Notes: If my dates and times are completely off, please forgive me. I was too lazy to go look them up in the book, so instead I relied soley upon my faulty memory.

I decided to not wait until Thursday and to post right now. Enjoy, and don't forget to review so I know what you're opinions on the story are. I need to know before I subject you to the rest!

Chapter Six: Desperation

It was getting even darker as Imrahil looked around the battlefield. It was always dark, now, especially over here, but the darkness was increasing. He stopped himself from wondering what was making it darker—it would do no earthly good to think about it. He couldn't do anything about it anyway.

"My lord!" came the voice of Cefron, his lieutenant, and the man sounded desperate, "they are closing in! We must retreat!" Imrahil turned to see the man standing with two horses, staring at him wildly. He looked to be just on the verge of fleeing. Imrahil hesitated, his head aching with the weight of the decision. "The men are already retreating?" he asked sharply. Cefron nodded. Imrahil cast his glance around the battlefield. "And none have seen him. None, correct?"

The lieutenant wiped his face with his free hand; one of the horses stamped nervously. "No, my lord. No one can find him."

Imrahil groaned and lowered his head. This was what he had been so terrified of. His nephew had been keeping the orcs off for a night and a day now, and when Imrahil's own troops had arrived he had seen how few men were left. The soldiers of Gondor had needed help, then, more than ever, and Imrahil had been prepared to give it. But he had not been prepared to see neither hide nor hair of his nephew.

When he had arrived in the city, hours after Faramir had led his men forth, he had wasted no time at all in turning his men around and leading them out to reinforce the men of Gondor. The interview had not gone well with Denethor. Short, terse words were exchanged, and then Imrahil had practically run out to rally his men to his nephew's aid. As far as Imrahil was concerned, it was pure madness and folly to have sent Faramir out, and it was a miracle that any of the men had survived this far. It bears tribute to my nephew's strategic skills, Imrahil thought grimly.

The men of Dol Amroth had done little. Now, as the orcs bore steadily closer and broke through the defenses, Imrahil was being forced to flee back to the city. Most of the men of Gondor had fled first, leaving Imrahil's men to hold the orcs off until they could escape. And still there was no sign of Faramir, captain of Gondor.

Imrahil let out a long, anguished yell that began to echo in the foul air and then simply died. He had gotten no clear coordinates from any of the men under Faramir's command. One, a young man with a bleeding arm, had shaken his head wildly and said, "He was at the front lines, my lord. That is where I saw him last." Only one other man was either lucid enough or could remember enough to tell him that the last place he had seen Faramir was when the young captain had pulled him out of the way of an arrow and shoved him against a wall. That was it.

Imrahil felt the seconds ticking—could almost taste the haste that was pressing down upon him. He needed to go, go now. But the thought of his nephew lying somewhere under the carnage, perhaps still alive, bore down on him. He could not leave; he would never be able to forgive himself if he could do something and didn't. And he wouldn't know until he found him. "Eru, please," he pleaded out loud, though no one could hear him above the din of battle. "Help me! Help him!"

"My lord!" Cefron called again, the strain showing through his voice. "We must go!"

"Go if you must," Imrahil yelled, turning his back on the man and walking away. "I stay until I find my nephew. He's alive," he said under his breath. "I know he is."

Behind him Cefron wiped his face again and cast a wild glance around. With a ferocious curse, he pulled the horses' harnesses and began picking his way along the field behind his lord. Ahead, Imrahil wiped sweat out of his eyes and continued the search. It grew louder and hotter, as if the approaching darkness was bringing with it all the fire and tumult of Hell itself. Imrahil was forced to go painfully slow, turning over bodies where they lay one on top of another to make sure his nephew was not beneath. He began to despair.

"My Lord Imrahil!" Cefron's voice sounded faint to Imrahil, but he turned wearily as the lieutenant gestured to a pair of men to Imrahil's left. "Is that not the black and silver uniform of a superior commander of the White Tower?"

Imrahil's hopes rose before he could suppress them. His aching legs pumped as he hurdled several bodies and ran to the place Cefron pointed to, dropping to his knees and pulling the carcass of another Gondorian soldier off of…Faramir.

Had he not been in such a dire circumstance, Imrahil might have wept at that moment. Faramir lay twisted on the ground, one hand stretched out and still grasping his sword, and the other flung over his forehead, in a strange attitude of despair. It was as if Faramir, in his anguish upon seeing the battle being lost, had felt shame even as he was struck down. "Oh Eru, say he is not…" he trailed off as he laid a hand on his nephew's face and felt that it was still warm and alive. Now the tears did come, but he blinked them away fiercely and turned to face Cefron. "He is alive!" he said triumphantly. "Quick, we must see what we can do and bring him back with us." He turned toward his nephew and pulled the battered, stained weaponry and refuse from around him. The black shaft protruding from Faramir's shoulder was suddenly evident to Imrahil; his frown deepened.

