Hi all, just passed the 10 year mark from when this story was first started, and so happy to be back in the lovely writing community finishing the story. Thanks to the lovely Agape4Gondor and obsidianj who left feedback this week :) Enjoy

Chapter 49 - A fool's daydream

Hours passed and Denethor still kept his vigil by his eldest son. There had been no change, and the muffled sounds of the battle raging below barely reached the high hall. Merry stood by the tapered window, peering down to the southern plains where the men of Gondor fought to retain their hold.

"Will you not fight, my lord?" Merry had foolishly enquired.

A low laugh answered him. "It is not the place of great lords of men to fight; they have others to fight their battles, spending even their sons..."

Merry looked again to the window and the mass of shadowed figures far below, seeing in his mind how easily an Orc blade might cut through the legions of frightened men.

"But surely," he said after a long quiet, hesitating in his question, "it would give men courage and hope to know their lord fights alongside them?"

"What is hope but a fool's daydream? Nay, better that each man face the truth, and in that clarity face his own end."

A messenger had entered the hall, and he walked the length towards them with faltering steps.

"My lord Denethor."

Merry noted the haste with which the man handed over the missive to his Steward and left the hall.

Denethor turned the letter over in his strong fingers, and Merry saw at once the mark of the white hand stamped across the paper. The Steward did not speak as he read, but his brow was dark and the letter was quickly crushed and thrown aside.

"My lord?" Merry asked falteringly, his eyes following the crushed letter and burning to pick it up and discover its contents. Not daring to do so, he watched as the other resumed his place by Boromir, taking the man's hand in his and stroking it. The Steward's eyes shone in the dark, and Merry was frightened.

"What King must endure what I endure?" Denethor murmured, so low that Merry could barely catch the words. "I would that things could be as they were in all the days of my life: to be the Lord of this city in peace, and leave my chair to a son after me.

Merry licked his lips, unsure of how to offer comfort.

He eyed the letter yet again, wondering if it brought news of Faramir and Legolas, perhaps of Pippin!

He opened his mouth to brave the lord's harsh words in asking, but the high window caught his eyes. There was some kind of mist gathering to the south; Merry's eyes sought to distinguish its source. Perhaps it came from the river, he thought, squinting as the mass seemed to swell before his eyes.

Suddenly he realised it was no mist, but figures racing towards the city with a speed greater than that of horses. He cried out and moved to the window, yet Denethor did not leave the side of his son to look on as the dread army closed with the ranks of the enemy.

A great fear filled Merry, and while he saw their pale swords gleam in the moonlight. Their weapons were held aloft, but they needed to strike no blow, for both enemy and friend fled their coming. He felt a dread he had not experienced since he, Frodo and Sam were hunted by the Nazgul on the banks of the Anduin.

The army seemed to move like the sea towards Minas Tirith, sweeping over the small figures that scattered before it and engulfing them in its course. Merry held his breath as this force broke against the walls as a wave might against the shore. It was then that he realised all sounds of battle had ceased. This dread army, carrying the fear of the dead before them, was sweeping away the first wave of Mordor as though it had been a dream.

Aragorn was tending to a fresh leg wound when Eomer arrived. "What news?" he asked at once, turning to the horselord with an intensity he could not restrain. "How went the rescue?"

The time was drawing near when he must reveal his true identity to the city, but current concerns remained uppermost in his mind. "Did your men free any prisoners? Any news of Legolas or Faramir?"

"Legolas sends word," Eomer reported, happy to be the bringer of good news.

Aragorn's exhalation of breath could not convey his relief and joy at the news. "They live!"

"The Elf lived certainly when I left him, but we were in the heart of the battle, and he sought his other companions. He said too to tell you that he has something of value he will return when you next meet. Of the others I found nothing." Eomer lips pressed tightly together. "I am sorry."

Aragorn had expected nothing, so news of Legolas was at least some comfort. Knowing that his friends were safe from Saruman's manipulations was the only news that could put his mind at rest. Gimli's unwavering support he could not have done without, and Gandalf's return had been a wonderful surprise. He missed, however, Legolas' strong reliable presence at his side, and realised that relying on Faramir had become a second nature.

