The War of Light and Shadow

By Freddie23

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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.

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Chapter 58 – Siege

Faramir sat on an upturned wooden crate, staring blankly into the flames of the fire he shared with three other soldiers who were using this rare break, lull in activity, to relax and unwind from their toils against the Shadow's forces.

"You look deep in thought," commented Maran, his faithful lieutenant and right-hand man.

Faramir nodded simply, scrubbing his hand through his hair. He did indeed have much to think about. So much had he learned from the prisoner under his father's capture; it was a lot to consider.

"Drink," another man offered, holding a tin cup before his Captain's face.

"Thank you." Alcohol would do nothing to clear his mind and yet he accepted it gratefully.

Before he could take even a sip though, loud shouts resounded all around him, calls from guards posted on duty. Faramir leapt to his feet, cup clattering to the ground as he dropped it in favour of drawing his sword. All his soldiers on leave for the night followed their captain's action, whipping out their swords. For a moment they stood, trying to work out where the attack was coming from.

"River!"

Faramir's worst fears materialised so abruptly that he barely had time to register what this meant as he ran through the streets and eventually clashed with Orcs that had already gotten past the first lines of defence. They were attacking from the river for all the preparations the Gondorian soldiers had made in guarding the river and the Pelennor Fields that connected Osgiliath with the overrun city of Minas Tirith, they still found themselves taken by surprise.

Already the soldiers guarding the Anduin had raised the alarm; soon soldiers would come from the depths of the city, where they guarded the residential areas, to back them up. But Faramir remained determined to get to the centre of the action, never one to see his men take on the dangers of the Shadow whilst he remained safely behind the lines. He and his faithful lieutenant, slaughtering any Enemy that dared to cross their path, forced their way towards the river and what they saw when they reached the river's banks made them come up short, unable to do anything but stare.

Literally hundreds of Orcs and Uruk-hai assaulted the thin Human contingency trying desperately to stem the flow of the cursed creatures who were already stomping off of flimsy rafts and paddling towards the shore, using those who had already been struck down as stepping stones to get to the river's banks. The Humans found themselves completely overwhelmed. No one could have anticipated this level of attack.

Even with every soldier in Osgiliath brandishing a weapon, Faramir knew it would never be enough.

For years the Men of Gondor had feared this assault. Things had fallen so quiet after the taking of Minas Tirith and the driving of its people into the mostly decrepit capital city of Osgiliath. In the wake of that relative peace, they had come to believe, perhaps unwisely, that the legions of Shadow had lost interest in wiping out the remaining Gondorians encamped in the city. How that had turned against them now. Complacency had ever been the folly of Men; even the most pompous amongst their race had to concede to that.

"Captain! We are outnumbered!" shouted Faramir's lieutenant as he made his way through the battle towards his commander.

"Hold the line!" Faramir yelled above the terrible noise of fighting as Light engaged Shadow on the banks of the Great River. "They must not be allowed to reach the city!" Should the Orcs get past the lines of the valiant defenders, the people in the city beyond would be entirely at the mercy of the Shadow. What horrors then the innocents would have to endure, Faramir did not like to think upon, should the creatures get ahold of them. Never could that be allowed to happen. Faramir, son of the Steward, would rather die upon the battlefield than let the Shadow get its claws into the innocents of Osgiliath.

"Captain!"

Faramir thrust his sword two-handed through the exposed neck of an Uruk and then turned at the call of his soldier. At first he did not know why in the midst of battle his name had been shouted in anything other than warning of a foe's approach, what, after all could be so important that his attention needed to be taken away from the fight when his life and the lives of others depended upon his full concentration. His attention was nevertheless diverted from the bloody task at hand and the soldier pointed in bewilderment towards the ruins of the city and Faramir was stunned to see Denethor himself approaching the melee, several jittery Council members hurrying behind him, eyes roving all around for any signs of approaching danger.

