Father and Sons
By Dwimordene 
dwimmer_laik@yahoo.com



Summary : Insight into LOTR's most famous dysfunctional family that covers a 
span of years, from Faramir's adolescence through Sam and Frodo's journey 
through Ithilien. The personal is political when you're the Steward and his 
family.





Chapter One
Between Brothers



Atop the rampart of the tower of the western wall of the first circle, a lone 
figure huddled in a crenelle. Faramir son of Denethor sat with his knees drawn 
up to his chest and his arms wrapped about them for warmth, but his face was 
turned west into the chill autumnal wind. Before him loomed the heights of the 
Ered Nimrais, their purple slopes now coated with fresh-fallen snow. Clouds 
still wreathed the summits, spreading ominously towards the Tower of the Guard, 
and the sky looked bruised. Faramir’s eyes watered as a strong gust whistled 
through the passes, and the wind’s icy fingers ruffled his dark hair and ripped 
at his clothes, giving him goosebumps and chafing his cheeks raw. That was good; 
it meant that he could pretend the sting was due to a long and lonely vigil in 
the miserable weather rather than his father’s heavy hand. Faramir closed his 
eyes and felt hot tears burn down his cheeks only to be whisked away by the 
winds. He was fifteen, a young man old enough (if only just) to be assigned to a 
company, and the humiliation of being struck like a child bit deep, wounding his 
confidence. If he did not suspect his father’s motives, he might have been 
angry. But all he felt was a confused hurt and fear that eddied nauseatingly in 
the hollow of his breast, stirred by each heartbeat so that it seemed he would 
never feel whole again.

Opening his eyes again he stared vacantly out at the mountains, and in his mind 
they swayed in the wind. The clouds grew swollen and dark, blotting out the sky. 
Thunder boomed and roared, and the shadowed mountains trembled to their very 
roots… and began to fall. A noise like boulders crashing filled the air as the 
sea swept up to drown the heights… .

Behind him, the trap door clattered open unexpectedly, but Faramir did not 
flinch, knowing who it must be. The wind swept away the footsteps, but soon he 
felt the heat of another body standing close behind him, and then a hand landed 
on his shoulder. "‘Tis a cold day for bird-watching, Faramir," his brother said, 
and though his tone was light, Faramir heard the undercurrent of concern. 
Nevertheless, the younger boy felt a smile tug at his lips, for Boromir wasn’t 
usually tactful.

"I seek the rare snowbird of Gondor. ‘Tis said it takes the form of a white 
hawk, and prefers the winter air," he replied.

"Then you are a season early. And I had heard that only those doomed to some 
unpleasant end ever saw it," Frowning, Boromir braced both arms against the 
merlons to either side and leaned close to peer at his brother’s face. "Do you 
foresee such an end for yourself?"

"Nay, I do not."

"Then why came you here?"

"I wanted to be alone," said Faramir, which was true but not the answer Boromir 
sought.

"I heard tell that you and father had another fight," said the elder prince, 
abandoning tact in favor of blunt honesty, and Faramir managed not to sigh.

"Aye, we did."

"And? What about this time?"

"Naught," Faramir replied, but then he hesitated. He and Boromir had always 
enjoyed a close relationship, despite their different temperaments. Boromir was 
his protector, and for his part, Faramir tried to reveal the subtleties of 
strategic negotiations to his brother, who was not always aware of the 
personalities of those with whom he dealt. To ensure that Boromir would listen 
occasionally required some maneuvering, but Faramir never lied to his brother. 
That was why he paused now, for much though he might prefer not to tell him, he 
knew Boromir would be at him until he did, and he could not lie. "I asked him 
about one of grandfather’s captains."

"Oh? Which one?" Boromir asked, sitting down next to him, though he faced east. 
To compensate, he leaned back on his hands a bit so Faramir would not have to 
crane his neck to look at him.

"He left the city before either of us was born, and his name is not mentioned 
much… if at all. I had been studying Númenór’s naval doctrine. In fact, our 
ancestors’ military strength lay primarily in their rule of the seas, since they 
could then land their armies at will at any port of call, even into Far Harad. 
Did you know that?" Faramir glanced left at his brother, and saw Boromir nod 
confirmation. He ought to have suspected he would, given that this bit of 
history attached to military matters, but he always asked. "I thought about 
that," he continued, "and I wondered about our own navy. It hardly plays a part 
anymore, and I wondered at that. If we had an adequate fleet, we could launch 
strikes with only a small number of men, get in and out quickly, and greatly 
extend our reach. But no one seems to look seaward anymore." He paused, waiting 
to see if Boromir had anything to say on that matter, but his brother only 
signed for him to continue the tale. "The only naval engagement in recent 
history took place twenty-three years ago, the year father married. The captain 
who conceived and executed the attack was a man named Thorongil. Evidently, he 
was a foreigner who came out of Rohan, and then he left Ecthelion’s service as 
soon as he had succeeded against the Corsairs of Umbar."

"Thorongil… Star-Eagle,*" Boromir mused. "You are right, I have not heard of 
him. One would think such a deed would earn at least a token mention!"

"So I thought, also, for he accomplished much else in service of Gondor, and he 
and father clearly hold similar views on most matters of policy. I thought to 
ask Denethor what else this stranger had to say on naval matters, but no sooner 
had I said his name, then father grew angry. He asked if Mithrandir had told me 
of him, and would not believe me when I said he had not."

"Would not believe you?" Boromir was taken aback by that. "Why should he not?"

"I know not," Faramir sighed heavily, closed his eyes and leaned his bruised 
cheek against the cold, rough stone. "I guess that he had some grievance with 
this Thorongil. Perhaps Mithrandir and he were friends—if father dislikes me for 
my association with the wizard, then how much more would he despise a stranger 
who welcomed him?"

"Perhaps. There must be some good reason," Boromir replied. But anyone who knew 
him would recognize that he was trying to convince himself of his own words. 
Likely, Faramir decided, his brother was as confused and troubled by Denethor’s 
behavior as he was himself. Well, no, that was not quite true, for Boromir had 
not seen their father’s wrath. Faramir shivered inside, remembering the rage in 
his father’s eyes. A proud and strong-willed man, Denethor son of Ecthelion was 
not known for outbursts like that, for his anger was a cold thing, apt to 
manifest itself in his razor-edged tongue’s precise and cutting comments. 
Faramir, having been victimized by that tongue all his life, knew this only too 
well. And though he had always suffered from his father’s disaffection, never 
before had he feared him as he had in that moment.

"Are you all right?" Boromir’s question, voiced gently, drew him back to the 
present. "Faramir, I have seen corpses with more color than you have now!" His 
brother reached over to grab his arm firmly.

"Have you ever had a waking dream, Boromir?" Faramir asked tiredly, and felt his 
brother’s eyes upon him.

"You know I have not."

"I have them often. I have heard it said that Elves dream thus, and that 
sometimes it is given to Men to dream in a similar fashion. I think I must have 
that gift. Since leaving father’s council chambers, I have seen but one thing it 
seems, though it is impossible that I should see it."

"Speak then, and give it a name. I am not one for riddles," said Boromir, 
seeming impatient, but also concerned.

"I see an island," said Faramir, gazing blankly at the frigid tableau of snow 
and rock before him, "an island with high mountains at its center, and all the 
land lies in darkness beneath the clouds. Thunder peals out like a thousand 
drummers, and the mountains begin to rock, bending like trees until at last they 
topple to the earth. And the ground cracks under them, and the seas rise up to 
swallow all the land." He paused. "Númenór sinks into the waves leaving nothing 
but a shadow of ruin."

There was a long silence, and then Boromir asked softly, "And what portends this 
dream of yours?"

"Perhaps nothing. Perhaps it is simply a vision of what was, granted for I know 
not what reason." Faramir paused again, closing his eyes. After a moment he 
continued on in a tight voice, "Father does not rage like that, Boromir. He had 
no control of himself today. I did not think it possible… I do not want to think 
he could… ." Faramir shook his head as if dazed, unable to voice his fears, and 
he had the horrible feeling that he was going to cry again. Of a sudden he was 
enveloped in a bear hug, and he leaned his head against Boromir’s chest, 
grateful that he at least had his brother’s support and love, even if their 
father despised him. But in truth, his fear was not for himself, or rather, not 
primarily for himself. In his power and pride, a Denethor given over solely to 
emotion was more dangerous than any Orc or Harad army, and not just for a 
wayward son. Minas Tirith would be in gravest danger if the son of Ecthelion 
ever succumbed to the fires that raged just beneath the ice of his reason and 
will, and that frightened Faramir. Once, he would never have thought to hold 
such a fear, but now, having glimpsed the most hidden vaults of his father’s 
soul, if only briefly and imperfectly, Faramir knew that his beloved city was in 
danger, and that he would never feel safe again, until Denethor died. And what 
an awful thing, to look to his father’s death in order to feel certain that 
Minas Tirith would stand! He felt almost ashamed, but that he knew he was right 
to fear his father’s mood. He thought of telling Boromir everything, but 
immediately abandoned the idea. His brother would not understand, and even if he 
did he was ill-suited to bear such a burden. Boromir was a man of action, and to 
tell him would be to trap him in a web of resentment, where strength turned in 
against itself because its proper object could not be met with force or 
challenged with forthright words. As lonely and painful as his present position 
was, Faramir knew that this was his burden, and that he alone could carry it.

And so he said nothing, just nestled in his brother’s arms, and fought with 
himself, seeking the strength to still his own roiling emotions. All around them 
the wind shrieked and howled as it came down off the mountains and Faramir 
shivered. I am at the eye of a storm, and all around me there is darkness as the 
mountains fall to the waves… I shall not waver, I dare not, I will not…. Over 
and over he repeated it, like a mantra, and felt himself drowning nonetheless.

Boromir held Faramir close, and felt uneasy. He sensed that there was much his 
brother had not told him, that something deeper than grievance and hurt worked 
in him. But he could not pierce the younger man’s veil of grief, and was 
unwilling to force the matter from him by asking directly. There were those who 
had looked askance at the young lad Faramir had been, wondering at his strange 
ways, mistrusting that a child could know the things that he knew, or dream the 
dreams that he dreamt. When they were both younger, Faramir often would creep to 
his brother’s bed to sleep after a nightmare, or a particularly vivid dream. He 
preferred music and history to the martial pursuits that were a prince’s 
birth-right and duty, and so the younger prince had seemed to others somehow 
weaker, even effeminate. As a rule, Boromir, fiercely protective, had made 
certain no one ever voiced such thoughts in his brother’s presence. And as 
Faramir had grown up a bit, the talk had died down; doubtless once he had a few 
years of military service under his belt, it would disappear entirely. But he 
would still dream, and there were those who felt uneasy under Faramir’s gaze. It 
was not that he sought to dominate others, but men who were accustomed to hide 
their weaknesses felt exposed and humiliated by the pity and understanding in 
Faramir’s eyes. And though Boromir loved his father dearly, it came to his mind 
that perhaps Denethor, accustomed to having no peers, felt threatened by his 
younger son’s too-perceptive regard.

It made no sense to Boromir, who could not imagine what weaknesses the lord of 
the Tower of the Guard might wish to hide, but there it was. He could not 
dismiss the notion easily, for it rang true to him in spite of his own inability 
to delve any further into the matter. And if it were true… He glanced down at 
the dark head laid trustingly against his chest and frowned. What might Faramir 
have seen this afternoon that had frightened him so? Supremely confident of his 
own martial prowess, Boromir knew nevertheless that Faramir had a resolute 
heart, and would prove a formidable opponent on the field. He was therefore no 
coward, and if he sat here, curled up like a babe and shaking, then he must have 
some reason for it. This gift of his, to read others’ hearts, could kill him one 
day, Boromir thought with grim concern. It could poison him. How many secrets 
does he know that should be kept hidden from the sunlight?

"Faramir, you would tell me if you were in danger, would you not?" Boromir found 
himself asking.

"Of course," his brother replied, seeming surprised. Boromir bit his lip, 
uncertain how to proceed now. It had been long indeed since he had last seen his 
brother so upset over anything. Faramir might come to this secluded tower every 
few months, but whenever Boromir found him there, it usually needed no more than 
a few words to convince him to leave it. For Boromir counted it unhealthy for 
his brother to spend too much time brooding alone on this isolated perch, and he 
worried now that he might have to ask Denethor what had passed between him and 
his brother in order to work out the truth. Not that he thought Faramir was 
lying, but he knew he had not told all and would not unless pressed hard. But 
Boromir had no heart for that if the matter did not touch on the safety of Minas 
Tirith, as it assuredly did not in this case.

"Is there nothing I can do?" He finally asked.

"Nay, I think not …unless," Faramir paused, struck by a thought. He shifted and 
gently freed himself from his brother’s grasp so he could look him in the face. 
"Father wants me to remain here, and to take a position in the Tower guard. You 
know of this?"

"Yes, I do."

"Convince him to let me go with the Ithilien company," Faramir said, and Boromir 
frowned, taken aback both by the request and by the deadly serious tone in which 
it was delivered.

"The Ithilien company? Would you not prefer it here? Ithilien is well-nigh 
deserted, and it has but a small detachment scouring it."

"I know. But I think I can serve Minas Tirith better there than here. Do you not 
see, Boromir?" Faramir spoke softly, earnestly. "If I remain, father and I shall 
be at each other’s throats in every matter, even when we agree! Wherefore does 
that aid Gondor? Whereas if I am out of his sight, and placed in such a remote 
post, then I may yet learn to do much good for our people. Father listens to 
you. He trusts you, and if you ask him, he will do it. I know he will." There 
was a flicker in those grey eyes, as of ill-masked desperation, and Boromir 
realized that he was right. If Faramir remained in Minas Tirith, he and Denethor 
would tear each other apart inside. Behind closed doors, and in their private 
moments, they would mutilate each other; no one would ever see it, but everyone 
would know nonetheless. The two people whom he loved best in the world would be 
miserable, and all of Gondor would suffer with them.

So although Boromir heaved a sigh, he said resolutely, "I will see to it. If you 
like, I can have you assigned to my company in Osgiliath."

"Nay, I would not want to be an encumbrance upon you, brother. I, too, must 
learn to stand on my own," Faramir replied. Thunder crackled overhead, and both 
brothers looked up as lightning split the sky. "Perhaps we ought to go down 
now."

"I think so," Boromir said, standing quickly. The two made their way down the 
ladder, and Boromir pulled the hatch firmly shut after them. Below in the 
stairwell, a single torch guttered. Faramir retrieved it and they went quickly 
down the spiraling steps, pausing whenever the thunder shook the tower about 
them. Once they reached ground level, they left through the tower’s door and 
dashed across the plaza just as the sky opened up and rain came pouring down 
with a vengeance. They were soaked by the time they reached the eaves of the 
northern door. There they paused a moment, and Boromir wrung the water out of 
his cloak, while Faramir ran his hands through his hair, slicking back wet 
tendrils behind his ears. "I shall speak to father tonight, and afterward shall 
I come and find you."

"Thank you, Boromir," the younger prince laid a hand on his brother’s forearm, 
and his eyes were serious.

"There is no need," said Boromir simply. And indeed, there never had been need 
for thanks—not between brothers.

 

* I know in the appendix the listed translation is "Eagle of the Star," but 
given that Elendil comes out as "Elf-friend" rather than "Friend-of-the-Elf" 
Thorongil ought to be able to be similarly translated. And I think it’s more 
likely that people would translate the Sindarin Thorongil to "Star-Eagle" simply 
because it survives daily wear and tear better. Or maybe Boromir just doesn’t 
speak Sindarin as well as he speaks Westron.




~~~~



Chapter Two
The Ones We Love


*Chapter title comes from the infamous line: "We only hurt the ones we love."*



The rain continued unabated all that afternoon and into the night. It pounded 
against the glass window panes, and the guards outside were doubtless cursing 
their luck and hoping to fall ill just to escape the weather. Denethor sat in 
his chair near the enormous hearth and sorted through the various dispatches 
absently. Inlaid before him on the huge bureau was a map of Gondor and regions 
adjacent, and all about the map were stacks of parchment, scrolls, and markers, 
all neatly arranged. The steward despised untidiness in any form, but tonight 
the ritual ordering of his space served only to mask his discomfort, 
substituting a merely physical cleansing for a spiritual one. Guilt was foreign 
to Denethor, yet he knew beyond all doubt that he experienced it tonight. Raised 
to the burden of rule, and to a tradition that honored both warrior and scholar, 
he had learned early that those who governed could afford few apologies and that 
to doubt oneself–to show oneself vulnerable or indecisive–would cost lives in 
the long run. Guilt was an expensive commodity, properly belonging to the 
decadent or the lazy, and it galled him to think that he had warranted the 
torments of a guilty conscience tonight. That was an unforgivable offense, 
though no one but he and one other might ever know he had committed it.

Why had he erupted in Faramir’s face? The question hung in the air, tormenting 
him. Surprise at hearing the name of Thorongil again, after so many years had 
contributed to it, but he had borne Thorongil himself without incident for 
years. Perhaps it was simply that Faramir reminded him too much of the stranger 
at times. The boy’s eyes were keen, and he knew that he was always looking, 
always judging others… it was impertinent! And perhaps, Denethor decided, he 
himself was fatigued. His esquire had remarked that once, and had quickly 
learned never to mention it again. Denethor disliked others’ prying into his 
private thoughts and activities, particularly when such knowledge could prove 
dangerous to those of less hardy substance than himself. Oh yes, Denethor knew 
his will was stern as the rock of Gondor’s foundations, but even he grew tired 
in the use of the palantír. The weariness would pass, he knew, but it would take 
time to accustom himself to the stone’s trial of his will. Doubtless his fatigue 
had left him short-tempered and less able to control himself, and that was why 
Faramir’s questions had angered him so…

A grimace flashed across Denethor’s face, quickly concealed, and he set the 
dispatches carefully to one side. Then he leaned on the bureau and gazed down at 
the map, tracing with his eyes the movements of troops from Anórien to Umbar and 
beyond. It was a grim picture, and would grow darker still, he knew, before the 
age ended. Gondor might perish in that ending; indeed, he knew it was very 
likely that Minas Tirith would be reduced to ruin even if somehow Gondor 
survived. That was why he risked the use of the palantír, why he levied heavy 
tributes that even his subjects might resent, and why the army grew with each 
year. Every effort was warranted to find some way of saving 
something–anything–from the coming carnage and here he stood unable to 
concentrate properly because of shame! Thunder rumbled menacingly, and Denethor 
glanced at the rain-streaked window, and wished briefly that the icy water could 
infuse him with his usual coldly collected composure.

A knock sounded, and his esquire hastened to answer. He cracked the door open 
slightly, then quickly pulled it wider. "My lord, your son, the lord Boromir, 
would speak with you," the lad announced as Boromir paused on the threshold.

"Let him come." Denethor waved a hand absently without taking his eyes from a 
marker that told of troops gathering south of Harnen. Boromir’s steps echoed in 
the silence, and when he judged the prince but a few paces distant, the steward 
spoke, "What brings you to me, my son?"

"Good evening, Father," Boromir greeted him, and something in his tone drew 
Denethor’s eyes away from the map and his own silent recriminations. His son 
stood proudly before him, seeming to all intents and purposes his usual 
indefatigable self, but Denethor sensed a certain uneasy defiance in his voice 
and in the too tense shoulders. Straightening, Denethor rapped his knuckles 
once, sharply, on the wood and drew an unobtrusive breath.

"Something troubles you?" he asked.

"I have a proposition, Father, and I would beg you to hear and consider it."

"Ah?" This was not quite what he had expected. "Speak then."

"When last we discussed it, you said that Ithilien’s Rangers were responsible 
for most of the reports on the Enemy’s southern movements, and yet they are a 
small force compared to some."

"True," replied Denethor, waiting for the point to be made.

"Then each man in it learns to do many tasks, and there would be much 
opportunity for a newcomer to prove himself," said Boromir.

"Again, true, though I know not why this should be of great interest to you."

"Not to me, perhaps, but I think now of Faramir," Boromir said at last, looking 
Denethor squarely in the face. And yes, there was that defiance, Denethor 
thought with a cold smile that did not touch his lips. Boromir clearly knew of 
the argument between Faramir and himself, and had come to ask a boon for his 
brother that would put him far from Minas Tirith and any future outbursts. And 
if I am not mistaken, Boromir is not the author of this proposition. Likely it 
was Faramir who put it into his head to make the request, the steward decided, 
feeling a little spasm of disgust at such obvious manipulation. He was 
half-prepared to reject the idea, but then he paused, turning the notion over in 
his mind. On the one hand, he had thought to put Faramir in the Tower Guard 
simply because he was young, and also because Denethor did not trust his 
judgment in the same way that he trusted Boromir’s. But he could not afford to 
coddle the boy either, or to mistrust him too thoroughly. Ithilien was a 
different sort of company than most, being essentially a large scouting force 
distributed all along Anduin’s course, from Cair Andros to Poros. It required 
discipline of another sort than that practiced in more traditional units, and a 
mind accustomed to picking an answer out of disjointed bits of evidence… a 
scholar’s mind, in many ways, and Faramir had that at least.

And truth be told, he probably owed the boy something after the afternoon’s 
shameful altercation. He hated to admit it, but the conclusion was inescapable. 
Denethor knew that if the lad remained in the city, there would doubtless be 
more arguments, and that would ruin Faramir as a commander, leaving him with a 
resentful, worthless tool that might fail at the test. Better, then, to send him 
away while there was time, and if Faramir had already identified the one unit in 
which his talents would be best put to use, then that spared Denethor the 
trouble of discovering it for himself. It was not as if he could not keep watch 
on the boy from afar, especially now that he had begun to master the palantír. 
And Boromir clearly supported the move, or he would not have agreed to act as an 
intermediary in this matter. "I see. Very well. Faramir may go to Ithilien, and 
I will see to it that he leaves with the next runner. If he does well, he may 
inherit command of it eventually. At least the boy has sense enough to pick a 
company whose duties suit him," he added, to be certain Boromir knew that his 
father understood his reasons for coming. There! I have paid my debt! Denethor 
thought, gloweringly.

His eldest son nodded, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he regarded his 
father, and Denethor read in that minute betrayal uncertainty; a further 
question, perhaps, for Boromir loved his brother well… "Father," Boromir said, 
and his voice was more forced and troubled than usual, "I do not mean to pry, 
but Faramir is not a child. Why then did you strike him?"

Beneath the ice, there was always heat, and Denethor could feel it rising in 
him. Fortunately, he had had several hours to recover his self-control after his 
last glance in the Seeing Stone, and so it was in a coldly clipped tone that he 
replied, "Your concern for your brother is laudable, but the matter is settled. 
Do not presume to tell me how to deal with Faramir’s foolishness." Denethor 
paused and held Boromir’s gaze long, ‘til at last Boromir lowered his eyes in 
acceptance. "Good. Now, you are due to leave for Osgiliath tomorrow. You should 
ready yourself for that journey."

"Yes, sir. May I tell Faramir of your decision?"

"Yes, please do. Have him come before me tomorrow after the third hour. Good 
night, my son." With a nod, Boromir bowed and left quickly, though his step 
lacked its usual vigor. Denethor, sensing the dejection in his eldest son, felt 
a sudden thrill of alarm, heavily laced with angry frustration. Almost he 
succumbed to the need to call Boromir back, to try to explain what could not be 
explained, but then the fit passed, and the ice was back in place, stifling the 
impulse. He will forget it soon enough, he decided. Boromir is given to quick 
emotion; this will pass. And if that was the voice of rationalization speaking, 
Denethor cared not, seeking only a way out of this nightmare of a day. Rest, 
perhaps, would do him good.

With a sigh he straightened the dispatches once again, then looked toward the 
door in the southern wall and hesitated. It led to his chambers, but as usual he 
felt a sort of shadow fall over him, remembering the days when Finduilas had 
waited for him beyond those doors. She was dead now ten years and no trace of 
anything of hers remained there to remind her husband that she had ever existed. 
Denethor grimaced inwardly, chastising himself for useless sentimentality. 
Still, that empty chamber, with its narrow bed and bachelor’s furniture filled 
him with loathing. If he went there now, sleep would elude him all night. And 
so, after he dismissed the esquire with orders to see that no one disturbed him 
before the third hour, the steward of the city rose and went not to his bed, but 
climbed slowly into the tower above the council room. An inviolate haven, he had 
removed a great part of his private study to the topmost room, and he went there 
now, turning for solace to the other constant in his life: work. The palantír 
called him, and he girded himself to face it once more.

 

* * *

In the hall that led to the council room, Boromir stood silent and his face was 
drawn as he pondered what had just happened. For he was filled with confusion, 
and asked himself: how could he both love and loathe someone? He had 
occasionally been subject to his father’s disapproval, but that had never caused 
him to feel ambivalent about his love for Denethor. This time, however, his 
father’s cold rebuff had felt different, though he could not define that 
difference in words. He knew only that as he had looked into his father’s eyes, 
he had seen a gleam there that had seemed to him pitiless, even cruel. With that 
cold rebuff, he sensed that he had at last been granted a dim understanding of 
what Faramir must have felt so much more intensely all of his life. But how 
could I have overlooked this for so long? Surely if it were real, I would have 
seen it earlier? That was reluctance speaking, his unwillingness to doubt what 
he had always "known" before, namely that his father was a just man who always 
acted with reason. And yet if that were so, how to explain his treatment of 
Faramir? This was but the latest and most violent incident, if his brother's 
vague tale were true… which it must be, surely. He loved Faramir dearly and so 
was the more disturbed by the picture that was beginning to emerge, for he liked 
not the feeling that he was failing Faramir somehow. That he had failed him 
repeatedly and for years. But then again, how could he doubt Denethor’s own 
authority to discipline his sons as he saw fit? Yet because neither Denethor nor 
Faramir had told him the full tale of this latest grievance, he could not judge 
what, if anything, to believe.

I could stand here all night and debate this, and I would come no closer to the 
truth, he realized. Boromir had never been one to deliberate overmuch, and so he 
made a swift decision and strode away, heading for his brother’s rooms. There 
was surely one person who would not refuse him an answer to his questions, after 
all, and then he would know where he ought to stand.

 

* * *

When the knock came, Faramir set aside his writing and rose to answer it, 
knowing that it would be his brother. And he was right, but he opened the door 
to a rather troubled-seeming Boromir, which was a sight in itself. Father 
refused him! That was the first thought that sprang into his mind, and the dread 
that accompanied it was almost physically nauseating. But before he could so 
much as greet him, Boromir said, "It is done. You will go to Ithilien with the 
next runner." His brother entered the room, but instead of going to sit, as he 
usually did, he paused in the middle of the floor, staring at his surroundings. 
Faramir secured the door, then turned to regard his brother. Boromir’s eyes 
strayed from the bookcase with its collection that lined the eastern wall to the 
maps of Gondor and far countries that hung in place of tapestries; he looked 
then to the trunk which contained a few musical instruments, and the writing 
desk with pages spread out carefully atop it so that the glistening ink could 
dry. Finally, he sighed and stared down at the carpet that covered most of the 
flagstones. Faramir had rescued it from among their mother’s possessions, for 
Denethor had locked it in a storeroom upon her death. But his father never came 
to his chambers, and so he had had it moved into his room some three years ago. 
An abstract pattern of blue and green, brown and red spiraled out in intricate 
detail across its surface. It lent a certain warmth to the room, and Faramir 
found that the pattern helped him to think. Boromir had shaken his head over the 
whole matter, saying laughingly that it made his eyes hurt to stare at it for 
very long.

Now, though, he seemed to be trying to follow the ornate curlicues and knotted 
spirals, as if seeking meaning within its twisting lines. "Will you not sit?" 
Faramir asked, puzzled and worried, indicating the guest chair before the 
hearth.

"Nay, I have a few errands of my own tonight. I leave for Osgiliath tomorrow," 
said Boromir, looking up from the carpet and fixing him with an intent stare. 
"And glad I am of it, for I think it will do father good to have us both out of 
his sight for awhile."

"What happened?" Faramir asked, feeling the echos of his earlier fear begin to 
stir. Had Boromir somehow alienated their father this evening? He felt a chill 
run through him at the very thought, for if anything happened to break Boromir’s 
hold on Denethor, then who would provide balance for the lord of the city? 
Boromir might not be the most subtle intellect, but at least he was generally 
sensible in matters of war and governance, even if he was not brilliant in the 
latter.

Instead of answering directly, Boromir turned and gave him a close look, 
reaching out to touch his right cheek briefly, probing the swollen flesh there. 
"I suppose that could be worse. Still sore, I wager?"

"It gives me little pain. Truly, I have had worse in sword drills," Faramir 
replied, unwilling to make more of the injury than that. After all, the pain was 
insignificant beside his fears about his father. And now Boromir was acting 
strangely, not like his usual confident self. He wanted to shake his brother, to 
wrest the news out of him, but that would do no good and much harm. Instead he 
stalked over to his writing desk and absently collected the dried manuscripts 
into a stack to put away.

"Tell me this: what exactly did you say to our father that made him strike you?" 
Boromir asked, not moving from his place, and the papers landed on the desk 
again with a slap as Faramir froze, tension rippling down his spine at that. He 
had thought Boromir had chosen to ignore the bruise this afternoon, and he had 
been glad. Now though… in spite of his initial suspicions, had Denethor somehow 
convinced his brother that he, Faramir, was at fault for everything? No, that 
could not be possible; Faramir prayed it was not. But even so, would Boromir, 
his father’s favorite, be able to accept the truth? Would it not be better to 
leave the matter unsaid, for how could it help to tell his brother of the 
shameful things that had passed between him and their father that afternoon?

"Boromir, it does not bear remembering–"

"Tell me what you said!" Boromir cut him off brusquely, and there was no arguing 
with that command. Why does this happen? Why can he not see that this can only 
hurt all of us? With all his heart, he wished he dared tell his brother to let 
the matter drop, but if he did, he sensed that he would jeopardize Boromir’s 
faith in him. And he could not bear that. So in a low voice, and with much 
trepidation, he replied:

"He had asked me if I had learned of Thorongil from Mithrandir. I told him that 
I had not, that Mithrandir told me nothing of the most recent history of the 
city. He then said I must have learned the name from someone, and that only 
Mithrandir would be impertinent enough to tell me. And I swore to him that it 
was not so, but he only grew more angry." Faramir paused, feeling the words 
stick in his throat as if to strangle him. He swallowed hard, then continued in 
as natural a voice as he could manage, "He said that I should never lie to him 
again, and that if I did, he would thrash me for it. He said--" and here his 
voice grew hard and tight, "he said he would never tolerate a dishonest son, 
because such a son besmirches the honor of a high family. I was so stunned I 
could not speak for a time. When at last I regained my tongue, I asked him, 
furious, how he could accuse me of lying to his face. I would have asked if he 
thought himself so poor a father to raise such a child, but before I could 
embarrass us both, he struck me to silence me. Then he told me to leave, and I 
did. Truly, Boromir, that is how it happened."

There was a profound silence, broken only by the crackle of the hearth fire, and 
the poisonous confession hung in the air between them. Faramir closed his eyes 
and grasped the back of his chair in a white-knuckled grip, feeling as though 
his whole world hung in the balance. If Boromir did not believe him… if he felt 
that Denethor was justified… Always before, when he and Denethor had argued, 
Boromir had defended him without ever questioning their father, dismissing the 
steward’s behavior because the tension between the lord of the city and his 
second son was as fundamental as bedrock in Boromir’s universe. Those bouts were 
simply part of the order of life, to be endured without question. Now, though, 
Faramir thought, that is changing. Boromir had been gone for long periods of 
time in the past three years; he was growing more independent as his skill at 
command increased, and he had begun to open his eyes to the possibility that 
there was something unnatural in Denethor’s relationship to Faramir.

Whatever had occurred in his meeting with the steward, though, had crystallized 
that possibility and stripped the blinders away. No longer could Boromir 
blithely assume that that basic hostility was a part of the Way of the World, 
and any fight might force him to take sides. But how could he? On the one hand, 
he loved his brother and trusted him implicitly; but on the other, he was loyal 
to Gondor, and what was Gondor if not the steward of the realm? And Denethor was 
their father; how could Boromir possibly commit such a double treachery and 
choose Faramir over lord and sire? How, if he should turn away from me? Faramir 
wondered. What would I have? Where would I find strength, or do I have it in me 
to stand alone… all alone forever? Still, Boromir said nothing, and Faramir 
began to feel desperate indeed. At last, he could stand the silence no longer. 
"Boromir? Speak, I beg you! What think you now?"

 

And Boromir, hearing the plea in his brother’s voice, cursed softly but 
intensely, and saw Faramir flinch as if from a blow. That hurt, but he supposed 
Faramir had reason to feel threatened today. "I am sorry, brother," he said 
heavily, "I do but curse my own blindness." A pause, then, "Can you forgive me?"

"Only do not turn away from me, and I would forgive you anything!" Faramir 
replied fervently.

"Good. And never doubt it: I will never turn away from you," Boromir said, and 
strode to stand before his brother. "Look at me!" Faramir raised his eyes, and 
he continued, "Father commands you to present yourself to him at the third hour 
tomorrow morning for instruction in your new post. But do not let him see that 
you fear him, or that you grieve for anything that has ever passed between you. 
From now on, Faramir, you are no longer simply Denethor’s son, you are an 
officer of the realm, and that demands a certain dignity… on both sides. Do you 
understand?" Faramir blinked, amazed to receive such advice from his brother, 
but Boromir was entirely correct. And how foolish was I not to see that aspect 
of it?

"I understand. I shall not disappoint you," he replied, and Boromir gave him a 
thin smile and nodded.

"I know you will not. Good night. And please," Boromir paused at the threshold, 
"do not dream!"

Faramir laughed at that, perhaps the first real laugh he had had for months. "If 
I do, I promise it shall not be of Númenor!" 




~~~~~



Chapter Three
See No More With the Eyes of a Child





For a wonder, Faramir did not dream that night, and when he awoke the next 
morning to a chill and cloud-streaked dawn, he felt refreshed. Throwing on warm 
clothes, he passed swiftly through the halls of the Citadel and came to the 
terrace before the tower. The wind was sharp and crisp, and carried frost upon 
its breath, but Faramir rejoiced to see gold glinting on the tips of the Ephel 
Duath, whose peaks showed black and sharply fang-like against the white eastern 
sky. The prince wended his way between puddles of water to the gate of the 
seventh circle, and with a polite salute to the guards there, went down into the 
sixth ring, with its armories and vast storehouses, where men clad in the 
uniform of Gondor went like hounds on the trail, fulfilling the errands of 
company quartermaster or armorer. The fifth circle held similar offices, 
smaller, however, and there were smithies and other guild houses lining the 
streets. Most of them were shut fast still against night and weather, but a few 
gave evidence of life: smoke curled thinly above a blacksmith’s shop as the 
forge warmed, and a weaver stood atop a barrel to open the stall hatch.

The fourth circle marked the beginning of the inhabited portions of the city, 
though it was by far the emptiest quarter to be found. Here lay the silent 
houses of great families long since extinct, and as Faramir passed between them, 
he felt as always the specter of those sad places—lifeless and bereft of 
purpose—and rather than walk, he gave into the impulse and sprinted the rest of 
the way to the gate. Down, down, down, he went, circle by circle, into ever 
thicker crowds as the city roused itself with the rising sun.

The second circle of Minas Tirith housed the few horses that the city-folk 
employed, and Faramir made for the stables closest to the gate that led into the 
first ring. As he approached, he espied a tall, broad figure clad in blue and 
grey, and lading a horse with saddle bags and bedroll. "Boromir!" His brother 
looked up and raised a hand in greeting before returning to his task. He 
adjusted the straps to hold the saddle bags in place, and then bent to tighten 
the cinch. Once he had everything to his liking, he straightened and turned to 
his brother with a smile. "Good morrow. You seem much improved today."

"I feel it, too," Faramir replied. "But even did I not, I should be sorry not to 
see you off, especially since it may be long before we see each other again."

"Aye," Boromir replied, and draped an arm comfortably about his brother’s 
shoulders as he urged the horse out onto the street. "I doubt I shall spend much 
time in Ithilien, but perhaps we may meet at Osgiliath, or at least have news of 
each other. For runners come often from the eastern lands. Send word when you 
can."

"I shall. And do you likewise." Faramir responded. A beat, and then in a low 
voice, "You know I depend upon you."

"Never fear but that I will," Boromir paused and glanced down at his brother, as 
there played about his face a trace of the uneasiness he bore still from the 
night before. "Are you certain of your course?"

"I am certain, Boromir," Faramir replied, meeting his brother’s eyes firmly. "I 
cannot stay here, but neither can I go with you. Ithilien is the only place for 
me, I think." Boromir considered this briefly, then gave a sharp nod.

"Very good. Remember that when things go ill, for there is no doubt that there 
will be hard times ahead of you. You are still, as they say, an ‘unblooded 
virgin’ and men do not look upon such as a good thing, particularly in an 
officer. Show sign of doubt, or falter even once, and you may lose them before 
you can prove yourself. Be thou then resolute as the sun, hm?"

"I did not know you heeded old verses," Faramir teased, surprised by the 
literary allusion.

"The phrase struck me, that is all," Boromir replied, shrugging off the implied 
compliment, but nonetheless clearly pleased by it. "Promise me once more that 
you will adhere to those verses you study so diligently?"

"I promise I shall take all your words to heart. I know now how to face father. 
You need not fear for me," said Faramir. "But, brother mine, I would have a 
promise from you as well. I… ." He halted, seeking the proper words. How does 
one tell the protector to protect himself? I know not even that he sees the 
danger, but if I warn him too bluntly, he will dismiss it out of hand. Strength 
can be turned so easily against itself… ."Promise me that you will not think 
overmuch upon the… events… of yesterday. I meant what I said: they do not bear 
remembering, and I would not have you troubled by them unnecessarily."

"You ask much," Boromir replied with a scowl, but he sighed and said, "Very 
well. I shall do as you wish, insofar as I am able." As they talked, they had 
wound their way down through the lowest level of the city, and now they paused a 
moment, for they had come to the main gates of Minas Tirith. Beyond the guard 
tower lay the open fields of the Pelennor, rain-wet, slick and glistening in the 
sun. Boromir’s arm tightened about his brother’s shoulders, and Faramir turned 
into the embrace, returning it. After a brief moment, they parted, and Boromir 
mounted his horse. "The third hour comes fast upon you. Get you hence, back to 
the tower, and tell father I send my greetings to him!" Then he touched spurs to 
the animal’s sides and he was gone at the gallop, leaving Faramir to stand and 
watch after him. When horse and rider had receded to a mere speck on the 
horizon, he turned and began the long, winding ascent back to the Citadel, and 
he did not look back. His mind was now upon other matters, for he had given much 
thought last night, after Boromir’s departure, as to how to make clear to his 
father the precedence that he gave their new relationship over that of father 
and son. He thought he had an answer that would, if not please Denethor, then at 
least be unmistakable without being cause for reprimand. I shall soon discover 
whether I read my father’s mood correctly in this! And woe to me if I have not!

