Chapter 30

Confrontation

King Elessar was in the midst of the battle. Beside him fought members of his bodyguard to ensure that no harm befell the King. But Aragorn was more skilled then any of his men and needed no such protection as he rode through the Easterlings that approached him like a righteous wind. His guard had great difficulty in keeping up with him.

The battle ebbed and flowed as men became exhausted, rested and found new energy to begin the fight once more. Even from his relatively high position on horseback, it was difficult for the King to determine how the battle was progressing.

Much to their protestations, Aragorn had withdrawn the dwarves along with the Gondorian cavalry and elves from the field. He wanted them well rested and relatively fresh should he have need to deploy them once more. Following their powerful sweep across the plains the Rohirrim were now engaging the enemy wherever they found them. Aragorn knew that Eomer would sound the regroup if he felt it necessary. He believed he had seen the irrepressible King of Rohan chasing a band of foe northward across the field but he could not be sure through the smoke of battle.

From what he could perceive, the Easterling army although bolstered by greater numbers appeared to be no match for the men of Gondor. As Aragorn had thought the Easterlings' only tactic was to try to overwhelm the companies of Gondor. Having absorbed the power of the first horrifying rush, the Gondorians then began to push forwards themselves, scything their way through the badly equipped and panicking enemy. The forward movement was punctuated at times by further charges from the regrouping Easterlings, who rallied around particular charismatic leaders, and surged forward. Such sorties although brave were ultimately useless and the overwhelming movement for Elessar's army was forward.

The King paused during a brief lull and breathed in deeply as he bent to clean Anduril, Flame of the West, on his saddle cloth. He looked about himself, and signalled for a messenger to come forth.

"Go back to the rest of the army," he ordered. "Call forth all the men. We will end this thing now!"

The messenger nodded and turned his horse to obey. At the King's side Pallando whistled through his teeth. "Is that not a little impetuous, King Elessar?" he asked.

Aragorn fixed him with a grim stare. "This is no army," he muttered as he glanced about at the bodies strewn before him. "They are but farm boys and old men brought here by the lies of a wizard. The only real threats they posed us were through their cavalry, which was still no match for the Rohirrim and the Uruk-hai in the north. Their main infantry are . . ."

He stopped and noted Pallando stiffen as the colour appeared to leech from his face. The wizard's eyes had moved away from the King to focus on something behind him.

Aragorn turned in his saddle to see what had affected Pallando so. In front of them through the haze of the battle a blue light shone. Silhouetted by the light was the shape of a man. He moved through the chaos of the field, untouched by its grime and horror, as if the blue light shielded him from the nightmare. All whom he passed moved away, allowing him passage through to where Aragorn and Pallando sat on their horses, waiting.

"He always could make a dramatic entrance," Pallando muttered spitefully.

Aragorn rolled his eyes but said nothing until Alatar the blue stood before them, his azure eyes blazing with insolence and superiority. His voice was regal and honeyed, bringing back to the King echoes of Saruman's deceptive focal talents.

"So it has come to this!" Alatar said. "It makes me so sad that you should desert me in my hour of triumph, Pallando. Still, you ever lacked the true courage to take control!"

"Hour of triumph!" Pallando gasped. "Your army is routed. They run from the force of Gondor. You have lost."

Alatar shook his head slowly. "You never had the wit to understand. I do not care about the army or this battle; for I have the King of the West in my power now."

Pallando was puffing up with anger. "You used to care," he spat back. "These people were important to you." He shook his head slowly. "When did you stop caring for them, Alatar?"

Alatar let out a loud crack of a laugh. "You fool yourself!" he snapped. "Over the years you and I have sent thousands, nay millions, to their deaths." He lifted his hands to incorporate the field. "What difference are a few more? They pay with their lives but the prize is worth such a cost for I will deliver the people what I have promised; the lands of the West!"

For the first time Alatar looked at Aragorn. "I have planned long for this moment, plots involving your son and even your Steward, how ironic that in the end you should fight your way to me. Now Elessar Telcontar, you will finally understand what it is to stand against an Istari!"

As he spoke he lifted his staff. A brilliant blue flame flashed from its top, sparked across the intervening gap and landed squarely on Aragorn's chest. He gasped in pain and was flung backwards from his horse, which bolted.

"You have given up all claim to that title!" Pallando shouted as he too raised his staff. An equally intense light spat from its end which he wielded against Alatar's original flame. There was a hiss and a crackle as the two forces met and were then both extinguished.

Aragorn's hand went to his chest. His white tree motif on his tabard was singed and hot to the touch but the pain had died with the blue flame. He lay on the floor taking deep breaths to calm himself as Pallando slipped gracefully down from the back of his horse to confront his long time companion.

