Hi everyone! Thanks so much to those who have got back in touch after such a long break ^_^ has made coming back to it worthwhile :) Particular thanks to Fantasia, Raksha The Demon and Agape4Gondor who left such lovely reviews :)

Some of you have been waiting a long time for a certain Captain to appear - so I hope you enjoy this chapter ^_^  Please let me know what you think - I'm a little unsure about the writing after it having been so long.

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Chapter 44 - Captain of the White Tower

Horses and hay. The smells sent his head reeling as Faramir started awake. Shafts of light speared through wooden beams above and hay scratched his bare shoulders as he endeavoured to sit upright. He felt flushed, burning with an unnatural heat. His mouth was dry, and it was painful to breath. Rolling to the side, he only held sickness at bay by the thought of who, or what, might be watching.

When the feeling subsided something cool was pressed to his mouth and he tasted water. Something soft brushed by his heated cheek and he forced his eyes open. They were stinging from the smoke and he could barely make out the figure of the lady Eowyn as she moved away from the place where he lay.

Squinting as he looked around, Faramir made out the now familiar figures of orcs at the door of the chamber, dark blots against a morning sun, and also a young man cowering by the open door. His blond hair was tousled, as though he had been dragged from sleep, and he stared at Eowyn with wide eyes as if somehow she was in command of the situation.

Faramir raised himself carefully on the bed, bending his face into his hands in an attempt to still the pounding in his head. He shivered, realising his underclothes were all that had not been taken from him as the orcs made their search.

His hands were shaking, yet at the approach of the lady he made an effort to still them.

"You are awake," she said, looking him over with a concerned gaze, "I will fetch water so that your wounds may be tended."

She moved away towards the door, and Faramir looked up to see the young man grasp at the lady's sleeve like a child afraid to be alone.

She removed his hand, pressing it gently as she reassured him. "Do your duty, Gyddon, and no harm will come to you."

After a moment he nodded, lips firmly pressed together, and moved towards Faramir, never taking his eyes from the uruks guarding the doorway. Faramir could focus on more detail now, strong-jawed beasts with skin that clung thickly to their muscled limbs. Saruman must have discovered a way to breed them stronger and taller than any he had encountered in Gondor.

The young man of Rohan seemed frozen with fear at the very sight, and had not made any move since Eowyn had left them.

"Are you a healer?" Faramir asked, his voice emerging weakly from his aching throat. The young man twisted his hands together, "I am not fully trained," he gulped, "I was an apprentice.. but then my master..." He glanced fearfully at the orcs.

Reminded of his task, Gyddyn moved over to the bed. "I need to see your wounds, my lord, and..." He glanced at the cord binding Faramir's wrists, then up at the orcs.

The uruk grunted at the boy who seemed frozen with fear.

"I... the wounds..," the young man stammered, evidently frightened at being the focus of the orc's full attention.

The uruk seemed to gauge what the boy meant and with a large rusty knife the orc severed the cord. Now that Faramir's arms were free, Gyddyn was able to aid him in the painful process of removing his undershirt, lifting it carefully over his stiff shoulder.

Eowyn's welcome step echoed on the floor as she returned with water and an armful of other supplies. Her face was cold and removed as she entered, quick eyes taking in the situation. "These may help." She handed the supplies to Gyddon who was now seeing to Faramir's shoulder. "And I also recovered these."

He saw that she had brought his clothes, neatly folded, and took the bundle gratefully.

She turned around, and he had opened his mouth to ask her not to leave when he saw that Eowyn was simply retrieving his boots and belt to go with his other belongings.

"Where are my companions?" he asked quietly.

"Your Elf friend is being tended to elsewhere. The orcs seem to loath his kind, I have rarely seen such hatred between two peoples. But he was wilful and they enjoyed their chance to break his pride."

Faramir flinched visibly, and not from Gyddon's tremulous hands.

