It was nearly evening according to his reckoning. Only by his reckoning, for how does one surrounded by darkness tell morning from evening, day from night? Faramir sat upright on his steed. He rode at the rearmost of his company. Every now and then he cried out to his men, urging them to stay together. No one could afford to be separated from the company then, for even a valiant knight of Gondor would stand a little chance fighting the foul enemies alone. He knew that they almost reached the City, it could not be more than a mile now. Though he could not see anything further than the back of the rider in front of him, he would always know when he was near his City.
His sharp hearing, a Ranger's trait, was further sharpened by the darkness around him. He could hear the sounds of horsemen and men on foot approaching from afar. It was not unexpected: he knew the enemy would not let the out-companies retreat unchallenged. He hoped that the companies that he commanded to retreat earlier had already made it to the City. Now Faramir, Captain of Gondor, cried out to his weary men, "Brave men of Gondor, ride forward and prepare to fight! We shall not bow to the slaves of Mordor!"
Not too soon he rallied his men and drew his sword, for in a sudden a great mass of Orcs and Southron men rushed toward them with fierce cries in their hated tongues. But drowning out all their cries was the piercing shriek of the winged shadows circled above them. He knew them to be the foul beasts and the fouler riders that had pursued him even from Ithilien. Faramir did not need to see to know that his company was breaking away. The screams of the horsemen of Gondor, wild with terror, and the screeches of their frightened horses filled the air. Unlike in his previous encounters with the Nazgul, now Faramir found himself overwhelmed not only with fear, but with terrible rage also. Deadly strokes he dealt the Orcs and the Southron men around him. Again he cried aloud, "Forward! Sons of Gondor! We shall not be conquered so near to our City, not when she needs us!"
The Orcs yelled and jeered at this. But the men of Gondor found their hearts lifted up. Frightened they were by the enemy, yet more frightened still by the thoughts of their wives and children enslaved. So now they put on a fight worthy of the pride of Gondor, and somehow made their way forward. But they were greatly outnumbered and the terrible cries of the Nazgul pierced even the most valiant hearts. Soon their way was again blocked. The Nazgul stoop to devour Faramir, singled him out as the captain. He hardly could evade them as three Southron horsemen surrounded him. Then suddenly, his heart prevailed over prudence, he threw back his head and looked defiantly upward. The sight of the black rider, so near, almost failed his heart. Yet he still looked at them defiantly. Without knowing why he did so, he cried, "A Elbereth Gilthoniel!"
To his surprise the Nazgul started and abruptly stopped their shrieks upon hearing the ancient name. And then they all heard the trumpet of Minas Tirith rang. Faramir would have recognized the sound of that trumpet no matter how faint it rang. But the sound was not faint, they were closer to the City than he thought. The Nazgul left him and flied toward the riders from the City. Of the three Southron riders surrounding him earlier, one left to hold the oncoming knights of Gondor and another one fell at the sword of Faramir. Now he matched his sword against the third one, but this one proved to be a deadly swordsman of Harad. Perhaps he was too weary, or perhaps the battle cries dulled the sound of the flying arrow, but Faramir did not sense it coming. Near his shoulder the poisoned dart pierced him and he fell to the ground. Lying there he saw the Haradrim raised his sword, ready to hew him. Then all became dark as something deeper than sleep seized him.