Hi everyone, here's the latest update of this story, hope you are all well. As usual I want to say a big thank you to everyone who left feedback on the last chapter, I love you guys :).

As I mentioned at the end of the last chapter, this story is split into 4 separate POVs. The first is Imrahil, then Denethor, Pippin and then finally Aragorn. It covers the Siege of Gondor timeline. Again, like previous chapters, any battle elements of this chapter are kind of glossed over because I can't write them well and I'm not a military strategist so I can't promise everything is accurate military wise.

It was a hard chapter because of the different POVs, and they all focus on the same time period, so I tried not to overlap them too much.

But I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters/locations etc. belong to the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema. Some dialogue is borrowed from the three books/films in 'The Lord of the Rings' trilogy.


Imrahil POV

Imrahil paced constantly, trying to take his mind off the sounds he could hear. He was preparing to defend the second circle, should the first circle fall, which it absolutely would because it was defenceless. The screams of men and orcs alike reached his ears as he heard the arrows of his archers perched on the walls try to aid the men fighting below, his nephew Faramir among them.

Faramir was the main reason his nervous pacing had kicked in. He worried for all the men who were ordered down to the first circle, but it was Faramir he feared for most. It made him uncomfortable to know he was stuck on the second level whilst his nephew was likely to die fighting on the first level.

It was Boromir who had told him of Denethor's plan to send men to the first level, and his nephew was incredibly worried about his brother, to say he was agitated was an understatement.

"I do not understand, Uncle," he had said, his face starting to go red with anger, "surely father understands that the first level will fall and all the men will die. Faramir is among them."

Imrahil managed to calm Boromir down, but after learning that Denethor planned to send men, including Faramir, to the first circle, he was seething on the inside. However, he remained calm for Boromir's sake and urged him to head to the armoury, to ready himself and his men. Imrahil, on the other hand, went storming towards the Steward's chambers to confront Denethor. He paid no attention to the guards who were forbidding anyone to enter and thrust the doors to Denethor's rooms open.

"Have you taken a leave of your senses?" he said, getting angrier by the moment. Denethor, however, remained icy cool, sat by his desk, writing. The man had an eerie ability to remain calm as if nothing was amiss, something his younger son had inherited. Imrahil, however, much like his sister and Boromir, were unable to do that, and when they were angry about something, others knew about it.

"Brother-in-law or not, you have no right to talk to your Steward in that way."

"You have sent men to be slaughtered, including your own son. How could you do this to him?"

"You are blinded by your love for family, Prince Imrahil. Faramir is a soldier, and he will do his duty. Were he not your nephew, you would have no problem with my decision," Denethor spoke with venom in his voice, but did not move a muscle. He was still hunched over his desk, writing something.

"I most certainly would have a problem with you sending men to die. The lower level will fall within minutes and you know it will. We should defend the city from the second level. Sacrificing good soldiers and good men on a lost cause when you need them here, but I find it even worse considering he is your own son. I will take my men and I will join them on the first level."

"You will do no such thing. You and your men will remain on the second level, and that is an order from me. You know the penalty for defying the Steward, Imrahil."

Imrahil had now had enough of the conversation with his brother-in-law, and turned away before he said something he truly regretted. It was clear that nothing anyone would say could change his mind. Just before he reached the door to leave, he turned back to the Steward.

"That boy loves you, though I cannot comprehend how given everything you have put him through, but he loves you and this is how you repay him. If you do not change your mind, your son will likely be dead by the morning."

He didn't wait for a reply from the Steward, instead he left the room, still angry, but managing to compose his thoughts, which were now focused solely on Faramir. He always knew how Denethor's constant dismissal of anything Faramir did took a toll on him. He often wished that after Finduilas' death he could've taken him, and Boromir, to Dol Amroth to live with them. His wife and children adored them as much as he did. Every summer until they came of age, both boys would stay with them for three months, and Faramir continued to do so even after he turned sixteen, and by the time the three months were up, Imrahil could see the difference in him. Away from Denethor, Faramir was more free, quicker to laugh, but it only lasted the length of his stay.

Even as a grown man and Captain of the Rangers, he would always make time for at least a spare week in the summer to spend with them before duty called him back home. When Faramir turned six, not long after Finduilas' death, Denethor began to turn cold towards him. He had never been a hands-on father before, leaving the child rearing to his wife, but he had also not been cold towards his youngest son, showing him some affection, but after his wife died, it changed. He would never forget the one time a six-year-old Faramir asked Imrahil if he could be his father, and it broke Imrahil's heart. Imrahil and his wife, Miriel, had never tried to replace his parents, but they considered him a son in every way that counted. But no matter how much he wanted Faramir away from the city, he knew that it was not his place, and he belonged in Minas Tirith, and he would never separate the boys either, and there was no way Boromir, as the Steward's heir would be allowed to live away from Minas Tirith permanently.

Imrahil began to head towards the second level, but on his way he once again crossed paths with Boromir, who had an almost haunted look upon his face.

"I should go to the first level," Boromir said.

"Absolutely not. It is bad enough that Faramir has been sent there, you are not going there too."

"But-"

"I know, Boromir, I know." Imrahil did not know what else to say, but he hoped the hot-headed Boromir, who would throw his head on a blade for his younger brother, would listen to his Uncle and remain where he was supposed to.

Imrahil continued to the second level, and rounded up his men, telling them of the instructions the Steward had given him, but he was mulling over Boromir's words. So that was how Imrahil found himself pacing, listening to the battle below.

Though he considered himself a patient man, his patience was running thin at this moment, and after a few minutes, his mind was made up. He didn't want Boromir to risk his life to save Faramir, but he would be willing to do so himself. Denethor reminded him that the price for disobeying a direct order from the Steward is death, but Imrahil would rather face death knowing he helped the men on the first circle instead of living the rest of his life feeling guilty because he left the men, including his own nephew, to die.