He looked ridiculous, approaching the battle with what seemed false bravado. He was unarmed; no sword strapped to his belt, as though because of his title and position no enemy would dare approach him. Rather than the clothing of a soldier, he wore his dusty old Council robes, which looked more regal than practical and made him stand out as important amongst the many soldiers milling about and made him a prime target for any observant Orc or Uruk. It was foolish of him, Faramir thought angrily, to come into battle thusly, endangering all those around him as well as himself. Denethor and his Council had not come to add their strength to the fight.

Gondor's caretaker was no warrior, after all. In the years of his youth he had been known to occasionally venture onto the field of battle if need or sire demanded it but he was no valiant prince morally charged with the defence of his home. The Steward was the last thread of Human command in Gondor and the line must ever be protected lest Gondor and its people fall entirely into chaos and thus into the throes of the Shadow. With no brother to serve as heir should he fall in battle, the young Denethor had been guarded and protected by his father and he had always been quite happy with that arrangement. Once the Men had begun to lose ground to the Orcs and Uruk-Hai in Minas Tirith, Denethor had been summarily banned from returning to the fight, much to his immense and private relief. Never had the lust to spill blood coursed through his veins. Diplomacy was more his forte – not cowardice as some gossips might have speculated, so he maintained to this very day. Certainly since he had taken up the burden of Stewardship upon his father's demise, he had not brandished any weapon but a pen, leaving such exertions up to the younger and braver men. It gave him his long life for sure, but Faramir knew that this way of life did little to endear him to those who, every day, placed their lives on the line in Gondor's defence. That was where Denethor's loyal son came in extremely handy. For all his desire to keep from danger himself, Denethor felt no compunction in sending out his only surviving son and heir into battle, caring not that with should Faramir fall then the line of Stewards would be broken.

So, it was extremely unexpected that the Steward of Gondor and his equally idle Council now ventured onto the field of battle.

Faramir let out a growl of annoyance as he made his way over to where his father had come to a halt safely behind the barrier promptly created by his soldiers. Now was not the time for his father to proffer a display of diplomacy. Orcs would never listen to reason. His presence would only prove distracting and ultimately meddlesome.

"Father!"

"These Orcs must be kept back, Faramir."

As if he didn't know that already! "What are you doing out here?"

Denethor made no other response but to fold his arms over his chest and dip his head to prompt his son back into action.

"It is too dangerous out here, Father, you must return to the city!" cried Faramir as he heard the clashing of metal upon metal moving ever closer as the Orcs sought to get past the soldiers.

Still, the Captain's plea was ignored and he shook his head in disappointment. There was no point, he knew in trying to talk his father around. He was just wasting time here.

So, with nothing more to say on the matter, Faramir forced back his ire and turned. He would not forsake his men in favour of understanding his enigmatic father, understanding that had forever eluded him. His men and the innocents of Osgiliath, who by now no doubt had retreated to the safety of their homes, just in case the barriers of soldiers failed to keep out the filth of Mordor, were all that mattered this night. Still, Faramir pledged that he would never allow the monsters to defile his home.

OIOI

His men were fast tiring. The strength of the scourge of Sauron was proving too great even for these battle-hardened warriors, some with decades of experience under their belts. Already several Orcs had slipped through their Human net, tight though they had tried to keep it. Inevitably, holes were beginning to appear, cracks weakening its fundamental integrity and thus the filth of Sauron were beginning to slip through. If things carried on in this manner, all of Gondor's surviving population would be under serious threat; when no soldiers lived to protect them. Faramir could not suffer his people to come to harm, not when he had sworn countless times before them that he would defend them at any cost.

Twice already had the line of Men guarding the city been forced to retreat, losing yet more ground to these most hated creatures.

And now, his lieutenant approached him, breathless and exhausted as they all were, and dragged his captain from the fray.

"Sir, you must sound the retreat!" he called over the noise of battle.

