Author note: Oh gosh, here goes. This is the first ever fan-fic that I've even thought of publishing, so I hope you enjoy it. It's been plotted right up to the end, and the first few chapters have been written, but it's set to be a bit of a behemoth!

I surprised myself by just how book-verse this is. I've spent a small age researching timelines, cultures and characters, which I weirdly enjoyed. Saying this, I portray most of the characters in their movie-guise, although the men and elves are taller! The only real exception is Faramir - I've always pictured him with dark hair as he is described by Tolkien. If you don't know her work already, check out the beautiful sketches and paintings by Anke Eissmann.

I've included quite a few characters from the books who missed out on movie-stardom too!

There will be a couple of occasions where I have lifted small pieces of dialogue straight from the book, but these are few and far between. Obviously I don't own those bits, or indeed any of Tolkien's characters, locations, objects or plot-lines! I do take ownership of my OCs - someone's got to look after them!

Reviews are very much appreciated!

Happy reading xxx

Chapter One - The Siege of Minas Tirith

For the second day the dawn brought no light.

A darkness from the east was spreading towards Minas Tirith, blocking out the might of the sun. The winged shadows were still making their presence known, as high shrieks were heard from far up in the sky above the plains, sending fear straight to the heart of all below. The might of Mordor was near to overcoming the men of Gondor. All the women and children, apart from the healers, had been ordered to flee the city and make for the south – safer they would be there than trapped in the heart of a city under siege. The feeling of panic was close to the surface amongst all who remained, but in the lower circle of the city, just before the gate, a strange, still moment of quiet was taking place.

Faramir, son of Denethor, was riding to his doom.

His thin face was set and his grey eyes were stony. His dark hair was hidden by his helmet, although tendrils of it blew around his neck. The conversation he had had with his father echoed through his head as he and his company processed down through the levels of the city.

I do not oppose your will, sire. Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead – if you command it.

I do so.

Then fare well! But if I should return, think better of me!

That depends on the manner of your return.

It was a strange procession, understandably, for Faramir and his company were not riding to glory or victory, more an act of desperation. The Riders of Rohan had not yet appeared, and now Gondor's only hope in glory lay in their small remaining bands of men defending the great river Anduin and the fields of the Pelennor. Faramir knew their number was too small against the numbers of the enemy he had witnessed amassing at the Black Gate. He knew that his father, knowingly, had sent him on a fool's mission, most likely to his death. Mithrandir had counselled him not to be bitter and throw his life away, as he was needed.

For other things than war, the wizard had said.

But Faramir was no coward, and would lead his troops bravely, fighting to his last breath to defend his home. He could not help but wonder if he would feel much fear, much pain, before the end.

The small crowd lining the streets were not cheering or rejoicing, and the silence was enough to make even the bravest man nervous. Looking around, one man's face was the same as any other, saddened at the sacrifice their fellow men were making. A small few had allowed tears to show in their eyes, but this show of emotion meant little to Faramir. He did not know them, and he never would. Those who wept for him and his men wept in vain.

They should cry for their own fate, not ours, he thought, for their deaths will come soon after mine if I should fail. And they know that that is all I can do. Their tears say as much.

The horses went through the city at a slow steady pace, the fear of their masters not affecting their graceful movements. But Faramir did not feel fear at this moment – the time for being afraid had passed. He knew what he had to do, and now he was simply resigned to it. A strange calm was upon him.

Some of his men had a flower or token of some sort attached to their armour or held in their hand - gifts of love, of hope, from their loved ones. Mothers, fathers, grandparents, little brothers, sisters, wives, children, all wept for their sons, grandsons, brothers, husbands, fathers.

There was no one to weep for Faramir, no tokens of good luck or protection for him to clench tightly in his fist.

The highest ranking man among them, he thought bitterly, and yet the most alone.

He held the reins of his horse tightly instead, fixing his eyes on the gate at the edge of the city. He concentrated on the sound of his horse, his beloved Celtir, clopping out a regular rhythm on the stone beneath his hooves, but he could not ignore the cries from the guard as they neared the great gate. Steel and iron squeaked as the great doors opened at their command, loud and unwelcome in the silence.

The fields of the Pelennor lay before him, green and peaceful. He shuddered as he realised that he would shortly be riding over them perhaps for the last time, unless he was carried back across them as a corpse. He cursed himself for thinking such a thought, but also for being so foolish as to think that his body may be found and brought home. A shallow ditch was no doubt his fate, along with those that followed him - followed him willingly, he knew.

He was grateful that he did not have a wife, a family, to worry about as he rode away. At least he was leaving nothing behind. There was no-one after him.

