Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

A/N: Without giving too much plot away, I suggest that those of you who dislike the very AU “Boromir lives” scenario should read no further.

Chapter 1

The ruins of several crumbled, weatherworn statues and buildings were the only testament to the almost forgotten realm of the kings of old to be found at Amon Hen, the ancient place belonging to another time. The eroded stonework was mostly hidden amongst the trees and covered in overgrowth and however impressive it may have once been, it was now nothing more than a ghost of the past. The desolation served as a painful reminder to Faramir of the reason for his lone pilgrimage. There was no denying that, as dearly as he wished it was not so, it was here that Boromir had met his death. A fitting place to do so perhaps, for one who placed so much pride in, and held so much respect for his heritage, Faramir realised, but the notion provided little consolation in his sorrow.

There was an eerie sense of an unnamed presence lurking in the shadows, as if his ancestors were still here in spirit, watching over him, and Faramir swore he could feel the eyes in the broken faces of the statues following his movements. Instead of finding it unnerving, the young Steward felt humbled by the air of power and majesty of those long since passed that encompassed him as he explored. It was a feeling something akin to that which Legolas claimed to be able to sense when he walked in the ancient forests of Ithilien where Elves once lived, Faramir thought, wishing he could have seen both realms in all their splendour. It was comforting to think that now Sauron had been defeated and peace was slowly returning to Arda, at least the kingdom of Men might return to its former glory. Sadly the Elves were leaving for the Undying lands.

The tree-studded glade in which the last son of the line of Stewards stood was just as described to him by Aragorn and Legolas, who both also still grieved for their lost friend. Faramir instinctively sensed a faint link to his beloved brother, and strangely enough did not question the why of it.

Compelled by a pull on his heartstrings, and drawn by unspoken whispers, he found himself standing before the tree encircled by the bodies of the many Uruks Boromir had killed whilst defending himself and the hobbits. Having grown well accustomed to ignoring the sight and stench of death, Faramir sat with his back resting against the trunk in an uncanny imitation of the position in which his brother had drawn his last breath.

Faramir closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to drift back to happier times with his brother… rowdy nights in the tavern favoured by Gondor’s soldiers, quiet nights with the rangers on the rare nights Boromir had visited Henneth Annûn, affectionate embraces, secret smiles of pride and respect or of mischief making when the mood struck. The memories were bittersweet, yet the strong sense he had of Boromir filled his heart with the fleeting false hope that somehow his brother’s death was a lie. He was almost convinced he could see the warm smile and glittering eyes on the face he remembered so well coming towards him until the truth of the black arrows that Aragorn had removed from Boromir’s wounds caught his eye. Faramir’s tears of grief fell freely as he mourned his loss and bid his brother a final farewell.

Twilight was upon him when he finally made his way to the river and the soothing sound of the water gently lapping against the rocky shore at Parth Galen that was but a whispered echo of the thunder of the Falls farther downstream.

With a heavy heart and eyes that searched for he knew not what, Faramir wandered amongst the scattered remnants of a campsite that had been hastily abandoned by the three hunters in favour of pursuit and rescue of Merry and Pippin. He was not surprised to see the area littered with garments, so ragged, dirty and torn as to be barely recognisable as such, left by the scavenging animals that no doubt had rummaged through the travel packs in search of food. Nor was he surprised to find the grey elvish boat that Aragorn had mentioned was left behind, a boat the like of which he only seen once before as it carried its precious cargo to places unknown.

Taking a moment to admire the beauty and craftsmanship, he ran a hand along the smooth curve of the bow, and along the neck of the swan figurehead that adorned it, smiling sadly at the irony of Boromir’s bier being of elvish make. His brother had often scorned the interest and fascination Faramir displayed in the fair folk. So it was that it had pleased Faramir, and truth be told made him a little envious, when he learned that Legolas and Boromir had become friends. He hoped that he would do likewise with the Elf who rather than answer the call of the sea, had decided to remain for a time and set up a colony in Ithilien.

Looking into the boat, Faramir saw that tucked tightly beneath the seat was a pack that he recognised as belonging to his brother. It had not been ravaged like the others, protected as it was by being in a less accessible location. Boromir’s spare clothes were still neatly packed along with a few items of elvish make that Faramir surmised were to be gifts for himself and Denethor. In fact the leather bound journal he found wrapped in oilskin was already inscribed with a brief message in Boromir’s fine hand.

“Little brother, think of me fondly as you fill these pages… Boromir.”

Always, Faramir promised silently. He spent the rest of the late afternoon searching the area for any undamaged possessions belonging to the members of the Fellowship, packing the items he found into the boat to keep them safe until he could send a patrol to retrieve both.

The appearance of the first stars against the backdrop of rapidly falling darkness signalled that it was time to settle for the night. A small campfire and a meagre meal soon followed, the light of the flickering flames casting a soft, almost comforting glow, but not enough to dispel Faramir of the uneasy feeling that he was definitely being watched from the shadows.

Many a time he had camped alone in the forests he patrolled as a ranger, but never before had he felt so unsettled. Although the war was won, constant small battles were still being fought throughout Gondor with enemies who refused to accept defeat, so for his own peace of mind Faramir quickly scouted the surrounding area. Finding nothing amiss aside from a few nocturnal creatures searching for food, he was satisfied was indeed alone, yet it was well into the night before he fell into a troubled sleep with the leather bound journal held close to his heart.

Boromir haunted dreams that began pleasantly then turned slowly to the darkness of nightmares in which Faramir was forced to stand by helplessly as Boromir fought and died, feeling the pain as if it were his own as each arrow found its mark.

“Help me, little brother, help me…” a dying Boromir pleaded over and over again, his hand shaking with the effort to reach out for Faramir, who no matter how hard he tried could not move a muscle.

“No!” he screamed when the light in Boromir’s eyes faded completely. The tightness of the pain caused by his wildly racing heart forced Faramir awake with a breathless gasp, and his eyes filled with tears as his sweat soaked body was wracked with sobs of grief. Regaining his composure when he felt the cold touch of the icy cold river water on his face, an emotionally drained and physically exhausted Faramir decided it was time to return to the city he loved and called home no less than Boromir had.

Retracing his path, he stopped at the glade to once more pay his final respects to his brother, and then headed for home, still unable to dispel the vague feeling that he was being watched. No it was more than that, he realised as he imagined he heard his name whispered by the wind and the rustling leaves. He scoffed at the fanciful notion, chiding himself that he possessed no such elvish abilities. Nonetheless a part of him knew he was being called by the ghosts he was leaving behind.

Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

From the Shadows.

Chapter 2.

Faramir knew that Boromir had always been content with his duty as a soldier of the city, but the Steward’s younger son loved the freedom afforded a ranger to wander among the soothing presence of the ancient trees of Ithilien. Often when on patrol he would take the early morning watch just to enjoy the cool, crisp and often misty air and the shroud of silence and peace that had descended during the night and remained until it was slowly lifted by the warmth of the rising sun

Faramir watched the play of light and shadows, caused by the leaves overhead dancing in the breeze, which chased each other across the forest floor, and were it not for the eerie strangeness of the place that made the hairs on his neck stand on end, the ranger could almost believe he was walking through the forest of Ithilien that he knew so well. Almost that is, except that his night had been anything but tranquil and the unsettling feeling that eyes unseen were watching him had not left him, even as he moved further away from Amon Hen.

It was barely dawn this day as he made his way towards the steep descent of the North Stair. Rather than ride to Amon Hen, Faramir had travelled by river as far as the base of the Falls of Rauros and then continued on foot. It had been an arduous climb and he hoped the way down would be easier.

