Just as the Patronus shattered, Faramir Apparated.
He reappeared directly atop the Fallen Beast's back.
In one fluid motion, he flicked his wand, unleashing a repulsion spell that forced the Ringwraiths off balance. At the same time, his longsword flashed, cleaving cleanly through the creature's slender neck.
The headless Fallen Beast, still carrying both Ringwraiths and Faramir, plunged toward the ground.
Mid-fall, Faramir glanced back at the enraged Ringwraiths and gave them a brief, mocking smile, then Apparated again.
The Ringwraiths crashed into the earth without their mount. Though uninjured, their crimson eyes burned with pure malice as they fixed their gaze on Faramir and the remaining Dúnedain wizards.
They raised their massive enchanted hammers and charged.
The wizards' defensive enchantments shattered like glass under the first blows. Several were sent flying, their bodies vanishing into the chaos, their fates unknown.
Even grounded, the Ringwraiths were overwhelming.
One by one, members of the wizarding raiding party fell.
Their spells barely slowed the Ringwraiths at all.
With the Ringwraiths rejoining the fray, the Mordor army and the Haradrim rallied, launching a renewed assault against the Gondorian forces.
Defeat loomed.
Faramir was struck head-on by a Ringwraith's hammer. His body was thrown aside, armor crushed, blood pouring freely.
From the highest tower of Minas Tirith, Denethor II could no longer remain still.
Whatever his feelings toward his second son, Faramir was still his child.
He ordered the retreat horn sounded.
As the horn echoed across the battlefield, the Gondorian army fought desperately back into the city. The surviving wizards Apparated away, bringing the gravely wounded Faramir with them.
When Denethor II saw his son, his body broken, chest caved in, breath barely present, even the iron-hearted regent trembled.
His hands shook as he reached out, then stopped, unable to touch him.
"Father…" Faramir whispered, coughing blood. "Will you… be proud of me?"
Denethor's lips moved, but no words came.
Grief, guilt, and regret flickered through his eyes. His once-straight back sagged.
Faramir received no answer.
He fell unconscious.
Denethor staggered, his vision darkening.
"Faramir… my son, dead?!"
"No, Regent," a calm voice said behind him. "He is gravely wounded, not dead. With proper treatment, he will live."
Denethor spun around, and his expression hardened instantly.
"Aragorn," he snarled. "Have you come to seize Gondor at last? You'll find only ruin here! Even if Gondor falls, your schemes will fail!"
Aragorn did not reply.
He knelt beside Faramir, withdrew a vial, uncorked it, and gently fed the potion between his lips.
"What are you doing to my son?!"
Denethor II stepped forward sharply, shielding Faramir with his body. His eyes burned with suspicion and naked hostility as he glared at Aragorn.
Aragorn did not react with anger. He spoke calmly, evenly."This is a healing potion given to me by Lord Sylas. It can save Faramir's life. His injuries are severe and must be treated immediately. Please allow me to help him, Your Highness."
But Denethor's distrust ran far too deep.
To him, Aragorn was not a savior, but a schemer, an ambitious pretender waiting for Gondor to fall so he could seize its rule. If Aragorn was untrustworthy, then so was the potion in his hand.
Legolas and Gimli, standing behind Aragorn, both frowned.
Gimli snorted angrily.
"Ingrate. If you doubt him so much, then let the lad die. His own father won't let him be saved, why should we care?"
Legolas did not agree with Gimli's words, but he could not ignore the truth before his eyes. He stepped forward and said coldly,"This man's life force is draining rapidly. Delay any longer, and he will die."
Aragorn stopped arguing.
Without another word, he knelt and fed the potion to Faramir.
Denethor surged forward to stop him, and froze.
His body locked in place, unable to move even a finger. He could only watch helplessly as Aragorn poured the potion between his son's lips.
The potion took effect almost instantly.
The crushed dent in Faramir's chest slowly rose back into place. The ghastly pallor faded from his face. His breathing, once shallow and broken, grew steady and strong.
Moments later, Faramir's eyes fluttered open.
For an instant, confusion filled them, then relief.
He had been struck directly by a Ringwraith's hammer, its dark power ravaging his body beyond the reach of ordinary healing magic. He had accepted death.
Yet he lived.
Faramir turned his gaze toward Aragorn, gratitude clear in his eyes.
"Thank you… You saved my life."
Aragorn shook his head gently.
"Thank Lord Sylas, not me. The potion was his."
Before departing, Sylas had provided them with high-grade life-saving potions, meant for moments exactly like this.
Faramir understood that truth, but his gratitude toward Aragorn did not diminish. Without Aragorn's resolve, the potion would never have been used.
Denethor's paralysis faded unnoticed.
Seeing his son alive, the iron-hearted regent's composure shattered. He grasped Faramir's shoulders tightly, disbelief and overwhelming relief flooding his face.
"Faramir… You're alright? You're really alright?"
Faramir looked up at his father, his emotions tangled and conflicted.
Boromir had always been the favored son, the pride of Gondor.Faramir had always been the afterthought.
As far back as he could remember, he had never seen his father smile at him…never seen approval in his eyes.
He had spent his entire life striving for his father's acknowledgment, if not affection, then at least a single word of praise. Yet he had never received it.
This time, standing at death's edge, it was his own father who had barred the way. If Aragorn had not forced the matter, he would already be dead.
Faramir did not understand why his father harbored such hostility toward Aragorn, why he would rather let his son die than allow him to drink that potion. That realization pierced deeper than the Ringwraith's blow ever could.
A bitter thought surfaced unbidden: If Boromir had been lying there instead… Father would have begged for that potion.
He crushed the thought immediately.
Pushing aside the ache in his chest, Faramir steadied his breathing and asked calmly,
"How is the situation outside? Has the Mordor army entered the city?"
Aragorn shook his head.
"They are regrouping. This was only a probing assault. But the next attack will be far more violent."
He met Faramir's gaze, his expression grave.
"We must prepare for a full siege."
...
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