He asked for volunteers only, he would not order his own men to risk their lives in the first circle, but as he had expected, they all volunteered, and within minutes, they had mounted their horses, and rode down to the first circle.

Being on horseback actually gave them a huge advantage, and Imrahil managed to cut down many orcs as he battled his way through. He noticed with a pang, that there were many Gondorian bodies lying around, but he had no time to pay them attention. He grieved for them, but he knew he had to remain focused on reaching those who were still alive. He had ordered each of his men to grab a Gondorian soldier and pull them up to their horse, before riding back to the relative safety of the second circle.

Faramir and his men were massively outnumbered, but he could not find his nephew amongst the sea of bodies before him. He saw some of his men drag soldiers onto their horses and turn back, but he would not leave without his nephew, dead or alive. He battled hard, using his position atop his horse to his advantage. His horse was large, and was able to trample many of the orcs, and he finished others off with his sword as he raced through the crowd. He and his men were having to duck and dodged as the Nazgûl attacked, and their presence made everything more difficult.

And then, a short distance away, he spotted him.. Faramir was locked in battle with a Harad soldier, and his nephew seemed to be holding his own well as he disarmed his opponent. Imrahil still raced towards him, wanting to get him out of the battle, but as he did so, he watched in horror as something struck Faramir in the soldier, knocking him backwards, his own sword now lying on the ground next to him.

He spurred his horse on, noticing that Faramir was barely moving, not making an effort to reclaim his sword, and the man he had previously disarmed was now armed again, and advancing on his nephew.

"Faramir!" he shouted, trying to rouse his nephew, but he didn't move. Just as the Harad soldier was about to bring his sword down and end Faramir's life, Imrahil threw the knife he held in his pocket, hitting the man in the back and he fell down. He had never killed a man with his back turned, but it was a desperate time.

With no care for himself, he jumped off his horse and raced over to Faramir. His eyes were shut, and he was clearly unconscious but he was still breathing which was the most important thing. Imrahil saw something sticking out of Faramir's shoulder. It was a Harad dart, and Imrahil knew enough about it to know that it was poisonous, but he had to leave the dart in for the healers to remove, lest he make it worse.

Imrahil saw the Witch King in the distance, and it felt as though the leader of the Nine was staring at him, or perhaps Faramir. Was he aware of how important they were to Gondor? Whether Denethor would admit it or not, losing Faramir would have a huge effect on Gondor's army, and though his own men are disciplined soldiers, his loss would leave his army in disarray. Not liking staring down such a formidable foe, and increasingly aware that the battle was still ongoing around them, he lifted Faramir onto his horse.

Noticing that there were now no longer any survivors from Faramir's men, other than those that had already been escorted to safety, Imrahil ordered his men back, and they would continue mounting the defence from the second level. He noted with great sadness, that they were too late, and that too many men had fallen before they had even got there. But the sacrifice was not in vain, for they had also taken many orcs with them, but the major battle was yet to come.

Imrahil ordered his men to take the wounded to the Houses of Healing first, and he was the one who took Faramir to his father. Boromir, who was in the final stages of preparation for his role in defending the city, was the first to see them.

"Father!" he shouted, and began to run towards them, Denethor following having seen Faramir limp in Imrahil's arms.

"Your son has returned, My Lord. After great deeds," Imrahil said to his brother-in-law. His voice was unusually cold, as was the glare upon his face as he looked at the Steward. He felt little sympathy for the man before him, who had sunk to the ground, murmuring 'my son… Faramir...he is dead', for it was he who had sent Faramir to the first level. He did, however, have great sympathy for Boromir who had fallen to the ground beside Faramir, and was shaking him, trying to get him to wake, but also assuring Denethor that he was not dead, but he needed to be seen to..

"Boromir, be careful, his shoulder is wounded," he said, and gently moved Boromir away from his brother as the healers had arrived with a stretcher for Faramir, and Imrahil helped them settle him on it. He kissed his nephew on the forehead, and whispered to him.

"I wish you a speedy recovery, dear nephew," though looking at him, Faramir looked dead. He had gone a deathly pale, and he was barely moving. The only sign of life were the slightly laboured breaths he was taking.

The healers whisked him off, and Imrahil barely spared a glance at Denethor as he climbed back atop his horse to head to his army and defend Minas Tirith from the coming onslaught.

Denethor POV

A wave of fury passed through him as he watched from afar the Swan Knights disobey his command and ride out to the first circle. He had been watching the battle from afar, and it was difficult to see what was going on from where he stood at the top of the city, but it was easy to spot the Swan Knights, for they stood out in a crowd in comparison to the rest of the Gondorians.

He turned away from the wall, debating what he would say to Imrahil should his brother-in-law survive the battle. But then he softened, remembering why Imrahil had rode out. Faramir.

I failed you Finduilas, he thought. I failed our son.

He walked towards his chambers, and shut the door, blocking all sounds of the battle, not wanting to hear what was happening on the lower levels.

He had intended to attend to his duties, and write letters to nobles of Gondor who were not present at the White City, instead they were patrolling borders, protecting other areas of lands. Imrahil's eldest son, Elphir, remained at Dol Amroth, where they would hold off any intruders from the sea.

He found it difficult to concentrate, however, as his mind was constantly drawn to the dark cloud, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not stop thinking about the battle that was bringing certain death his way. And then there was a knock at the door. Frustrated, he put his paper and quill down, and flung the door open, giving the guard on the other side a glare.

"Forgive the intrusion, My Lord," he said, stammering slightly under the Steward's eyesight, "but Prince Imrahil appears to be riding this way. He has left the battlefield."

