Burning. Everything is burning. Minas Tirith is burning. Our way of life is burning. And you, Faramir, you are also burning. Burning with the Black Fever.

Yet mayhap it is better this way. For what hope we had was destroyed when Mithrandir and the Lord of Imladris sent a mere Halfling and his servant into the very heart of the Enemy’s domain with the thing that He most desires.

Mithrandir, Mithrandir. He names himself a friend, and yet he plots and devises my overthrow. I say unto him "Enjoy your victory, Grey Fool! Enjoy it while you are still able!" Could you not see it, Faramir? Your great mentor would have seen our house debased into mere servitude — to a Ranger from the North! A Ranger who would not have succeeded so far without help from a Wizard. A Ranger who robbed me of my rightful place in my father’s affections. I would I had stopped "Thorongil" when I had the chance. Thorongil and Mithrandir are no more than petty thieves, for not only would they have robbed me together of my rank, as Thorongil robbed me of my father’s affection, but Mithrandir did also rob me of your affection.

But their victory is not complete, for they shall never rule Gondor. Gondor shall fall. And though I have failed our people, and will henceforth be no longer Steward, Thorongil will not rule in my stead. If the fall of Gondor was my failing, it was also my succeeding.

The world of Men will fall, and all that we hold dear will come to darkness. And yet it brings me comfort that you and I will not see it. Did you ever imagine it, Faramir? My father’s tower as a nest for Orcs. Our great archives filled with tales of the victories of the Shadow, the creation of the Uruk-hai, and the defeat of the Men of the West. Minas Tirith will soon suffer the same fate as Minas Ithil. So it must come to this pass, but you and I will not see it.

A stray lock has fallen across your eyes. "Father, Father," you cry out urgently in your delirium as I brush it away. Do not return to me, son, for now I will follow you as did your men, who were more loyal to you than you were to me.

My hand strays to the hilt of my sword, but it never gets there. Footsteps pound into our chamber, and I hear the words of the guards. "The sixth circle of the city is burning, lord." I know now what I must do. What we must do.

We must share the fate of our people.