"He's been struck by a missile—looks to be one that the Haradrim use," Imrahil said shortly as Cefron knelt next to him. "I'm going to take it out—tear something so I can bind it." Cefron nodded, though Imrahil took no notice. He drew his knife and laid a hand on Faramir's bloody chest. With a deep breath, he slipped the knife into Faramir shirt and cut it away from the shaft of the arrow. Around the trio the air was growing steadily darker, but neither man paid attention now as they bent over the still form of Faramir.

The skin around the wound was slick with blood, dirt that had managed to find a way under his uniform, and black with bruises. Imrahil's breath let out in a sigh as he saw that the arrow had penetrated the skin just underneath the collarbone, avoiding shattering his shoulder by fractions of an inch. He will heal, he thought. He will heal if I can just get him back soon enough.

Suddenly, the young man's face moved, contorting into a rasping cough. Imrahil's glance moved from Faramir's chest to his face, and to his surprise, the older man saw that Faramir's eyes were open. They seemed to be staring up at the sky—studying it, as if his life was linked to the fate of what he saw there. For a moment his face was almost peaceful, and then his breath came out swiftly and he began to gasp—deep, short gasps that echoed strangely in the din of the battlefield. His eyes began to roll to the right and the left, swiftly, as if he was searching for something, or someone.

"Faramir!" Imrahil said gently, putting his other hand on his nephew's shoulder. Faramir did not respond, and his breathing grew more labored. His left hand, still gloved, suddenly shot up and grabbed Cefron's throat—the lieutenant knelt close by—in a surprisingly strong grip. Cefron gasped in surprise, clutched at Faramir's hand, and looked wildly at Imrahil.

Imrahil bent closer to his injured nephew. "Faramir," he tried again, gently but firmly. "It is I, Imrahil…your uncle. You are in safe hands, Faramir." Imrahil touched the arm that held Cefron by the throat and asserted gentle pressure on it. "You are safe, Faramir. I am here. It's you uncle, and I'm going to help you. Faramir, can you hear me?" Imrahil watched as Faramir's eyes turned toward him and focused slowly. Imrahil suddenly noticed how thin Faramir's face was. There was a cut just beneath his eye, and it stood out starkly against his pale, sweaty skin.

Faramir swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully in his dry throat. "Uncle?" he asked, his voice a mere whisper. Imrahil nodded and moved his hand from Faramir's arm to his face. "I'm here, Fama," he said softly. "Now let go of my lieutenant, and we'll help you."

Faramir's arm fell to his side and his eyes shut heavily. Cefron gasped a few times and felt at his throat; the lieutenant looked at Imrahil and shook his head. Imrahil turned back to Faramir. Now that Imrahil was touching Faramir's face, he realized that his nephew was feverish. The dart must have been poisoned, he thought. I have to work fast. "Faramir," he said, leaning close to his nephew, "I have to remove the arrow before I take you back with me. I have to do it now."

Faramir's mouth opened, but his eyes remained shut. "I never thought it would…hurt so much," he whispered. His body went completely limp, and Imrahil blinked harshly to stop the tears in his eyes. "Come on," he said gruffly, "let's get it over with before he regains consciousness."

Cefron handed him a dagger and a wad of cloth. "Here are more bandages to wrap it with," he said, gesturing to the pile in his lap. For a moment Imrahil and Cefron's eyes met, and Imrahil felt a rush of gratitude toward the younger man. "Thank you for staying with me," Imrahil said. Cefron merely nodded.

Faramir didn't scream as the arrow came out, but a gasping moan escaped his lips, and Imrahil looked up at his face to see his eyes open and stare unseeingly at the sky. His body began to shake in small, fierce shivers. Imrahil wrapped the wound quickly, then took off his cloak and wrapped it around Faramir's body. "Let's go," Imrahil said shortly. Cefron took Faramir's feet, and Imrahil took his nephew's body. "Gently," he said, yet despite their efforts, putting Faramir on the horse's back was not easy. Cefron held the reigns as Imrahil climbed up behind Faramir, and then both men began picking their way across the field. The last of the troops were withdrawing, fleeing toward the city. Imrahil and Cefron joined the tail end of the line, and the White City shone like a beacon of safety in comparison to the stench of the battlefield they were fast leaving behind.

As they reached the edge of the outpost, Imrahil turned his horse for an instant to look back at the desolation. His mind dwelt ever so swiftly on what Osgiliath once was, but he pushed the thoughts out of his head in his urgency to hurry Faramir to a healer's care. Yet as he turned to rejoin the retreat, he heard his nephew's rasping voice in front of him.

"Is it a rout?" Faramir's head lay against Imrahil's shoulder, and Imrahil looked down into Faramir's sharp gray eyes, surprisingly clear and alert. Imrahil's arms about Faramir tightened and he shook his head.

"No, Fama. It's not a rout. You held them off longer than anyone could have hoped for," he said, and he watched his nephew's eyes turn to look at the scene of battle before them. "Tell him I'm sorry," Faramir said. For a moment his grip tightened on Imrahil's arm, and then his eyes clouded over. "They're calling me," he said hoarsely. "I must return…" And with a moan, he succumbed to the world of shadows once more.

