently whispered these words, darker thoughts crept swiftly behind them, and he was powerless to drive them away. Even one more day seemed far too long to withstand such agonies as he was now suffering. The beastly brutality of the Orcs seemed as nothing compared to the far more sophisticated and merciless techniques of their Haradrim counterparts. Since their arrival, the time had slowed, distorted and stretched until it blurred together.

More awake now, Faramir gasped for breath. His body screamed for rest, if they would just let him alone for a while. Yet he knew that even then he would find no solace, the anguish thwarting all chances of sleep. Instead he would drift in a strange, numb half-wakefulness, haunted by bizarre dreams in which he relived his torments. At times he was unsure whether he was truly awake, or trapped in the terrifying netherworld of his nightmares.

Dazed, Faramir shook his head against the encroaching darkness, determined to drive it back as long as he was able. As he had in the most dire times of his suffering, he struggled to place his thoughts where they would give him strength. Bright memories of Gondor, Eowyn, his beloved brother Boromir, his father, the poems and stories he cherished, and all those he loved, had lifted his heart throughout his trials. It was there he had found comfort as all manner of affliction was dealt against him. It had been enough.

But now they were becoming harder to see against the growing blackness. As before, he reached through the hopelessness for Eowyn's hand, but it was ever more difficult to grasp. He looked for the memory Boromir's smiling face; it glimmered farther away than before, dimmed by the shadows of weariness and sorrow. The sustaining words he read and loved no longer came at his bidding, their way choked now by the pain of his numerous wounds. Soon the only brightness left to him would be swallowed in tribulation, and he would break, die, or be consumed with madness.

Faramir shivered at the thought, closed his eyes tightly against it, clenching his bloodied fists weakly as if to beat the notion away. As he did so, his body erupted with searing pain from the motion, the sensation sweeping over him like a hungry flame. He grit his teeth in mute endurance, sweat dripping from his bloodied forehead as he rode it out.

The tide receded, and as Faramir emerged from his painful daze, he heard Masrak's voice once more, still furiously berating his torturers.

"...and still you could obtain nothing of value from him?" Masrak's words swam haltingly into coherence.

"Nothing," was the mild reply from one of the Haradrim interrogators. "He has uttered names at times, and phrases in the Elvish tongue. That is all."

He heard Masrak bark out a sound of impatient disgust. The sound of approaching bootsteps followed, and suddenly a strong hand clasped the hair at the top of his head and wrenched it upwards.

Choking from the pain, Faramir forced his eyes open, blinking away the sweat and blood. Masrak's stern face gazed fiercely into his own, the sharp eyes filled with coldness and disdain.

Faramir swayed a little as he hung from his bindings, too weak to pull himself from Masrak's pitiless grasp. Summoning every part of his remaining strength, Faramir looked full into the Minister's face, as defiant as if they were facing each other fully armed upon a battlefield.

The Southron stared at him for a moment, then sighed. "He is not mad; that is well for you," Masrak announced, turning his head slightly to the Haradrim behind him before returning his attention to Faramir. "He is simply a fool."

The Steward glared at him, motionless despite the indescribable misery he was in. Every wound burned, every bone felt broken, he could not halt the trembling of his sweat-soaked frame, yet his gaze never wavered from the dark eyes of Karil's chief advisor.

In response, Masrak laughed quietly. "You may save your courage, Gondorian; it will be much needed soon," he said. "These men have not yet started upon you. Only your divulgence of the information our Prince requires will halt what is coming next."

Faramir peered at him silently through dark tendrils of sweat-soaked hair. Then he raised his head slightly before whispering out a soft, single word.

"Never."

The declaration was barely able to be heard, yet undeniable in its resolution.

Masrak merely smiled. "Your bravery is misplaced, dog of Gondor," he said. "It will earn you nothing but untold agonies and the grave. I know your hope; you think perhaps that you shall be rescued. Yet I have made certain personally that all who know where you are are dead. Our men have retrieved the bodies of those who traveled with you, burned them to cinders and scattered their cursed remains to the winds of Mordor. Behold."

With his free hand, Masrak removed a pouch from his belt and poured its contents onto the floor of the chamber. Gray ashes and shards of bone flowed onto the floor, mixed with bits of gray and green cloth.