"I will not let you do this, Alatar," he said, his light tone lost in his anger and defiance. "King Elessar is a good man. Gondor flourishes under his rule. He offers friendship and trade to the East. There is no need for war or killing!"

Alatar's face grimaced with hatred. "He is a fool! Nothing of worth is earned by weakness or compromise! If you make me go through you to get to him, so be it! You know I will destroy you, Pallando. You were always the least of us. Least in knowledge, least in lore, least in purpose, and of course, least in POWER!"

As he said the last word he swung around his staff once more and blue flames danced forth. Pallando cursed loudly in Sindarin but met the flame with one of his own.

"Yield now, Alatar," he said. "You cannot win this fight!"

"Your death will befit the traitor you are!" Alatar screamed back.

Aragorn pulled himself up to a sitting position and watched in awe as the two Istari fought each other. In this part of the field, the battle that had previously raged around them seemed to have moved by. The men of the East and West that survived yet were stricken motionless and watched as the air was filled with blue smoke and Sindarin curses.

On the marshy banks the fog still clung to the water's surface. The shallows of the river were now filled with the bodies of uruks and men grotesquely piled atop each other as if trying vainly to remain above the water level. Dead limbs reaching upwards for a salvation that would not come, lifeless eyes staring and skin as grey as the dank mists that surrounded them. The water that lapped about the bloating corpses ran darkly, tainted by the blood red sacrifice of so many.

Faramir stood amidst the nightmare. He leant on his sword, gulping in air in long, pained gasps, grateful of the respite, however short. His body was physically exhausted, caked in sweat and grime below his chain mail. He could periodically feel the blood from his thigh wound running down his leg to puddle tackily in his boot. He had other insignificant cuts and bruises but he ignored them all. His senses were dulled, too overwhelmed to register the feel of his own pain or the sheer horror of this world before him.

He had promised the King the White Company would hold and hold they had against overwhelming odds, enduring massive casualties, yet they had absorbed all the orcs had thrown at them. The watery sun had climbed up the overcast sky before them, reached its zenith and then began to fall into the west and yet still the White Company had held valiantly but every attack had robbed them of valuable men. Now Faramir knew they would hold no more.

He glanced dejectedly to the south. There had been lights flashing in the sky and terrific bangs of thunder, louder than even the noise of the two armies fighting each other but all was now quiet and still. Deep in his heart, the Steward still hoped that re-enforcements would come down the hill towards him and his dwindling force of beleaguered men. Surely King Elessar must be able to release him some support by now; but no one came.

Faramir let out a long breath. He pulled himself to his full height and glanced around. Everywhere there were grim, bedraggled men, sitting with heads bowed or leaning on spears, silent and hopeless. The fear that had flashed in their innocent eyes at the beginning of the day was long forgotten. The men that still survived were no longer the ingenuous boys of the morning. In just a few short but lethal hours they had withered into solemn, cheerless wrecks of men. An end to this torment was all they now craved and if that was delivered by an uruk blade then so be it. They were long passed their endurance limits, passed all emotion and courage. Death was calling to them; they could all hear it and none could summon the passion to refuse such a summons any longer. Indeed most would welcome the release.

Faramir felt a cold guilt clutch at his heart, seeing his men thus reduced. He had brought them here. He had forced them to stand, forced them to fight when every heart had wanted to run. They had not deserved to suffer this, not those proud boys of Gondor who he had marched from their homes, their ears full of tales of glory, their hearts beating with naive courage, faces broad and open with the trust they put in him, their Captain. Faramir would have done all he could to spare them this end and yet even as he thought it, he knew there was nothing he could have done. The strength and ferocity of their enemy had shown them that they had needed to fight. The thought that, without their stand, such evil could be released into the green fields and small hamlets of Gondor was still too much for Faramir to contemplate. He knew that though the White Company's sacrifice had been enormous, still it was worthwhile to keep their families and homes safe: to keep Gondor safe.

Such thoughts brought Faramir to his think of his own family. He closed his eyes and brought all of their faces one-by-one into his mind. Each one of his children, dearly cherished; he thought of them all and their individual characters. He also thought of the babe he felt sure now he was destined never to meet. How long ago it seemed that he had lain in the quiet of his chamber in Minas Tirith and felt the impatience of waiting. That night he had been convinced that he would meet his new child but now the meeting appeared all but certain. On pondering the child to come Faramir's thoughts inevitably fell on his beloved Eowyn. He felt his stomach lurch with dread and so he forced the memory of her from his mind. He knew he was about to lose all of them and he accepted it as his fate, but still there was one small thing he could do, as Prince of Ithilien and Captain of the White Company.

"Elboron!" his voice was coarse with emotion as he called his eldest son to him.