"Will you enter the city?" Eomer asked, and Aragorn could see in the young horselord's face that he did not yet understand what was at risk if Aragorn chose to enter Minas Tirith.

The coming of the Army of the Dead and the raising of his standard upon the field would have revealed to Denethor his arrival, though he did not expect anything to come of that. "It is not so simple."
"You passed through the Dark Door of the Dwimorberg and emerged with a shadow army in your wake. There is little that can now stand in your way. But with Saruman's army so close, why did you not order your ghost army to remain?"

"Gimli asked me the same. They had fulfilled their oath, and it was not their part to fight the hoards of Saruman. Their oath was to Isildur against Sauron - and likely their swords would have failed against another foe."

"I think I understand. Though it is a pity."

Aragorn smiled grimly.

"I must see to the wounded men," Eomer said, restless, "and to Theoden King also, for I would not see him borne into the city by strangers."

"The riders are entering the city," Merry said. His body was stiff and the events of the night still mixed up in his head.

At last Denethor rose from his vigil and joined Merry by the window.

Merry looked desperately for any sign of his friends, but could only see hundreds of riders, their helms shining.

There were temporary tents being pitched on the plains, marked with the insignia of Gondor but clearly marking the coming of some other figure. Merry had a secret hope that it was Aragorn, for who else could command the power to wake the dead and make them fight! He was wise enough, however, to say nothing of this to Denethor, for the Steward had gained a sour expression as he eyed the tents.

Muffled voices reached them from outside and a figure entered the hall.

"My lord. My lord Denethor." The winded Gondorian soldier bowed stiffly, his face tense.

"Lord Eomer sends his respects and will remain with his men as they are brought into the city."

"See that the Rohirrim are given supplies and their horses tended."

"The lord Mithrandir has come to the citadel, m'lord. He seeks audience."

Merry started with shock, his heart suddenly racing.

"Mithrandir is known to you I see," Denethor said, watching Merry carefully.

"I thought he was lost!" Merry cried.

The calculating gaze of the Steward showed no surprise, but the slight inclination of his eyebrows indicated to Merry that his estimation of his Hobbit guest had risen. "Let him come."

The soldier left and after a time that seemed too long to Merry, Gandalf entered.

Running the length of the hall to greet his old friend the Hobbit saw that while seeming the same in essentials, the wizard had changed much since their last meeting. He was no longer dressed in grey, but a robe of blinding white. His hair was white also, and while this should have made him look older, he seemed full of vigour.

"You are not dead!" Merry blurted out before anything more sensible had time to brew.

"Thank you Merry, it had slipped my mind." The twinkle he had missed returned to the wizard's eyes. "A Hobbit's common sense really is invaluable."

Before Gandalf could say another word Merry had flung himself around the wizard's waist, feeling the burden he had carried alone melt away in relief.

Gandalf rested his old hand on the Hobbit's curly head, and seemed at once to understand all that had passed.

Still holding Merry's shoulder Gandalf approached Denethor and greeted the Steward with respect. His sharp eyes took in the stretcher bearing Boromir's fevered form and softened with pity. "Why is your son not with the healers?"

The Steward ran a hand across the younger man's forehead. "There is nothing to be done. A Southron poison, close to the heart and working inwards. None have the knowledge or skill to treat this wound."

"None, my Lord? Do you not suspect that the hands which brought a shadow army to save your city might also bring healing? Outside your gates, lord Denethor, waits the means to save your son." Gandalf's eyes had softened with compassion, "Do not let pride deny him this chance."

"Pride?" The simple word kindled more life in the Steward than Merry had yet seen. "You think I am blind? I see your mind and what you would have me do, how you would force my hand. But lost legends have no place in war. Heir of Isildur he may be, but what is he now but the last of a ragged household long bereft of lordship?"