"Pippin is with the King's guard," Eowyn continued, her voice softening and becoming a kind of balm in itself. "Grima will bring him out as an example of a traitor and spy. The wizard has announced you all are to be taken as captives with his army when they depart," she said, carefully watching for his reaction, "lest you poison the city with false words.

Faramir felt a great weight settle over his heart. He would return to his city at last, only to be slaughtered in sight of the gates when Saruman saw he no longer had need for them. "Does he believe we will come willingly?"

"You have little choice." Her tone was less harsh than her words, and in her face he saw great turmoil and indecision. "I would that I could ride with you into battle."

"Would you not fear to leave your uncle?"

"Eomer will return." She turned her head as though to listen for the fall of hooves in the quiet of the morning. "The men believe he has left Rohan and gone into hiding, but he is my brother, and his heart will always be here in Edoras."

He watched her, and wondered. "And your heart?"

Her expression drew inwards, and he did not need words to understand. Edoras may have been everything to her once, a happy home filled with childhood memories. But she was hunted now, and the open plains and windswept heights of Medusled no longer held any comfort.

After watching him for a moment she focused again on her work, cleaning the skin around his burnt forearms with gentle persistence. "Do you think you will be able to ride?"

"Horses and I have had a troubled history." Faramir grimaced at a myriad of embarrassing childhood recollections. He could ride as well as any now, but it had taken many falls and a great amount of persistence to truly understand and master the unruly beasts. "My brother told me frequently that when riding, the horse was often more in control that I was." He winced as his shoulder was probed painfully, and was glad she would think it was the memory rather than pain that caused him agitation.

"And when I was a girl my brother told me," she replied, amused, "that girls did not ride horses - and that was similarly untrue." She smiled, and added, "Eomer discovered it also, for even now I can best him in a race."

Faramir pictured the mighty, broad-shouldered warrior losing to his tall yet slender young sister and smiled. "I do not doubt it."

"I have cleaned and bandaged it, my lady," Gyddon said at last. "There is little else I can do."

"Thank you, Gyddon. You should go back to your rooms now."

There was a short silence as the young man made his way timorously passed the uruks, and then Eowyn said, "Fear is a strange thing, is it not?"

Faramir resisted the urge to pull away as she reached out and brushed her fingers over the place where Saruman had burnt along his arms. Her touch was cool however, and he welcomed it.

"Gondor and Rohan will now forever be joined."

He followed her gaze and, now that his forearms had been cleaned of ash and blood, could make out the rough silhouette of a slender horse that had been branded there.

Faramir met her eyes for a brief moment and thought that despite the fear and pain, there was something to be treasured in this meeting.

"Did something befall you when you were young," she asked after a pause, "for you to fear fire?"

"Not that I can recall," he murmured, the associations brought to his mind unpleasant, "it is a thing of dreams, always flickering at the edge of thought."

"I do not fear fire," she replied, "and yet warmth and I have been strangers for many years."

Faramir shivered, yet knew it was not of physical warmth she spoke.

There was much he would have given to remain a moment more in the peaceful stable, and the lady seemed to feel the same, asking quickly, "Faramir... before I go," she seemed to hesitate, "The lord Aragorn, he is..."

"He is the true heir of Isildur," Faramir finished, reading her questioning eyes and seeing the confirmation of her hope. "And I can only give thanks that he escaped this place before the coming of Saruman."

"Your company have brought hope to us in the darkest of times," she said, the faintest of smiles touching her pale lips.

Faramir saw something in her face that surprised him, though he should not have wondered that any mortal, man or woman, would give their heart wholly to Aragorn. He was surprised, however, that his king had taken this woman's heart so completely in so short a space of time.

"Perhaps the King realised his importance also," she went on, oblivious that she wore her feelings so openly for him to see, "for Grima ordered death to my brother and your companions, and at the last my uncle came to himself for a time and reduced the sentence to banishment."

"Then there yet is hope," he said quietly, feeling her eyes still upon him.