Denethor swept out of the room, wondering why Imrahil was heading this way rather than gathering with his men.

In the courtyard, preparing for battle and smiling as he ever did, was his eldest son, Boromir. His mood was always lightened when he laid eyes upon Boromir, for he never failed to let Denethor down.

"Father," he said, moving to greet him. "I have sent my men to the fourth circle, they will be ready should the fight reach us. But I beg you to let me fight further down in the city. It is not in my nature to stand idly by whilst others risk their lives. I can be of use to Imrahil and his men."

But Denethor did not answer his plea, for he had spotted something in the distance, and Boromir followed his eyeline, and there, riding up the last few steps to reach the last courtyard, was Imrahil, carrying something in his arms.

"Is that Faramir?" Boromir asked, concern evident in his voice. He began to head towards Imrahil, turning back to Denethor.

"Father!" he shouted, and began to run towards Imrahil, and Denethor saw for certain that the man held Faramir limp in his arms.

Imrahil's face was seething with anger, and Denethor could clearly see it was directed at him. He gently helped Faramir off the horse and helped him onto a waiting stretcher.

"Your son has returned, My Lord. After great deeds," Imrahil spoke, but Denethor could not hear him. He could not take his eyes off Faramir, who appeared to be dead before him.

"My son...Faramir," he began to murmur, to no one in particular. "He is dead." Denethor could not see or think straight. Instead his head was stuck with the image of Faramir being lowered into a grave, far before his time.

"Father, he is not dead. Though I fear he may be if he is not given the treatment he needs," Boromir said, before he dropped to his knees beside his brother and tried to rouse him.

"Boromir, be careful, his shoulder is wounded," Imrahil said, and pried Boromir away from Faramir, fixing Denethor with another glare as he did so.

Denethor knew that Imrahil loved the two boys, the sons of his beloved sister whom he missed dearly. But he often felt that the man tried to be too fatherly to them, especially towards Faramir, when the job was Denethor's, and so his heart hardened against the man. They had not seen eye to eye since Finduilas died, and Denethor knew the younger man blamed him for his sister's longing for the sea. Perhaps he would've been a better father for Faramir, but that was something that they would never know.

Imrahil announced he was to return to the walls, and Boromir assured him he would soon follow, but first he wanted to see Faramir to the Houses, so he helped the healers carry Faramir on the stretcher, and Denethor trailed behind.

He was immediately pushed aside by the healers, and he didn't even have the will to protest this, his mind so occupied with awful thoughts about his son's fate. He watched idly as the healers stripped Faramir of his armour, and made him comfortable on the bed. Denethor winced when he spotted the wound upon his shoulder, clearly poison of some kind, and the wound had turned completely black. He looked at his son's face, and was dismayed to see that Faramir was still yet to show a single sign of life, other than small tiny breaths that were hardly visible.

The healers managed to dress the wound and make him comfortable, though they were not aware of what poison was used against him so they were unable to provide an antidote for now. They told him that they must simply monitor Faramir's fever and force feed him water every hour to attempt to flush the poison out of his system. They were unsure how fast the poison would spread, but until they found an antidote, this was all they could do.

Boromir, knowing that he had a duty to the city, sat by Faramir's side for a few minutes and whispered something in Faramir's ear that Denethor could not hear. His sons had ever been close. From the moment Faramir was born, he was Boromir's favourite person, and Faramir clearly idolised his elder brother as he grew. And then the death of his beloved Finduilas brought them closer, making the boys inseparable despite the five-year age difference.

After Boromir had left, and the healers had done all they could for Faramir at this point, Denethor sent them from the room, leaving him alone with his son. He reached out and grabbed Faramir's hand, which he was shocked to find was deathly cold, despite the sweating that had started on his son's forehead.

"My son, do not leave me," he whispered, breaking down. They had always had a difficult relationship, but Faramir was his son, and no matter what it seemed like, he did love him, and the thought of losing him was like a sword through the heart.

Denethor zoned out, as if in a kind of trance. Instead of his mind being present, focusing on Faramir before him, he found himself thinking of some of the moments of the past.

The first moment that flashed in his memory was a cold morning thirty-five years ago, and he was pacing in his study, stressing over the lack of news the healers had brought. He was not present for Faramir's birth, nor was he present for Boromir's, but the minute Finduilas had given birth, one of the healers called for him and he immediately ran to her room and a small bundle was placed in his arms.

He was far too small when he was born, and Denethor was not wholly convinced that he would survive. Though she did not voice it, it appeared Finduilas harboured the same fear, for she barely let the boy out of her arms for the first month of his life, not even for him to hold Faramir. He felt guilty then and now, but he couldn't help but slightly resent the child for taking up so much of his wife's time and energy. She was so tired through nursing Faramir, that she could barely have any time alone with Boromir, though his elder son was at his happiest when he was helping his mother hold the baby. Looking back now, Denethor should've realised how his second born was a delightful baby, he was just too blind to see it.

The next memory that flashed through his mind was five-years later, a mere month after Finduilas' death. Denethor found himself wandering through the corridors of Minas Tirith, when he heard a noise as he walked past Faramir's room. Curious, and worried, he stopped outside the door and listened closely, and the noise he heard from inside the room was sniffling. He opened the door, and saw the small boy with his knees tucked in his arms, crying on his bed.

"Faramir?" Denethor asked, and the boy shot up from his bed, wiping his eyes furiously to dry the tears, but Denethor prevented him from doing so, crouching down and wiping the tears from his eyes himself. "Why are you crying?"

"I miss mama," the boy admitted, and tried to hold back a few more sniffles. "But I'm not crying, men don't cry."