Several times he felt his skin crawl, alerting his ranger senses to a presence nearby and he would stop suddenly and turn to look behind, only to find no one there. It was most disconcerting, and unnerving when he began to feel as if the ghosts did not want him to leave, that he imagined he could hear the trees whispering his name. That thought only served to make him more apprehensive and realising the danger his lack of concentration may place him in if in fact he was being followed, Faramir convinced himself he was thinking nothing but nonsense.

So preoccupied was Faramir with his internal dilemma that he failed to notice that the air had become increasingly thick and close and low, grey storm clouds, heavy with rain had rolled quickly in, blocking the sun. False night fell on the forest, the darkness occasionally illuminated by blue white flashes of lightning, the loud claps of thunder that followed drowning out the rustling of wind whipped leaves.

Scowling at the sudden change in weather and the need to find some protection from the drenching he knew he would receive if he stayed out in the open, Faramir began a quick search for shelter. The need hastened even further when the first large drops of rain began to fall, but knowing nothing of the terrain, he had little hope of finding anywhere dry and none a moment later when the skies opened and he was engulfed in the deluge.

When the next flash of lightning illuminated a small hollow in the trunk of a large tree up ahead, Faramir ran gratefully towards it. Blinded by the water that was dripping from his wet hair into his eyes, he did not see the protruding root until he tripped over it. Then he saw nothing, knocking himself unconscious when he fell heavily to the ground, hitting his head on a rock.

_____________________

Faramir felt something soft and wet resting on his brow and without opening his eyes, he reached up to find someone had placed a damp cloth over the large lump on his forehead that was throbbing with a dull ache. So, he was in the House of Healing, he decided after feeling the pillow beneath his head, the dry clothes and warm blankets that covered his body. Aragorn must have sent a patrol to search for him, he thought, his confused state of mind not questioning why he would assume that since he was not expected back in Minas Tirith for at least another week.

Thinking to see the friendly faces of the Healers he had come to know so well during his recovery from the injuries inflicted by Denethor’s insanity, Faramir slowly opened his eyes, squinting against the bright light of day and immediately regretting doing so when his headache worsened. In fact his whole body ached, especially his bandaged right ankle. He tried successfully to move it a little, relieved that it was just a sprain, not a break that he had suffered.

“Ai, I will draw the curtains so the light does not hurt your eyes,” he heard a soft, almost musical voice close by say. The slight movement of air indicated the healer had stepped away and when the room darkened enough for him to comfortably open his eyes, Faramir was astonished to find himself looking directly into the ageless eyes of Legolas… no, not Legolas, the Steward thought, quickly realising his mistake. This Elf’s hair colour was more silver than gold and his face, although very fair, was less so than that of his friend. Faramir was momentarily lost for words and could do nothing but stare in disbelief at his benefactor.

“Many thanks you for rescuing me from the storm. I am Faramir, may I ask your name?” Faramir managed to ask when his astonishment faded enough to speak.

“You are most welcome. I am called Haldir. Drink this, it will ease your pain,” Haldir said kindly as he snaked an arm around Faramir’s shoulders and helped him to sit up in the bed.

‘Thank you,” he replied, many questions still filling his very confused mind.

Expecting to find the taste of the potion in the cup that was held to his lips to be foul, Faramir was surprised to find that is was in fact pleasantly sweet. After a few minutes the pain in his head lessened and he began to be able to think a little more clearly. He most certainly was not in the Houses of Healing, so where was he, how did he come to be here and who was this Elf?

“Your questions will be answered in time,” Haldir commented with a mysterious smile that made Faramir wonder if he had somehow heard his thoughts. “Do you feel like eating? Perhaps some soup and bread?”

“Aye, I would like that,” Faramir replied, the mention of food making him realise how hungry he felt. Questions and answers could wait a little longer.

“I will return in a few minutes,” Haldir said, leaving the door slightly ajar enabling Faramir to see the canopy of leafy branches and the sky visible not far above.

“This must be a talan, in the forest near Amon Hen,” he decided, voicing his thoughts just as the Elf returned from the kitchen.

“Aye, you are most observant,” Haldir replied as he placed the meal tray he carried on the table beside the bed.

“I did not know there were Elves in this forest. How long have you lived here? Are you alone?” Faramir enquired, unable to curb his curiosity as he waited for the steaming mug of soup to cool a little

“Not long, even as time is measured by Elves, and nay, I am not alone. You will meet the others at the evening meal.” Another mysterious answer caused Faramir to frown at the less than informative response. He was inclined to question Haldir further but his injured body was beginning to tire and it took all his remaining energy just to finish his soup. He felt a feather light touch on his brow and suddenly felt very drowsy.

“Sleep now, “ Haldir whispered. Faramir closed his eyes and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Closing the door quietly as he left, Haldir made his way along the tree branches to the talan where the others waited, one impatiently, for news. This one breathed a sigh of relief when the Elf offered a reassuring smile.

“Faramir is not seriously injured, ‘tis but a sprained ankle and a slight concussion that he suffers. Fear not, Boromir, your brother will be well in a few days.”

Chapter 3

“Boromir…wait.” Haldir called when he saw the man rise from his seat and walk swiftly towards the door, his intent obvious. He reached out and halted his progress with a firm, yet gentle hand on his arm. “Your brother will be asleep for some hours yet.”

“I know, I have tasted your sleeping draught more than once,” Boromir said with a smile of gratitude for the care that ha d been taken of him during his own long recovery. “And I know I agreed to wait to see him until he has had a chance to regain his strength, but my patience is at an end. I have missed him too much to keep away any longer.”

Haldir sensed the strong ties of brotherly love emanating from his friend, a bond that was no different to the one that linked him with his own siblings. The Elf smiled and nodded his understanding of the man’s need to be at his injured and grieving brother’s side. He would have insisted on doing likewise had it been either Rumil or Orophin lying wounded and believing him to be dead.

“As you wish, but remember that he is may still be confused and disoriented from the blow to his head. I am concerned with how he will react to seeing you sitting alive and well at his bedside when he awakens. Such unexpected news will undoubtedly come as quite a shock, albeit a welcome one.”

Boromir nodded, accepting the words of warning spoken with compassion and made his way to the talan where his brother was to be found. Faramir would certainly be surprised, but knowing his brother as he did, Boromir was certain he would be faced with a very angry response as well. And understandably so for being allowed to grieve unnecessarily for so long, Boromir told himself feeling guilty for the deception yet hoping that Faramir would forgive him when they had a chance to talk.

****************

Unlike the Elves, who moved among the tree tops as easily as if they were walking on the forest floor, Boromir had to make use of the rope ladders and by the time he stood before the Faramir’s door, he was breathing heavily and felt slight twinges of pain in his chest across the newly healed scars of his arrow wounds. Boromir waited a few moments until he caught his breath and then quietly opened the door to a sight reminiscent of the Healing Houses of their city. Faramir, dressed in a borrowed nightshirt was sleeping peacefully in the bed, his handsome face covered in bruises and scratches and his right foot bandaged and propped up on a pillow.

The life of a soldier or a ranger was fraught with danger and the chance of injury, and on more than one occasion Boromir had had cause to beg the Healers to allow him to spend the night at his brother’s side. Faramir had always been granted the same privilege when Boromir failed to avoid a sword stroke or a stray arrow because the closeness the brothers shared, that endeared them to all, was well known throughout Minas Tirith.

“I have missed you, little brother,” Boromir whispered softly as he stood looking down at the face of the man who had been constantly in his thoughts and his dreams during his long recovery. More than once he had suffered terrible nightmares about his ordeal whilst under the evil influence of the ring and the almost fatal attack at Amon Hen, and it was only the sense of Faramir’s steady presence and love that he could somehow always feel that kept him from falling into despair. As if he sensed the same need now, Faramir struggled to rouse himself.