"It is but a portion of what the Orcs retained as a trophy of their demise," Masrak calmly informed him.

Faramir felt his heart go cold as he stared at the small pile of ashes. He knew it was not true; he had seen Legolas and Henvain alive before he was taken away. It was a lie.

But yet, a small voice muttered as if from afar, yet, it had been so long...

Masrak regarded his prisoner with an expression of mild amusement. "You doubt me, I know, but do not deceive yourself with false hope. You do not comprehend how long you have been here, I am sure. It has been many days. Would they not have come for you by now, if they knew where you were?"

Faramir continued to stare at him, determined not to allow his poisoned words into his heart despite what he saw. Trained to understand such tactics, he knew Masrak was simply trying to weaken his defenses, a common torturer's trick.

But still, in his wracked and wearied state, Faramir could not silence the small muttering of doubt whispered from the darkest corner of his mind.

After a moment, Masrak released Faramir and stood, his heels striking the ground sharply as he walked briskly away. Reeling from the treatment, Faramir allowed his head to fall to his chest, contemplating what had happened, confused thoughts swirling through his fevered mind. He knew Masrak was lying, knew his friends were alive, but as the crushing weight of endless affliction, blinding light, searing heat, and chilling darkness closed once more upon him, it somehow did not seem so unlikely that perhaps the worst had happened, and he would remain here forever.

As if from a distance Faramir heard an order given, and felt the Orcs roughly begin to untie him from the wooden frame. As he was brutally jostled the pain rose again, completely overwhelming his senses. This time he did not fight the swelling oblivion, hoping to find some form of rest there, just for a while. In the most solitary place of his heart he knew Legolas and Henvain were alive, and that Aragorn would ride for Mordor as soon as he was able. There was still hope, and as long as this remained for him, his strength would remain as well.

But as he slipped beneath the red-tinged darkness, he found that his last conscious thought was all too familiar.

Why had they not yet come?

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

Masrak's boot heels continued their snapping rhythm as he marched back up the winding stone stairs, followed closely by the master interrogator.

"Continue your work," Masrak commanded sternly, his voice echoing off the ancient stones. "The army will soon be ready, and our chances of success are smaller without that maggot's knowledge."

"My Lord," replied the other Haradrim as they ascended, "I must tell you that if we continue now, he will die, and his knowledge will die with him. He is a strong-willed rascal; we will be able to break that will, but he must regain his strength if he is to withstand further interrogation without perishing."

Masrak growled. "How long?"

There was a pause. "One day; then we will ascertain his condition. No more than two."

The minister sighed, one hand straying to the depleted bag of ashes that hung from his belt. He was silent in contemplation for a short time, then halted his steps and turned to the interrogator, the torchlight from the wall behind him throwing his face into deep shadow.

"Very well," he said, holding up the empty bag as he spoke, "it shall be done as you say. I have crippled the hope that I believe has been sustaining him; you should now find your task far easier. Let him rot in agony and darkness, reflecting upon his position, until he is fit once more for your work. It may prove far more effective than anything you have done thus far."

The interrogator smiled. "We have often found such practices highly useful, my Lord," was the grateful response. "A man may withstand any assault save that launched from within his own mind. The Gondorian's despair, and the methods that we have learned in the dungeons of Barad-dur itself, shall soon deliver to our noble Prince all the information he desires."

"I hope so, my friend, for your sake as well as for the sake of our cause," was Masrak's cold reply. "Karil will not look with mercy upon failure."

The other man's stance was firm. "We will not fail," he vowed.

Masrak eyed his subordinate keenly for a moment, nodded, and the two men bowed to each other before turning to go their separate ways, Masrak climbing up into the growing light of day, the interrogator back down into the shadowed depths of the fortress to prepare for the coming days.

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

Three days had passed in Minas Tirith, and as the sun began its twilight journey on the third day, there were none in that magnificent city who doubted that a momentous battle was about to occur.

The army of Dol Amroth was the first to arrive, its silken banners bearing the emblem of the Swan Knights shimmering in the summer sunlight. They were eight hundred in number, each man bearing the marks of a hasty journey. They were led by Imrahil's eldest son, who was greeted with solemn joy and love by his father. There was no question that their kinsman Faramir was uppermost on the minds of both men.

