Chapter 388: The Fellowship Arrives
Just as the Patronus scattered into sparks, Faramir Apparated onto the fell beast's back in a blink.
He whipped his wand up and fired a Knockback Jinx at the Nazgûl, and at the same time, with his other hand, he drew his longsword and cleaved through the fell beast's thin neck in a single stroke.
The fell beast's head tore free of its body, and mount, rider, and Faramir all plunged toward the ground together.
Faramir flashed the furious Ringwraith a mocking smile. At the last instant before impact, he Apparated away again and vanished.
The Nazgûl crashed from the sky without suffering the slightest injury, yet rage burned in its eyes, a molten red glare filled with malice and killing intent as it fixed on Faramir and the other wizards.
It swung its enormous Morgul war-hammer and charged the Dúnedain wizards.
Their Protego shattered under the hammer's blow, and the wizard it struck was flung away like a broken doll, life and death unknown.
Without its mount, the Nazgûl had lost the advantage of the air, but it was still unstoppable.
More and more members of the wizard strike team fell beneath its hands.
Their spells, meanwhile, did almost nothing to the Nazgûl. They posed no threat at all.
With the Ringwraith spearheading the assault, Mordor's host and the Haradrim steadied themselves, recovered their momentum, and surged once more at Gondor's army.
They were losing.
And when Faramir himself was smashed by the Nazgûl's war-hammer and badly injured, Denethor II could no longer sit still, even high in the White City.
Faramir might not be the son he favoured, but he was still his son.
Denethor ordered the heralds to sound the horn of retreat.
As the horn's call rang out, Gondor's army fought as it fell back, retreating into the city.
The wizard strike team, locked in a desperate struggle with the Nazgûl, seized the chance, took the gravely wounded Faramir, and Apparated back within the walls.
Faramir was drenched in blood, his chest caved in, his breath barely clinging.
Even the cold and distant Denethor trembled. He lifted a hand as if to touch his son's face, then froze, not daring to lay a finger on him.
"Father," Faramir whispered, blood bubbling on his lips, "will you ever be proud of me?"
Denethor's expression faltered. His mouth shook as if he meant to speak, but no words came. Grief, guilt, and regret flickered in his eyes, one after another, and the rigid spine that had always seemed unbreakable bent like an old man's.
Faramir did not receive an answer. His eyes slipped shut, and he fell into unconsciousness.
Denethor started as if pierced.
"Faramir!"
He bent over him, and the pride in his face broke.
"Do not leave me, my son. Do not pass beyond my sight."
"He isn't, my lord Steward," a voice said behind him. "He's only gravely wounded and unconscious. A potion will bring him back."
Denethor spun around, and the instant he saw who it was, wariness snapped back into place, hardening him into the same aloof, stubborn ruler as before.
"Thorongil. Why are you here?" he demanded. "Have you come to take my rule while Gondor bleeds? Ha. You'll be disappointed. Gondor is on the verge of ruin. Your schemes will die with it."
Aragorn did not answer the accusation. His eyes went straight to Faramir.
He reached into his pocket, took out a small vial, uncorked it, and bent down to feed it to him.
"What do you think you're doing to my son?!" Denethor surged forward, shielding Faramir with his body, glaring at Aragorn with raw distrust.
Aragorn did not rise to anger. "This is a healing potion Lord Kael gifted us. It can save him," he said evenly. "Faramir's injuries are severe. He must be treated immediately. Please, my lord, let me do it."
But Denethor's suspicion of Aragorn had taken root too deeply over the years. In his eyes, Aragorn was nothing but an ambitious usurper reaching for Gondor's power, and the potion in his hand looked like poison.
Legolas and Gimli, who had come with Aragorn, both frowned.
Gimli muttered bitterly, "Ungrateful, that's what he is. Aragorn, if he wants to doubt you, then stop wasting your kindness. Let the brat die. His own father clearly isn't interested in saving him, so why should you care?"
Legolas was far more restrained and would not speak like Gimli, but looking at Faramir, barely clinging to life, he could not stand by and watch a man die.
"His life is slipping away," Legolas warned quietly. "If he isn't treated now, he will die. There's no time left."
Hearing that, Aragorn stopped wasting breath. He forced the potion between Faramir's lips and fed it to him.
Denethor lunged to stop him, and suddenly his body locked up. He could not move, could only watch as Aragorn made his son drink.
The potion took effect almost instantly.
Faramir's wounds knit together at a speed visible to the naked eye. The caved-in hollow of his chest rose back into place. His thin, failing breath strengthened, one deep pull after another.
At last, Faramir opened his eyes.
He had been certain he would die, and feeling his body restored, he could not help the shock and relief that flooded him, like surviving an execution at the final moment.
He had been struck by the Nazgûl's war-hammer, and the darkness clinging to it had poisoned the wound. Ordinary potions and healing spells could not touch it.
He had already accepted death.
He looked at Aragorn with undisguised gratitude. "Thank you. You saved my life." Even in unconsciousness, he had still retained a shred of awareness. He knew it was this man's potion that pulled him back.
Aragorn shook his head gently. "No need to thank me. The potion belongs to Lord Kael. If you must thank someone, thank him."
Before they set out, Lord Kael had provided them all with high-grade potions to save their lives if they suffered grievous injuries.
But hearing Aragorn say that did not lessen Faramir's gratitude. He knew that if Aragorn had not insisted, he would already be dead.
Beside them, Denethor stared at his son, whole again, his eyes wide with joy and disbelief.
He did not even notice when his body regained the ability to move. He grabbed Faramir's shoulders with both hands, as if afraid the boy might vanish.
"Faramir, you're well? You're truly well?"
Facing his father's trembling excitement, Faramir's feelings tangled into something complicated and sharp.
Boromir, his brother, had always been their father's pride and darling.
Faramir had always been the one overlooked, the one met with coldness.
As far back as he could remember, he had never once seen his father smile at him, never once heard true approval.
To earn even a single word of praise, he had worked until it hurt. It had never been enough.
And this time, when he was dying, it was his father who kept trying to stop the potion. If Aragorn had not forced it down his throat, he really would have died.
He could not understand why his father's hostility toward Aragorn ran so deep that Denethor would rather watch his own son die than allow him to drink a life-saving potion.
That realisation made something in him feel even more desolate.
If it had been Boromir lying here, Faramir thought, Father would probably have begged for the potion himself.
But he crushed those thoughts down at once and locked them away where they could not show on his face.
Instead, he asked quickly, "How is the battle? Has Mordor broken into the city?"
Aragorn shook his head. "Not yet. Mordor's host is regrouping and preparing a larger assault. But the next attack will be even more brutal. We must be ready to fight with everything we have."