"Retreat to where? There is nowhere to go!" Faramir cried in desperation, shooting a look back over his shoulder to where the city was built up, suddenly looking no longer to be sturdy stone but rather horribly weak, exposed and vulnerable. It was true. Given Osgiliath's position, there was no escape. To the west lay the overrun city of Minas Tirith and every other point on the compass was empty, open space. If they attempted to run, the Men would be picked off all too easily by the Enemy. The only possible safe haven was the mountains, despite their worrying proximity to Mordor, but Faramir doubted that with the women, children, elderly and infirm in tow they would reach them in time to avoid a slaughter.

No, they were trapped, as had always been the captain's worst fear.

"Surrender the city, Captain. Beg for clemency. Pray that…"

"That what? That these soulless monsters will miraculously develop conscience and spare our lives?"

Faramir's tone was dripping with thick sarcasm and right away Maran knew that his commander was correct. Never before had the Orcs shown even a small hint of mercy, they were hardly likely to start now. They would sooner slaughter every man, woman and child than accept a surrender.

"So, what?" asked the lieutenant and Faramir felt the pressure of his decision weighing down upon him. Long experienced though he might have been in combat and command, the idea that all people deferred to him to know what was the best course of action still discomforted him. Perhaps it was not the best trait in one who was destined – or at least had been destined – to protect Gondor and its people.

Desperately, Faramir looked about himself. What could he do that would spare his people?

"Captain!"

Suddenly Faramir found himself on the ground, flat on his back with a sharp pain streaking down his arm from his shoulder. At first he could not comprehend what on earth had caused this change in situation. One minute he had been thinking upon their quandary and the next…

"Faramir!"

Maran bent to help his captain sit up then began looking to the wound caused by the projectile that had been effectively aimed at him from the seething mass of Orcs.

"It is not fatal," the man declared in relief before he took Faramir's arm to help him back up to his feet. "We must get you to the physicians though."

Despite the pain shooting all the way up his arm, Faramir bent to retrieve his dropped sword and protested, "No. I am needed here."

"You are no good to us…"

"Ensure the line holds," interrupted the captain, trying not to let his hurt be heard in his voice even though it threatened to become known to all in the vicinity. His people did not need to know that he was struggling, not while they required his unfettered strength to lead them through this most vicious battle.

With no small amount of reluctance, the lieutenant nodded his acceptance and then hurried away to ensure the order was carried out.

Faramir, determination burning brightly in his eyes, gripped his sword all the tighter and attempted to shove down the pain radiating ceaselessly down his arm. Battle would not wait for his recovery. So he grit his teeth and plunged back into the fray.

It proved to be a great mistake. Weakened as he was, and bearing the obvious signs of being high in the forces' chain of command, it made him irresistible prey for the Orcs. They flocked to him, fighting ferociously to reach him. Naturally, he soon found himself being protected somewhat by his fellow warriors, his faithful lieutenant included. It was dangerous. Taking the attentions of his soldiers away from the whole fight in order to guard him. The kinder thing to do would be to remove himself from the battle entirely. But that felt cowardly and Faramir, son of Denethor, was no coward.

Not long after this enlightened realisation, the inevitable transpired just as he'd feared it would. Separated for mere moments from his guard, Faramir found himself sparring with three particularly vicious creatures intent on exploiting the weaknesses fairly radiating from the injured man. Understandably, this usually strong, fearsome warrior, proved little match for the ferocious monsters.

Whilst engaged in an abnormally intricate swordfight with an Uruk, Faramir was distracted enough that another of Sauron's minions, a mere goblin, managed to get behind him and before he even registered what had happened a sharp pain snapped through his head, reverberating all the way down his neck, the force was so great.

He crumbled to his knees, just about managing to catch himself before he crashed onto his front and became entirely vulnerable.

"Faramir!"

His lieutenant's voice sounded so terribly distant. Too far away for help. Although his vision was horribly blurred, he could make out that none of the others were close enough anymore to come to his aid.