The gates seemed to take an age to open as they approached, but eventually the creaking and groaning stopped, and their path lay clear ahead of them, straight across the fields, towards Osgiliath and the river. Beyond that ruined place the mountains of shadow rose, dark and brooding, the sight of them inescapable as they dwarfed the landscape around them.

His men surrounding him were trying their best not to appear afraid. Their mouths were set in grim lines, trying to stop their teeth from chattering. He halted his horse and turned to speak to those closest to him.

"Look your last at our fair city," he said quietly to them. "Hold this moment in your minds until the end. Remember this place."

As he turned back to the open gates something caught his attention – a flash of colour amongst the black cloaks of his men and the old men in the crowd, a few rows back. It stopped him in his tracks.

He brought his horse to a halt, almost hypnotised by the rich dark green shade, filled with something he did not expect to feel.

Hope. The colour of nature, of renewal, of life, made him remember what it was to have hope.

But surely it was too late for hope now?

He was about to look away, to turn his face toward the road again, when he realised the wondrous colour was the fabric of a gown, and he had been staring rather too hard at a young woman's body. Tearing his eyes away from the vivid colour, meaning to look to the fields, he looked instead at the girl's face.

Afterwards, he could never say why he looked at her, and perhaps things would have been very different if he had not. Unaware that he was doing so, he smiled at her.

She was not quite beautiful, he thought, at least not from this angle – her cheeks were a little too broad and her long dark hair more than a bit tangled. Her eyes were large, a deep dark brown. He put her as younger than himself by more than a decade, perhaps just into her twenties. She was quite small, and pale, as if she had just recovered from some illness that had drained her a little. At first sight she appeared frail, but one flash of her eyes and he knew that was not the case – there was a strength in them that shone through her tears.

And that was why he smiled – because he knew she was crying for him.

He did not know how he knew. It seemed that she was mourning for him as a man, rather than for the distant and untouchable son of the steward. He was comforted a little.

She looked as if she was relieved, rather than happy, that he had caught her eye. She did not smile back at him, but nodded, as if in recognition, although he was certain that he had never seen her before in his life.

Her mouth was shut, and he could tell she was trying to stop her bottom lip from wobbling. Tears ran silently down her face, but she made no move to wipe them away, and held his gaze with her own. He was conscious that he was still, unmoving, and that the rest of the company had halted behind him, no doubt wondering what the delay was. And yet he found that he could not look away. Her eyes held him there.

She mouthed something, but he did not catch it in time. He looked at her questioningly, but she shook her head slightly and looked down.

The spell was broken, and he looked away, clicking to Celtir to walk on. The sound of hoof beats as the company moved off again was almost deafening to him after the silence of that strange moment.

He did not know who she was, but he suddenly felt an overwhelming sadness at the thought that he would never see her again. Despite her tears, there seemed to be an aura of hope around her, and he knew it would be her face he saw as he rode into battle.

He looked back over his shoulder, wanting a last glimpse of her.

He half expected her to be gone, vanished away into the air like the dream she had seemed to be, but no, she was still standing there, although a little obscured now by the people in front of her. She was still looking down, and was he imagining it, or was she weeping silently in earnest now, her hand to her mouth to keep in her sobs? He willed her, with all his might, to look up, to look at him. He did not understand why she was crying so much for his sake, but it grieved him, and he wanted to comfort her. He thought about turning back, but knew he could not.

Ignoring his second in command calling his name, he remained looking backwards as he passed through the great wooden doors of the gate, through the thick walls of the city. Soon she would be out of sight, and he would be alone again.

Look at me, he begged her silently. Look at me.

As if she had heard his thoughts, her head snapped up, and her eyes immediately found his. Without knowing why, he raised his hand, a farewell gesture to this complete stranger who had suddenly filled him with hope. She closed her eyes and smiled, as if she had heard the sweetest strain of music, or felt the warmth of the sun on her face.

The gates began to close as the last of the company passed through. All too soon she was taken from his sight, and if when she opened her eyes again she was looking back at him, he would never know.

He turned his face to the road and his men followed behind. The gates closed shut behind them, with an ominous thud.

Farewell, he thought, to the city, to his father, to any real chance of return. And to her.

There was silence, still, from behind the walls.

"Come!" he cried, rallying his men. "This day we leave the greatest city ever known to the race of men. Ride with me, to fight, to die for it! Ride, ride now! For the people of Minas Tirith! For the people of Gondor!"

He raised his sword and heard the sound of his men yelling behind him – cries of 'Faramir! Faramir!' and 'for Gondor!'

He could not help but wonder if she had heard his cry, what her name was, what she did, whether she had a family.