“Boromir?” the younger man managed to whisper hoarsely, his eyes widened in disbelief and his heart racing wildly with elation and hope that the figure standing at his side was indeed who he appeared to be, and not merely an apparition. He blinked several times as if to remove the remnant of what was obviously a dream induced by the elvish sleeping draught.

“You are not real,” Faramir sighed sadly at the cruel twist of fate that was now haunting his waking hours. The agony he heard in the strangled whisper was enough to bring tears to Boromir’s eyes and a lump to his throat. Taking his brother’s hand and in his own he held them together against his heart so that Faramir could feel the life in him.

“Are you so sure, little brother?” Boromir asked, leaning across the bed to brush a stray lock of hair from Faramir’s brow and place a brotherly kiss on the bruise. “To make it better,” he said tenderly, just as their mother had often done long ago when one of her young sons was wounded.

“You sound just like mother,” Faramir stated, fondly recalling the shared memory, his eyes drinking in the sight of the well known face he thought never to see again, the lines of concern softened with the affection that Boromir always displayed toward his younger brother.

Boromir held Faramir’s gaze, and for a few moments it was as if time stood still, then overwhelmed by joy and relief at being reunited, they fell into each other’s arms, hugging fiercely, laughing and crying on ach other’s shoulders, saying each other’s names over and over again as their hearts poured out their grief until Faramir suddenly pushed Boromir away, the darker reality of finding him alive surfacing in his thoughts.

“How dare you let me …of all people… believe you were dead! Do you have any idea how much pain and suffering you caused both Father and I?” he asked shaking with anger as the pain of recent unpleasant memories flooded his mind.

“I know you both must have been grief stricken, and for that I beg your forgiveness. I have not been myself for a very long time and was not well enough to take my place as leader of our armies,” Boromir replied, totally unaware of Denethor’s actions and his subsequent death.

“You could have sent word to me, trusted me to keep my silence if that is what you needed me to do,” Faramir stated accusingly. “I needed you so badly when…” his words trailed off and it was some time before he could speak. Boromir’s face paled with a mixture of shock and anguish and tears filled his eyes when Faramir finally found the courage to tell him about their Father’s last days.

“Am I really to blame for all that transpired since my death? " Boromir asked bitterly, turning away from Faramir, his shoulders slumped in despair, and feeling as if he was in a waking nightmare. Lost and dejected, Boromir made to leave, taking his grief and guilt with him, but stopped when his brother spoke, with tenderness rather than rage.

“Please do not leave. Come and sit here.” Faramir moved tiredly to one side of the bed and patted the vacant spot once or twice in invitation as his heart when out to the one who had been unwillingly seduced by Sauron’s power. “I find it difficult to forgive your silence, but do not burden yourself with misplaced guilt Boromir, ‘twas Isildur’s bane and its evil master who were truly at fault.” He moved to sit where Faramir indicated and placed an arm around his shoulders.

“Thank you little brother. I think you need to rest some more, you look exhausted,” Boromir replied noting with concern Faramir’s now shallow breathing, flushed cheeks, drooping eyelids and lethargic movements.

”I am weary,” Faramir admitted as he settled comfortably against Boromir’s chest. “but my mind is in such turmoil with so many unanswered questions that I will not be able to you sleep until I have some answers.”

“Then ask your questions, and perhaps my answers will ease your mind.” Touched by his brother’s love and compassion, Faramir sighed softly.

“How is it that you are now alive and well when Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli saw you die?” he asked, still wracked with pain at the thought of his brother’s death even though he could feel Boromir’s heart beat and hear him breathing.

Boromir nodded, fully expecting this to be the one thing Faramir would wish to know above all else. He could scarcely believe the tale himself, but he did his best to relate what he had learnt to Faramir.

Choosing to start at the beginning so as to give Faramir a better understanding of the strange situation, Boromir spoke first of his steadily increasing unease the longer he travelled with the Fellowship, how despite being assured that only one could call on the ring’s power, he had held to his stubborn belief that it should be taken to Minas Tirith where it could be used as a weapon against the Dark Lord. The desire to do so became stronger every day but he kept it well hidden behind his stubborn pride and his sense of honour, No one suspected just how deep and dark his thoughts were becoming until the travellers entered Lothlórien, and Galadriel saw into his heart.

In his mind it seemed that Aragorn displayed little faith in men by avoiding his responsibilities as the last of the line of kings and by the time they reached Parth Galen he was convinced that if Frodo would not give him the ring, then he had every right to take it and, for the good of Gondor, to stake a claim to the throne in Aragorn’s place.

When his attempt to take the ring failed he realised that he had betrayed not only Frodo‘s trust, but also his own sense of honour and had felt nothing but remorse and shame, finally finding redemption in giving his life to protect Merry and Pippin. Three black arrows in the chest should have been more than enough to end his days, and for a time it seemed they had, he recalled.

“I felt my life ebbing away as my blood flowed freely from my wounds and I was certain only death awaited me until I had this strange vision. I saw Amon Hen as it once was in its glory days, its power seemingly awakened by the presence of the ring and Isildur’s heir. Faramir, I felt as if I was walking among the Númenóreans who once dwelt here and heard their faceless voices calling my spirit to a place free from Sauron’s influence. They helped to save me from my own weakness.” It made a certain kind of sense to Faramir who had experienced some very strange sensations since he arrived.

“So your spirit was not lost although your body appeared to be dead when Aragorn reached you? How is it that you are alive now?” Faramir asked seeking clarification.

“Leaving my lifeless body behind, there remained the faintest heart beat that Haldir tells me even elvish ears would not have heard,” Boromir told him. “I am still alive because when I tried to follow the voices further, they grew softer and others much sweeter and more compelling replaced them. I followed them back only to find Aragorn and the others grieving at my loss as they sent my funeral boat over the Falls.”

“This forest is indeed filled with ghosts of the past, I have heard them myself, have felt them watching over me,” he admitted.

“I am sure they are still even now, there are some powerful forces at work in this place,” Boromir observed sharing an affectionate smile with his brother.

“So when did your spirit rejoin your body?” Faramir asked, not bothered by the unusual nature of the question, just by the fact that he was still a little unclear on the subject.

“At the bottom of the Falls. That was where Haldir and his brothers had been sent to wait by their Lady Galadriel. I was barely alive, unconscious and still suffering from my wounds when they rescued me and brought me to their little haven to be healed.”

“I have met the Lady and have heard of her ability to foresee the future, but cannot help but wonder why she went to the trouble to save you,” Faramir mused out loud. The words sounded callous but Boromir understood that was not his brother’s intention and took no offence.

“I asked Haldir the same question and he told me that she was pleased to take the chance to exact a little revenge on Sauron. Being a ring bearer herself, she could do nothing to sway his influence over me in Lothlórien. Nor could she do anything that would change the path that was meant to be followed to ensure the destruction of the ring, sadly including my betrayal of Frodo, Father’s attack on you and his death. It was within her power, however, to seek assistance in preventing my death from those who were once faithful allies with the Elves.”

“The ghosts of our ancestors who still linger here.” Faramir correctly surmised, silently telling himself that the memory he had of Boromir floating downstream in the funeral boat that crossed his mind was just a waking dream.

“Aye, they called me away so that Aragorn and the others would not delay their hunt for Merry and Pippin by tending my wounds. I have not been able to travel far until recently and would have been nothing but a burden. Aragorn might even have insisted on taking me back to Minas Tirith before he continued his search and that could not be allowed to happen according to Haldir who, I suspect, knows much more about recent events than he is willing to say. Elves are indeed both fascinating and frustrating at times, but were it not for their sweet voices calling me back, I would indeed be dead.”

“I will be certain to tell Haldir how grateful I am for giving you back to me and Gondor. You have been sorely missed and I find that I am already looking forward to your homecoming banquet, “ Faramir said, yawning and closing his eyes as he hugged his brother close. He did not see the shadow of sadness that passed over Boromir’s brow, nor the single tear that traced a path down his face.