"They don't often, you are right. But you are not yet a man, you're just a boy," Faramir pouted slightly at this, for he did not like being told he was still a child. In many ways he acted much older than what he was, apart from when he was around his mother, who was now no longer here. "A young boy who has just lost the most important person in his life. Grieving is normal, little one. Your uncle, grandfather and I all cried when your mother passed."

"Really?" Faramir asked, for he had not seen any of them shed tears, and he seemed shocked that the three men whom he saw as strong could cry.

"Really," Denethor replied. He had been rather absent in the last month, dealing with his own grief, but he would not leave Faramir alone this night. He helped ready him for bed, and tucked him in, something he had never done before.

"Father," Faramir said, apprehensively, "will you...will you read me the story mama used to?"

To refuse this request would have made Denethor completely heartless, so he found the book that Adrahil had brought for Faramir's first birthday, the one Finduilas had read to him every night, and read to his son as he fell asleep.

Eleven years passed as the next memory appeared, yet once again it involved Faramir grieving, but for somebody very different this time. Faramir had kept to himself for over a week following the death of his beloved dog. Though Denethor could not quite understand the attachment Faramir had to animals, and therefore he could not understand why his son would be so upset over the death of a dog, he did feel broken when his son told him why this dog's death hurt him so much.

"He wasn't just any dog, he was her dog."

The dog had been old, for he had once belonged to Finduilas and in the eleven years since her death Faramir had taken care of him. It was a connection to his mother that he had cherished. Finduilas had got the dog two years after Faramir's birth, so he had lasted thirteen years, but throughout the last winter, it became clear he would not last longer, and for his son who had always had a connection to animals as his mother had, it had hurt.

So, two months later, Denethor led Faramir through the halls of Minas Tirith to one of the gardens where waiting for him was a puppy. It was a birthday present from Denethor to Faramir, though it was a few weeks late. Imrahil's dog had recently given birth and Denethor had asked for one of the pups to give to Faramir so he could have a new companion.

His son let out a huge grin when he saw the pup, and for the first time in several years, the two embraced.

"Thank you, father," he said, and Denethor watched on as Faramir played with the excitable pup, glad that his son was smiling.

The final flashback was a dark one. It was another moment in Faramir's life where Denethor feared he may lose him. It was ten years ago, and Denethor was sitting in his office when he heard his older son walking down the corridor, calling for help. Worried, Denethor jumped out of his chair and rushed to see what Boromir was shouting about, and in Boromir's arms was his younger son, bloodied up and unconscious.

His stomach turned at the sight before him. In fact, he wasn't even sure it was Faramir, for the figure in Boromir's arms held little resemblance to his younger son because of his injuries. He had cuts on his face, and clearly on his chest for he was bleeding through his clothing. Denethor thought it was rather remarkable he was alive because he had surely lost a lot of blood, it looked as if he had been mauled by a bear.

When the healers had cleaned him, he sat beside his bedside, watching over him for days. He barely moved, transfixed on the sight before him. He clutched his hand and called for Faramir to return, but when Faramir finally woke nine days after he had been injured, he never even knew Denethor was there, and Denethor never told him.

He snapped out of his flashbacks, and focused on the body in front of him. It was rather similar to the sight he had seen ten years ago, only Faramir looked closer to death now than he had back then.

He thought about his final conversation with his son, and he cursed himself for being too stubborn to listen to advice on not defending the first circle. Deep down he knew the first circle would fall, but he still sent Faramir there knowing that. Had he become such a terrible person that he put no thought into the safety of his own son.

Faramir was dying, and there was nothing he could do, and he would never get the chance to make things right with his son. He broke into tears. Tears for his long lost wife, tears for Faramir, and tears for Boromir, who had also gone to fight. He knew it was helpless to hope of Boromir's survival in the battle, but he took courage knowing his son would die the warrior's death as he would want.

Death was coming for all of them, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Boromir would fall in battle, and they would come for the Steward and his younger son, who was lying there hopeless. He tried to picture what they would do to Faramir if they found him after they sacked the city. He would not subject Faramir to a brutal death at the hands of the savage orcs. He had to protect his son, it would be the last thing he would do. So he would save Faramir, and they would die together, father and son.

Pippin POV

The last few days had been something of a whirlwind to Pippin. He was sworn in as a Guard of the Citadel, now in service of the Steward, and then suddenly, he was overhearing battle strategy. It was one thing to know that war was inevitable, it was another to know it was heading towards you.

He had gathered that what he had seen in the Palantír meant that Minas Tirith was under threat, but to be in the city when a host of one hundred thousand was about to lay siege to it made Pippin's insides turn.

And now he stood back, knowing he shouldn't intrude for it was not his place, watching as the Prince of Dol Amroth returned his nephew from the battle. His nephew, Faramir, Pippin's friend. Pippin watched as Boromir crouched beside his brother, and the Steward sank to his knees. Pippin thought the worst had happened, and tears threatened to spill from his eyes, but he heard Boromir inform his father that Faramir was indeed alive.

He considered Faramir a dear friend after all they had been through since they had met in Rivendell. There was something about him that made him instantly trustworthy and likeable, though Pippin could not explain what. Faramir had helped him and Merry learn how to shoot a bow and arrow. The two of them were still not nearly as good as he or Legolas, but he appreciated Faramir's help nonetheless. He was also kind, and had offered Pippin advice, or was just there to listen, and Pippin feared he would never have the opportunity to tell Faramir how good of a friend he considered him.

He followed the Steward and the healers that carried Faramir on a stretcher to the Houses of Healing. As they passed through the corridors, people looked saddened, and gasps of shock left their mouths. It was clear that Faramir was a popular figure within the city.