Why had she even been there? She had not been wearing the strict garb of a healer, and all other women had fled.

And why had she been crying for him? Not just crying – it looked as though her heart was breaking. But how could that be? She was a stranger to him.

And yet a stranger that seemed to know him. He did not even know her name.

Perhaps that was what she had tried to tell him, but he had been too distracted by her eyes to catch the words she had uttered silently. He cursed himself for that. And he cursed this battle too. Her heart was already breaking, he had seen it, and he wasn't dead yet. The thought of her grieving even more hurt him.

He did not understand it, any of it, but he knew the girl loved him.

Alas, all hope is gone for her, he thought. Her fate lies not with me. My life ends in Osgiliath.

Three days later

Keren, who had been working in an almost mechanical state for the past two days – not allowing herself time to stop and think about what was happening beyond the great defensive wall around the Pelennor, eating small morsels merely to give her enough energy for her work, and sleeping little – was just about to retire in the early hours of the morning when news came to the Houses of Healing.

She was exhausted. The wounded survivors of the stand at Osgiliath had started pouring in in the last few hours. Some had grave wounds. Some had died. She was mightily relieved when Ioreth came to relieve her post.

Her courage was already starting to fail – amongst all the survivors he had not yet appeared.

So either he is uninjured, or he is…

She shook her head, heading for her room, knowing that if her thoughts followed that course she would go under.

She knew she needed sleep if she was to help the men in her care, but when she saw a messenger from the citadel heading towards the warden's office the idea of sleep fled and she followed him. No real news of the stand had come through and she was desperate to know what had occurred. The wounded in her care were either unconscious or were understandably not speaking of the events and she had not pressed them.

Keren, knowing that she could well lose her place for it, stood with her ear to the door and listened, preparing herself for the news that she had known would come.

"'Tis grave tidings I bring, sir." She could hear the voice of the messenger muffled through the thick wooden door. "The Lord Faramir's men were outnumbered ten to one and had to retreat. The Rammas Echor was breached and they fled for their lives. The Lord Denethor sent out a sortie to come to their aid, and the Prince of Dol Amroth sent his men in to protect the retreat. But there were orcs, Southrons and, worst of all sir, those great winged shadows."

The messenger's voice halted and Keren almost cried with frustration. What did this mean?

His voice picked up again, but was so quiet in the telling that she could not hear properly through the door what was being said.

"…wizard came and sent the dark shadows away…gained courage and fought bravely…but Lord Faramir was struck…a poisoned arrow…Prince Imrahil bore him home…"

Keren clung to the door handle, trying to keep her legs from buckling. It had happened then. He was dead. The prophecy had been wrong.

She did not know what to think or what to do other than to collapse, but she would not allow herself to do that.

It seemed the only way to keep herself from collapsing was to run.

She ran straight out of the Houses, by the quickest route, and then, without really knowing where she was headed, ended up following the well-worn paths that led to the gardens, overlooking the city and the Pelennor.

But she was to find no solace there, for the Pelennor could no longer be seen. A complete blackness lay over all, hiding any horrors that could be furtively creeping across the plains. This was more than the black of night. A total dearth of light had crept from the black land, and now it had reached its target. The great city, the home she loved, was blind.

Keren felt as if her heart had been cut out.

She had felt the threads that held it together begin to fray on the day that he had ridden away, but now it was gone, gone completely. In this terrifying darkness she wondered at how she had the strength to still be standing.

But stand she did, for the few remaining hours before daybreak, looking out over the walls, her arms wrapped around her waist, as if holding herself together. In the blackness she was not aware of time passing.

It was only when the weak semblance of dawn broke, bringing a sickly yellow half-light to her eyes, and she had begun to shiver from the cold, that she even realised what she was now looking at, what the blackness had hidden from her. The Pelennor was filled with a new kind of darkness.

As far as she could see were the armies of the enemy. Tents were pitched, trenches were dug and commands, bellowed in a tongue strange to her, carried through the air. The mountains of the Black Land stood threatening, far off in the distance, but seeming larger and nearer than they truly were. And over all this several shadows moved in the sky, uttering shrill cries. Minas Tirith was besieged.

Terror filled her, and she longed for her mother's arms and her warm bed, in the house of her childhood. But another family lived there now, and her mother had been dead for nine long years.

That was when the tears finally came. Her body suddenly seemed to realise that it had had no true rest, and very little food, since the day he had left, and now she realised it had all been for naught. She had foolishly clung to hope, for naught. He was dead.

Exhausted, she turned her face away from the desolate scene and stumbled her way back into the Houses of Healing.