---

"I can hear voices." Frodo's eyes were wide as he spoke, and Merry listed carefully to catch what his cousin had heard. The heavy thud of raindrops meant it was difficult to make out. They streamed from the hood of his cloak and dripped along loose strands of hair into his eyes. He felt Radagast and Sam moving close in behind him, blocking the worst chill of the wind and listening also.

There was indeed voices coming closer, and Merry heard frustration in their tones.

"We have come too far north!"

To Merry's relief the voice was that of a man, and as he let out the breath he had been holding as two figures came into sight.

"Henneth Annun lies little more than two miles back, Captain. It is not too late to seek shelter there till the storm passes."

The one speaking was tall and dark-haired. In one hand he carried a broad-bladed sword, well-polished, with which he hacked at random at the tangled undergrowth, and in the other a silver helmet. The man's face was flushed, for the land was steep and the going tough for one with such heavy armour. His clothes were different to any Merry had encountered, for unlike Aragorn and Faramir's green and grey cloth, this man was weighed down by a breastplate of the same metal as his helmet, his upper arms encased by stuff that resembled Frodo's mithril coat, although more coarse and dull in colour.

His companion was taller still, his armour more fine and less worn, with touches of dark red that seemed to indicate a higher rank. He too wore no helmet, and his his hair was dark, like his companion. "Afraid of getting wet, Lieutenant?" this second man asked, his stern expression and strong jaw relaxing slightly in amusement.

Merry started, the twist of the man's mouth as he smiled bringing the most vivid flash of recognition.

"We should find shelter lest the horn of Gondor rust in this weather," the Lieutenant returned, also smiling, while Merry noted the fine white horn that hung at his companion's side. "It will be fully light soon and bands of Haradrim frequent this part of the forest, I would not be the one to face the Steward if you did not return."

More men followed, twelve or so, each with swords drawn and weary expressions.

Merry reached beside him and gripped Frodo's arm, gesturing to the second man and receiving a questioning gaze in return.

"Tell the men to turn back the way we came. Mayhap the rangers will return to Henneth Annun ere the first stroke of the battle falls and we are recalled to Osgiliath."

The deep voice was unfamiliar to Merry, yet some of the mannerisms could not be only chance.

"Their camp could not have been far from here," the Captain continued, frustration showing in his dejected movements. "It is a pity... I gave my word..."

"I understand you would not break your word to your brother but we have done all we could, more perhaps."

"Aye, we have tarried here longer than duty allowed. It was folly to think it would be an easy undertaking." The man who held Merry's rapt attention seemed resigned as he spoke. "More than likely we've walked right through the camp and even now they're laughing at our mistake."

"Worry not about the rangers, Sir, as they are likely safer than ourselves."

Just as the men were turning, Merry shifted his foot ever so slightly on the dry leaves in order to gain a clearer view of this man he now knew to be a friend.

The men froze, turning together to stare directly at the bush behind which Merry was hiding. Merry felt Frodo and Radagast draw back into the underbush, and Sam's hand upon his cloak urging him to move away, but he held his ground stubbornly.

"What is this?" The men peered over the leaves, relaxing their sudden alertness when they recognised Merry's small form.

"A child?"

Merry was pulled from his hiding place by strong arms, and found himself staring up at the Captain.

"Not a child," the man said, studying the Hobbit with a gaze less piercing, yet just as stern as that of his brother. "Search the trees, Lieutenant, there may be more of them."

As if in answer to Merry's wildly beating heart, the world around him seemed suddenly to explode with cries and the sky became black before his eyes. The grip on his arms slackened, and he pulled away backwards, stumbling to the ground.

It was only when he heard the agonised cry of one of the men beside him that he realised that the sky was full of spears and arrows, a thick volley of them having been fired in their direction.

He pressed himself closer to the wet earth, his hands above his head, expecting any moment for the thick black missiles to strike his body. He cried out wordlessly as blood splattered across his outstretched arms.