How could he tell Faramir that there would be no one to welcome home?

Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

Chapter 4

Faramir was already awake when Haldir arrived the next morning to check on his patient, and he greeted the Elf with a friendly smile. Haldir saw that the swelling was already starting to lessen and the dark purple and blue bruising was not as tender to the touch as it had been the day before.

“Your ankle seems to be less injured than I believed. How is your headache? Do you need something to relieve the pain?” Haldir asked as he walked over to where Faramir was sitting on the edge of the mattress, apparently ready to try a few steps on his sprained ankle.

“No, it’s hardly noticeable,” Faramir replied with a slight frown. He was certain he had fallen asleep in his brother’s embrace… or had he? Boromir was nowhere to be seen so perhaps it was just an illusion? He could not have known that once he had seen his brother settled for the night, Boromir had sought out his own bed.

“Was Boromir really here? I am not sure I am in full control of my senses,” he asked in confusion, the question barely leaving his lips when elvish reflexes reached out with a steadying hand as Faramir swayed slightly from standing up too quickly. Haldir had no time to reply before Boromir, who had just entered the talan, spoke up.

“Aye, little brother I am here, but as for being in control of your senses, well… have you ever been? ” he teased, laughing at Faramir’s scowl as he offered the support of his own arm, drawing him into a warm hug when Haldir moved aside.

“More often that not, fortunately for you,” Faramir replied with a gleam in his eye that spoke to Boromir of mischief and instinctively he knew exactly to what Faramir was alluding. The look that passed between the two acknowledged the many times a certain elder son of the Steward, in his cups from a rowdy night at the tavern with his soldiers, had been seen safely and discretely escorted to his chambers by his younger sibling. They both laughed heartily at the shared memory.

“I take it my brother is well enough to be allowed to bathe? He certainly needs to,” Boromir asked Haldir, his mood still jovial.

“So do you, you are certainly no sweet smelling flower,” Faramir retorted, feigning insult by pushing his brother away. Haldir smiled at the affectionate byplay and nodded his head.

“Aye, but only if you promise not to try and drown each other,” he said with an amused smile on his lips and sounding to both men like a parent scolding boisterous sons. Haldir turned to leave but was stopped by an unexpected embrace.

“I can not thank you enough for rescuing Boromir,” Faramir said with sincere gratitude.

“You are welcome, but I did naught but my Lady’s bidding,” the Elf replied with a hint of pride.

“Then next time you see her, please offer her my thanks as well. I would do so myself, but I doubt that the Lady Galadriel will ever be seen in Minas Tirith again.”

“Nay she will not, and we shall all bear the burden of her loss,” Haldir spoke with unaccountable sadness and Faramir wondered what he meant although somehow he knew now was not the time to ask. Haldir nodded a silent thanks for the man’s understanding and left the brothers to prepare for their bathing expedition.

***************

Having inadvertently capsized his boat on one occasion as he journeyed to Amon Hen, Faramir knew that the waters of the Great River and the many streams that fed it ran ice cold in these parts, so he was surprised to find the water of the bathing pool was of a more pleasant temperature.

“It is warmed by the heat coming from a hot spring somewhere at the bottom of the pool,” Boromir explained as they quickly undressed.

“Boromir.” The name was spoken in a soft, pained whisper and Faramir could not stifle his gasp of alarm when he saw the new, pink skin stretched to form the ragged scars on his brother’s upper body, scars that Boromir knew would never completely heal thanks to the poison on the Uruk’s arrowheads.

“Not a pretty sight, are they?” Boromir asked, flinching slightly at the tenderness of the wounds he still felt in when he allowed Faramir to lightly trace the one closest to his heart.

“Nor are mine,” Faramir replied as he lifted his under tunic over his head to reveal the scars of badly burned flesh. Boromir’s response was a sharply indrawn breath and a rapid increase in his heart beat as anger and sorrow at his brother’s mistreatment overwhelmed him with full force.

“Those are not the only marks you bear, are they?” he asked gently wiping away the single tear that traced a path down Faramir’s cheek. No words were needed as he saw the answer in the pain in his brother’s downcast eyes. Meeting death in battle was something every soldier accepted might be his lot, but facing death at your own father’s hand was something else entirely.

Boromir was grateful they had both escaped their fate, that the wounds to their bodies were healing, but as for the heartache Faramir was still suffering… Boromir swore silently that he would do all that he could to appease it.

“Do you want to talk about father?” he asked, the offer of comfort to be taken in sharing Faramir’s pain obvious in the softly spoken words.

“Not yet, I would rather not let such a dark time intrude on my happiness at finding you alive,” Faramir replied with affection.

“Missed having me around to annoy, did you little brother?’ Boromir’s tone was playful and served to lighten the sombre mood.

“Me? Annoy you? As I recall, it was usually the other way around.” Faramir rolled his eyes and snorted with mock derision, a sound that changed quickly to a yelp of surprise when, without warning, Boromir lifted an unsuspecting Faramir over his shoulder and unceremoniously dunked him in the water.

Faramir came up spluttering, outraged as much by Boromir’s laughter as at having been caught off guard, the look on his face giving his brother fair warning of his intent.

“This means war, big brother!” Faramir declared, using words that both recognised from their childhood.

“For Gondor! ” Boromir shouted the expected reply, his eyes alight with amusement as he waved his fist in the air and then brought it down fast onto the surface of the pool near Faramir, splashing water all over his face.

Faramir responded by swimming out of reach, then disappeared below the surface, revealing his whereabouts when he pulled Boromir’s legs from under him causing him to fall backwards. Naturally Boromir had no choice but to retaliate and the battle raged only for a few minutes before both were forced by breathlessness and tiredness to declare a truce and head for the shore.

Dressed only in their leggings, the brothers lay side by side on the soft green grass, allowing the warmth of the sun to dry them, simply enjoying each other’s presence.

“Tell me about Rivendell, did you meet Arwen there?” Faramir asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence after a time. Boromir raised himself up on one elbow and favoured his brother with a disapproving glance.

“Aye, I did, but I hope you do not address our Queen in such an informal manner,” he said reprovingly, only now realising that he was speaking to the new Steward of Gondor, the role that had fallen to Faramir as the only surviving heir, at least as far as everyone else knew.

“I have been given leave to do so in private conversation, just as I, and those close to him, I hasten to add, refer to the King as Aragorn,” Faramir replied, unknowingly breaking into his brother’s musings.

“Then there is no insult. As for Rivendell…”

It was fortuitous that Boromir had packed some bread and fruit for a noon meal because the morning soon faded into afternoon as he spent several hours describing all that he had seen and done both on his journey to Rivendell and after his arrival. Faramir’s curiosity was insatiable and he was so enthralled by the tale that Boromir did not begrudges answering the many questions he found to ask along the way. Faramir noted that his brother was reluctant to speak of the hobbits and Frodo in particular, and just as Boromir had done with his questions about Denethor, Faramir allowed the subject to pass unremarked. There was plenty of time ahead to delve into the darker side of their lives.

“Your turn to answer questions now little brother. How does my city fare?” The yearning and love in his voice as Boromir said the words ‘my city’ came as no surprise to Faramir who knew how deeply engrained Minas Tirith was in his brother’s heart. He watched the myriad of emotions pass over the elder man’s face changing swiftly from anguish as listened to description of the destruction caused during the war, to grateful joy when informed of the restoration plans.

“Once Legolas, Gimli and their friends have finished their work, the city will be even more beautiful than before. I’ll wager you can hardly wait to return,” Faramir said with his own sense of pride emerging in his voice. Boromir remained silent, pondering whether now was the time to tell Faramir about the choice he had made. It took but a heartbeat for him to realise that no matter when he heard the news Faramir would be disappointed.

