Some of you may think that Denethor is slightly AU in this chapter, but I think it helps the story...

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Chapter 16

Faramir coughed and choked. He needed to breathe something other than the black plague that arose from the burning orange cascade. He was panicking. He brought his legs closer to his body. The fire was creeping closer to him. He tried to stand, but the ropes were too tight.

I'm going to die! I'm going to die! The fire's going to kill me! I can't run away!

He felt sweat pour down his face like a torrent. He needed water. He needed cold. He felt himself nearly blacking out. He was so hot.

He cried through the gag. He needed his brother. His father. What did his father matter? Hadn't the man always hated him? Hadn't Denethor ever given him a moment of his life? But…he still had the need. He needed his father. Perhaps more than anyone in the world.

The door opened. Faramir couldn't see anything. It was all so hazy.

"Faramir!" He heard someone call. He longed to place the voice but…

Father!

Faramir knew it. It had to be him. He screamed through the gag.

Through the distorted images he saw, he thought his father tried to put out the fire with his cloak.

"No, it's no good."

Faramir heard that mumble and gave up all hope.

Then, he heard and felt something slice the ropes off of him. The gag was torn from his mouth, untied, and thrown into the fire.

"Faramir, stand!"

Faramir tried. "I can't," he moaned. "I-I-Father…"

Faramir felt himself being lifted.

He was rushed out of the shack which was his confinement and prison.

Suddenly, a great light blinded him. Something like a freezing, rushing wind hit him. He was cold. Freezing. He felt his vision going black.

He didn't remember anything else.

Denethor saw Faramir's eyes roll back into his head. He was unconscious.

"Soldier!" he screamed, "Fetch my horse! Now!"

"Yes, milord!"

Denethor laid his son on the ground. His son was boiling hot by touch of the skin. His face was bleeding, dripping down his face. He was bruised; deep purple bruises were all around his body. The charred holes of his shirt revealed burned skin. Denethor nearly erupted as he thought, What did these men do to him?

Denethor called into the crowd, "Water, give me water!"

The order was followed instantly with water being spared to douse the fire's spread. The horse's clops of hooves pattering in the distance reached Denethor's ears. He ignored it.

"Faramir?" Denethor laid his head on Faramir's chest, listening. "You're heart's still beating. Good. Hold on, Faramir." Denethor felt his own heart race.

"Milord!" a hurried, deep voice called. It was Mithrandir.

"Milord, please allow me," Gandalf pleaded.

Denethor looked hard at the Grey Fool. "Will you put a spell on him?"

Gandalf looked at Faramir. "I am experienced in these matters, milord. If you would allow me, Faramir will become well."

Denethor saw his horse come into view. "I'd rather let our healers tend to him, Wizard. You are excused." He picked up Faramir and, with the help of a soldier, mounted his horse. Faramir was laid against his father, motionless and breathing. A blanket was wrapped around him.

Denethor glanced at his face. Faramir flinched, hissed through his teeth. Denethor thought he would awake, but instead, Faramir lolled his head backward.

"Where is Boromir?" Denethor asked anyone.

Gandalf answered, "He is still searching the city, milord. But I will tell him of Faramir's rescue if it is your desire."

"It is. Tell him to come immediately to the Houses of Healing." Denethor bolted off towards Minas Tirith.

Gandalf watched as they became smaller and smaller as father and son disappeared into the horizon. "Go with all speed," Gandalf blessed. Then he shouted to the crowd, "Find Captain Boromir and send him to me! I will be at the prison!"

Suddenly, Gandalf's eyes watched two men hurrying. One looked like he was limping badly. Another was aiding him. No one was of reported injury and there were no attacks. How…and then Gandalf saw their direction: away from both Minas Tirith and Osgiliath. "You two!"

The soldier surrounding them took that as an order to apprehend them, snatched the two, and brought them before Mithrandir.

"Who are you?" Gandalf demanded.

The one injured beyond repair, with a bushy, bulky beard answered, "Garapen. This is my comrade. Why are we being treated like criminals?"

"Do you know who was in that fiery building?'

"No," Garapen snapped, though his eyes were twitching, making their way to the ground.