When they arrived at the Houses of Healing, Denethor saw Pippin trailing behind them. His face had lost the sternness Pippin had grown used to seeing there. Instead, there was a look of pure grief and panic, though this didn't stop him from snarling at Pippin.

"You shall remain out here," he said, and then closed the door, leaving Pippin unaware of what Faramir's fate would be.

He left the Houses of Healing, and found himself walking towards the chambers he had been given for his stay in the city. He had nothing to do, so he decided that attempting to sleep would be the best course of action. He could not help prepare for battle, because he did not know what to do, and he did not even know if he was fighting. He would fight if he was asked too, but he also knew that he was more likely to be a hindrance than help. He was small and had no battle training.

Within minutes of entering his chambers and climbing into bed, Pippin fell asleep, and his mind was no longer on the battle that was raging down below, but instead, he dreamt of the Shire, and his friends.

Morning came all too quickly, but Pippin felt rather refreshed after his sleep. There was a huge part of him that felt guilty for sleeping when so many other men were fighting to protect the city, but he had not been given orders from anyone and the last thing he wanted was to get in the way of other soldiers.

He was desperate to hear of any news of Faramir, so he headed down to the Houses of Healing. There, a man stood guard, Beregond, whom Pippin was already acquainted with. He approached Beregond, and the man smiled.

"Master Peregrin, good morning," he said.

"Good morning, Beregond. How is Faramir?" Pippin asked, hoping for good news.

"He is much the same, my friend. No better, no worse. Lord Denethor has not left his side since he returned."

It wasn't the news Pippin was hoping for, but it could also have been much worse. At least Faramir was still alive, but he had not looked good when Pippin had seen him. He only hoped his friend would pull through.

"And the battle?" Pippin asked, worried what the answer would be.

"Orcs have now reached the fourth circle, where Lord Boromir will be fighting. We have heard no news from Lord Boromir or Prince Imrahil. Our soldiers are fighting, but the Pelennor is still filled with thousands of orcs and soldiers. But we will not give up."

Beregond's words had made Pippin extremely nervous. He had never given much thought to what it would be like to die, and if he had a choice, it would be at an old age, in his bed, surrounded by food. He began to walk away from the Houses of Healing, Beregond's words echoing in his ears.

Waiting for the inevitable attack was terrifying, and he had tried to accept the fact that if the enemies' numbers were true, he would likely die along with everyone else in the city. Gandalf had spoken of how without the aid of Rohan, Gondor did not have the numbers to survive a siege of this magnitude, and if they were already at the fourth circle, it would only be a matter of time before they reached the top. He was losing hope that Rohan had answered the call of aid from Gondor when Pippin and Gandalf had gone behind Denethor's back and lit the beacons.

His walk had taken him outside, to the courtyard which held the White Tree. Pippin thought the tree must have been beautiful when it was alive, but now it looked out of place in the courtyard in which it stood. He went to sit by the base of the tree, which was unguarded for the first time since he had arrived as the guards were also expected to defend the city, and began to think of his friends.

Faramir had assured him that Frodo and Sam were safe, but he could not stop worrying about them. And then there was Merry, whom he missed so much he felt an ache in his chest. Pippin must've stayed at the base of the tree for far longer than he realised, for when he looked up, having just heard faint voices, it was near midday.

His ears also picked up the faint battle screams coming from the base of the city. The siege had held for nearly a full day. Gandalf had explained to him that the siege would hold for some time, but if they were not helped, it would take a miracle for the siege to completely work, and the Black Riders he could hear screeching in the distance were surely not helping the matter.

The voices he had heard began to grow louder, and he made out figures walking in the distance. There was a man, followed by a few other men, two of them carrying a stretcher. It was only when Pippin got a bit closer than he realised that it was Faramir on the stretcher, and his father was walking before him. The man looked broken, a shell of the formidable man he had met recently. It did not, however, surprise Pippin to see him looking in such a state.

Though Denethor was cold to his youngest son, there was love there, Pippin was sure of it, and perhaps this was proof. Pippin had seen Denethor collapse to his knees when Imrahil had brought Faramir back. Then there was the added fact that Boromir was currently leading his men in battle, and the chances of survival were slim.

Pippin was curious, though, as to where they were taking Faramir. Was it not better for him to be resting in the Houses of Healing where he could recover. He decided to follow the small party as they walked through Minas Tirith, sneaking quietly so they were not alerted to his presence.

They arrived at a building that he had never seen before, and he watched as Faramir was carried inside. To his horror, he saw the men place him on a pyre. Is Faramir dead? Thoughts were racing through Pippin's head. He realised that Faramir could not be dead. He had been sat by the White Tree, which was not far from the Houses of Healing. Surely he would've heard the commotion if Faramir had died.

But he had to be sure, and he wanted to say goodbye to his friend if the worst had happened, so he made his way to the pyre, not caring if Denethor or the guards saw him now.

As he got closer, he thought he saw Faramir's chest rise, but he reasoned it must've been a trick his eyes were playing on him. Until he saw it again. Rushing towards Faramir, he realised that his friend was alive. He looked as good as dead, but he was breathing, and Pippin reached for his wrist, and found a pulse.

The guards paid no attention to him, and began to place wood around the pyre.

"What are you doing? He's not dead!" He shouted, trying to get their attention, but it was as if they did not hear him. Denethor, however, turned around.

"Peregrin Took! What are you doing here?"

"My Lord, your son, he's still alive. You must return him to the Houses of Healing at once," he said, trying to stop the men from putting the wood by Faramir, but they were much larger and stronger than him, and they paid him no mind.

Pippin was seized by Denethor, who began to drag him away from Faramir and out of the building. Pippin tried kicking and screaming, but Denethor was a surprisingly strong man, and was seemingly unbothered by the small body squirming in his arms.