When the sky cleared a hand was tugging his arm, a voice was full in his ears telling him to come away. He resisted the hold, rising to his full height and looking around.

He himself was unhurt. The Lieutenant who had pulled him from the bushes, however, was dead. Merry could see this by the position of the man's body sprawled on the grass, an arrow through his throat. There were dark shafts piecing the wet earth around the two men, and Merry was amazed the Hobbits had been so lucky.

The Captain had crawled over to the body of his friend, dragging his sword, and Merry saw with horror that there was a black spear protruding from his side. The blood spilling from the wound turned the Hobbit's stomach.

The insistent pull upon his arm came again and this time Radagast's voice. "Come Merry, we must leave now or risk everything."

The Hobbit tore his eyes away from the crimson scene of horror, and felt tears fill his eyes almost at once. He did not trust himself to speak. "Don't you see?" he said, begging them to understand.

"There's nothing you can do, Mr Merry. We can't stay here."

"Look!" He raised his other arm, and felt his voice rising in desperation, "Don't you understand? It's Faramir's brother back there - Boromir - we cannot just leave!"

With relief Merry saw Frodo's eyes widen in surprise and Sam's mouth open. He pulled his wrist from Radagast's grip, the blood on his hands easing his escape, and moved backwards towards the clearing.

Before he took another step he felt his heart fall with Frodo's words. "Merry, you can't be sure. We cannot stay here. If those men were to get hold of the ring..."

"Go then," he heard himself say. "Go, but I must stay."

"Do not do this," Radagast was saying, "there is nothing you can do for them now."

"I can find help," Merry said, breathing hard and backing away. "The rangers are near, I will find them!" He realised as he said it that he already felt deeply for the man with the strong voice and laughing smile, not only from what Faramir had told him but from the way he was now bent over his friend, touching his face with gentle but bloodied hands. He knew that he could not now turn away as this man knelt, bleeding onto the wet leaves.

Merry felt his companions tear themselves away from him, and stumbled over to the man even as he collapsed sideways with a groan. Merry did not know what to do. The faces of the other men swam before his eyes, pale and desperate in death, their armour shining with fresh blood. He knew he was too late, he must be.

He grappled at Boromir's side, drawing the great white horn from its resting place as he met the eyes of its bearer. He lifted it to his lips but no sound came. His breath was too short, too weak. He felt a bloody hand upon his arm and saw eyes, familiar eyes, pleading with him to have the strength for this task.

He blew again until a note, faint but clear, emerged. It became louder and more forceful as he forced all the air his small lungs could hold into the horn.

Then he slumped and lowered the horn into the hand of its bearer, holding it there as a comfort.

"Thank you, little one," the Captain said through laboured breaths, then gripped the instrument tightly with bloodless fingers.

Merry scrabbled with the edge of his cloak, tearing off a portion with the sharp of his knife blade and scrunching the cloth in his fist. Then he tried to find the entry point of the spear so that he might staunch the flowing blood. But it was hopeless. He could not do anything to loosen Boromir's breastplate, and any motion caused his chest to heave and gasp for breath. Pushing the cloth around the outside of the shaft was equally futile, for it was soaked within seconds and did nothing to stem the flow. He choked on his tears, then, realising his helplessness. But the feeling did not last long, and was soon replaced by fear.

Strangely clad warriors were emerging from the trees before him, their scarlet tunics and black-braided hair merging strangely with the bloody scene in Merry's eyes.

The Hobbit watched with bleary vision and heart pounding as they paced the clearing, dragging those still alive into a heap around which several younger warriors now stood guard. Merry was soaked to the elbows in blood and mud and thought perhaps if he lay very still the dark-eyed men might overlook him.

But it was too much to hope. Footsteps stopped right before him.

"What is this, Dharak. A cave-rat?"

More footsteps approached, and Merry cried out as he was wrenched up off his feet by the hood of his cloak. He squinted into a scarred but handsome face as dark eyes examined him in return.

