AN: Hey, this is a darker chapter, unfortunately, so I'm putting out a trigger warning for description of death and blood. :)

Thank you so much for the follows, faves and reviews!

.Chapter 33- Dread.

The sun hung high in the sky, casting dappled light through the canvas of the tent, yet Alysae felt as though she were waking in the deepest of nights. Her body was heavy, her mind sluggish as if she were surfacing from some dark and distant place. The voices around her were muffled, distant echoes that barely registered in her consciousness. It took her a moment to realize that someone was shaking her gently but urgently.

"My lady, wake up!" The voice was anxious, almost frantic. "Please, my lady, wake up!"

Alysae blinked, trying to clear the fog from her mind. The tent slowly came into focus, and she turned her head to see the concerned face of a healer hovering above her, a young woman with wide, fearful eyes.

"My lady," the healer repeated, her voice trembling with urgency. "Where is Princess Éowyn?"

The question hit Alysae like a splash of cold water, and she struggled to sit up, her head spinning from the sudden movement. The events of the previous night rushed back to her—the long ride, the tension in the camp, and finally, the exhaustion that had overtaken her.

"Éowyn?" Alysae croaked, her voice rough from sleep. She tried to piece together what had happened, but everything was a blur. "She… she was here last night. We both… we both went to sleep."

The healer shook her head, panic evident in her expression. "She's not here now, my lady. I've searched everywhere, but she's gone!"

Alysae's heart lurched, and a cold dread settled in her stomach. She threw off the blankets, forcing herself to stand despite the wave of dizziness that threatened to topple her. Her legs were unsteady beneath her, but she pushed through the weakness, her mind racing.

"Gone?" she repeated, trying to make sense of it. "But the soldiers… they would have rode out this morning. They should be near Gondor by now…"

The healer nodded, her hands twisting in her apron. "Yes, my lady, they left at dawn. We… we didn't want to wake you. But Princess Éowyn—she's not here! We think… we think she left with them."

Alysae felt the blood drain from her face, and she swayed on her feet, barely catching herself on the edge of the cot. Éowyn had left with the men, disguised no doubt, to fight in a battle she knew she might never return from. And Alysae, exhausted and too weak to notice, had not even realized it.

The weight of the situation crashed down on her like a physical blow. Éowyn was gone, already riding toward the heart of the war, and there was nothing Alysae could do to stop her. The thought of her dear friend, the woman she had shared so much with, riding to her doom without a word of farewell filled her with a deep, aching sorrow.

But the healer was still looking at her, her eyes filled with expectation and fear. And as Alysae glanced around the tent, she realized they were not alone. Other healers, servants, and those too weak or injured to fight were gathering at the entrance, their faces etched with concern. They were looking to her, the only person of royal blood left in the camp, for guidance. It was the first time in her life that others had looked at her to guide them.

Alysae swallowed hard, forcing down the rising tide of grief and guilt. She had failed to keep Éowyn safe, but there was no time to dwell on that now. The camp was in disarray, and she was the only one who could take charge. She could do this. She'd watched her father do this for years.

Drawing in a deep breath, she straightened her back, forcing her trembling hands to still. "We must remain calm," she said, her voice firmer than she felt. "Princess Éowyn made her choice, and though it grieves me, we must respect it. There is nothing we can do to change that now."

The healer nodded, her expression softening with relief at Alysae's composed demeanor. The others in the tent seemed to relax slightly, but their anxiety was still palpable. You got this, she thought.

"We must focus on what we can control," Alysae continued, her mind quickly shifting to what needed to be done. "Ensure that the camp remains secure. Organize the supplies we have left and prepare to receive the wounded—there will be many before this day is done."

The healers and servants exchanged glances, then nodded in agreement, grateful for her clear directives. They began to move, some heading out to gather more supplies, others to fortify the camp as best they could.

But as Alysae watched them disperse, a thought struck her, sharp and clear, cutting through the haze of her exhaustion. The battle was already raging—or soon would be—and if the soldiers of Rohan were to stand any chance, they would need aid swiftly. The image of the bloodied fields of Gondor flashed in her mind, and she knew they couldn't wait for the injured to be brought back here.

