Denethor:
Whilst Denethor and Faramir made fools of themselves distracting the dancing spawn of Ungoliant, Húrin and the rest of the support staff had drawn axes, and were doing their best to hack through the wide, sticky, very strong ropes that bound Minas Tirith in place.
They had made some progress by the time that Denethor and Faramir sought them out, having perhaps freed the city 50%. Faramir seemed to have been shaking his head in disbelief for some time, to judge by the "I still don't believe it..."s he was muttering under his breath, and the irritable look on Denethor's face.
"Where do you think Boromir got his talent from, eh?" Denethor finally burst out as they had nearly reached Húrin. "It wasn't from your mother... those Dol Amrothians haven't a clue how to dance. Prim, proper, and stiff... not a disc jockey among them."
Húrin did his best to look nonchalant, for Denethor was turning to him. Faramir could be heard to croak:
"Talent? He calls that talent! He's as bad as I, only more practised at it!"
Denethor ignored his son. There were more important matters at hand.
"Report," he addressed Húrin.
"Milord, we have freed approximately half the city, at various locations. It is possible that we can put the city in reverse, and pull free of the cords. Cutting the remaining threats, which are generally harder to reach, could take several hours."
"Hmm..." growled Denethor. "We've had such miserable luck thus far: trolls, rats, porcupines, and now this spider. I can't imagine how far we've fallen behind. Let's try reversing. What's the worst that can happen?"
"We'll blow the engine," said Húrin, "thus setting off the nuclear powering device, destroying half the city, and leave us still stuck in the web."
"What are our odds?" asked Faramir.
"About 50/50," said Húrin, still calm.
"Let's do it!" said Denethor. "Those are the best life-and-death, seat-of-your-pants, heroic episodes odds I've ever heard. Húrin: start the engine!"
Húrin and his men returned to the engine room, while Denethor and Faramir headed for the Tower. Soon Húrin sent up the signal.
"We're smoking!" Faramir told Denethor. "Húrin's ready!"
Denethor grabbed the gear-shifter, and put Minas Tirith in reverse. He put his foot to the gas pedal. Minas Tirith's engine revved loudly.
"We're straining at the net!" Faramir reported, "but I don't think we'll manage it. We're stuck good!"
"Pride and despair!" Denethor cried. "Didst thou think the tyres of the White Tower were bald? Nay, they can grip more than thou knowest, young fool. For thy fear is but ignorance. We go then, and labour not in vain! Go forth and cut! Flippery! For a little struggle you may triumph on that field, after a day. But against the power that now arises, there is no victory. To this web only the first finger of its hand has yet been stretched. All the city is moving. And even now the wind of the West aids us and wafts over the mountains a force of great strenght. The web has failed. It is time for us to depart who would not be caught."
"Such counsels will make the spider's victory certain indeed," moaned Faramir.
"Fear on then!" laughed Denethor. "But I say to thee, Faramir Denethorion, I will not be thy coward! I am the Steward of the House of Anárion. I will not step down to admit defeat to this spider. Even were her web proved too strong for me, still she is but a spider. I will not bow to such a one, last of a ragged house, ever bereft of lordship and dignity!"
"To me it would not seem that a Driver who faithfully saves his vehicle is diminished in love or in honour," said Faramir, and fear was in his eyes. "And at least you would not rob your son of his choice while his death is still in doubt!"
Now the wheels of Minas Tirith were spinning in the rocky ground, and the web had been pulled its tightest. It must now either snap, or the city must fail. Faramir collapsed from the tension.
Meanwhile, the spider, regaining control of itself, decided that not only were the humans unfit to eat, the city was definitely too stony to be tasty, and she clamboured up the mountainside, and plucked loose one of her threads.
Minas Tirith zoomed away at full power, its passengers knocked against its wall, temporarily careening out of control.
"So goes Denethor, son of Ecthelion," murmured the spider. "And so pass all the days of this web that I have known; for good or for evil they are ended."
And, with the infinite patience that spiders seem to possess, the great dancing spawn of Ungoliant set about repairing her web.
Meanwhile, Denethor had slowed down the city, and Faramir had been shaken awake by the jolt.
"Where to now?" he asked his father, a bit apprehensively.
"WEST, past the mountains," said Denethor. "But by a route other than the one that spider guards!"