"And this..."

Merry felt himself dropped and fell several inches before landing heavily, his ankle twisting under him. He was now level with the man's boots, and a great curving scimitar that hung at his belt.

The younger warrior was smearing dark blood from Boromir's breastplate to reveal the fineness of the amour beneath and a sprawling silver tree motif. He then bent and pried the white horn from Boromir's weakened fingers, presenting it to his leader on bended knee.

The leader, Dharak, took it and turned it over in his hands.

Before Merry knew what was happening, Boromir had rolled and wrenched the kneeling warrior's braid back, lifting a knife to the bared neck. "You killed my men," Boromir breathed up at Dharak, every word an effort.

The man in Boromir's grasp shifted, the golden band around his neck contracting as he swallowed. Dharak did not react, watching the knife and still fingering the horn.

Along with the rain, sweat poured from Boromir's face and Merry moved to aid him in the escape bid, only to find Dharak's boot firmly lodged across his forearm. He squirmed but could not break free.

"Kill him then," Dharak said and looked back calmly to the horn.

Merry saw uncertainty in Boromir's eyes as the hand holding the knife shook.

There was a murmur from behind Dharak, where several of the younger men looked wary, and even, Merry thought, frightened.

"The life of a dishonoured man in exchange for a Captain of Gondor," Dharak continued, his accented voice cold, "A fair trade."

"You will not take us." Boromir spoke through gritted teeth, and his eyes strayed to those of his men who had survived the attack, now restrained by many spears.

"You would have fetched a high price in Haradwaith," Captain of the White Tower. Dharak dipped his head in recognition, a smile on his thin lips now that he had confirmed the identity of Gondor's first son. "There are many in my land who would pay well to exact a revenge long sought."

Dharak lifted the scimitar from his belt, and Merry flinched back as far as he was able with his arm still trapped. "But beyond the knowledge you will soon reveal, you are worth nothing." The man of Harad held the blade crosswise and Merry saw a greenish glint running along the edge. "Our weapons are laced with poison. You are already dead." From his other hand Dharak let the horn of Gondor fall so that it landed softly in the mud.

Merry felt shock overcome him. He had thought he had come in time, but poison had been eating away at these men ever since the first missiles fell from the sky.

Boromir expelled a hoarse breath of shock, lifting a shaking hand to press softly against the spear wound in his side. How long?

"Harad poisons are not merciful." Dharak watched the man carefully, a twist to his this mouth. "Time is sometimes needed to extract all the information we require."

Boromir's eyes were now lowered as though in defeat, resting on the horn in the mud by Merry's knee.

Merry saw his slack jaw suddenly clench before Boromir sliced the knife along the side of the younger man's throat, pushing him away.

The man choked and clutched his neck, and Boromir swiftly plunged the knife into Dharak's foot.

With a great cry the man fell back and Merry felt his arm freed. He immediately grabbed for the horn, knowing the only thing that could save the men now was if help came in time.

"Run little one!" Boromir pushed at him to move and Merry did so, darting just fast enough to avoid the hands clutching for his cloak.

He heard Boromir's pained grunt as Dharak rounded upon the man in fury, but then Merry was running, streaming through the trees in a desperate race. He lifted the horn to his mouth as he ran, putting all his breath into making it sing through the forest.

It was not long before he hit dirt, his belt catching on a tree as he passed and throwing him to the ground. When he righted himself he was staring at a large pair of muddy brown boots. Unable to comprehend for fully five seconds he suddenly flung himself backwards, scrambling away from the man towering above him.

He looked up and hardly seeing the sword raised to his eye level, he recognised clothes and bearing so very similar that of Faramir that he almost cried in relief. He had drawn the Ithilien rangers to him, perhaps not too late.

"I did not think a rabbit could make such a commotion," the man said, studying him with dark eyes and an expressionless face.

"Please," Merry cried to the stern looking man, "please help."