This chapter's rather long. Just a warning!
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When Masrak reached the depths of the fortress, he was very surprised to see the small antechamber populated with six burly Orcs.
"Why are you not above, defending the fortress?" he asked them sharply, stepping into the chamber. His servant remained behind on the stairs.
The large Orc jailer came forward, his small eyes gleaming dully in the torchlight. He jerked one thick thumb towards the locked cell door.
"Had to guard the prisoner," he growled.
Masrak frowned. "Six of you to guard one almost dead Gondorian?"
The two Haradrim interrogators appeared from the shadows of the hallway leading to the far chamber.
"Ah, Lord Masrak!" the elder said in a pleased tone. "We had word of an attack above. How goes the battle?"
Masrak cleared his throat. "Not as well as Karil had expected, I fear," he said. "Adir and his traitors have come, and fight against us."
The interrogators seemed shocked.
"Fell news indeed, my Lord!" the younger proclaimed.
"Is it possible that they might prevail?" asked the younger man in disbelief. The Orcs were throwing dour glances at each other.
Masrak thought carefully before he spoke. "They may at least take the fortress," he confessed. "Even now, their forces have nearly broken through. The Orcs are failing to hold their positions in its defense."
At this scornful statement, the Orcs lifted their heads and gave the advisor stares of extreme offense. He paid them no heed; after all, they were only Orcs.
"The Prince had ordered the prisoner slain, so that his hide may serve as standard around which our forces might rally," the advisor informed them in a hasty tone. "This must be done at once."
Masrak looked at the large Orc jailer. "You will open the door and bring out the prisoner."
The Orc stood glaring at him and did not move.
Masrak had taken a step towards the door in anticipation of it being opened, and peered at the Orc in surprise when he saw him remain motionless.
"Did you hear me?" Masrak asked sternly. "Open the door and give us the prisoner."
A smile slowly crept across the Orc's ugly face as he looked Masrak up and down.
"No," the beast said slowly. "No, I don't think so."
The advisor's face contorted with fury.
"Orc," he said in a warning tone, "obey me! I am the right hand of the Prince."
The Orc drew himself up and took a long, deep breath, still smiling.
"Don't think that counts for much right now, the way I sees it," he said.
Masrak noticed the other five Orcs were very slowly surrounding him.
"How dare you," he said, looking around at them and taking a step backwards. "You are sworn to Prince Karil's service. This is treason!"
"I don't care no more what you or that Prince got to say," the huge Orc rumbled. "First you said my boys could torture the prisoner, then you gave 'im to these Haradrim instead. Then you said we could have 'im when they was finished with 'im, now you say you're gonna kill 'im now, an' blamin' us for the fact you're losin'. Well, I say, we're sick of scrapin' to you Haradrim, an' I don't think we got to do it anymore."
Masrak put his hand on his sword, backing towards the staircase, his eyes wide. Behind the Orcs, the interrogators both wore expressions of increasing terror.
"We coulda been on the march two days ago if it weren't for your bloody Prince and these bloody fool Haradrim who don't know the first thing about gettin' a fellow to talk," the Orc jailer continued, his deep voice turning angry. "Karil promised he'd lead us back to power, an' instead what's left of us Orcs is out there gettin' killed. Now it's all fallin' apart, an' I guess you Haradrim got to fall with it. But we don't."
Before he could say another word, Masrak drew his sword. At once, three of the Orcs fell on him, the small room filling with their howls as they wrenched the blade from his hand. The sword was thrown aside, and apart from his intense struggles and cries for help, there was little Masrak could do, for all of the guards in the fortress had been sent to battle.
At this, the two Haradrim interrogators attempted to bolt. They were quickly stopped by the other three Orcs, who seized them in their powerful grip and dragged them back into the shadows of the hall. The jailer and the two Orcs went after them, Masrak furiously fighting every step of the way, his shouts becoming hysterical, his eyes bulging with horror.
The servant stood forgotten on the stairs, rooted there with paralyzing fright. From the shadows the screams of Masrak and the interrogators went on, growing increasingly louder and higher as they mingled with the raucous laughter of the Orcs.
The young boy pressed himself against the wall, trembling, as he listened to the agonized howls of his master. After a few moments he broke and fled in blind panic up the stairs, the wails of anguish still echoing in his ears.
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There was a certain mindset of battle that Eomer was quite familiar with, in which the warrior ceased to dwell on any conscious thought, but acted upon one instinct alone: to fight and win.