Elboron had been sitting quietly, his face down to the floor. He stirred the instant his name was called, pulled himself jadedly to his feet and moved toward his father.

Faramir's eyes devoured every familiar characteristic of his son as he walked forwards; the firm jaw set with determination still, the long blonde hair now unkempt and tangled about his shoulders, his wide blue eyes still clear with courage even after all he had faced this day. Here was a valiant young warrior, the blood of brave men singing in his veins, Faramir proudly noted his relaxed, calm grip on the much used sword in his hand. He could read this young man. He knew that Elboron was aware of the perilous situation they were in. The boy knew that the next attack may be the last and yet he, like his father had heroically accepted that it was so. Elboron faced his fear with cool courage. It made his father so very proud and, for a moment, Faramir was unable to frame any coherent sentence.

Instead he grasped his son to him, clutching him tightly. They were almost of a height and Faramir closed his eyes as his head touched his son's hair. Visions too precious for such a time crashed through his mind; the day Elboron was born, the first time he had held him in his arms, the first word, the first step. . .

Faramir forced himself to focus for he knew that such memories would undo him at this moment. Now he needed all of his strength. Marshalling himself with a sniff, he pushed his son away from him, took a further moment to look on the beloved face once more and then stood back.

He did not meet Elboron's eyes as he finally said. "I need you to take a message to the King."

He heard his son's shocked intake of breath and was unable to deny the urge to look upon him. Emotions were running across the young man's face as the true repercussions of such an order were understood.

Elboron gulped. "My duty is here with you, Sire," he said finally.

"Your duty is anywhere I decide to post you!" Faramir snapped back as his own sentiment crashed through him.

Elboron bit his lip. He blinked as his eyes moistened. "Do not send me away, father," he whispered.

Faramir took hold of his son's shoulders once more. "I need a message taken to the King," he said softly. "My other messengers are . . . gone. I trust you to deliver this for me."

"But . . ."

Faramir sighed. He turned away running his hand through his hair. "They will come again soon," he said. "You must tell the King that the White Company have performed far above the call of duty on this day. He bid them hold and they have held under severe duress. They can hold no longer. Tell him that it is I who has failed, never my men. I wish I could have done more."

"No man could have done more," Elboron said softly. "I am proud to have served by your side, my father."

Faramir turned back to see the tears unashamedly running down his son's grubby cheeks. He took the Steward's ring from his finger and placed it in Elboron's dirty palm, closing the boy's long but grubby fingers around it.

Elboron sniffed. "Father, I cannot . . ." he began.

"This is about more than you being my son Elboron," Faramir said. "Although believe me at this moment, that fact makes my heart swell with joy. This is about the survival of all we hold dear and all our fathers before us have fought to keep safe. Gondor will not fall. If I die here, this day, then you must become Steward and serve the King in my stead. It is the way of things."

He clutched Elboron to him once more, in an embrace that both wished could last infinitely longer than the mere seconds they had left. Faramir was fighting back his emotion as he finally pulled away.

"Now go with hope in your heart, my son," he said. "And make me proud!"

Elboron nodded. He carefully placed the Steward's ring in the pouch at his belt. "I keep it safe, only until you come back to claim it, father," he said.

Faramir nodded. He watched as Elboron ran to his horse, Snowflake, and climbed into the saddle. His son's eyes met his in a determined stare; Elboron nodded once and then turned the horse up the hill, back to where the main army stood.

Faramir was aware of a supportive hand being laid on his shoulder. He turned to see Anborn regarding him with warm affection.

"No one will condemn you," the Ranger Captain said softly, reading in the Steward's face the doubt his actions had caused.

"Does that make it right?" Faramir snorted. "What about all the other boys who die today because their fathers are not the Steward? What about all the families I rip apart here?"

"You carry too much as always," Anborn replied. "And you give too much. It is enough that you are here with the men, Prince of Ithilien, Steward of Gondor. Believe it. You condemn yourself too readily when all others cannot fail but see the quality in you."

Faramir smiled sadly. "We have faced much together, have we not, Anborn?"

The Ranger Captain nodded. "Through the woods of fair Ithilien, to the plains of the Pelennor and the very walls of Minas Tirith and Osgiliath. I have stood by your side, my Captain."

Faramir sighed. "It will end today," he replied softly.

"As all things must, my lord. I, for one, would not ask to change it for today is as good a day as any other. And you also, for though you have oft pleaded you are a scholar not a soldier, yet your valour and honour belie that claim."

Faramir threw his arm around the other man's shoulder. "Come, let us be ready Anborn, for though I would not chose it, if this is to be the end let us have it done."

They walked together along the line of remaining men, talking with each one and sharing their water flasks. Then as they heard the chilling screams of the uruks once more, each man raised his sword, quietened his hammering heart and made ready to face his own destiny.