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the siege of gondor 1077
someone that he had known, who had walked proudly once
in arms, or tilled the fields, or ridden in upon a holiday from
the green vales in the hills.
In vain men shook their fists at the pitiless foes that
swarmed before the Gate. Curses they heeded not, nor
understood the tongues of western men, crying with harsh
voices like beasts and carrion-birds. But soon there were few
left in Minas Tirith who had the heart to stand up and defy
the hosts of Mordor. For yet another weapon, swifter than
hunger, the Lord of the Dark Tower had: dread and despair.
The Nazgûl came again, and as their Dark Lord now grew
and put forth his strength, so their voices, which uttered only
his will and his malice, were filled with evil and horror. Ever
they circled above the City, like vultures that expect their fill
of doomed men’s flesh. Out of sight and shot they flew, and
yet were ever present, and their deadly voices rent the air.
More unbearable they became, not less, at each new cry. At
length even the stout-hearted would fling themselves to the
ground as the hidden menace passed over them, or they
would stand, letting their weapons fall from nerveless hands
while into their minds a blackness came, and they thought
no more of war; but only of hiding and of crawling, and of
death.
During all this black day Faramir lay upon his bed in the
chamber of the White Tower, wandering in a desperate fever;
dying someone said, and soon ‘dying’ all men were saying
upon the walls and in the streets. And by him his father sat,
and said nothing, but watched, and gave no longer any heed
to the defence.
No hours so dark had Pippin known, not even in the
clutches of the Uruk-hai. It was his duty to wait upon the
Lord, and wait he did, forgotten it seemed, standing by
the door of the unlit chamber, mastering his own fears
as best he could. And as he watched, it seemed to him
that Denethor grew old before his eyes, as if something
had snapped in his proud will, and his stern mind was