"Farwell Peregrin son of Paladin, I release you from my service," he said, throwing Pippin out of the building. "Go now and die in any way you see fit."

With that, Denethor closed the doors to the building, and Pippin could not force them open. He wondered what had happened to the Steward in the time he had been beside his son's bed. He was aware that the battle was raging fiercely below, for the sounds could be heard from the top level of the city, and he knew that hope was all but lost, but why risk burning Faramir alive when there is even a small possibility that they may win this battle.

Pippin had no idea what he was supposed to do, but he knew he could not let his friend be killed by the Steward. The only person he knew well enough in the city to ask for help was Gandalf.

He raced away from the building, making a mental note of features along the way so he would know how to get back. Luckily for Pippin, he did not have to look far. Gandalf was on the sixth circle, helping the archers and soldiers with trebuchets to defend the lower levels. There were a few orcs who had managed to reach this level already, but they were outnumbered and dealt with by the soldiers. Most of the fighting was on the lower levels.

"Peregrin Took!" Gandalf shouted after seeing him. "What are you doing here?"

"Gandalf, it's Lord Denethor. He's lost his mind. He's burning Faramir alive."

Pippin saw Gandalf's expression change. He knew how fond the wizard was of Faramir, and he knew it was reciprocated as well. Faramir had once told him that Gandalf's visits were often the things he looked forward to most as a child. He could see Gandalf was conflicted between remaining on the walls and helping the soldiers there, and rescuing Faramir, who was about to be burned alive.

Then, in the distance, Pippin heard a horn sound.

"The Rohirrim," he heard Gandalf said, and Pippin's heart lightened. King Théoden had answered the call when Pippin had lit the beacons.

Spirits lifted by the sound of the horn, Gandalf had made his decision. He hoisted Pippin onto Shadowfax with him, and he followed Pippin's directions to the building Denethor had taken Faramir. He only hoped they were quick enough to save him from Denethor's madness. Gandalf seemed to know the building which Pippin was describing, for he was turning corners before Pippin had told him which way to travel.

They turned another corner, and there in the distance was the building, the door still shut, keeping anyone from intruding. Pippin's heart raced as they drew closer to the doors, praying he was not too slow in finding help.

Gandalf threw the doors open, and to his relief, there was no sign of fire, but Denethor had a torch in his arms, and he and Gandalf were talking to one another, shouting was perhaps a better word to use, but Pippin was not listening to them. Instead, he kept his gaze on Faramir, who was still unmoving upon the pyre. Pippin did, however, manage a glance to his right, and saw that Beregond, a loyal friend to Faramir, had slain two of his own men in an attempt to protect the Steward's son.

Suddenly, Denethor dropped the torch, and the pyre lit. Not thinking about his own safety, Pippin leapt off Shadowfax and onto the pyre, pushing Faramir off with great effort. He then patted his hands on Faramir's leg and side, where there were small flames. They would likely scar, but it could've been worse for Faramir. Denethor, still saying words that Pippin was not paying attention to, jumped upon the pyre, broke the Steward's staff and grabbed the Palantír in his hands. Pippin had to turn away to avoid watching the Steward burn, but the screams would forever live in his memory as the poor man burned alive.

Sadness filled Pippin, that a man's life had ended before it should have been, but he focused his attention back on Faramir, who had not moved since Pippin had pushed him onto the floor. Unless you looked really carefully, he did look as if he was dead. Gandalf, knowing that Faramir was still in grave danger, placed him back upon the stretcher and rushed him back to the Houses of Healing with Beregond. When they arrived there, and Ioreth settled Faramir on one of the beds, Pippin felt a great deal of pride for the part he played in saving his friend. He stood watch over him, until the battle had finished and Aragorn arrived.

Aragorn POV

No matter how many battles he fought in, he felt exactly the same after each one. The immediate thought, which is always fleeting, lasts barely a second, is that he is glad to be alive, but then the guilt kicks in. He had lived, but how many others had fallen? How many had fallen at his sword? Friends, enemies, it did not matter to him, for they were people. This battle was no different.

He walked across the Pelennor, thousands of bodies from all areas of Middle-Earth intertwined with one another. Gondorians, Rohirrim, Haradrim and orcs. He felt a great sadness as he looked upon the men amongst the dead, some of them mere boys in comparison to himself. He helped to move some of the bodies, to ensure that they were not piled up overnight. He knew not what would happen with the bodies, but he hoped each and every man, even those from Harad, had their bodies returned to their families.

The loss of his dear friend and kin, Halbarad, hit him the hardest. Halbarad had been by his side through many adventures, and he would ever miss him. And then there was of course, Théoden King. It had merely been weeks since the King had been returned to his normal state, and now he too was gone. The throne of Rohan now fell to Éomer, who Aragorn had seen moments before drop to the side of the fallen body of his sister, whom had snuck into battle, though Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, had assured him that she lived but she needed urgent medical care.

There were countless others, who were not Kings of men, but still gave their lives to protect Minas Tirith, which was saved, for now. Aragorn vowed that if he were to fulfil his destiny and become King, he would personally see to it that the families of the fallen receive a token of gratitude from the whole population of Gondor, a small token for a debt that can never be repaid.

"Aragorn," a voice said abruptly. He turned to find Gandalf approaching him, a grave look upon his face. "Your help is required."

He said no more, and motioned for him to follow. Aragorn was confused, but was now used to Gandalf's ways and followed, knowing that Gandalf would have only come to find him if it was urgent.

"I am sure by now, you are aware that the Witch King has been slain," Gandalf said, and Aragorn nodded. Rumours spread quickly, and several people claimed they had seen the Witch King vanquished by someone, though nobody knew who, and nobody had stopped to take a good enough look whilst they were in the middle of a battle.