Realising that no salvation was imminent, Faramir looked up at the massive Uruk-hai looming over him. No weapon was in view but a murderous glint shone in evil yellow eyes. It was taking its time, savouring the moment of bringing down the Captain of Gondor. Never had Faramir prayed for death. His very life had been dedicated to preserving not just the lives of his people but his own life also; such was a warrior's way of life. All that effort, he believed, could not be in vain. He had done his best. He feared the unknown that now stretched out before him but he could do no more in this life. What would be would be. Still, boldly, he looked into the eyes of his slayer, strong and unyielding to the end. And if this was to be his ending, he would stubbornly stare his death in the face.

But what was that new emotion in the Uruk's eyes? Admiration, Faramir deduced with a jolt of surprise. A warrior's death, in the manner of Sauron's strong allies themselves, was to be esteemed by the one dealing the killing blow.

Weapon was raised. Bloodlust returned to discoloured eyes. A smile split the creature's face.

But then, as the son of the Steward awaited his demise, something changed in the demeanour of his killer. Shock replaced gruesome delight. The creature slowly lowered its weapon from where it had been raised and stared in amazement and no small amount of anger over Faramir's head. What it was looking at, Faramir did now know. He feared to turn his head and look. What could frighten an Uruk? Fear renewed now beat harder than ever in his chest.

However, the Uruk's expression changed once again, this time to utter incomprehension and when said monster suddenly crumpled to the ground, dead, Faramir suddenly whipped his head around and he too was stunned by what he saw.

OIOI

Everyone confined within the abandoned premise of some long since departed proprietor had heard the sounds of the battle from outside; it was impossible to miss given the previous silence that filled the city. Horrified that the city they had only just entered was under attack and may well fall to the Enemy, they had never felt more helpless locked in their prison. Trapped, they could do nothing but press their eyes to the thin cracks in the wooden panels boarding up the windows and hope for a glimpse or sound of something that might allude to how the Men of Gondor were faring against the interlopers.

By the time daylight had crept sluggishly over Gondor, all hopes of discovering what was occurring in the city disappeared entirely. The only thing they had been able to discern was that the lines of Men were breaking because Orcs were seen to run past them as they had not done before.

Understandably, none of the creatures paid any heed to the prisoners of the Humans.

Aragorn and his companions were just itching to get out and meet the scourge of Mordor for themselves on the battlefield. It was beyond frustrating to watch the merciless monsters making their way unhindered into the city and to the unprotected, helpless innocents who hid within.

Perhaps it had been foolish to think that the captain of this besieged city would give thought to the prisoners he'd met only that night. Legolas had reasoned that commanding his army would swallow up the majority of his attention. That had been little comfort to the others though. Surprisingly, it had been Aragorn who had been the most unsettled about the whole thing.

After hours, anything could be happening with the clashing forces. Only the fact that Osgiliath was not completely overrun by the Enemy indicated that the Humans were still just about holding their own. How long that could last, they did not know though.

"This is intolerable," stormed Aragorn in a flurry of activity as he turned from the window and stalked around the room in a great circle before he returned to where Legolas now stood calmly watching him. "We should be out there! We should be doing something!"

A calming hand on his shoulder soothed Aragorn's frustration somewhat. "I know that, but there is nothing we can do but wait."

Aragorn closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh before bowing his head. He knew that the voice of reason by his side was right. Anger would not alter their fate.

So involved was Aragorn in tending to his broiling frustration that he did not even hear the noise of man feet in the distance growing closer to them.

"Aragorn!" called Janor suddenly in surprise, stepping away.

Lifting his head, Aragorn saw that all his men were backing away from where they'd been pressed against the wall watching the scene unfolding outside.

"What?"

He was answered by the door flying open with a great crash and a shower of splinters so great the force had been on the rotting wood. He might have expected Faramir or even an enraged Denethor. But it was neither.

"Eomer!"

"Pleased to see me?" grinned the Rohan man grimly.