She turned back to the healer, her decision made in an instant. "We must do more than prepare to receive the wounded," Alysae said, her voice gaining strength. "Gather all the supplies—bandages, herbs, everything we can carry. We'll need horses and carts. We must be ready to ride to Gondor ourselves."

The healer's eyes widened in surprise. "Ride to Gondor? But, my lady, you ar—" It was clear as days to any one possessing healing knowledge that Alysae was not in great health.

"I will manage," Alysae interrupted gently but firmly. "The men will need our help on the battlefield. We cannot afford to wait for them to return here. If we ride now, we can reach them in time to save lives—many lives."

The healer hesitated, clearly torn between concern for Alysae's health and the urgency of the situation. But when she saw the resolve in Alysae's eyes, she bowed her head. "As you command, my lady. I'll see to it at once."

"Thank you," Alysae replied, offering her a reassuring smile despite the storm of emotions roiling within her. "We must hurry. Every moment counts."

As the healer hurried off to relay the orders, Alysae turned her gaze to the distant horizon. She could feel the weight of responsibility pressing down on her, overwhelming. This was her role now, her duty—to lead these people, to do whatever she could to aid those who fought for their lives and their lands. She thought this must be how her father felt all the time.

Éowyn was beyond her reach, but Alysae would not fail the rest of them. She would ride to Gondor, stand with the healers on the field of battle, and do everything in her power to ensure that as many as possible returned to their homes.

As the camp buzzed with newfound urgency, Alysae moved with a steady, determined grace that belied the fatigue still weighing her down. She had little time to dwell on her own weariness; there was too much to be done. The healers scurried about, gathering supplies, while the servants loaded carts and saddled horses. The camp that had been still and quiet only moments before was now a hive of activity, everyone driven by the same purpose—to be ready to ride for Gondor.

Alysae stood near the center of the camp, directing the preparations. Her silver-blue eyes, though rimmed with the shadows of exhaustion, were sharp and clear, focused on the tasks at hand. She knew that time was of the essence. If they were to be of any use to the soldiers on the battlefield, they needed to leave within the hour. This was it. This was the thing she'd been searching for, the thing that she could do to help, to have a genuine impact in this War for freedom.

As the final crates of bandages and herbs were secured onto the carts, Alysae turned to the healer who had woken her. "How many are able to ride?" she asked, her voice calm but insistent. The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the camp as they worked, but there was no time to waste.

"Nearly all of us, my lady," the healer replied, her brown eyes scanning the bustling camp. "There are a few who are too weak, but they will remain here to tend to any who are brought back."

Alysae nodded. "Good. We'll need every hand available once we reach the battlefield. Make sure those who are riding have water and provisions. The journey will be hard, and we must be ready to work as soon as we arrive."

The healer hurried off to relay her instructions, and Alysae took a moment to breathe, her hand resting on the side of a tent for support. She could feel the weight of her own body pulling her down, the ache in her muscles a reminder of how close she was to breaking. But there was no room for weakness now. She had to push through, for the sake of the lives that would depend on her when they reached Gondor. For her friends, for her brother.

As she turned back to the preparations, a figure approached her—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a grizzled beard and kind eyes. It was Éofor, one of the older soldiers who had been left behind to help guard the camp.

"My lady," he said, his voice deep and respectful. "The horses are ready, and the carts are packed. We can leave as soon as you give the word."

Alysae looked up at him, grateful for his steady presence. "Thank you, Éofor. We'll leave within the next few minutes. Please ensure that the weaker riders are placed on the strongest horses, and that the carts are well-balanced. We cannot afford delays on the road."

Éofor nodded and turned to carry out her orders. Alysae watched him go, her mind already turning to the next steps. The path to Gondor would be treacherous, with the enemy forces possibly lying in wait. They would need to be cautious, traveling as quickly as possible without drawing unnecessary attention.

Just as she was about to mount her horse, Celeg, a soft voice called out to her. She turned to see one of the younger healers, a girl no older than fifteen, standing hesitantly nearby, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and determination on her freckled face.

"My lady," the girl began, wringing her hands nervously. "I—I'm scared. I've never been to battle before. What if… what if I can't help them? What if I make things worse?"