 

* * *

Denethor’s mood was somber that morning, and he took no time for breakfast but 
went immediately to his bureau for paper and ink. As the sun rose higher, a 
steady stream of orders issued forth from his chambers, all of them bound for 
the Out-captains of Gondor, and the servants wondered at this burst of activity. 
Not that their lord was prone to idleness—never that!—but it seemed so sudden, 
this spate of revisions to standing orders. None knew what had prompted it, but 
many looked east with misgiving. As well they might! Denethor thought. He had 
seen many things last night that boded ill for Gondor, and he was determined to 
mitigate the ill-effects of their enemies’ probable intentions as much as 
possible. The steward closed his eyes as his esquire took the last batch of 
papers from him, and in that brief moment of solitude, he leaned his elbows on 
the table and massaged his temples against a coming headache. The palantír had 
been difficult to control last night: its visions had strayed over half of 
Gondor and parts of Mordor even, erratic and seemingly wayward. The cause of 
this behavior was not difficult even for Denethor to discern, for he knew well 
that the palantír had simply reflected his own inner turmoil back to him; the 
more he had tried to deny his emotions, the more confused the visions had 
become. After long hours of wrestling with himself and with the stone, 
exhaustion had worn away his ability to feel what lay beneath his frayed 
self-control, allowing him to observe in peace the areas south of Anduin. But 
there was no satisfaction in such a victory over his heart, coming as it did 
from without rather than from the exercise of his own self-discipline. And 
though he had slept at last on the cot in the tower room, he had awakened to the 
same dispirited edginess that had kept him in its grip the day before.

In fact, he knew that his morning activity, though logical in light of what he 
had learned the night before, was nothing more than an attempt to divert himself 
from the shadow of yestereve. Ever when trouble arose, the steward looked to 
find satisfaction in the doing of the one task to which he had been born, namely 
the governance and protection of Gondor. But this time the ploy failed, as it 
had yesterday, and his thoughts returned always to his sons. He had made his 
peace (mostly) with his behavior towards Faramir, and he would not permit 
himself another such outburst. But last night, even in the midst of his utmost 
efforts of concentration, Boromir’s voice and eyes had remained with him, and he 
was haunted by the sudden disappointment he had read in them, for in some deep 
place in his soul where honesty dwelt still, he knew that he could not stand to 
lose his son's affection. And so the part of himself which told sweetly 
plausible lies clung to the notion that Boromir would eventually let fall that 
incident, being generally unable to hold a grudge for long, unless it were 
against Mordor. His elder son had not his father’s disposition, nor his long 
memory. And he is too unsubtle in his own feelings to concern himself for long 
with what I told him. Boromir is not his brother, Denethor thought, feeling a 
bit of his own tension dissipate.

Thought of Faramir reminded him that the boy would come soon to learn his new 
duties, and Denethor grunted softly. In his mind, he saw a half-dozen names of 
men bound for Ithilien and fixed upon one in particular. Yes, I could send him 
with Hirandar in little less than a week; that would be short preparation, but 
it will be a lesson in the exigencies of service to the realm, hm? Yes. Denethor 
bent once more to paper and quill, writing out a new set of orders, to be 
delivered by Hirandar to the current commander of Ithilien, one Galdon of 
Ithilien, whose family had been among the last to be driven out of their 
ancestral lands, when Ecthelion had been a young man and newly steward of 
Gondor. Galdon would serve as captain for awhile still, then be transferred 
elsewhere, to Osgiliath, perhaps, where there was always need for a proven 
company commander. He also wrote out the confirmation of Faramir’s new office, 
making him a lieutenant of the realm with all the responsibility that that 
entailed.

No sooner had he finished that necessary task than a knock sounded. As his 
esquire had not yet returned, Denethor simply raised his voice and called, 
"Come!" Glancing up from the paper, he saw the door opened wide enough to admit 
the slender frame of his second son, who shut it quietly behind him. Then 
Faramir turned and squared his shoulders and strode forward at a measured pace 
until he reached the bureau. "Good morrow, sir," he said, "Boromir departed this 
morning ere the second hour, but he sends his greetings to his father." Faramir 
finished in a very even tone and Denethor noted well the resolution in those 
grey eyes. Apparently, Faramir, too, was unwilling to let his composure crack 
again, and he assumed now the reserve of a servant reporting to his master. It 
amused his father, but Denethor did not smile. If Faramir wished the meeting to 
be professional, then the steward had no objections.

"Good morrow and thank you, then." Denethor said gravely. He slid the writ of 
commission over the table top to Faramir, who studied it briefly and then gave a 
minute nod, though he seemed to catch his breath at the same time. "If you would 
accept the honors therein, then swear to me now."

Faramir glanced up quickly, meeting his father’s eyes, but if he had any 
protest, it died aborning and he nodded. Such an oath was normally made before 
investiture with an office, and usually it was public. But there was precedent 
for a more private ceremony, and as Faramir drew his sword and went down to one 
knee, he showed no trace of any emotion at all. He set the sword upright, 
resting it on its tip, and laid his hands upon the hilts, and began: "Here do I 
swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to 
speak and be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, 
in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord 
release me or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Faramir son of Denethor 
of Minas Tirith and steward of Gondor."

He spoke with quiet intensity, and the solemnity of the ancient formula was 
given new life in his mouth. And as he spoke, Faramir’s left hand slid along the 
blade, leaving a trail of blood, and Denethor’s eyes narrowed slightly in 
surprise. Blood-letting at oath-takings was older even than the words 
themselves, and was no longer a part of the formal ceremony, but Faramir seemed 
to wish that there be no mistaking his intentions. He had even used the correct 
hand, since a warrior would never jeopardize his ability to hold a blade, which 
meant that the boy had studied for this moment. And now he has bound me to a 
similar declaration of faith, the steward thought, feeling on the one hand irked 
at the implied challenge, but also admiring, in a grudging way, the manner of 
the challenge. I suppose one must admit that he has a certain style!

So he spoke in his turn, "And this do I hear, Denethor son of Ecthelion, Lord of 
Gondor and Steward of the High King and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward 
that which is given: fealty with love, valor with honor, oath-breaking with 
vengeance." And the blade darkened as his blood stained the opposite edge. 
Faramir did not flinch, and the look in his eyes as he gazed up at his father 
was one of grim satisfaction. "Now rise, Faramir of Gondor, and learn now your 
first duty," Denethor said, nonchalantly wrapping his cut hand in a handkerchief 
that he pulled from his pocket, unwilling to bleed on anything important. "I 
have dispatches for Ithilien that you will need to discuss with Galdon when you 
arrive. I expect that he will be a suitable teacher for you for the next two 
years before he moves to Osgiliath’s garrison, when you will inherit command. 
You will ride with Hirandar on the seventeenth of this month, and see that 
Galdon receives them. You will also be charged with helping to instruct the men 
in their new orders," Denethor handed over a copy of his earlier writing that he 
had retained for the occasion. Faramir glanced at his father for permission, 
then picked it up and read it. To Denethor’s watchful eye, the boy’s expression 
hardened at that, but he made no comment.

"It shall be as you order, sire," was all that he said.

"I expect no less. In four days you depart from this city. I shall look for word 
from you after the twenty-first of the next month. Go now and do what you must 
in preparation for the assumption of your duties," Denethor said by way of 
dismissal.

"Good day, Father," Faramir replied, bowing stiffly, and then he turned on his 
heel and left. Denethor looked after him a long moment, then began to chuckle 
low and sardonically, and he shook his head. "Well, so now I know what he thinks 
of me. ‘Good day Father’ indeed!" He fell silent, staring sightlessly for a 
moment into the empty space where Faramir had stood, and deep beneath the ice 
there kindled a spark of regret. It was a small thing, and perhaps there was no 
one left living who would have recognized its birth in that instant, but it 
remained, smoldering gently, until events fanned it briskly to life, and from 
there into an unconfined, all-consuming blaze. For the moment, however, Denethor 
tasted it only briefly, then set it aside, as he did all things that did not 
pertain to Gondor’s safety. Regret was not something he could afford. Not now, 
not when he had work to do.

* * *

Faramir stood atop the western tower again, but this time he did not come to 
brood, or to hide until his wounded center could repair itself enough to endure 
the eyes of others. This time he came merely to reflect, and to taste the free 
air as it swept in off the slopes of the Ered Nimrais. The cut on the palm of 
his hand smarted, but he paid it no more heed than he did the bruise that 
discolored his right cheek. There, I have done it! Let father look no longer to 
me as wayward son, let him now deal with me simply as one of his men. Let him 
look to my deeds as deeds done for Gondor, and not as my deeds. He took a deep 
breath, and indulged himself for one moment in a fervent wish that it might have 
been otherwise—that he, like Boromir, could one day be both son and captain for 
Denethor. But father would scorn such fantasies, and perhaps he would be right. 
I must not let my gaze go solely westward, to what was; I must learn to look 
more carefully east, to what is. Before him rose the Ephel Duath, and Faramir, 
now a lieutenant of Gondor, left the tower and came there never again.



~~~~



Chapter Four
Growing Pains



 Forest-clad slopes showed dusky green and red in the afternoon, and a wet, 
musty scent of damp leaves and grass suffused the valley. The air shimmered 
with a haze that had lingered throughout the day, though now sun beams pierced 
the mists and shone gold-white upon the land, glinting off Anduin in the west. 
Moist and enigmatic, the trees swayed coyly in the light breeze, seeming to 
hide a mystery beneath their branches, promising to reveal it if only one would 
venture down into their midst. Peace, they seemed to promise, and forgetfulness 
were for the taking if a Man would dare their twisting green-grown trails. An 
enchanting fantasy, but Faramir, now captain of Ithilien, knew it for a lie, 
for he had walked under the eaves of the forest and seen the carnage that lay 
hidden under the leaf-laden branches. Indeed, he had wrought it: there lay now 
in that valley Orcs aplenty, and their dark blood was mingled with the scarlet 
of human blood.

It needed a strong force to pry those horses from the Rohirrim, Faramir thought 
wearily, gingerly probing his ribs which ached from a particularly strong blow. 
He would be sore for weeks but the bones were not cracked, fortunately. And 
truly, I was fortunate: we have not had such a hard-fought battle since I came 
here, five years ago. The Rohirrim must have taken heavy losses from this band! 
At least we recovered some of the horses. It was, perhaps, cold comfort compared 
to the number of steeds that the Orcs had butchered rather than allowing them to 
fall back into enemy hands, but at least those that were lost would never be 
slaves in Durthang. And though Faramir had never been one to believe too firmly 
in the notion that death was always preferable to dishonor, he had never doubted 
that death was a blessing if it meant escaping the rape of one’s very essence at 
the hands of Mordor’s foul brood. To be twisted and changed, alienated so 
thoroughly from oneself as to be unrecognizable–that he feared as he feared 
little else, and his hatred of Mordor was intimately rooted in his horrified 
loathing of its ruined creatures.

Ironic, is it not? For would I be so very certain in this matter had I not some 
experience with such twisting? He thought, and a hard smile played at the 
corners of his mouth. No one who had lovingly read the history of Minas Tirith 
and of Gondor could escape the cruel fact that any contact with the Enemy, even 
in the form of resistance, carried a certain taint. The glory of that tall, 
proud city had become firmly linked with battle and slaying, rather than with 
the wisdom and beauty that its founders had sought to embody in its white walls. 
And of course, he was intimately familiar with the manner in which his father 
had been twisted by the burden of defense against Mordor, to the point that for 
Denethor son of Ecthelion, there was very little of worth beyond that mortal 
struggle for the protection of Gondor. It was an inhuman effort in the service 
of an abstraction, and if it kept the boundaries of Gondor intact, it begat also 
the cruelty, intentional or otherwise, that had poisoned the steward’s family.

With a sigh, Faramir gazed down at trees and drew in a deep breath 'til his 
lungs felt ready to burst, then he exhaled slowly. Fair Ithilien, jewel in the 
crown of Gondor! Despite his earlier judgment of the forest, he had fallen 
instantly under its spell from the moment he had set foot under its shadow five 
years ago. Ithilien was for him a haven, be it peopled with monsters. It was not 
simply that Ithilien was a beautiful country, or that the land had a long and 
noble history; it had literally been his salvation as well. In five years, he 
had learned at last to trust himself, and to serve Gondor as befit his station 
in life. He had gained a measure of independence here, and a new perspective, 
and most importantly he had gained the trust of his men, and even friendship. 
Behind him, and below, on the leeward side of the shelf came a cry, and Faramir 
closed his eyes, counting heartbeats, wondering what brutality had just been 
inflicted on some poor man in the name of healing. The battle had ended early 
this morning, and the surgeons had for the most part done what they could for 
those most in need and were now occupied by injuries which required more careful 
labor… and occasionally a hard decision, such as whether to amputate or hope 
that their repairs were sufficient. Worse still was the need to decide whether 
poisoned cuts could be cured, or whether the coup-de-grâce was the only "cure" 
left to a man whose agony had but one end.

"My lord." Faramir recognized the tenor’s owner without needing to turn. Galdon, 
originally captain of the regiment and, for the past three years now, his 
lieutenant, had come silently up to his side. Denethor had wanted to transfer 
him to Osgiliath once Faramir had been promoted, but Galdon had requested to 
remain at Faramir’s side, and with some carefully worded arguments, Faramir had 
managed to retain his services. And he was glad of that, for Galdon, though 
fourteen years his senior, was a good man, and a wise counselor who had looked 
beyond the untried boy and seen the man he could become with the proper 
guidance. Discreet and loyal, Faramir counted him as a friend in spite of the 
gap of rank and age that stood between them, for he was one of few with whom he 
could speak in confidence.

"What matter brings you here, Galdon?" he asked in a low voice, bracing himself.

"Captain," Galdon said and there was grief in his voice, "Hirandar just died." 
Hirandar. The messenger with whom he had set out that fateful day, and whom he 
had grown to like in spite of his morose humor. Hirandar, who had lost his left 
arm today. The surgeons had thought he might survive, since he had not died of 
shock immediately. But now he will go never more to Minas Tirith, nor return to 
my comfort! Faramir bowed his head, and wondered when he forgotten how to cry. 
It must have been early on, perhaps after the second battle he had commanded. 
Before, he had always managed to hide his tears, but at some point, they had 
simply refused to come anymore.

"I see. Thank you for telling me," Faramir replied in a low voice. Once I wished 
never to weep again, and now I find I envy those who can. There are many things 
that I have lost, and that I looked to lose, which I miss now. Chief among them, 
to his great surprise, was the old relationship that he and his father had 
‘enjoyed,’ if such a word could be used without doing it undue violence. Though, 
of course, what we had was violent, and remains so, under its cloak! Denethor no 
longer flayed him with his scorn as he once had, granted, and he treated Faramir 
as simply another officer; but if Faramir could never truly satisfy his father, 
no matter how expertly he carried out his orders, there was an element of 
dissociation in the steward’s appraisal of his performance. It was not a 
cavalier dismissal of himself as captain, for Denethor was too cold an analyst 
for such nonsense, but it was clear that he looked no further into Faramir’s 
deeds than was necessary. And if there was never praise, there was often some 
minute fault that Denethor would gravely point out to him, and Faramir could 
only accept the remonstrance in silence. Almost, I wish we could argue–truly 
argue, as we once did, though it was mostly father berating, while I said ‘yea’ 
or ‘nay’ as needed when he paused. It hurt, yes, but at least it was personal, 
something that attached solely to me because I was his son. Now we have nothing, 
it seems, and when I say ‘Father’ the word tastes foul upon my tongue. How 
strange, to miss what once I cursed! But I cannot return to the past, any more 
than Father can!

"It is hard to go back," Galdon said evenly, and Faramir blinked, surprised by 
the sudden intrusion into his most private thoughts. "I would often come to a 
place like this afterwards, and I would loathe the thought of returning to make 
myself look upon the misery I had wrought, and all in the name of Gondor." He 
speaks of war… he speaks of war, not of family! Faramir felt an almost painful 
relief at that, and so swiftly did terror release him from its grip that he 
nearly laughed at himself. Of course, Galdon could not know how things stood 
between the Steward and his captain, any more than he could sail into the harbor 
of Valinor.

"It is indeed," Faramir replied softly, careful to reveal nothing of his 
preoccupied reflections. Galdon must have sensed his omission, but he seemed to 
take it for the invitation of one still new to the burden of command, for he 
continued: "‘Tis the price one pays for the title one bears: unlike others, a 
captain or a lord must always look on the pain he has wrought, and accept that 
he had no choice but to cause it. It never grows easier, and I am glad it does 
not. There are some things to which no Man should be able to accustom himself."

Faramir drew a deep breath and nodded. "You speak wisely, as always, Galdon. And 
I thank you for all your many kind words. Tomorrow," he continued, broaching the 
subject that had been eating at him all day, "I must return to Minas Tirith, 
with such men as are swift riders, to return the horses to the city, and thence 
to Rohan. I know not how long I shall be gone, for I think the lord of the city 
may have words for me, but I entrust the men to your care and leadership while I 
am gone."

"I shall keep them for you until you come again to fair Ithilien. And if you 
will, I can alert some of the men to ready themselves to accompany you," the 
older man replied. Then he paused, "One always misses home on a long 
deployment." Faramir smiled inwardly at the unvoiced question, namely: why do 
you never speak of it, when every other man in the company does? It was, 
perhaps, the one topic that Galdon pressed him about, however gently, suspecting 
something must be amiss in a young man who never seemed homesick. At the same 
time, his lieutenant could not, perhaps, imagine that this secret was tied to 
something harmful.

"I do miss Minas Tirith, but one cannot dwell upon that, can one?" Faramir 
replied, making himself seem determinedly noncommital, and was glad when Galdon, 
after a minute hestitation, accepted his answer and asked no more. And in truth, 
he did miss the city to which he had been born: he missed her grace, and the 
history of her streets, and the beauty that she sought to embody and preserve, 
the symbol of all that Númenor had to offer in contrast to the "gifts" of the 
Dark Lord. But he did not wish to return to the Tower of the Guard to report to 
his father. For though Galdon had meant only to comfort him with advice in 
matters of war, his words struck close to Faramir’s heart, only too accurate in 
their blind flight. For even Denethor’s coldness held less dread for him than 
seeing the scars that he had wrought on his father’s soul. There were those, he 
knew, who would excuse him even those injuries that had been drawn with intent 
in the heat of anger, but Faramir knew better. Whatever his intentions, he was 
the author responsible for the existence of those wounds; in that light, he was 
little better than his father. Worse still, in their own way, were his 
infrequent meetings with his brother, who had laid himself open to such wounds 
as only family could deal for the sake of the brother he loved … because his 
love and a noble spirit demanded no less, no matter that Faramir had never asked 
for such a sacrifice. At least those scars were gained willfully, he thought 
sadly, wondering whether the pain would ever cease.

What matters it if it does? I still could not undo what has been done already, 
and I would be foolish indeed to set my heart on such a hope! Faramir sighed. 
With a certain reluctance, he turned from the view over Ithilien, and laying a 
hand on Galdon’s shoulder in silent thanks, he descended from that high place 
and went to face his men. Tomorrow he would leave, and he owed them his presence 
and what comfort he could give in the time that he had. In the end, he did not 
really resent this duty, painful though it be. How could he, when they had 
already given him so much? And truly, it would do neither him nor his father nor 
anyone good to continue brooding on matters that he could not change.

But when they had nearly reached the base of the shelf, Galdon paused, and 
touched Faramir’s arm, staying him. Galdon’s dark eyes searched his face, and 
Faramir could see the concern in them, and a most unusual indecision. Finally, 
he cleared his throat and said in a low voice meant only for his captain’s ears, 
"I am always at your service, my lord–since the first day you arrived, I knew I 
could not leave you, and later, I realized that I would not. As your lieutenant, 
such concerns as you choose to confide in me become mine, and I hope that I have 
never disappointed you as such. But if you will excuse my forwardness, as a man 
who would be a friend and no more than that, if there is something that troubles 
you, I am at your disposal." Those deep, dark eyes caught and held Faramir’s 
gaze, and the hand on his arm tightened briefly, then relaxed as it dropped 
away. Faramir swallowed (unobtrusively, he hoped) and after a moment, he nodded.

"That means much to me, Galdon." Faramir paused a moment, then continued 
earnestly, "Think not that I lack confidence in you, or that I do not wish your 
friendship, but there are some concerns that… are not mine to tell. You 
understand." Galdon’s lips tightened, but then they quirked into a slight, sad 
grin, and he nodded.

"Of course." They continued on in silence, and Faramir felt his heart pounding, 
but in a joyous rhythm for having found such a friend who, out of concern and in 
defiance of Gondor’s stratified ranks, would risk his commander’s ire to broach 
a topic that Faramir clearly wished to ignore. So it was that it was with a good 
heart that he returned to the camp, and to the men he called his own.



~~~~~



Chapter Five
Yea, Though I Walk in the Shadows...



*Chapter title comes from the old line "Yea though I walk through the valley of 
the shadow of death, I shall not fear." I think you'll know why by the end of 
this little chapter. Amazing how they get shorter as I go on!*



 Boromir spurred his mount onward, watching the ground fall away about him and 
his men as they drew nearer their target. The pounding of the horses’ hooves 
kept pace with his heart, and sent a low thrill of grim anticipation coursing 
through his veins. It was a familiar feeling, battle lust, and Boromir tasted 
his own fear, as it nibbled at the edge of his awareness, savoring it, even, 
for fear conquered made victory the sweeter. A speck on the horizon resolved 
itself into figures: Men standing guard alongside great wains, on which was 
piled timber. All were bound, he knew, for Umbar and the new ships of the 
Corsairs, but the wood was by right Gondor’s, for the plains of Harad were 
barren. They look to steal from us in order to use what is ours against our own 
people! Against my people! Let them look elsewhere, then, or suffer the 
consequences! Boromir had learned of the theft by chance, having gone to 
Lebennin on an errand for his father, and he had been in the hall of the lord 
of the Ethir region when an Ithilien runner had arrived with the news. Boromir 
had recognized the man, one Culadîn, one of his brother’s best-trusted 
messengers, and swift as a hare at need. From him had he learned that the 
southern company had not the strength to challenge the Haradrim, being more 
dispersed than their northern brethren, and had come to ask the aid of Dalruin, 
Lord of the Ethir, in repelling them.

Loath had Dalruin been to spare the men necessary for such an assault, but he 
had bowed in the end to Boromir’s arguments. "Who will bear the brunt of the 
consequences if we allow our enemy to build his fleet? Not Minas Tirith, but the 
folk of the Ethir," he had pointed out, and Dalruin had at last relinquished 
command to him. Boromir had persuaded him even to spare horses enough for a 
small number of riders. And so now they were irrevocably committed, for by now, 
the Haradrim had spotted him, and their ranks began to form up against the 
on-coming wedge of cavalry. And though they had among them only beasts of 
burden, in truth they had little to fear from the small band approaching them on 
the broad road.

In fact, it was a very risky attack, more so than Boromir had been willing to 
admit to the reluctant Dalruin. For the Haradrim, as Culadîn had confided, were 
numerous and heavily armed, as well they might be given that they were in enemy 
territory, and they were fierce fighters. But that the rest of his borrowed 
forces were already lying in ambush, Boromir would never have ordered a charge 
such as he now led except in desperate circumstances. A company of Lebennin’s 
infantry, accompanied by men out of southern Ithilien, waited in the brush ahead 
of the line of wagons, and Boromir had not revealed his dozen riders until a 
scout had confirmed that all was in readiness. There was of course the chance 
that something would still go wrong, but Boromir was willing to face the odds. 
Spear-men had by now formed a line before the wagons, and still the riders bore 
down upon those gleaming pales as if seeking death. Boromir watched that line 
tense, preparing for the shock of impact, of violent collision and the mayhem of 
battle… and then with a hue and cry, the ambush was sprung as men clad in 
Gondor’s colors, or the green and brown of Ithilien, rushed in from behind.

In an instant, the cavalry-trap wavered, gaps opening, as men fell to blows from 
behind and others began to turn to counter this new threat. Only a small knot of 
Haradrim spear-men held firm, clustered tight, and Boromir spurred straight at 
them. His own men spread out, flanking him in a wide V, as their horses’ 
pounding strides swallowed the last few yards between them and their enemies. 
Always in battle, there is a moment of perfect, crystal clarity that forever 
marks it in a warrior’s mind, and for Boromir, charging into the teeth of the 
Haradrim defense, that moment centered upon the grimacing face of the man 
directly before him. Later, he would be able to recall the man’s face–eyes dark 
as jet set in a face no older than his, and though fear leeched the color from 
those tan cheeks his enemy was clearly just as determined as he himself was. He 
would remember the sparkle of finely-threaded earrings; the way his hair hung 
close about his face, weighed down by the black and red beads at the ends of 
long strands; the etching on the wrist-guards–minute details that gave him a 
strangely intimate portrait of this one soldier, and then all was swept away by 
the chaos of collision. Boromir leaned back and kneed his horse, which, obedient 
to his command, leapt. Men ducked instinctively, and then he was in their midst, 
though his horse staggered as it came down, gored the length of its body by a 
spear tip. Men fell before him, and Boromir saw most of the cavalry break 
through cleanly, complete a skidding turn, and charge back for another pass. His 
own mount had its head down, panting in agony, so he dismounted and plunged into 
the fray on foot.

It was a brief, but intense struggle, but in the end, the Haradrim ranks were 
broken utterly, as Boromir’s men swept through them, cutting down those who 
turned to flee, driving them before them. The Men of Harad fell back, and their 
defense disintegrated before the onslaught. In the space of minutes, the battle 
was over and Gondor held the field, to the relief and elation of its soldiers.

Later that evening, as they rested in Dalruin’s hall, Boromir went alone to the 
edge of the camp before the keep, and watched his men as they celebrated, 
laughing and talking as they stood or sat about the fires. There was an 
uncomplicated joy in their fellowship that Boromir found attractive. Of late he 
looked often to such simple emotion for relief from his own underlying concerns 
and conflicted feelings, and immediately his thoughts turned to Faramir, away 
north somewhere. Did his brother stand over similar gatherings and wrestle with 
demons at nights? Likely it is that he does so more than I do! Boromir thought, 
knowing his brother’s penchant for headwork. Though not given to the sort of 
intense and frequent self-reflection that Faramir was, Boromir had nonetheless 
become aware of a malaise that had crept over him with the passing years. 
Sometimes it seemed to him vague, especially when he was in the field with his 
men, and had tasks to occupy him. At such times, he dismissed it as simply a 
passing fit, an unworthy thing. But when he had space to think, then did the 
doubts arise.

Boromir had done his best to fulfill his promise to Faramir, to think no more on 
what he had seen and heard the day that he had prevailed upon their father to 
send Faramir to Ithilien. But what is one day, compared to the ten years that 
came before it? What means that one day when I have all of the years since then 
to reflect upon? Indeed, what meant his own love, unabated yet twisted somehow, 
for his father when he could see now for himself how cruel Denethor could be, 
whether or not he intended it? Denethor’s eldest son had not yet learned how to 
love with less than his whole heart, but he found that there was a sense of 
guilty ambivalence when he thought of his father. And that guilt spilled also 
over onto the love he had for Faramir, rendering it ambiguous. Is it truly love 
that I feel for my brother, if I love also the father who torments him with his 
coldness? Boromir found himself asking the stars at night. And what ought I to 
do? Surely I have some responsibility for my brother, but how does one protect 
him against his own father? Have I failed him yet again? If there were an 
answer, it remained silent, hidden, and Boromir found himself dreading the 
returns to Minas Tirith. Strangely, once he was there, the dread dissipated, 
though he knew not why. It is as if father casts a spell on me, and when I am 
with him, then do my doubts die! To his shame, there was an element within him 
that craved that certainty, however false, and when distance had severed the 
link that held him in thrall to Denethor’s mysterious power, he cringed and was 
filled with disgust. Then did he desire all the more certainty of another kind, 
for the instant he left the confines of the city walls, he began to fall again 
into that well of darkness where lay the doubts and the skepticism that ate 
quietly away at his ability to trust.

That was why he stood now watching his men, for the vicarious peace that 
accompanied the sight and sound of their joy over having survived once more. In 
truth, war in itself was less troublesome to him than many things: in war, the 
enemy was forthright in declaring himself as such, and the means to settle the 
issue were direct. It is not that I take lightly the danger that Mordor 
presents, he thought, trying to puzzle out his own confused convictions, I know 
well that this war can end only in triumph or utter destruction for Gondor, or 
indeed, for all of Middle-earth. For assuredly only a fool could ignore that the 
storm was coming, and that Minas Tirith would soon be an atoll alone in the 
darkness. And yet, the Dark Lord in his simple hatred for the West troubled him 
less than other things. It was honest hatred, if evil, and Boromir knew there 
could be no compromise with the power of Mordor. The prospect of dying in a 
hopeless fight was not appealing, but neither did it inspire in him the dread 
anguish that others felt as they woke to the power of the east. If that made him 
a hero, then so be it, but that was not why he greeted war with a sense of 
relief.

Perhaps Faramir feels this too, he thought. He knew from his brother’s not 
infrequent letters, and from the dispatches that he saw, that his brother had 
grown to be a good commander, and that his men loved and trusted him. The more 
hopeless the years grew, the more Faramir proved himself in the eyes of Gondor’s 
soldiery, though he still stood second to Boromir’s reputation. Could it be that 
Faramir, too, longed for the simple, for a battle that he could fight openly and 
well, and without having to doubt himself? Boromir turned his face north-east, 
knowing that somewhere in the night, his brother kept watch upon the woods, and 
he was stricken with a sudden and poignant desire to see him again. It had been 
almost seven years since that terrible day in the Citadel, and they had met 
perhaps three times since Faramir had gone to Ithilien. I want to see his face, 
and look into his eyes, and know that he is well! Letters are too apt to 
conceal, too ambiguous for me to decipher all that lies behind them. If I could 
see him, I would be certain of him, and of myself. But the time was unripe, and 
he had no cause to journey that far north. Between them lay Minas Tirith, 
whither he was bound with the rising sun, and Boromir felt a prickle of 
foreboding, a prescience that was gone too swiftly for him to grasp. With an 
inward sigh, Boromir made himself put aside such thoughts, and he drifted into 
the firelight, where he was greeted by his men. They need me. They depend upon 
me, and I cannot fail them as I failed Faramir. I have that at least!

And yet he looked north, and his thoughts were not upon the victory of the day. 
Already he looked ahead, with an eagerness that others might find fey, and 
wondered where the next battle lay.




~~~~~~~



Chapter Six
After Osgiliath




On a warm summer’s eve, as the air begins to cool at last, the earth seems to 
exhale, as if in relief, and casts up a warm, humid scent that acquires a 
delicious flavor as it rises through the grass and the river-reeds. That scent 
trickled through the veils of oblivion, and Faramir breathed it in deeply of a 
sudden, and felt the air burn sweetly down his throat before he coughed 
painfully. The spasm was slow to pass, and he felt hands on his shoulders, 
restraining him as he gasped for air as memories sprang up and crowded so thick 
behind his eyes he could scarcely comprehend them. I was drowning! The Enemy… 
the bridge…! In bits and pieces, the battle came back to him, and as the 
coughing fit subsided at last, he opened his eyes to a star-backed outline.

"Easily, brother, just breathe quietly awhile," a well-loved voice coaxed in the 
darkness.

"B-Boromir? You… you live!" Faramir stammered, amazed and relieved.

"Aye, thanks to you," his brother replied, and kept a hand on his back, 
supporting him firmly as Faramir sat up. He felt battered and bruised, and his 
muscles ached, but miraculously, he had taken no serious hurt. He did shiver, 
though, for his clothes were quite damp still. "Had you not thrown me aside, the 
horsemen would have ridden me down as they crossed," Boromir continued. "I lost 
you for a time when the bridge fell, but fortune must smile upon you, son of 
Denethor, for I came upon you again lying half out of the river not half a mile 
from where I ended."

"I thought I would drown," Faramir replied slowly, shaking his head in awe at 
the fact of his survival. He recalled dimly clawing his way out of Anduin, and 
then throwing up a small lake’s worth of water before collapsing, unconscious, 
upon the river bank. "I knew not even whether I had gone east or west." He 
glanced at the two sets of mail lying discarded in a sodden heap. "The mail was 
too heavy…"

"I think not many of those who stood with us can have survived. There were none 
between you and I, and I followed the river downstream to you," Boromir said 
darkly, and glanced back north towards the reddish glow that lit the night sky. 
"Osgiliath is burning upon the east shore and the bridge is destroyed. For all 
the good that it did!" His voice was bitter, and Faramir peered closely at him 
in the darkness, alarmed. It had been long—ten years at least—since he and his 
brother had served closely together, and Faramir had now nineteen years of 
bloody experience in Ithilien. Neither he nor Boromir had passed through those 
years unscathed or unchanged, and both knew it. Faithful to their promises, the 
brothers had written each other as often as they could, sending their own 
messages alongside the dispatches that Ithilien runners regularly brought from 
Henneth Annûn to Osgiliath, and vice versa. Of late their correspondence had 
become more sporadic, for in the last four years, Boromir had spent increasingly 
more time in Minas Tirith, and Faramir knew how hard that was for him.

It was not simply that Boromir, being a man of action, preferred to remain among 
his men rather than command from afar in safety; there had crept into his 
occasional letters a note of cynicism, of disillusionment that Faramir found 
cause for worry. It was in Boromir’s nature to be idealistic to the point of 
fault, and he had never been one to bear continuous frustration well, but for 
him to lose heart? For him to doubt the good that he and his people had 
accomplished, even at so high a cost? That had never seemed a possibility 
before. And yet perhaps I ought not to be surprised, Faramir thought with no 
small chagrin. Perhaps I underestimate him. After all, once I would have said 
that nothing could shake his faith in our father, but then he opened his eyes. 
Faramir knew that his brother had begun to argue harder with Denethor, both for 
his own needs and in other matters. Indeed, ever since that night nineteen years 
ago, an edge of strain had entered very quietly into Boromir’s relationship with 
their father. It was a strangely passive thing given that Boromir usually 
feigned no pretense, and it waxed and waned with proximity, but it was there and 
constant: a subtle disharmony that put Boromir off not only from his father but 
from the title ‘steward.’

So Faramir read it, at least, from letters and from their increasingly rare 
encounters. That splinter of doubt, so foreign to his brother’s constitution, 
made itself known most tellingly through the exacerbation of childhood desires 
for glory. It had become increasingly more important to Boromir to have renown 
for its own sake, as something separate from that which he would gain from the 
stewardship. Ever he pushed and prodded, seeking danger ever more recklessly in 
the hope, perhaps, of finding in the luster of battle-glory and the willing 
adulation of Gondor’s people something clean—something untouched by the shadow 
of resentment that bred quietly between father and son. But given the origin of 
such a desire, Faramir knew only too well that it was a vain hope. He only 
wished he knew how to speak to his brother on this matter, but the proper 
occasion seemed elusive. Or else, Faramir thought sadly, my wisdom, however 
little it might be, fails in this instance. I have made my own peace with 
father, however one-sided, but I cannot see my way to helping Boromir achieve a 
similar truce.

"Your men gave their lives to prevent the Dark Lord’s army from crossing the 
bridge. And they succeeded in large measure. You do them a disservice to doubt 
it," Faramir said softly, seeking to turn his brother’s mind from such 
recrimination, mistrusting his brother’s mood. There came a noise, as of 
skeptical resignation, but Boromir did not speak for a long while, staring off 
into the distance.

When he did, he said quietly, "You speak rightly, of course."

Faramir made no answer–what more, indeed, could he say?–and they lapsed silent 
again. From all about them came the night sounds of Gondor: frogs in the reeds, 
and the hum of crickets, and of course the rush of water down Anduin’s great 
channel. Listening, Faramir felt suddenly an overwhelming desire to sleep, worn 
out after the evening’s long and bloody struggle followed by a swim in the river 
in full mail suit. Images of the battle flashed through his mind in a disjointed 
fashion: the charge of the Haradrim, and the coming of the great shadow and its 
deadly terror; the slow retreat, hastened in places where that darkness struck; 
step by step until the few remaining defenders were upon the bridge proper and 
still giving ground. If he closed his eyes, or looked too long into the empty 
spaces of the night, he could see all over again the shadows come rushing 
towards them, trampling even their own ranks in a last bid to gain the bridge 
before the western defenders could destroy it. He had thrown himself at Boromir, 
intent on pushing him out of the way before it was too late. They had hit the 
side of the bridge hard, and both had lain stunned. Indeed, he had only just 
scrambled to his feet when the bridge had heaved beneath him. Máhal fired the 
supports, he recalled, we were thrown into the river, and there were stones the 
size of a man falling all about us. I saw Galdon struck by one, and he went 
under and did not come up again. Rest him well! Anduin ran red about me. It was 
enough to make a man sick, but Faramir had seen too much bloodshed and stomachs 
got used to everything with time, he supposed.

Presently, Boromir sighed and stood, rising into a bone-popping stretch. Then he 
held out a hand and Faramir, grasping it, was pulled to his feet. A moment they 
stood there, hands clasped, and neither seemed willing to speak. Finally, 
though, Boromir said, "I doubt not that we could both sleep for days, but I 
think we ought to make our way back to Osgiliath tonight. After the confusion of 
that battle, the men will need to know you and I are alive." Faramir nodded, 
recognizing the wisdom of that plan.

"Let us go, then," he said simply. The brothers passed through the land: grey 
shadows beneath the sky, survivors granted another lease on life, though they 
knew not for how long.

 ***

The news, upon their weary return to the west bank of Osgiliath, was both good 
and bad. Good, in that the bulk of Mordor’s forces had been denied passage over 
Anduin, and the wreck of the bridge meant they need not fear another attempt for 
some time. The men were overjoyed that their captains had survived, but it was a 
grave welcome they gave nonetheless, for many had been lost in the battle of the 
bridge. The eastern garrisons had been devastated: of those who had been 
retained upon the opposite shore, there were but four survivors, including the 
brothers. As for the rest, they had died to a man in the final onslaught. 
Faramir, relieving Tarodin of the Ithilien command, missed Galdon 
especially–missed his quiet but stalwart presence, and his dark eyes that 
softened whenever he welcomed his captain back from some perilous venture. He 
tried not to think of all those who lay in a watery grave among the fallen 
stones of Osgiliath, busying himself instead with imposing order upon the chaos 
of his command. But he could not ignore that his people, having been primarily 
stationed east of Anduin–for that territory they knew best–had taken much higher 
losses per unit than had Osgiliath’s garrison, which was evenly split between 
the banks. And how will father take that, when he compares my report with 
Boromir’s? He wondered. I do not need him to tell me what I have lost!

He should not have to think of such things, but he did, and then he laughed 
softly at himself for his earlier thoughts. So I have made my peace with father? 
Indeed! And here stand I, worrying about what he will think of me. I ought not 
to look askance at Boromir when I cannot control myself! That helped him to 
regain his balance, and he wondered if it was merely exhaustion that brought 
those latent feelings to the fore. It matters not! Faramir sighed and of a 
sudden decided to walk a bit, to clear his mind before going to bed. For though 
his eyes were ready to close of their own accord, he could not seem to rest 
though he knew not why. Something nagged at him, just below the surface, and he 
was perhaps too tired even to glean it and so be free of it. So instead he 
wandered through the camp, picking his way carefully through the sleeping ranks. 
Of their own volition, it seemed, his feet guided him to his brother's tents, 
and he hesitated. There was light within, but he heard nothing to indicate that 
Boromir was about. After a moment's hesitation, he ducked inside, letting the 
flap fall shut behind him. There was a small, partly shuttered lamp upon a low 
table, but the tent was empty. Well, Faramir thought, sitting down on the edge 
of the cot pitched in a corner, I will wait for him. In truth, I know not even 
why I came, for what have we to speak of… other than everything? And much of 
that we try to ignore, for it concerns our father. But… I think I will wait 
nonetheless. Sitting there, gazing about at his brother's scattered belongings, 
he thought of how very long it had been since they had been able to talk, face 
to face, without fear of interruption. Not that he intended to do that tonight, 
for both of them craved rest. But perhaps a few words, just the assurance that 
they would soon have that conversation, and then he would be gone. Yes, I think 
that will do me good, for I would speak to him ere we leave for Minas Tirith… 
ere we speak to father. Surely he will return soon.

***

Boromir returned at last from a walk round the perimeter of the camp. It had 
been an impulsive round, for there was no need in fact for him to check upon the 
defenses tonight. Yet it was a part of his routine, and he had felt unable to 
sleep until he had finished that last chore. Now, though, his tasks were done 
for the remainder of the night, and he felt a weariness such as he had seldom 
felt in his life as he made his way to his tents. Let me sleep deep and dream 
not! He thought tiredly, lifting the flap and then stepping within. And then he 
paused, a look of astonished puzzlement crossing his face. Before him, curled up 
on his cot, lay Faramir, and from his brother's slow breathing, he guessed he 
had been asleep some time now. Faramir was still fully clothed, wrapped in one 
of his older cloaks, and he pillowed his dark head upon one arm. Boromir shook 
his head finally, and laughed softly so as not to disturb him. Well, it has been 
long indeed since he has done that! Quietly stripping off his cloak, Boromir 
wadded it up and tossed it into a corner. He pulled his boots off, debated 
ridding himself of his shirt and decided against it. He crept to his brother's 
side and considered the problem for a few moments. I could wake him, send him 
off to his bed… but if he is that tired, I should be sorry to rouse him! It is 
not as if I there is any danger of someone discovering him here, since I wake 
before the guard changes. With a soft sigh, he eased his younger brother 
carefully to one side and lay down next to him. It was a warm night, so he 
forsook the blanket, feeling the heat of Faramir's body at his back to be warmth 
enough.

Thus nestled together, the brothers slept, and waited upon dreams. 






