The Blue Wizard {closed, at least for now}

[Captain Faramir]

The Host of the West had departed from Minas Tirith, led by the King and comprised of the best soldiers Gondor had to offer for battle--those who had survived the trials on the Pelennor Fields, that is. Faramir had watched them march off over the plains from the window in his room within the Houses of Healing, where he was still held at the Warden's bidding. Faramir would much rather have gone up to the Citadel, to prepare it for the return of the King, or better yet march on the Morannon with the Host! But, alas, his injuries were not yet healed, and he knew well that the King had nearly come too late to save him from the dark valley whence he had wandered in feverish dreams. Faramir was still too weak to be marching off to battle anywhere, let alone to the very gates of the Black Lands.

And thus the days passed slowly, poisoned by an oppressive loneliness and grief that seemed to thicken the air in whatever room Faramir reclined. Even in the gardens of the Houses of Healing, where he was wont to gaze eastward from the high walls and dream of the Hope of mankind, there was a sickly aura that made his heart grow heavy. The day of the Host's departure, the Warden had told him of his father's death, though more than that he refused to say.

"I am sorry, my Lord," the Warden had said, averting his gaze. "I was directed by the wizard Mithrandir not to speak to you of the events that led to the Lord Denethor's demise."

"Very well," Faramir had replied. "But soon I shall expect to be told, for I would not be uninformed in this matter. Some I can already guess, by your quick speech and by Mithrandir's forbiddance. Alas! for my father! Even at the last, he knew not, I think, how greatly I loved him."

Now there was nothing to do, save wait for the return of the Host--if indeed it was to return at all. To wage battle on the Morannon seemed a foolhardy plan, though Faramir knew it was wrought of desperation and with greater scheme in mind than that of which Faramir was aware. It was nice to dream of the days following the victorious return of the Host, if the King succeeded and returned to his throne and Gondor was restored to her days of greatness. Easier it was, though, to think of the terrible Shadow that would be cast upon the world, were the Host to fail. If the King were slain and the Dark Lord triumphed over the Host of the West and cast down all hope of future gladness… If all should be lost, what then would be the fate of Minas Tirith? These were dark thoughts indeed, and they lingered always in the back of Faramir's mind, haunting him as he watched from the gardens and waited.

On the second day after the departure of the Host, Faramir was met in the gardens by the Warden, who was accompanied by a beautiful maiden whom Faramir knew not. Yet her sorrow was like unto his, so he thought, and while he listened to her grievances he felt pity for her. He understood how she had come to feel like a prisoner here in the Houses, and he had sometimes felt himself that death in battle would be better than waiting idly for the return of those who had gone off to war. Yet by comforting the Lady Éowyn--for that was her name, and she was a maiden of the Rohirrim--Faramir felt peace within himself, and he told her that there was yet hope to be found, if she was patient enough to see it. Faramir promised her that though he could not secure her release from the Houses, he would at the very least take her out of the Houses for a few hours so that she might see some of the City and the feeling of imprisonment might lessen.

And so, the following day, Faramir was waiting for the Lady Éowyn at the doors of the Houses of Healing, so that they might walk together for a while through Minas Tirith, and he might show to her the wonders of the City that he called his home. He didn't know why, but he wanted her to be happy. He wanted her to love Minas Tirith as he did, and to see that hope was still to be found even in the desolation of a City that had lain long under dark siege.

Something strangely familiar, like an instinctual warning, stirred suddenly within Faramir's breast. He started in surprise and looked about him for the cause of his unexplained alarm, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Faramir glanced back towards the doors, from which Éowyn had still not come, and then hesitantly took a step out into the street. Everything was quiet and still, but it was the quiet stillness of fear, and not of peaceful repose. There was a strange scent upon the wind, and Faramir was weighed down by a sense of foreboding that left him uneasy. He began walking down the street, cautiously, trying to identify the source of this dark aura plaguing him. In all his years as a Captain, his instincts had never failed him, and right now his instincts were telling him to beware that strange scent born upon the wind…

[Alatar the Blue]

What was Middle-Earth turning into? Had not the forces of all things good and pure strengthened over the years? Had good not stuck their heels into the earth and refused to allow the darkness to spread over Gondor, Rohan and Isengard? The answer to all of these inquires were unfortunately; no. Isengard had already been taken over by the evil wrath of Sauron. Alatar the Blue had learned this the hard way. Looking for rest and healing in Isengard instead he found battle and anger. The once Saruman the White had exclaimed his name as Saruman of Many Colours. Ruler of Magic and Servant to Sauron. A battle had begun between the two bearded men and neither had won. Alatar had attempted to announce Saruman's staff broken but he had not. Banished from Isengard he was driven out by the orc forces of Saruman.

