She fought, not caring if she died. Slicing through orc after orc. Their black blood splattered across her face and armour. Her body already soaked with sweat, as it screamed at her; begged her to stop. To cease wielding the sword that was the only thing that was keeping her head on her shoulders, and her limbs attached. As she moved from one fight to another, the sound of steel on steel, and the dying cries of men and orc alike filling the air; she couldn't help but think that perhaps she should just lower her blade and let it all end. Afterall, she had lost the only thing......the only person that meant anything to her; so, why go on. It better to be with him in whatever afterlife there may be, than spend the rest of her days, in this world, alone. But no; the thought quickly shaken from her head once again, as she hit one orc with the hilt of her sword before turning to slice the belly of one that had tried to attack her from behind; then back to finish off the first. Its head plopping onto the bloody ground beneath her feet, as she sliced it from its neck.

If he had been there, he would have been right by her side......no, what he would actually have done was try to push her behind him every chance he got, so that he could protect her from anything and everything that dared to come through the gates of Minas Tirith. In fact, he would probably have tried to persuade her to hide away with the other woman and children. He would have told her that he could not lose her; that she was the only thing that he had, the only one that loved him, now that his brother had gone. But instead of being there; instead of giving her a reason to keep fighting, he had been sent on a fool's errand by the vile creature that dared to call himself, his father. Sent to ride with his men, across the Pelennor Fields in vain attempt to reclaim Osgiliath from the orcs that had invaded it. She only able to watch, from an upper level, as his lifeless body had been dragged back to the gates by his horse. His body pierced by two arrows. Her knees giving way beneath her, as she watched the guards carry him away on a stretcher towards the Tower Hall. A loud sob leaving her lips, as she knew that she would never get to see him again. As she realised that she would never get to touch him again. To place her lips to his, before his funerary pyre was lit.

Denethor hated her, as much as she hated him. The Steward spending many years doing his best to keep her and Faramir apart. In fact, as far as she could see, Denethor would do anything to keep his youngest son away from anything that made him happy. It as if seeing Faramir smile, laugh, was some kind of an afront; an insult that he would not stand for. Denethor always making out that Faramir was not good enough, that he was not as worthy as Boromir, because he would rather get lost in books, and listen to the tales that Gandalf had to tell, than be the so-called, true soldier, that Boromir was. So, ever since his youth, Faramir had done all he could to try and prove himself to his father; to show that he could be every inch the warrior that his older brother had been. The warrior that everyone else could see he was. Yet no matter what he did, it was never good enough; it would never be good enough. And now he was dead. The only man that she had ever loved, would ever love, had given his life to try and make his father see that he was as good a son, as Boromir.

Again, she spun around; an arrow skimming past her cheek as she moved. She was sure that it had cut her cheek. She was sure that she could feel her warm blood trickle down her face; but that didn't matter, it was not her first scar, and if she lasted the day, then it might not be her last. A roar coming from her lips, as her sword cut through more orc flesh; ignoring the sweat that now ran into her eyes and made it difficult for her to see. But she needn't see clearly to distinguish between orc and man, between friend and foe. A dagger pulled from her side, to join her sword. Both weapons now ending the worthless lives of the servant of the eye that sat, ever watching, atop the great black tower.

Suddenly, everything seemed to go quiet. The battle still raging around her, but now she could hear nothing. In fact, she could feel nothing. Not the cold, not the dull throb from the cut to her cheek. Not the pain that gripped her heart like a vice, because of Faramir's death; nothing. Her legs suddenly giving way beneath her, as she fell heavily to the ground. A gasp leaving her lips, as she saw the pool of crimson that began to surround her.

"Wait for me, Faramir. I will be with you soon, my love.............." The words leaving her lips, barely above a whisper, before the world went dark.

                                                          >>---------------------------------<<

"Over here.........." A voice called out, as healers and soldiers made their way through the fallen, at the gate. A hand brushing away the hair from the woman's face, that they had stumble upon.