Imrahil found himself blinded by tears; he shook his head fiercely and uttered a harsh oath against Denethor. "What I will do to you, Denethor, Steward of Gondor," he bit out as he began galloping across the Pelennor, "when I get my hands on you will go down in the annals of Gondor. I swear I will make you pay for this."

Damla had never felt so completely bereft of any joy before in her life. The men of Gondor were falling by the moment, and the wounded in the Houses of Healing were piling up outside the door. Men—wounded men—were everywhere. They crowded the halls and were sprawled over the beds. They were sitting and lying in every niche of the rooms, and they were lined up outside the doors. Damla felt their moaning weigh on her very soul. She was grateful now, though she had not been before, that her husband had been wounded in one of the first attacks and was happily drugged and recovering. Her sons were safe for the moment, for they had gone to the countryside with their aunt and uncle until, and if ever, they could meet again.

But her heart felt like a lump in her shoes, being tread on more and more as the hours passed by. The men that had gone out were slowly trickling into the city, and Faramir had still not returned. Damla was not surprised. She knew Faramir, and he was not one to retreat first. If there were any of his men still on the field fighting, he would be fighting with them. She sighed inwardly as she scurried about the halls, binding and sewing and cleaning and bathing. If only she could be as sure that Faramir was safe as she was that her husband and children were safe!

Damla had not seen Faramir before he had marched out. She couldn't help thinking it had been on purpose; though she didn't like to think so, she knew that Faramir had striven to leave with as few goodbyes as possible. He had no doubt thought it easier that way—as if he had had a premonition that he might not be returning. Damla knew his goodbye to his father had been very painful, for already rumors of their conversation flew thick about the city, and if any rumors were to be heard, they could be heard in the Houses of Healing. Damla tried to shut her ears to the horrible rumors, for she knew that they held more truth than she could bear. Faramir and Denethor's relationship had never been easy, and at the last it had been broken past repair. Yet Damla, in her ever optimistic nature, was hopeful that things could still be patched up between the father and son, in the days of peace that might come, if the war was won. Damla had always been hopeful that peace was left in Middle Earth, but as the sky darkened and the troops of Mordor advanced, Damla's courage and optimism were spreading thin.

She was passing by an upper window, late in the day, when she saw a horse bearing two men coming up the streets, and as it passed the people cried out and called to one of the men. Damla knew immediately that he would not respond, and she dropped the linens she carried and flew through the corridors, down the steps, and onto the street. The horse stopped just as her skirts settled once more about her feet. "Faramir!" she cried, looking up at the still form of the young man. "Oh Fama, what has he done?" Her unconscious words startled even her, and she put her hand over her mouth. Imrahil of Dol Amroth, Faramir's uncle and the one who bore Faramir before him, glanced at her as he dismounted. Recognition showed almost at once, and he pulled her to him briskly. "You are Damla, are you not?" he asked. Damla was surprised that Imrahil would remember her, but she nodded.

"I am," she said. Her eyes involuntarily filled with tears, but she wiped them away angrily. "He was on the field?" she asked tilting her chin bravely. Imrahil nodded.

"He was struck with a Southron arrow," he said. He suddenly grabbed her arm and looked into her dark eyes intently. "He needs medicine. Can I trust you to watch over him? I need not tell you what my nephew's well-being means to me, and to his family, to say nothing of Gondor and her people."

Damla sniffed and glanced at Faramir, still slumped over the horse's back. "You can count on me, my Lord Imrahil. Faramir and I have been as brother and sister since we were small. Believe me, no one would grieve with more sorrow than I, should the wound prove fatal." Her eyes moved back to Imrahil's face, and Imrahil felt a sudden rush of trust and warmth toward this Gondorian girl.

"Thank you," he said with sudden weariness. Then, snagging a healer to help as he rushed past, Imrahil lifted Faramir from the horse and, under Damla's direction, carried him into the house and to a room filled with other wounded men. "We shall find him better quarters when we can," Damla said hastily as they set Faramir down on the bed. "The important thing now is to wash and bind his wound so that fever doesn't set in."

"I fear we are too late," Imrahil said. Damla took another look at Faramir and saw that his uncle was right. Faramir's skin was beaded with sweat, his hair stuck to his forehead, and his hands moved restlessly on the bed. His breathing was growing shallower, with each breath seeming more and more of a chore. Damla felt a tiny knot of despair in her stomach, but she crushed it with silent resolve.

"Kitha," she called, "bring hot water and fresh bandages. I will need a fresh tunic as well, and some herbs. Hurry!" As Imrahil watched, she set to work gently cutting Faramir's clothing away and smoothing the hair from his wet brow.

"Should not someone be sent to tell the Lord Steward?"

Damla and Imrahil froze at the voice of Kitha, and they turned toward the girl. Imrahil's brow knit, but Damla shook her head. "It is his right," she whispered. With a glance at Faramir and at Imrahil, she nodded to the girl. "Send a messenger to inform the Steward that his son has returned," she said, and there was a strange note of hurt in her voice that Imrahil could only wonder at. "And do not neglect to tell him of Lord Faramir's condition."

Kitha nodded and bowed out of the room.

Up next: Denethor comes, Faramir wanders, and Damla does something very brave and foolish.