Fleeing into the woods he had no time to catch his breath as it seemed that Saruman's forces were not far behind. The Istari was corrupt and dieing. It was up to the remaining three to bring it back to peace. A burn on his right wrist showed Pallando's betrayal and a cut on his left shoulder showed Saruman's.

And so with a heavy heart Alatar trudged on through the muddy forest floor in his leather boots to the only place he hoped was still true to purity; Gondor. As he moved quickly as he could he marveled at how his trusty staff had endured such a beating from battling the orcs. Seeing a flicker of light in the distance he realized that he was drawing near. A few days had passed and yet he still did not stop. The foul stench of orc still lingered behind. Enough was enough. Setting his staff to his breast he sighed. The orb lit up and Alatar extended the wooden rod to his side. The odour of the wizard moved with the staff. Turning to his side he somehow made his aroma fly off in a different direction. Hopefully the orcs would follow the trail and loose the wizard.

Moving on; he eventually found himself at the outskirts of the forest. In the distance he could see Minas Tirith. Lifting up his hood he blurred into the background and began invisible. By now his pace had slowed down to a walk as he was confident that he had lost them. Slipping through the gates unnoticed he entered the city. Finding a dark corner he took his breath before he continued on. He was in search of the House of Healing. His journeys had tired him and he was in great need of a rest. Most people passed by and did not noticed the man but one or two elderly women looked in his direction. He was unaware if they were looking passed him however.

Approaching the house he saw a soldier stood. Alatar stopped. The man had perked up his head and it seemed that he had sensed some presence. Alatar thought that their was no better time then then to introduce himself. Walking in a circle until he was facing in front of the man he waved his hand. And with a smile he watched as the man's sword flew from his belt and onto the ground a few meters away. Better safe then sorry. Removing his hood he re-appeared, right in front of the man. "I mean you no harm." The man seemed agitated due to the loss of his weapon but Alatar hoped that the appearance of an old man with a walking stick might trigger the memory of wizards. Unfortunately, Alatar had not thought of the fact that wizards were now know to turning evil...

[Captain Faramir]

Faramir could not shake the strange feeling that he was being watched as he stood, alert and guarded, beside the doors to the Houses of Healing. Something was amiss in the air. Some unfamiliar presence itched at Faramir's senses. But whether it was a foul or a fair presence, he knew not.

"Hello?" Faramir called uncertainly. "If you are here before me as I guess, I bid you show yourself!"

Walking in a circle until he was facing in front of the man he waved his hand. And with a smile he watched as the man's sword flew from his belt and onto the ground a few meters away.

A slight gasp rose to Faramir's throat as his sword unclipped itself from his belt and skittered across the bleached cobblestones. He bent to reach for the dagger that lay hidden in his boot, but pain in his injured shoulder stopped him. Wincing, Faramir righted himself, swaying a little as his pulse began to quicken.

"Show yourself, I say!" he repeated, more loudly.

Removing his hood he re-appeared, right in front of the man. "I mean you no harm."

Faramir fell back a few steps, startled by the sudden appearance of an old, bearded man draped in robes of blue. At first sight, he thought the man was none other than Mithrandir, somehow returned from his march with the King's army. After closer examination, however, Faramir knew that this was not Mithrandir. The shape of the face was different, and this man was taller, thinner. Nevertheless, he carried a staff much like Mithrandir's, though this one was topped by a blue orb. Faramir's first instinct was to distrust any man who would sneak up on him like a thief, and yet he was a Wizard, which meant that surely Faramir had no reason to fear him. Then again, Mithrandir had spoken to him earlier of the betrayal of Saruman the White. The status of Wizard no longer bore with it the assurance of good intentions.