Merry's heart leapt at the news that Aragorn had indeed come to Minas Tirith, but his joy was cut short with the realisation that the Steward was determined to risk the life of his son.

"Nay, Mithrandir, the rule of Gondor has rested long in the hands of the Stewards and so it shall remain, though fate seeks to take my sons from me."

"Sons? Have you had news, then, of Faramir?"

At the words Merry took his chance, and scrambled to recover the parchment crumpled upon the ground. He held it out to Gandalf before the Steward could speak.

As Gandalf took and opened the missive, his brow furrowed as Denethor's had before him, and his eyes grew dark.

"What is it Gandalf?"

"Saruman. The Rohirrim are even now returning from a bid to free those Saruman had enthralled. Here is proof," he said, shaking the letter, "that our companions were taken among the party. Let us only hope that the quest was successful, and that our friends were freed also."

Gandalf did not enquire, Merry noticed, as to whether any response had been made to Saruman's letter. Perhaps its crumpled appearance told the story well enough.

Gandalf watched Denethor return to sit by his son, but then turned his gaze quickly to the Hobbit, as though willing him to speak out.

Merry licked his lips nervously and spoke his thoughts, "Your son is dying, my Lord. He is strong but cannot fight forever. If he dies now when something might have been done to save him you will ever rue this choice."

The Steward's anger seemed to go out of him as he considered the small Hobbit and his words. "Your simple words hold truth." He slumped down into the chair beside his son and spoke with a hollow voice. "Go then, Mithrandir. Do what you will. I see now that it is not my place to prevent it."

Faramir crawled from beneath the winged creature with difficulty. In throwing him to the ground one of the great spikes that lined the beast's wing had sliced into the flesh at his side. When at last he was free he rested his head against the earth, bleeding freely until he summoned the strength to staunch the flow with the side of his cloak. He was weak, but it was not long before his head cleared and he was able to crawl towards the fallen bodies of his friends.

Pippin was very cold, and while this alarmed him at first he could feel the faint beat of the Hobbit's chest. Eowyn's heart seemed much less strong and even after the relief of finding signs of life he let his hand remain as though to assure himself she yet lived. The pallor of her face inspired such a tightness in his chest, wounded as he was, that he could barely breathe. He wiped blood from her brow with his hand but realised with quiet desperation that there was nothing he alone could do to preserve her life.

Cursing the Nazgul's evil, the memory of Eowyn's final victory seeming a pale dream, he looked to the pile of ashes that were all that remained. Something shone there, and he reached out and carefully took it into his hand, his mind working sluggishly.

"Faramir!"

The voice shook him from his distraction, and he quickly hid the thing out of sight. Turning his head painfully he was filled with joy to see Legolas, bow in hand, running towards them. He let himself rest once more in relief, and came to confused some moments after, aware of strong, gentle hands leaning him back upon the ground.

He heard the Elf examining Eowyn and Pippin, but could not gain the strength to sit up. When his vision had cleared and he tried to do so, Legolas returned and pushed him back down again, studying him with anxious eyes.

"Is that your blood?" His friend's sharp eyes had caught the ragged ends of cloth at his side and he was now trying to remove the fold of his cloak with which Faramir had tried to staunch the blood.

"See to Pippin first."

But the Elf's ministrations were persistent and without the strength to do otherwise Faramir relented. But for a small intake of breath, Legolas showed no reaction to the wound. He acted quickly, pressing the cloth back to his side and bringing Faramir's own hands over the area, and said, "it doesn't appear too deep. Can you walk?"

In soft tones the Elf then roused Pippin. The Hobbit awoke at last, pale and stern, but brightening with tears when he realised Legolas had returned for them. His right arm hung limply by his side, and he stared down at his hands as though walking in a dream. Legolas told him gently that they must head for the city as the riders could not hold Saruman at bay much longer.

A grimace touched Legolas' face as he bent and lifted Eowyn in his arms. He carried her gently, yet moved quickly for in her grey pallor they could see the shadow of death and feared lest she die before they reach the city gate.