~~~~~~


Chapter Seven
Dreams




 Dark was the land as it lay under shadow, and the stars and moon were quenched, 
so that it was not possible to tell where earth met sky and so ended. Darkness 
unutterable wreathed the unwary traveler in its foul vapors and laughed at the 
fear it incited; and yet it was not complete, for far away—west, instinct 
insisted, though there was no sign to tell direction—there gleamed one 
desperate patch of light. There, the darkness swirled and gnawed, but ever the 
light grew brighter, blinding the onlooker.

And from that light came a voice, crying loudly yet the words were faint, partly 
stifled by the brooding shadows:

Seek for the Sword that was Broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

That Doom is near at hand,

For Isildur's Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.*

Echoing in the void, those words rang out, seeming to grow in strength rather 
than diminish 'til there was no escaping them. The Darkness, too, seemed to cry 
out, though in anguish that smote the heart and brought even the bravest to his 
knees. And still the echoes continued:

Doom is near at hand…

Isildur's Bane shall waken… Isildur's Bane…

the Halfling forth shall stand…

stand… stand….

….STAND—

—"Enough!" Boromir woke suddenly, and knew not whether he had spoken aloud his 
plea. At the moment it mattered not, for he felt someone else near him, and 
instinctively he leapt up, hand going to his belt in search of a weapon. In the 
dim light a silhouette crouched across from him, tense and waiting, but as they 
stared at each other, fear gave way to relief as memory returned. "Faramir!" 
Boromir sighed, and straightened. He turned and groped atop the table for a 
match. Finding one, he struck it and lit the candle, which he then held aloft. 
In the flickering light, the lean shadow gained a face: beyond the cot, which 
had been overturned by their violent wakening, his brother stood, blinking in 
the light. Faramir passed a hand before his eyes and shook his head as if in 
embarrassed chagrin, for in his left hand gleamed a dagger. He, unlike Boromir, 
had fallen asleep armed.

"Valar be praised that stayed my hand!" he muttered and sheathed the weapon. 
Then he frowned at his brother, and asked, "When came you back?"

"Three hours after the dead watch," Boromir replied, "You were asleep when I 
entered." The two of them stooped and set the cot aright, gathering up scattered 
blankets.

"You should have roused me," Faramir said, then paused. "Did you dream it?" Grey 
eyes, brilliant in the light, gazed intently upon Boromir, as if in expectation.

Boromir stared back in silence a moment, then nodded. "'Doom is near at hand,'" 
he quoted, and shivered at the premonition.

"And the Halfling," Faramir said grimly, and sank down once more upon the cot. 
Running a hand through his still-damp hair, he stared at nothing, and Boromir 
could see that he was troubled. Over the years, he had grown accustomed to his 
brother's prophetic and disturbing dreams, and yet he had never thought to 
experience one himself. He found himself waiting for Faramir to speak, to 
interpret the staves or indicate what must be done. That both of them had dreamt 
alike did not strike him as unusual amidst all the other odd and uncanny 
happenings of the previous day. Finally, Faramir stirred and looked up at him, 
and a queer humor lit his eyes and touched the corners of his mouth as he said, 
"I fear I have no answers to the questions I see in your face, brother mine. 
Nay, not even a guess as to what these words mean in truth, for the symbols are 
opaque to me. Yet this is not the first time that I have pondered that rhyme."

"What do you mean?" Boromir asked, rather more sharply than he had intended, and 
so he shook his head and came and sat by Faramir instead, so as not to look down 
at him. "Do you mean that you have seen this poem somewhere before?" he asked, 
by way of elaboration.

"Nay! Would that that were all!" Faramir responded with a sigh. "Nay, these 
words came to me yesterday afternoon… in a dream." Boromir bit his tongue to 
refrain from an outburst, for he had no cause for anger in truth. When have I 
ever been overeager for strange portents? Faramir knows me well, and he is 
circumspect in these matters even with me. Still… .

"Why did you say nothing of what troubled you, then? I thought you seemed 
unsettled yestereve, but I set that aside as the anxiety that all suffered ere 
the battle."

"What could I have said? I knew nothing of what this dream meant, nor that it 
would be repeated, even shared by another. I have never heard of such a thing 
before. And," Faramir paused and gave a ghost of a smile, "I recall some good 
advice that once someone gave me, that one ought never to reveal one's fears 
before the enemy."

"Then I think you may have taken my words too much to heart," Boromir growled, 
but he, too, smiled and shook his head for more innocent times. Innocent! How 
that word has been sullied if I use it now of those difficult and painful days! 
"But if you have now dreamt this… this… verse… twice, surely that makes it 
important."

"Even had I dreamt it but once, and you not at all, it would be important," 
Faramir countered. "But saying so does nothing to clarify it. Isildur's Bane… 
who now would know what that means?"

"He was slain by Orcs, and though we see those aplenty, yet I would not call 
sight of them prophetic," Boromir replied. "And what of the Sword that was 
Broken?"

"I know not," Faramir shrugged. "Nor have I any counsel concerning Halflings, 
for never have I heard such a name before."

"Well," Boromir mused as he stood and began pacing, unable to sit still, "if you 
know not, then I can add nothing to your speculations. And I can think of but 
one person who might." He stopped and faced Faramir, looking his younger brother 
squarely in the face.

"Father," Faramir replied in a tone that was painful for its very neutrality. 
For a moment, they gazed at each other, Boromir silently urging his brother to 
consider the matter, and Faramir seeming to wish he could resist the obvious 
conclusion. But in the end, the younger of Denethor's sons lowered his eyes and 
with a gesture acknowledged defeat. "You are right, and I would be remiss in my 
duty to Gondor if I did not bring this before him. Yet I am afraid, Boromir, as 
I have never been before." He raised burning eyes to meet and pin his brother's 
gaze once again, and continued, "There is in this an urgency, and a summons. 
Mark you well that the rhyme spoke of a place where these things would be 
revealed, and so we must discover where this Imladris lies, and go there if we 
hope to be answered! I fear, though, to make such a case before the seat of the 
Steward without having sought the answers ourselves first, or how else shall we 
convince him that we are in earnest?"

"Then we shall do that. We would have sent messengers to Minas Tirith in any 
case ere this day were done. Let you go, then, and deliver the tidings of what 
has happened here, but tell our father that I shall come soon for we three must 
speak together. While you wait, see what may be found in the records of the 
city, which you know far more intimately than do I," Boromir acknowledged with a 
wry smile, and Faramir chuckled softly.

"I hear and obey," Faramir replied, rising and he bowed low. "Well, if I am to 
leave before sunset, I should go and make ready, and see to my men… what is left 
of them," and there was in his voice a terrible pain that was yet mixed with a 
fierce pride as he acknowledged how devastated the Ithilieners were. Boromir 
nodded, approving of the sentiment, and clapped his brother on the shoulder.

"Come find me before you leave. And let Tarodin meet me at the changing of the 
guards tonight."

"I shall," Faramir started to leave, pulling his cloak tight about him as he 
stepped towards the entryway. But then he paused and said softly as he lingered 
there, "Be careful, Boromir, for though Osgiliath be safe for a time, there are 
other dangers: less visible, perhaps, but no less deadly for that. Time is 
running out." Ere his brother could respond, Faramir was gone, and Boromir heard 
him greet a guard on his way out.

"Other perils there are?" he mused, wondering what had inspired that odd 
warning, which had seemed to come apropos of nothing. "Well, we shall see!" With 
that, he tried to put the disturbing dream behind him so that he could face the 
day. Yet though he went about his duties with his usual vigor, ever in the back 
of his mind a voice whispered: Isildur's Bane… Doom is at hand! And so, gently 
into his heart slipped the fear that he had kept at bay for so long: fear for 
Gondor, the seed of doubt and mistrust that lay dormant until events beyond the 
foresight even of Faramir brought it starkly to dreadful fruition. He did not 
recognize the change, being concerned with many other things, but his gaze 
strayed now rather westward than east. And when Faramir left at last, the sun as 
it set behind the mountains recalled the fading light of the dream, and Boromir 
shivered as he turned back to the long eastward vigil.

 

 

* FOTR, 240.




~~~~~




Chapter Eight
Aye, there's the rub



 Though news travels no faster than the messenger who bears it, to Faramir son 
of Denethor, it seemed that the city of Minas Tirith had some foreboding of his 
message. Too silent seemed its folk as he rode the proud streets, and though 
many cried aloud his name and clustered close about to greet him, he yet sensed 
a furtive quietude that was lodged deep in his people. Something in their 
voices and even, he fancied, in the eyes of those who gathered, hinted at some 
grief; and though the day was fair and warm, for it was the middle of summer, 
the sun seemed to shine too brightly upon white-stoned walls and houses so that 
the splendor of the city became a veil that insisted naught was out of place. 
What can have caused this? he wondered, as he surrendered his mount to the 
handlers and made his way by foot up the long and gated passages of Minas 
Tirith. Say not that some ill has befallen here, even! That unhappy thought 
caused him to quicken his pace, though he could not imagine that any enemy 
should breech even the walls of the city short of war itself. Gazing up at the 
pearlescent needle that was the Citadel, Faramir saw that it glittered almost 
as a star rising up from the ground, so bright that the azure sky seemed dull…

Seek for the Sword that was Broken… ! Faramir paused within the court of the 
Seventh Circle, struck by the suddenness of the dream-vision that assailed him 
again. He blinked, and held his eyes shut a moment longer than usual, hoping to 
clear the image of the tower from his sight and thereby arrest the progress of 
the dream-warning. But as when a man looks into the sun, and thereafter even in 
darkness sees the glowing outline of that fiery orb, the glitter of the Citadel 
remained, and the world seemed darkened indeed. In Imladris it dwells… Doom is 
near at hand… Isildur's Bane shall waken, and the Halfling forth shall stand! 
Faramir shook his head once, sharply, and then went determinedly onward, 
unwilling to give anyone cause for alarm on his behalf. A waking dream is still 
a dream, and this one I know well already! So he reminded himself, and bent his 
will to ignore it, though now that the rhyme was in his head it refused to be 
silent.

The door wardens admitted him into the tower's pillared halls with grave 
courtesy, and again, there was something subtlely wrong about their manner. 
Faramir, seeking to describe that intuition more carefully, decided that they 
seemed… relieved… to see him–as if they hoped his coming might herald the easing 
of some difficulty. That was not a sentiment to which he was accustomed upon his 
infrequent returns: for though it needed no false pride to acknowledge that he 
was held dear in the hearts of Gondor's citizens, neither did it need false 
modesty to recognize that those who had served long in the higher circles of the 
city were well aware of the friction between father and second son. When Faramir 
returned home, those of the sixth and seventh circles greeted him with 
affection, but always there was a hint of resigned anticipation as the courtiers 
prepared to weather whatever storms might come of his presence among them. 
Therefore, if those same long-suffering guardians and servants saw him now as a 
cause for cautious hope, something must be badly amiss.

"Húrin!" Faramir caught sight of the Warden of the Keys descending from on high, 
and hailed him.

"My lord Faramir," Húrin replied, and came quickly to his side. A stolid man of 
middling years, Húrin had held his title for as long as the younger prince could 
personally recall, and he treated both Boromir and Faramir as a part of his own 
extensive family. Therefore once he had bowed, he clasped Faramir's hand in a 
crushing grip and smiled kindly at him. "'Tis good to see you again, my lord."

"You look well, Húrin," Faramir said. "I heard from Boromir that your daughter 
married. How goes it with her?"

"Well indeed! I may be a grandfather ere next fall," the other said with 
understandable pride, and Faramir smiled at that.

"I hope that may come to pass! But, alas! I may not tarry for the moment. I seek 
the steward, for I come with news out of Osgiliath. Is he within?" asked 
Faramir, and gestured to the doors that led to the council chambers.

"The lord Denethor is not within the Citadel at this time, for he left some 
hours ago and rode up the old road into the mountains," Húrin replied, and 
Faramir nodded. The old road, known as the Aramen, or Royal Road, was little 
more than a green-grown path that wended its way to a point from which one could 
gaze down even upon the Citadel's peak. Custom forbade all but those of the 
ruling family of Gondor–which had for generations meant the Steward's kin–from 
going upon it. In his youth, Faramir had spent many a happy hour following its 
twisting ways, 'til at last it ended where Gondor had begun: with Elendil. But 
Denethor was not one for sentiment, nor did he seek the counsel of any, whether 
living or dead, and Faramir wondered what had prompted this journey.

"Then I shall await his return, and perhaps turn this time to my own profit, for 
it has been long since I have visited the library," he replied.

"I shall leave messages, so that the steward knows where to find you, should he 
wish it," Húrin said, and paused a moment before he repeated with quiet fervor, 
"It is good to see you again, my lord. You are most welcome home!"

"Thank you, Húrin," Faramir replied, extracting himself gently from the other's 
grasp. The Warden of the Keys strode away, then, disappearing down the eastern 
corridor, leaving Faramir to ponder what might lie hidden behind that welcome. 
At length, though, he turned north and went to the narrow staircase that 
descended on an angle into the mountainside itself, to the vaults of Minas 
Tirith where lay the royal library with its collection of rare scrolls and books 
of lore. The vaults were built in the days after the Kin Strife, when Gondor's 
rulers, seeing how close to disaster the realm had come, had decided to copy 
much of the old library of Osgiliath and remove it to another location, that all 
might not be lost should tragedy strike again. Those responsible for the great 
delving had reached deep for the skill of lost Númenór to create a marvelous 
cluster of dome-shaped rooms, five to be precise, that were set about a central 
one. Each peripheral room was given over to a certain subject–history, law, 
poetry and music, philosophy, and the art of war–while the central room held 
copying tables and indices, as well as more recent works that had yet to be 
entered into the lists. In this honeycomb of knowledge, Faramir had spent much 
time as a boy in a (very likely) vain attempt to slake his curiosity. Today, 
though, he gave thanks to the foresight of his ancestors that had preserved so 
much when Osgiliath was ruined, for he had need of guidance in his research.

Though well-versed in the history of the Númenórian realms in Exile, Faramir yet 
suspected little of the location or significance of Imladris. He recalled no 
mention of it in his studies, though he knew that it meant Deep-cloven Valley, 
or something very near to that when translated. And it is a Sindarin name, which 
may mean much… or naught at all, he thought as he began his search through the 
indices of geography. Unhappily, the collection of maps of Middle-earth had been 
one of the sections of the old Osgiliath library that had not been preserved, 
possibly because of the skill required to copy them, but also due, perhaps, to a 
lack of interest. We were turned inward even then, he thought sadly, even as he 
turned a page. Once rooted in soil we call our own, we soon cease to find value 
beyond it, even in our own kin. After Aranarth, Arnor very nearly disappears 
from our records, and I doubt not that as Middle-earth wanes, this forgetfulness 
will grow ever greater. Such a fate for the last remnant of Númenór seemed 
grievous indeed to him, but he shook his head and turned resolutely to his work. 
Not to think of that now! Think rather to preserve Minas Tirith beyond this 
darkness, so that it may have the luxury of forgetfulness!

***

Above the city, the sun was setting, and still Faramir labored on in pursuit of 
evidence of the existence of Imladris. The hours of searching had yielded very 
little, and he had long since abandoned the indices, immersing himself in the 
arcane material of ancient days. Having little indeed to build upon, Faramir had 
turned to the rhyme itself once more, and decided that the conjunction of 
Isildur's Bane and Imladris probably set him amid the records of the last 
quarter of the Second Age at least. More, assuming that Imladris was not a name 
given by Men to an Elvish haven in their midst, then it seemed safe to guess 
that Imladris lay near either to Mirkwood, since that kingdom was little known 
to Gondor, or to the Mithlond on the westernmost shores of Middle-earth. Or it 
could have been a city of Arnor that had survived neither the fall of that 
kingdom nor the discriminating pens of the loremasters. But that leaves all of 
Eriador open to scrutiny, for wherever there are hills or mountains there may be 
one valley steep enough to merit the name, he thought. Best to hope that my 
first guesses are correct!

Alas, though, logic availed him little, for because both Mirkwood and the 
Mithlond had little to do with Gondor, mention of either Elf-haven was extremely 
rare. The last record of the Elves of Mirkwood had been a passing reference to 
envoys sent to witness the oath of Cirion and Éorl, as the Elves of Thranduil 
(as the king of that realm was then named) had had some part in the fight for 
Calenardhon, though Faramir knew not whether their actions were simply in 
defense of their home or in alliance with Gondor. And then they pass out of 
history and into the obscurity of vague legend! Faramir thought, frustrated. As 
for Mithlond… One long-dead scribe writes that Elendil and his sons originally 
purposed to make landfall in the Grey Havens, but were blown off course by the 
storm. And the records agree that Cirdan the Shipwright sent warriors to 
strengthen the ranks of the Last Alliance; but who they were and how many, none 
say.

Faramir leaned upon a copying table and turned the problem over in his mind. It 
would do him no good to try to comb through the contents of the entire library, 
for such a task needed an Elvish life-span to complete, even assuming nothing 
more were ever added to the collection. Somehow, he had to find a way of 
narrowing his search still further…

"Húrin of the Keys sent word that you might be found here, Faramir." The voice 
at his elbow startled him, and Faramir turned quickly to see his father standing 
not far away, watching him. For a long, uncomfortable moment, father and son 
stared at each other and neither moved, until Denethor at last cast a look 
round, noting the books Faramir had pulled from their shelves or niches and laid 
upon three different tables. He picked one up and gazed a moment at the title, 
ere he continued, "You choose a difficult subject, it seems."

"I… yes, sir," Faramir managed after a beat. For his part, his silence had been 
the product of surprise, but also of a certain shock. In the last four years, 
his visits to Minas Tirith, though somewhat more frequent than usual, had been 
mostly to Boromir, who acted as an intermediary between Denethor and himself. He 
had seen Denethor, of course, and knew that his father, for all that he retained 
his vigor, yet had aged in appearance as the burden of governance in dark times 
took its toll. But as he gazed now at the steward, he perceived that there was a 
weariness or a doubtfulness deeply embedded in him, one that Faramir had never 
noticed before. He met Denethor's eyes, and some subtle signal passed between 
them: the steward's eyes hardened, and Faramir realized that he had erred badly. 
He had seen what he should not have, and his shock had betrayed his knowledge to 
the steward. His father knew now that his troublesome younger son had seen his 
weakness, well-cloaked though it was, and Denethor had never taken kindly to the 
searching regards of others.

Even when my eyes seek not, only see what is revealed! The sins I commit without 
intending them! Faramir bemoaned silently, as he averted his eyes. And now what 
do I say? Shall I speak of Osgiliath or of the dream? "There is a matter that 
weighs upon me, and upon Boromir, of which we together would speak with you, if 
you will. Hence this," he gestured to the volumes, then after a minute pause, 
continued, "But I came first to bear the steward of the realm news out of 
Osgiliath." Under the silent pressure of his father's gaze, Faramir told then of 
the battle, and of the breaking of the bridge of Osgiliath, and the loss of the 
eastern garrisons. "We would have lost many in that battle in any case, for the 
Haradrim are more fell than Orcs, and they stand firm in the face of victory or 
defeat. But there was some other power at work, the like of which none had ever 
seen: a darkness that shaped itself as riders, I would call it, and where it 
came, none could stand against it for long. Some that were touched by it ran 
witless and heedless 'til they were slain; others were laid low by it, and 
huddled upon the ground as if paralyzed." Faramir felt his gorge rise in horror 
of the memory, and his hands upon the table gripped the edges tightly 'til his 
knuckles whitened. Denethor's eyes flickered slightly, as he took in these signs 
of distress, but he gave no indication of his private thought. "The riders at 
the last forced passage, and they fled westward over the bridge ere it was cast 
down beneath us. Of those upon the bridge, only four lived to tell of it, 
including your sons." Faramir paused, forcing himself back from the memory, and 
his tone was nearly normal as he concluded, "The Haradrim army remains still 
upon the eastern bank, but it shall be long ere it can threaten Gondor's western 
lands, though in Ithilien we may yet see much of them."

"Your news does not surprise me. " Denethor said after a moment, and shook his 
grey head, "Osgiliath has long been our weakest link, and short of the rebirth 
of our ancient strength and numbers, nothing could hold it against a determined 
attack. It was perhaps pointless to send a part of the Ithilien garrison there," 
and Faramir, hearing this, struggled not to let his bitterness over that remark 
show, "but now more than ever, we shall yield nothing unfought! These riders 
concern me, but if I am not mistaken, they will trouble us little for a time."

"What are these riders, then, for it seems clear that you know of them?"

"For the moment, that I know of them is enough," the steward replied, dismissing 
the matter with a wave of his hand. "There is little use in telling you more of 
them, for you have observed more of them than any mortal man has since the kings 
failed." A slight, sardonic smile curved Denethor's lips. "I doubt not that that 
is more than you would wish, but I assure you, they have powers held in check 
that only war shall see unveiled." Faramir's eyes narrowed at that, but he said 
nothing, though his mind sought already after the clues his father had revealed. 
Since the kings failed, is it? We shall see!

"As you will it," was all that he said in reply, and then, "Does the steward ask 
anything further of me tonight?"

"No." Denethor said. "Attend me upon the morrow, at the sixth hour, for there 
are other matters that must be made known to you ere the council convenes. Good 
night."

"Your servant," Faramir replied formally, and bowed, waiting until he heard the 
door to the vault shut again ere he raised his eyes and sighed. It struck him 
forcibly, even after so many years of painful formality, that at this first 
meeting in nearly four years, neither he nor Denethor had once addressed each 
other familiarly. This had been a meeting of strangers, not of family, and 
neither had bothered to sully the words "father" and "son" by employing them. 
"Will it ever be thus?" he wondered aloud, and then, with less than enthusiasm, 
he turned back to his research. In his mind again, the darkened sky lay close 
about, pierced by one slender ray of light that touched upon words now too 
familiar: Seek for the Sword that was Broken! In Imladris it dwells….

 


 ~~~~~~



Chapter Nine
Discord



 Faramir had emerged late from the library, and none the wiser for his efforts, 
at least as concerned Imladris. Already, he looked to the next day's labors in 
that deep place, wondering how long he might spend in Denethor's study and if 
there would be some opportunity to quit the steward's presence early. But for 
the moment, he could read no more. As he walked slowly through the halls, he 
paused before his father's door, wondering if he ought to knock and seek 
admittance. Custom in Gondor held that a captain or lord of the realm dined the 
first night with his liege-lord. But Denethor had not extended any invitation, 
and Faramir would have been reluctant to accept one, even had it been offered. 
Shall I stand on protocol, or go now to the company commons? It is late in any 
case… .

"My lord!" Húrin's voice sounded at the end of the hall, and Faramir turned to 
see the older man coming toward him.

"Good evening, Húrin," he replied. "Once again, well met!"

"Indeed! I trust your research was fruitful?"

"It may prove so in the end," Faramir hedged, unwilling to speak overmuch of his 
errand. Having brought it to Denethor's attention, he did not wish for whispers 
to reach the steward that he had already discussed it with another, even one so 
loyal and long in service as Húrin.

"Good. The steward, I fear, works late, and will see no one tonight," the warden 
glanced at the closed door, then caught Faramir's arm in his and began leading 
him away, steering him towards the western periphery of the tower. "And we who 
work at his side keep often long hours as well!"

"Well do I know that," the younger man chuckled sympathetically. "Whither are 
you bound now? To your home, I hope."

"I am that. And," Húrin paused, turning to face him, "if it please you, my lord 
Faramir, you would be welcome at my table. For do I guess rightly that you have 
taken no time for a meal yet?"

"In truth, I have not. Thank you, Húrin. It has been many years since last I saw 
your family," Faramir replied, eagerly seizing the opportunity presented. It had 
been long since he had had time to sit and speak with old friends, and there 
were many matters about which he was curious, and which Húrin might be able to 
clarify for him. Not least of which is my father's mood, for upon that topic, I 
can be certain that not a whisper will go astray. Men know better in Minas 
Tirith than to speak overmuch of the steward behind his back! Put thus, it 
sounded dishonest, and Faramir frowned slightly as he walked at Húrin's side, 
but he had no other means of learning what he most wished to know: what was the 
source of the uneasiness that gripped Minas Tirith's people?

Húrin lived in the sixth circle, just past the gates, in one of Minas Tirith's 
oldest mansions. His forebears had risen to prominence in the war that had 
brought the Second Age to its end. After the Kin Strife had wreaked its havoc, 
his family had been granted the title of Warden of the Keys, and the Warden, 
more than any other within the walls, was the steward's right hand and stood 
first among councilors. Should Mardil Voronwë's line fail, rule would pass to 
Húrin or his descendents until the loremasters could reach a decision as to who 
was most entitled to the steward's rod. And it may yet come to pass, Faramir 
thought grimly. Who knows what may befall us in the years to come? Sauron sleeps 
not, and his memory is long, and Minas Tirith has ever opposed him. We may lose 
all or the better part of it when war breaks loose at last! But for tonight, at 
least, such grand worries could be set aside, and Faramir resolved firmly to 
think no more on them for a time. No one could bear up under such burdens 
unrelieved by moments of peace, and Húrin's house had always been a safe haven 
for a lonely boy.

For though only very distantly a cousin given the intricate ties of blood and 
marriage among Gondor's ruling classes, the warden was more family to him than 
any other, save Boromir alone. And when Yvaren, Húrin's diminutive wife greeted 
them, she clasped him to her as a long-lost son. In former years, theirs had 
been a large household, and a loud one, for Yvaren was six times a mother. But 
with the youngest daughter recently married, there reigned now an aura of 
relaxed quietude in the house, as if the very stones exuded relief at the break 
in the hectic atmosphere. Their conversation that night ranged over a number of 
topics, but they returned ever and anon to matters of family. Yvaren had 
naturally much to say in this matter, with more than fifteen grand-children 
still within the walls of the city, but she questioned Faramir much about 
himself as well. "I hear tell of you sometimes, when Boromir visits. But even he 
says that he knows not the tenth of what happens in Ithilien."

"Much, and yet also little," Faramir replied with a slight shrug of his 
shoulders. "Much bickering with many of the same enemies we have always known, 
and yet little of great import, it seems. They do but test us, and though the 
testing grows fiercer with the passing of years, still it is but a feint and a 
taunt."

"You are not alone in that opinion," Húrin said. "Many are the captains who 
report regular incursions or who write of being watched ever by spies. I may say 
that the lord steward has ordered many companies to alter their daily routines, 
the better to conceal their activities from unfriendly eyes." Faramir nodded, 
having seen that dispatch. But Ithilien's operations were by nature secretive 
and changing. There was little chance that an enemy would find a pattern in a 
routine that deliberately had none! "We hope now only that we are granted time 
enough to gird ourselves against siege."

"Is that the cause of the anxiety I perceive in Minas Tirith these days?" 
Faramir asked, leaping swiftly into the opening Húrin provided. When the warden 
raised a heavy brow, he continued, "You know whereof I speak, for the seventh 
circle is awash in it, and it spills over into all the levels of the city. Even 
my lord father is not insensitive to it, I think." Húrin pursed his lips, as if 
considering, and Yvaren's eyes darted towards her husband ere they cut back 
again to the grave young man who sat across from her. Faramir noted that 
exchange, and waited patiently for revelation.

Finally, Húrin spoke, though very carefully, as if wary of his own words. "Yes, 
and no. All of Minas Tirith awaits the stroke that will plunge us into war, and 
slowly it has become clear that all our efforts are for naught." The warden 
paused, meeting Faramir's eyes as he reached across the table to clasp his 
wife's hand protectively. "That will not surprise you, of course, for few know 
better than you our desperation. But for many, such concerns are too far above 
them. Until the day the armies of the Nameless Land are upon our very threshold, 
and the gates are ready to burst asunder, they will not cease to hope for 
victory, nor understand that it is already beyond our grasp, long though we may 
delay the final defeat. But there are more concrete matters that trouble our 
councils of late. A letter arrived out of Isengard not long ago, warning of 
danger unlooked for."

"No longer wholly unlooked for now, I trust?"

"Again, yea and nay," Húrin cautioned. "Curunír warns only that Mithrandir's 
activities of late are grown strange and secretive indeed, and that seems to him 
a matter of concern. He sought to learn of Mithrandir's purpose in coming to 
Gondor a year ago. Do you recall that visit?"

"I recall hearing of it from Boromir," Faramir replied. "I was in Ithilien 
throughout the summer, for then are attacks more frequent."

"Yes, well," Húrin gestured lightly with one hand to indicate that it mattered 
little. "As I understand it, the Grey Pilgrim wished to learn something of the 
foundation of the city, and the Lord Denethor granted him leave to search the 
library vaults. He stayed perhaps a week, and then was gone again, as is ever 
his way. Now, though, I think the steward seeks to find more reason in that 
visit than was formerly revealed."

"I doubt not that there was much Mithrandir kept to himself," Faramir mused, 
"Wizards are not in the habit of declaring all their purpose, even to those 
accounted mighty. But though I cannot believe that he would weave a plot against 
us, I can well believe that my father would distrust him, and misconstrue the 
message!"

"It may be no more than that," Húrin conceded.

"But it may be, and I think you speak now of something other than wizards," 
Faramir responded. "My father's mood, Húrin, is grown strange, or so it seemed 
to me. Do I not speak truly when I say that that more than anything else is what 
troubles the upper circles of Minas Tirith?"

"Have a care, lad!" the older man warned, proffering a faint smile nonetheless 
as he lapsed into a more familiar tone. "We of the Seventh Circle speak not of 
that among ourselves, yet it is true."

"And you know not the source of this change in him?"

"Nay, we do not. But the steward has been sharp in his speech of late, and more 
particular in his habits than ever. And most of all does he resent any attention 
drawn to these things, or to such activities as a journey upon the Aramen." 
Húrin paused. "What think you, Faramir?"

"He seemed to me weary, unaccountably so…." Denethor's second son trailed off 
into silence, eyes distant as he considered once more the scene in the library. 
"Heavy is the burden of his rule, yet he guards it jealously, and with pride. I 
cannot think he will let it crush him beneath it." With a sigh, Faramir shook 
his head and gazed at the warden in frustrated bewilderment. "Others there are, 
surely, who have been more at his side than have I! I fear my opinion must weigh 
little beside theirs."

"As I said, we speak not of it overmuch. The walls have ears, and the more so 
the closer one is to the Citadel," Húrin replied with a grim smile, then seemed 
to change the subject. "There is a window in the high room near the summit, and 
from it ever and anon shines forth a flickering light."

"What of it?" Faramir asked, puzzled by the seeming non sequitur.

"What indeed? It has shone there for many years now, though it seems to grow 
brighter with time. The guards say that by night your father wrestles with the 
Dark Lord, and many are they who believe it."

"Why do you tell me this?"

"So that you will know it," Húrin replied with a minute shrug. "Boromir has 
heard the rumor, I am certain, and if he has not shared it with you, then I am 
surprised for I think he liked it not."

"Well can I believe that! Boromir never was one for uncanny tales," Faramir 
replied with a soft chuckle as he rose, though in his heart he pondered that odd 
remark. Húrin was not one to speak to no end, so this stray bit of gossip must 
mean something. The walls have ears… and my father burns oil later into the 
night than even Húrin can explain. Doubtless he sifts what information he has 
then, but whence comes some of it? "I thank you for your company, my friends, 
and for all your past kindness. This is the first meal I have eaten in peace for 
a long while, and that is a great gift."

"You are always welcome in our house," Yvaren said, smiling. Husband and wife 
accompanied him to the hall where they bid each other good evening, and he felt 
their eyes upon him as he went out into the full night. As soon as he was out of 
sight and earshot, Húrin sighed, and his wife cast a glance upward. "What is it, 
love?"

"There goes one who, but for the accidents of birth, could have worn a crown, 
and worn it well. And yet his father esteems him as lower than the dullest 
knave!" Húrin shook his head. "I fear for him, Yvaren. For him, and for his 
brother both!"

 

***

Boromir's steed whinnied fiercely as it clattered into the busy streets of Minas 
Tirith. But he had eyes only for the slender figure clad in Ithilien green and 
black that awaited him, lounging against the wall with arms folded across its 
chest. Clicking his teeth at the horse to calm its nervous, mincing gait, 
Boromir swung out of the saddle, handing off the reins to a handler as he strode 
quickly to his brother's side. "I hope that your presence here augers well for 
our purpose today!" he said by way of greeting, clapping the younger man on the 
shoulder with somewhat absent-minded affection.

"I could wish to bring auspicious tidings, but alas, I have none such to give!" 
Faramir responded. "With enough time perhaps I could uncover something of 
Imladris, but for the moment, two days of searching have proved insufficient. If 
we must move soon to discover these things, then we must hope father has a 
better answer to our questions than I have been able to find." He paused as 
Boromir grimaced and then nodded, accepting that conclusion. "There are other 
matters, though, which concern me, and I wonder if you can tell me more of 
them."

"Ask then!"

"Know you aught of what has infected Denethor's moods these days?" Faramir 
asked, glancing sideways at his brother. Boromir's expression did not change, 
yet he seemed to grimace nonetheless.

"What has he said now?"

"It is less what he said," replied Faramir, "but how he spoke, and how others 
have reacted that worries me. And why should he go upon the Aramen unannounced? 
I would say…." Here he paused, searching once more through all of his exchanges 
with the steward, seeking to find one word that would express the sum of his 
impressions. "I would say," he finally concluded, and was surprised that he had 
not seen it before, "that he were frightened, but that I find that hard to 
conceive of!"

At that, Boromir paused, glancing about, and then he caught his brother's arm 
and pulled him into a recessed guard station along the wall of the second level. 
Faramir felt in that touch a fierce anxiety, and he wondered suddenly whether he 
ought to have inquired more closely after his brother's recent stay in Minas 
Tirith. "Hear me, brother!" said Boromir in a low tone, "I cannot argue that 
there is some… doubt, I would call it, that underlies all of father's words of 
late. But it may stem from no more than natural–if anything that comes from 
Mordor may be so named!–fear of the power in the east. Father knows much, and he 
has many eyes in his employ, more than I had fathomed earlier. And he knows that 
the trial ahead will be bitter and could cost us all that we have, even in 
victory. In such straits, what steward or king, even, would not know fear?"

"True," Faramir conceded, but frowned nonetheless. "Still, it is to me too 
sudden a change. If it come from a too thorough knowledge of our enemy's might, 
then what new intelligence has arrived to awaken such fear in him? Boromir, I 
can feel it in him! And whence comes such news, if it be so dreadful? We have 
not spies within Mordor," said he, and his voice lowered almost to a whisper at 
the naming of that land. "That we both know, for the Ephel Duath are an 
effective veil to the workings of the Dark Lord. And between us, we see in time 
all else that crosses Denethor's desk!"

Boromir gave a soft grunt, as of worried consideration, ere he said, "I know not 
the answer to that."

"What of this light in the tower?"

"Do not tell me you believe that bit of nonsense!" Boromir's tone was scathing, 
and Faramir's eyes narrowed as he tasted denial on the other's tongue.

