Upon leaving his unsuccessful session with the Steward, he had immediately inquired of the whereabouts of Faramir, for he greatly desired to speak with him. The matter of his brother's death had weighed heavily on his mind and heart, for the bond between Faramir and Boromir had been extremely strong, and he had felt it best for the tragic news to come from him, a trusted friend and mentor – and not from anyone else.

But it was not to be.

The Captain of the Tower Guard had quickly apprised Gandalf of the serious situation that Gondor once again found itself in. "Captain Faramir is not in the City," the Captain had reported, his voice and countenance grave. "He is leading the defense of Osgiliath. The battle has been waged for the last two days, and according to the last message to arrive, the battle does not go in our favor. They have too few men, Mithrandir, and we have none that we can spare to reinforce them."

The man had fallen silent for a moment before continuing, the words reluctantly leaving his mouth. "I fear for his safety, my Lord. Ever since the news of his brother's death, he has grown reckless in battle and takes risks that are far too dangerous for himself, at least that is what his men have said in private to me. Do not take this the wrong way," he had added hastily, "for they love him greatly, and only speak out of fear for his life, not disrespect."

Gandalf had stood in shocked silence, stunned by the guard's words and at the realization that Faramir had already learned of Boromir's death. "He knows then that his brother is dead?" he had asked finally.

"Aye," the man had answered. "It is said that the news came to him in a vision some time ago."

The guard's words had left him with a dark shadow upon his heart, and he had become increasingly watchful, standing for long periods of time staring out over the Pelennor Fields at Osgiliath in the distance. He had feared for Faramir's safety then more than ever before, and as time drew on, he felt that something evil was drawing nigh, more immediate than the black menace of Sauron and yet eerily familiar, though he could not determine what it was.

He had been standing on the wall of the Seventh Level – the highest level of the City – when he had spotted the tiny figures fleeing Osgiliath, and his heart had clenched in fear, wondering if Faramir was still among the living. Then, his heart had all but stopped at the sight of the Fell Beasts harrowing the survivors, lunging down out of the darkening sky, and rising with the tiny figures of men and horses clasped in their deadly claws before hurling them to their deaths on the ground far below.

"No," he had uttered in a horrified, disbelieving whisper and then rushed to mount Shadowfax, the folds of his gleaming cloak billowing about him like an angry white cyclone. In those few moments it took to gallop through the white cobble-stone streets of the city, he had prayed fervently to the Valar, begging them to protect the young man he considered a son, all the while urging Shadowfax to greater speed. Then he was rushing out of the main gate and onto the plain, his white staff raised high above his head, focusing all of his energy through it to battle the Ringwraiths and their beasts. From the crystal embedded in the tip of his staff there glowed a blinding white light, so strong that it pierced the darkness and terror that clung to the Nazgul and shrouded the surrounding area. He remembered with clarity the infuriated shriek of the Ringwraiths at being denied their prey, the cloying scent of death lifting as they retreated, the wind whipping by as he led the few survivors back to the city at an all-out gallop. But most of all, he remembered the intense wave of relief that swept over him at the sight of the young Captain, exhausted but uninjured, maneuvering his horse through the courtyard towards him.

They had spoken as they made their way slowly through the levels of Minas Tirith, during which time Gandalf had not only listened to Faramir's words, but had also examined the young man physically, distressed to see the clear blue eyes now darkened with loss and the fair features lined with fatigue. He had appeared disheartened and ready to collapse even then, and he still had yet to face the wrath of his father.

But even Gandalf, one of the wisest beings on Middle Earth, could not have predicted the grievous outcome of that meeting.

"How did it come to this?" he murmured, his soft voice filled with sorrow. "When did love mingle so freely with hate that it is nigh impossible to distinguish one from the other?"

Fathers were supposed to love their children, and strangely enough, no one could claim that Denethor had been an unloving father…at least to Boromir. Boromir, the elder of his two sons, could do no wrong in his father's eyes. The man had been taken with Boromir since the day that his wife, Lady Finduilas, had brought him into the world. There was nothing Denethor would not have done for the young man, nothing he would not have given. The Steward had loved his future Heir with his entire heart, soul, and mind.

But Faramir…In all the times that Gandalf had visited the White City, not once did he see Denethor act with love towards his younger son. No kind smiles. No loving embrace. No words of approval. Whereas Boromir could do no wrong, Faramir, in his father's opinion, was utterly incapable of doing anything right. He was considered too weak and too bookish by his father. A disappointment. And worst of all, Faramir had always known it, even as a small child barely old enough to talk.