"Keren?" A familiar voice. An old face swam into view – Ioreth. "Keren whatever have you been doing? Don't you know the city is under siege? We will soon be even more overrun with the wounded and you have not…" The old woman tailed off as she saw Keren's tears. "Oh child," she said. "These are frightening times for us all, but we have a job to do. Forget all that is happening outside the walls and concentrate on healing the poor souls who will need our help before the day is out. Come on now, a quick wash of your face and then away with you to the warden for your duties."

Keren nodded blindly. Ioreth was more often than not a wittering old fool, but none could deny her skill as a healer and she was known to produce good advice when it was most needed.

Keren rushed back to the cupboard-like room that served as a bedroom for her and her sister, knowing Ioreth spoke the truth. She was not to know that Keren had spent her few allotted hours for sleep staring over the walls, and Keren knew she had to get on with her job regardless. She was terrified, and had no idea what lay ahead. Her fear of death was not strong, but her fear of pain was. Having worked as a healer since she was a child she knew what pain looked like. But she had a job to do. If she could save lives this day, then no matter how much her heart was aching she would.

She grabbed the bucket from the floor, already filled with water. Palen must have prepared it.

Palen. Where is she?

The water was still warm so she could not have been gone long. Keren had expected her sister to be here, asleep. She had worked until the early hours and was supposed to be resting before her work began again at midday. She must have been called by Ioreth to work early.

Keren was slightly relieved – she could not bear it if her sister were to see her like this. She wondered if the news of the Lord Faramir had reached her.

Keren had to be alone to grieve, as she had been when their mother died, letting no one even come in to her room for three days. Hopefully Palen would remember that and leave her alone.

Not that we will have much time to be alone, Keren thought, knowing the days ahead were to be filled with constant work. If they survived.

All day, even with no rest the night before, Keren worked tirelessly. She had no idea what was happening outside the Houses of Healing. Occasionally shouts and screams were heard close by, and sometimes the screeches of the winged shadows would pierce their hearts and cause all to stop and stare upwards in fear. Loud booms would make the Houses tremble, and Keren could only imagine that the great walls of the lower levels of the city were being gradually destroyed.

The sickly light of false day turned into the total darkness of night, and men were still brought in. They had run out of beds and were now having to treat men on the floor space between, and in the corridors. The Houses were supposed to be a place of peace and respite, but at this time they were hell. Men were dying, even as she held their hands, some calling for their wives or children. Some of them, younger than her, called for their mothers. But she did not break. The dead were laid out as respectfully as could be, but once Keren was forced to drag the body of a young man covered in naught but a single sheet off a desperately needed bed and along the corridors to the large room acting as a morgue, as there was no one free to help her carry it. At one point she laughed hysterically at the thought of what she was doing, and wondered if she was going mad.

All the healers, young and old, were working constantly. Occasionally Keren's path crossed Palen's and the looks they shared said more than any words could. Through the night they worked, and some of the men they were healing were still alive, and some were not. Keren had given up washing the blood off her arms as no sooner had she cleaned herself then the next casualty was brought in. Now there was the blood of many men caked into her skin, wiped on her clothes, on her face, in her hair. She had no time to stop and think how hungry she was, or how tired, or how much more of her strength she could give.

She was stitching up the side of a man of about her father's years when suddenly it happened. A great shaking and a boom, far louder and more powerful than any before. All stopped in their work and wondered what had occurred. A pause, then three times more it came, and with the final great boom lightning split the sky so the candlelit ward was for a moment filled with a stark white light, and all the fear and dread on the faces of those in that place was laid bare.

"The gate!" someone cried. "They're trying to bring down the great gate!"

They were quickly silenced in order for panic not to spread, but the seed was sown and a strange quiet came over the room as everyone turned inward to their thoughts. Had they succeeded? If the gate to the city had been breached then there truly was no hope, as that was the city's last defence. If they could bring down the gate that everyone said could not be breached, then how easily could the forces of the enemy break through the smaller gates of each level until they were upon the sixth where the Houses stood? Keren felt a moment of utter terror, but she forced down the bile that had risen in her throat and smiled at the man she was tending.

"Your wound is clean, all should be well," she said quietly.

"But to what end?" he replied. "The city is taken."

So cast down was he that she could not reply, but set to the last of the stitches, her hand only shaking slightly. As she snipped the thread and tied the ends she noticed how silent the ward had fallen. The cries of the badly wounded and dying were faint, and there was no conversation between the healers and their charges. All was still and tense. The sounds of the battle seemed distant and vague after the attack on the gate which had shaken the whole city, perhaps even old Mindolluin himself.