"A wise, truthful man knows when another is lying," Gandalf reprimanded. "Take these men to the prison. They will see justice at the Steward's hand. The prisoners should plead for mercy if they are wise." He mumbled, "Let me see, there were five involved, information we received from Beregond. We have Ceredon, these two, one is tied in the fields. We need only one more."

Gandalf walked through the city and made his way to the prison, so that Boromir would find him when need be. He sat there, smoked a pipe, and guarded the four felons that sat captive inside. As usual, thoughts crossed his mind of The Shire.

Frodo was taking the mastery of Bag End well, or so Gandalf had heard. The lad missed his Uncle Bilbo greatly, he knew it. The old hobbit had reached Rivindell safely and was under the care of Elrond and Arwen. Yes, yes, everything was in order. Still, he knew something was very wrong with Frodo…somehow. Matters beyond the Shire had been growing ever since Bilbo's adventures with the Company of Dwarves under Thorin Oakenshield. How much longer would it be until he witnessed the effects?

"Mithrandir!" a distressed voice, drenched in agony, called. Men gasped and separated themselves to create a path for the bearer of the voice.

"My lord, Boromir," Gandalf greeted, seeing the worry in the brother's eyes.

"They said that Father rescued Faramir?" Boromir pleaded, praying that Gandalf would say it was true.

"Yes, Faramir is quite safe, though in need of your healer's care."

"Where is he? Where's Faramir! What's wrong with him?"

"Hush, hush, milord," Gandalf calmed, not caring if Boromir thought he was above the wizard. He looked intently into the teary eyes. "Your father took him to the Houses of Healing. Your father wishes to join him immediately."

Boromir nodded. Without another word, Boromir bolted to the stables, took a random horse, mounted, and rode.

Gandalf looked on towards Minas Tirith; the Great White City which all of the Steward's family held dear. "A family reunited," Gandalf commented, "and we shall hope for a pleasant meeting."

"In here, milord!" Ioreth, the lead wife of the Houses, summoned. "Hurry, milord!"

She opened doors as Denethor carried his unconscious son into the buildings. Her flowing, tearing skirt flew behind her as she led her Steward and his son to a room.

"Lay him on the bed, milord."

Denethor did so, ready to do anything to help Faramir get well. He rested Faramir's head on the pillow, staring at the unmoving face. Denethor was greatly comforted by the fact that Faramir's chest was moving. He was still very hot after being in that burning building for who knew how long, and his face hadn't moved since he hissed in a breath at Osgiliath.

"Will he be alright?" Denethor asked, a statement more than a question.

Ioreth was a woman of iron. She had authority in her voice."Lordship, he will be alright while I am the healer."

She sat on the bed, felt Faramir's head, and snapped orders to her assistants. "Bring kingsfoil! Prepare cool water, not lukewarm! Oh, he's too hot! Bring ice!"

Denethor saw Faramir twitch. "Ioreth!"

Ioreth turned and saw what her lord did.

Faramir flinched. His brow twitched. He moaned something not understandable. Then, in a small squeak of a murmur, Faramir called, "Father...Father..."

Denethor jumped toward his son. He grasped Faramir's hand. "Faramir! Son, I am here."

"Fa-Fa…" Faramir called in his sleep. He twitched his head, as if shaking it in protest. His face spoke terror, like he was witnessing something of dread, something which he could not bear.

Faramir stopped flinching. He moaned as if drifting into sleep. The hand Denethor was holding fell limp.

Denethor let the hand drop on the bed. "What's wrong with him?"

Ioreth flinched. "I know not, milord." She shouted into the storage room. "Bring that ice!" She leapt off the bed, a thought in her head to do it herself. "Bring it now! The lord's son must heal! Quickly! Do it now!"

Denethor searched Faramir's face for any sign of life. He remembered when his wife first presented him as a baby. So sickly, pale, almost unrecognizable. Boromir had immediately loved the baby, but Denethor had never cared for the child. Why?

"Faramir," he whispered. "Faramir, if you can hear me, please wake up; if not for me, then for your brother." Despite what the healer may have warned, Denethor scooped his son up in his arms, holding him close. "Faramir, please return to me. I don't want to have our last moment together be me shouting at you. I love you too much for that, son."

And so Denethor admitted in words what he could never say in front of others.