As the King of Rohan fought against the Orcs in his path, he found himself in that place. All around him vanished except for the enemy before him, all other considerations, including his own life, melted away until only the single goal remained. The din of combat, the hot sun and clouds of dust, the smell of blood and sweat, faded completely from his mind. His sword-arm seemed to act of its own accord, and all who stepped into his path soon found themselves quickly fallen out of it.
It was not until the last Orc between him and the fortress fell beneath his sword that Eomer drew himself from his trance. Lifting his sword, he uttered a Rohirric cry of victory and spurred his mount forward to the stronghold.
The Orcs' right flank had collapsed at last.
Behind him, he heard a great cheer, and he was soon joined by a host of Rohirrim and Swan Knights as they streamed over the dead Orc bodies and onto the fortress grounds. As he neared the great stone walls of the stronghold, he turned to see Imrahil riding beside him. The Prince's face was grim as he surveyed the enormous keep, and Eomer knew that there would be no sense of triumph for Imrahil - or truly, for any of them - until Faramir was found.
More shouts arose behind him, and he looked to see the center of the Orcs' line falling now, Aragorn cleaving several Orcs in succession as he followed Rohan and Dol Amroth to the fortress' walls. The King of Gondor galloped up to them, his armor now covered with black blood, his dark hair gray with dust.
As soon as he was close enough, Aragorn reined Brego to a halt and swung from the saddle, sword in hand, and faced the troops following behind him.
"Secure the citadel in the name of the West," he cried, "and let no friend of Gondor rest until her Steward is found!"
Aragorn paused only to pull one of his saddle-bags from his mount and throw it over one shoulder. Turning, he then charged into the keep, slaying the few Orcs who strove to block his way. Imrahil and Eomer were at his heels, Gimli and Legolas not far behind.
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In the depths of the fortress, Faramir awoke to screams.
At first, he was unsure of its reality, and he waited a few moments while his heavily fogged mind struggled to clear itself. He had been drifting in and out of wakefulness, until he was no longer certain of how much time had passed since he was last aware. Only the searing pain told him that this was no dream.
Too weak to do aught but lay perfectly still, Faramir struggled mightily to discern what was happening as much as his sluggish reason would allow. The screams were horrible to hear, even muffled as they were through the heavy door of his cell. Questions tumbled slowly through his mind. Who was screaming? Had the battle ended? Who had won? He took a deep breath, wincing against the dizzying pain that even that slight motion caused. So drowsy had his intellect become that he was no longer certain whether the battle had not been merely a fancy born of his exhaustion.
His mind began to spin; all seemed to fall away from him for a moment, and when it returned, he realized that the cries of agony had stopped. The noise of voices and laughter reached him, voices he knew as the Orcs who oversaw his imprisonment. Then, the jingle of keys from behind the door.
Faramir forced as much of the dullness from his mind as he could, and braced himself.
There was a crash as the door was kicked open, and Faramir squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding light now pouring into the cell. Suddenly his bound hands were seized, and he was hauled upright. Unspeakable agony erupted through his body, and in shock he opened his eyes and saw the Orc jailer looming over him, covered horribly with red blood.
"Looks like he's still alive, boys!" he heard the jailer announce, to the rough cheers of those he could not see beyond the door. "Guess the fun's just starting."
Knife-sharp agony assaulted every inch of Faramir's frame as the Orc pulled him from the cell and dumped him onto the stone floor of the anteroom. For a moment his senses swam severely as he lay on the unforgiving stone, gasping for breath. Darkness edged in on his vision as he hung on the brink of swooning; he pushed the faintness back as far as he could, and looked up.
The Orc now stood over him. In one hand Faramir saw that he bore a short whip with several knotted tails. Reaching down, the creature savagely grabbed Faramir's shoulder and slammed him onto his raw back.
The young Steward bit off a cry, his teeth clenched defiantly as he stared through hazy blue eyes at his tormentor. His thoughts reeled from the terrific pain, the scene around him awash in the strange, unworldly cast of a nightmare. As the Steward strove to find his reason again, he hazily wondered if he was dead now, and suffering in the pits of Morgoth.
The darkness closed in on him further.
"You knew they were comin' all along, didn't you, you filthy Tark?" the Orc shrieked, before rearing back and striking Faramir a blow with the whip. Faramir gasped as new wounds were laid open on the bare skin of his chest, his bound hands fisted tightly in response to the anguish, but he remained mute as he turned his gaze back to the Orc.
"Still not talkin'?" the creature bellowed. "By Morgoth, I'll change that! You're of no more use to that Prince, but I'll hear you beg for mercy before we're done with you!"