"It is Lady (Y/n)........she is alive. We must get her to the House of Healing, quickly..........." The voice continued. Her body taken up by a pair of strong arms. The man moving with all speed, as he made his way to where the Warden of the Houses of Healing, already was watching over Faramir. The Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien's body, taken from the pyre upon which his father had tried to burn him, alive.

"There is a bed next to Faramir's. Place the lady there. They will want to see one another when they wake." A Warden told the guard; the soldier nodding before making his way over to where the youngest son of the Steward lay.

                                                      >>--------------------------------<<

It had been days. Days of the healers checking, cleaning and rebandaging their wounds. They had both been hurt, badly. They had both straddled that fine line between life and death. The lady and her captain sometimes moving closer to death anyone would like. But, as the sun rose on a new morning, Faramir's eyes fluttered open, to see a ceiling that at once looked strange; but then, quite familiar.

The last thing that he could remember was riding across the Pelennor Fields, at full gallop with his men. He knew that it was a suicide mission; that trying to recapture Osgiliath, would mean only one thing.......death. But what was he to do, it was his father's command; and all he could do was hope that somehow, someway he might return to the city and finally ask (Y/n) to marry him, once all this madness was over. To make her his wife, no matter whether his father liked it or not. But then........then the arrows had struck, and after that..........nothing.

Slowly, he tried to move. A gasp leaving his lips, as pain hit him. His right side feeling as though it was on fire, as he managed to turn. Yet the pain was instantly forgotten about, when he saw the form that was lain on the bed next to his. It was (Y/n). His (Y/n). She was injured; her skin far greyer than it should be. Faramir forgetting about everything, about his own injuries and his own pain, as he dropped himself to his knees next to her; his hand reaching out and carefully and brushing across her cheek.

                                                          >>---------------------------------<<

Everything was heavy, everything hurt. She wanted to open her eyes; she really did, but her lids refused to open. The last thing that she could recall, was that she had been fighting next to the gates of the city; orc after orc coming for her. Her sword slicing, cutting and slashing at the revolting flesh of those foul beings. And then............nothing. Nothing but darkness. Her last thought of Faramir. Of the man that she loved.

"My love........please, please come back to me." A voice suddenly said; a voice that she knew so well.

"Please don't leave me. Please. I was going to ask you to marry me. We are supposed to be together for the rest of our days. To have children. You are the one thing that makes me truly happy; the one person that loves me. I do not know if I will survive if you leave me..........." (Y/n) able to feel a warm hand brush across her cheek. To feel a pair of lips kiss her forehead, before droplets of liquid trickled down the side of her face. The lady forcing herself, with every ounce of strength that she had in her, to make her eyes open. To raise her hand, so that she could place it into his honey-coloured hair.

"(Y/n)...........?" Faramir gasped, as he raised his head. Quickly brushing away the tears that had fallen down his cheeks and onto (Y/n)'s skin.

"You.........you're alive............."

"I.........." Her throat dry and voice hoarse, as she tried to reply.

"I thought I had lost you..........." She finally managed to continue. Her hand coming up to rest on his cheek. Faramir taking it and bringing it to his lips.

"And I, you; my love. But here we are. Here we are, and here I will stay, right by your side. Marry me, (Y/n)? I know I should have asked you long ago. That I should not have given a damn about what my father thought. You are the love of my life; the only woman that I want to be with, and I do not want to have to hide our love, any longer.........." The youngest son of Denethor told her, before he brought her hand to his lips once more.

"Marry you.......? Oh, my darling Faramir. There is nothing I can think of that I want to be more, than your wife. To be able to spend the rest of my life with you; to be the mother of your children. But as much as I wish we could be married at this very moment; perhaps we should wait until I can raise myself from this bed. Though, if you would like to join me, I would very much like that." (Y/n) replied. Faramir grimacing slightly, as he chuckled at her.

"My love, there is no place that I would rather be." Faramir agreed, before slowly climbing into the bed next to her, and carefully placing his arm around her. Both of them knowing that no matter what they may have to face from now on, they would face it, together.