Alysae's expression softened, and she stepped closer to the girl, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You are brave to have come this far," she said gently. It was strange to be the one comforting, and so she thought about what Aragorn would say. "It is natural to be afraid, especially when faced with such darkness. But remember this—every small action you take, every wound you tend, every word of comfort you offer, will make a difference. The soldiers will need us, and we must be strong for them. Trust in your training, and trust in your heart. You are stronger than you know."

The girl nodded, her fear easing slightly in the face of Alysae's calm reassurance. "Thank you, my lady. I'll do my best."

Alysae gave her a warm smile before turning to Celeg, her faithful horse. She stroked his neck, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and whispered a few words of encouragement to him.

By the time everything was ready, the sun had set, and the stars had begun to emerge, twinkling like distant beacons of hope in the darkening sky. Alysae mounted Celeg, the familiar weight of her elven dress comforting against her skin. The silver-blue of her eyes reflected the moonlight, and though she was pale and still recovering, her presence inspired the healers who had rallied around her.

Once in the saddle, Alysae surveyed the camp one last time. The carts were ready, the horses saddled, and the healers and servants stood by, waiting for her command. They looked up at her with a mix of anticipation and respect, and Alysae knew that they were ready to follow her wherever she led. Her chest tightened.

Drawing in a deep breath, she raised her hand, signaling the start of their journey. "Let us ride!" she called out, her voice strong and clear. "To Gondor, and to those who fight for all that is good in this world. We will meet them on the field of battle and do what we must to see them safely home."

With a determined nod, she spurred Celeg forward, and the rest of the group followed, the sound of hooves and wheels filling the air as they left the camp behind. The road ahead was fraught with danger, but Alysae felt a sense of purpose, of rightness, that carried her forward.

As they rode out of the camp and onto the path that would lead them to Gondor, Alysae cast one last glance back over her shoulder. The tents were now distant shapes on the horizon, and for a moment, she allowed herself to think of Éowyn, riding to battle with the men of Rohan. She thought of Pippin who had been in Minas Tirith, of little Merry, of her brother and Aragorn and Gimli, Elladan and Elrohir, who were Valar knows where.

"Stay safe, my friends," she whispered into the wind, before turning her gaze forward once more.

The journey to Gondor had begun, and Alysae hoped that they were not too late.

-xxx-

The group set off, the sound of hooves pounding against the earth filling the night. The wind whipped through Alysae's hair as she rode at the front, her heart pounding in time with Celeg's stride. The healers rode behind her, their faces determined yet anxious, knowing that they might arrive too late, yet hoping against hope that their aid would make a difference.

The hours stretched long into the night, the journey arduous and tense. Alysae clung to Celeg's mane, the strong, steady rhythm of the horse's gait keeping her focused, even as her body cried out for rest. The anticipation in the group was palpable; they all knew what lay ahead, but none could truly prepare for the horrors they would soon face.

The first light of dawn was just beginning to creep over the horizon when Minas Tirith finally came into view. The city, once a shining beacon of hope and strength, stood scarred and broken against the pale morning sky. Towers that had once gleamed with pride were now blackened by smoke, and the great walls of the city were shattered in places, crumbling under the weight of the enemy's assault.

Alysae's heart sank as they approached the battlefield. The Pelennor Fields, once lush and green, were now a vast graveyard. The sight that met their eyes was one of utter devastation—bodies of men and orcs alike littered the ground, twisted in death. The great mûmakil, their enormous forms lying still and lifeless, were scattered like fallen mountains among the dead. The air was thick with the stench of death, and the silence was deafening.

Alysae pulled Celeg to a halt, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the scene before her. The tales that Boromir had once told her of Minas Tirith, of its grandeur and might, seemed like distant memories now. This city, this battlefield, was nothing like the proud stronghold of men she had imagined. The reality was far more brutal, more horrifying than any story could have prepared her for.

For a moment, she could only stare, her mind struggling to comprehend the sheer scale of the destruction. The others, too, were silent, their faces pale and stricken with grief. But there was no time to linger in shock. Alysae knew that there were those who might still be clinging to life, and they had come to save as many as they could.

Swallowing her fear, Alysae turned to the healers, her voice steady though her heart was heavy. "We must begin our work," she said, her tone leaving no room for hesitation. "Look for those who still breathe, those who can be saved. Every life we can spare from this horror is a victory."