"Who are you, and what business have you here?" Faramir demanded, drawing himself up to his full height. "As Steward of this City I have the right to ask such of all who pass the gates of Minas Tirith. By the power in your presence and by your countenance I perceive that you are one of the Istari. Mithrandir shall always be welcome here, as long as it is my authority to declare so, but your face I know not. Whence come you?"

[Alatar the Blue]

Watching as the boy winced with pain he did not care. Had he been in a different frame of mind the boy's injures would be of minor importance to Alatar. He was not completely stubborn and he did possess a... small amount of compassion. The boy demanded that he show himself. Who was he to tell him what to do. He was an Istari. In some way that gave him power over everyone. Much like Mithrandir. He had heard from Radagast many years ago that he had become quite the influence on many. The brown wizard informed him that he had gone on an adventure with a hobbit no less! Mind you. Alatar wasn't extremely familiar with the species. Scratching his head mentally he attempted to recall his name. Bilbo he believed it was.

Furrowing his eyebrows a frown appeared on his face. Alatar was tempted to throw the boy back into the wall and question his politeness but the boy did eventually mention his fellow wizard Gandalf. With a nod he withheld his irritation. However he was not in the mood for pleasantries. He had set the orcs off on a trail but he knew they would catch on. Though they were not the brightest of creatures they would catch on. An alliance needed to be made and quickly. Throwing up a hand in front of him he stopped the steward from speaking. His burn quite visible. "Hold your pleasentries. I have no time for talk. An army of orc are close by. The foul smell lingers around by boots. They are coming. We mus.." he was too late. The sound of a horn filled the air.

It seemed that the orc were not only after him. Saruman had sent them to attack the city. "We must act quickly!"

[Captain Faramir]

Throwing up a hand in front of him he stopped the steward from speaking. His burn quite visible. "Hold your pleasentries. I have no time for talk. An army of orc are close by. The foul smell lingers around by boots. They are coming. We mus.."[/b][/color]

As the old man trailed off into silence, Faramir heard the brassy bugle of an alarm echoing upward from the lower city. With a start, he turned and hastened to the nearest parapet on the outer wall. Leaning over the precipice, he espied the source of the calamity below—a dark, writhing mass of brutish creatures. Faramir's countenance paled to an ashen white. Orcs! The Wizard spake truth!

"We must act quickly!"

"Guards!" cried Faramir. "Sound the alarm! Minas Tirith is under attack! Barricade the gate! Man the lower defenses! You there, bring to me Dúnhiril, and another horse as well! Hurry!" Immediately the guards nearby sprang into action to carry out their Captain's orders, and the man Faramir had singled out ran to fetch the horses. Somewhere above them an alarm bell began hammering away, warning the entire city of the danger.

Faramir moved to retrieve his sword from the ground and fastened it again to his belt. His mind was flooded with defense strategies and figures, and hope drained from him with each successive thought. It was an impossible task to defend the city. The vast majority of Gondor's military strength had departed with the Host of the West under the King's command. The only soldiers who remained were those who were too old to march on the Morannon, those who had been too sorely injured upon the Fields of the Pelennor, and the Tower Guard. Even if they had all been able-bodied, their numbers would not have been enough!

Shaking himself from this dark thoughts, Faramir finally returned his gaze to the face of the Wizard beside him. For one long moment he was silent, battling with himself. The man had spoken true about the attacking orcs, and his status as one of the Istari made Faramir inclined to trust him. But if Faramir should put Minas Tirith in the hands of this stranger and then find himself proven wrong in his judgment, the fall of the White City would be Faramir's doing. Still, in his heart and in his gut, Faramir knew that he should trust the blue-robed Wizard. Despite the man's harsh demeanor, there was something about him that Faramir read to be truthful.

At that moment, the distinct clipclop of horseshoes on cobblestones alerted Faramir to the return of the guardsman. Sure enough, the guard appeared around the corner leading Faramir's bay mare, Dúnhiril, along with a black gelding. In his hand he held a chain mail hauberk and a helmet.

"The horses, sir, and some gear for you."

Faramir took the helmet but refused the hauberk, saying, "I cannot wear the mail. It will be too heavy for me." Grunting softly in pain, Faramir swung up into the saddle and looked down at the Wizard. "I do not know you, but if you will help me defend my city, you shall be considered a friend of Gondor forevermore. Can you ride?"