Faramir was shaking violently now, sweat pouring over his wounded frame, but still he clenched his jaw, glared at the Orc, and said nothing. All was growing darker now, save for the pain, yet Faramir still perceived some truths through the stifling fog settling over his thoughts. He still lived, though his spirit felt as if it were hanging on to his body by the merest finger-hold. Aragorn was there; soon the Orcs would be destroyed, even if he did not live to see it. Faramir had no wish to die, but even more he did not want to give his tormentor the slightest measure of satisfaction. His strength was all he had left to give for Gondor now.
Another blow fell, more vicious than the first. Oblivion consumed Faramir very briefly, and he regained his senses to find the Orc shouting insults into his face, his loathsome visage and gleaming eyes filling his sight.
As Faramir defiantly faced him, determined to look the foul beast in the eye to the last, he found the creature's words suddenly growing faint and far distant. A warm, tranquil numbness washed over him as his vision grew rapidly dim; everything was fading quickly now, and he was falling far away.
He watched as the Orc's foul visage shimmered and vanished into a soft, black mist. He was sinking faster now; there was only time to think of Eowyn, and whisper a prayer in his heart to the Valar to protect his land and those he loved.
Then all was darkness.
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The stone halls of the old citadel echoed with the urgent steps of hundreds of Western soldiers, all bent upon the same mission: to find the Steward of Gondor.
Aragorn could not help but feel mounting frustration as he ran down one of the upper corridors, with Imrahil, Eomer, Legolas and Gimli trailing behind, as well as three soldiers of Gondor. The fortress had apparently been largely abandoned once the battle had started, with all of its occupants gone to the fight. Searches were being made as quickly as possible, but it was a large keep, with many doors, and there was no telling which, if any, would lead to Faramir.
So far they had found nothing of importance, save a map-room and what appeared to be the Prince's bed-chamber. Most of the stronghold was empty and unused, and there was no telling where a prisoner might be kept. The bowels would be the obvious choice, but as yet they had not located the way into the depths of the keep.
They turned a corner and found themselves facing a long corridor full of dust and shadows, lit only by three tall windows.
Legolas jumped forward and grabbed Aragorn's arm, pointing with his bow.
"Aragorn, there!" he exclaimed.
In the farthest and darkest corner, Aragorn saw a figure huddled. They ran to the end of the hall, and he saw that it was a Haradrim boy of no more than eleven years.
At their approach, the boy turned to face them, and Aragorn heard him choke back a sob. They were no more than ten feet away when the child leapt up and cast himself on the ground before them, covering his face with his hands.
"Mercy!" the boy cried, and made no further move.
The group stopped, and Aragorn moved quickly forward.
"Carefully, Aragorn!" warned Eomer, who was gripping his sword tightly and glaring at the boy with deep suspicion.
Aragorn came within two steps of the child and halted, aiming the point of Anduril in his direction.
"You will find mercy if you do as I command," he replied firmly.
The boy shuddered and looked up, his aspect one of utter confusion, and he spoke a few quavering words in Haradric.
Imrahil hurried forward, placing one hand on the King's arm. "He may not understand your Westron speech, sire, save that one word," he said. "I have a small knowledge of his tongue, if you will allow me."
Aragorn nodded, and the Prince went forward and spoke a few short phrases in the Southron language. The boy sobbed and nodded, uttering a short, miserable reply. Imrahil made another declaration in a stern voice, whereupon the child leapt to his feet and began to hurry away down the hall.
Imrahil faced his comrades. "He knows the way to where Faramir has been imprisoned; he says his master was slain there," he said quickly. "I have promised him mercy if he will show us the way without any falseness. We must hasten!"
Aragorn nodded, and they ran down the hall after the Haradrim slave.
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For several minutes they ran along, taking many turns. Aragorn stayed at the lead, ever mindful of the chances for a trap.
At length they came to a doorway at the top of a set of stone stairs leading down into the lower portion of the fortress. From far below wafted up the rough, unintelligible sounds of Orc voices.
The boy stopped and pointed down the steps.
Aragorn nodded, settling his sword in one hand as he looked to the two Gondorian soldiers. "Watch him," he ordered, before turning his stern gaze to the boy. "You will come to no harm, as long as you make no move against us."
Imrahil repeated the words to the child in Haradric. The boy's eyes went wide with fear, and he silently nodded his head.
The King then raised his sword and moved down the staircase, followed by the others.