"Why should I not consider it? After all, brother, we two are bound to the 
steward our father with a request to find Imladris on the basis of a shared 
dream! How is this rumor more or less mad than our errand?" That gave the other 
pause, and after a time, the elder prince sighed.

"Logic is elusive of late! Forgive me, I had not stopped to think of that," 
Boromir replied, squeezing Faramir's shoulder.

"There is no need of forgiveness," the other responded gracefully. "But let us 
not quarrel over Denethor's moodiness, at least not now. I should have awaited a 
more opportune moment to broach the subject."

"Or I should have been less harsh," Boromir countered, but then he sighed once 
more and the two of them moved forward again. "Have you had better luck 
deciphering other parts of the rhyme?"

"None," Faramir replied flatly, disheartened. "Of Isildur's death, we have only 
the records that came out of Arnor by way of a herald. If there were survivors, 
they must have been badly confused, or else too badly injured to give a coherent 
account. All we know with certainty is that Isildur's host was waylaid on the 
Gladden field by orcs. What happened ere the end, we know not, and his body was 
never recovered."

"And the Halfling…?"

"Naught that I have found in the records, but there is one hint that might lead 
somewhere given enough time to pursue it," Faramir replied. "You recall our 
visit to Rohan?"

"A year after mother's death, yes," Boromir said. "What of it?"

"I was too young then to be of much help to anyone, and I spent my days with the 
younger children of our hosts. I remember, though, that among the stories I was 
told was one of a race of small, Man-like creatures called…" and here Faramir 
paused, for though he spoke Rohirric, the word was archaic and not in common 
usage, and he had to fight to recall it. "Holbytlan, I think it was. An odd 
tale, being much concerned with nothing at all, yet I remember it clearly. Among 
other things, they were said to be half the height of a Man."

Boromir shook his head, this time with surprised amusement, and said, "You have 
always had a better head for such things than I! Holbytlan! They may be no more 
than a myth!"

"Perhaps, yet it came to my mind. Who knows but that it may prove to have more 
significance than we imagine?" Faramir shrugged.

"Or it may have none," Boromir replied.

"Or none, as you say, but after all my long hours in the vaults, I will admit 
any possibility!" Faramir sighed. His brother gave him a sympathetic look at 
that, and Faramir smiled slightly. Boromir had never been one to spend overmuch 
time in the library, finding research to be a deadly tedium in most instances. 
And worse than useless in this case! The younger man admitted, steeling himself 
as he glanced involuntarily up at the Citadel that loomed high above them. It 
stuck in his craw to turn the matter over to Denethor, yet he knew they had no 
choice. Let pride say what it will, father is the better versed in the lore of 
this city and if ever we knew of Imladris or Halflings or Isildur's Bane, then 
our best hope lies with him!

***


Denethor met his sons in his study, rather than in the council chambers. He had 
watched Faramir carefully since his arrival, wondering what matter led to 
searches among the archives of the Second Age. He had himself gone down into the 
vaults to retrace his younger son's steps, but though he knew well the tale of 
Isildur, insofar as any in the South knew it, he could see no connection between 
the events of that distant time and Gondor's current woes. Not yet, at least! 
The steward thought, gazing intently from one to the other of his sons as they 
stood before him, and already his mind assembled from the myriad clues of 
posture and proximity the brothers' relationship. Faramir, as was ever his habit 
in his father's presence, stood silently, and though his posture was not overly 
rigid, it was too affected to be natural. He stood today at Boromir's shoulder, 
letting his brother speak today, and Denethor knew perfectly well the reasoning 
that lay behind such tactics.

Boromir, for his part, seemed uneasy, restless, and Denethor wondered briefly 
whether this was another of Faramir's attempts to use his brother against 
Boromir's better judgment. But then Boromir began to speak, and that doubt was 
laid swiftly to rest by the urgency in his elder son's voice. "Father, I know 
that Faramir has warned you of our errand, though not in precise terms. 
Therefore I shall be brief: after the battle of Osgiliath, we were wakened from 
our sleep by a dream. We swiftly discovered that we had both dreamt alike, and 
it seemed to us both that Minas Tirith's fate hung upon the staves heard in that 
vision." Boromir paused here, and Denethor sensed the troubled, yet strangely 
eager, anxiety that permeated the other. "As there were many tasks to attend to, 
we agreed between us that Faramir should return first, to see whether the 
meaning of the strange words could be discovered among Gondor's records of past 
events, and that I would follow later. As his efforts have proven in vain, we 
bring our questions now to you, sir, in the hope that perhaps you will be able 
to unravel them."

"I see," Denethor replied gravely, considering this unusual turn of events. His 
eyes darted to Faramir, and he read in the other's stillness hope held in check, 
and a brief, mocking smile quirked his lips. "Faramir," he said sharply, and his 
younger son raised his eyes, tensing ever so slightly at the sound of his name. 
"What are the staves that Boromir has spoken of?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Faramir drew a breath and began to 
recite, eyes blank as memory unfolded:

"Seek for the Sword that was Broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

That Doom is near at hand,

For Isildur's Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand."

He fell silent and closed his eyes a moment, seeming to withdraw from the 
presence of father and brother. But ere Denethor could prompt him, bright grey 
eyes snapped open, focused once more on the present, and Faramir continued, 
"Since my return, yesterday morning, I have sought the location of Imladris, for 
as I understand the words, it is there that the answers to our questions lie. 
And I believe that we must find this place swiftly if we are to play our part in 
the events and war to come!"

"What say you, father?" Boromir asked, leaning forward slightly, eyes sharp with 
interest.

Denethor stood in silence, pondering what he had heard, thoughts racing. He had 
seen naught in the palantír that hinted at any of this, which might mean little. 
Isildur's Bane… . Cold calculation made it evident that orcs had been merely the 
indirect cause of that worthy's death, and a dark, chill suspicion entered 
Denethor's heart. He was not so bent to Sauron's lies that he did not read, 
behind the mocking supremacy and confidence that imbued all of Mordor's works, 
an uneasiness. What does the Dark Lord seek if not Isildur's Bane? But what 
could it be? An object of great power, clearly, and yet not so great in 
appearance that any would recognize it, even among Isildur's followers. Neither 
Boromir nor Faramir, though, had any least idea with respect to that matter, he 
was certain of it. But Faramir is right in this, at least: in Imladris, they 
know what this thing is. And I doubt not that they may know more than that!

"An interesting puzzle," he said at length. "I shall give it some thought ere we 
speak of it again. But I mark well that Faramir," and here again, he glanced 
sharply at him, "has looked to find Imladris. 'We' you say, but I wonder which 
of you proposes to undertake such a journey?" Denethor paused, and watched as 
Boromir and Faramir glanced swiftly at each other. So, they have not discussed 
this issue yet! This may prove interesting! The steward thought with cold 
amusement, even as he waved a hand in dismissal of such considerations. "For the 
moment, it matters little! There is much still to be decided ere any venture be 
begun. And perhaps neither of you shall dare it, for I have need of you both 
here." There was a heavy silence, each man withdrawn into his own thoughts.

"With your leave, sir," Faramir spoke suddenly, and raised resolute eyes to meet 
Denethor's unflinchingly. "If we must find this place, as I believe, then I 
would ask that the task fall to me." At this, Boromir tensed, clearly displeased 
by that idea, but Faramir continued on reasonably, "My brother is your right 
hand, and he commands the loyalty of every man in Gondor as your heir. And 
though I do not take my command lightly, Minas Tirith can afford my absence."

"I would beg to differ," Boromir replied, "We know little of Imladris, nor what 
may await any wanderer who seeks it. And if this concerns Gondor's future, then 
it may need one who can speak for Gondor as a whole." Faramir looked ready to 
contest that, but the impassive look that the steward leveled at them both 
prevented any more outbursts.

"You have made your points, and I have said that I shall consider the matter. 
Now, I have much to do ere the council convenes in the next three days, and I 
expect both of you to attend. I think you would not be remiss to spend some time 
preparing yourselves for that, rather than seeking after dreams whose import you 
cannot yet fathom," Denethor suggested sternly.

"As you wish, father," Boromir acceded, though unhappily. He stepped back and 
touched Faramir's arm briefly, silently beckoning him to follow him out. But 
Faramir remained in his place, and the steward quirked a disapproving brow at 
him.

"I shall obey, sir, only I would ask one final question: do you know where 
Imladris lies, or what is its significance?"

Denethor felt the spark of his displeasure at the boy's forwardness flare 
beneath the ice, but there was no denying that his second son showed commendable 
poise in the asking. He has grown bolder with time, and learned to cloak it in 
courtesy. That amused him, in a strange way, and so rather than rebuking him, he 
replied, "This only will I say: Imladris was the northern valley where once 
dwelt Elrond Half-Elven, of whom legend speaks. Whether it exists still, or 
whether Elrond has passed over the sea, I know not." And Faramir, sensing that 
he would learn nothing more, bowed as one fully answered and then turned on his 
heel and strode out ahead of Boromir. The door closed softly, but firmly, behind 
them. Denethor gazed long at it, thinking, and dark thoughts they were indeed. 
Isildur's Bane and the Sword that was Broken. It shall be a hard trial tonight 
before the Seeing Stone!



~~~~~



Chapter Ten
From These Dreams...



 "There is but one explanation!" Faramir declared, pacing the confines of his 
brother's room in a most unusual show of frustration and anxiety. After the 
interview with Denethor, the walk back to Boromir’s chambers had been silent, 
but his brother's cold anger had been palpable, and every movement bespoke 
barely restrained wrath. That was enough to unsettle anyone who knew Faramir, 
and Boromir frowned from his place by the hearth, drumming his fingers on his 
belt. Given the stakes and his brother's tension, he was too restless to sit, 
and yet he felt obscurely as though he dared not move overmuch. As if we stand 
upon a wire, and too much movement will plunge us both into the chasm below! 
Why did we never think to discuss who might undertake this errand? And though 
the steward's heir recognized that their father's question had been merited, it 
could not have been more divisive if Denethor had crafted it for years. For the 
first time, the brothers each felt as though they were competing for a favor 
from their father, and though they fought that sentiment, their resistance to 
it was lessened by the need that drove them both. "Boromir!" His brother paused 
now before him and grasped his shoulders, expression sharp and eyes intent. "I 
have searched that library as well as I know how, I have sought every account 
dealing with either Isildur or Imladris or the Gladden Fields and I have found 
nothing. Nothing at all! Do you not see it?"

"See what?" Boromir demanded, trying to rein in his sharp tone and failing. For 
he had no idea what the other meant by such a question, and his own ignorance 
before his brother felt… threatening… today.

"The answer!"

"It would help if I knew the question," Boromir growled, pinning his brother 
under a frustrated glare.

Faramir's lips thinned as he pressed them hard together, searching the other's 
face briefly ere he drew a deep breath and replied, "Where could our father have 
found information about Imladris? And whence might come any knowledge of 
Isildur's fate? If it is not in the general records, then there is but one place 
left to look." Faramir paused expectantly again, and Boromir blew out a sigh.

"And where, pray tell, might that be?" he asked.

"Among Mardil’s Books, the private collection of the stewards that one may 
access only with our father's permission," Faramir replied grimly. His hands on 
Boromir's arms tightened as he stared at him, and Boromir closed his eyes a 
moment in disgusted resignation.

"And you have not his permission!"

"Of course not," Faramir replied bitterly. "What reason would I have to require 
such material? If anyone has managed to extract such rights from the steward 
since Mithrandir's last visit, I have not heard of it. And if Father sought to 
deny a wizard, then he certainly would not permit a son whom he has already 
twice refused!"

"And he has now no reason to let me in either, or I might have tried," Boromir 
said, shaking his head slowly.

"He knows more than he tells, as is ever the case," the younger man said, 
resuming his agitated pacing. "But not enough, I would wager my life. Someone 
must go to Imladris if we are to learn the meaning of this damnable verse!" The 
curse sounded explosive–perhaps because Faramir so rarely profaned–and 
punctuated the other's fervor with an almost frightening determination. 
Normally, Boromir would have tried to calm his brother, to ease his concern, but 
today he held back. It was not in him to give with one hand only, and the left 
at that; and if he comforted Faramir now, he would feel as though he deceived 
him. For as Faramir locked eyes with Boromir once more, there shone in them 
clear purpose to find some way to Imladris… a purpose reflected in Boromir's 
eyes as well. Desire mirrored by each, desire claimed—owned—in spirit so 
thoroughly that the tension between them seemed as a tangible thing. And though 
it troubled Boromir that they worked now against each other in what ought to be 
a common cause, he could not surrender to the supplication that edged into the 
other's glance. For though Boromir had not the faintest idea what Isildur's Bane 
might be, the very fact that it had earned that name made it more dangerous than 
any weapon he knew of. And that makes it my errand to discover this… thing… and 
not Faramir's! It is too dangerous, and upon it hinges the fate of Gondor. If 
Father claimed the task, perhaps I might accede, but if he does not—as I know he 
shall not—then it falls to me. Faramir may never forgive me that, but I shall 
risk it.

Very likely, Faramir had read his thoughts as they stared, motionless, at each 
other, for the light in those grey eyes flickered. Then his brother straightened 
and shook his head slightly, as if in frustrated denial. "Boromir, how can you 
consider leaving Gondor on the brink of war? Your place is here!"

"Is it? This dream concerns all of our fates! How could I remain, knowing that?"

"Father needs you," the other retorted. "What use has he for me? Ithilien is but 
one company, and one badly reduced at that! It will be slow to recover, for men 
with the necessary skills grow scarce, but even so, Anborn could hold it 
together in my absence. It is a matter of logistics as much as of manpower, and 
I can make the equation stretch far enough to cover us. Can you say the same?"

"Faramir, I will not be surprised if father disperses the Osgiliath company, for 
there is no longer anything of value to protect there. Indeed, I know not what 
made him hold onto it for so long. If I have no company, then I can scarcely be 
accused of deserting my command!"

"Gondor's army is your command: from Osgiliath to Ithilien, from Poros to 
Anórien, your word is law after Denethor's! That is written into your 
commission, and every steward's heir has borne that responsibility since Mardil 
Voronwë!" Faramir countered. "If you leave Gondor, you desert your post. Whereas 
if I go, I leave behind nothing that cannot be safely and legally entrusted to 
another. Moreover, I am only a second son. If aught happens to me, the chain of 
succession is in less jeopardy, for Father confides little in me, but all in 
you. Should you come never back, the gap in my knowledge might be fatal to 
Gondor, surely you see that!"

"No, I do not! Denethor may speak with you less about such matters, but I know 
you better. If aught were to happen to me—and we know not what the future 
brings! Either of us could have died at Osgiliath when the bridge fell, or I 
might break my neck tomorrow—you would become the steward's heir whatever the 
state of your knowledge. That you live is part of the reason why it would be 
safe enough—or at least, as safe as anything is in such times as these—for me to 
leave."

"Boromir, were I to show you a plan for battle that relied on such reasoning, 
you would rebuke me for ignoring logic! Would you risk us all simply because 
there is a chain of command, however weak?"

"'Tis hardly the risk you paint it, brother, for I know you better. I could 
leave Gondor in no better hands than yours under Denethor’s guidance, for I 
would trust no other above you," Boromir replied, reaching out to grasp the 
other by the shoulders and give him a shake. "If there is aught that concerns me 
here, it is your own low opinion of yourself in this matter. And if you would 
not trust yourself to hold command over all of Gondor, then how can you ask me 
to trust you with the future of the realm as it lies hidden in this rhyme?"

Faramir tensed at that, and there was genuine anger as both brothers stared at 
each other, seeking some sign of yielding, perhaps. But as before, neither was 
willing to surrender. At last, though, Faramir sighed softly and gripped his 
brother’s wrists as he shook his head. "This argument gains us nothing, and it 
goes no where. In the end, it is Denethor who shall decide which of us shall 
go—assuming he does not simply give the chore to another! I doubt either of us 
shall find any arguments to persuade him as to who ought to be sent, for as in 
all other matters, he shall keep his own counsel. As shall we, I think, for I do 
not wish to argue with you!" And with that, Faramir gently broke his brother’s 
grip, taking a step backward and sliding his hands down Boromir’s arms to grasp 
his brother’s hands firmly. "Are we agreed in that at least?"

Boromir grunted, managing a slight half-smile, and he nodded. "Agreed! Let us 
not then speak of it again, save only if either of us have some insight as to 
the meaning of the rhyme."

"Then I shall not speak of it, for I have done all that I know how to do," 
Faramir replied, sounding rather disgusted yet resigned nonetheless. Releasing 
his brother, he ran a hand through his hair and stalked to the center of the 
room ere he sighed and turned round again. Raising his hands in a defeated 
gesture, he concluded in a tone and manner that bespoke his utter frustration, 
"And yet that is not enough!"

"Let it lie, then," Boromir said, shrugging and feeling a bit helpless before 
his brother’s gloomy mood, for he knew not how to lighten it nor what to say to 
counter such self-deprecating sentiments. Usually it was Denethor who inspired 
such self-doubt, and Boromir had learned as a boy what Faramir needed to hear in 
order to step out from beneath their father’s shadow. But when he drives himself 
to such a bleak state without any help at all from the steward, I fear I know 
not what to do! That only fed his own restlessness, and after another moment, he 
gave in to the impulse and began pacing, though as slowly as possible. "What 
think you of this council that father has summoned?" he asked by way of 
half-desperate diversion. "Even Imrahil shall be there, if I read the dispatches 
aright."

"To me, it bodes ill. Imrahil has long been an advisor of this realm, but I have 
seen our uncle very seldom since I went away. And I think he has not been so 
frequent a visitor in Minas Tirith in the past five years. What say you? You 
have been in the city more often than I—has he come to see the steward more 
frequently than I think?"

"Nay, he has not. And I should say it was closer to eight years ago that the 
break began to make itself felt in earnest… or at least, that is when I first 
remarked it with concern. Father and he had an argument then. Over what, even I 
know not, but however secret it was, and however civil they were to each other 
afterwards, it soon spread throughout the upper circles that somewhat had 
happened between them. After that, Imrahil came more seldom to Minas Tirith, 
preferring to send his views by letter instead. Of late, even that 
correspondence has declined, and it seems to me that he saves his advice for 
greater matters, for his letters come ever at the clinch of crisis, as it were," 
said Boromir.

"I did not know," Faramir admitted, frowning. "I always assumed that as the 
times grew worse, he dared not leave Dol Amroth for very long, or very often. 
Once again, no one tells me of such matters; I had to ask Húrin outright about 
our father’s strange mood of late!" The younger man shook his head, folding his 
arms over his chest as he walked a few paces back to the hearth, there to lean 
on outstretched arms against the mantle while he stared into the flames. "So… 
why has Imrahil been summoned?"

"Who can fathom Father’s mind at times? This will likely be the last gathering 
of the Lords of Gondor ere winter and you know our straits!"

"Aye, I know them, but I doubt me that Imrahil’s presence shall improve them by 
any considerable measure. I suppose that father looks to fulfil the letter of 
the law."

"Perhaps," Boromir allowed. "But many are they who would know more of Dol 
Amroth’s position, and not simply through pieces of paper handed to the 
steward." Faramir grunted softly, seeming to acknowledge the truth of that 
statement. Boromir chewed the inside of his lip, debating with himself a moment, 
staring at Faramir’s back. "In truth, I shall be glad to see him, for the 
council respects him and looks to him for other views… other opinions."

"I doubt our uncle’s opinion shall differ from the main this time! What, after 
all, could he say that would make our situation less black? But I, too, shall be 
happy to greet him once more, for it has been long since last we saw each other. 
And he exerts a calming influence on the councilors, unlike Father!" Faramir 
said, turning to set his back against the mantle, watching his brother’s 
reaction to that criticism. Boromir seemed to want to object to his 
characterization of Denethor, but after but a few moments, he grimaced and bowed 
his head, raising a hand slightly to acknowledge the truth of those words. 
Outside, the bells tolled out the hour: one, two, three…. Mid-afternoon, and 
already the day feels old, Boromir thought. His thoughts drifted back to 
Osgiliath, where the remainder of his company and a part of Faramir’s still kept 
guard amid the ruins. The worst of the wounded had been moved from the camp hard 
upon Faramir’s heels, and tomorrow, those with lighter, yet still serious, 
injuries would be sent back to Minas Tirith. As for the rest…. They are alone in 
this, and I can only hope that nothing more shall happen there! Boromir sighed 
inwardly, wishing that he could have remained with them. "Well," Faramir’s voice 
broke the silence that had fallen, and his older brother blinked, focusing once 
more on the other’s face. "Since father bade us prepare for this session, I 
shall take my leave to learn what I may. I have far more news to catch up on 
than do you, after all!"

"Come find me later this evening. If we must stay here, we can at least break 
bread in safety for once."

"I should think you would eat with Father, though," Faramir reminded him, 
cocking a dark brow at him. "It is your first night back home, after all."

"Then join us!"

"If he sends for me, then I shall. Otherwise, and meaning no offense, I shall 
fend for myself 'til the morrow. Perhaps then…." Faramir shrugged. But behind 
his apparently easy acceptance of his rejection, Boromir felt the other’s hurt, 
and he silently cursed himself for a fool for having brought up the matter.

"Very well. Tomorrow then, and use well the time!"

"I shall, have no fear. Good night, Boromir," Faramir replied, and went silently 
on his way. But just ere he closed the door behind him, he seemed to cast a 
last, backward glance at Boromir. And though he also had much to do to obey 
their father’s command, Boromir stood long in silence, pondering the 
significance of that brief regard, and wondering just how good a strategist 
Faramir might be.

***

"If I can convince Denethor to let me in to search Mardil’s Books, will you tell 
me what to look for? Or rather, where to look?"

Faramir sighed softly as he laid his head in his hands, leaning on his elbows as 
he sat across from Boromir. He had not intended to have lunch with his brother; 
in fact, he had not planned to eat at all. But Boromir had caught him between 
Húrin’s home and Lord Amdil’s and, with a combination of verbal persuasion and 
an arm round his shoulders that would not allow him to consider moving in the 
opposite direction, had steered him toward the nearly empty officers’ mess. The 
two of them had found a place in the corner and for a time, they had talked of 
Gondor and Rohan, of their uncle (who was due to arrive the next evening) and 
old Forlong of Lossarnach, and even (to Faramir’s surprise) of the mystery 
surrounding the light in the tower. Given Boromir’s most recent question, 
however, Faramir wondered that he had not perceived his brother’s intention 
earlier. And what does it mean that he asks this question, when already we know 
that neither of us shall be allowed within that vault? he wondered. Aloud, he 
said only, "I thought we had agreed yesterday to let fall that matter between 
us!"

"On the assumption that we had no new insight into it, yes, we did. But what if 
we could learn more?"

"We shall not," Faramir said flatly, without looking up. "Denethor knows now 
what we seek, he shall not permit either of us to learn enough independently of 
him to perhaps threaten his control of the situation. You know this as well as I 
do, Boromir!"

"But if…."

"Boromir," Faramir cut him off and lowered his hands, leaning forward to gaze 
directly into the other’s eyes. "Hear me! Nay, listen to me! I have tried for 
many years to get a glimpse of Mardil’s Books. Only once was I able to enter the 
room where they were housed, and only because I was, unbeknownst to Father, in 
Mithrandir’s company. At the time, I was all of thirteen, and though all things 
seem larger at that age, the steward’s collection is vast and difficult to 
decipher. Mithrandir stayed but a little while and would not let me touch 
anything, nor move too freely about the room. ‘Some things there are that are 
dangerous to the uninitiated,’ he said. ‘You are too young yet for such 
secrets!’ So, assuming that either of us could search the collection, I would 
not be able to tell you the lay of the room, nor begin to catalogue its 
contents. And in any case, 'tis futile to ask! I know not what art Mithrandir 
has to have persuaded Denethor to allow him a second and a third visit, but 
certainly no other has managed to wrest permission from the steward since then."

"Say for a moment that that were not the case," Boromir replied, attempting to 
circumvent Faramir’s refusals with a hypothesis. "If he were to let either of us 
in, what would you look for there?"

His brother blinked, then gave a slight shake of his head as if in surprised 
consideration, and he gazed down at the floor. Long lashes partially hid his 
eyes, but Boromir could see their motion, as if Faramir were mentally reading 
something, or else wandering through the library of his mind, seeking answers to 
who knew how many questions in that moment. After a long pause, the other sighed 
softly and shook his head, as if in resignation, saying, "In that case, I should 
seek scrolls or volumes concerning the end of the Second Age. We know that 
Elrond Half-elven was Gil-galad’s herald, but he fought his first significant 
battle in his own name in Eregion. That much I know, and that he retreated to a 
high place in the Misty Mountains for a time until the high king could bring 
relief. After that, he marched with the Last Alliance into Mordor. What became 
of him afterwards, I cannot say, though I guess now that that refuge in the 
mountains may well be Imladris. But until Father told me of his association with 
that name, it had never entered my mind that Imladris and that hide-away might 
be one and the same place."

"Why should you have?" Boromir asked, trying to ease the self-recrimination in 
the other’s tone.

"Because in the end, it is the solution that fits best the limited state of our 
knowledge. And yet I could not see it. I should have, though!" Faramir still 
sounded frustrated with himself, and Boromir reached across the table to give 
him a slight shake.

"Stop this nonsense! What is Elrond to us today but a figure of legends? Who 
would guess that such still… walked…." he trailed off, for though Boromir had 
never loved history overmuch, he knew far more than enough to realize how 
ridiculous that sounded.

"Say we who live daily in the shadow of just such a legend!" Faramir finished 
for him, offering a crooked smile. "Another play, and the Nameless One wins 
another piece: we, who by blood and choice, ought most to reverence and ally 
ourselves with the ancient enemies of the Dark Lord scarcely think of them. 
Indeed, we can barely comprehend a time when the Elves stood alongside us, 
fast-bound to Númenor as brothers. Elrond is a legend, we say, yet Mithrandir 
and Cúrunir both admit that he was instrumental in driving the Dark Lord from 
his hiding place in Rhovanion."

"That was fifty years ago!" Boromir protested.

"And well within our father’s life time. Another ten years, brother, and you 
shall see that age yourself; and yet we still account one who lives to see five 
decades in the prime of his life. What is fifty years to one of Númenorean 
descent, much less to an Elf?"

At which point, Boromir frowned, sensing that he was being led aside from his 
original inquiry. Eyeing his brother closely, he demanded, "Will you help me try 
to get in to search Mardil's Books or not?"

"For all that Father loves you, Boromir, and bends more easily to your 
suggestions and supplications than ever he did to mine, I would sooner look to 
see the king return than expect you to gain entrance to the steward’s 
collection," Faramir replied, finishing his ale. "Good day, Boromir." He rose, 
then, and stared down at his brother considerately for a time ere he turned 
away, making as if to leave.

"You did not answer my question," Boromir called after him, keeping his tone 
carefully neutral. Faramir paused and glanced back over his shoulder.

"What question was that?"

"Were it not impossible to view Mardil’s Books, would you help me?" To Boromir’s 
mind, Faramir hesitated briefly, but that hesitation seemed to contain less 
surprise than simple reconsideration.

Whatever had factored into that minute pause, it was with eyes quite inscrutable 
that his brother pinned him and said simply, but with quiet finality, "No."

And then he left, leaving Boromir to stare after him with narrowed eyes. He was 
of half a mind to follow Faramir, or continue to argue with him for his help, 
for Boromir would need it. But for the moment, his brother was far enough away 
that to call him back might create a scene. And if he does not wish to help me, 
I suppose I cannot blame him for that. Not when we both doubt the other's 
intentions in this matter.Well, we shall see whether that doubt is warranted, I 
suppose. For soon enough, I shall learn the truth… all the truth, if I can 
manage it!


~~~~~



Chapter Eleven
....What Deeds May Come




 It was just past noon when visitors arrived in Minas Tirith. Silver swans 
adorned blue tabards, and as men of the city's guard swarmed about, Imrahil 
dismounted, leaving his horse to one of the tenders who came immediately to 
lead the beast away. With a gesture, the prince conveyed to his guard captain 
that he was to take himself and his men off to the guest-house, and he waited 
until they were well on their way ere he turned to the captain of the 
Gate-watch. "How many others have arrived, captain?" he asked.


"None yet, my lord prince," the other replied. "Forlong is not due to arrive 
'til tomorrow morning, and the others will come after him."

"And what of the steward's sons?" the prince of Dol Amroth asked.

"They arrived three days ago, or at least the lord Faramir did. Lord Boromir 
came the day after, and both are to remain here for a time, sire."

"Good," Imrahil murmured, well-pleased indeed, and clapped the man on the 
shoulder. "My thanks, captain."

"Of course, sire! You are quite welcome."

Having learned what he wished to know for the moment, Imrahil began the hike up 
into the city and as he walked he went over in his mind the likely points of 
discussion that would occupy the council. Anticipation being one of his many 
virtues, the prince had already a good idea as to who would bring up certain 
issues, who was most likely to support what views, and accordingly, he had 
formulated his own responses to fit a variety of scenarios. What concerned him 
now was how the steward would react to his words, for though Denethor was the 
epitome of cold calculation, Imrahil knew too well that his brother-in-law was 
not above petty power plays. Indeed, it had been that very habit which had led 
to the rift between Imrahil and Denethor, and the prince had been very careful 
since then to say and do nothing further to rouse the steward's ire. 
Unfortunately, my presence may be enough to accomplish that! That was why he had 
sent a herald to warn Minas Tirith to expect him early, for it would be better 
to make a trial of the steward's good will with respect to himself in relative 
privacy, where other councilors were not present to see it.

For if it goes ill, then I shall have to tread very carefully indeed! I-- 
"Uncle!" Imrahil prided himself on his uncanny ability to know precisely who and 
what occupied the space surrounding him at any given moment. Thus his startled 
reaction to the hail was both unexpected and embarrassing, but he quickly 
identified the caller and offered a smile.

"Faramir!" he said, allowing his relief to color his tone as his nephew shoved 
away from the wall he had been leaning against. Clearly the younger man had come 
to wait, and Imrahil shook his head for the other's patience. "I had thought to 
meet you later, but well met indeed!" The young man approached with the quick 
grace of a cat and Imrahil laid his hands on his nephew’s shoulders and kissed 
his brow in greeting. But afterward he did not release him, holding him at arm's 
length to study him carefully. Faramir had always been a slender child, and he 
had grown into a lanky youth before he left for Ithilien. Since then, he had 
filled out nicely though he would never have his brother's raw strength. But 
what he had was quite sufficient, and Imrahil was more interested in what lay 
within, knowing well the reasons for Faramir's flight to Ithilien and the war 
front. And what he saw now in those grey eyes filled him at once with both pity 
and pride… and fear. Faramir gazed back steadily, and Imrahil knew he must 
quickly but carefully turn the other's attention aside, ere Faramir's intuition 
could discern his disquiet. Giving a soft and utterly untranslatable grunt, 
Imrahil said, "Once I watched you grow in inches every time I saw you. And 
though that time is well past, still I may say: you have grown, Faramir." Alas 
that some of that growth is in weeds. There is something brittle to his 
composure—something brooding. What is this fear that I sense in him?

"It is good to see you again, Uncle," Faramir replied smoothly, but by the 
flicker in his nephew’s eyes, Imrahil gathered that the other was not unaware of 
the trend of his thoughts. And if he can read me, then so also can Denethor. 
Imrahil was not best pleased by the prospect of a week or more in his 
brother-in-law’s company, but such feelings had no place in Gondor’s politics at 
a time like this. So, rather than berate himself for the lapse, the Prince of 
Dol Amroth thanked the Valar that it was Faramir that he stood before, and 
resolved to be more careful. It would not do for Denethor to know all that I 
think of him, after all! For quite apart from the way that the steward had 
treated Finduilas—Though in honesty, he grew to be a husband to her after a 
time, but by then the damage had been done!—Imrahil was disgusted by the way 
that he treated his sons. Especially Faramir! The Prince of Dol Amroth had been 
born to a rank scarcely less high than Denethor's, and the title was no empty 
one. His holdings were vast and so far south that he ruled almost as a king in 
his own right, and so he knew how heavy lay the mantel of sovereignty on mortal 
shoulders. It aged a man, and the people for whom a prince lived (and for whom 
he might well die one day in the not too distant future) competed ever with 
those who stood nearest the heart. Imrahil had seen his parents struggle through 
their marriage when the needs of Dol Amroth tore them ever apart, and as the 
years grew darker, he and his wife had also known their share of strain and 
sorrow. But we fought for what we had, and for what we would have, and she is 
with me still: every morning we face together, and if she cries sometimes at 
night, well… so also do I, when no other can see. Denethor, on the other hand….

There were days when Imrahil was convinced that his brother-in-law was beyond 
anything so human as care or concern for another. He is as a man possessed. A 
man possessed by this, Imrahil mused, and waved a mental hand about at the 
ramparts and high-built homes and towers by which he and Faramir passed as they 
climbed ever upwards. A man possessed by the shadow of the past made physical, 
wrought into this fair bauble of a city… and by the ruins that lie along Anduin. 
What affection the steward had had, he had spent already on Finduilas and on 
Boromir, and it seemed that he had none left for Faramir. Or rather, that he 
would not have any for him, for fear that such affection might distract him from 
other tasks and callings. And so he spends what energy he has resenting him 
rather than rejoicing to have such a son, Imrahil thought grimly. The long years 
in Ithilien had taught the younger of the steward's sons to stand tall and alone 
in the face of adversity, but it had not cured him of his desire to please his 
father. The prince rather doubted that anything ever would, and much though he 
longed to tell his nephew to leave off hoping, he could not. To do so might 
spare Faramir much anguish, but Imrahil knew that it would do him violence as 
well, and in the worst possible way. And so rather than inquire about Denethor, 
he said only, "It has been too long. How have your fared?"

"All things considered, not badly. For soldiers of Ithilien, only to live is 
accounted a triumph," Faramir responded, and for all his light tone, Imrahil 
knew he was deadly serious. Any warrior could say the same, in truth, for the 
Enemy's troops grew ever fiercer, ever bolder, and companies stretched too far 
and thin bled themselves white trying to stem the tide.

"And how is Boromir? Is he about?"

"He fares well enough, though I fear I know not where he might be. I have not 
seen him since early this morning. 'Tis likely he has some errand to perform for 
Father, for he seemed rather preoccupied," the other said, and Imrahil frowned 
inwardly, hearing the worry that gave the lie to that otherwise neutral 
assessment. I miss something here. What has happened of late in this city? But 
much though he longed to ask, the streets of Gondor, broad and public, were no 
place to hold a serious discussion, and so he filed his questions away for a 
more opportune hour.

"I am glad to hear it, then," he replied instead. "We must find time to speak 
later, you and Boromir and I, for there is much to tell of each other, I doubt 
not. War is not everything, after all. Have I told you about that roan that 
threw your cousin last spring? No? I never saw a more ill-tempered beast and 
thought he might have to go to the knackers, but then again, you know Cirthon 
prides himself on his horsemanship…." Faramir listened as his uncle spun the 
tale, and Imrahil was pleased to note that he at least knew still how to laugh. 
And apparently, he also knew how to tell his own tales, for when Imrahil had 
finished, Faramir recounted some of the more entertaining moments of duty in 
Ithilien. Of inconsequential things they spoke, each knowing quite well that the 
other held more important matters from him, but they smiled nonetheless and 
ignored that knowledge. For that was the way of things among the high of the 
land, even between family long missed.

***

"Valar curse it all!" The muttered curse fell heavy into the still, musty air, 
and Boromir stared up at the ladder that led to the upper shelves. Why it should 
be that the book he wanted would be stored on the topmost row, he had no idea, 
but he suspected fate of taking a perverse pleasure in his discomfiture. 
Deciphering the codex of works was task enough, he grumbled to himself as he 
began the climb. What cross-eyed old fool decided on this filing system? 'Tis a 
marvel a man can find anything at all in here! He reached the end of the ladder 
and ran a sleeve over the bindings of the nearest volumes to clear away enough 
of the dust to read the titles without squinting. Then he perched there, 
translating furiously whenever possible as he brushed at his arm and dust motes 
drifted down towards the floor below. Now do I wish I had Faramir here. I speak 
well enough, but this… this is arcane! I am not even certain what dialect this 
is, though it seems clearly Sindarin… almost. At last, however, he located the 
book he thought he needed, pulled it carefully from its place, and descended 
with as much speed as he dared. In the middle of the room there was a table with 
chairs, and someone had thoughtfully left paper and ink for the use of whomever 
might come to do research here, in the steward's private collection.

How he had gained entry was a secret he hoped he would never have to tell, for 
if fortune were kind, he would be in and out with no one the wiser for his 
activities. For although Faramir was quite correct to say that the steward their 
father would not give his permission for any to search Mardil's Books, Boromir 
was wise in the ways of warfare. If a frontal assault would not yield the 
coveted benediction, then there were still guile and cunning to fall back upon. 
So, rather than disturb Denethor, who was hard at work preparing for the 
council, Boromir had risen early and made his unnoticed way to the library. 
Beyond the honeycombed delving, there was a passage, and that passage led to an 
isolated chamber guarded by the senior librarians. Pale-faced and somber, they 
reminded Boromir of embalmers, and doubtless their severe and disapproving eyes 
would intimidate most men into leaving. But the confrontation with the 
librarians was where the aforementioned guile and cunning came into play. Thus, 
when one had glided forward to frown at him and ask, "Mayhap the young lord is 
lost?" Boromir had had his response ready.

"Would that I were, but I have an errand to pursue here." Grey brows had shot up 
in surprise, and thin lips had pursed thoughtfully as the man had stared at him, 
considering this unprecedented turn of affairs. They knew who he was, of course, 
for no one who lived or worked in the upper circles did not recognize the 
steward and his family. Likely, they knew Faramir even better, for his brother 
was one of the library's more frequent visitors whenever he returned home. But 
never had Denethor permitted either son access to the library's sanctum 
sanctorum, and the chief librarian had been clearly taken aback. And while the 
man had stood there in silence, trying to digest this, Boromir had sighed loudly 
and suggested, as if with impatience, "Send for my father if you must, but be 
swift, I beg, for the morning wears away and I shall need the time! I am not my 
brother, after all!" For if Faramir was well known here for his scholarly 
pursuits, Boromir was famous for his avoidance of the library save when duty 
required him to research some position or policy. Thus if he had come to the 
keepers of Mardil's Books, he must have a reason for being there other than his 
own volition, which shrank from the prospect of pouring over ancient texts. And 
since only one person could compel another to come and do research in the 
collection of the stewards, then it must logically be the case that Denethor had 
sent his reluctant elder son to them….

