Blood.
Blood all over his clothes and hands. Black blood and red blood mixed until it was hard to say if it was more red or black. He could taste ashes in his mouth, but for the life of him, Faramir couldn't remember having swallowed any.
It did not matter though. What mattered was keeping his sword swinging, fighting the endless stream of orcs. His arms were heavy, and how his legs still held him upright was a mystery. Small cuts burned on his skin and every intake of breath seemed more painful than the last.
But he still stood and he would stand until all his strength had waned, and then his soul would flee his body. There were worse ways to die, he thought dimly, his sword cutting into flesh. He just couldn't think of any.
The earth shook. Glancing up, he could see a building up the street come tumbling down, crushing several men as well as a few orcs. Dust was kicked into the air, mingling with smoke and ashes. It was hard to see anything clearly beyond a few feet.
His glance went higher up, as by a will of its own, higher and higher until he saw the sky. It was as black as an abyss, and for a moment he had the strangest feeling of falling.
And then he saw the black shape of an eagle flying above. An eagle carrying… Two men? He couldn't tell, until the eagle dove downwards and he got a glimpse of white.
"Gandalf!" he cried out in astonishment and his heart lifted. Gandalf! Was there hope? By his side, Éowyn and the halflings were staring at the sky also, and their faces shone for the briefest moment. Hope.
Hope in the dark. White in the dark.
The eagle let out a piercing shriek, and it seemed to shape itself into words in Faramir's mind.
Follow. Follow.
And as quickly the eagle had come, it turned westwards, speeding away faster than any wind.
Follow?
Two orcs came at him, and he barely managed to get his sword up to block even one. The other screamed in triumph, lifting its weapon – and getting the short sword of Peregrin Took in its back.
Pippin looked tired, but there was a gleam in his eyes, one that promised death to his enemies. Such a change from their merry smiles and warm spirits. Faramir had talked much with Merry during their stay at the Houses of Healing, but now he wondered if he would ever understand halflings at all.
He shook that thought away, staring westwards. Follow?
Maybe it was not hope, but it resembled hope and perhaps that was enough.
He took Éowyn's hand and she stared up at him in surprise. Another dead orc lay by her feet. He was not sure how many she had felled this dark day, but the number was high. Still, there seemed to be no end to the orcs. Waves upon waves came and would keep on coming, until they would drown.
"We must follow," he said simply. "Now."
She hesitated, death still in her pale face, but the tiniest glimmer of something resembling hope shone in her eyes. She nodded, briefly.
Forward they danced, swords flashing through the air. The smoke was dark and thick, shielding most from view. It was hard to see anything until you stumbled upon it. Orcs ran by, looking for something to kill.
There was little left.
Houses fell down, banners and bodies burned as flames ate what they could find. Stumbling forward, Pippin nearly tripped over the body of a young boy, eyes staring up at the dark sky with a silent plea.
Bergil. It had to be him, even with the dark blood of an orc covering his young face. The eyes were the same, and yet not. Older, but still the eyes of a child. A child that had seen horrors that would haunt even a grown man. Horrors that killed.
Bergil, son of Beregond. He would not see his 11th year, or have the chance to marvel again at being taller than Pippin, despite being younger. If Bergil had fallen, was his father dead too?
Pippin had no chance to stop and look, Faramir was already urging them on, but the hobbit could feel the eyes follow him as they ran forward. Dead eyes, accusing eyes. Who would kill a child?
The hobbit wanted to simply sit down and cry, but he just charged forwards, keeping up with the three others. Grief was for later. If they managed to stay alive long enough to grieve. And then perhaps the grief itself would kill them.
Onward they ran, orcs offering little resistance in the chaos that reigned. City walls had crashed down, leaving only rubble to climb over. A few men stood valiantly by the gaping holes, shooting arrows into the coming waves of orcs.
Faramir hesitated then, the desire to fight for his city till he fell surging through his blood. A fitting end to the Stewards of Gondor. Maybe his father would have been proud of such a death. Maybe…
No. There would be death soon enough. One more minute living was one more minute living, was it not? One more minute by her side, Éowyn of Rohan, whom he had come to love.
Éowyn halted, seeing the devastated look on Pippin's face. Her own seemed to soften, and she lowered her sword and put a hand on the halfling's head. Just for a second she let it rest there, eyes shining with affection.
The fighting didn't stop, the dying didn't stop, but for a moment something besides despair and death was at Minas Tirith.
For a moment.