But then, as another dim grey dawn broke, came another unexpected sound, one Keren could not believe she was hearing. The cry of many horns. Horns from a great distance – they must have been very great in number for their sound to carry so far. Without thinking she ran to the small window next to the end bed and stared greedily at the sight that met her eyes.

A great host of men on horseback were beginning a charge at full pelt towards the army of the enemy – so many that it looked as if a whole country had been mustered. And then she remembered – Rohan! They had answered the call.

Swiftly they flew down the hillside towards the enemy and golden they looked as they were lit by the rising sun.

The sun! Keren belatedly realised what she was seeing. A real dawn!

She opened the window wide and leaned out, feeling the warmth on her face. She gasped in wonder at what she saw. The sun, seeming red with anger, blazed down on the riders, lighting their path. So fierce and terrifying they looked as they clashed with the enemy that she almost looked away but found she could not. Arrows were flying, spears were thrown, swords and their strange helmets, all adorned with horse hair flying behind, were glinting in the sun. A strange sound rose up from the battlefield – the riders of Rohan were singing as they killed. She could not believe what she was seeing, and felt tears of awe grow in her eyes.

"Keren!" A shrill shout tore her gaze away. "Away from that window and back to work! How dare you?"

She had to smile at Ioreth in her joy.

"But Rohan has come," she cried. "The riders – we are saved!"

A great shout went up in the ward from all those who were able. It felt as if the light was returning, and, though still ignorant of all else that was occurring, they felt a great joy in their hearts. And old Ioreth, with a tear in her eye and a smile, nodded and said: "Back to work though, child."

The wounded were still being brought in thick and fast, as the sun climbed in the sky. Keren and the other healers still had not stopped for rest or refreshment, for the need of those in their care was greater. The pile of dead, for a disordered pile it had become, was growing, but some men who had only minor wounds had already been released from the Houses. Since the arrival of the men of Rohan it felt to Keren that sometimes the air in the wards was less foul, and she finally made time to clean the blood off her arms and face once more.

As she leant over the bucket a great scream went up from the battlefield, causing her to look across to the windows, but all she could see from this angle was sky. It rent the hearts of all, as no one could escape the sound. The distance must have been great, but the scream seemed to be heard and felt within their very souls. Keren felt dizzy with panic and could not breathe. All of her fears and troubles over Faramir were pulled to the surface; all of the memories of her mothers' last days were brought to the fore, threatening to overwhelm her with sorrow. She shut her eyes and clenched her teeth against the pain.

But then the scream faded, and straight away a hope seemed to rise in Keren and, it appeared, all those around her. The sun seemed yet brighter and warmer, and a feeling of calm descended through the Houses of Healing. Those who were dying felt at peace, and those who were healing felt a new energy surge through them.

As for Keren, she simply smiled to herself, and thought of Faramir. Why this happened she did not know, as she had heard very clearly that he was dead.

She continued to wash the blood from her arms methodically, allowing her mind to focus on work once more.

At that moment a great pounding on the main doors to the Houses began. She was the only one not busy with a charge and so made haste to answer it, running out to the hallway. With a turn of the large metal ring-pull and a great heave she pulled open one of the doors – they were old and heavy, designed to keep any unwanted visitors away. A wave of nausea went over her as the physical effort took its toll on her lack of food and sleep. She swayed a little and leant on the door frame for support.

"Are you alright?" A young male voice asked. She nodded, eyes closed, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

"I am well, thank you," she said, feeling the faintness pass. "How can I help…" She looked up to see who had spoken to her but saw only stone walls. Then she registered a small figure looking up at her, no bigger than a ten-year-old boy, but with the face of a young man. "…you?" She tailed off, staring.

There was a tut from behind him.

"This is no time for introductions to hobbits," a man's voice said. "Keren, allow us to pass, I will explain all as we walk."

"Beregond!" Keren said in recognition as she tore her eyes from the strange creature in front of her.

The guard of the citadel regarded her with anxious eyes. She looked as bad as he felt.

"Bergil is not here, I am sorry," she said, "I have not seen him for days."

"My son is safe and well Keren, I thank thee," he said quickly. "I do not seek him, but I must enter, and swiftly."

She nodded. "Of course."

No doubt he had another message for the warden – perhaps the battle was won? But he turned his back to her and stooped to pick up something that had previously been hidden behind him and the strange little man. It was a body laid out on a bier – no, not just a body, or why would he bring it to the Houses? The man must still live.

As Beregond turned and held the man, cradled in his arms, Keren saw that it was none other but Faramir.

Her face must have shown her shock as Beregond said grimly: "Now you see why there is need of haste."