And so here he was, searching through the pages of "Quenta Aranorion"—which he 
hoped was indeed the History of Arnor, as the Sindarin subtitle listed in the 
codex was conveniently missing from the cover of the book—and cursing the 
obscure minds of loremasters. As far as any knew, Imladris was no part of Arnor, 
so why it should be that a reference to it would be listed in a history of the 
fallen North Kingdom, Boromir had no idea. Doubtless there was a tangled web of 
tortured logic to it somewhere, but he wasted no efforts trying to reconstruct 
it, preferring to concentrate on the task at hand. Based on Faramir's reluctant 
advice yesterday, he had already gone through four or five volumes pertaining to 
the end of the Second Age, and he had followed the paper trail to this point out 
of desperation. Most of the works had some reference to Elrond's retreat, and 
even to the founding of Imladris, but none of the scribes had seen fit, 
apparently, to include a location for the vale, which struck Boromir as a 
deliberate omission. Many, indeed, referred to some other work which concerned 
itself with the elvish haven, but inevitably, a search through the codex 
revealed that Mardil and his heirs had not seen fit to collect that particular 
work. Curse the lot of you, what sought you to protect? Boromir wondered 
furiously, flipping through several pages of genealogical charts. All well and 
good that somewhere, the cadet branches of Arvedui's royal house were listed, 
but he could do without them at the moment.

For despite the fact that it was highly unlikely that Denethor's chores would 
lead him to this place, Boromir could not shake the fear of discovery. What he 
would do, should any surprise him, he could not predict even to himself. It 
would be beneath his dignity to hide, but his traitor memory kept reminding him 
of his own childhood exploits… exploits that had often ended with he and Faramir 
huddled in some dark corner, waiting for their father's temper to cool. The Rise 
of Angmar… The Wargs of Eriador… The Tale of the Noble Line of Arvedui…The Laws 
of Inheritance in Arnor…. Boromir skimmed with nearly reckless haste, eyes 
devouring the lines of neat elvish script, and despite his impatience, he was 
fairly impressed that his translating skills were up to the task, since the 
dialect differed in significant ways from the one he was most comfortable using. 
The Fall of Cardolan in the Wake of the Civil Strife… The Collapse of Rhudaur: A 
Treatise on the Corruptive Influence of the Kingdom of Angmar… The Disposition 
of the North Kingdom According to the Decree of Aranarth… Why is it that these 
headings are so bloody long? With a sigh, he paged ahead, pausing but once to 
look at a map—No help there, of course!—and was about to flip to the next 
section when he saw it.

There, at the bottom of the page, it stood, and the lettering fairly leapt out 
at him as his eyes swept across the text: "And so it was agreed, by common 
consent, that Elrond Peredhel should hold in his keeping the heirlooms of the 
royal line, and that Imladris should shelter the Heirs of Isildur unto 
perpetuity, for the valley of the Elves, hidden in—" Boromir paused in his 
recitation to turn the page. On the back lay a second map, though it was about 
as helpful as the first. It showed an area of Rhudaur that extended south to the 
edge of Eregion, north to the Ettenmoors, west to the Last Bridge, and east to 
the Misty Mountains, and Boromir saw nothing resembling 'Imladris' written 
anywhere on it. Turning back to the text, he read the following: "'… spoke the 
Seer Malbeth in ancient times that the royal line of Arnor should at last face 
the darkness of Mordor, and be called to own the words and deeds of Isildur…' 
What!?" Disbelieving, Boromir turned back a page, re-read the passage about 
Elrond and Imladris, and then carefully turned the page again, being careful not 
to skip any. But no, the map was indeed drawn onto the back of that page, which 
meant that the tale ought to continue on that which faced it. But it did not. 
And upon closer inspection, Boromir, drawing a fingertip along the break in the 
pages, could feel the torn edges where someone-—May the Valar condemn him!—had 
ripped out the one page that he needed.

Boromir laid his head in his hands and listened to the brooding silence mock him 
while he waited for the initial spasm of outrage to subside. One… single… 
wretched page! And if that were not enough to prove that someone—or possibly a 
number of people—sought to keep the location of Imladris secret, he knew not 
what might constitute further proof. Why, though? What care we for Elves? 
Granted, Boromir had never seen one, he knew them to be enemies of the Dark 
Lord. That alone was enough to guarantee them his good will, or at least his 
neutrality, with regards to their business. Evidently, however, Imladris and 
Master Elrond might have other secrets to hide that some unknown steward had 
deemed too dangerous to allow his heirs to stumble over. Faramir said Mithrandir 
warned him that some of the books and scrolls in this room contained dangerous 
knowledge. Is this what he meant, or am I foiled by a lot of silverfish? But the 
pests did not eat pages like that, and he had seen no evidence of their 
existence in this or any other book. Doubtless the librarians saw to it that 
Mardil's Books were protected from such things.

Raising his head, Boromir cast his glance round at the room, with its myriad 
volumes and scrolls stacked from floor to ceiling. He had gone to this book as a 
last resort, and though he could not help but think that somewhere in this 
collection, Imladris' secrets lay exposed, there for the taking, he knew not how 
to find that one book. Faramir might have had better luck in such an endeavor, 
but Boromir had just exhausted his resources. Short of beginning anew and going 
through every book on the shelves, he would not find what he sought. And I have 
not the time! I must have been in here for hours already. With a sigh, he bowed 
his head, staring at the map on the back of the page. Imladris must lie 
somewhere within that region, or why else would the map be there? Denethor's 
elder son hesitated a moment, wondering why that page had escaped destruction… 
and then wondering whether anyone would miss it should it disappear as 
mysteriously as its neighbor. But then he sighed and reached for a sheet of 
paper and the pen. However much he detested research, he was not one to destroy 
or mutilate a thing of worth for no reason, and so he copied out the relevant 
portion of the text and noted the boundaries of the map, plus any changes in the 
landscape or names that caught his eye. It was little enough, but it was 
something, and Boromir resolved to check elsewhere for a more detailed map of 
that area in the main library. Closing the book, he tucked it under his left arm 
and hauled it back up the ladder to its place on the uppermost shelf.

Then, being careful to put all back in the order that he had found it, Boromir 
left Mardil's Books behind, nodding a brusque thanks to the librarians as he 
passed through their midst. Up the passageway he went, but when he reached the 
half-way point, he slowed, coming finally to a halt. What have I just done? he 
wondered of a sudden. What do I go to do now? His heart pounded in his chest, 
and though Boromir knew his father would not be pleased with him should he ever 
discover his illicit visit, there was no reason to suspect that Denethor would 
ever know of it. There lay upon him, it seemed, a fear that strained filial 
loyalty could not explain, and as he thought over the past few days, he realized 
that it had never truly left him. It was there, burned into him since Osgiliath 
it seemed, and he knew not why.

But if this dread remained somewhat mysterious to him, he could at least answer 
his second question, and with a sigh, he began moving again. I go to find my 
brother, as I suppose I knew I must ere ever I thought it! For now I must 
decide: shall I tell Faramir of this, or not?

***

"Faramir!" Faramir paused, turning to see his brother striding quickly up to 
him.

"And where have you been all day? I had begun to think you had left the city 
again," Faramir replied, offering a half-smile to show that he meant no 
criticism. "Imrahil missed you earlier."

"Ah, so he has arrived safely," the other said, somewhat unnecessarily, and the 
younger man frowned slightly, wondering at that. Boromir usually did not waste 
words on the obvious. "I suppose he has gone to see Father, then?"

"Yes, though to my mind he did not look forward to the meeting," Faramir 
replied.

"'Tis the first time those two have been alone in a room together for some time 
now," Boromir reminded him. "I imagine it would be wise to avoid them both when 
the meeting ends."

"You may be right, though I think our uncle's temper shall run its course 
swiftly. He asked me to invite you to join us a little later on, before supper."

"Of course," Boromir replied, and Faramir sighed inwardly, knowing that 
yesterday's brief lapse aside, his brother knew quite well why Imrahil did not 
invite them to sup with him. I wonder, would Father dare to shut him out should 
their argument break loose again, whatever it is? 'Tis one thing to ignore a 
troublesome second son, but another, after all, to snub a prince of the realm 
and one's brother-in-law! But he put such thoughts swiftly from his mind, for 
they were truly none of his affair, and instead he cocked his head at his 
brother.

"What brought you to me, Boromir?" he asked after a moment's silence.

"Naught specific. I saw you and hailed you, that is all. Are you well?" The 
question caught him somewhat by surprise, and Faramir's sense of puzzlement 
deepened.

"Of course. Why should I not be?"

"You seem to me pensive," Boromir replied.

"Do I not always? From our earliest days you have teased me about that!" Faramir 
gave him a smile and an elbow to the ribs, wondering at his brother's strange 
mood.

"I do at that. I only… that is," his brother paused awkwardly, lapsing into a 
rather anxious, dark silence, and Faramir felt himself tense before this unusual 
display of indecision. Boromir seemed to be groping for the right words—or for 
any words—as if he were uncertain what he himself thought. After a lengthy 
several moments, he glanced about to be certain no others were close enough to 
hear, and then tugged Faramir to a halt. Laying heavy hands on his shoulders, 
Boromir raked him over with troubled eyes, and Faramir felt his lips part 
slightly in worried astonishment at the other's grave look. Boromir noticed, and 
sighed softly, shaking his head. "I know not how to say this, so bear with me! 
Since the night we faced the Fell Riders and we shared that dream, I have been… 
uneasy. I spoke harshly to you the other day in the Second Circle, and I should 
not have troubled you yesterday. But in me there is some… some…."

"Fear?" Faramir suggested helpfully, perceiving suddenly his brother's trouble. 
For it does not come naturally to him to admit to any such 'weakness' as fear.

"Yes," the other replied in a low tone, folding his arms across his chest.

"There is no shame in that, you know," Faramir replied. "I feel it too, likely 
more often than do you. And you are right: since Osgiliath and the Shadow 
Riders, fear has come to roost in my heart, and I cannot seem to be rid of it."

"But you do not let it affect you so. I fear that this dread has colored my 
words and actions of late, and I let that spill onto you, as should not be. 
Mayhap if there were some useful task to perform here…."

"True. But we have sworn to wait and let our father pursue all useful tasks," 
Faramir responded with a wry smile, seeking to draw his brother out a bit from 
under the shadow. "Perhaps he, too, as you suggested, suffers under this 
malaise! At least it may drive him to search the harder for answers to our 
questions."

"Mmm… yes." For some reason, that seemed actually to increase Boromir's 
discomfiture, and Faramir frowned. Something in his brother's manner drew his 
mind back to their childhood, to memories of laughter and boyhood pranks that 
went predictably awry, sometimes with fairly spectacular results.

"Boromir..." He cocked his head at him suspiciously. "Why is it that you seem to 
me… guilty?" If he had hoped to receive a swift denial of any such condition, he 
was disappointed. Boromir simply gazed at him heavily, and Faramir scrubbed a 
hand over his face, wishing vainly that they had chosen some more private place 
to have this discussion than in a side-street, however quiet, of the Sixth 
Circle. "What have you done, since by your silence you seem to confess?"

"Imladris lies near the Misty Mountains."

It took Faramir several seconds of staring to realize just what he was being 
told, and then he gaped at him. "You crept in to look at Mardil's Books?!"

Boromir winced. "Not so loudly!" he hissed, glancing around once more. Faramir 
caught his brother's arm in an iron grip and dragged him a little further up the 
street, further away from the main thoroughfare.

"What were you thinking, risking Denethor's ire like that?" he demanded once 
they had paused again. "And how did you gain entry in any case? The librarians 
know that none are to enter without the steward's express permission!"

"Nay, brother, they know that you are not to enter, for you have no such 
permission and likely never shall short of Father's death. But they know that I 
hate the library vaults and would not inquire of them without reason. What 
reasons I might have had, they were free to assume what they would. They chose 
to assume Denethor had sent me," Boromir corrected, and knew it was no excuse. 
Faramir bowed his head, dithering as he digested this, and Boromir sighed 
inaudibly. In truth, he believed that his attempt to find answers in spite of 
their father's interference was justified. But he still felt the bite of an 
uneasy conscience, and that was a rare enough feeling that, whatever his own 
beliefs, he felt he could not keep the secret to himself. But I should not have 
put this on Faramir either, he realized. Although his brother had as much stake 
in this errand as he did, he ought not to have involved the other in his own 
deceptive dealings. Should they ever face Denethor, Faramir would suffer if it 
somehow slipped out that he had known of Boromir's trespassing. Yet he does 
deserve to know… and I would ask him if he remembers aught more of that long ago 
conversation with Mithrandir.

"At least you found its location," Faramir sighed just then, which startled 
Boromir greatly. The younger man greeted his surprise with a rueful half-smile 
that did nothing to brighten his eyes, and then asked, "Where exactly does it 
lie?"

"Would you believe that the rest of the sentence was missing?"

"What?"

"Just so. Look," Boromir pulled the paper from his belt pouch and watched as 
Faramir unfolded it and read off what he had written there.

"It just ends?"

"The next page is missing entirely, and you begin to read about Malbeth the Seer 
if you continue on uninterrupted. Someone tore it out. More, most of the volumes 
that supposedly deal with Imladris refer to manuscripts that are not listed in 
the codex. Unless I missed them, which is possible. Whoever created that guide 
must have been half-blind or half-mad… or a bit of both! It took me nearly an 
hour to learn how to use the wretched thing with any success!"

"Why that one page? Or were there others?"

"I know not if there were others, for I did not look. It was a clean tear, 
though, very close to the binding. Does it not strike you as odd that 
information concerning Imladris seems to be quite conveniently missing?"

"It does at that. How many volumes did you search?"

"I kept no count, but I should say a dozen or so that had anything to do with 
Imladris at all."

 

"Mmm… no wonder you were gone so long!" Faramir frowned thoughtfully, and 
Boromir could see the gleam in his eyes as his brother mulled over this 
information.

"You said yesterday," Boromir reminded, "that Mithrandir, when he brought you 
into that chamber with him, would not allow you to look about on your own, for 
some of the books had dangerous information in them. Can you remember aught else 
he might have said on that topic? Did he mention Imladris?"

"Nay, he did not, or I would have remembered it, for I have racked my mind for 
days over this matter. I fear that unless I can manage my own visit to the 
steward's private collection, I cannot further any of your speculations. But 
clearly, Imladris must lie within the region of this map." Faramir folded the 
paper once more and handed it back. Boromir received it and replaced it in his 
belt pouch, watching his brother carefully. Something in his voice and manner 
roused instinct, and Boromir frowned.

"Are you certain? For it seems to me that you have some thoughts on this…."

"We all have our secrets, Boromir," Faramir replied, and gave him a rather tight 
smile. "This one I shall keep for a time, for I know not what to make of it, nor 
how best to deal with it. Mayhap by this evening, when we meet with our uncle, I 
shall be able to tell you, but not before then, certainly. Now, I must go, for 
Húrin asked me to meet him, and I would not be late. You will come, will you 
not?" Faramir caught his arm tightly, the pressure of his fingers causing 
Boromir's arm to tingle as he pressed against nerves.

"I shall. Give my greetings to Húrin."

"Until later, then," Faramir nodded, and so the brothers parted—Boromir more 
thoughtfully, and Faramir with an air of driven preoccupation. And they knew not 
that above, in the Seventh Circle, they were being discussed….




~~~~~



Chapter Twelve
Family Affairs




 "What will you tell the council?" The question hung in the air like an 
accusation, and the steward might have taken it as one but that Imrahil was far 
too astute a politician to risk such during so delicate a meeting. Subtle as he 
could be, Denethor knew that his brother-in-law reserved such direct and 
uncompromising questions for those moments that he deemed too important to 
subject to possible misunderstanding. Nevertheless, the steward felt a certain 
displeasure stir in him as he met Imrahil's gaze and read how much lay yet 
concealed behind those veiled grey eyes. For I know well what that mask 
conceals, he thought wryly. Never hunt two lead hounds together, so Father 
would always say. And yet we have no choice, Imrahil and I! he reminded 
himself, even as the prince lowered his eyes. Though exquisitely polite, 
Imrahil's every move and inflection, from the moment that he had been escorted 
into the steward's study, bespoke a restrained hostility and wariness. Others, 
unable to see beyond the drapery and masks of Gondor's highest lords, might 
have been fooled by the intricate dance that steward and prince performed. To 
Denethor's shrewd eyes, however, his brother-in-law's caution and dislike were 
transparent, and he doubted not that his own mood was readily apparent to 
Imrahil. For the moment, though, there were more pressing concerns at hand, for 
Dol Amroth's prince had only just learned of Osgiliath's fall. And so they 
waltzed on, for that was how the game was played in Minas Tirith.

"The council must know of the full extent of our losses, of course," Denethor 
replied coolly after a moment's pause. "And though I would not speak overmuch of 
the Shadow Riders, they make such a tale that it would be better to tell it in 
full rather than allow speculation to run rampant."

"Shadow Riders," Imrahil mused, shaking his head and shooting a swift, probing 
glance in Denethor's direction ere he continued, "Dol Amroth shall, of course, 
assist in any way required. The Swan Knights' numbers shall soon be 
strengthened: Taurandol has… compressed… the squires' training schedule by a few 
months. That should aid us somewhat, and I can strip Dol Amroth's defenses to 
the bare minimum when the call comes without unduly risking the city." Which 
claim depended upon a far looser interpretation of "unduly" than either Denethor 
or Imrahil might prefer, but as was too often the case of late, there was no 
real choice. Should Minas Tirith fall, Dol Amroth would be no haven as Mordor's 
forces swung south through Gondor's coastlands ere turning northwest towards 
Rohan.

"Dol Amroth has always served faithfully," Denethor observed by way of oblique 
acceptance of the offer. Imrahil merely inclined his head, clearly reading in 
that comment his lord's unwillingness to thank him outright, and the steward 
suppressed a burst of irritation with the other. "Nevertheless, faithful service 
shall not avail us in the end," Denethor continued, stalking to the window that 
looked out over the Pelennor. "We have fought too long, and lost too much, and 
to defy the Dark Lord is to sentence us all to death." And although this was 
hardly news to those who breathed the rarefied air of Gondor's aristocratic 
heights, he felt Imrahil's hawk-eyed stare, and smiled thinly to himself. The 
Lord of Minas Tirith did not make a habit of avoiding the unpleasant; 
nonetheless, he had been raised in a fighting tradition, and there were certain 
truths which, though evident, were only rarely spoken aloud. This was one of 
them, and he could sense his brother-in-law fighting the automatic surge of 
fearful disapproval that welled up in him. Turning slowly back to face the 
prince, Denethor met Imrahil's gaze, idly sparring with the other for a moment. 
After but a short while, Imrahil withdrew, pointedly, and Denethor felt his lips 
twitch slightly in bitter amusement. "You wonder that I should speak of the fall 
of Gondor," he stated flatly.

"The steward must always give thought to the worst," the prince demurred.

"But he must not always give the worst a voice. Is that not so, Imrahil?" 
Denethor pressed, stating the implied criticism.

"It is not my place to censor your speech, my lord," the other replied, and 
though the evasion was perfectly executed, the glitter of anger in the other's 
eyes at having been forced to this position was all too evident.

"Nay, it is not. And if I cannot speak openly of such matters with the Prince of 
Dol Amroth, then we are in fetters already. But let us not tarry over trifles," 
Denethor waved a hand to dismiss the entire match. "Distasteful though it be, 
such is the knowledge that rules all our decisions. The question is whether that 
knowledge permits us to consider even a fool's hope."

"My lord?" Imrahil asked, frowning slightly.

"Have you spoken yet with either of my sons?"

"Faramir and I conversed for a short while as we made our way up through the 
levels," the prince replied, but did not volunteer the details of that 
conversation.

"I see," the steward paused. "What said he of our situation?"

"Scarcely a word–it has been long since I have seen him, and there remains much 
that I would learn of him outside of matters of war. I gleaned that somewhat ill 
had befallen, but I knew not what until I learned of Osgiliath, my lord 
steward."

Interesting, Denethor mused silently, feeling suspicion rear its head by habit 
as he considered the motives behind his younger son's silence on such matters. I 
would have thought Faramir would speak of the rhyme, for he has always confided 
in his uncle when the opportunity arose. But that would need to wait for a time, 
for if Faramir had been discreet in the matter of his dreams, Denethor, much 
though he might prefer to keep Imrahil at a distinct distance, could not afford 
to leave Imrahil in ignorance. "Then let me acquaint you with your nephew's 
latest composition." And, stalking to his bureau, the steward picked up a paper 
from the top of a stack and held it out for Imrahil. The Prince of Dol Amroth 
hesitated a telling moment before crossing the room to take the sheet out of his 
brother-in-law's hand. Flicking a wary look at Denethor, Imrahil turned his 
attention to the staves written thereupon, and his grey eyes narrowed as he read 
the first couplets.

"When did he dream this?" Imrahil asked, continuing to scan the lines.

"The night of the battle for Osgiliath's bridge. I would say it were naught but 
his own imaginings, cast into verse by a literary mind, but that he knows naught 
of Imladris, and the tale of Isildur's death is a secret lost to time. Still, it 
might mean little enough, but Boromir dreamt it as well," Denethor replied, 
watching as Imrahil's brows shot up in surprise at that revelation. Surprise 
quickly gave way to consideration, and after but a short pause, Imrahil sighed.

"I doubt not that Boromir would find this place," he said absently, seeming to 
evince a sort of resigned compassion on his elder nephew's behalf. "Imladris! We 
know not whether 'tis inhabited still, nor even its precise location. Faramir 
shall have a hard journey if he wishes to solve this riddle!" Denethor was 
silent in the face of that comment, and as Imrahil was engrossed in a third 
reading, the Prince of Dol Amroth did not immediately realize the import of that 
pregnant pause. But as the silence stretched out, the prince frowned slightly, 
casting a questioning glance at his liege-lord. And then his expression grew 
very still, as incredulity and unwelcome suspicion warred with each other in a 
battle fought openly in gleaming eyes. Imrahil's sharp gaze thrust hard against 
the veils that Denethor maintained, and the two men strove against each other 
for a time. But although Imrahil was a canny opponent and a practiced courtier, 
Denethor had not mastered a palantír without learning to conceal his mind from 
undesired scrutiny. Moreover, he was the steward, and the prince was only too 
painfully aware of that fact. Nevertheless, the Swan Lord held his ground long 
past the point of respectful courtesy–quite long enough to realize that his was 
a doomed effort. His lips thinned as he pressed them tightly together, and 
Denethor saw the frustration in his eyes ere he made himself break off. Imrahil 
stood silently, gazing down at the floor for several moments ere he finally 
spoke. "You cannot tell me that you would seriously consider sending 
Boromir–your heir and Captain-General–on this errand! My lord," he added as if 
in afterthought, but nothing that the prince did was ever done as an 
afterthought, and Denethor put a hand to his hip, letting his fingers drum upon 
the hilt of a dagger.

"My thoughts are my own to spin, Imrahil, and I share them at my own 
discretion," said he, driving home the implication–that Imrahil had best mind 
his tongue if he wished to remain in his lord's confidence–with his pointed 
emphasis on that last phrase. The prince merely spread his hands slightly and 
gave a minute bow of apology, but the other's back was tense and what he offered 
was barest courtesy by anyone's standards. For a fulminating moment, the two 
lords were silent and the air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken 
resentment. Finally, though, Denethor grunted and folded his arms over his chest 
as he leaned back to perch on the edge of his desk. That seemed to open the 
space a bit, and some of that tension eased as the steward continued on in a 
less chill tone, "Think not that I consider such matters lightly. Boromir shall 
be needed here, of that there is no question. And I would far rather dispense 
with Faramir's services than with his,"–which comment clearly did not sit well 
with Imrahil, Denethor noted–"but there are other matters which force me to pose 
the question of whether I can afford Boromir's absence."

"May I ask what they are, my lord steward? For else I confess myself amazed, for 
so uncertain a task is surely the province of those who bear not the weight of a 
city upon their backs already," Imrahil replied.

"You think Boromir unequal to the task, do you?" the steward probed, sensing the 
other's reservations.

"I think that Boromir has a good heart, and would gladly do anything for the 
sake of Gondor, but he will know where his duty lies."

"And though your words are cautious and would seem praise to the untutored ear, 
I perceive readily enough that they are but a cover for your uneasiness. You 
never trusted him quite so well as you trusted Faramir, I think."

"I said not so!" Imrahil replied with quiet forcefulness.

"Nay, but you need not say it. 'Tis evident, my lord prince," Denethor 
responded, his voice hard.

"Boromir is a willful man, and even I rarely question his judgment when it 
touches upon strategy and tactics. He has ever been eager to serve Gondor's 
needs, and he is a man of honor, as I would expect him to be given his 
heritage," Imrahil insisted. "But his training and temperament are not given to 
questions of this sort," and here, the prince held up the paper once more. "You 
are well-acquainted with the riddling words of loremasters, my lord, and have in 
the past admitted that Curunír's counsels were occasionally unfathomable ere the 
moment that saw them borne out and justified in full. And yet you would send 
Boromir to face an Elf-lord? As his father, you know his mettle better than I, 
but even I know that he is not the most patient of men in matters philosophical… 
in matters of faith, when there is naught to guide him but words. You know this, 
Denethor," Imrahil pressed, for once abandoning formality to speak the steward's 
name. "You have said as much in the past, and yet you still would send him 
north? Why?"

"For the very reason that you name: we face an Elf-lord, presumably, and 
possibly also a wizard. Mithrandir came ever from the north, and he has much to 
do with Elves. Much to do, but little to tell of them. Faramir I do not trust 
not to fall under their spell. There is such a thing as too much knowledge," 
Denethor retorted, shaking his head. "Too much time spent dreaming of the past, 
and not enough in the present!"

"I should not call nineteen years in Ithilien conducive to idealism of the sort 
that you speak of, my lord," Imrahil replied skeptically. "Moreover, you are not 
one to have raised a fool. If nothing else, Boromir would never allow his 
younger brother to blind himself to Gondor's needs."

Denethor grunted, letting his eyes wander over the prince, committing to memory 
the details of the other's posture, his expression, the tone of his voice. 
Clever, Imrahil! You think to turn me back now by praise, but we both know that 
tactic well. Better for the prince's obvious cause if he had simply remained 
silent, but that that recourse was denied him. As the ranking councilor of the 
realm, come to make a formal report to his lord and discuss such matters as 
needed to be aired first without a larger audience, it was Imrahil's duty to 
make known his own position. Else, he likely would have said little and tried by 
other means to influence the steward's decision. But in matters of Gondor's 
safety, Denethor's mind was not often swayed, and there was but one other whom 
he trusted to make judgments in such matters. That person was not Faramir, nor 
was it necessarily Imrahil, and so, despite the clear disadvantages of sending 
his heir abroad at a time like this, Boromir remained a ready tool, and the 
preferred one. However, he felt no need to share such thoughts with his 
brother-in-law, and so said merely, "Your opinion is noted, and I shall consider 
it. But the matter remains yet undecided. The tale of Isildur's death was never 
known in full in the South, and perhaps not even in the North that is lost. 
Nevertheless, there may lie answers in the little-read lore of our land, and 
mayhap they shall prove useful in deciding which of my sons is sent. I should 
not let it concern you further, my lord prince." Denethor finished, and smiled 
slightly as his brother-in-law retreated before that obvious dismissal.

"If there is naught else, then, my lord steward, I will retire for a time," 
Imrahil replied, folding the paper and handing it back to Denethor. The steward 
accepted it and set it back upon its proper stack, and he nodded.

"Do so. I shall send my esquire to fetch you later for dinner."

"Thank you. Good day, my lord," Imrahil bowed, every inch the gentleman, and 
then turned precisely on his heel and left, quietly shutting the door behind 
him. Denethor sighed softly, and for one unguarded moment, his frustration 
showed. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth was a fine dancer, after all, and even the 
most stoic of leads may grow weary after awhile. Despite the tension, a perfect 
gentleman in the end. That does not bode well! Denethor shook his head, debating 
the wisdom of another trial before the palantír. Granted Mardil's Books had many 
a rare text, if only one knew how to find them, but the Seeing Stones had many 
virtues. Sometimes it was not the present that they showed, after all, and after 
many long years of probing the secrets of that globe, the steward had begun to 
be able to control its visions of the past. But with Imrahil about, and on his 
best behavior already….

A fine dancer indeed. How fortunate, that we both learned early to waltz! With a 
slight smile, the steward left his study and headed down the corridors of the 
Citadel. Until he was certain he would have no more meetings with the prince, it 
was best not to tempt fate. Mardil's Books required no effort of will-power on 
his part, and if the information was there, then it might be more certain than 
the palantír's ambiguous visions.

***

Moonrise over Gondor brought a ghostly beauty to the White City, its pale stones 
illuminated to a milky radiance–a radiance shot through with red and orange and 
even green or blue where the lamps shed their light out upon the streets. 
Boromir let his eyes wander over the marvel, but though he appreciated the 
sight, he had not come to idle away the hour in aesthetic contemplation: as he 
strode through the gardens, he sought one familiar figure among the sleeping 
blooms and hedges. He would always come here, he thought as he searched the 
small, green-grown 'court yards' of the gardens of the Seventh Circle. At least 
I need not fear interrupting anyone! For these gardens were reserved for the 
guests who stayed in the Citadel, and were intended to be a haven, a place where 
a man might come to think and to escape the tension of the day. As such and 
despite the numerous sheltered areas, it was woe to the esquire or lordling who 
thought to keep a tryst here–in the world of Minas Tirith's aristocracy, that 
was why the gardens of the Sixth Circle existed, and everyone knew it. And 
although once or twice, Boromir had ventured into the concealing vistas of the 
Sixth Circle on just such business, he tended to avoid them at all other times. 
And of course Imrahil would have no reason to abandon the Seventh Circle for the 
Sixth, being safely and (for the most part) happily married. So where is he? 
Valar curse it all, Uncle, elvish blood or no, must you flaunt it with your 
disappearances? Boromir demanded silently, frowning as he considered whether to 
try the arcade of plum trees or to continue searching through the many private 
spaces that the hedges created.

"You seem preoccupied." Boromir bit back on an exclamation as he whirled to 
discover his uncle standing not far away, and in the moonlight, his smile did 
not go unnoticed. Boromir sighed softly and eased his left hand back away from 
the dagger he kept strapped at an angle at the small of his back. His uncle 
noticed, however, and added, "And nervous, if I may say so."

"My apologies, uncle, I am not accustomed to being surprised. Whence came you?" 
Boromir asked, frowning as he glanced over Imrahil's shoulder at the hedge row. 
He had just looked there, after all, and seen no one….

"Two rows back," the prince gestured behind himself, and Boromir grunted. "What 
brings you in search of me?"

"Questions," Boromir replied with a thin smile. "Questions I cannot answer."

"I see. Come then," Imrahil beckoned, turning back into the maze-like corridors 
of vegetation. The Prince of Dol Amroth moved quickly, clearly having some 
specific place in mind, and Boromir followed along without trying to guess 
whither his uncle led. At length, they came to a wall, and Imrahil followed it 
until it curved to bend west. There, at the juncture of south and west, there 
stood a low, stony bench, and the hedges and flowers formed an effective screen. 
Imrahil did not sit but went to lay his hands flat upon the railing as he gazed 
south. I might have known! Boromir thought, smiling ruefully as he shook his 
head and came to join his uncle. Imrahil looked ever south to the sea in time of 
trouble, to the waves and the soothing lap of water that he missed whenever he 
came to stay in Minas Tirith. That interview with Father must have been worse 
than we guessed, Faramir and I! For although the brothers had spent an enjoyable 
two hours with their uncle, neither of them had been unaware of Imrahil's 
initial sharp scrutiny of them, nor insensitive to the aura of tension that 
whispered like an undertone throughout their conversation. All this despite the 
prince's seeming good humor, and that to Boromir did not speak well of the 
meeting between Denethor and Imrahil.

And what might they have discussed that would set him on edge so? Boromir could 
think of but one subject that would inspire such unease, and so he asked, "What 
think you of the rhyme of Imladris, Uncle?"

"Such dreams do not lend themselves to easy evaluation, I fear," Imrahil 
replied.

"True enough. What, then, is your evaluation, however difficult?" Boromir 
prodded, refusing to let his uncle wriggle clear of a response this early in the 
game.

Imrahil gave a soft snort and a minute shake of his head, but after a moment's 
pause, he answered, "That Gondor must send to Imladris for counsel, for too much 
is lost to us for us to interpret it ourselves."

"Faramir spent long hours searching for a key to the rhyme, but he found nothing 
but worse anxiety over it," Boromir brooded, and felt his uncle's eyes upon him 
of a sudden.

"And what of yourself, Boromir? The steward tells me you have both dreamt these 
staves. What make you of them?"

"I? Nothing, save that one of us must away to Elrond's doorstep, there to beg 
his help," the younger man replied, his tone taut and Imrahil heard the unhappy 
emphasis on the word 'beg.' Boromir was not one to ask lightly for help in any 
affair, and indeed, Imrahil had wondered at his nephew's willingness to seek his 
aid this evening, even in matters as yet undeclared.

"At least we may receive an answer," Imrahil replied. "Such dreams are seldom 
wrong, and since someone must go, it may be that even an Elf-lord will speak 
plainly enough that we children of late times shall understand him." Boromir 
made a somewhat disgruntled noise at that, and Imrahil quirked a brow. "That 
prospect displeases you?"

"It seems to me an odd twist of fate that we who endure the east wind and daily 
battle the servants of the Unnamed should ask help of Elves. Their lands lie 
behind Gondor's shield, and they care little for Middle-earth, it seems. Each 
year they flee over the waters, and even those who remain will not treat with 
us. Why should they aid us now? And what could they possibly have to offer? What 
can words do for us here?"

"They may do much," Imrahil replied. "It is true that the time of the Eldar 
draws to a close, but though they go no longer to war, still, they are a wise 
people. Deeper than all other races do they see, and one does not reject an 
Elf's freely offered advice out of hand. Remember also the words of the rhyme: 
Seek for the Sword that was Broken! If it be reforged, then mayhap we shall not 
fight alone. But all such speculation is futile. We shall have our answers only 
when we find Imladris." The prince paused, gazing out over the darkened plains. 
As he stared, he considered his elder nephew in silence, trying to discern the 
other's purposes. And he found himself thinking that perhaps he was far too like 
Denethor for his own good at times. For sometimes we forget to take at face 
value what is offered us! Boromir is not Faramir, after all… and I am glad of 
that, for already I tire of guarding my speech! And so, "What troubles you, 
Boromir?"

"Any number of things," the other shook his head, pausing slightly ere he 
continued, "Never have I claimed to understand such dreams as my brother has, 
and I have never desired his gift. If gift it is indeed," he added darkly ere he 
hurried on. "It sits ill with me to place so much faith in a rhyme, though my 
heart tells me I may not ignore it and urges me onward. Mayhap Faramir, out of 
long familiarity with his dreams, is less opposed to the notion, but almost I 
wish I had never dreamt it. We argued over who would go, you know," Boromir 
said, turning a painfully wry look upon his uncle.

"Dreams are a very personal matter, even when they touch on things larger than 
ourselves. 'Tis not unusual to feel… proprietary, I suppose. Possessive. 
Jealous, even, and to quarrel over meaning," Imrahil replied.

"Mayhap, but I like it not nonetheless," Boromir responded. "Even now, I cannot 
be certain that we do not work at cross-purposes. He knows something… and yet he 
will not speak of it!" he brooded. Imrahil raised a hand to stroke his chin, 
considering the other's mood. Knowing how close Faramir and Boromir were, he 
could well understand Boromir's unhappiness over such an argument, and his 
concern over his brother's unwillingness to share his secret. There were ways, 
Imrahil thought, in which Boromir could be quite the innocent, particularly in 
matters concerning honesty among confederates. It was ironic, if not 
contradictory, for if he and Faramir had always been thick as thieves, Imrahil 
knew well that Boromir refused to share all with his father in matters personal. 
Moreover, a good captain naturally learned to keep confidences close. 
Nevertheless, there was in Boromir a tendency to seek absolute trust, at least 
from those whom he would befriend. But few were willing to extend such trust on 
a moment's notice. And when they do not.… Imrahil grimaced inwardly. Once 
rebuffed, Boromir rarely made a second offer, unless some extraordinary reason 
pushed him to try again.

I wonder, has he truly anyone other than Faramir? Imrahil wondered, struck by 
that insight. Certainly, Boromir's occasional romantic interests were 
unfulfilling in that respect, else he would by now have pushed his father into 
accepting his choice of wife. Imrahil did not delude himself that Boromir 
considered him a friend. He was his uncle, someone to whom Boromir could turn 
for advice on the rare occasions when he felt a need to ask it… someone for 
Faramir to look to, and perhaps that was almost more important to Boromir than 
any other consideration, given Faramir's strained relationship with their 
father. If he felt now upset over Faramir's reticence, that might hold more 
significance than the casual observer would imagine. Not that they have never 
fought before– all brothers do–but not to the point that Boromir has ever come 
to me for advice about it. "I would not worry, Boromir. When he is ready, and he 
feels he has something to say, then he will tell you." A soft harrumph! greeted 
that assurance, but Imrahil thought he felt some of the other's tension drain 
away. "In the mean time, consider: Faramir has more familiarity with such 
prophetic dreams, but it means only that he is more accustomed to being alone in 
them. To share one, even with you, is likely unsettling and confusing. As if the 
rhyme itself were not confusion enough! And there is still Mordor to face and 
Gondor to think of, and riddles are unwelcome at such times."

"I had not thought of that," Boromir allowed quietly. "'Tis true, he was always 
careful when he chose to reveal a dream, for he knew that his… gift… made me 
uneasy at times. Sometimes I wonder if my own dream was not… unintended. You 
know how it happened, do you not?"

"I do not follow you. How the dream happened?" Imrahil asked.

"Yes. 'Twas after we made our way back to the camp. We had managed to swim to 
shore after the bridge collapsed, but the current swept us a good distance 
downstream, and Faramir nearly drowned. By the time we reached the encampment, 
we were both weary, but I could not sleep, and so went to make a check of the 
perimeter. When at last I returned to my tent, I found Faramir asleep on my 
cot!" Imrahil blinked, and Boromir chuckled softly. "I let him stay, since I was 
tired myself and he looked exhausted. But I wonder… I have heard it said that a 
husband and wife share the same dreams at times, because they touch. I have 
wondered whether 'twas not Faramir's dream that spilled over on to–or rather, 
into–me by accident."

"Hmm…." Imrahil turned that confession over in his mind, sorting through the 
possible implications. At length, he said slowly, "I cannot speak for others, 
but I can remember but few instances when Narendis and I shared a dream, and 
usually there were significant differences between our visions. To me, that 
would seem to say that you were meant to have it as well as Faramir, but I 
suppose you could be right. What if it is but a… a derivative dream?" he asked, 
curious to learn his nephew's response.

"What if it is?" Boromir paused a moment, then shrugged. "It matters not in the 
end, for I have had this dream, and now I cannot be rid of it. The which being 
true, I would not be rid of it either, I suppose; I would see this through, if 
father will permit me!" A pause. "Know you aught of the steward's mind in this 
matter?"

"The steward keeps his own counsel, and I can say no more than that," Imrahil 
replied, wishing that he knew even less than he did.

Boromir, however, did not seem surprised, for he knew his father's ways, and let 
drop that subject to ask, "What of yourself, Uncle? Have your dreams spoken to 
you of late?"

"I am not the prophet in this family, if that is what you mean to ask after," 
Imrahil replied. Although the prince had much elven blood in his veins, he 
dreamt true only rarely, and usually they were not prophetic dreams, but simply 
visions of what had been. Cities I have seen that vanished with the First Age, 
and faces of Elves and Men long dead. Gondolin before its destruction, and 
Daeron's mad eyes. Now that he thought of it, though, he had had several such 
dreams as he had traveled north to Minas Tirith, and he wondered at the 
coincidence. Moreover, although he usually knew intuitively the identity of the 
faces that passed through his mind, of late he had dreamt of faces without 
names. Less remote, they were, and he was quite certain that they were mortal, 
but he could not have named them. Númenorean they seemed, and ever there 
remained one who hovered on the edge of his dream-vision, a shadow that hid its 
light, and who yet seemed to beckon Imrahil after him. Who is he? the prince 
wondered, and yet had no answer. There is something common in this, I can feel 
it: some common element that runs through my nephews' dream and my own. But I 
cannot fathom the connection… yet! "Strange times, these are, and none of us are 
untouched by the events of this Age. Change is in the winds, and not only the 
Elves feel it."

"Change… or an ending?" Boromir asked. With that, he sighed softly and said, 
"Thank you Uncle. I shall take my leave of you now. Good night!"

"Pleasant dreams, Boromir," Imrahil replied pointedly.

"Valar willing!" the other tossed back and strode away, leaving Imrahil to his 
own thoughts. This grows more complicated than I had foreseen, the prince 
thought. He was uncomfortably aware that some of Denethor's accusations might 
have been closer to true than he was willing to admit. Perhaps I am just as 
blind in my way to Boromir's merits as Denethor is to Faramir's; the difference 
is that I do not despise Boromir for his differences. But if I would do him and 
this realm justice, then I must admit that he, too, has grown since last we 
spoke, for I would not have thought him willing to entertain such doubts, or to 
share them. He would go, and I doubt not that he will press his father as hard 
as he dares, should Denethor give him the chance. With a sigh, the Swan-lord 
turned his eyes heavenward, to the moon that had just passed its zenith. It 
grows late. Tomorrow comes early, and with it, another conference with my dear 
brother-in-law! He shook his head. I wonder if he has found aught to guide him 
in this? Or will he simply listen to his prejudices? Valar, if there were but a 
way to sway him… but he knows me too well. All I can do is make the best case I 
can for Faramir, and hope that Denethor does not let his dislike dictate his 
choice! So resolved, Imrahil turned and began to make his way out of the 
gardens. The Tower of Ecthelion rose high above him, and the prince frowned at 
the flickering greenish light that spilled out from one of the high rooms. What 
is that? But even as he stared, it died away, leaving only a dim, flickering 
red-yellow light behind. Clearly, someone had a candle near a window, but that 
other light….

Imrahil was not accustomed to fear the unknown simply for its novelty, yet he 
felt a distinct uneasiness come to sit heavily upon him. For no reason that he 
could discern, something about that light inspired in him a sense of foreboding. 
As if with that light we signal our own downfall! He shook his head sharply. 
What nonsense is this, Imrahil? he berated himself as he took up his course once 
more. But that dread did not abandon him, and it was with a heavy heart that he 
went to his rest.

***

And while Imrahil walked back to the tower, Faramir swore to himself in the dim 
light as he rifled through papers. And veteran commander though he was, his 
heart was racing as he searched. It would be an exaggeration to say that 
Denethor would kill him if he caught him in his study, but that did not make 
Faramir feel any less as though he were engaged in a capital crime. The 
consequences were bad enough that they did not bear thinking on in any case, for 
the steward valued his privacy above all else save Gondor itself. Ordinarily, he 
would never have risked this, but unfortunately, Boromir's escapade in the 
library had proved 'inspiring' on more than one level, and so here he was, going 
through his father's meticulously kept papers like a thief. Not like a thief, 
Faramir, as one! He grit his teeth as he carefully moved on to the next chest of 
papers and scrolls. Getting in had been simple enough, once he knew that his 
father had gone up to his private study on the top floor of the Citadel. For his 
father's chambers were not far from Boromir's and the guards waited at the entry 
way to that entire wing of rooms. Only when one of those rooms was occupied did 
more sentries appear to guard the doors, for who indeed would have any business 
in this part of the tower save the lords of the city? There was no need for 
additional security when they were absent. And although Faramir would never have 
gone to see his father without a summons, he was a frequent guest in Boromir's 
quarters. It had been easy enough to pretend that he went to wait for his 
brother… and then he had simply continued on to go to his father's chambers. 
From there, he had taken the connecting passageway that led straight to the 
steward's formal study, being careful to make as little noise as possible.

Coming to the bottom of the pile of papers, the steward's younger son let out a 
hissing exhalation. Another dead end! Am I wrong? he wondered. Surely his father 
would keep anything of great importance here, where he spent most of his time. 
Admittedly, though, Faramir had had very little evidence to base his conclusion 
upon–none, really, if he were honest. Only an intuition, for who else would wish 
to keep secrets about Imladris but Denethor? For I cannot see how this would 
qualify as dangerous knowledge. Books containing such knowledge were listed in a 
separate codex that the librarians kept in their possession at all times, unless 
someone with the steward's permission asked for it. As far as Faramir knew, only 
Mithrandir had obtained such permission, and that was the only reason that he 
knew of the existence of the 'closed codex.' So if Boromir had found that book 
by using the 'open codex,' then the book must not have any threatening 
information in it. And that brought Faramir back to his suspicion that it was 
his father who had the missing page, for Denethor had gone down to Mardil's 
Books since learning of the Rhyme of Imladris. Faramir had watched him go down 
that corridor, and though he could not ask the librarians to see the obligatory 
list of examined materials that every visitor to that collection had to fill 
out, he was certain that Denethor's list would have had Quenta Aranorian on it 
and….

The list! Faramir paused in the act of lifting the next lid, and it seemed his 
heartbeat tripped over itself. Boromir did not know about leaving a list! Worse, 
he doubted that the librarians would have told him to do so. They would assume 
that he knew about that requirement, for Denethor would have told him had he 
truly sent Boromir. If he had not turned one in, they doubtless expected that he 
would do so shortly. Likely, they assume that he simply forgot, for he was in 
there for quite some time… Valar! Faramir took a swift look around the room, 
making certain that everything was as it had been, and then went swiftly to the 
door that let out onto the corridor. Pressing his ear against it, he listened 
intently while his thoughts raced. I have to find Boromir and warn him to turn 
that list in tomorrow morning, else I dare not guess what might happen! So long 
as they had the list, the librarians would say nothing, for such lists were for 
their private purposes, to help them maintain the collection. But if they have 
it not, and they mention the omission to Denethor…. Nothing sounded in the hall, 
and as of yet, there was no sound from the stairwell either. Blowing out the 
candle and setting it back on its stand by the door, Faramir opened the door a 
crack and peered out. No one moved in the hallway, and so he opened the door 
just wide enough to slither through, shut it noiselessly, and then he strode 
swiftly down the hallway to his brother's rooms. Boromir's esquire stood at the 
door, which meant that his brother, fortunately, was within.

Relieved to find him so quickly, Faramir nodded to the esquire, knocked once and 
then entered before the boy could stop him. "Boromir! Do you remember the names 
of all the books that you–" and he stopped dead as his brother stared speechless 
at him, dread in his eyes… and Denethor turned to pin him under a black stare.

"Well… how very interesting!" the steward murmured. "Come in, Faramir!" And when 
Faramir hesitated, his father's eyes narrowed. "Now!"