Years of living as a ranger had taught Aragorn the ability to move swiftly and silently, and he made no noise as he descended the twisting steps. Even Gimli, he noticed, was making no sound as he walked. His keen eyes and ears stayed utterly alert for any signs of a trap, yet all was clear.
The Orc voices continued, and as they drew closer to the bottom, the foul words became ever more distinct.
"Just kill him, Agrak, and let's be out of here!" he heard one of the creatures urge. "Them Gondorians will be in here any minute, from what old Masrak was sayin'."
"Not a chance!" bellowed another, far deeper voice. "All the time we wasted tryin' to break this scum, an' he never told us a thing. I'm gonna have 'im broke an' screamin' if I have to wear out both arms t'do it!"
They ran the rest of the way, and burst onto the landing below.
There, Aragorn saw a small, narrow room lit with torches, and populated with six Orcs, all standing in a circle and looking at something on the ground. The largest and most gruesome of them had one of his arms raised, a bloodied whip in his upright hand.
Before the arm fell, an arrow from Legolas' bow had become firmly embedded between the creature's eyes.
As the huge Orc toppled backwards, lifeless, the other five turned and drew their weapons with varying shouts of surprise.
From the stairs, Gimli launched himself atop the closest Orc, knocking him flat to the ground and soundly thrashing him with his axe, all the while uttering a steady stream of profane-sounding Dwarvish.
While the Dwarf was thus occupied, another Orc hurled itself at Legolas, determined to disarm the Elven archer. Legolas stepped back and in one smooth motion unsheathed his twin fighting knives, and he and the Orc fell quickly to combat. It was an intense contest, the Orc's brutish attacks in stark contrast to the speed and agility of the Elven warrior. Agility proved victorious, as the Orc soon found itself quickly and efficiently carved to death by the elegant, deadly blades.
Aragorn's sword clashed with the weapon of the largest of the surviving beasts as he leapt into the chamber. They struggled for several moments, charging and pushing each other back, until a chance presented itself, and Aragorn buried Anduril up to its hilt in the creature's chest.
Nearby was Eomer, war cries spilling from his lips, his eyes wide with fury as he drove himself into another of the Orcs, driving him back against one of the stone walls. Eomer's opponent offered a good deal of resistance, but soon found itself no match for the monarch's manic rage. Eomer hurled himself at the beast like a man possessed, driving at the Orc over and over with his sword. In seconds the Orc was on the ground mortally wounded, and still Eomer hacked at him with his blade, screaming with outrage as he stabbed repeatedly into his foe, avenging Faramir and Eowyn with every blow.
Imrahil leapt into the chamber, searching intently for Faramir. At first he could discern nothing among the flailing combatants; then his eyes found a still, bloodied form lying upon the floor, and the Prince felt his heart break within him.
With a loud snarl, the last Orc not already engaged in combat jumped between the Prince and Faramir, the beast's sword raised as he spit a laugh directly at his foe.
His face contorted with an unusually savage fury, Imrahil lunged forward, his sword-point aimed at the creature's heart. Their weapons met, and they fought, but in less than three strokes the Orc collapsed lifeless to the ground, his throat torn open by the blade of the Prince of Dol Amroth.
The tumult of the room around him was completely forgotten as Imrahil kicked the carcass of his enemy away and fell to his knees beside his nephew. Horror filled him as he quickly studied Faramir's motionless figure. Every inch of his flesh seemed to be marked with stripes, wounds, and bruises. What little that was left of his clothing was almost black and stiffened with blood, and his hair was matted down with blood and dirt.
Imrahil was trembling, tears standing in his eyes, as he drew his knife and cut the bonds around his nephew's wrists. He tossed away the bloodied ropes, then bent forward and gently placed his hands upon either side of Faramir's face, mindful of the swollen bruises and cuts that marred the skin there.
"Faramir, Faramir," he called softly, his heart pounding as he looked upon his beloved kin. Faramir was so pale, almost white, and yet his expression was one of perfect tranquility. With one hand he cradled Faramir's cheek, while the other tenderly brushed the matted hair away from his nephew's brow. "Faramir, we are here, please, hear me, and return to us!"
Long moments passed. He sensed Legolas and Gimli had come behind him, and after a moment Aragorn and Eomer were also at his side, but his full attention was given only to his nephew.
Then he felt Faramir's head shift beneath his touch, and heard the young man draw a slow, deep breath. The eyes fluttered and opened slightly, seeming to search for a moment before resting on Imrahil's face.
Imrahil smiled with great relief, trying to appear calm as he leaned closer and met Faramir's gaze. He saw no madness there, as he had feared, but still there was an odd quality to his nephew's gaze, as if he were looking at the Prince from across a vast distance.