"Well, you should know that it was Lady Éowyn of Rohan who defeated him, with the help of our little hobbit Meriadoc Brandybuck."

Aragorn stopped still in shock. Éowyn and Merry had single handedly defeated a villain who had plagued Middle-Earth for centuries. Had the words not been from Gandalf's mouth, he would struggle to believe it, but Gandalf would not tell lies in such a moment. He found himself more amazed by hobbits as each day passed, and even he, who had the utmost respect for women, had underestimated Lady Éowyn . Rather than joyous at the news of their victory, however, Gandalf still looked grieved.

"They have paid a price, however, and in defeating the Witch King, they are suffering from an ailment that no ordinary man of Gondor can heal. Lady Éowyn in particular has worsened since she was taken to the Houses and is now in desperate need of healing at the hands of the King."

Aragorn wanted to say he was not yet the King, but he had known he had healing hands from a young age, and he would do his best to help the two of them recover from whatever it was that was ailing them.

"What is it they suffer with?"

"They call it the Black Breath," Gandalf explained, and Aragorn gulped. He had heard stories of the Black Break, a condition that was caused through contact with the Nazgûl, and though very rare, was often fateful. "I assume you have heard of it."

"I have," Aragorn replied, and he began to quicken his steps, knowing Éowyn and Merry were in need of his aid, though he remained unsure if even his healing abilities would reverse the effects of the Black Breath. "We must hurry Gandalf. Take me to Merry and Lady Éowyn at once."

"There is another, who is also suffering from the same condition, but is far worse than either Lady Éowyn or Merry, and he needs your help more than anyone else at this moment."

"Who?"

"Faramir. He is very close to death, Aragorn, and I fear that no matter what you can do it may already be too late for him."

Aragorn's heart plummeted further. It had been hard enough hearing of the fact that Merry was in danger, but Faramir too. It had been days since he had last seen the man he now considered a dear friend, as he rode from Edoras to save his brother from death, and to stop him from taking the Ring from Frodo. It would appear he had been successful at saving Boromir, but now seemed doomed to die himself.

Gandalf explained what had happened to Faramir, how he had been struck by a Harad dart and badly poisoned, and that is where Gandalf believed the Black Breath took its hold on him, for all nine of the Nazgûl surrounded the battlefield. But being brought to the Houses did not end Faramir's anguish, for his father, the Steward Denethor, had taken it upon himself to build a pyre to burn both father and son upon, though fortunately Pippin and Gandalf had managed to save Faramir.

"And Lord Denethor?"

"Lord Denethor died upon the pyre. It would seem that Boromir is now the Steward of Gondor." Gandalf said. Aragorn hoped to have a word with Boromir. He was aware that Denethor would not have given the throne to the King easily, and the last time he had seen Denethor, they parted on ill terms, despite originally being close friends. He hoped that he could have a conversation with Boromir about Gondor, and how it was not his intention to steal the Kingdom from him.

As they approached the door to which Faramir was behind, Gandalf stopped, and whispered.

"Should you manage to wake Faramir, do not mention Denethor's death. The healers fear, as I do, that learning of his father's death too soon could have a negative impact on his recovery."

Aragorn assured him Faramir would not learn of Denethor's demise from him, and he opened the door. At first, he could not see Faramir, for his bedside was surrounded by people. One was an elder woman, a healer, who was fussing at his bedside, obviously trying to do something to help him. The second Aragorn recognised as Prince Imrahil, Faramir's Uncle, though he had aged since Aragorn had last seen him. And there was a third, standing over his bedside and this man looked a lot like Faramir, only taller and more broad shouldered. This man was also the image of Denethor when he had been in his late thirties, so Aragorn realised that this was Boromir, who himself did not look too healthy. He had a large gash across his forehead, and had cuts and scrapes all over his arms, but it seemed the man did not care, for all his attention was on his younger brother.

He walked towards where they were standing and when he reached Faramir's bedside, he silently gasped. The man laid in the bed was barely recognisable as the man he had spent the last several months with. His face was so pale, that Aragorn would've believed him dead had he not been told otherwise.

"Good Lady, Ioreth," Gandalf said, approaching the Healer, "I have brought you the help I promised."

The woman rose from Faramir's bedside, and gave Aragorn a look of somewhat contempt due to his appearance. Aragorn had to stifle a laugh, because on inspection, he did not appear to be a man of great healing. He was sweating, dirty and bloodied, and his clothes were torn.

"Thorongil?" Imrahil said, also rising to view the newcomer in the room, and recognising him immediately. Boromir looked up in shock, seemingly remembering the name of Gondor's former soldier.

"Prince Imrahil," Aragorn addressed back with a nod of the head, "it is good to see you once again."

"You are Aragorn?" Boromir spoke, softly from Faramir's bedside, but there was tension in his voice, Aragorn could sense it, and his glance was wary. Gone were the days when four-year-old Boromir admired him. Aragorn held up his hands as a gesture of peace.

"I am here only to help your brother and others who need it," he said, and Boromir's eyes flickered back down to the man lying on the bed. "Anything else can be discussed at a later date."

Boromir allowed him to pass, and he immediately moved to Faramir's bedside. Faramir was still sweating, though when Aragorn touched his forehead, it was cold to touch. He was deathly still, not moaning with pain or saying incoherent things that make no sense as men ordinarily would when they suffered from a fever. But it was clear to see this was no ordinary fever, but something incredibly dark and he hoped he had the skill to pull his friend back to them.

"The dart that hit him? Does anybody have it?" he asked.

"I do," Imrahil said, and handed Aragorn the dart. "I assumed it was a Harad dart. They often coat their weapons with poison."

"Yes, this is a Harad dart," Aragorn confirmed. "Were it the dart of a Nazgûl, he would be dead. Though it is not the poison that causes his suffering."