Soon after, several legions of Elves from Ithilien made their appearance, summoned by Legolas' call. As the Elves marched and rode past the city to make their camp, the citizens gathered upon the walls to marvel at the sight, noting their grace as they moved and the elegant, deadly weapons they bore. Few of the men of Gondor had ever hoped to see two hundred members of that race in one time.

Upon the afternoon of the third day, the horsemen of Rohan thundered into view, their vast number turning the Pelennor Fields black as they galloped towards the City. Upon meeting their King at the city gate, they informed him that they had ridden with few halts to reach the City at all possible speed, a feat he praised with gratitude and pride.

At the end of the third day, a contingent of Dwarven warriors from the colony at the Glittering Caves appeared, following behind their Rohirrim comrades. Gimli welcomed them with delight, and promised all that the efforts of the Dwarves would soon send that rascal Karil scurrying back to the slime-hole from which he had emerged.

As the armies converged, the citizens of the City prepared as well. Families said their farewells, and soldiers met in large boisterous parties where laughter and tears mingled together. In the Houses of Healing, men and women with the needed skills were recruited to follow the army into Mordor and lend such aid as they were able.

Eowyn donated her abilities at every turn, assisting the healers in preparing medicines, bandages, the wagons, and other necessities, immersing herself in the work. Her pale face and grave demeanor were noted with much understanding and sympathy among the other women there, for they had all endured the dread uncertainty of a loved one possibly lost.

While the City hummed with talk of the armies and the coming battle, the warriors situated themselves upon the Pelennor in their camps. The Dwarves occupied the caves where Adir's men had recently lodged, while the rest set their tents upon the fields. A very large tent was pitched near the edge of the camps, distinguished by the black and silver banner of the King of Gondor. It was there, on the morning of the fourth day, that the commanders and officers of each army converged, to hear the plans of the invasion from the King Elessar himself.

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

"This day, gentlemen, will see the start of Sauron's final defeat."

Aragorn's confident words were heard in every corner of the large tent, where stood a small multitude of the armies' leading men. At its center was a wide table, upon which was spread a map of southern Gondor, its features rendered in great detail. The space glowed with the morning's sunlight, which had only recently breached the horizon, clearly illuminating all within.

Beside Aragorn stood the armies' commanders, joined by all of the Dwarf officers who otherwise would have been lost behind their taller comrades. Imrahil stood at Aragorn's right hand, clad in the armor of the Swan Knights, his expression grim. Men of Rohan and Gondor encircled the table, with the tall, keen-eyed Elves populating the outer edges of the crowd.

The sole exception to this was Legolas, who stood just behind Gimli, still a touch fragile-looking but otherwise apparently recovered. His arm had already healed and was out of its sling, and most of the color had returned to his fair features. Despite this, Gimli appeared somewhat agitated by his presence, and cast a glance back at him from time to time as if to reassure himself that his friend had not fallen over.

"Are you quite certain you're up to this, lad?" whispered Gimli, as Aragorn paused to study the map.

Legolas glanced down at him. "Quite certain," he replied. "I have told you, my sight has almost fully returned, and the swift healing powers of my kind have done their part on my other injuries as well. The masters of the Houses have blessed my joining this battle, and I would have insisted on it even if they had not. Cease your worry, my friend!"

"Oh! Well, I was not worried, precisely," blustered Gimli with a cough. "Merely making certain you have no feebleness that will cause you to miss your aim and put an arrow in my rump!"

An appreciative smiled crossed Legolas' lips, showing that he was not fooled by the Dwarf's brusqueness, but further discourse was silenced by Aragorn's voice, which now rose once more.

"Karil's fortress is here," he informed those assembled, indicating a point near the base of the Ephel Duath mountains inside of Mordor, near the Crossings of Poros to the south. "It is some four day's march away through Mordor. However, during our explorations of the Mountains last year, our men discovered a pass here, narrow but serviceable." His finger traced a path through the mountains close to the fortress.

