Boom!
A tremor came from underfoot. Faramir quickly looked toward the city gate. A group of giant beasts was lumbering forward, carrying an enormous battering ram. At its front was a wolf's head, its eyes burning with fire. The moment it appeared, it slammed straight into the gate. With almost no effort, the massive doors bent inward. It wasn't just the gate. By the look of it, even the city wall might crack if struck by that thing.
He felt numb.
"Go to the gate! Prepare to counterattack!"
He immediately led a squad of his bravest soldiers to the front, trying to bring down the beasts and ease the pressure. But even a single one of those monsters was terrifyingly hard to deal with, let alone a whole group. And the assault squad's action did not go smoothly.
High above, a Nazgûl sensed their movement. As he focused on the beasts, the wraith swooped down with a cruel grin, leaping from its fell beast and thrusting the Morgul-blade forward.
Pfft.
Even though he sensed danger approaching and dodged at the last second, the sword still pierced his shoulder.
"Ahhh!"
With a roar, he raised his sword, pressing forward despite the agony and the curse spreading from the Morgul wound, fighting the wraith with reckless courage. The sudden surge of bravery seemed to sting the Nazgûl's senses, forcing it to retreat briefly.
The soldiers saw Faramir attacked and, turning fear into fury, charged the wraith together. For a moment, even the Nazgûl was overwhelmed. It had to mount its beast and flee. The Nazgûl was repelled. But the defenders' advantage was lost. Lightning flashed above Barad-dûr. From Minas Morgul, a pillar of green light shot into the sky. The Witch-king, obeying Sauron's command, sent his armies pouring toward Osgiliath.
"Retreat! Retreat!"
Seeing the hopeless situation, more enemy reinforcements coming, the Witch-king himself marching, the vice-captain supported the half-conscious Faramir, whose mind was clouded by the Morgul curse, and led the defenders to withdraw.
Osgiliath could not be held.
When they reached the western part of the city, across the bridge, the vice-captain looked back at the high wall forged by Garrett's own hands and felt dazed. That wall, like the white walls of Minas Tirith, was reinforced by magic, said to be unbreakable.
But the world had changed. Everything once called indestructible now fell with ease. The wall still held its enchantment, impervious to ordinary blows, but the enemy's weapons now carried dark sorcery of their own. Everything had become uncertain.
---
At the top level of Minas Tirith, inside the palace, Denethor sat in silence, watching the unconscious, black-faced, pain-stricken Faramir.
The shadow of Mordor now covered Osgiliath. Even from the Steward's throne, one needed only to lift his eyes slightly to see the dark clouds outside, roiling with lightning. Such had always been Gondor's fate. Look east from the highest tier, and Mordor's gloom was always there.
Denethor's wife had died from the sorrow of seeing that sight year after year, leaving him early. Her death struck him deeply, and his hatred of Mordor only grew. Now the shadow was advancing again. And no one could hold the front.
Looking at Faramir's closed eyes, his body still writhing in nightmare, Denethor shut his own. Something within him shifted.
The officer who had brought Faramir back stepped forward and reported, "My lord, the captain fought bravely and drove back the Nazgûl, but the enemy numbers are overwhelming, at least five times ours, and they have new weapons. We could not withstand them..."
"Do not make excuses for your failure."
Denethor's tone was harsh. His adjutant fell silent, frozen in place.
"Go find Mithrandir. Isn't Faramir his devoted pupil? Then let him think of a way to wake his good student."
"Yes, my lord."
The adjutant obeyed and carried Faramir away.
Denethor sat coldly on his throne, staring blankly at Faramir's retreating figure. Slowly, he lowered his head and covered his face with both hands, his expression twisted in pain.
"Boromir, my son, where are you? Gondor needs you... your brother needs you too..."
Boom!
War drums echoed from afar. He froze, then stood abruptly and walked out to the palace square.
Boom!
The dark clouds drew near. The armies of Mordor had arrived.
After taking Osgiliath, they had not paused for a moment and now advanced straight toward Minas Tirith. Looking down at the approaching horde, Denethor seemed dazed.
"Five times our number? No... this is far more than fivefold."
Perhaps this time, Faramir truly wasn't to blame...
Kreee! KREE-eee!
Fell beasts shrieked and circled above the city. Their cries, mixed with the advancing army and the looming storm, spread panic through the streets.
Denethor drew a deep breath. He cast off his heavy robe, revealing the armor beneath, and drew the standard longsword of Gondor from his waist. Taking another breath, he shouted, "Prepare for battle! Defend the walls! Do not fear! Hold your positions!"
Then, through gritted teeth, he added, "Let those filthy beasts come! The House of Húrin is not yet dead!"
On the walls and below, the two armies faced each other.
Mounted on his warhorse, Denethor rode through the city, shouting orders and rallying morale. Moments later, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, who had arrived days earlier with a contingent of elite knights, joined him in defense.
"You remain as farsighted as ever," the prince said, gazing at the massed enemy below, admiration in his tone.
Denethor had foreseen this, which was why he had sent for reinforcements from Dol Amroth days in advance. As the two conferred upon the battlements, a voice joined their exchange.
"That seeing-stone gives you vision and reach, but it has also weakened you."
"Mithrandir."
Denethor turned. Gandalf had ridden up to join the defense and command. Indeed, unless forbidden by the highest authority, Gandalf was implicitly granted command.
Partly because he was a wizard, and partly because his reputation in Gondor was great. When Denethor's father ruled, the people would line the streets to welcome Gandalf's arrival.
Denethor glanced around and asked, "Where is Faramir? Why hasn't he come?"
Gandalf sighed. "You need not disguise your concern with such stiffness. Your son's condition remains grave. Even I can only slow the Morgul-blade's corruption, halt its spread for a time. To cleanse it completely... There is someone who can do better than I."
"And where is this person you speak of?"
"I do not know," Gandalf said, shaking his head.
"Perhaps," he added quietly, "he is with the one you long for most, Boromir."