The healers nodded, their expressions resolute as they dismounted and began to move among the bodies. They checked for pulses, their hands trembling slightly as they touched the cold, lifeless forms of the fallen. The task was grim, and for every person they found alive, there were countless more who were beyond saving. But they did not stop; they could not.

Alysae, still astride Celeg, scanned the battlefield with a mixture of sorrow and determination. Her hands gripped the reins tightly as she directed the healers to areas where they might find survivors. All around her, the remains of the battle lay like a terrible, silent testament to the cost of war.

She could feel the weight of her responsibility pressing down on her, but she did not let herself falter. She had a duty to these people, to the city that had stood as a bulwark against the darkness, and she would not abandon it now.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, casting its light over the grim scene, Alysae felt a deep resolve settle within her. She would do everything in her power to help, to heal, to restore even a small piece of what had been lost. And as the healers worked tirelessly around her, she knew that, despite the overwhelming darkness, there was still hope.

For as long as there were those who fought for life, there was still a chance to turn the tide.

Alysae dismounted from Celeg, her legs trembling slightly as her boots touched the bloodstained earth. The scale of the devastation was almost too much to bear. She took a deep breath, trying to steel herself as she walked among the fallen, her heart pounding with dread at each face she passed. The smell of death was thick in the air, and the silence pressed down on her, broken only by the occasional cries of the healers as they found someone still clinging to life.

She forced herself to look down at the bodies, even as her mind screamed to turn away. What if she found one of her friends? What if she found her brother? Or Éowyn? The thought sent a chill down her spine, but she pushed it aside. She had to be strong. She had to help.

She knelt beside a fallen soldier, his face unrecognizable beneath the blood and grime. Her hands trembled as she reached out to check for a pulse, but there was nothing. Swallowing hard, she moved on to the next body, and the next. Each time, her breath hitched in her throat, fearing the moment when she might see a familiar face.

Around her, the healers worked tirelessly, their hands moving quickly but gently as they tended to the wounded and checked the dead. Their murmurs filled the air, a soft, desperate litany as they fought against the overwhelming tide of death. Alysae could see the exhaustion in their eyes, the despair that threatened to take hold of them, but they continued on, driven by the same resolve that kept her moving.

But as the minutes stretched into what felt like hours, Alysae's resolve began to waver. The scale of the horror, the sheer number of the dead, was almost too much to comprehend. What could they do against such darkness? Against an enemy as relentless as Sauron? How could they hope to save anything in the face of such devastation?

Her hands clenched into fists as the despair took root in her heart. She could feel it growing, gnawing at her courage. They had lost so much already. What if they had lost everything? She looked around at the bodies strewn across the field, at the ruined city in the distance. This wasn't the Minas Tirith that Boromir had spoken of so proudly, the city of kings and heroes. This was a shattered remnant, a place of sorrow and loss.

Alysae's vision blurred with tears, and she quickly wiped them away, forcing herself to focus. She had to be strong, for the others, for those who might still be alive. But the despair was a heavy weight, pressing down on her with every step she took.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Her heart skipped a beat as she turned, squinting into the distance. A rider was approaching, galloping across the field from the direction of Minas Tirith. At first, she couldn't make out who it was, but as the rider drew closer, she noticed the green cloak billowing behind him, the fluid grace of his movements.

Her breath caught in her throat as recognition dawned. Legolas.

Relief flooded her, nearly bringing her to her knees. She hadn't realized just how much she needed to see a friendly face, to know that at least one of her friends was alive. She straightened, wiping the grime from her hands as Legolas approached, his horse slowing as he neared the group of healers.

Legolas's face was grim, but there was a light in his eyes that spoke of victory. Alysae's heart leapt at the sight, and she took a step forward, her voice trembling with relief as she called out to him.

"Legolas!"

The Elf dismounted gracefully, his eyes sweeping over the scene before settling on Alysae. "Alysae," he said, his voice soft but urgent. "You're here."

She nodded, unable to find words for a moment as she took in his appearance. He was weary, his clothes stained with dirt and blood, but he was alive. And the look in his eyes—despite the devastation around them—gave her hope.

"What of the battle?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Did we… did we win?"