For a moment Faramir stared at him, his gaze cloudy, as if trying to understand what was before him. Then he gasped, very faintly, drawing his breath in sharply as if overcome with an unspeakable joy. Recognition and profound love dawned in Faramir's eyes, and a drowsy smile tugged slightly at his parched lips.
"Uncle," was the word his lips formed, though no sound came forth. "Uncle..."
Imrahil smiled, gladness flowing through him that Faramir's mind appeared sound, if utterly exhausted. Unable to think of a single coherent word to say, Imrahil merely nodded, his hand lightly stroking Faramir's hair once more as if to convince his nephew of his reality.
The Prince felt something move at his elbow, and he looked over to see Aragorn handing him his opened water skin.
"It contains miruvor," the King explained quietly, never taking his eyes from Faramir.
Imrahil gave him a hurried nod of thanks, understanding that the Elven draught would give Faramir the strength he needed to endure until the healers could be safely brought to tend him. Bending over his kinsman, Imrahil carefully lowered the vessel to Faramir's lips.
"Hush, nephew - drink, if you can, but slowly, and mind nothing else! All is well," the Prince said in a quiet voice, tears standing in his eyes.
Faramir obeyed, closing his eyes and resting his head upon Imrahil's hand as he slowly drank the precious restorative. After a few long swallows, Faramir turned from the skin, apparently satisfied. He then settled back with a sigh into his uncle's hand, appearing to fall back to sleep.
The Prince glanced at Aragorn, who knelt next to him, studying his Steward with an expression of great sorrow and esteem. The King reached forward and lightly caressed Faramir's brow once in blessing, then quickly stood.
"Let us bear him to the bed-chamber upstairs at once; I have provisions upon me such that we may make a start at treating his wounds," the King declared. "I fear we shall then have to leave him to others, for the battle is not yet ended, and Karil has much to answer for."
"I fear no punishment will be enough," murmured Imrahil as he eased one arm around Faramir's shoulders and made to rise, tears now streaking the blood and dust upon his face.
Eomer's eyes were blazing. "I am certain we will at least be able to come close," he said in a low tone, as moved to assist Imrahil. "Woe to those who meet my blade, once we have borne Faramir hence and retake the field!"
"My axe is ready as well," growled Gimli, as they settled Faramir in Imrahil's arms. "It wants more than the life of one Orc to atone for this barbarity!"
"There are many outside awaiting payment," Legolas assured him, a shadow of grief falling across the Elf's fair face as he regarded his wounded friend. "Let us do all we may for him now, and hasten to complete our task."
Without hesitation they ascended the stairs, Imrahil cradling Faramir in his arms with great care.
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Their strides were swift as they reached the top of the steps. As he swept onto the landing, Aragorn assumed a masterful air and laid his gaze upon the two Gondorian guards who waited there with the slave child. The others were some distance behind him, taking ease in moving the injured Steward.
"See that this boy is kept safe until the battle is done; he will be free to depart, provided he makes no move against us," he said.
"Yes, sire," one soldier said quickly, with a bow. His expression was worried as he stood. "Sire, I must ask-Captain Faramir-was he found...alive?"
"He was, and to that end lies my next command," was Aragorn's firm reply. "Bring all clean linens in the fortress to the main bed-chamber. Seek out the nearest hearth, and find means to heat as much water that can be found upon it. And see that this news is spread to all friends of Gondor: Lord Faramir lives, and we will complete this day's work in his name."
The faces of the two soldiers lit with relief at the information, and they hastened away, guiding the boy as they went. Within moments Aragorn heard Imrahil's footfall upon the top step, and he turned to see the Prince emerge, Faramir nestled against his shoulder.
No more words were spoken as they moved with quickened steps to the large bed-chamber. As they hurried, they encountered many men from different armies, who had come to see the truth for themselves. At the sight of Faramir, the expressions were nearly identical: joy at his being found, and oaths of vengeance sworn against those who had used him so cruelly.
They soon reached the chamber, a mostly bare room save for some tables laden with books and maps, a tall wardrobe, and a large bed set near a narrow window overlooking the valley.
Imrahil hastened to the bed and cautiously settled Faramir upon it, placing him on his side to ease the pain of his savagely torn back. The young Steward's battered condition was even more shocking in the full light of day, and he gave no sign of awareness as he sank into the softness of the bed.
"I shall go see to the water at once, Sire," Imrahil said, pausing to gaze sadly at his nephew and stroke his hair before he departed. "Alas, that we should have to leave Faramir now! But he would want us to end this."