~~~~~




Chapter Thirteen
Stand Divided




 It was quite silent as Faramir stepped over the threshold, closed the door, and 
made his way across the room under Denethor's balefully impassive stare. Even 
Boromir's presence seemed muted as Faramir halted at his brother's side. To all 
eyes but knowing ones, he seemed composed enough after his initial moment of 
shocked startlement, but from long experience, the steward knew the cut and 
drape of guilt on both his sons. And at the moment, both were shrouded by it. 
Denethor eyed them both, letting each feel the weight of his opprobrium ere he 
spoke in a clipped, precise tone. "I had hoped that with time, both of you 
would outgrow such nonsense, but it seems I was mistaken. Time has cured you of 
nothing but any sense of shame." Boromir had the good grace to blush at least, 
but Faramir's eyes hardened, although he seemed rather paler than usual at the 
reprimand. He said nothing, but the defenses that had sprung instantly to life 
from the moment the younger man had realized what he had interrupted grew the 
tighter, the more inscrutable, and Denethor gazed hard at him. And what else 
have you done, o son of mine?


Alerted by the librarians of Boromir's transgression, Denethor had determinedly 
done his own research, just as planned, being very careful to use all the time 
that he had allotted himself for that task. Yet his thoughts had been black as 
he had waded through the sea of information. When at length the chime of bells 
had announced the appointed hour, he had closed his book, handed his own list to 
the librarians, and then gone straight to the palantír, wrath washing hotly 
about his innards. The Seeing Stone's visions had been predictably violent that 
evening, until at length the steward's anger had cooled to its customary 
iciness. Once his control had been restored, the chaotic swirl of images had 
subsided to a calm flickering, and he had been able to watch Boromir search 
frantically through Mardil's Books only to leave empty-handed... and he had 
watched his meeting with Faramir later on and wondered what his second son's 
veiled yet intense look had meant. No more had the stone shown, for Denethor 
could stomach no more. Faramir's involvement in this was clear, but what he had 
seen was not enough to answer the question that burned in Denethor's mind: had 
it been Boromir's idea to search the steward's collection, or had he acted upon 
Faramir's urging? And at the moment, I cannot decide which possibility is more 
distasteful to me! At least I need not pry an admission from Boromir ere I 
confront Faramir. What a stroke of luck, that! Denethor thought sourly, flicking 
his glance back to Boromir as Faramir lowered his eyes at last. "Have you naught 
to say, either of you? Even when you break the decrees not only of your father 
but of your lord?" he demanded when neither of his sons spoke in response.

"What would you have me say, my lord?" Boromir asked at length, voice taut, yet 
oddly soft. "You have my apology, that I broke your commandment. Doubtless you 
shall deal with me as you see fit." His elder son could not quite look him in 
the face as he spoke, and the steward felt his jaw clench as he turned now upon 
Faramir, who was watching Boromir with hooded eyes.

"Faramir!" he snapped.

"My lord?" the younger man replied, his tone leeched of emotion. Denethor stared 
at him, and the blank wall of the other's guarded appraisal seemed to him to 
hide more than simply fear. Too careful you are; you are not innocent in this, 
wretched boy! In that instant, Faramir seemed to his father a younger version of 
Imrahil, or that other who had troubled Denethor's youth, and it needed a moment 
for the steward to control his tone of voice.

"There are reasons why I allow few, and certainly not you, Faramir, into 
Mardil's collection. I will thank you in the future not to challenge my judgment 
in this. But you were ever a prier into matters that did not concern you, lad," 
the steward said in a deadly smooth tone, and the authoritative crack to his 
voice as he continued seemed but the louder for it. "I would have thought, 
however, that you would at least not drag others into your willful 
disobedience!" Faramir's darkened eyes glittered at that, widening as he sucked 
in a breath and stiffened. Beside him, Boromir jerked his head up to stare first 
at Denethor, then at his brother.

"I never led another astray, father!" Faramir protested.

"'Tis true, he would tell me nothing—" Boromir spoke up, clearly agitated by 
this turn of events. But Denethor seemed not to hear him, so closely was his 
attention focused on his younger son.

"Did you not? I know you better than that: ever you desire to know what does not 
concern you, and you would use others to gain that knowledge. You crept into 
Mardil's Books with Mithrandir twice, that I remember well enough, and you 
conferred ever with your uncle on matters you would not bring to me. There is 
much you would hide from me!"

"Accuse me falsely or make of me the worst knave you can imagine, rightly or 
wrongly, but do not you ever mistake me for that timid child!" Faramir shot 
back, and Boromir winced slightly, while Denethor stared, unfathomable in his 
silence. After a moment's heated pause, the younger man continued on, voice 
still taut with anger, "It is overlate to complain that I bring nothing to you, 
my father, and well do we both know it. I bring you what is your business, and 
ask for no more than to be told what I must know in order to act for Gondor's 
good. Imrahil would tell you gladly that I ask no more and no less of him when 
the occasion arises," Faramir replied, slithering out of a direct response to 
that last accusation. The steward continued to gaze at him as the light in the 
other's eyes began to fade before that chilly reception, and his own angry 
disappointment sang bitterly through his breast. On some level, Denethor 
realized that Faramir could never have answered that charge, but tonight, the 
evasion was merely another reason to mistrust his second son.

"I see," he replied at length and coldly. "Remember, Faramir, that you swore me 
an oath to do and to let be at my command. I have told you before never to seek 
knowledge among Mardil's Books, for there is much there that ought not to be 
revealed to casual and impertinent curiosity. When I gave that restriction, I 
meant not that you should look to another to do for you what was forbidden you!"

"He had no part in that, Father," Boromir protested again, cutting his brother 
off ere he could further damage his credibility in Denethor's eyes. "And I think 
you do not understand the need that this dream instills in us."

So they both stand now together against me! The thought rang chill within the 
closed corridors of Denethor's mind, and though a part of him quailed to realize 
that the gap had opened at last between himself and Boromir, habit and the need 
of the moment put the words in his mouth and into the air ere he could think 
better of them. "Do I not? In such matters as dreams, Boromir, you are but a 
novice. Therefore hold your tongue!" Boromir caught his breath, momentarily 
stymied to find himself on the vicious end of Denethor's tongue, and for an 
instant, he stared in shock.

"Then as you have the advantage of experience, why can you not understand that 
we may not let this matter lie, father?" Faramir forced his way back into the 
conversation then, and Boromir stepped on the urge to throttle him. Be silent, 
brother mine! It was not usually his way to urge another to surrender, but he 
had not spent the past twenty-four years in the field without learning to 
distinguish surrender from a tactical retreat. Faramir, though, seemed not to 
have learned that lesson, or else he had forgotten it tonight. Or perhaps, 
Boromir thought suddenly, perhaps he simply does not understand Father in this. 
This is the point at which they diverge—I think he does not understand father's 
refusal to understand. For there was in Faramir's voice a note, as of utter 
bewilderment, that underlay the anger, as if he simply could not comprehend 
Denethor's cruelty, and it pained his older brother to hear it. Usually, Faramir 
was better able to hide his hurt from Denethor, but tonight.... What is wrong 
with the lot of us of late? Boromir wondered. This is not right! Father never 
tried us both at once, and I have never seen him like this before! He gritted 
his teeth, despairing as he saw the flat, leaden look of Denethor's eyes and 
their father leveled a darkly disgusted stare upon his younger son.

"The matter does not lie idle, Faramir! I have said I would see to it, and I do. 
I require nothing more of you than your obedience. Since you choose not to give 
it but to blunder on in your misplaced pride, I will speak with you further on 
this matter tomorrow. With both of you," Denethor promised, quelling all 
protests with a look. With that, the Steward of Gondor turned and swept out of 
the room, leaving his sons to stare after him. For several moments, neither of 
them moved, but then Faramir made a noise between rage and disbelief, and sank 
down upon the nearest chair. Elbows leaned upon his knees, he bowed his head and 
let his hands dangle limply between his legs, his whole posture bespeaking 
dejected frustration. And much though it tore at him to see Faramir's thinly 
veiled humiliation, Boromir was just incredulous enough to be angry with him as 
well.

"That went well," he muttered sarcastically, shaking his head as he ran his 
hands back through his long hair, raking at the dark strands with claw-like 
fingers. "Could you not have held your peace for once, Faramir?"

"What peace have I to hold? He thinks I drove you to bluster your way into 
Mardil's Books!" Faramir said, voice thick with irony. "Ever he turns to me for 
an explanation when I have none to give, and will not hear me when it is my 
place to speak! Of course he would never look to you to fall so low, save at my 
urging!"

"At least he does not think you gullible! And I need not to be reminded of 
childhood faults any more than did you, so speak not with that voice, Faramir!" 
Boromir snapped back, irritated with the other's tone, which seemed to suggest 
that Faramir, at least, had no cause to overestimate him. Or worse, that perhaps 
it is impossible to underestimate me either! That did not sit well with Boromir 
at all.

His brother snorted with fine contempt, however, and tossed a wry look at him, 
"Fear not, brother! You remain superior to me in all matters, rest assured of 
that. I cannot even meddle in father's affairs without your example, nor admit 
my fault before Denethor. He was right to suspect me, but for the wrong reason!" 
To which oblique confession, Boromir merely cocked a skeptical brow, awaiting 
further elaboration. Faramir sighed and continued, "I went to look for your 
missing page."

"The missing—where, Faramir?"

"In Father's study." And when Boromir simply stared at him in mute astonishment, 
he sighed again. "I thought he might have taken it, for truly, who else would 
take a page out of a book listed on the open codex if not Father?"

"Begin again at the beginning, Faramir," Boromir managed after a moment. "What 
is the open codex?"

"You complained of the difficulty of using the indices of works," Faramir 
replied, his tone shifting wearily to what his men called his 'lecture voice.' 
"There are two indices, two codices, the open and the closed. The open one is a 
general index of works that are rare but not dangerous. The closed one, though, 
is in the keeping of the librarians, and only upon request will they surrender 
it. Upon those sheets, you will find those works that Father fears I would read, 
given the chance. And perhaps also some of the books that you sought in vain, 
for it seems Imladris may have secrets that are not meant to be widely known, 
even among the high of the land."

"And you told me nothing of this?"

"I told you nothing, Boromir, because I never thought you would have cause to 
use such knowledge!" Faramir snapped in a resurgence of choler. "How was I to 
know you would brazen your way past the librarians? Had I known you would try, I 
would at least have warned you about leaving a list for them of the works you 
read. But even I know not what lies in the codices, open or closed. Even now, we 
know not whether works concerning Imladris are listed in the closed codex or 
merely lost to us."

"Nay, we do not know," Boromir replied heavily. Of a sudden he felt quite 
weary—weary of riddles and double-talk, weary to death of secrecy. Going over to 
the chair opposite Faramir he collapsed into it, disgruntled, still somewhat 
dazed by Faramir's admission. "You broke into Father's study... in search of a 
piece of paper!" he repeated slowly. His brother merely shrugged, seeming to 
have no defense to offer, and for a time, that ended their conversation. He 
needs not my recriminations, after all! Boromir thought, absently twining a 
strand of his hair about his forefinger as he mused in silence. At length, 
though, he sighed and said, "You found nothing, I take it. Not even notes?"

"Nothing at all. But he has it. He must, who else would want it?" Faramir said, 
pausing a moment, and his eyes got that distant, vaguely unfocused look that 
meant he was seeking after something in his mind. Likely a list of suspects! 
Boromir thought, waiting for the other to return to the present. Fortunately for 
his rather strained patience, his brother needed but a moment more, and then he 
shook his head. "No, I can think of no one else. But I know not where he might 
have it hidden, unless he took it to the top floor...."

"Do not even think of it, Faramir!" Boromir interjected as his brother's 
expression grew speculative once more. "Had he known what you were about, I 
hesitate to imagine what he might have said or done. Nothing rash or in haste, 
but certainly you would have suffered for it. At least in this, he is mistaken, 
and perhaps he even knows it. But had he come down through his study instead of 
taking the outer stair—"

"Then he might be less angry in the end, for he expects nothing good of me. You 
know I speak truly, Boromir," Faramir added, seeing the pained look on his 
brother's face. "In this matter, I do but confirm his dislike of me. He should 
thank me for that, truly!" he laughed, in bitter jest.

"Be hush, Faramir!" Boromir snapped back, feeling his alarm begin to grow again 
in the face of his brother's disaffection. Surprise at his unexpected vehemence, 
perhaps, quieted the other, and Boromir continued intently, "Self-pity does not 
become you."

"Nevertheless, we all wallow in it at some point. If you prefer, I can go do so 
alone," Faramir offered in a more subdued voice. Which magnanimous offer was 
very nearly too tempting to pass up, for truly, Boromir had no more heart for 
company this evening, having his own shame to work through. Nevertheless he 
sighed in exasperation and pressed thumb and forefinger hard against his brow, 
feeling the throb of a headache building.

"Do not be perverse," he muttered. "We are caught in the same snare, after all. 
I only wish I knew what Father will do now."

"I know not. Valar...!" That last word came out as a sighing exhalation, and his 
brother raised troubled eyes to Boromir's, gazing rather shame-facedly at him. 
"I am sorry, Boromir. I can make you no excuse for my behavior."

"Best you mend your self-discipline ere dawn, then, for tomorrow shall be 
worse," Boromir replied, by way of gloomy certainty and warning.

"Is it not ever of late? Ah well. I think I shall take my leave," his brother 
heaved himself to his feet with less than his usual grace. "There is no point in 
dwelling further on this, and I think for the moment we do but drag each other 
further into a mire."

"Good night then." Faramir nodded in response, and turned, heading for the door. 
Just ere he reached it, though, Boromir spoke again: "Faramir?" His brother 
hesitated a moment, turning back, although his hand lay already upon the door 
handle.

"Yes?"

Boromir grimaced slightly, then said, "I am sorry about this. I should never 
have involved you by telling you. I should not have gone at all, but I felt as 
though... as though...."

"As though you had to do something," Faramir finished quietly for him. "Me, too. 
Good night, Boromir."

"Be dreamless tonight!" Faramir only laughed softly at that as he retreated out 
the door, leaving Boromir alone to the contemplation of the trials that lay 
ahead. Alone he sat, with his mistrust of Denethor... and with the awful feeling 
that he had just been given a weapon in a war he ought not to be fighting. Seek 
for the Sword that was Broken/in Imladris it dwells... and there shall be shown 
a token/that Doom is nigh at hand.... Blinking against the sudden dimming of his 
vision, Boromir frowned and rubbed at his eyes. Doom... and Isildur's Bane. 
Gondor hangs by a thread and still Father withholds his judgment! 'Tis a simple 
enough matter—choose Faramir or me! Why hesitate in this, when in so much else 
Father sees clearly the path, even when others stumble? To that, he had no 
answer, and the frustration gnawed at his nerves 'til he could no longer stand 
to sit still. Pushing himself out of the chair, he began pacing—quick, nervous 
strides that did almost nothing to relieve his sense of restless anxiety.

What is wrong with us all? Denethor is indecisive and Faramir and I stoop to 
children's pranks in serious matters! What is this fear that plagues and pulls 
us apart? His mind returned to that question, which had haunted him since 
Denethor had first dismissed them to the consideration of who would go forth to 
find Imladris. Nay, earlier than that, for with each year, this darkness has 
crept upon us. I know its name: hopelessness. And yet there remain many below 
who know not that they stand as if naked before the storm of ... of Mordor. Even 
in thought, it was difficult to name the dark land to the east, but tonight, 
there could be no escaping it. For this miasma that lies upon us is more than 
our collective despair, I am certain of that. I think that Faramir, though he 
asks no more after the mood of this city, knows that as well, for he was ever 
more sensitive to such things. I would say it were the Enemy's willful 
contrivance, that he tries to govern our hearts as he controls the storms of the 
Mountains of Shadow. And we are too weak to resist!

That was a bitter thought, one that stang at his pride, but it pushed thought of 
Imladris firmly back into the forefront of his mind once more. Surely we would 
not be drawn to that place—lost to the sweep of time 'til now—only to be told 
with certainty that we are doomed. Surely there must be a grain of hope to be 
had, some matter that needs deciding, else why this dream? Yet the words 
themselves, what hope do they promise? A broken sword? A Halfling and Isildur's 
Bane—wherefore should I find any encouragement in such? And although he felt 
again the compulsion to go forth, he felt also a sort of dread-laden contempt 
that he could even consider such a course of action. I do grow desperate... as 
do we all, even Father. Perhaps especially Father, as I said to Faramir not so 
very long ago. Perhaps... perhaps he, like me, would not risk placing too much 
faith in these staves. And yet someone must go! Faramir's eyes, bright with 
anger and confusion, with the frustration of a believer denied the expression of 
his faith, flashed before his mind's eye, and Boromir sighed. He should ride 
north, he admitted in a moment of painful honesty. He deserves this task, for it 
was his dream originally. And yet I cannot leave this to him.

The precise reasoning behind that intuitive conclusion was distasteful enough 
that Boromir refused to allow it to reach his waking mind. But even as he sought 
his bed and such rest as an anxious mind and an early morning interview with a 
wrathful Denethor would permit, he could not quite suppress a grimace. For his 
heart knew its own workings, and there, where words did not reach, he knew the 
measure of his own selfishness. For Faramir already believed, but it would need 
more than a dream to rekindle hope in Boromir. It would need proof—tangible, 
visible, physical proof that this dream was trustworthy, that Gondor might yet 
be saved. And so, like a drowning man, he would pull down even his compatriots 
who had broken through the water's surface in order that he, too, could learn to 
breathe again.

***

Imrahil had gone down to the stables early, ere even the sun had risen, and with 
his captain of guard had crept out of Minas Tirith for a quick jaunt about the 
Pelennor. For after yesterday, I do not wish my day to begin with Denethor! the 
prince thought with grim amusement as he slapped the glossy grey neck of his 
faithful Celegaearon and reached into his belt pouch for an apple. The horse 
whiffled softly in appreciation and Imrahil chuckled as he rubbed Celegaearon's 
nose. "Well my lad, I shall leave you to your comfort and see you on the morrow. 
Or perhaps sooner than that!" Leaving his steed to the care of the waiting 
stable boy, he and Captain Aearos hiked back up the winding levels of the city, 
and Imrahil grinned, clapping the other man on the shoulder. "I am sorry to drag 
you from your bed, Aearos."

"No need for apologies, my prince, I am ever your servant."

"Yes, and in the mornings, a tired servant."

"Nay, not so, sire...!" Which convincing denial was undermined when Aearos 
yawned in spite of himself. At his prince's soft, yet not unsympathetic 
laughter, the captain sighed and, with exaggerated patience, said, "Laugh if you 
must, my lord prince! Some of us have difficulty sleeping in strange places." 
Clearly it was meant as something of a jest, a harmless enough complaint to act 
as an excuse. Upon hearing that, however, Imrahil paused and, with a touch, 
halted Aearos' progress as well.

"You have been to Minas Tirith a number of times and never complained of 
difficulty before, Aearos," the prince said, bending his suddenly sharp gaze 
upon the other man. "Tell me truly, had you trouble sleeping last night?"

Aearos grunted and rubbed his jaw, clearly unwilling to answer, but at length he 
nodded. "Aye, my prince. 'Tis naught to concern you," he added quickly, "I am 
quite well, and I can call upon the others should it affect my ability to 
perform my duties."

"Please," Imrahil gripped his shoulder. "I never doubted that! This has naught 
to do with your readiness, only with... call it intuition. Why could you not 
sleep? Did you dream?"

"If I did, I cannot remember aught. I simply felt... uneasy. I would wake time 
and again for no reason—not even for one of the younger lads creeping in from 
duty or pleasure. Is that of significance, sire?" Aearos asked, dark eyes 
searching his master's closed face. He had been the captain of Imrahil's 
personal guard for ten years, and a member of the prince's guard for eight years 
before that. He likely knew the prince as well as Lady Narendis did, and perhaps 
a bit better than even she, for Narendis never slept in ditches protecting her 
husband on campaign. He therefore knew well that look and tone of voice, and he 
wondered what trouble was brewing in the city.

"I cannot say yet. It may be naught, but do question the others gently, and see 
whether anyone else had the same difficulty."

"As you wish, sire," Aearos replied with a mental sigh. Evidently, he would get 
no answers this morning. Imrahil smiled slightly at his captain's silent 
disappointment, but continued on up to the Seventh Circle in silence. With an 
absent-minded nod at the guards, Imrahil, with Aearos at his heels, went swiftly 
to the south-eastern hall where lay the rooms of the steward, his heir, and 
several large guest suites reserved for family members and others of high rank. 
Denethor's study also lay along that corridor, and though the sun had just 
risen, Imrahil would not be surprised to learn that his brother-in-law was 
already at work. One could scarcely fault the man's industriousness, but though 
Imrahil was no less dedicated, he preferred to let the day begin ere he turned 
his attention to business. One must have some time to oneself and for one's 
family, after all, the prince thought, wondering whether Narendis had awakened 
yet. His wife preferred to sleep later than did he, but she tended to rise with 
him when he was at Dol Amroth. Lothíriel was another heavy sleeper in the 
morning. In fact, thinking about it, he seemed the only one of his family who 
naturally enjoyed the dawn. Except for Finduilas. She and I would always sneak 
out to greet the day from horseback together!

That memory brought with it a wave of sorrow, and no little resentment toward 
the present Steward of Gondor. One of the first indications Imrahil had had that 
there was aught amiss with his sister had been on the occasion of her first 
visit home. Finduilas had retired at her usual hour, but slept like the dead 
until nearly midday, which was hardly her custom. He might have shrugged the 
incident off and attributed it to the fatigue of a long journey, but that she 
had continued to sleep late for the length of her stay, rousing only once to 
greet the dawn with her brother. And she would not tell me what was wrong. She 
would never tell me aught specific about her husband for fear that I would do 
something rash. And though Imrahil had protested that decision, knowing himself 
for a reasonable man, in the end, he had had to admit that she was probably 
justified in keeping her secrets. Denethor and I dislike each other enough as it 
is. If I had memory of Finduilas' grievances, I might have trouble with my 
temper, for I.... Imrahil paused, slowing as he neared the steward's study. 
Aearos halted as well, though out of habit, he let his momentum carry him a pace 
or two ahead of his prince, the better to shield him against any threat. But it 
was no sense of unseen danger that had brought the prince to a standstill; 
rather, it was the sound of raised voices coming from the steward's study. 
Aearos heard them, too, and turned quizzically towards the prince, his face 
filled with questions.

"Wait a moment," Imrahil murmured, stepping past his captain and drifting 
towards the noise. Thick, heavy, oaken doors and stony walls muffled the 
argument, but the prince had sharp ears.

"... ever done that makes you distrust me so? If I go to unwonted lengths, it is 
because I must fight to learn what I need to know, let alone what I would wish 
to know! And how shall I tell the difference between the two if you will not be 
frank with me?" Faramir's voice, frustrated and more angry than Imrahil had ever 
heard, filtered through the barriers of wood and rock, and the prince caught his 
breath.

"Recall your intrusion into these quarters last night, Faramir!" Denethor's 
rejoinder came back. What is this? the prince wondered darkly, scrambling to try 
to put the pieces together.

"And did I not tell you of that this morning? I, like a fool, would tell you, 
for you are my father and my lord, and I was in the wrong! You needed not 
Boromir's testimony at all!" Another voice, much softer, sounded, but the prince 
could not make out what was said. Probably but a single word, for Faramir's 
voice rose swiftly after that, as if to cut his brother off. "Do not try to 
excuse yourself, either, Boromir. I know not why you think me so dishonest that 
you needed to run after him to tell my tale in my stead, but kindly do not try 
to ask my pardon now!"

"I never told him aught! Why will you not believe me?" Boromir's voice came 
back. There was then a very pregnant silence that went on for quite some time, 
and Imrahil could only imagine the scene within as the steward and his sons 
sought a measure of composure. When next the voices resumed, they were pitched 
too low and evenly for even the prince to overhear the words, but the tones were 
cue enough. What happened last night, I wonder? Imrahil's rooms were far enough 
down the hall that he would not have heard anything, but he berated himself 
nevertheless. He was about to move on, so as not to get caught in the middle, 
when suddenly the door opened and out came Faramir, his face flushed with wrath 
and humiliation, and his expression a mask that did nothing to hide his anger. 
The steward's second son closed the door with exaggerated care so as not to slam 
it, and then stood there for several moments, head bowed, seeking after 
self-control. After a while, he looked up, calmer, though his eyes still 
glittered angrily, and then he turned to go back towards the stairs. It was only 
then that he noticed his uncle standing there, sweaty in his older riding 
clothes, and Faramir blinked in surprise. And then his mouth tightened as color 
crept into his cheeks once again in spite of himself.

"Uncle," he murmured, voice smooth enough, but with just that edge of 
embarrassed anguish to give him away.

"Faramir," Imrahil replied, watching him, waiting. When his nephew said naught, 
he sighed softly. "Lad, do not be your father's son to me. I am not Denethor."

"How much did you overhear?" Faramir demanded in a low, resigned voice.

"Quite enough. Whither are you bound now?" Imrahil asked as the younger man 
sighed and pressed past him, apparently intent upon leaving ere he could be 
questioned further.

"Father gave me an errand that will take me out of the city for a few days. If 
you would speak with me, send to Osgiliath. There is some... recovery work... 
that needs doing, and I must be about it. Good day, Uncle!" Faramir called, 
without a single glance backward.

Imrahil and Aearos exchanged incredulous stares, but there was naught the prince 
could do, short of running after his nephew. And I think me that that is not the 
best course right now. His dignity is strained enough that it will not bear 
another confrontation, even... or especially... with me! Aloud he said, "Come, 
Aearos. I must make ready for my own interview, and I would have you send one of 
your lads to Boromir with a message. Whatever this is, it has gone too far!"

***

"... has gone too far," Denethor was saying as Boromir bit back a bitter 
response. "Were you not my heir, I would send you to Cair Andros for a time to 
think about your actions, but I cannot afford you both absent for this council. 
Therefore be warned: you will not speak, you will not argue, and you will do 
precisely as you are told if you wish to be reinstated as a participating 
member."

"I do as you command, my lord, but if you look askance at me for having kept my 
brother's secret, then why may I not question you for having said naught in my 
defense?" That he had himself as early as this morning contemplated using 
Faramir's guilty actions against his brother in the matter of Imladris only made 
his anger with Denethor the worse for his private shame. And I still cannot 
fathom how he learned of that! For Faramir's confession had been greeted not 
with wrath or surprise, but a rather contemptuous dismissal. "That I knew 
already, Faramir, so do not waste now my time!" Denethor had said, shocking both 
his sons. And then Faramir had shot Boromir a look of utter betrayal, and the 
arguments had begun in earnest. Boromir would have given much to know how their 
father had managed to uncover Faramir's trespassing, for the steward's knowledge 
of that matter suggested a network even more extensive than Boromir had ever 
dreamt. Alas, if he had been unsuccessful in his search of Mardil's Books, then 
any endeavor to discover Denethor's informants was doomed to failure. And that 
is not the point of this anyway! "I never told you of his search for that 
Valar-accursed paper, yet you let him assume that I did! Why, Father?"

"Because, my son, the two of you together hatch too many plots, clearly!"

"What plots we hatched were conceived separately, Father! I am not Faramir's 
lackey, nor he mine, to follow ever where bidden! I may share my thoughts with 
my brother, but for my actions I answer only to the Steward of Gondor," Boromir 
grated.

"See to it that you remember that, then! For even now you tread at the very edge 
of your oath, for I do not answer to you for my decisions."

"But you must answer me as your son, surely! I see what you do: you seek to 
punish me, so you drive now a wedge between Faramir and me by allowing him to 
think that I betrayed him. Is it not enough that you drove one between yourself 
and Faramir?" Boromir demanded, knowing that he but dug himself deeper into the 
mire, but for years now he had watched his father and brother snap at each other 
in private and ignore each other in public. And he was sick of it—thoroughly 
sick of all the bickering and cloakroom family politics, and the words spilled 
out of him uncontainably, tasting faintly of vomit. "He would be your son, 
Father, but you will not let him!" Thank all the Valar Faramir did go to 
Ithilien, or it would be worse! I do but make this worse, but Valar, I am in 
enough trouble already. As for Faramir...well, he can hardly fall any further 
from grace!

"I never drove aught between us. I did what was necessary to chastise a weak 
prop!"

"A weak...?" Boromir spluttered. "Faramir was never weak, Father! Why can you 
not see that, who are accounted so wise? And if you love me so well, how can you 
stand here and torture one whom I love before my eyes?" Denethor's hands on the 
back of his chair went white at the knuckles at that as the steward clenched the 
wood hard, but he never blinked. And before that blank, deadly gaze, Boromir 
felt his wrath beginning to ebb, to be replaced with dread and a hopeless sort 
of frustration. He will never see it! Never! He will never learn to see his 
fault in the matter of my brother! He would sooner die than acknowledge himself 
to be in the wrong!

"Go to your duties, Captain of Gondor, and return when your temper is cooler," 
Denethor said simply, but Boromir flinched nonetheless. And then cursed inwardly 
for having done so. How has Faramir withstood this for so long? he wondered, 
even as he made his father the most grudging bow of his life and turned to stalk 
angrily out the door. Returning to his quarters, he dismissed his esquire 
curtly, scarcely heeding the lad's stammered, "But my lord, your uncle's man 
said to tell you—!"