“I will not be returning to Minas Tirith, Faramir,” he said his heart breaking even as he said the words. Faramir’s eyes widened with astonishment and his throat became so tight and dry he could barely whisper an agonised “Why not?”

“There is no place for me there now,” Boromir replied trying to fins the words to explain his reasons.

“You are the Steward! It is your duty to return and serve the King!” Faramir exclaimed, knowing he would willingly step aside for his brother. He was content to be the Prince of Ithilien only.

“Nay, ‘tis you who are the Steward,” Boromir replied, shaking his head for emphasis. “I forfeited the right to stake that claim when I allowed myself to be seduced by Sauron’s ring. I cannot be trusted when I dishonoured myself and those I had sworn to protect, especially Frodo. Faramir, please understand, I. suffer from the same weakness as father, the same weakness that Aragorn feared flowed in his blood, and that had kept him in exile all these years.”

How well he now understood how harshly he had misjudged Aragorn. His reluctance to take the throne until he overcame his fears had been the only choice possible for a man of honour. As was Boromir’s choice now.

“Sauron is destroyed, you have nothing to fear from him any more,” Faramir reminded him.

“Perhaps not, although I can still hear his voice in my mind in the dark of night. I am not fully rid of his influence and what if another evil should arise? I would be a danger to all that I love and not only because of my fallibility,” Boromir replied with immense sadness.

“What do you mean?” A cold shiver ran down Faramir’s spine at the look on Boromir’s face. “Boromir, what is wrong?”

“My days may yet be numbered.”

“No, that cannot be, you look so well!” Faramir declared desperately.

“ I have tried my best to hide it, but my injuries have not fully healed, nor are they likely to. I have trouble enough breathing when I walk let alone when trying to wield a sword, my shield arm is useless and at times my scars ache as if they were freshly made. I can no longer lead our army, I am a broken warrior, little brother.”

Faramir was shocked beyond words. He had never seen his brother so totally devastated and knowing not what to say to ease his brother’s pain, Faramir simply enfolded Boromir in his arms and held him close as the tears streamed freely down both their faces.

Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

From the Shadows

Chapter 5.

“Faramir is a fine archer,” Haldir said with a nod in the direction of the clearing where an archery contest of sorts was being held between Faramir, Rumil and Orophin. Faramir had spent the morning with Haldir’s brothers learning how to fletch arrows in the Lothlórien manner, and engaging in a debate as to the varying prowess of Elves and Men when it came to archery.

When the debate became a little heated, Boromir, who had been resting in the shade of one of the trees, had suggested a contest to resolve the friendly rivalry. He knew that Faramir was not so conceited as to believe he would win, but judging by the almost childish delight in his smile, he also knew his little brother would certainly enjoy the challenge.

“One of the best,” agreed Boromir, indicating for Haldir to join him while they watched their brothers. It was good to see Faramir with laughter in his eyes, all his cares briefly forgotten in a moment that shone like the sun before it disappeared behind the gloom of grey storm clouds.

“He expects you to return with him to your city.” Haldir observed.

“I know, but I can not. You know my reasons better than any other,” Boromir replied. “I am not fully healed in body or mind and if I cannot be healed by the power of the Elves, then what chance is there for me among Men?” Boromir almost laughed at the irony of this question, he was espousing the very ideals he had accused Aragorn of adhering to… that Elves were somehow better than Men. It was a dishonourable thought. Almost treason to some, but then had not Boromir become just that when he tried to take the Ring… a traitor to all he held dear.

“There is only one,” Haldir’s response was spoken with such reassurance that Boromir wondered what the Elf was not saying.

“What do you mean?” he asked, not really expecting an answer especially since Haldir was already standing as if to leave.

“You feel as if your days are numbered, and they are but not perhaps in the way you believe, my friend. I see a messenger has arrived from Lothlórien.” The Elf replied disappearing swiftly and silently into the trees.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Rasing a shower of sparks the burning log collapsed into the embers, the sharp crackling of the renewed flames a comforting sound for most, but not for Faramir. That particular sound was part of his worst nightmares. “No!” Faramir shouted as he struggled to rouse from his troubled sleep. Heart beating wildly, and feeling slightly disoriented, he sat up and glanced around, relief washing over him when he realised he was in no danger. How could he be when he was in a glade protected by Elves and with Boromir sleeping nearby?

But who was looking out for whom? Faramir wondered as he pulled his blanket closer around a body shivering with either shock or cold, or perhaps a little of both. His eyes remained locked on Boromir who was still sleeping soundly, and a frown of concern creased his brow. . His younger brother’s anguished shout should have been enough to have Boromir wide-awake, sword at the ready to defend them both. Even when he had had a few too many tankards of ale, the soldier in Boromir had always seemed to be on alert, a necessary survival skill that as a ranger Faramir had also learned

Such was not the case this time, his physical weariness ensured that Boromir was oblivious to anything but the need for rest, and he had not moved from the position in which he had fallen asleep the night before. Of course, that he had done so as soon as the evening meal they shared with Haldir and his brothers had ended, only served to confirm Boromir’s ill health.

As did the bedroll and spare blankets that were at hand, and the affirmation in Haldir’s sad smile when he caught Faramir’s eye that spoke eloquently of the fact that this was not an unusual occurrence. The second bedroll Haldir produced indicated that the Elf understood that Faramir would wish to remain close to his brother rather than retire to the comfort of the talan. And he had indeed done so, but had been far too restless to sleep, his mind seeking an argument that would convince Boromir how much he was wanted and needed in their city, not only by Faramir, but also their King.

Boromir was no fool and knew he was well loved for his fair and just treatment of the ordinary folk throughout Gondor and that that he would remain so were he to return. He was also respected and trusted by the guards, his soldiers and those he needed to treat with, and the King he was to serve, although at present Faramir knew his brother would vehemently deny the latter. His stubbornness to believe otherwise and his perceived loss of honour would be difficult to overcome.

As would the way Boromir now saw himself as only a soldier and a broken one at that. Faramir needed to remind him that not all battles were fought and won in the field. Possessing the ability to skilfully wield words rather than a sword was often of more value in the courts of power. Boromir could do both equally well It was he who had been trained to follow in his father’s wake, to become Steward on Denethor’s passing. Their new King would certainly appreciate such assistance. The argument was sound, and was certainly the approach he needed to take, but would it be enough, Faramir wondered as he lay there simply staring into the slowly dying fire until he finally drifted back into uneasy sleep.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In the few days that had passed, Faramir had fully recovered from his head wound, and could manage to walk with only a slight limp, and he knew it was time for him to leave. He had tried on several occasions to convince Boromir to return with him to Minas Tirith, but to no avail. Faramir had tried not to let his disappointment show, or the hurt caused by the distance he was beginning to feel stretching between them.

Of course Boromir wanted nothing more than to return to his beloved city, his friends and his soldiers, but he simply was unable to reconcile the dishonourable, broken man he felt he had become with the proud, beloved son of the Steward who had left so long ago.

“Faramir, I have already explained why I can not return, please do me the courtesy of accepting my wishes in this matter. If you can find nothing else to discuss with me, then perhaps we should not speak again!” Boromir had said before he angrily stormed off, leaving Faramir to stare in disbelief at the thinly veiled threat that stabbed directly into his heart.

Boromir had the advantage of having lived in this part of the woods for some time, but Faramir’s tracking skills soon lead him to a small clearing and a sight he would not soon forget. Boromir had stripped down to his undershirt and leggings, sweating profusely and breathing heavily as, sword in hand, he tried to pick up his shield, but it was far too heavy for an arm that no longer had any strength, and he cast it aside with a growl of frustration.