He sighed, then stood and looked at Aragorn. "There is a man among my Knights, Adorhil, well trained in the healing arts, to whom we look for care in times of battle when the services of a true healer are impossible. I have trusted him with my life many times during the war, and I would not hesitate in placing Faramir within his care. He came with us into the castle; I shall bring him here at once."
He bowed and hurried away. At once Aragorn stepped to Faramir's side, pulling off his gloves and casting them away.
"Legolas, how goes the battle?" he asked in a hurried tone as he began to gently examine Faramir. He exercised the lightest touch he could manage, and during the process Faramir gave no sign of waking.
The Elf went to the window and peered out. "One of the siege towers has ablaze," he replied. "The battle has been taken to the plains. Karil yet lives, and his forces are fighting still; I fear we cannot tarry here much longer."
Aragorn sighed in frustration, wishing there was a way he could divide himself and accomplish two tasks at once. But as King and leader of his men, he knew where his duty had to lie, and he knew that Faramir would be the first to insist upon it.
Imrahil soon returned. With him were five of the Swan Knights and a man of the Prince's age, his beardless face lined with the beginnings of advancing age, his head crowned with short silver hair. Upon one shoulder he carried a large oilskin bag.
"They have found water, sire, and it will be heated and brought in as soon as can be managed," said Imrahil, and indicated the older fellow Knight. "This is Commander Adorhil, one of my most trusted officers, friend and healer."
The man bowed to Aragorn, his blue eyes filled with respect.
"I am at your complete disposal, sire," he announced in a deep, measured voice. "My father was a healer, and I learned the arts from him before devoting my life to the military service of Dol Amroth. These Knights with me also know the tending of the wounded, and we come prepared to do all in our power for Lord Faramir, who is as dear to us as he is to those in Gondor."
The King nodded to them as they bowed their heads to him. "You have put me in your debt with this assistance, my friend," he said. "Lord Faramir must be bathed, and his wounds cleaned at once. I have medicines and provisions here in my pack, such that might sustain him until the healers may be safely brought."
In the next minutes, the King had rapidly removed and explained all that was in his saddlebags. Adorhil and the King conferred, and Aragorn was pleased to find the captain's knowledge of healing quite advanced indeed. His own oilskin pack contained further supplies for the care of the wounded, and Aragorn was quickly convinced that Faramir would receive the best possible care until more aid could be summoned.
When this was finished, Aragorn paused at Faramir's bedside, sorrow overwhelming his features. He quickly knelt, gently taking one of Faramir's hands, and laying his other hand upon Faramir's warm brow. All in the room watched solemnly as the King bent his head close to the Steward's ear, whispering brief Elvish words of encouragement and gratitude meant for Faramir alone.
Faramir's eyes remained closed, and he appeared to still lie insensible. Yet as the King spoke, the Steward's weary expression softened, as if he had heard and gained solace from Aragorn's words even in the immeasurable darkness where he slept.
Aragorn saw this, and was clearly heartened by the sight. He then lightly pressed Faramir's hand between both of his own and settled it back at his friend's side, stood, and faced his comrades, his hazel eyes gleaming with fierce resolve.
"I shall return as soon as this battle has ended," Aragorn vowed as he slipped his leather gloves back over his hands and stepped away from the bed. "Time and my travels have taught me many ways that may relieve his suffering, and I fear he will be in great need of them."
Adorhil moved to Faramir's side, eying the unconscious Steward with great sorrow as he prepared to begin his work. "Alas, I have no doubt of that, Sire," he replied in a somber tone, facing them. "May the Valar protect you all upon the field of war!"
Gimli, who had been silently watching all of this, chuckled in a grim manner and hefted his axe.
"It's the Orcs and that cursed Prince who shall need protection," he vowed, "but they shall find none this day!"
They hastened from the bed-chamber, weapons in hand, their hurried steps bearing them back to the fight.
Eomer drew next to the King. "I shall be upon the field shortly, Aragorn," he said, "but now that Faramir has been placed in safety, I must leave the battle for but a moment. One oath I swore has been fulfilled; the time had come to honor still another."
The King nodded to him with a smile. "It is well; go sound your horn, my friend. Let all know that Faramir is alive, and that Karil's defeat this day has only just begun."
The King of Rohan made his bow and vanished, while the remaining members of their group hastened to the raging seat of war.