Coming forward to grasp Eomer's arm in greeting, Aragorn smiled back, "Immensely."

Eomer took a moment to nod to the others then released Aragorn and drew his sword from its sheath at his side. He nodded then to those others who had come with him into the city – almost all their armed forces - and they stepped forward bearing the weapons taken from Aragorn and his companions when they had been taken captive. Aragorn took back Anduril gratefully and smiled his thanks to the commander of the Rohirrim. "Come. There are still plenty of the Enemy to fight. If you're up to it, that is."

Relief washed over Aragorn and he could not cover his smile. Killing the filth of Mordor would indeed help to relieve his frustration. Eomer turned and led the way out and the prisoners eagerly followed, crashing quickly down the uneven paving towards the sounds of battle, knocking down every Orc that they passed. None of the Shadow would get into the heart of the city now, not with the combined forces of Men forming a barrier against them.

Finishing the remains of the Orcs proved easy enough. With their numbers bolstered by the combined forces loyal to Aragorn, the creatures stood no chance against the Men; their endeavour to overwhelm the city now rendered folly. Every one that had launched an attack on the city soon lay slaughtered on the paved streets of Osgiliath. Their victory secured, the Men of Gondor began to tend to their wounded. Seeing that they struggled with the number of casualties, Eomer ordered his Rohirrim to help whilst Aragorn had the Rangers search the town for Faramir. Things had changed now. They had much to discuss in light of this new development.

When Faramir, guided by Tarsem and Janor, appeared though, his expression was thunderous and he apparently did not desire a rational conversation as Aragorn did.

"You lied to me!" he bellowed furiously when he was within shouting distance of the young man, disregarding the fact that not only had Aragorn and his people saved the Gondorian forces and innocents within the city, but also that he was surrounded by those loyal to the king returned.

If Aragorn was shocked by this accusation then he hid it well. He stood from where had had been crouched tending to the wounds of one of Gondor's fallen soldiers, straightening so that he appeared just as tall as the Captain. Of course, he knew of what Faramir spoke. During his account of how he'd made his way to the city, Aragorn had tactically left out the fact that his army were surreptitiously encamped just outside the city walls, close enough to have heard the Orc attack and, upon assessing that things looked dire for the warriors of Gondor, intervene.

"I understand your anger."

"Do you now?!" Faramir yelled unrelentingly. "Why did you not tell me the truth?"

"Because I knew you would react badly to the knowledge."

"The knowledge that you deceived me, that you surrounded my home with your soldiers? Of course I would react badly. Who would not?"

"Captain, we came here to work alongside you. I knew that if you thought that our forces were outside the city you would believe us to be too intimidating."

"So you lied! You think that instils trust?!"

"Perhaps I was mistaken. But I think not. I did what I had to for the Steward to heed my words. Had I mentioned my army here also then Denethor would have considered this a coup and would undoubtedly have chopped off my head without the hesitation he showed yesterday. My decision was sound considering how things ended up."

"I should lock you back up and throw away the key," growled Faramir in a low voice, still not entirely trusting all that he was being told.

Aragorn spared a glance to Janor and then said, "And need I remind you that my people just saved your town from ultimate ruin?"

Faramir appeared startled at this and he looked around himself. It was true. Everywhere Orcs and Uruk-hai lay dead in the streets and Men roamed here and there freely and it seemed no longer with any fear. The combined armies of the Rangers and Rohirrim by far outnumbered his own Men, he noticed. Should they wish it, Aragorn's allies could take control of Osgiliath by sheer force. He also had to concede that so far the men had made absolutely no move to do so. In fact, they appeared to actually be helping the Gondorian people in the wake of the battle they had aided in winning.

As if he was reading the Captain's mind, Aragorn assured, "We have healers amongst us; they will do whatever they can to help your people."

"I thank you for that," said Faramir, quieter now he'd started to listen to reason and had calmed.