He then attempted to work through his usual practice routine and although Faramir recognised each stroke of the blade, instead of seeing the precise, smoothly executed movements of the expert swordsman his brother was, the man before him moved like a novice. Boromir’s mind instinctively knew what to do, but his weakness and his shortness of breath would not allow his body to follow through. Had he been in battle, he would have already been dead, Faramir thought grimly. In the blindness of his own joy at finding his brother alive, he had not seen Boromir as he was now until it was almost too late.

“Do you understand my shame, now, Faramir?” Boromir hissed angrily when he saw his brother approach. “’Tis not enough that my mind betrayed me, but I have to endure this as well.” He said with a helpless shrug.

“Forgive me, I spoke only out of love for you, my brother,” Faramir said giving his brother an affectionate hug. “The last thing I want to do is part on poor terms with you. I had no idea how much you were really suffering, but Boromir, please listen to me this last time and then I will say no more,” He all but begged, suddenly realising how he could help his brother, the solution was obvious and he wondered that he had not thought of it sooner.

“I am sorry, too, Faramir, for many things,” Boromir replied, returning the hug and placing a soft kiss on his brother’s brow for good measure. “Go on, say what have you to say.”

“I do not fully recall how badly injured I was, but I do know that I am here now only because of the healing power that Aragorn possesses. I know you think ‘tis only an old wife’s tale, but the King does have the power to reach into the darkness and bring you back, to heal your wounds. Please come back and let him try?” Hope flared briefly in Boromir’s eyes, he had indeed heard of the healing hands only the true King possessed.

“You say he healed you?” Had this been any one but Faramir, he night have suspected a lie, but there had never been anything but total, and sometimes painful, honesty between the two brothers. As much as he knew Faramir wanted him to return to Minas Tirith, Boromir knew his brother would not use dishonesty to convince him to agree.

“Of all but the darkest memories, but in time they will fade, especially if you are there when I need you.” The words could have been misunderstood as emotional blackmail, but in his heart Boromir knew that the emotions behind them were nothing but sincere. Faramir really needed him, and truth be told, he needed his brother as well.

“Then I would be a fool not to accept his help, would I not?” Faramir almost let out a victory cheer, but Boromir’s countenance was still troubled and he sensed that all was not yet resolved.

“The you will come home?” Faramir’s heart sang with joy that was shattered by the tears in his eyes when he saw Boromir hesitate for only a heart beat before he shook his head.

“Nay, but I would have you bring Aragorn here.”

Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

A/N: To my loyal readers, please forgive the delay in updating, but illness has kept me from my muses (and my computer). Rest assured I will not leave this ( or any fic I write) unfinished.

From the Shadows

Chapter 6.

As he had always done in the past, Faramir had taken his leave of Boromir with their usual fond embrace and exchange of wishes for a safe journey and a speedy return, but he had barely taken more than a few steps along the path when dropped his pack and his bow and turned back, hugged his ailing brother one more time and placed a chaste kiss on his pale cheek.

“Promise me you will still be here when I return,” Faramir pleaded, suddenly afraid that death still lurked in the shadows, waiting for its chance to reclaim the soul it had lost. Boromir was both startled and deeply moved. He had not experienced such a display of affection from his little brother since they were in their early youth and Denethor had put a stop to what he considered unnecessarily emotional behaviour.

Boromir well understood the unspoken meaning behind the gesture this day and acknowledged it with a sad smile… it was the brotherly kiss of farewell Faramir had been unable to give once before, the one mark of respect and affection he would not be denied again if this truly was to be the last time they met.

“Rest assured little brother that I have no desire to meet our ghostly ancestors as one of them, if you take my meaning,” Boromir teased, placing his arm around Faramir’s shoulders, the possessiveness of his grip and the undeniable affection in his voice offering his younger brother more comfort that mere words could.

“Aye, they can wait for us both a little longer,” Faramir agreed, inclining his head in the direction of the ruins and shuddering slightly with not altogether feigned distaste. The early morning mist was still slowly lifting, the lingering white shroud an eerie reminder of the unseen, softly whispering spirits of the past.

Boromir’s laughter was the sweetest sound Faramir had heard for some time, but when it devolved into a coughing fit, forcing Boromir to release his hold, sadness again engulfed Faramir. ‘The sooner you return with Aragorn the sooner Boromir will be healed,’ a voice inside his head admonished and without further delay, Faramir shouldered his bow and his travel pack. Even though the ranger of Ithilien knew he was not likely to face any danger that he did not feel able to defend himself from as he made his way back to his boat, the company of the two experienced warriors he knew Rumil and Orophin to be, was certainly most welcome.

Placing his hand over heart in the elvish manner of leave taking, the younger man then bid Haldir farewell and with a nod to Rumil and Orophin to indicate he was ready, hastily began the journey back towards the Anduin.

“ Faramir could just as easily be one of those ethereal beings, the way he blends so easily into the forest,” Boromir commented to Haldir with an amused smile as they watched their brothers merge into the fog and gradually disappear from sight.

“Or mayhap almost like an Elf?” Haldir replied. All three Galadhrim had quickly learned of Faramir’s fascination with the Firstborn, and all had willingly indulged his insatiable curiosity.

“I beg of you, don’t tell him that! He will be insufferable!” Boromir groaned, eyes rolling in mock trepidation.

“As our siblings often are,” Haldir replied with a long-suffering sigh although his eyes sparkled with momentary laughter when Boromir nodded agreement. From similar tales told around the campfire, he and Haldir had discovered that, although Man and Elf had little else in common, they shared similar bonds of affection for their brothers that were born not only of familial love, but a good dose of friendly rivalry as well.

“What news from Lothlórien?” Boromir asked, taking advantage of his first real opportunity to speak of the visitor since Faramir had arrived. Haldir’s jovial demeanour clouded somewhat in response to the change to a more serious topic of conversation. “Some ill, some fair,” was his only reply and upon seeing how tired and drawn the man was, he decided any further discussion could wait a while.

“Come, my weary friend, I will make you some herbal tea to help you regain some strength and then we will talk.”

It was a measure of his tiredness in both body and mind, that Boromir neither protested the lack of response to his question, nor refused the arm Haldir offered for support as they made their way back to the encampment.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The swift, strong currents as the waters of the Anduin carried the elvish boat rapidly to its destination and almost before he realised how quickly the days had gone by, Faramir had passed under the partially repaired bridge and was mooring his boat at the pier that had survived the destruction of Osgiliath.

Faramir immediately sent a boy to ask the stable master to prepare his mount while he took the time to seek a meal and a tankard of ale from the closest tavern. Fully refreshed he then rode hard for Minas Tirith.

The White City was also slowly being rebuilt, but it would take many months, if not years to return it to its former glory. The repairs on the gate were well underway, Faramir was pleased to see as he rode through them a few days later. By the time he had reached the stables, he realised that as much as he wanted Boromir to come home, a part of him was glad his brother was staying away, at least for now. Seeing how badly his beloved city had been ravaged by Sauron’s dark forces would surely break Boromir’s heart and he would undoubtedly hold himself to blame. Unless his strength of will could be restored before he saw the aftermath of the war, Faramir had no doubt that the unwarranted guilt his brother was already feeling would overwhelm Boromir and rapidly destroy his already wounded soul. And swiftly succeed in achieving the result the Uruk’s arrows had not.

“Are you well, Faramir?” Although Legolas spoke with his usual soft lilt, his unexpected presence in the stables was enough to rouse the Steward from his dark musings. The Elf had been grooming Arod in the next stall but had stopped to regard his friend with concern.

“Aye, but I must speak with the King at once. Do you know where he is to be found?”

“The King? You must bear news of great import,” Legolas teased. Faramir only ever referred to Aragorn as the King when acting in his official capacity as Steward “Aragorn is in his private study, but he asked not to be disturbed this afternoon,” Legolas informed him as he resumed his task.