"Out! Now! Take the day and return by nightfall only," Boromir cut him off and 
shot the bolt on the door behind the fleeing lad. Solitude at last! Although 
Denethor had just stripped him of the right to participate in the council, he 
had still to be present to listen, and that meant he had still quite a lot to 
read ere the day was done. He did not want to think about what Faramir would 
endure. 'Recovery work' indeed! Images of drowned and broken bodies filled his 
sight for a moment, and he closed his eyes against them. Anduin never gave up 
her secrets gratefully, and it would be a hard task to raise those who had but 
the riverbed for their grave. My poor brother! And I dare not spare you a 
thought today, for if I do, I shall never finish with my own chores. So 
resolved, he banished Faramir from his mind as best he could, and turned 
reluctantly to the piled documents on his desk. It would be a very long council 
session indeed....



~~~~




Chapter Fourteen
Beneath the Surface



 The sound of picks and shovels churning the earth, of grunts and the occasional 
curse, filled the hot summer air, the noises seeming to swim through the dank 
humidity that was Gondor under a summer sun. Sweat and the scent of decay 
assaulted Faramir's nose, and he fought not to grimace in disgust, or in 
horrified sorrow, for a captain may never display such weakness before his men, 
lest they lose heart. How fortunate for me, then, that I have none left to 
lose! Between them, father and brother have conspired to rob me of it, Faramir 
thought bitterly, and knew such thoughts for lies. For his heart remained 
within him, aching with every pulsation. And yet the pain was not so bad as it 
had been only a few short hours ago, when he had first learned of Boromir's 
treachery. That his brother had had the gall then, to lie in addition, and to 
lie so well, had only added to his sense of confused, disbelieving grievance, 
and Faramir sighed softly at the memory. And though he reached now for the 
exquisite anguish that had come of Boromir's betrayal of him, even now it 
slipped through his grasp, refusing to cut quite as deeply as it had that 
morning. For I am accustomed to such pains, I suppose. Father trained me quite 
well in that respect, perhaps better than he intended, for I doubt not that he 
meant for me to collapse today when he so casually betrayed my brother's 
whisperings to me! That thought made his blood simmer, but given that the heat 
was bad enough to bring a hectic flush to his face, he doubted anyone would 
notice his anger, or his despair.


I thought we had an understanding at least, that we would never abandon each 
other to our father's tender mercies, Faramir thought as he watched men struggle 
through the shallows, calling up to their comrades on the shore. And yet in the 
end, it seemed that he had been deceived. Perhaps I ought to have known better. 
Boromir was always competitive, and I know well that he would do anything in the 
name of Gondor. Anything at all, I fear. This dream affects each of us according 
to our nature, I suppose.... The men half-swam, half-waded towards the bank, 
gripping the guide-ropes until all could stand safely. Then, with an effort, 
they heaved yet another bloated, limp, and broken body onto the shore for the 
burial detail. Valar help me, I do not want to be here should they find Galdon! 
Faramir thought, fervently praying that they would not. Or failing that, that he 
had been found already and buried so that he need never see the destruction 
wrought by time. Five days in the river... better to leave those who did not 
surface. There is no dishonor to be found in Anduin's bosom, after all. But 
Denethor had been adamant, and so Faramir had gone to deliver the steward's 
orders to the survivors and to oversee their efforts.

As he moved along the ranks of toiling men, he saw many an ashen face despite 
the heat and the labor. Especially among the younger men, for whom Osgiliath had 
been their first or second battle, this chore was unwelcome. Ever and anon, one 
of those younger men, and occasionally even a seasoned warrior, would leave his 
shovel and retreat a ways to sit with his head between his legs, panting, and 
then would a lieutenant or some other come to his comfort. For despite the harsh 
realities of war, most men never saw a burial after so long a wait. Without the 
immediacy of battle, of aches and pains, shock and weariness to distract them as 
they went about the task of disposing of bodies, they had too much time to look 
and to think about what they did now. And so the surgeons made the rounds, faces 
quite as grim as after a hard-fought battle, and Faramir did not need to imagine 
what nightmares the traumatized survivors of the battle for Osgiliath would 
endure in the weeks and months to come. For I shall have them myself! Already, 
he had seen several faces that he recognized fished out of the river, and that 
had been quite enough for him. Yet he dared not blink or look away. For the sake 
of his dignity, and more, for the sake of his men, he could not refuse to look, 
nor to offer a hand when someone staggered away, unable to stand the sights and 
smell any longer. And as the hours wore on, and there seemed no end in sight, 
his wrath flared the hotter. It was one thing for Denethor to punish him for his 
inexcusable behavior, but had the steward even stopped a moment to consider how 
others would suffer to teach his little-loved second son a lesson in obedience? 
And all this for a dream! Valar, but I wish I had never had it....

Alas, perhaps he had stared too long at the bright glitter of the sun upon 
Anduin's surface, 'til his eyes were dazzled and all else seemed dark. Or 
perhaps fate conspired with his father to torture him further, for no sooner had 
he thought that than it came again. White light... white tower... white rays in 
a darkened sky... 'Seek for the Sword....' Faramir was profoundly grateful that 
he had not been caught in the middle of a stride, else he was certain he would 
have tripped. As it was, he stood dead still, staring sightlessly at Anduin, and 
his arms, folded across his chest, clenched tighter as if to clutch that dream 
close and not let it escape to trouble others. White light in the darkness.... 
"Captain?" A voice broke through the vision, and as it dissipated, Faramir 
blinked and turned rather sharply upon the intruder. There at his shoulder stood 
Tarodin, gazing worriedly at his lord and commander. "Captain, are you well?"

"Aye, I am fine, thank you," Faramir replied as smoothly as he could. Tarodin 
raised a heavy brow at him, seeming to consider this remark.

"You are certain, my lord? I would say that you had seen a ghost... except that 
today, that jest falls flat," the other man sighed, his glance straying 
distressedly over the burial furrows.

"I am certain. I was merely preoccupied. My thoughts stray further than I ought 
to permit today, I fear," Faramir said, and earned another close stare from his 
surviving lieutenant.

"As you say, my lord. Is there any word what is to become of us, captain?" 
Tarodin asked, changing tacts quickly.

"Such recommendations as I have, have been delivered to the steward for 
consideration, and in that matter Lord Boromir has also much to say. But I doubt 
we shall have word until after the council is closed. It should begin tomorrow 
morning."

"Ah. 'Tis only that men are anxious, my lord, and I would have something to tell 
them," the lieutenant replied.

"I know. I shall tell them tonight how that matter stands. It may help relieve 
some worries to have a time frame." Privately, though, Faramir doubted it. 
Tonight, men would be more preoccupied with the dreadful task given them, for 
which he could be guiltily grateful in a way. The present is grim enough that 
they may not look to the future, or ask those questions that their captain 
cannot answer. For how shall I find replacements for Tarodin, who must shortly 
become commander for the southern Ithilien companies? What of officers? Do I 
dare strip the north and send Mablung or Anborn—or both!—with him for a help? I 
could, if I knew that I would be held in northern Ithilien, but I know not 
father's mind! For a time, at least, I am condemned to remain here. And with 
him, the others were doomed to remain and wait, all of them tossed together into 
the same broad cell that was ruined Osgiliath. Cries from the shore announced 
the discovery of another corpse, and Faramir chewed the inside of his lip 
gently, staring past the bright band of Anduin at the dark heights of the Ephel 
Dúath. For if Denethor had sent him here as punishment for his crimes, it was in 
truth the Dark Lord who deserved the lion's share of the blame for this. 
Denethor did not kill these men, after all, not truly. Nor I, nor Boromir, 
though it was by our orders that so many were lost. 'Tis Mordor that shall be 
the ruin of us all! The heat and humidity hung heavy in the afternoon air, 
causing the dark mountains to shimmer and tremble. And then they began to 
fall....

Valar, not again! Faramir clenched his jaw against the outcry that stuck in his 
throat, and for a moment, all the waking world faded to him as the mountains 
tumbled beneath Anduin, which rose like a wave, covering the earth, and the roar 
of it blocked out the sound of the shovels and picks, the cries and complaints 
of the men. He thought he controlled his reaction somewhat better than he had 
the first time, and yet Tarodin still gave him an exceedingly odd look as the 
vision faded and he let out a soft sigh. Of course, most of his lieutenants had, 
over the course of long years, seen him dream at least once, and many knew the 
signs that betrayed him. Nevertheless, despite that familiarity, he could not 
meet the other's eyes quite yet, for fear that Tarodin might read in them too 
much. I need not the dream of Númenor to remind me of our fate should we fail! 
he thought, but it was to Denethor that his thoughts turned once again. To 
Denethor, who could dictate Gondor's fate with but a word, to Faramir's dismay. 
Years it had been, and yet the conviction had remained ever with him, since that 
winter's day upon the tower of the Sixth Circle: Minas Tirith was not safe in 
his father's hands. Have we just run out of time? Is it already too late even to 
begin to hope, rhyme or no? he wondered fearfully. But the mysterious 
conjunction of the two dreaded dreams remained opaque, resistant to the probings 
of the intellect and he had not the privacy to spare a greater effort.

And what if it is too late? he asked himself suddenly. That changes not my 
responsibility here. Denethor wished me to learn my lesson, and I owe the 
men—all of them, be they mine or Boromir's—what apology I can make for having 
brought this upon them! Conscious of Tarodin's measuring—and somewhat 
perplexed—gaze, Faramir sighed and unbuckled the clasp of his cloak, folding the 
garment and tossing it into the shade beneath a mostly tumbled wall. His 
overtunic followed in quick succession, and he unbuckled the heavy sword-belt to 
lean the blade up against the remains of the wall. "My lord?" Tarodin 
questioned, watching these proceedings.

"The sooner this is over, the better for all. And I have watched long enough," 
Faramir replied, shooting a quelling glare at his lieutenant when the man began 
to protest. Tugging one-handed at the laces that held his shirt closed, he 
loosened the collar and breathed an unobtrusive sigh of relief when a wisp of a 
breeze hit his chest. "Come, Tarodin, we have work to do!"

***

Boromir sat slouched, his head in his hands and both elbows leaned upon his desk 
as he hurried through the last of the reports. A few more lines only... ! I hate 
this! Though actively concerned with Gondor's well-being, the time it took to 
scan, process, and link together the information contained in the deadly dull 
language of formal reports was time that he rather resented losing, no matter 
how necessary it might be. Even writing the wretched things was less torturous, 
since at least he controlled what went on the page, and he knew already what 
needed to be said. With a sigh, he flipped the parchment up and began the last 
paragraph, though he felt his eyes beginning to close of their own accord as his 
attention wandered to other subjects.... A knock on his door jerked him upright, 
and he hissed in irritation. One more paragraph... the door can wait! he 
decided, and began reading again with fresh energy. Ere he had managed even ten 
more words, the knock was repeated, this time louder, but he ignored it once 
more, tearing through another few lines with almost reckless haste. Only let me 
be done with this! It is not as if I shall be able to say aught tomorrow! A 
third knock, and when he still refused to acknowledge it, a voice sounded from 
without, "Boromir, I do not wish to hold this discussion with oak between us, 
but so help me, I will if you do not answer!"

"Uncle?" Frowning, Boromir shoved the chair back and rose, striding quickly 
across the room to pull the bolt and throw open the door. There stood the Prince 
of Dol Amroth, his expression rather wry, though his eyes were serious as he 
sketched his nephew a slight bow.

"I swore an oath to do all that duty to Gondor demands of me, even to sacrifice 
my dignity to play the madman at need. Nevertheless, I do thank you for sparing 
me the looks I would get when it became known that I had been seen talking to 
walls," Imrahil said, eliciting a chuckle from Boromir.

"We as a family do have appearances to maintain," Boromir acknowledged, but 
somehow, that comment failed to amuse either of them. "What brings you, Uncle?" 
he asked, quickly waving Imrahil within to cover the awkward pause.

"Did you not receive my message?" the prince asked as Boromir shut the door 
behind them, turning a frown on his nephew.

"Message?" Boromir frowned. "What mess... oh." Imrahil snorted at that, and 
Boromir sighed. "I fear I threw Cethril out ere he finished delivering it. I am 
sorry, Uncle, I had no heart for company this morning."

"I understand, lad, you need not ask my pardon. In truth, the delay may have 
been for the best, for it allowed me to attend to some chores of my own. I see 
that you are nearly finished with the interminable reports," the prince gestured 
to the stack shoved to one side of Boromir's desk.

"Very nearly. What business brings you, Uncle, or shall I guess it?" Denethor's 
elder son asked, unwilling to wait upon the intricate unfolding of Imrahil's 
mind and conversation today.

"I doubt not that you know the main matter already," his uncle replied, settling 
himself on the edge of the desk as he appraised Boromir carefully. At length, he 
said with deliberate causalness, "I have just had a most... revealing... 
discussion with the lord steward your father." Instantly, Boromir felt his 
muscles clench as Imrahil's sea-grey eyes pinned him again.

"Ah? Indeed?" he replied, striving with such minimal answers to give as little 
away as he could. For though he doubted not his uncle's good intentions, the 
idea that Imrahil knew of the disastrous and shameful confrontations between 
Denethor and his sons made him feel vaguely ill.

"Indeed. Most interesting it was," Imrahil replied, a grim note entering his 
tone. 'Interesting,' after all, scarcely described the meeting he had had with 
his brother-in-law....

***

Denethor was not best pleased with him, Imrahil knew, and felt the other's 
displeasure as one might a blast of icy wind in the face. "I see no reason to 
discuss private affairs with you, Prince of Dol Amroth," the steward said 
neutrally.

"A man's authority in his house is well-nigh inviolable," Imrahil had replied. 
"But when his private affairs affect the governance of Gondor, then my duty is 
clear: to discover the root of this trouble and remove it. I thought that you 
would prefer to discuss such matters with a kinsman rather than before the 
council proper." And he had smiled thinly as Denethor realized that he was in 
deadly earnest. If the steward would not speak to him now, then Imrahil would 
lay the ugly affair before the entire council for discussion. And short of 
accusing Imrahil of treason or murder, Denethor could not silence him. That made 
the steward's decision very nearly a foregone conclusion, yet it had still been 
a tense moment. For the steward knew his council, its strengths and weaknesses, 
and the locations of any political bodies in Gondor were marked on the map of 
his long memory. Had Imrahil been any more open in his threat, the provocation 
might well have convinced Denethor to use that information to impose silence on 
him anyway. Fortunately, though, it seemed that the steward's sense of duty to 
Gondor outweighed his personal sense of outrage.

And so had come the terse question, "What would you know?"

"What has happened among the three of you since Osgiliath? I know well that you 
quarreled, and Faramir departed in a foul mood this morning to do 'recovery 
work,' I believe he called it. I would have this explained to me."

"You eavesdropped," Denethor said flatly after a moment.

"Nay, my lord, I heard what anyone would have heard who sought my quarters this 
morning," Imrahil countered. "That I could hear you at all was telling enough, 
for I have never known you to raise your voice thus, brother. Nor have I heard 
Faramir so upset, nor Boromir as indignant and despairing. What has happened of 
late, Denethor?"

"You might have spared me the inquiry and asked Boromir yourself, if you wish to 
know that," Denethor responded. "But since you are here, your nephews have taken 
to rifling through the belongings of others and trespassing into rooms forbidden 
them. They meddle in affairs that are not theirs to decide, and in doing so 
display an appalling lack of concern over their oaths as officers of this realm. 
Now, if that is enough...?"

"And was it as an officer of the realm, Denethor, that you played them against 
each other?" Imrahil demanded. "Or as a father?"

"How I deal with my sons is hardly of concern to you, prince of the realm!"

"If it damages Boromir and Faramir such that they cannot serve Gondor as they 
ought to, then it is my affair. And as their uncle, you may not tell me that I 
cannot be concerned with their treatment! You solicited, or seemed to solicit, 
Boromir's testimony against Faramir, and Boromir appears to believe himself 
quite wronged by this. He may even be correct, given the manner in which Faramir 
stormed out of your study. I see not how such animosity between your two ranking 
captains aids Gondor, and you have done naught to ease it! And so I ask again: 
was it as an officer of the realm or as their father that you have done this to 
them?"

"Together the two of them plot their mischief and play games with matters above 
their heads," Denethor replied, coldly folding his hands behind his back. "Let 
them now taste the reverse! And now that you have had your answer, I suggest you 
leave, brother!"

***

"...to him, Uncle?" Imrahil drew a deeper breath and focused once more upon the 
present, and upon Boromir, who watched him now rather warily. "You spoke to 
Father about... this?"

"Insofar as my knowledge of 'this' is limited, yes. And although I have not the 
tale in full, I believe I know enough to guess what must have happened, which I 
trust you will confirm for me," Imrahil added, raising a brow and holding 
Boromir under his gaze until his nephew nodded reluctantly. "Good. But first I 
have a question for you, and I would have your plainest answer," the prince 
paused a moment, searching Boromir's face once more ere he asked sharply, "Did 
you in fact tell Denethor of Faramir's transgression?"

"No!" Which immediate and vehement response did much to reassure Imrahil. 
Boromir stared back at him, grey eyes lit like clouds in a lightning storm, as 
he continued on in a tone of forced restraint, "I know not how he discovered 
Faramir's intrusion, but it was not my doing." And still, the fury in the 
other's voice was such that Imrahil held up his hands in a gesture of 
appeasement.

"Peace, Boromir," he murmured. "The charge never struck me true, but I owe it to 
all concerned to be certain of your innocence."

"And are you certain of it?"

"I am. You were never one to lie," Imrahil replied simply. Boromir still gazed 
at him as if with distrust for a few moments, but then he sighed and the rigid 
set of his shoulders relaxed somewhat, if not completely. "Tell me, though, what 
precisely it is that Faramir did, for I still know nothing of that matter, nor 
of your own fault. What happened last night after you left me?"

"It was not all done after our discussion," Boromir admitted, and went on to 
give a terse account of what had occurred while Imrahil listened in silence.

And when he had finished, the prince said, "All of this disturbs me on a number 
of levels, and I fear at the moment that the thread that would ravel the knot 
eludes me. Something troubles us all," Imrahil pushed himself off the desk to 
wander over to a little case of books, atop which lay an ornately carved wooden 
coffer. Laying his hands upon the lid, the prince's long, agile fingers began to 
trace the patterns while he stared at the wall in a meditative fashion. "Last 
night, I told you I had not dreamt any prophetic dreams, but my dreams have come 
more frequently, and I miss the clarity of them, for I no longer recognize the 
faces that haunt them. Aearos reports that he and a number of the other members 
of my guard have had trouble sleeping, and rouse at odd hours with feelings of 
unease. You, who abhor the vaults of the library, are driven to search even the 
steward's private collection, where no man may go without his permission, while 
your brother trespasses in his father's private haven, which no man dares who 
values his life. And Denethor...."

"What of Father?" Boromir asked, eyes narrowing as he sought a better look at 
his uncle's face. For he knew well that Imrahil was perceptive, and often seemed 
to know more than he did simply because he had a talent for deduction. As does 
Faramir... and Father. And none of them are above pretending to knowledge that 
in fact they have not in order to win a confession from others who believe them 
more knowledgeable than they are, Boromir thought, wincing inwardly in pain and 
frustration. When Imrahil merely turned his head and stared mildly at him, the 
heir of the Steward of Gondor grimaced and shook his head. "Do not do this, 
Uncle! All of my family have a gift for misdirection, for teasing out 
revelations from others who think that they know already the answer. But I have 
not the patience to pick at words tonight! If you know aught and think I should 
know it as well, tell me!"

"Forgive me," Imrahil said again, smiling slightly, though the expression was 
marred somewhat by the shadow in his eyes. "I meant to say that I think your 
father, too, suffers from the same ailment, for though I do not like him, nor 
even love him, he has grown too closed in recent years. Too harsh, too demanding 
and secretive, as if he trusts no one any more. Not even his well-loved son."

"Father has been... difficult, it is true," Boromir replied, uncomfortably aware 
that Imrahil's words gave voice to his own troubled, half thought-out musings.

"And you have watched him more closely than I, who have been banished to Dol 
Amroth for lo! these many years," Imrahil continued. "It is perhaps fortunate 
that it was you and not Faramir who watched him change, for I doubt not that 
your brother would have suffered more for his too-discerning gaze. But you are 
not immune to this either, Boromir. In truth," Imrahil said softly, "when I saw 
you both yesterday, I found much in the two of you that alarmed me." And at 
Boromir's surprised and somewhat suspicious look, the prince raised a fine brow 
and said, "Oh yes. You are both your father's sons, though Denethor may not 
choose to see that often in Faramir's case. And even in yours, for the two of 
you are more often seen as opposite each other. Yet it is not wholly so, and I 
cannot say that I am pleased by the comparison." At that, those shrewd eyes 
caught Boromir's once more and he felt their pressure. But whereas Denethor's 
penetrating gaze could hurt, and Faramir's left one feeling somewhat 
self-conscious, Imrahil's was quick and clean as the flick of a dagger—ere 
Boromir could muster a defense, his uncle had withdrawn again, leaving him to 
wonder what it was that Imrahil had taken from that exchange.

"What mean you to say by this?" he asked at length.

"That you should be careful, Boromir, for although we have each of us that grain 
of darkness within, exposure to the shadow that lingers over this city may grow 
it in our despite if we are not attentive to such things." Which words were 
particularly troublesome in light of his less than chivalrous intentions 
regarding Faramir's confidence last night, and Boromir grunted softly, glancing 
down at the floor. Imrahil was silent for a few moments ere he began again, 
"Enough of that, though. I would not add to your troubles, Boromir, but I would 
be remiss if I spoke not frankly with you in this matter. Minas Tirith is 
troubled, and we tend to overlook smaller signs within ourselves in our search 
for answers among the rumors and tales that circulate the city."

"True enough," Boromir admitted, but then added, with a quick, brooding smile, 
"but few are the problems solved by seeking symptoms within, unless one is a 
madman. I wonder sometimes whether we are not all gone mad in this murk! Men 
watch the light in the tower and await the ghost of Mardil Voronwë, or say that 
father wrestles the Nameless Enemy. Others complain that the cats of Berúthiel 
are returned, for some know more than they ought to... Father included. What is 
a man to make of such tales? For myself, I would know how the Steward of Gondor 
learned of Faramir's guilt, for I would swear there were no others to hear him 
confess but myself! And we spoke not loudly, for we did not argue."

"I hesitate to suggest your esquire...."

"Nay, Father told him to wait outside, and Cethril never entered the room 'til 
after Faramir had left. I tell you, Uncle, we were quite alone, and I went to 
bed not long after my brother left."

"And Faramir told no one else?"

"No one. Why should he speak of this to another?" Boromir watched as Imrahil 
frowned thoughtfully, his mind clearly groping for an answer to the mystery. 
"'Tis not the first time that the lord of the city has surprised us with his 
knowledge, but usually he is more subtle about it. Usually, there is some 
plausible excuse for it, however doubtful, for I cannot remember a time when any 
had cause to question the source of his knowledge. Not to his face, at least," 
he added ruefully.

"Well, your father is foresighted, that we learned early," Imrahil murmured. 
"But usually, foresight attaches to greater events, or to persons close to 
one... loved ones...." And Faramir is not loved! The implication hung in the 
air, and Boromir bit his tongue against a protest. "I suppose Faramir was seen 
leaving or entering your father's rooms," he said at last, though it was clear 
that he did not believe his own explanation. For he knew well that Faramir was 
not one to let himself be observed at unawares, not after all his years in 
Ithilien. "Unless the steward merely pretended to foreknowledge, the better to 
drive you apart, I can think of no other explanation."

"It seems a reasonable one," Boromir admitted, but then hesitated. "And yet... 
it does not ring true to me. My father may not be the most open of men, yet he 
rarely needs to lie thus, for he knows well how to evade giving an answer."

"True enough. Yet it remains our best explanation," Imrahil grimaced and finally 
stepped back from the box, trailing his fingers over the lid, as if reluctant to 
relinquish its feel. "But let us not think on it further, for there are many 
other matters that need our attention, not least of which is the council. 
Forlong came latest, but all the councilors of the realm are within the city 
now. I have heard," Imrahil said, shooting him a considering glance, "that you 
shall listen but not speak throughout."

"Unless Denethor becomes convinced of my merits once more," Boromir replied, 
attempting to keep his voice even, to crush the note of resentment that 
threatened to twist his tone. Alas, it was nearly impossible to fool any of the 
men of his family, and even Lothiríel was not one to be easily deceived; Imrahil 
heard the anger that lay beneath that careful neutrality.

"And what would it need to win his confidence once more?"

Boromir gave a frustrated shrug and then folded his arms across his chest. "I 
know not, for he told me nothing specific! I am simply to obey his commands, 
nothing more."

"Will you do that, then?"

"What choice have I? For am I not a loyal son of my father?" Boromir asked, 
forcing himself to speak almost calmly. Remember that, Boromir: you are loyal... 
that above all, for what else is there?

"Be careful, then, and watch your words should you speak with Denethor later. In 
fact," Imrahil paused, frowning suddenly, "were I you, Boromir, I would be quite 
careful to do nothing that Denethor would not approve of. Be certain that you 
act alone as you would in a public place."

"Leaving aside recent events, why would I do otherwise?"

"I do not say that you would, only that even private meetings with friends or 
family ought to be conducted carefully. One never knows what might be 
overseen...."

"And the walls have ears, yes, I have heard that often," Boromir finished, and 
Imrahil nodded. "I like this not, and I wish we had not spoken for my mind is 
now restless, but I thank you nonetheless, Uncle."

"I am your mother's brother, and you may always call upon me, should you desire 
someone to listen," Imrahil replied, clasping arms with his nephew as farewell. 
But ere he released him, he added, "I shall send a letter to Osgiliath with one 
of my men, to be certain it arrives unopened. If you wish, I can play messenger 
for us both." And if your letter arrives with mine, it stands less chance of 
rejection–so Imrahil's faint smile conveyed, and Boromir had to admit it was a 
good idea.

"When shall you send your runner?"

"Tomorrow morning, when I go out for my ride before the council begins. Join me, 
if you will, or else have the letter in my possession before then."

"I shall join you, for I doubt not it shall be the only pleasant part of the 
whole day," Boromir sighed. "Until tomorrow, Uncle. Good night!"

"Good night, Boromir!" Imrahil replied, and left quietly. With a soft sigh, 
Boromir returned to his desk, and with a minimum of searching found a clean 
sheet of paper and sat down to write his letter. I wonder how many they found 
today...? He heard his breath hiss through his teeth at the thought of the 
wreckage beneath Anduin's glistening surface. He doubted, though, that Faramir 
would welcome his pity over such an awful assignment, and so he focused instead 
upon convincing his brother that he had had naught to do with what had passed in 
their father's office that morning. Unfortunately, he had no real evidence to 
offer, only his word, and so in the end, it was a rather short letter that made 
its way into Imrahil's hands and out to the river bank the next morn:

Faramir,

If the words themselves cannot convince you, then I know not what would. 
Nevertheless, believe that I would never betray—and have never betrayed—your 
interests to our father. Believe me, Brother, for else I shall miss you indeed. 
Be well!

--Your Boromir.



~~~~~



Chapter Fifteen
Thus Conscience Doth Make Cowards of Us All




 Papers whispered coyly against each other, and Boromir made himself stand 
quietly, without sighing or shifting his weight too obviously, while Denethor 
read. Hands clasped behind his back, feeling the air of the study close and 
stifling despite the open window, he waited, and while his hands were out of 
sight, Boromir massaged his right hand and wrist. One would imagine that after 
twenty-four years of campaigns and thirty years spent mastering the blade, 
writer's cramp would be beneath my dignity, something to scoff at rather than 
curse! But muscles accustomed to the violence of battle might not be as suited 
to hours of fine, precise, yet swift movements, and he splayed his fingers, 
feeling the tingling ease just a bit. As if writer's cramp were not irritation 
enough, Denethor had complained of his penmanship the first day, forcing him to 
rewrite the entire document. I will never again take for granted Father's 
secretaries, he thought fervently. The idea of being a copyist and note-keeper 
for the steward was not one that roused envy in Boromir's heart; indeed, after 
the past two days, it not only inspired no jealousy, it inspired dread and no 
little respect. Give me Poros and a Haradrim horde over a pen and paper! For 
although Faramir was wont to say that the pen could cut as deeply as the sword, 
Boromir suspected his brother referred to poets or satirical playwrights, not 
transcribers. Having been stripped of a speaking role in the council, he had 
been 'gifted' with the responsibility of secretary, and that had sufficed to 
keep him busy enough that he could not afford a stray thought for hours on end, 
until a recess was called or the day was done. It also sufficed to insure that 
he got ink-stains up his sleeves and recalled the deadly dull hours of 
short-hand that his tutors had forced both him and Faramir to learn. At the 
time, he had complained of the useless skill, but now he blessed those same 
maligned tutors for their insistence.


Unfortunately, short-hand did not spare him this interview. The Steward of 
Gondor had made a point of reading over his laboriously copied notes in front of 
him that first night, and had found them wanting in clarity. And when Boromir 
had returned a few hours later with a cleaner copy, he had again been made to 
wait while his father reread every single line. Tonight, he had reluctantly 
followed Denethor to his study, there to endure the humiliation a third time, 
and he foresaw this ritual continuing for days on end, for as long as the 
council's deliberations lasted. That was enough to stir a heartfelt groan in a 
tried warrior, but he wisely made no sound or move that could be interpreted as 
impatience or frustration, let alone dread. For Denethor would not take kindly 
to such displays, and Boromir had no desire to test his father's aptitude for 
creative punishment once more. To sit in the council chambers, and feel the 
uneasy glances of the councilors as they tried to decipher precisely how deeply 
in the shadow of Denethor's displeasure he lay, was embarrassment enough. There 
was no need to risk further humiliation, although Boromir did wonder whether 
Denethor had always intended to have these 'interviews,' or whether he had 
somehow merited another slap in the face. And so he waited, speculating on his 
father's probable intentions while his temper grew fouler by the minute and his 
resentment waxed the greater, growing more difficult to suppress.

Think of Faramir! he reminded himself for the fourth time since he had crossed 
the threshold of the study. Remember why he is now upon Anduin's banks raising 
the dead! Give Denethor no reason to use him against you again! That unpleasant 
thought helped to cool Boromir's wrath somewhat, for he had come swiftly to the 
realization that however wroth the steward was with Faramir, Faramir's punitive 
duties at Osgiliath were a greater torment to him, Boromir, than all the 
records-keeping that a tense council session could produce. More, Denethor 
surely knew that quite well, and if Boromir allowed his frustration to govern 
him too obviously, it seemed too likely that Faramir would suffer some new 
indignity. Even now, thought of what his younger brother dealt with made him 
feel quite uneasy, and that did not take into consideration his worry for how 
this must affect one of Faramir's sensitivity. It is not that I believe in ghost 
stories, Boromir reflected, unsuccessfully trying to quell his anxiety. But this 
feels indecent to me, and no argument can rid me of that feeling! Let them lie, 
for is not Anduin a fitting bier for those who fought above those waters? What 
honor, being plucked from a river to be thrown into a ditch? Not that he 
supposed he need truly fear that the dead would be dishonored: Faramir would see 
that the bodies at least were handled as respectfully as possible. Nor would he 
simply bid men shovel dirt over them, for his brother was not one to neglect 
what rites might be available to ease men's hearts and hallow the ground that 
bore now a vast treasury of bone. Nevertheless, and despite his faith in 
Faramir's sense of propriety, unease continued to gnaw at him whenever he let 
himself think of his brother's task.

Which is less often than I ought! his conscience was quick to accuse him. He 
could excuse himself that failing during the day, for the councilors talked in 
ceaseless circles and it was his duty to record it all. But at night.... When he 
lay awake due to the frustration roiling in his stomach and tried to resign 
himself to sleep, then did his thoughts turn not east but north: north to a 
place he had never seen, nor even heard tell of before in his life, which yet 
might hold the key to Gondor's salvation. Possibly! Imladris: the name haunted 
him, danced ever on the tip of his tongue and behind his eyelids when he closed 
them. Yet he dared not utter it, bound to silence by the steward's will. Someone 
must go, and yet we wait. How long dare we wait to decide this matter? Which 
brought him back to Faramir once again, and the accusatory stares and bitter 
words they had last exchanged in this office. He has not written in return yet 
either. Does that mean that he still blames me? That he does not believe me? 
Boromir fretted, wishing that he had the freedom to go to Anduin and confront 
Faramir face-to-face. His brother might be more adept at dealing with the 
written word, but Boromir could not trust that his brother's skill in 
interpretation would compensate for his own clumsy written efforts to redeem 
himself.

At that moment, Denethor squared the papers, aligning them with each other 
through a quick tap of the edges against his desk, and then he set them aside. 
"Satisfactory. Now, regarding Lord Anthir's proposal to negotiate a loan of 
cavalry from the Rohirrim to help cover Anórien, what think you?"

"'Tis sound enough in theory, and I would welcome the Rohirrim in any endeavor. 
But will our coffers support the cost?" Boromir replied, breathing a mental sigh 
of relief that his notes had passed muster today. The one trial over, the next 
began, but this, at least, was a test he could accept without qualms. For if he 
had been silenced in public, in private, Denethor seemed genuinely concerned 
that he should have a sound grasp of all such matters as were raised in the 
council. And at least taking notes forces me to remember everything! His father 
might interrogate him to within an inch of his life in such sessions, but in a 
way, such intimate and intense debates over policy were more beneficial than the 
council itself. Freed of the need to listen to every objection, he could 
concentrate on those that seemed most relevant, while Denethor did the same. And 
however inexplicable Denethor's moods with regard to his second son, Boromir 
could not deny that within his element, his father had no equal.

Perhaps it was simply that such private discussions of policy demanded so much 
of his attention, or perhaps... perhaps it was Denethor's particular glamour, 
but Boromir could feel anger draining away, and with it, all thought of the 
argument that lay still between them. In his heart, he knew well that the truce 
would not last for long, but for the moment, he was content to lose himself in 
such matters as befitted his station. And even the steward seemed to lose some 
of his remove, and to grow more animated than many would have believed possible 
of him. For whatever else might be said of Denethor and his sons, of their 
differences and dislikes, an abiding love of Gondor at least had bred true in 
them all, and it bound them together where lesser men would have fallen entirely 
away from each other.

***

It was late when father and son came at last to a halt in their discussion, the 
two of them having thoroughly worked through and examined the most prominent 
points of debate. Boromir at last leaned back in the seat he had taken and fell 
silent, thinking. For his own part, Denethor steepled his fingers before his 
face and stared back, but without bothering to probe the other's meditative 
silence. Such efforts were generally unnecessary with Boromir, who had never 
been as adept as Faramir at concealing his thoughts. But of late... . We all 
know what has happened of late! Denethor thought, shoving aside such concerns. 
Not that he would not reflect upon such unpleasantness, but he refused to do so 
in front of Boromir. And as the moments slipped by, marked by the quiet tick of 
a clock in the corner, the quality of their silence began to change. A flicker 
in Boromir's grey eyes told of the resurgence of concerns and grievances held in 
abeyance for the better part of the day, and certainly during these interludes 
of relative peace. And with those concerns came a certain confusion that 
expressed itself in the slightest narrowing of his son's eyes, the barest cant 
of his head as Boromir stared at him, and Denethor knew quite well the questions 
that passed through the other's mind. Fortunately or unfortunately, he could not 
answer them and so sought only to deflect them, his face and eyes assuming a 
closed expression of perfect neutrality. Boromir's mouth tightened slightly as 
he recognized the mask, and then his son glanced about uneasily ere he spoke, 
"So. We bargain with the Rohirrim and since Poros is more or less useless with 
Pelargir occupied, we pull that garrison back to help cover Ithilien and 
Lebennin. I can write the commander there, Darthalas, if you will."

"Do so. If you would, also draft a letter for Théodred about the possibility of 
cooperation in Anórien. It will help our case if he argues for the proposal, or 
can arrange that matter separately with Éomer, since at least the king's son is 
discreet," Denethor replied.

"As you wish." And here Boromir paused, seeming to search his father's face ere 
he asked, "Is there aught else you would have me do, my lord, ere I retire? 
Aught else you would speak of?"

And much though a part of Denethor longed to say 'yes,' the division in his mind 
favored a dismissal. So he simply shook his head and replied, "Nay, I think we 
have no further pressing business tonight." Boromir's jaw clenched and a look of 
angry disappointment flashed clearly in his eyes before he could control 
himself.

But then he shook his head and passed a hand over his eyes as if with weariness, 
as he responded, "Very well then. Good night." With that, he rose, bowed 
quickly, and then turned and quietly left the room.

"Good night," Denethor muttered once the door was shut, closing his eyes as he 
leaned his forehead against his fingertips, feeling his pulse throb, 
reverberating painfully through his aching temples. When Faramir called him 'my 
lord,' it was usually meant as a ploy to keep a certain distance between himself 
and the steward. 'Father,' on the other hand, was reserved for those particular 
occasions when his younger son was angry enough that he felt it was of no use to 
hide behind the barrier of rank. With Boromir, the reverse was usually true, 
depending upon context. It was, however, unusual for either of them to forego 
altogether a form of address upon departures. Faramir in particular was quite 
careful in this respect, but Boromir, too, was not wont to be abrupt. And so 
tonight he bids me a good evening and says nothing else! I suppose that would 
measure half-way between anger and affection, the steward thought wryly, but did 
not long sustain that sarcastic humor. Valar but I am weary! Ever since Imrahil 
arrived....

The admission came hard, even to himself, but however unwilling, he no longer 
cared to waste the effort needed to keep such thoughts under close wraps. And 
since he was courting unwelcome confessions, he admitted also that Imrahil was 
but the straw too many for a laden horse. It has been long since I knew the 
meaning of a night's sleep! Of rest.... Exhaustion had dogged his steps for 
years, mayhap ever since Finduilas' untimely death, or even before that. A wince 
managed to work its way past his mask as he remembered the occasion of his 
father's passing, and the awful night he and his wife had passed. Senseless, 
both of us, and yet not so much so that we could avoid hurting each other! There 
were nights when he still woke to the memory of her tears that evening and his 
own self-revulsion. He had been tired beyond belief then, as well, and if his 
stamina had grown since that disgraceful episode, it meant only that when, at 
last, weariness caught up with him, it struck the harder. And I cannot afford to 
let it knock me senseless again! Not now! The multitude of competing demands for 
his attention might trouble him less did they not all require such exquisite and 
prolonged concentration to deal with. Alas that as time passed, it grew harder 
to spare that sort of attention, for the flood of questions and worrisome 
problems threatened him with a sort of death by dissolution. It was truly a 
relief in many ways to have Boromir to himself in the evening and let his heir 
wrestle with some of them. Even the council was something of a relief, and 
although it pained him to be grateful to Imrahil, it would be foolish to ignore 
the man's contributions.

Unfortunately, second opinions and the occasionally brilliant solution only 
freed him to worry about the main matter the more. For although it was obvious 
to anyone with a modicum of intelligence that Gondor would be unable to repel 
the Dark Lord's armies this time, it needed significantly more information to 
realize that Gondor would not even be a threat to Mordor. Denethor had such 
information, though he was careful not to share it with even Boromir. There was 
no point, after all, in disheartening others prematurely. Better to let the 
shock come at the end, when there shall be no time to think on it. For however 
desperately they scraped and clawed to find men and weapons to throw in the path 
of the horde, it would be like trying to halt a flood by catching the water in a 
milk pail. A bitter end for all of them, and well-nigh intolerable to one who 
had fought the long and losing battle much of his life, in one way or another. 
Indeed, sitting there with his head in his hands, brooding on the coming ruin, 
he could feel the ache of injuries incurred long ago, as if his very being 
protested the idea that all the suffering was ultimately in vain. Against the 
trickery of his own mind and body, the touch of steel against his skin helped 
reinforce a refusal made long ago: never to surrender to the weakness of the 
flesh when he needed all his faculties to hold Gondor together until the very 
last moment.