The King lifted his head and looked at those around him. "It is my belief that if we move with all speed along the Harad Road, using the mountains and trees to hide our movement, we may cross the mountains and take Karil's army unawares in less than two day's time."

The commanders eyed the map and muttered among themselves, contemplating the King's proposal.

"What of Karil's sentinels?" inquired one Rohan general. "Surely he will not leave the passageways to his lair unguarded."

"You may leave that concern to the Elves," Legolas announced with some pride, glancing over at his comrades as he spoke. "It is our task to silence every guard and scout posted along our way. We shall make certain that Karil remains deaf and blind to our approach."

"The healers will ride some distance behind the army," continued Aragorn, "but they will be close enough to provide aid when the battle is done."

One of the Gondorian captains peered at him, his young face wrought with concern. "Is it known, sir, how you will find Lord Faramir when we arrive?" he asked.

The King paused, sadness draping his features. "I cannot say for now," was his soft response. "The interior of the fortress is unknown to us. We will do all we can when the time has come, and beseech the Valar to guide us to our Steward and friend. His deliverance, and Karil's defeat, shall be our utmost goals."

The warriors nodded at this, and the murmuring went on, until one more question was raised by one of the Dwarves, an old and hardened soldier with a flowing gray beard.

"We are prepared to follow you, King of Gondor," he declared, grasping his axe firmly. "We ask only to know the time we must depart, and we will be ready!"

Aragorn lifted his head. "We leave before the sun has reached its midday point," he declared in a tone ringing with resolution. "Time is precious, my friends, and we cannot delay. When we have concluded here, I will ask that you go at once to your armies and make ready to march, and we shall not stop until we set foot in the black lands of Mordor."

This statement was met with grim acceptance all around. As the others in the tent fell to talking amongst themselves, Aragorn lifted his his head, his solemn gaze falling upon the faces of Legolas and Gimli. They alone stood mute, having no need for words to convey what the coming work meant to each of them. It was plain from the determination in the eyes of Elf, Man, and Dwarf that, had every other living being there thrown down their sword and refused to march, the King and his two friends would have undertaken the task alone, so driven were they to see it accomplished.

Then the brief, silent moment passed, and each turned to his own kind, to see to the final preparations of their men before they once more set down the road to war.

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

Faelor had never bounded up a set of stone stairs so fast, particularly when wearing his armor. But there was no help for it, at a time like this.

He panted as he swiftly traversed the steps upwards to the Houses of Healing, ignoring the odd looks he was getting from those around him. He soon reached the top, but did not pause for an instant, instead veering directly for one of the doors nearby that led to the private chambers. Here, those who were still healing found rest; and here Faelor know he would find the man-or, lunatic-that he was looking for.

He reached the plain wooden door, halted, and gasped for a few breaths, his expression intense as he gathered his thoughts. Then, pursing his lips in determination, he pushed open the door.

Inside, he saw exactly what he expected, and feared: Henvain, still pale and bandaged, trying to pull on a suit of leather armor. On the bed close by lay his discarded nightshirt, a small satchel, and a long, simple wooden walking stick.

At the sudden intrusion, Henvain glanced up and ceased his activities, the half-tied lacings of his vest still in his hands. The two friends looked at each other for a moment, then Henvain smiled a bit.

"Guess you heard," was all he said, before resuming his labors.

Faelor scowled ferociously; he felt ready to burst apart with anger. "Have you gone COMPLETELY mad?" he choked out.

"Perhaps," replied Henvain casually as he pulled the lacings tight.

Faelor sputtered a little, shook his head, and put his hands out. "How can you even /think/ of marching back into Mordor when you just got out of there almost dead?"

"It's quite easy, actually," the other man said as he reached down and carefully picked up his sword belt. As he buckled it on, he gave his friend a keen glance full of purpose. "I'm not bein' left behind, Faelor. Not again. Not /this/ time."

Confusion flooded Faelor's mind. "This time, Henvain, you've got far more than dysentery!" he exclaimed. "You've got four broken ribs, enough bandages on you to wrap an Oliphaunt, and you can barely walk!"

"All true," Henvain acknowledged with a shake of his head as he secured the belt. With that done, he looked up at Faelor sharply. "And not worth a damn to me, when it's told. The King himself heard me out and granted me leave to go; that's all I need."

