Alana stepped back outside, the healer's words ringing in her ears. She knew he was right - there was nothing more she could do for Faramir now except pray to the Valar for his recovery. And the city desperately needed her sword arm in its defense.
Drawing in a deep breath to steel herself, Alana turned and sprinted towards the outer walls where the battle raged most fiercely. All around her, the White City trembled under the onslaught of the enemy host. Trebuchets hurled massive stones that smashed into towers and crushed soldiers beneath tons of rubble. The air stank of smoke, blood, and fear.
As she ran, Alana caught sight of Gandalf atop the battlements, his staff raised high. Brilliant white light burst forth, driving back the fell beasts that assailed the ramparts. Yet for every one struck down, two more seemed to take its place, an unending tide of shadow.
"To me! To me!" Alana cried out as she reached the walls, rallying the men to her side. She threw herself into the fray with reckless abandon, her blade flashing in a whirl.
Orc after orc fell before Alana's furious onslaught, black blood spraying across the stones. But the enemy kept coming, an inexhaustible swarm that threatened to overwhelm the city's valiant defenders through sheer numbers alone.
Alana's heart raced as the piercing screech of the Nazgûl echoed through the air. The monstrous beast loomed over the battlefield, its dark wings casting shadows across the wreckage. She had been fighting fiercely alongside the men of Gondor, her every movement fueled by the urgency to protect Faramir and the others from the encroaching darkness. But now, faced with the Witch-King himself, dread clutched at her chest.
The Nazgûl circled above, its eerie presence like a black storm cloud blotting out the light. Alana's grip tightened on her sword as she watched in horror. Her breath caught in her throat as the Witch-King, mounted on his fell beast, moved ever closer to her.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, Gandalf appeared—riding swiftly on the back of Shadowfax, Pippin clinging behind him. The majestic white horse galloped between Alana and the looming Nazgûl, putting a barrier of light between her and the terrible creature.
"Go back to the abyss!" Gandalf's voice rang out, filled with power and defiance as he held his staff aloft. His presence was commanding, a beacon of hope in the darkness. "Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your master!"
The Witch-King's chilling voice responded, cutting through the night like a blade. "Do you not know death when you see it, old man?" He drew his sword, and the steel ignited in flame, casting an eerie glow over the battlefield. Pippin screamed, ducking behind Gandalf for protection, his terror palpable.
"This is my hour!" the Witch-King declared, his voice echoing with the power of doom itself. His sword blazed, and a loud, ear-splitting shriek burst forth from his beast. Gandalf raised his staff higher, preparing for the clash—when suddenly, with a terrible shattering sound, Gandalf's staff burst apart in his hands. The force threw both Gandalf and Pippin from Shadowfax's back.
"Gandalf!" Pippin cried out, scrambling to his feet, fear and desperation clear in his voice.
Alana's heart clenched as she watched Gandalf hit the ground hard, his cloak billowing around him. She moved forward, her instincts screaming at her to help, but the fell beast roared at Pippin, blocking her path. Pippin, despite his terror, bravely drew his sword and charged forward with a desperate scream, trying to protect his fallen friend.
"AAAAhh!"
But as the beast reared its head, its massive jaws opened wide, Pippin froze in place, his courage momentarily faltering in the face of such overwhelming power. The beast roared again, and for a brief moment, time seemed to slow as the chaos of the battle surrounded them all.
Shadowfax whinnied loudly, prancing around defensively, while Gandalf, still dazed, looked up from the ground. The Witch-King's chilling voice cut through the air once more, cold and final.
"You have failed! The world of men will fall."
He raised his flaming sword high, preparing for the killing blow—but then, a horn sounded in the distance, a clear, triumphant note cutting through the doom. The sound echoed across the battlefield, drawing everyone's attention. The Witch-King's fiery gaze shifted, his head turning toward the sound. He paused for a moment, listening, and then, without another word, he pulled on the reins of his beast.
The creature let out one final, ear-piercing screech before it turned and flew off, disappearing into the night sky. The battlefield fell into an eerie silence, the distant horn still echoing in the distance, carrying with it the promise of hope.
Alana rushed forward to Gandalf's side, her heart still racing. "Are you alright?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
Gandalf looked up, his face tired but determined. "I am fine," he said, though there was a weariness in his eyes. "But we must be swift. That horn—it can only mean one thing. Help has come."
Alana helped him to his feet, her eyes scanning the sky where the Witch-King had disappeared. She couldn't shake the lingering sense of dread, but the sound of the horn—the arrival of Rohan—filled her with a new surge of strength. They still had a chance.
As they stood together, Pippin sheathed his sword, his face pale but resolute. "That was close," he muttered, glancing up at Gandalf with wide eyes.
"Too close," Gandalf said softly, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. "But hope is not lost yet."
Alana's heart was still racing as she helped Gandalf to his feet, but the distant horn of Rohan filled her with renewed hope. She barely had time to catch her breath when Pippin scrambled up beside her, his face pale with a mix of fear and urgency.
"Alana!" Pippin shouted, his voice sharp with panic. "We need to move! We need to get to Denethor!"
Alana blinked in confusion for a brief moment, still processing the chaos of the battle and the terrifying encounter with the Witch-King. "What—why?" she asked, glancing at the hobbit as he tugged at her sleeve, his eyes wide and frantic.