“I do not believe he will object when he hears my news. In fact, I believe you should hear it as well, Will you accompany me to Aragorn's study?” Faramir asked already heading towards the door.

“As you wish,” Legolas replied, his curiosity piqued.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

With Faramir away, part of the Steward’s duties had befallen the King, and much to his annoyance he had not been able to convince Legolas to assist even though the Woodland King’s son was well versed in courtly speech and political discussions.

The loud and unexpected knock on the door startled Aragorn and he dropped his quill, leaving an unsightly inkblot in the middle of the address he was preparing for the trade meeting the next morning. Casting the damaged scroll aside, he walked angrily to the door, opened it and stepped back, hands on hips ready to vent his irritation at being disturbed until he saw who his unwanted visitors were. A smile of relief curved his lips, these two were not unwanted after all.

“You have returned not a moment too soon, my Steward. This wayward elf refused to aid me.” Legolas simply ignored Aragorn’s glare of annoyance and moved to the cabinet by the window and poured them all a cup of wine.

“As I explained when I declined your request earlier, ‘tis not my place to become involved in the political intrigues of Gondor,” Legolas replied with almost a shrug of his shoulders.

“I am forced to agree, Sire, it is in fact mine, or at least the Steward’s responsibility to assist in such matters,” Faramir said as he sat in his usual chair and took a large and very welcome sip of wine.

“You are the Steward, Faramir,” Aragorn replied, his brow creasing in confusion at such an unlikely response.

“Only until Boromir returns from Amon Hen,” Faramir stated with a strange smile on his lips and an air of certainty and that caused both Aragorn and Legolas much concern. Apparently Aragorn had made a severe mistake by encouraging Faramir to make the pilgrimage to the place where his beloved brother had died. Rather than allowing him to come to terms with his loss, he now appeared to believe Boromir still lived.

“You must accept the truth. That day will never come, my friend,” Aragorn said, his voice husky with his own pain yet much compassion in his eyes.

“We both saw him fall, saw him breathe his last breath,” Legolas added, moving to place a comforting hand on Faramir’s shoulder.

“I know what you think you saw, and that you are now wondering if I have not lost my mind due to grief. I cannot fault you for doing so, but before you judge me too harshly, I think you should read this,” Faramir said as he removed a worn message pouch from his belt and handed it to Aragorn.

“What is it?” The still sceptical King asked as he carefully began to unwrap the parchment.

“A message from Haldir of Lothlórien, if my eyes do not deceive me,” an equally sceptical Legolas offered. “ I recognise his seal.”

“So it is,” Aragorn agreed as he quickly read the missive, and then reread it with tears of joy in his eyes. ”Boromir lives, but he is not fully recovered.”

“Aye, and that is why he could not return with me,” Faramir explained. He needs…”

“… the healing hands of the King.” Aragorn finished. “I must go to him at once.”

Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

A/N: To my loyal readers, please forgive the delay in updating, but again illness has kept me from my muses (and my computer). Rest assured I will not leave this ( or any fic I write) unfinished.

From the Shadows

Chapter 7.

There was no doubt news of Boromir’s miraculous rebirth would be most welcome to the citizens of the White City, as well as the members of the Fellowship who still resided there, but Aragorn realised that secrecy was required for now. It would be cruel to fill the hearts of Boromir’s faithful friends, admirers and soldiers with false hopes given the uncertainty surrounding his ailing health. There was no need to impart the unpleasant knowledge that perhaps death yet awaited the brave son of Gondor.

“We will leave as soon as my meeting with the trade delegation ends,” Aragorn said after he and Legolas exchanged a glance that was a silent communication between close friends. They would travel together, but not tonight although neither former ranger nor Elf would have been hindered by the darkness of night. Legolas knew without being told that the reason for the delay was simply that the King had unfinished business to attend to on the morrow.

“Will not the visiting traders think it unusual for both King and Steward to leave so abruptly?” Faramir asked as he sat behind Aragorn’s desk and cast a critical eye over the speech his King had been working on. The wording was basically sound, but a few minor adjustments as to the terms of trade seemed appropriate to Faramir’s way of thinking.

“The Steward will not be leaving,” Aragorn said, raising his hand to silence the protest he knew his surprised Steward was about to voice as he looked sharply up from the paperwork. “I am sorry Faramir, I know you want to come with us, but I must ask that you remain in Minas Tirith and see to our guests in my absence. Besides, who better than you is there to make suitable preparations for Boromir’s return? ” Aragorn added placing a comforting hand on his Steward’s shoulder.

Although the elder brother had been groomed for that particular role, and fate had forced it upon the younger, duty and honour were deeply ingrained in the hearts of both the sons of Denethor.

“Aye, and I will do as you command, Sire,” he replied with a respectful bow. Faramir had always performed whatever task was asked of him, no matter whether it angered, frustrated or sometimes hurt him to do so, and this time was no different. He would reluctantly do his King’s bidding knowing that Boromir would never forgive him were he to forsake his obligations as Steward. “However, I think it best to wait and see if Boromir chooses to come home before any celebrations are planned,” Faramir whispered sadly, uncertain whether even the King’s influence would be enough to sway his brother’s stubborn mind if he decided to remain in self imposed exile.

“I will do my best to see that he does,” Aragorn vowed as if he could read the younger man’s thoughts. Faramir managed a small half smile in response to his King’s confidant words, and then resumed his perusal of the speech. It was already close to midnight and the sooner it was completed, the sooner they could retire to their chambers for the sleep needed before the long day ahead. Legolas was obviously of a like mind although a walk in the starlight was all the rest he would require.

“I will begin making preparations for our urgent trip to Osgiliath at once,” the Elf informed his friends, draining the last of his wine before taking his leave of the two men. Aragorn smiled his thanks, both for the offer of assistance and the small half-truth that would arouse no suspicion in regards to the King’s sudden departure.

“Osgiliath? You mean to make the journey by river? Without the protection of the King’s Guard?” Faramir queried with a frown of consternation, he had assumed the King’s party would ride straight for Amon Hen from the city.

“The need to make haste in reaching Boromir remains most urgent, and I believe my plans will not garner any protest from the captain of the guard… or perhaps only a token one…?” Aragorn corrected himself when noticed Faramir’s raised eyebrow signifying his disbelief. “Remember, it will not be the first time I have dismissed my royal escort in order to travel alone with Legolas. There is far less danger on the river, but a more compelling reason to do so is Boromir himself. Even should I be successful healing his wounds, he will be probably be unable to sit a horse for the arduous return journey,” Aragorn explained. Faramir nodded, it certainly made sense now that he considered Aragorn’s words. The fast flowing Anduin was definitely the swiftest route, and the one most easily travelled by one in his brother’s weakened condition.

*************

The clearing where Faramir had found his brother several days before held more appeal to Boromir than simply that of an open space suited to sword practice. It was carpeted with sweetly scented wildflowers and thick, green grass that made a comfortable bed on which to lie an aching body. It was here, bathed in the warmth of the morning sun, that he chose to lie down and stretch his weary body, taking the rest Haldir insisted was necessary.

Boromir found he effortlessly drifted into slumber, his dreams at first simply a collage of pleasant childhood memories he and Faramir shared, but as the years flew by like clouds scudding across a stormy sky, the images became darker and more disturbing.

Boromir soon saw himself riding through the streets of his beloved city, but rather than being welcomed home as Gondor’s long lost son, the people were pelting him with refuse instead of flowers, calling him a coward and shouting at Boromir for having deserted them in their time of need. “You know they speak the truth,” a dark voice inside his mind said and Boromir began to turn away, only to have his way blocked by his beloved little brother.