He picked up the cane and limped to the head of the bed where the satchel lay, and began inspecting its contents.

"Henvain, listen to me!" Faelor pleaded. "We'll be marching fast and long."

"No matter to me," answered his fellow soldier in a chipper tone as he rooted in the bag. "I won't be marching with the army. King Elessar said I could help protect the healer's wagons; I'll be ridin' with them."

Faelor frowned. "What if you run into trouble? You can't fight on one leg!"

"Oh, no?" Henvain hooted, looking up with wide eyes. "Don't tell me you've forgot that tavern brawl in Bree last year!"

His friend gave him a disgusted look. "Fighting Orcs is far different than facing down drunkards in a tavern," he pointed out.

Henvain considered this. "Actually, I think those drunkards were Orcs," he muttered, before returning to the satchel. "Leastwise they sure smelled like 'em."

An exasperated grunt escaped Faelor's throat. "The fact is, you might be facing real Orcs here, and they'll be armed, and sober to boot," he said. "How will you protect the wagons when you can't stand and fight?"

There was a rustle and a sigh as Henvain looked up. "I'll have my bow and arrows - I'm not a bad shot, better than you, remember - and I can use my sword at short ranges. I'm also fair at clawin' and spittin'."

A helpless feeling consumed Faelor. It looked as if this insane thing really was going to happen.

"But-but what about your mother?" he asked, hoping he had found the answer.

"Saw her this morning, just before you got here," was Henvain's response as he drew the satchel closed, his tone becoming more quiet. "We hugged and cried, of course. She thinks I'm as mad as you do, but she knows why I have to go."

Faelor sighed, compressing his lips in frustration. "And why is that, exactly?" he asked angrily. "Is it because you're still sore about missing the battle at the Black Gate? Or is it just because you're jealous of your brother?"

Henvain looked up at him sharply, but said nothing.

"It's not worth risking your life, Henvain!" Faelor went on, sensing that perhaps he was beginning to get through to his friend.

Silence fell in the room for a few moments. Henvain dropped his gaze to the satchel and stood motionless as Faelor watched him, then sighed.

"You're right," murmured Henvain, slowly raising his head and fixing his eyes on his comrade. "Those reasons aren't enough. But, as it happens, neither of them are why I asked to go."

This caught Faelor by surprise. "Er...they aren't?"

"No," said the other man firmly. Then he thought a moment. "Well...maybe a little. But if it was just the Black Gate and Turwaith, no, I don't think it would be enough. It's not as if we won't have other battles to fight, someday."

Faelor nodded sadly and leaned wearily against the wall. "True," he agreed, before glancing over at Henvain. "So, what is it, then?"

A pensive expression crossed Henvain's face, and he glanced away, looking out of the open door at some distant point. "Oh, well,you know me, Fae," he said after a short pause, a frown creasing his brow. "I'm no good with puttin' such things into words that make any sense. I just know my duty, is all, and... this time it's just not right, me stayin' here when I can make at least some effort to help. I know it's mad, I know I'll probably get myself killed, and usually that'd be enough to keep me here. I don't fancy dyin'. But..."

His lip twitched, and he began fussing with the bag again, although it was already well situated and tied shut.

"Nobody else knows what we're marchin' into, but me an' Lord Legolas," he continued, in a lower tone full of concern. "I saw the army that Karil fellow put together, and I know it'll take every one of us to stop it. If we're goin' to stop him, an' get Lord Faramir out of there, the King will need each man he has, even if that man's busted up a bit."

His aspect turned melancholy, and he ceased his fussing with the bag and looked up at his friend. "I guess when I think of how brave Lord Faramir was, even when he was beat down, I know I got no cause to sit back and let everyone else march into danger, just because I'm afraid of what might happen to me. That doesn't seem so important, somehow. You know what he said to me, Fae?"

Here Henvain's voice trembled slightly with emotion. Faelor had no answer, and waited to hear the rest, highly intrigued.

"An excellent soldier, he called me. Nobody's said that to me, ever, not even Mother. I...I suppose I feel I ought to live up to that, and I can't think of no better way to do it than help stop those villains that are hurtin' him, and get him out of there."