Legolas's gaze flickered to the healers and the wounded around them before returning to Alysae. He stepped closer, his voice low and reassuring. "The enemy has been driven back. The city stands."

Alysae felt the tight knot in her chest begin to loosen, the despair that had gripped her easing slightly. The city still stood. They had not lost everything.

"But the cost…" She glanced around at the bodies, at the ruin of the battlefield.

Legolas nodded, his expression somber. "The cost was great. But we must hold on to hope, Alysae. We must continue to fight for those who remain."

She swallowed hard, nodding as she looked back at him. "I feared the worst," she admitted, her voice shaking. "I feared I would find… find you among the dead."

Legolas's expression softened, and he reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I am here," he said quietly. "And I will not leave you."

Alysae closed her eyes for a moment, letting the comfort of his words wash over her. When she opened them again, she felt a renewed sense of purpose, of determination. There was still so much to be done, so many lives to save.

"We need to find the wounded," she said, her voice stronger now. "There are still so many out there."

Legolas nodded, his gaze steady. "We have moved many wounded to the Healing Hall in the city. Aragorn is doing all he can to save them."

With renewed resolve, Alysae turned back to the healers, directing them to continue their work. The weight of despair still lingered, but it no longer held her in its grip. With Legolas by her side, she felt that they could face whatever lay ahead, that they could still make a difference in this broken world.

And so they moved through the fields, searching for signs of life among the dead, determined to bring hope where there had been only darkness. The shadow of Sauron had not yet claimed them, and as long as they drew breath, they would continue to fight.

As they moved through the carnage, Alysae's heart pounded with a mixture of fear and urgency. Each time she leaned over a fallen soldier, she prayed it wouldn't be someone she knew. Her fingers trembled as she checked for signs of life, her eyes scanning the lifeless faces for any glimmer of recognition. The scale of the destruction was overwhelming, the sheer number of the dead staggering.

Legolas stayed close, his presence a steadying force amidst the chaos. His sharp eyes scanned the battlefield, and his movements were swift and precise as he assisted the healers, his grace undiminished even in the face of such horror.

Alysae paused beside a fallen Rohirrim, his armor dented and stained with blood. Her breath caught in her throat as she reached out to turn his face, relief washing over her as she realized it wasn't Éomer. But with that relief came another wave of fear, this time for Éowyn.

She turned to Legolas, her voice barely above a whisper. "Legolas… have you seen Éowyn? Do you know what happened to her?"

Legolas looked at her, his expression softening. He hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his words, and Alysae's heart clenched in fear. The Elf's usually serene features were shadowed with concern, and she could see the weight of what he was about to say in his eyes.

"She fought bravely, Alysae," he began, his voice low and filled with both admiration and sorrow. "When the Witch-king of Angmar came to the field, she stood before him. She did what no other could—she faced him without fear."

Alysae's eyes widened, a mixture of pride and terror flooding her. "The Witch-king? She faced him?"

Legolas nodded, his gaze intense. "She did. With the help of Merry, she struck him down. The Witch-king is no more, thanks to her bravery."

Alysae's breath hitched, the enormity of what Legolas had just told her sinking in. Éowyn had fought the Witch-king, the very embodiment of Sauron's dark power, his right-hand man. The thought of her standing alone against such a foe was both terrifying and awe-inspiring.

"But… is she…" Alysae struggled to find the words, fear gripping her heart once more. "Is she alive?"

"She lives," Legolas said, his voice firm but laced with concern. "But she was gravely wounded. They took her to the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith. The healers are with her now."

Alysae felt a wave of relief, followed quickly by a sharp pang of worry. Éowyn was alive, but she was hurt. Alysae closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady herself. The thought of Éowyn lying wounded in some distant chamber, her fate uncertain, made her heart ache.

"She is strong," Legolas continued, his tone gentle. "Stronger than most. If anyone can recover from such wounds, it is she."

Alysae nodded, trying to hold onto that hope. Éowyn had always been a fierce warrior, determined and unyielding. If anyone could survive such a battle, it would be her. But still, the fear gnawed at her, a constant reminder of the fragility of life in these dark times.

"I should be with her," Alysae whispered, more to herself than to Legolas.