But will we reach that moment, or do we falter already? If he could ask that 
question, then he, at least, was faltering, which thought was agony to bear. But 
as he dared not ignore it and risk a fatal mistake that would hasten the fall of 
Gondor, he considered it closely. Clearly, something had to give way—he must 
find some way of easing the strain on himself, and at the moment, the largest 
distractions stemmed from the most ironic of sources: family. For the moment, 
Faramir's absence helped, but it inflamed other difficulties to the point that 
he wondered whether it had been worth it to send him away. He could do little to 
be rid of Imrahil—cursed meddler!—and he suspected that the Prince of Dol Amroth 
would find excuses to extend his stay at Minas Tirith for as long as possible, 
the better to watch Denethor. For as long as his brother-in-law remained, he 
would have no peace, and Imrahil would have too much time to whisper into 
Boromir's ears. At least Boromir is somewhat less susceptible to such! But his 
elder son's immunity to murmured words and sidelong glances might be approaching 
its limits, for he had been too quiet since the day of Imrahil's arrival. More, 
his resentment over that unhappy episode with Faramir continued to build rather 
than abate. Only in their discussions of Gondor did Boromir forget his brother's 
position long enough to feel comfortable in his father's presence. I should 
never have conducted those interviews with them both in the same room. I should 
have berated each separately, but time was short, and I thought it would be 
easier... simpler... to have done with them both at once. Certainly it had let 
him break their alliance effectively, which gave him one less concern to carry. 
At the time, it had never occurred to him to worry about the possible 
consequences of such a falling out: in the steward's experience, affection was 
not a prerequisite to the proper doing of one's duties, after all.

Nevertheless, he ought to have recognized the danger, for he had thereby failed 
to control other factors that ought to have been clear to him in advance. For I 
do not deal with others like myself! He had not allowed for the fact that 
Boromir, concrete soul that he was, would be more inclined to anger if he 
witnessed Faramir's sentencing than he would have been had he merely been told 
of it. And Boromir and Faramir both carried their mother's legacy in their 
hearts: they were more emotional beings than was Denethor, more prone to look 
first to feeling rather than to logic, and that made it dangerous to disturb 
such bonds as they had forged between them. Elementary errors of judgment are 
the first signs of danger, Ecthelion had been wont to say, and Denethor sighed 
for the truth of those words. And of course, his father had tended to add: 
Stupid mistakes, on the other hand, are simply inexcusable. "And now I reap the 
benefits of such inexcusable errors!" Denethor murmured softly, mind racing as 
he sought a way to correct for them.

The obvious solution—to return Faramir to Minas Tirith and allow nature to take 
its course and heal the rift between the two brothers—was unpalatable. To bring 
him back without ridding himself of one of the other terms in the tangled 
equation that described the relationships among Boromir, Faramir, Imrahil, and 
himself would not ease the strain on Denethor. Faramir alone was exasperating 
enough to be infuriating, and he refused to deal with his younger son when the 
other two men remained. Not now. I cannot deal with him now! As for Imrahil, 
short of ordering him to leave, the steward could do little to mitigate the 
effects of the man's presence in Minas Tirith. Assuming he found an excuse to 
order Imrahil away, he must still wait until the end of the council, which meant 
another few days at the least of his unwanted company. Moreover, although he 
trusted the prince to recall his duty to Gondor, it did no one good to 
antagonize him unduly when the realm would shortly need his services. And what 
of Boromir? His son's affection for his uncle would bear careful handling, for 
if Boromir perceived Imrahil's departure as less than willing, he would grow the 
more resentful. Assume, then, that Imrahil shall stay as long as he likes. How 
then to deal with my son? On the one hand, Denethor knew very well that Boromir 
was angry with him. That in itself did not trouble the steward unduly, for it 
had happened before. Rather, it was more the manner in which that anger 
expressed itself that robbed Denethor of his sleep. He is too quiet. That is not 
like him! Since Faramir was sent away, he has not said a word, nor come to plead 
on his brother's behalf as is his wont.

And so, for once, Denethor dared not take the direct path with Boromir: he dared 
not try to bring this grievance into the open, for he knew not what might 
explode in his face. He could not simply berate him for his brooding silences, 
nor for the air of accusation that hung round him. Not again. I cannot stomach 
another argument! Denethor gritted his teeth, disgusted with himself. Why should 
I fear to deal with him as I see fit? If his manner offends or distracts me from 
my proper tasks, it is his place to amend it. For he is my son and my captain, 
bound to obey me, and if I tell him to jump from the Citadel to the First C 
ircle, that would still be the case! But he could not face him, and deep within 
the closed recesses of his heart, Denethor knew why. It was quite simple, 
really—simple and implacable, and certain as sunrise on a summer's day. He could 
not face Boromir because he was afraid—deathly afraid, there, in the very marrow 
of his bones. He feared that if he took his elder son to task for moodiness that 
arose of the division between himself and his brother, that he would lose 
Boromir completely. Faramir might be considered a lost cause already, for he had 
never been close to his second son. Still, honesty nagged at him, compelling him 
to remember that there had been a time when it had hurt to watch Faramir walk 
out of those doors, and out of the city, as a new-minted lieutenant of Ithilien. 
It still did, in some elemental sense, though the steward never permitted 
himself to dwell on that fact.

It should have been obvious from the beginning that there would come a point 
when Boromir would choose his brother over his father when it came to affection. 
Although Denethor had attempted to reach Boromir, he knew very well that he was 
not an easy man to like or to love, particularly for children. He had made an 
honest effort with Boromir, but he knew that his elder son turned often to 
Faramir to make up the lack, though at least Boromir never questioned the causes 
of that lack of feeling. Whereas Faramir accused him with his every look, 
Boromir simply looked elsewhere for the affection his father could not give. And 
I like a fool stepped between them this time! 'Tis like separating a bear from 
her cub! Yet he had not seen the danger three days ago; what should have been 
obvious had been lost—lost, and buried in amid the thousand other details that 
clamored for the steward's attention; amid the news of the armies building at 
Durthang, and the levies on the move in Harad and in far Khand; amid the reports 
of the massing of the Corsairs at Pelargir, and the shadows that lay over the 
west. And last but not least, lost amid a brief and disturbing set of images, 
coming disjointedly through the glass of the palantír, of Mithrandir. Denethor 
could not place the settings, though all had been different, nor could he 
determine how deeply into the past the stone had reached to bring him such 
images. But at least a few of them seemed quite recent. And in one or two of 
them, Mithrandir had not been alone. At his side had walked another—tall, 
dark-haired, always just at the edge of the vision. A Man, surely, and one who 
went clad not unlike a Ranger of Ithilien. But it was the face that commanded 
Denethor's attention, for this wanderer in green and brown who kept the company 
of wizards looked oddly... eerily... like—

Enough! Denethor shook himself, forcing a halt to that train of thought ere it 
truly began. The palantír, with its sometimes coy unpredictability, was almost 
more hindrance than help at times. Yet for better or worse, he relied upon it. 
Even knowing that much of his fatigue was due to the exhausting effort to 
control it, he needed the information that only the stone could provide him. He 
needed—craved—that knowledge, and so, again and again, he returned to wrestle 
with it, though the toll on his strength increased along with his burdens. The 
headaches were becoming more frequent, and ever they stabbed the sharper when he 
came to the palantír weary already. Indeed, he had not been free of the pain for 
some weeks now, yet he never failed to mount those steps to the upper chamber. 
In his mind's eye, he could see its green flickering and feel its call.... 
Hissing softly, Denethor opened his eyes, and he stared down at the piled 
documents on his desk: a wealth of information, an embarrassment of riches, all 
dedicated to the maintenance of Gondor. To the preservation of Anárion's realm 
for as long as it is granted me to protect it. Surely I need not go up tonight! 
For how does it help me solve my present problem?

Indeed, in a manner of speaking, without the palantír, he might not have so much 
to deal with. For had a second session before the Seeing Stone not revealed 
Faramir's clandestine search of his study, he might never have had a reason to 
wish to drive his sons so far from each other. And then, in his weariness, he 
had let his wrath get the better of him, and revealed more of his hidden 
knowledge than he ought to have done. Discretion seems to be sadly lacking in 
the Citadel of late! he thought wryly, thinking of Imrahil's visit to Boromir 
and the pair's morning rides—all viewed through the lens of the palantír and 
confirmed by more conventional means. And so he guessed that Faramir likely knew 
all of Imrahil's suspicions as to his father's possible motives, and probably he 
had by now forgiven Boromir for a betrayal he had never committed. Likely, his 
younger son would be impossible to handle for a time, which only made it the 
more necessary that Denethor find some means of controlling him.

How to put an end to this tension? How to serve Gondor best? Automatically, he 
reached for the paper on which was written the Rhyme of Imladris and stared down 
at the words, while visions of wizards and wanderers swam through his head, all 
framed in the green-cast light of the palantír. Faramir's eyes kindled to a 
chartreuse flame in his imagination as the lad walked along with Mithrandir, 
listening to old tales. Tales, perhaps, that told of things that ought not to be 
mentioned: Seeing Stones and the heirs of houses long dead; of heroes without 
graves and the rise of the Enemy from the ashes of defeat. And Boromir intruded 
as well, disappointment writ plain across his face, and Denethor sighed. Loath 
though he was to admit it, he could see but one way to balance out the competing 
demands of family and still serve his country—one way to vindicate Faramir, 
while ridding himself of Boromir's accusatory silence, and ending Imrahil's 
involvement, even if he could not physically be rid of the Prince of Dol Amroth 
until the end of the week at least. And perhaps then I may find some time to 
rest! Rising, he went to the door and opened it to the sight of Verethon kicking 
his heels against the wall, waiting for his master's call.

"M'lord steward?" The lanky young man glanced up, startled.

"I have some errands for you, and be certain that you are swift to complete 
them," Denethor replied.

"Aye my lord," Verethon replied.

***

Boromir wiped futilely at the ink that smeared his right forearm, succeeding 
only in spreading the stuff further as it mixed with sweat. Despite all efforts 
to keep a breeze flowing through the council chambers, the high hall remained 
hot, and many were they who had abandoned the formality of the session to rid 
themselves of as many layers as was respectful. Boromir had long ago shed his 
jerkin, sleeveless though it was, and had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 
From the opposite end of the table, Imrahil spared him a brief, sympathetic 
look. His uncle, too, had his overtunic draped over the back of his chair, and 
his collar was open at the throat. He had been fairly quiet today, unlike the 
past two days, and Boromir wondered whether the steward had aught to do with 
that, for Imrahil's gaze had remained firmly on Denethor much of the time. The 
prospect of another confrontation between his uncle and father was not one that 
pleased him, but he knew not whether there was anything he could do to prevent 
it. They need not my meddling as an excuse, after all, for Uncle had his 
grievances long before, Boromir sighed inwardly and wondered whether anyone else 
was as ready for this to end as he was. These will be illegible thanks to the 
smearing, he thought grimly. That meant he would be forced to recopy the notes 
in parts, to which task he did not look forward. In the mean time, he scribbled 
as quickly as he could and hoped he would be able to decipher his own 
handwriting.

At last, though, Denethor called a halt to the day's session, and all around the 
table, the Lords of Gondor breathed sighs of relief as they rose and collected 
clothing, filing out by pairs. All save Imrahil, who seemed to await the chance 
to catch Denethor alone. As Boromir tossed the latest page onto the table to let 
it dry a bit, his uncle glided forward and Denethor glanced up at him. Before 
the two of them could begin their silent sparring match in earnest, Boromir 
rose, imposing his bulk between them to deny them a clear field of vision. 
Flicking a glance at Imrahil out of the corner of his eye, he noted that his 
uncle seemed rather amused by this tactic. "What is it you wish, my lord of Dol 
Amroth?" Denethor asked, his voice betraying a certain dry humor.

"A word with Boromir, my lord. Since you needs must wait a moment for these to 
dry," Imrahil gestured to the latest few pages. "Perhaps you would excuse us for 
a short time. I shall return him promptly." Boromir shot his father a 
questioning stare, half-expecting the steward to deny the request, but to his 
surprise, Denethor simply nodded and waved the pair of them away. "My thanks. 
Come," Imrahil beckoned, slinging his tunic over his shoulder, and Boromir 
obeyed.

Once out in the hall and away from listening ears, though, he demanded, "What 
was that about, Uncle? I do not need to become a piece in your chess match with 
Father!"

"My apologies, Boromir," Imrahil replied, "I meant it not thus. But I do need to 
speak with you, if only briefly. This arrived for you today in a message 
addressed to me." And his uncle reached inside his belt pouch to retrieve a 
folded piece of paper with Boromir's name written on it. Faramir's script\—he 
recognized it immediately and felt his heart speed in response. Glancing up at 
Imrahil, he unfolded it and skimmed the lines. True to form, Faramir had filled 
the entire page, and Boromir felt his expression grow taut and mask-like as he 
read further. When at last he had finished, he gave a soft grunt and refolded 
it, stuffing it into his own belt pouch.

"What said he?" Imrahil asked. "Or ought I not to ask?"

"Much. He complains of his dreams again. It seems he has not had much peace 
since returning to Osgiliath," Boromir replied grimly, letting that statement 
stand as it would. Imrahil would understand well enough, of that he had no 
doubt. "And he, too, is now in doubt as to whence father's knowledge of his own 
transgression came." He sighed. "It needed only two days for him to make up his 
mind!"

"But he did in the end decide in your favor. That eases my heart somewhat."

"Mine as well, though I think he may need further convincing ere he is fully 
satisfied. I suppose that I cannot blame him, given the circumstances. He says 
he would speak with the two of us when he returns tomorrow evening."

"He can wait with me in my quarters, then, until you are finished with your 
business with the steward. That ought to keep him out of trouble."

Boromir snorted at that. "You and he placidly together in one room? Hardly, 
Uncle!"

Imrahil gave a soft laugh and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Go now! For myself, 
I believe I shall take what air I can find this evening."

"From the back of a horse, I doubt not!" his nephew retorted, feeling a quick 
stab of heart-felt envy.

"Aye, quite likely. I have much to think about tonight." With that parting 
comment, Imrahil left him, disappearing quickly down the corridor. Shaking his 
head over the prince's good spirits, he reluctantly returned to the council 
chambers. Denethor was carefully collecting the papers into neatly ordered 
stacks, a shadow-draped wraith in his long, formal, dark robes. Of all of them, 
the steward alone had refused to make any concessions to the heat, yet he seemed 
rather pale. With a frown, Boromir tried to decide whether his father had seemed 
to him ill of late, but nothing came to him. In truth, much of the time he had 
been too preoccupied with his own anger and frustration to notice. Was that, 
perhaps, why Imrahil watched him so closely today? he wondered. Could it be that 
my uncle worries over my father somewhat?

"Shall I recopy them?" he made himself ask, dreading the answer. Denethor was 
silent a few moments, paging through the sheets as if examining them.

Finally, though, "No."

"Father?" Boromir asked, his frown deepening as he sensed some weighty 
pronouncement hanging in the air.

"I shall have another see to that task, for you have other business to attend 
to."

"What business is that?"

"You leave tomorrow morning on a long journey," Denethor replied, and Boromir 
blinked. The steward raised unreadable grey eyes to meet Boromir's, and Gondor's 
Captain-General caught his breath as the implication sank in at last. "You will 
find such directions as my searching has revealed in your chambers, upon your 
desk. Verethon and Cethril have seen to all other necessary arrangements. Your 
route will take you through Rohan to the Gap, and thence north, I know not 
whither."

Boromir was silent for a long while, caught between relief and sudden dread. He 
has decided... he has decided, and what does that mean? That we truly are that 
desperate? Does he believe it all, then? Should I believe...? "Does Faramir 
know?" he blurted out, then cursed inwardly, for that was not the most 
diplomatic of questions.

"No."

"But—"

"He does not know, but he shall learn of it soon enough. You are dismissed, 
Boromir. See to whatever needs your esquire might have forgotten. Go carefully, 
and mind you: sift every word they tell you in Imladris. Elves will say one 
thing and mean four others. Therefore be attentive, and be careful. And find the 
answer." Boromir could only nod, and Denethor laid his hands on his shoulders. 
His father kissed him quickly on the brow ere he swept out of the room. Boromir 
could not quite believe it, and he touched his brow, as if to assure himself 
that Denethor had, indeed, kissed him. I ride for Imladris after all! And what 
of Faramir? Osgiliath was a good two hours' ride, which was not a large detour 
in a journey that ought to last weeks at least. I could go there in the 
morning.... But then he paused in his thoughts, struck by the finality of 
Denethor's farewell. That means he shall not see me ere I leave, but I know that 
he rises early. Which meant that his father likely expected him to be gone this 
very evening.... Gone to Osgiliath. What of Imrahil? After a few moments' 
further consideration, he sighed. Unless he chanced across his uncle's course, 
it was unlikely he would see him ere he left. I cannot worry about him now. I 
shall leave him a message with one of his men, but 'tis Faramir with whom I must 
speak!

His decision made, Boromir squared his shoulders and hurried out of the council 
room. If he was swift, he could be gone within the hour.

***

Although it was quite late, Denethor had not quite managed to retire for the 
evening when a knock sounded on his door. Ah yes, he thought wryly, glancing out 
at the Evenstar that hung low in the sky beyond his window. By now, Boromir 
ought to be well on his way. At that moment, Verethon opened the door, took in 
the visitor's identity, and then murmured a polite greeting as he stood aside to 
admit the Prince of Dol Amroth, as per the steward's standing order. "Verethon, 
you may leave us for a time," Denethor informed his squire, who bowed and then 
gratefully scurried out, clearly relieved that he would not need to stay to 
listen. Tearing his gaze from the starry sky, Denethor impassively faced his 
brother-in-law, meeting the other's probing stare with one of his own. Imrahil's 
face was a still mask, but his grey eyes blazed silver. "Good evening, Imrahil. 
I trust you will be brief."

"I could wax eloquent all night, Denethor, but I have not the stomach for it!" 
the prince replied in a rare display of undisguised disgust. The steward said 
naught, simply waited for the questions that he knew must come. And Imrahil, 
being perceptive, did not disappoint him. "Do you truly believe that this will 
earn you Boromir's forgiveness?"

"I believe it is not your concern what I believe," Denethor replied.

"And what of Faramir? What excuse will you make him?"

"I need make no excuse to him. I should think, my lord prince," the steward 
continued after a momentary pause, "that you would be pleased for him. Faramir 
is worthy of more trust, you say. Very well! He has it now of necessity, for he 
shall need to take Boromir's place for a time. Is that not precisely what you 
feel he deserves?"

Imrahil gazed stonily at him, and though his anger was apparent, Denethor 
detected no real surprise in the other. And now for the final query, the last 
step in our dance.... "And what of Gondor?"

"Gondor stands condemned already. What fear should you or I have, that I send 
Boromir north and leave his post to Faramir? What difference shall it make?" A 
pause, while Imrahil fumed silently. "Have you nothing further to tell?"

"Is there aught else to say?" the prince countered, folding his arms across his 
chest as he cocked a brow at the steward. Presently, though, despite the 
rhetorical question, he continued, "I know not how it is, Steward of Gondor, 
that one so cold at heart could rise so high and yet remain firmly within his 
people's affections. But I will say this, ere I bid you good night: you are not 
infallible. I know not whence comes the source of your knowledge, but I know 
well that you have means you refuse to speak of. Dangerous means! They take 
their toll on you, and I doubt not that the worst is yet to come. And if it is 
within my power to prevent it, I will! Good night, my lord steward."

"Good night, Prince of Dol Amroth." Once Imrahil had left, Denethor sighed 
softly. So ends that matter, at least, for he can make no objection to the 
reasons I have given, nor can he know my sources. For long ago, he had seen to 
it that none ever would. Ere even his father had died, he had removed the only 
reference that might lead an inquisitive soul (like one Thorongil) to discover 
what lay in the high chamber of the Citadel. Seven Stars and Seven Stones, and 
one White Tree. No Stars have we now, and the Tree has withered, but the Stones 
exist still. Ironic, that one chase should lead to another after so wide a waste 
of time!

With that thought, the Steward of Gondor went to seek such rest as he might 
find. And if, beneath the ice of his soul, he wished, indeed, that forgiveness 
might be so easily bought, he kept it buried deeply enough that that forlorn 
wish could not trouble his dreams.

********

Tall ships and tall kings

Three times three,

What brought they from the foundered land

Over the flowing sea?

Seven stars and seven stones

And one white tree.

TTT, 258.



~~~~~



Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue: For Lazarus Remains...






1 Corinthians Chapter 13. (Authorized King James Version):


"When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought

as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things./ For now

we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face; now I know in part;

but then shall I know even as also I am known./ And now abideth faith,

hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity."*

********

Ithilien. There is in the air... in the very earth... something that seems to 
breathe that name into the hearts of those who know best the tarnished jewel of 
Gondor's crown. Faramir was nearly dizzy with that call, for after long months 
of absence he felt it as the cry of home-coming. Were I blindfold and deaf... 
were I drowning... still, I could not mistake this place for any other! So he 
thought, such was the feeling of relief and of belonging. From Minas Tirith to 
Poros to Osgiliath, Anórien to Lebennin and even Belfalas, he had seen, it 
seemed, every corner of Gondor since his brother had gone north. There were 
stretches of time when he remembered little more than riding from one village to 
the next, and he had once counted twenty of them that he had passed in the 
course of five days, going from Lossarnach to his uncle's seat at Dol Amroth. It 
had been an unsettling eight months, marked by constant fear and an overwhelming 
number of duties, and he had been plagued by a feeling of uprootedness. But 
despite that, the worst memories came of the weeks when he stood still, when he 
stayed in Minas Tirith and lived with the ghost of Boromir ever between himself 
and his father. Particularly once it had been made devastatingly clear that that 
was not simply a figure of speech, the shadow of death had lain heavy over the 
fair ways of Gondor's chief city, and Faramir had longed for escape. When 
Denethor had ordered him to cross Anduin and harry the Haradrim, he had gone 
with a swiftness that was almost insulting. It was the first time in his life 
that he had been glad to ride to Ithilien with the knowledge that battle awaited 
him, and he felt it a strange and painful thing, that he should gain such a 
profound insight into his brother only now, when it was too late.

But even Ithilien was changed by the loss of Gondor's Captain-General, and it 
had been a very somber Mablung who had greeted him upon his return. "Captain," 
his lieutenant had said, searching his face with eyes that too clearly betrayed 
his concern.

"Mablung," Faramir had replied, clasping arms with him, and squeezing tightly to 
halt the next words ere they could even take shape. "Time is short. Send word 
that the men are to ready themselves, and bring Anborn and Damrod to me."

"Aye, sir." And Mablung had wisely let drop the subject, sensing that the pain 
was still far too close for Faramir to want to speak of his loss. Of their loss, 
the steward's second, and now only, son reminded himself firmly. Our loss. 
Gondor's loss. We all of us could claim my brother. It ought to hurt less 
because of that! Surely if I cannot claim him solely for myself, and must share 
his memory with a nation, even, my grief should be diminished, confined to the 
portion that is mine! But it was not so, for where others grieved openly, 
Faramir could not. He dared not, for if a captain must hold his fears tightly 
within, the heir to the stewardship of Gondor must never be seen weeping like a 
lost babe in public. But it did not help that men looked at him with pity in 
their eyes, as if he were an amputee. Even if I am one! Which is perhaps why I 
can scarce bear the reminder. But I must. I must, for I cannot fail my people. 
Not in this, when we are all bereft and in need of someone... anyone... to step 
to fore in Boromir's stead. And since Boromir had been remembered best for his 
leadership in time of war, and his courage in the face of battle, Faramir found 
himself assuming the role of warlord and Captain-General in deadly earnest. He 
hated it, but he did it and received the adoration of the people for whom he 
suffered, and fought with what he hoped was grace, but which felt more like 
grave pity that hovered too close to resentment.

And that was another reason he was grateful to be back in Ithilien. If the 
Rangers, too, looked at him now with grieving eyes, he knew their faces, their 
habits and mannerisms... their off-color jokes, their pranks and indiscretions, 
their loves and their losses. They were people—friends—not strangers, come to 
look upon Gondor's latest sacrificial lamb and to thank him ere they sent him 
out again to the slaughter fields in their places. They were his men, and if he 
was to be the next offering to Mordor's malice, they would march beside him and 
fall with him, part and parcel of a prince's bid for immortal remembrance in the 
minds of Gondor's masses. He was easy with them, and felt himself able to 
breathe at last. For, as Boromir would doubtless put it, there is little room 
for rank among the condemned. They might look to him with hope and fierce pride, 
but just as they were his because given him, he was theirs because he bled with 
them. He felt owned here, in a way that he did not when he walked the streets of 
Minas Tirith, or clattered into Lossarnach on his father's errands. And I need 
that. Without Boromir, there is no other who can claim me thus, except the 
Rangers.

A low call, as of a lark, drifted to his ears, and he pursed his lips and 
answered with a rising note: All is clear: advance! And as he slipped quietly 
through the dense stands of trees and clinging underbrush, in his mind, he 
tracked the unseen progress of his men as they moved stealthily into position, 
checking for spies and look-outs as they came. They ought to have more than 
enough time, in truth, for the sun had not yet cleared the heights of the Ephel 
Dúath, and the filthy reek that clung to the eastern horizon would give them 
another half an hour, perhaps, of darkness. The Haradrim would come, and when 
they dared the road upon the steep embankment, they would find Ithilien's 
Rangers waiting for them. It took but little time for the men to reach their 
positions, and Faramir signed to Damrod to go and make a discreet round, to be 
certain that all were under cover. He watched as the archer collected another 
Ranger for a help and companion, waiting until they disappeared into the brush. 
Then he leaned back against the great tree beneath which he stood and waited, 
while visions of ruin flitted uneasily through his mind.

It was an odd thing, he thought, but it seemed to him as he stood there, waiting 
on the edge of another battle from which he might not return, that his life had 
always been lived by halves. For long, he had ordered his life about the 
division that Ithilien had made in it: there had been Before Ithilien, and After 
Ithilien. Before Ithilien, he had been a child still, no matter that the law 
made him an adult at fifteen. Ithilien had slain the child and put a man in his 
place, one who despised that murder but who had learned to accept that it was 
necessary. And I thought I was happy enough... and I suppose I was, mostly. Now, 
though, my life no longer balances about Ithilien. There is only before and 
after his death, and I cannot foresee that that should ever change. He sighed 
inwardly, gazing up at the gnarled, knotty tree that spread its canopy over him. 
Here in the darkness, beneath its eaves, he let himself move from thoughts of 
his beloved brother to his father. If Faramir had been devastated by Boromir's 
death, at least he had had the chance to speak to him ere he had left for 
Imladris, and to part on good terms. And I saw him again, and knew that he was 
at peace, he thought, seeing once more the boat, and his brother's still form 
within it. But Denethor had not seen, and though Faramir had never asked, he 
thought that his father and Boromir had not parted well. They had had still some 
business between them, or so it seemed to him.

Not that Denethor would admit any such thing, of course, and Faramir's hesitant 
attempts to speak to him on the subject of his brother's death had earned naught 
but harsh rejection. Likely, that I was the messenger who brought the ill-news 
did not help my case either! So he thought, yet it was not enough to make him 
forget his hurt and his anger. Verily, the feeling of sick, helpless rage had 
not left him, and but that he knew that his father suffered, he might well have 
loosed it on the steward. Suffering breeds compassion, his mother had said once. 
It was one of the very few memories that he had of anything that she had ever 
told him, and he smiled beneath his mask as the day drew nearer. Mother was 
wiser than she knew, perhaps, for I think it must be true at least of some. And 
she ought to know, who suffered so much from her illness. I wonder, if she were 
still alive, would it be different between Father and me? I wonder if Denethor 
asks himself that when sleep is elusive?

Faramir could not answer such questions, and he knew it, but still the idea 
appealed to him. It was necessary, somehow: necessary that he be able to think 
of his father as loving another creature, and feeling regret as to the absence 
of his beloved. Of course, Denethor had loved Boromir, but he had also hurt his 
elder son, possibly quite deeply, and he had not seemed at the time to notice 
it. But now, when his brother was gone, it was all too evident to Faramir's eyes 
that the steward had simply hidden that guilty recognition of his fault. Father 
has always hidden too much. Perhaps that is why he is so cold: he sees secrets 
everywhere, secrets unworthy of men, perhaps, and so he refuses to touch them in 
any way. Perhaps that is why he loved Boromir so, for he kept few, and none of 
them bad. Not, at least, until I came between him and Father. Does Denethor 
realize that that is what happened? he wondered. It is so difficult to know what 
passes through Father’s mind. If he does understand, though, he must be 
terrified! I would have died if Boromir had turned away from me that night, when 
I was fifteen and everything began to shift. Father must feel something similar, 
surely. Faramir had never before thought to consider whether he might not pity 
his father, but now that he looked more closely, he saw clearly for the first 
time: Denethor was pitiable! Always before, he had looked upon his father and 
felt confusion, ambivalence, disappointment, fear or anger, and he had felt 
these things as bearing down upon him, weighing heavily because of the dignity 
and authority with which his father, as steward, was invested. Now though…now 
that he saw it, he wondered that he had not noticed before how very alone and 
miserable his father must be.

Is it enough, I wonder, to make me bear his scorn now, when I feel the weight of 
my brother's legacy so heavy? From the spasms of anger and fear that still 
racked him whenever he faced his father, he tended to doubt it. What he bore 
now, he did because he had no choice, and indeed, he resented Denethor, that his 
father would not, even now, let him grieve. The steward had shut him out when he 
had brought the awful news home, and subsequent attempts to speak to him of 
Boromir's death had been painfully repulsed. As if my grief is unworthy, because 
I was only his brother, and not his father! As if I loved him less! Valar, what 
a poor excuse for family we are! Were it not for Imrahil, I know not to whom I 
would turn! Imrahil, when he had learned of the disaster, had done his best to 
provide Faramir some release, and Faramir was privately rather ashamed of the 
flood of words he had written his uncle in an outpouring of frustrated grief. 
Granted, his father had never been a man of warm and lively affection, but his 
present coldness seemed of the tomb, and even now Faramir suppressed a shiver at 
the thought. It was as if something had died in him, and perhaps that was not 
far from the truth. Nevertheless, he ought not to burden his uncle, who had 
troubles enough with Pelargir raiding his coasts and threatening his harbors. 
And Imrahil, too, must grieve.

And I ought not to court such thoughts when battle looms! Faramir berated 
himself. For the sun had broken through the murk, and he could feel the tension 
rise with it. Soon enough, he would be needed, and-—

A sharp call sounded, and Faramir stiffened as, all through the ranks, heads 
whipped about at the jay's cries. Damrod? Alert to what...? But as he moved 
forward to gaze towards the sounds, he saw it: a thin wisp of smoke in the 
morning air. "Intruders? Here?" Mablung's incredulous murmur at his shoulder 
made him smile slightly. His lieutenant sounded scandalized! Of course there are 
intruders, that is how our luck has been of late: one task needs full attention, 
and so of course something happens to distract us. Gondor falters, and then a 
boat appears upon Anduin....

"Come Mablung. It seems we have hunting to do!" With that, Faramir reached and 
picked up his bow, while Mablung, with a snap of his gloved fingers, solicited a 
spear from a nearby Ranger, who surrendered his weapon readily.

"Shall we go, captain?"

"Anborn, you have the watch."

"Aye, captain!"

Let us see what the fair morn hides indeed! His father would not be pleased with 
him, he knew, for his orders were to slay those who trespassed. But though I 
feel the emptiness where once I kept my heart, Father, still I am not heartless! 
And I am tired of death. Green shades beneath the trees, they slipped away, 
hunters in Ithilien and unaware that their quarry bore the fate of Arda on a 
slender chain: the fate of Arda, and Isildur's Bane. Boromir's Bane. It was a 
hard-fought battle with the Haradrim, but in the end, it was not the most 
memorable event of the day. When in the late night, most men slept the sleep of 
the dead after a great battle, Faramir brooded on the hobbits' revelation. 
Frodo's exhausted face mirrored the exhaustion of his battered soul and he 
sighed as he stood and watched the moonlight play off of the water. And he 
cupped his hands to catch some of it and splash it on his face, to keep him 
watchful and to hide his tears. You took the chance, sir... showed your quality. 
The very highest! Samwise's voice sounded again and again in his mind, and ever 
the answer remained the same: There was naught in this to praise. I had no lure 
or desire to do other than I have done.* Faramir drew a deep breath, trying to 
calm the shivers that wanted to rack him. Not like Boromir! Pride might desire 
to be tested, but love would refuse. If I were to fall... I could not risk that, 
for what honor would that do my brother's memory?

That last night in Osgiliath, when his brother had come to stay with him, to 
tell him the news, and bid him farewell, they had talked long, 'til it had felt 
as though the stain of strife and rivalry on their long friendship had been 
cleansed. And when the sun had risen, and Boromir had made ready to depart, he 
had paused and cast a rather troubled look at Faramir. "I know that you would 
go, Faramir, but the way is long and beset with who knows what perils? Do not 
grudge me that I take the quest and am glad that you will remain behind! Skeptic 
that I am, it will need more faith than perhaps I have to do this, and so you 
have the easier part, or so my heart says." Had there been some way to reassure 
his brother's doubts, Faramir would have done it in that moment. Alas that I 
could not speak! He had simply nodded and said his farewells, and watched his 
brother ride out of Gondor, and out of his life. No fanfare, nothing to announce 
a last time. Am I truly that naïve that I believe all such partings are somehow 
marked? For would that not mean that Boromir's death was sealed even then? That 
he had no choice, that it was his place to die beneath Tol Brandir, and mine to 
remain behind? He hoped that he was not so painfully innocent, yet he still felt 
somewhat betrayed that foresight had failed him in that instant.

All stands now in disarray, and I would think the world had grown mad: Boromir 
has visions when he lacks faith; Mithrandir, seeming deathless, falls to ruin in 
Moria; steadfast Rohan wavers; and two hobbits, scarcely more than children to 
my eyes and yet not so, dare the land that Men will not name! And I... I become 
my brother in the hearts of my people. I never wanted that! But that was his 
lot, to lose his faith, perhaps, even as Boromir had, it seemed, found his in 
the end. Wiping the water from his face with his sleeve, he turned at the sound 
of footsteps, nodding to Anborn as the best bowman of the company yawningly took 
up his post. "Captain," Anborn murmured. "'Tis a beautiful night!"

"Hmmm... yes, it is." He felt Anborn's eyes upon him and knew that the other was 
concerned. All of the men were, though they said nothing. But he knew that he 
was watched, and not only out of pity. His men stood guard over him, rarely 
leaving him alone whether by day or by night. The company-wide vigil was too 
carefully coordinated to be an accident, and his chief suspects in the plot were 
his own lieutenants, who tended magically to appear during the dead shifts, 
either to sleep or stand at his side. He was fortunate tonight that it was 
Anborn who was his minder, for he was an easier man than was Mablung. Perhaps 
because he had endured such watches before, having lost a great part of his 
family, and he knew the signs. So, having satisfied himself that Faramir would 
not throw himself over the edge to his death tonight or break down in a shaking 
fit, the archer shifted his attention to the night and left his captain alone 
with his thoughts. I could tell them that they need not worry so. I doubt they 
would believe me, but it is true. For Boromir is gone, and were I to follow him 
in death, who then would remember him as I do? Who then would see past his glory 
and remember that he could be gentle? That his honor was Gondor's, and that he 
gave it freely? Who would remember the one who redeemed himself from despair in 
the end? Such is the charity of these days, that I spare myself to honor you! To 
honor you, and all your difficult ways, and not the idol that others make of 
you!

Anborn glanced sideways at his captain, alerted by what seemed a soft sob. But 
when he caught a glimpse of Faramir's face in the moonlight, there was a slight, 
but genuine smile on his lips, and the heir of Denethor sighed as he glanced up 
at the moon. Well, that I have not seen in too long, Anborn thought, heartened 
by the sight of that smile. That does make it a fair night indeed! And so 
feeling much encouraged on his lord captain's behalf, he settled into the watch 
with an easier heart, and waited for the long darkness to end.

*******

* Thanks to Alawa, without whose classical education I would never have found 
that citation, nor realized that it wasn't a poem!

*TTT, p. 368



~~~~~~



Chapter Seventeen
17. Author Notes

Author's Notes:

This story started out being only a chapter long. And then it reproduced 
amoebically. And then it spawned another six projected chapters. And then those 
episodes bred incestuously amongst themselves until there were fifteen 
full-length chapters and an epilogue (which latest addition I hope feels 
complete. Suggestions welcome on that topic!).

Because this is now becoming quite a tangled web, I thought you might want to 
know how this story fits in with my other Gondor stories-- "Love Sweet as 
Poison," "From the Other River Bank," and (eventually) "Star and Stone." Clearly 
they break down along the slash/non-slash line, and so should not be confused 
with each other, despite the number of common incidents that they share. But 
neither of them have priority over each other in my mind: I see both story arcs 
as being legitimate gap-fillers, intended to try to explain the motivations of 
some of the most complex characters in Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings." They are 
not intended to be AU's, but rather are two competing interpretations of the 
same set of characters and the defining events of their lives. You can read the 
stories against each other, or simply enjoy (assuming that you do in fact enjoy 
this much angst) them separately.

Title of the epilogue arose out of I know not what corner of my fevered brain. 
If I ever dip into Biblical fiction again, it might be a tale to write: "For 
Lazarus remains..." dead. Call it a reaction to the "Boromir lives!" fic that 
occasionally appears. Not that some of them aren't good, but to me, the the most 
profound act of Boromir's life was his willingness to die to redeem himself, 
even though that meant he would never know whether Gondor-- and all those that 
he loved-- would stand or fall. Where Aragorn is allowed to surrender the ring 
and live, it is only through death that Boromir is allowed to relinquish the 
quest. And of course now his family has to live with his decision. Anyhow... 
there's your bit of odd reflection for this fic!

Thanks to all those who have reviewed, who have offered their comments and 
concerns, listened to me complain about Imrahil (Isabeau of Greenlea, in 
particular), and who generally let me do some serious playing in the realm of 
common imagination!

--Dwimordene