"Gandalf said it was called the Black Breath," Boromir said. "I have never heard of such a thing."

"It is evil. He has already suffered many griefs, and to add that to the darkness the Shadow brings, he has fallen into dark dreams, and I will attempt to awaken him."

He placed his hand on Faramir's brow, calling to his friend, willing him to come back, but he could not reach him. Boromir must have seen Aragorn begin to struggle, for he could stay silent no longer.

"What are you trying to do?"

"I am trying to call out to him, though he cannot hear me."

Boromir nodded, and Imrahil managed to pry him away, recognising that Aragorn needed his full concentration, leaving Aragorn with the healer Ioreth, whom he swiftly sent to retrieve some athelas.

He tried to call Faramir once more, but the same as before, he was met with darkness. He abandoned this way of trying to heal Faramir, for it was clear he would not be able to draw him from the darkness by calling him. He must enter Faramir's dream and bring him from the darkness that way.

"I worry for him," Ioreth said as she returned, handing him the athelas and moving to Faramir's bedside to brush some of his sweat ridden hair away from his face. "I have helped to look after the Steward's sons since they were boys, and it would pain me if something happened to either of them. But this one," she gestured to Faramir, "I have always had a special bond with."

The older woman was clearly upset, and the two sons of the Steward were dear to her, and the thought of Faramir dying was a terrifying thought for a woman who obviously treated him as if he were her grandson. He took her hand, which was shaking.

"I will do what I can to help him. You have my word," he assured her, and in reply, she smiled slightly, grateful for his words of comfort.

Aragorn took the athelas she had brought him and prepared a bowl of steamy water to put it in. The fragrance it created was one that could heal the mind and soul, and so he placed it by the cabinet next to Faramir's bed, hoping that the fragrance would help Faramir awaken as he prepared to enter his friend's dark dream.

Taking a deep breath, he once more placed his hand on Faramir's forehead, preparing himself for what he was about to do. It was risky for both of them, but he decided the risk was worth taking. He took a deep breath, then closed his eyes and entered Faramir's dream.

Darkness was all he knew next. Complete darkness and silence. It was incredibly eerie to think that the Black Breath had caused all of this, and Faramir was now suffering. It was hard to keep his own mind amongst something which he could feel was unnatural and evil, but he forced himself to remember why he was here, and he knew he had to help Faramir.

Aragorn could sense Faramir's deep grief over the loss of his mother, even some thirty years later. He could also sense anguish and stress at his relationship with his father, and he now realised why Gandalf did not want Faramir learning of Denethor's death too soon, for it would crush him. Even though they were often at odds, Faramir loved his father.

The silence of the dream was broken, and there was a sudden screech. Looming in every corner of the dream was the Witch King, though Aragorn had to continuously remind himself that it was not real, and he pushed through, ignoring the awful noise of the Nazgûl.

Finally, he managed to fight his way through the darkness, and staring aimlessly into what appeared to be a fire, was Faramir. The younger man was not aware of Aragorn's presence, so he gently spoke.

"Come, my friend, you must leave this dark place. You are needed elsewhere."

"Aragorn?" Faramir asked, his voice quiet and disbelieving. The figure before him looked drained and tired, and it was reflected in his voice, which seemed empty. "I saw my mother...and my father was here. And there was fire...What is this place?"

"Darkness. And we must leave."

"But the city. It is lost."

"No, my friend. The city is saved, I can assure you that. Whatever you have seen here is nothing but an evil dream, the work of the Nazgûl. Come with me and return. Your brother awaits your awakening."

Something happened then, and he was ripped from Faramir's dream. He panicked momentarily, thinking he had failed, but then slowly, Faramir's eyes opened.

"Aragorn?"

"Welcome back, my friend," he said, a large smile on his face. "Walk no more in the shadows, but awake! You are weary, rest a while and take food. You must heal."

Faramir, exhausted, closed his eyes once more and returned to sleep, though this one was not plagued by darkness. Aragorn had freed him of that pain and confusion, and he was glad that his friend would survive, though it would appear that the road to recovery would be long.

He left Faramir's bedside, and left the room. Eagerly awaiting news were Boromir and Imrahil, as well as Pippin and Gandalf.

"He will be fine, though he needs rest. You should be there when he wakes," he said to Boromir and Imrahil, who rushed into the room. He was tired after helping Faramir, but he knew his work was far from done, and tiredness would not stop him from lending aid to Merry and Éowyn.


So there is chapter 22, I hope you enjoyed it.

As I mentioned, it was a difficult chapter to write. I have never written for any of the four characters before so it was hard, especially Imrahil because there's so little known about him but I figured of all the adult influences in Faramir's life, Imrahil seemed like the one he would've modelled himself on, so I think he'd be similar to Faramir.

Denethor is difficult for the obvious reasons. This is him at his lowest and it's hard to write a proud man who is broken without him being crazy. The film's don't quite do his character right, he's not a complete maniac, so I tried to paint him as a man who has had his mind affected for several years. Deep down I believe he loved Faramir and I tried to show that here. I used the flashbacks as a way of showing his mind wasn't really present, he wasn't focusing on what was happening and it helped build their relationship a bit more, as this is the last we see of Denethor. (I also hope the layout of the flasbacks weren't confusing)

And I hope I did Pippin and Aragorn justice too.

Anyway, the next chapter will be from Éowyn's POV, so it'll go back in time a little. The chapter will start when Faramir leaves Edoras right through to her at the Battle of Pelennor Fields. And then the following chapter will be back to Faramir's POV.

I will try to update soon, but I am finishing off the second chapter in my HP fanfic first, so I will try and get the next chapter of this up in the next few weeks.

Thanks once again guys :).