It is true that Denethor never showed any love towards Faramir, Gandalf thought, a heavy sigh escaping him as he shifted slightly and rested his face in his hands, but I would never have imagined that he would be so full of hate and rage that he would do such a thing as this. To order Faramir to retake Osgiliath with naught but a hundred weary men, some of those the same ones who had fled that city in terror only hours ago…It is complete and utter madness. The Steward has lost his mind with grief over his son's passing. He sends Faramir to his death.

And Faramir knows this.

He had no knowledge of what had transpired during that ill-fated meeting, but whatever had occurred had succeeded in driving every last bit of hope from Faramir's mind. The young man had left with all the stillness and surety of a man seeking his death in battle. There had been no time to take him aside and speak with him, to sway him from this desire for death. He sees death as a release from the pain of this world, but what he does not consider is what new death and destruction his own death might bring forth. Things would go ill for Gondor should their future Steward fall.

The few words he had spoken to Faramir as he had ridden out of the city still echoed through his mind, "Do not throw your life away so rashly!" He could not plead with him as he longed to, could not beg him to look after his welfare. In the end, he could only speak those forceful words and hope that Faramir understood the vast meaning behind them, though deep in his soul he felt that his words had done nothing but bounce off the hard wall that the young man had erected around himself.

And now Gandalf could not help but wonder how much of this catastrophe was because of his obvious attachment to Faramir. Denethor had long hated the wizard, and the fact that Faramir respected him and sought him out during his visits only fueled that rage. Was it Denethor's hatred of me that drove him to send his son off on this doomed mission? Perhaps not wholly, but I am certain that it contributed to his decision. For what better way was there to punish me for letting his Heir die than by sending the one I consider a son off to die as well? His mind is twisted enough to view such distorted logic as the truth. And I can do nothing to stop his insanity or this deadly mission.

Frustration threatened to overcome him, and he knew he could no longer bear to continue down the path that his thoughts were leading him. "That way lies madness," he muttered, lifting his head from his hands and taking a deep, cleansing breath to regain his focus. "What has been done cannot be undone, no matter how hard I desire it to be." Opening his eyes, he took in his surroundings for the first time. He had stalked off after having spoken to Faramir, too consumed by his dire thoughts to realize where he was going. Now, he was surprised to recognize the alley in which he sat, and the bittersweet memory brought forth a small smile to his lined face.

The alley was small, still lined with baskets, blankets, and other items, just as it had been so many years ago. He had been readying his horse to leave Minas Tirith when he had seen a young Faramir slip out of sight around a corner. Not wanting to leave the City without saying farewell to the seven-year-old, he had abandoned his task and followed the boy on foot, going farther and farther away from the Seventh Level. He had finally found him here nearly hidden amongst the large baskets, sitting up against the wall, his short legs tucked against his chest, his arms wrapped around them, and his head resting atop his knees. As he came closer, he had noticed that the thin shoulders were shaking with silent sobs, a sight that had torn at his heart. It had been long since he had viewed such a forlorn figure, especially one so young.

Not certain how to handle the delicate situation, he had thought for a few moments and then proceeded through the alley. As he walked by the little boy, he had 'pretended' to be surprised at finding him there. "Why, young Faramir!" he had exclaimed, his long eyebrows raised in mock astonishment. "What are you doing so far away from the Steward's Apartments?"

The child had jumped at the sound of his voice, his tear-stained face rising from where it had been pressed against his knees. His red, swollen eyes had widened in shock at the sight of the wizard standing before him, so far away from where he had last been. "I…" he had begun, his voice quivering with just that one word. He had paused, swallowing hard, before finishing his sentence is so small a voice that Gandalf could barely hear him. "I did not wish to see you leave."

"And why is that?" Gandalf had inquired softly, sitting down next to the boy on the hard stones.

"Because…" the young boy had squirmed, clearly uncomfortable with the simple question, and had glanced away to look at the ground, "Because I am happy when you are here and…and sad when you are gone."

Ah, we come at last to the heart of the matter, he had thought sadly. Ever since the passing of Lady Finduilas, he fears the loss of others that he holds dear. It is unfair for one so young to carry such a heavy burden. He had decided then that he would try to explain matters simply enough for Faramir to understand and perhaps in doing so, bring him a measure of comfort as well. "But Faramir, if I do not leave, then how can I return?"