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Eowyn sighed at herself with frustration, completely unable to concentrate on her task of preparing bandages for the many wounded that would surely come from the day's battle. For a while she had been able to tend to the tearing of linen, but as the morning had drawn on, she found herself unsuited for any activity other than pacing before the wagon where she had been working, staring up the pass towards Mordor, and waiting.
Behind her, Henvain kept watch over the encampment, his bow and arrow ready to fend off any enemy who saw fit to threaten them. He had offered a few words of encouragement at first, until these ran dry. Now he simply sat mute, waiting for news as anxiously as the White Lady.
'It's been hours', she thought, gazing down the dusty path. Surely they had found him by now; surely, Eomer would have sent out his call, for good or ill. Yet no call came, sending even more doubts to flock across her mind like carrion crows. Perhaps the West had failed; perhaps Eomer had fallen; perhaps Faramir was dead and her brother had not the heart to send the news.
As soon as these dark fancies intruded upon her thoughts, she firmly drove them away, and turned her eyes to the east. It did no good to dwell on dire possibilities; only when she knew the worst for certain would she grieve.
But still, a portion of her heart grew more anxious with each passing moment.
She had felt sure the noon hour had been reached several times during the morning, yet every time she looked to the sky, the sun in truth had barely moved from its early-hour position. At last, resigned to the fact that this was the most sluggish morning that ever had dawned upon Arda, Eowyn returned to her duties, her thoughts far away, her ears straining for the sound of her brother's horn.
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Out upon the field of battle, Karil was enjoying one of the most thrilling battles of his career.
As his armored steed plowed through the ranks of the enemy, his sword striking out right and left, the young Haradrim wondered how he had lived so long without the taste of battle. To feel his weapon sink into the flesh of his foe, to watch as one more adversary of Sauron fell lifeless at the thrust of his blade, was a sensation too glorious for words. His heart rejoiced that they had been found, for it meant he could begin slaying the men of Rohan and Gondor all the sooner.
All around him was confusion, the legions of the West crashing upon the regiments of Orcs and Uruk-Hai on the plains. One of the siege towers had partially fallen, its wooden skeleton ablaze. But more still stood, enough for Karil to think they would soon crush their opponents with their might. Already one catapult had begun sending its missiles against the invaders; soon it would be more.
As Karil plied his weapon against his enemies, he heard a great roar coming from the West. Turning, he saw the fortress being overrun, the Orcs collapsing and falling away like pebbles before an irresistible tide. He scowled with disgust at their weakness, but had little fear. The fortress was unimportant now, after all. His might was here, upon the field, in his army that was even now destroying the foe man by man. Masrak's fate concerned him little, and the idea that they might find what was left of the Steward of Gondor concerned him even less. He did not truly need either of them any more.
He turned his attention back to the enemy before him, and soon lost the reckoning of time as he allowed himself to be pulled into the mindless haze of constant slaughter. At first, he did not hear the cries of his chief Haradrim commander, until the man had ridden almost on top of him.
"Sire! Sire!" the man was shouting when his voice at last pierced Karil's murderous reverie.
The younger man whirled on him, glaring through the sweat and blood covering his face. "What is it?" he snarled, furious at being interrupted.
The commander pointed his sword at the fortress. "The fortress is lost!"
"That is known to me!" the Prince shouted angrily. "Our victory will be here, not at that miserable heap of stone!"
He began to move away, only to feel the commander's hand grasp his sleeve beseechingly. Karil faced the officer, scowling ferociously at the insubordination.
"Sire, you do not know all!" his commander yelled, nodding towards the fortress. "See who has given the West their triumph against us-it is your brother and your father, Chief Adir!"
Karil's jaw dropped, and the fury melted into disbelief. That was simply impossible, to think that his kins' treachery would extend that far. But closer searching revealed it to be true. He could see the banners of the Seventh Tribe riding into battle along with Rohan and Gondor, and upon the rocks above the fortress he saw Jadim and a band of Haradrim archers making their way down to the ground. The fortress battlement, which had been full of Karil's Orc and Haradrim followers, was now deserted, and it was all too evident who had slain them.
For a moment he stared, too stunned to move or think. Never had he dreamed of such a horrific sight, to see men of Harad battling alongside their ancient enemies.
Then, just as the insensibility receded and his mind had ceased its reeling, he heard the horn.
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Eomer had never ascended a set of steps quite so fast as he did that morning.
It had taken a short time to locate the way to the top of the citadel, but once the stairs were found, he wasted no time. Faramir had been settled in one of the fortress' bed chambers, and was even now being tended by those in the Swan Knights who knew of the healing arts, including Imrahil's personal healer who also rode as a captain. The moment Eomer knew his sister-husband was cared for, he had hastened to announce the news to all.