Grey eyes raked down the Captain's dishevelled form then widened slightly when he saw the blood staining the man's shirt at his shoulder. "You are injured yourself, Faramir."

"Yes; in the battle." He pressed his hand to his shoulder, wincing as the pain that had been momentarily forgotten in the heat of battle and the exhilaration of the appearance of allies made itself known again. "It is minor."

"Please let our physician see to it. He is the best I have ever encountered."

"There is much to do about the city."

Gesturing around himself, Aragorn told the man, "It is being taken care of." When Faramir looked ready to protest again, Aragorn told Janor to fetch the healer Valon, hearing no further objections from the Captain of the army of Gondor.

OIOI

"Father, please, if you would just hear them out."

"I have heard all I wish to hear and I will speak no more on the matter."

"But…"

"Enough," Denethor's voice boomed even in the small room of his tavern-come-command post.

Even after all his thirty years of enduring his father's aloof demeanour and self-righteous rants, of being at the receiving end of that infamous temper, Faramir still flinched, hurt by the tone and words of his sire. He knew this reaction was to be expected though. Talking rationally to a man who seldom listened to reason if it meant causing harm to his fragile pride was perhaps foolish but Faramir felt compelled to do so all the same.

It had been two days since his soldiers had been rescued by the Rohirrim and the Dunedain and all of the newcomers, as well as their commanders and king, had been helpful beyond measure in the restoring and securing of the beleaguered city. They'd proven themselves thoroughly invaluable; tirelessly tending to the wounded, burning the rotten carcasses of the fallen Enemy invaders as well as organising amongst themselves constant watches and patrols around the borders of the town just in case of a second wave of attack. Given all that they had done, Faramir felt he owed it to them to try again with his stubborn father.

"Leave me, Faramir. I wish to speak of this no longer."

"They do not desire to supplant you; only to work with us. If you would just give them a chance…"

Denethor rose from his chair. At one time he would have looked magnificent performing such a threatening action but time had left him withered, lacking now in his old splendour. He looked like an old man, clinging onto the glories of his old life and seeking to keep just a while longer his power and potency. Still, despite his lack of physical intimidation, his eyes were dark and threatening with anger at his usually placid son's blatant disobedience and disregard for his commands.

"I will give that pretender nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing! The line of the Stewards will not fail with me. I will not be the weak link!"

How it hurt him to doubt his father and to speak of that doubt. Fealty was greatly valued by the House of the Stewards. It really was no wonder that his speaking out against that line angered his father.

Taking a deep breath, and in spite of his inherent reservations, Faramir ploughed on with his much-thought-about reasoning. "But, Father, are the Stewards not mere guardians of the throne and the Great Kingdom of Gondor, protecting it until the true King's return? Is that not what you always taught me of our duty to our realm? And if so, is not this Stewardship that you have helmed so valiantly, the most successful of them all, to precipitate the return of our rightful King?"

"Perhaps that was once so," Denethor sighed, feigning patience even though it was proving an ever greater challenge. "But this…"

"Aragorn," Faramir supplied with some hint of hope entering the speaking of the name before his father.

"Aragorn," ground out the Steward, who looked to be in considerable physical pain to even speak the foul name himself, "is not the true heir to our beloved Kingdom."

"How can you know this for sure?"

"There are some things, as appointed ruler of these lands, that one simply comes to know instinctively. And I know this not to be true." Denethor's aged features softened ever so slightly and he stood from his seat again as if that would put his nervy-looking son at ease. Smiling looked unnatural upon his weathered face so the Keeper of Gondor did not even attempt that ghastly motion. He did not wish to frighten his son. "Trust me in this matter, Faramir."

The Steward's voice was soft as he implored this but he also made it painfully clear that the decision had been made and the law laid down.

"Could I at least provide them with shelter?" Faramir asked, hoping that he could gain something for Aragorn and the army that followed him; they had come so far to reach Osgiliath and already done much to aid in her recuperation. "Please, they have helped greatly, Father."