He sighed, and coughed to clear his throat as he shrugged the satchel on across his shoulders.

It took a few moments for Faelor to decide the best way to respond. "Henvain, I've never heard you talk like that before," he said finally, impressed.

"Yeah, it scares me, too," was the slightly confused reply, as Henvain fetched his bow and quiver of arrows from the corner of his room. "Don't know what's come over me. Perhaps I have gone mad."

Faelor smiled. "Or more sane," he offered.

From somewhere in the City came the sound of a loud horn being blown. Soon it was joined by several more, some deep and booming, others high and musical.

Faelor turned his head to the door and listened, then glanced back at Henvain. "There's our call," he said, the smile fading, but not completely.

Henvain had gathered up all of his necessities, his walking stick last of all, and went to stand before Faelor, the cane thumping on the floor as he moved along.

"Yes, it is," he said with a quick sigh. "The last great battle of Mordor, I suppose."

"Let us hope," remarked Faelor, and together they left the chamber and began the journey to where their duties lay.

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

The noonday sun blazed high overhead the city of Minas Tirith, its warming rays sweeping over the numerous citizens who once more lined the city's walls, preparing to witness the spectacle unfolding on the fields before them.

The armies had gathered, and were ready to march. At the front was Aragorn, in his kingly armor, his expression resolved but saddened as his final farewell to Arwen weighed heavily upon his mind. Behind him stretched the legions of Gondor, Faelor in their midst.

Behind the Gondor army stood the small but hardy regiment of Dwarves, their axes gleaming and flashing in the sun. At their head stood Gimli, clad once more in his old war-armor and helm, watching Aragorn with a cool eye, waiting for the order.

Next to the Dwarves were a small number of the Elven soldiers. The others, led by Legolas, had gone before, melting into the woods and foothills along the route to clear the way of any enemy eyes that might betray them.

At the rear of the armies rode the horsemen of Gondor and Rohan, side by side. Eomer and his lieutenants led the Rohirrim, and as fiercely as the sun was shining that day, it could not match the intensity of the King of Rohan's gaze.

Behind the horsemen rode a line of wagons, bearing supplies and the healers who would be needed when the fighting was done. Eowyn was among them, sitting quietly next to the driver of the lead conveyance, staring with solemn defiance at the tall mountains that stood between her and her beloved husband. The evil they harbored seemed to stand but little chance against the will of the shield-maiden of Rohan.

At the open Great gate of the city, waiting to see the armies away, stood Hurin, the Keeper of the Keys to the city, who had been appointed to reign in the King's stead while he was absent from the city. Beside him stood Irolas, watching anxiously, with the other officers of the Tower Guard behind him; the Queen, breathtaking in her beauty and sorrow; the members of the Council; and a small number of the city's most distinguished nobles. All eyes were on the dark columns, waiting for the signal.

Aragorn took a deep breath and bowed his head, sending a silent prayer to the Valar to grant them victory, and Faramir the strength to live until they arrived.

Then he raised his eyes to the horizon, their depths shining with firm commitment. Lightly he touched his spurs to the sides of his horse, Brego, and moved forward in the first steps of the long, dangerous journey.

There was a great rumbling as thousands of men and horses started in motion behind him. Cries of parting arose from the wall, a growing blend of voices united in farewell. Those gathered there waved and shouted, despite the impossibility that those in the ranks would see or hear them. Many in the armies turned as well, some lifting their arms to wave, knowing just as well as those they were leaving that the gesture could not be seen among so large a crowd. It soothed all of their hearts just the same.

It took several minutes for the army to disappear into the south, but it was all too soon to those who watched them leave. After a short time the last of the healer's wagons crossed out of sight down the Harad Road, the sun shining brightly through the golden dust clouds raised by the tramping feet and trotting hooves. Some lingered on the wall, loathe to even see the dust settle; others hurried back to their business, as if distraction would speed the time when the men would return.

The afternoon began to wear on. The crowd cleared, and life resumed, if in a far more anxious state than before. There was nothing for the citizens of the City to do now but wait and pray, and watch the road for news of the battle when it was fought.

The coming days would be very long indeed.