Legolas stood beside her, his gaze distant as he looked toward the city. His face was calm, but Alysae could sense the tension in him. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, his touch reassuring, yet there was a hesitance in his movements. "Éowyn is in good hands," he said softly. "The healers will do everything they can for her. But Aragorn needs me back in the city. There is still much to be done."

Alysae stiffened, her heart sinking as she realized what he was saying. "You're leaving?" she asked, her voice catching slightly.

Legolas hesitated, his eyes searching hers. "I must," he replied gently, but his reluctance was evident. "There are tasks that I cannot ignore. But Alysae, I do not like leaving you here alone. Come back to the city with me. You've done enough—you've done more than enough. Let me take you to a place where you can rest, where you can be cared for."

Alysae shook her head, resolute despite the exhaustion that weighed down her every limb. "No," she said firmly. "I can't go yet. There are still so many out here who need help. I won't abandon them now, not when I can still do something."

Legolas sighed, his concern deepening as he studied her face. He knew how stubborn she could be, but seeing the strain in her eyes, the weariness etched into every line of her expression, made him want to insist, to take her away from this nightmare. "You've already pushed yourself so far," he said quietly. "I'm worried for you, Alysae. Please, reconsider."

But Alysae met his gaze with a determined fire that reminded him of her strength, even in the face of overwhelming pain. "I won't leave, Legolas," she said softly, but with conviction. "I can't—not yet. I need to be here."

There was a long pause as Legolas weighed her words. His reluctance to leave her was palpable, but he could see that her mind was made up. Finally, with a reluctant nod, he withdrew his hand from her shoulder. "If that is your choice," he said, his voice tinged with sadness. "But promise me you'll be careful."

Alysae offered a small smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I will," she promised. "You don't need to worry about me, Legolas. I'll be all right."

He looked at her for a long moment, clearly still uncertain, but then he stepped back, his expression softening into something more resigned. "Very well," he said, his voice quieter now. "I'll return to the city. But I will come back for you as soon as I can. Stay safe, Alysae."

She nodded, watching as he turned and made his way toward the city on Arod, his tall form moving gracefully even amid the destruction. But just before he left the field, Legolas turned one last time, casting a lingering glance in her direction, as if he wanted to make sure she would be all right. Alysae gave him a reassuring wave, and with a final nod, he disappeared into the distance.

Once he was gone, Alysae exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but there was no time to rest. She turned her attention back to the field, her heart heavy with the enormity of the task ahead. The bodies stretched out before her like a sea of sorrow, a grim reminder of the cost of war.

With renewed determination, she moved through the field alone now, checking bodies, her hands trembling as she searched for any sign of life. Each time her fingers brushed cold skin, her heart clenched with fear.

The healers worked tirelessly beside her, their movements quick and practiced, but Alysae felt a growing sense of despair. The scale of the destruction was overwhelming, the odds seemingly insurmountable. How could they possibly stand against such darkness? How could they hope to defeat a force like Sauron?

She paused for a moment, her hands shaking as she wiped away a tear that had slipped down her cheek. The weight of it all threatened to crush her, and for the first time in a long while, she felt the stirrings of hopelessness.

Alysae took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus. There was still so much work to be done, so many lives that could yet be saved. She couldn't allow herself to be paralyzed by fear, not when there were still people who needed her help.

With renewed determination, she turned back to the task at hand, moving through the field. She continued to search for the wounded, each pulse she found a small victory against the overwhelming tide of death.

As she worked, Alysae couldn't stop thinking about Éowyn, about the bravery it must have taken to stand against the Witch-king, and the courage it would take to survive the wounds she had sustained. She prayed silently that the healers would be able to save her, that Éowyn's spirit would prove stronger than the darkness that had nearly claimed her.

But even as she tried to hold onto hope, the scale of the destruction around her weighed heavily on her heart. The horror of the battlefield, the sight of Minas Tirith standing wounded and broken in the distance, filled her with a sense of dread. How much longer could they continue to fight against such overwhelming odds? How much more could they endure?

And yet, as she looked at the healers working tirelessly around her, she knew they couldn't give up. They had to keep fighting, keep moving forward, no matter how hopeless it seemed. For as long as they drew breath, there was still a chance to turn the tide, to bring light into the darkness that had enveloped their world.

-xxx-