Ever higher he mounted the ancient stone steps, paying little heed to the steepness of the stairs or the narrowness of the passageway. He saw naught but the light at the top, growing ever nearer, and thought of the joy that would soon lighten his sister's heart, and nothing else. If only he could bring her here now...
He reached the summit, and found himself atop a flat stone battlement surrounded by a wall some four feet in height. Many dead Orc and Haradrim archers littered the ground there. A few of the wounded Haradrim still lived, who were tending to the even more seriously injured whose breath had not yet left them. They offered Eomer no resistance at all, giving him only weary looks as several Gondorian soldiers appeared behind the King of Rohan to secure the roof.
Eomer had no concern for this as he rushed to the edge of the battlement, pulling his horn from his side. For a moment he paused, his eyes sweeping the scene; the fight still raged upon the plains, and from here he could see the great battle that still lay ahead for them. It was not over yet.
Yet one, crucial part of the history had been decided. With fierce resolve, Eomer put his horn to his lips, and soon three mighty blasts soared through the air, causing the mountainside to ring with their power and joy.
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Eowyn had just begun to rend another linen sheet when her ears heard the sound. Her head came up at once, her blue eyes wide, uncertain if it were merely an anxious dream.
Three clear notes, sounded one after the other upon her brother's horn, faint but clear, and coming from the east.
She climbed quickly to her feet, her gaze unswerving as she stared up the road. Behind her, she heard Henvain gasp and jump down from the wagon seat where he had been resting.
Then they came again, another set of three, followed by the distant sound of mighty cheering, as if every friend of Gondor on the field was acclaiming the news.
For a moment Eowyn stood without moving, the linen fragment crumpled in her hands. She was aware of no recognizable thought, only an overwhelming realization of formless, indescribable joy.
Gradually, she heard the great bustle behind her, as all of the healers and the soldiers who guarded them exchanged their gladness over the signal. She felt someone at her elbow, and turned to see Henvain. He was standing as she had done a moment earlier, staring wide-eyed down the road, his expression a mixture of relief and incredulity, as if he were still wondering if such good tidings could be true.
The notes came a third time, and there was no doubt of it now. Henvain blinked and looked at Eowyn, a grin slowly spreading over his face. Seeing it, she smiled as well, then burst into a laugh of pure rejoicing as the words finally came to her, chief among them: 'Faramir is alive, and we shall soon be together.'
Henvain laughed as well as he met her eyes, apparently allowing himself to finally accept the tidings. Then Eowyn, unable to contain her happiness, threw her arms around the soldier's neck in an act of exuberant celebration.
They shared a brief, joyous embrace, Eowyn wishing only to share her elation with the one whose strength had helped to make Faramir's salvation possible. In a few moments it ended, and Eowyn released the young soldier and stepped away. When she again looked at Henvain, the young man was quite flustered and blushing furiously, but he seemed a bit pleased as well, and returned her smile again before turning his eyes once more to the east.
Others were around her now, offering their words of kindness and encouragement. She received them all without truly hearing them, her mind and heart on nothing other than her husband. When the last of her fellow healers and soldiers had had their say and drifted back to their duties, Eowyn took her place as before, her fingers trembling as she resumed tearing the linen into bandages. New cares and questions swarmed through her mind as she stared down the pass to Mordor, impatiently waiting for the battle to end, and the moment when she would be able to ride to her beloved.
The long morning would now seem far, far longer.
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For Karil, the sound of a horn of Rohan echoing across the Mordor valley was trying enough. When the notes were met with gladsome cheers from the Western allies around him, it was as white-hot metal searing his very soul.
"What means that signal?" he shouted furiously to his Haradrim commander who remained at his side.
The man licked his lips, not daring to look at his Prince. "I know not, my liege," was the faltering answer. "It has given joy to the enemy, but beyond that I cannot guess its purpose."
Karil ground his teeth in rage. "Joy!" he spat, as if the word were poison on his lips. "That joy shall turn to agony before we are finished here. Return to the battle, and send this order to all who command my legions: Those Haradrim who have betrayed us are to be taken alive, to suffer for their treachery when we have won the day."
The commander frowned. "Does that order include your kin, sire?"
The Prince's eyes narrowed, for he had found Adir on the field, riding his war-steed into a group of Orcs and Uruks, his sword striking out left and right against them.
"No," was his low reply, as he sheathed his sword. "My father and my brother shall be my concern alone."
With those words, Karil spurred his horse away.