Denethor considered for a moment. He did not like the notion of Aragorn remaining free in his city when his eyes seemed so firmly set on gaining the rule over Gondor. But he also had to concede that the Men had been most useful. Denethor was no fool in spite of his innate pride and he knew that at trying times one had to take advantage of the gifts brought upon a beleaguered kingdom.

"Very well," he replied after a while. "They may remain in the city."

Executing a formal bow as he had always done before his noble father, Faramir murmured, "Thank you, my Lord."

Upon leaving his father's chamber, the Captain took a round-about route back to where he'd left his and Aragorn's soldiers, taking the time to check on the citizens of Osgiliath. They'd been understandably rattled by how close the Orcs had gotten to the heart of their city and its innocents. Denethor would not deign to mingle amongst them if he could at all help it, but for a token appearance to silence their troubles about his being one of them. Contrary to what Denethor believed, it was not enough. Perhaps if Faramir showed his face then it would comfort them somewhat.

Indeed they were pleased to see him. Many of these people were families who had warriors under the Captain's command. They admired him, respected his desire to keep his men, their loved ones, safe.

They also understood that he had matters to attend to and so after he provided them with a quick update they let him go, grateful to know that for the time being they were safe once more under the care of their noble Captain.

"How are you feeling?" Valon called to Faramir as the man passed by the building posing as a temporary healing hall for the soldiers wounded in battle.

"Much better."

Faramir had never liked healers overly much. He respected their talents immensely, recognised that they were as invaluable in battle as any soldier, but he just did not care for them. Perhaps it was because the only times he ever visited them was when he or someone close to him was suffering. Nor did he like the halls of healing. They smelled unusual and everything seemed so dire within them. A warrior preferred action to such a skill.

"I am glad. What kind of first impression would I make of my Men if I failed you?" grinned the healer, looking up from where he was applying a fresh bandage to the gash on the arm of a soldier.

Faramir's smile was shaky and he tried to keep his eyes off the oozing wound. "Well, my impression of you is a good one so far if it comforts you at all."

"It does." Again, Valon raised his eyes, a knowing look entering them as he did so. "And your Lord? What is his impression?"

Bristling ever so slightly at what seemed like such a demanding question from a mere healer, Faramir straightened and said somewhat frostily, "You cannot blame him for his scepticism. His best interests lie with his people. Aragorn has not yet proven his worth sufficiently to him."

"And to you?"

At this, Faramir hesitated. He found his opinion divided. A part of him harboured a deep mistrust if not dislike of this man come to claim the Throne of Gondor for his own, not least because should he succeed then Faramir himself would be rendered powerless. Why would Aragorn allow him to lead the army when he possessed commanders with significantly more experience? Nor would he ever get to live up to his legacy. He'd never be Steward when the king returned.

But he liked Aragorn. He seemed a good man; kind and true. And really, was his pride enough to ignore the return of Isildur's heir?

Undecided, he deferred the healer's question for now and bid his farewells to Valon with no small amount of relief. He had much to think upon so he abandoned his search for Aragorn and his companions. Perhaps given some time the answer would simply come to him. Never before in his life had he been so torn, with no idea what to do: support Aragorn of the true line or be loyal to his father whom he knew fully well was riddled with imperfections as a leader.

There were few places of true peace and beauty in Osgiliath was rare but, knowing the city as he did, Faramir had found one. Close to the River Anduin there was a small bay, hidden from the city entirely. One could sit entirely undiscovered in quiet, looking over the river, beautiful in its way despite its harsh currents and polluted waters. The small waves lapping against the pebbles was soothing to watch. No one could find him when he came to this cove. He remembered coming to this exact place when as a child he had found himself a victim of his father's sharp tongue.

So, whenever the pressures of leadership got the better of him, he came here to think and reflect in private. Now he came to the river to work through what he would do next. It was quite a quandary.

To Be Continued…