"Faramir!" Pippin exclaimed, nearly breathless. "Denethor—he's going to burn Faramir alive! We have to stop him!"
Alana's heart stopped. The words hit her like a physical blow, and for a second, the world tilted around her. Faramir—her Faramir—was in danger. The horror of it washed over her like a wave, and without another thought, she was already moving.
"Where is he?" she demanded, her voice sharp, panic lacing through it. She could feel the pulse of adrenaline taking over, her entire body tensing as the realization set in.
"He's in the tombs!" Pippin cried, already running ahead. "Hurry! We don't have much time!"
Alana's feet barely touched the ground as she sprinted after Pippin, her heart hammering in her chest. Denethor's madness was dangerous enough, but the thought of him actually trying to burn Faramir alive—it was unthinkable. How could he do such a thing? How could a father condemn his own son to death?
Gandalf, still recovering, swung onto Shadowfax's back in one fluid motion and urged the great horse forward. "Quickly!" he called over his shoulder. "There's no time to lose!"
Alana and Pippin ran as fast as they could, her lungs burning with the effort. Every second felt like an eternity, her thoughts a storm of fear and rage. She couldn't let Faramir die—not like this. Not at the hands of his own father.
The white walls of Minas Tirith blurred around her as she raced toward the tombs. She could already imagine the scene—the flames rising, Faramir unconscious and helpless as Denethor tried to end his life. It was a nightmare she had never thought possible, and she would do anything to stop it.
Pippin glanced back at her, his eyes full of determination despite the fear etched into his face. "We'll save him, Alana! We have to!"
"We will," she vowed, her voice a fierce whisper. "No matter what it takes."
As they neared the entrance to the tombs, Alana could see the faint glow of firelight flickering within. Her heart dropped. There was no time to waste.
The flames roared to life as Denethor dropped the torch onto the oil-soaked timbers beneath Faramir. Alana's heart clenched in horror, her eyes widening as she watched the fire lick its way toward Faramir's motionless body. She couldn't wait any longer.
With a fierce cry, Alana snatched a spear from one of the guards at the door, the wood cold in her hands as she charged forward. She didn't think—there wasn't time to think. She had to stop this madness before it was too late. The heat of the flames hit her as she reached the pyre, but it was nothing compared to the fury boiling inside her.
Denethor, lost in his madness, barely saw her coming. With one swift movement, Alana rammed the blunt end of the spear into his chest, knocking him backward off the pyre and onto the cold stone floor. He hit the ground with a grunt, the firelight casting wild shadows across his face.
"Stay this madness!" Alana shouted, her voice full of righteous anger as she looked down at the fallen steward. But Denethor barely heard her, his eyes still burning with the fever of despair.
"You may triumph in the field of battle for a day," Denethor spat, scrambling to his feet, his hand reaching for another torch. "But against the power that has risen in the East, there is no victory!" His voice was high and wild, filled with the bitter belief in the darkness that had consumed him.
Alana barely registered his words as she turned her attention back to Faramir. There's still time, she told herself, her heart pounding as she scrambled onto the pyre. Pippin was already there, his small frame fighting the flames as he tried to reach Faramir.
"Pippin, help me!" she shouted, her voice breaking as she lifted Faramir's limp body. Together, they managed to roll him off the pyre, Alana's heart in her throat as they hit the ground below. Pippin's hands frantically patted down the small flames that had caught on Faramir's clothing, smothering them before they could spread.
But Denethor wasn't finished. "NOOOOO!" he screamed, his eyes wild with rage as he lunged toward them, his hands outstretched as if to tear them away from his son. "You will not take my son from me!"
Pippin cried out as Denethor grabbed at him, the steward's strength fueled by madness. Alana dropped to her knees beside Faramir, shielding his body with her own as she glared at Denethor. "You can't have him!" she snarled, her voice low and full of venom. "You don't deserve him!"
Just then, Shadowfax reared up, Gandalf guiding the great horse into the fray. With a mighty kick, Shadowfax sent Denethor sprawling back onto the pyre. The flames roared higher, catching the oil that still clung to his robes.
"Faramir!" Denethor's voice was full of agony as the fire took hold of him. But there was no saving him now.
Alana felt a soft touch against her cheek and looked down, her heart skipping a beat as Faramir's eyes fluttered open. His hand, weak and trembling, reached up to brush her face, and for a moment, everything else faded away—the flames, the madness, the chaos. All she saw was him, alive, breathing, *with her*.
"Faramir," she whispered, her voice cracking with relief. She pressed her cheek into his palm, tears streaming down her face. "I've got you. You're safe."
Denethor's final scream echoed through the tomb as his burning body ran, a ball of flame, out into the corridor and beyond. His figure disappeared from sight as he plunged from the parapet, leaving only the smell of burning behind.
"So passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion," Gandalf said quietly, his voice somber as he looked down at the remains of the steward. Shadowfax pawed the ground, and the soldiers around them stood in stunned silence.
Alana didn't move, her focus entirely on Faramir. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, but he was alive. That was all that mattered.
Gently, she leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "You're safe," she whispered again, her voice full of the love and determination that had driven her to this moment. "I won't let anything happen to you."