“Stay Boromir, please,” Faramir begged as he reached out to take his brother’s hand but try as he might, he could not seem to grasp hold of it.

“ I cannot, I am unworthy…” Boromir whispered as slowly they drifted apart, Faramir seeming to float towards the citadel, while he moved towards the gates.

“You are well loved and missed by all,” Faramir insisted, tears filling his eyes as he vainly reached out to his brother. “Don’t leave me again!” Faramir shouted in a voice wracked with anguish and pain. “Boromir!” Faramir’s final shout was one of desperation as the gates of the city finally closed behind his lost brother, and it startled Boromir awake.

Or had it been Haldir who now sat beside him who had called his name? He did not really know because his mind was still hazy with sleep. All he knew for certain was that he could not bear to see the anguish in his brother’s eyes or to be the cause of his pain. No matter the cost to his pride, or his health, he would do as duty and his heart demanded and return to his city, his brother and his King.

“You have reached a decision. You intend to return to your city.” Haldir observed as he helped Boromir sit and settle comfortably against the trunk of the tree he was lying beneath. It was not a question but a statement of fact.

“You told me Elves cannot read minds,” Boromir replied with a smile.

“Nor can we, but I can sometimes sense your stronger feelings, especially when your dreams are of the darker kind.” Haldir explained as he reached for his pack and taking two cups and a wineskin from it, poured them both a cup.

“I have decided to attempt to return to Minas Tirith with Aragorn, although I fear my body will not survive the journey, ” Boromir said with genuine regret as he accepted the wine Haldir offered.

“My friend, do not underestimate the healing powers of your King, or those of the former Kings who dwell here in spirit. My Lady certainly does not, it is the very reason she sent me to bring you here,” the Elf explained, knowing the time had come for total honesty with this man he called friend. “I would not presume to question her wisdom or her powers of foresight and nor should you.” The words were serious but spoken with great affection both for the Lady and Boromir and the man realised no insult was intended.

“Nay, that I certainly will not do, my friend,” Boromir replied, remembering how exposed he had felt when Galadriel looked into his very heart and soul when he first arrived in Lothlórien. It had been unsettling to realise she knew him like no other, not even Faramir, and it still was, but she did not condemn him for his weakness. Galadriel had seen beyond his darker side, beyond the part of him that was slowly being seduced by the Ring to the proud and honourable man he truly was.

Elf and Man sat in silence for a time, enjoying the wine and the warm camaraderie of friendship until Boromir decided to speak.

“This is an excellent vintage, from Lord Celeborn’s own cellar if I guess correctly?” Boromir said, exercising a little ‘mind reading’ of his own as he savoured the taste of the smooth, sweet liquid that passed his lips. Haldir laughed at the subtle jest and nodded.

“Aye, one of the more pleasant messages our visitor from Lothlórien brought.” Haldir offered no further information so Boromir decided to allow his curiosity full rein.

“What else did he have to say? I take it he also brought ill news?” Haldir was touched by the almost brotherly concern in Boromir’s voice and found he was becoming more inclined to confide in his companion.

“Aye, aside from greetings and messages from my brothers’ and my friends, I also received a missive from my Lord Celeborn detailing the battle at Dol Guldur, the loss of many to Mandos’s halls and the decisions that have been reached in the aftermath.” There was a sudden bitterness in the Elf’s voice and a deep sadness in his eyes that spoke to Boromir of the grief any good leader felt for soldiers he had lost in battle.

“You would rather have been fighting alongside your lord than taking care of a dying Man. I am so sorry for your loss and for keeping you away from where you truly belonged” he stated. The Elf was not the only one who had learned to understand a stranger’s thoughts and feelings.

“There is no need yo apologise. You understand honour and duty, Man of Gondor, and it was my duty serve my Lady as she commanded,” Haldir protested.

“Of course, but we both know that as a warrior and a leader that you would have preferred to have been called to fight.” Haldir nodded, unable to deny the truth and took a lengthy draught of his wine.

“I have also received word that my brothers and I are to return to Lothlórien within the next few weeks. My Lady makes ready to depart for Valinor and we are to be her escorts.”

“Then it is as well that I have decided to return to my home,” Boromir said, happy for his friend but wondering what would have become of himself had he chosen otherwise.

“I was asked to invite you to spend the rest of your days in Lothlórien should you have nowhere else you would rather be,” Haldir said, perceptively answering the unspoken question, a gleam of mischief in his eyes as he locked gazes with a still very sceptical Boromir.

“I thought you said you were leaving for Valinor soon?” Did he really only have a few short weeks to live unless Aragorn could heal him?

“In about a year, not long at all as we Elves measure time.” Or perhaps as much as year?

“Then how… ?” Boromir shook his head in confusion.

“How could you stay in Lothlórien once it was deserted?” Even just saying the words that signalled the death of his beloved Golden Wood brought tears to Haldir’s eyes and Boromir placed a comforting hand on the Elf’s shoulder. The two were kindred spirits in many ways, mot in the least with their love for their respective homes. After taking a moment to regain his composure, Haldir continued speaking. “My lord Celeborn will not be sailing for quite some time. He plans to cross the Great River and set up a colony in the south of Eryn Lasgalen, as Mirkwood had been renamed. As a resident of Lothlórien you would have been welcome to join him there,” Haldir explained.

“I see, then I trust that when you see Lord Celeborn you will offer him my sincere thanks and humble apologies. Please ell him I was truly grateful for the offer, but must decline in favour of returning to my people.” Haldir nodded and offered his friend an apologetic smile for the secret knowledge the Elf possessed.

“I will do as you ask, but be assured my Lord already knows, after all it is the future my Lady has seen for you in her mirror.”

A/N: Thanks to you all for your patience, and encouragement.

Chapter 8.

Explaining that he had yet to tell his brothers of their recall to the Golden Wood, Haldir took his leave of Boromir and went in search of Rumil and Orophin. Not a difficult task since the sound of their merry laughter and playful taunts as they prepared the evening meal together was easily heard in the stillness of twilight. Haldir approached silently and watched them unawares for a few moments, smiling at the scowl on Orophin’s face when Rumil screwed his nose in distaste at the broth he was offered.

“Are you sure Haldir did not make this? It smells terrible.” Rumil asked as he tentatively licked the spoonful of steaming liquid that his brother had taken great care to prepare.

“There is no need to insult my cooking, besides anyone who has been on patrol with our beloved brother will tell you that nobody makes broth that tastes as bad as Haldir‘s,” Orophin retorted, his words causing Rumil to nod in agreement and them both to snicker. Haldir frowned at the slight to his cooking skills but he was not really offended because he knew they spoke the truth, not that he was prepared to admit it to these two.

“Is that so?“ Haldir asked, as he strode over to the campfire, his attempt at sounding affronted totally ruined by his smile and his next words. “Perhaps that is the reason our friend from Gondor has decided to return home,” Haldir joined in the laughter that followed the news he had imparted momentarily lost in the jest.

“Are you telling us that Boromir is leaving?” Rumil asked when the mirth subsided.

“As soon as Aragorn has seen to his healing and he is well enough to travel.” Haldir nodded and two pairs of eyes widened with surprise.

Boromir’s decision to return to Minas Tirith was received with delighted approval by Rumil and Orophin, who both agreed it was certainly for the best since neither Elf had fully understood their friend’s reluctance to go home, ailing health and bruised pride notwithstanding. Whenever talk around the evening campfire turned to a discussion of favourite places, friends who were sorely missed but would soon be seen again, Boromir’s participation had always been both melancholy and wistful. Yet the sorrow in his voice left no doubt in anyone’s mind that the White City called to his heart as strongly as Lothlorien called to hearts of the Galadhrim.

“Faramir will be pleased to see his brother again,” Orophin commented thoughtfully, his eyes glittering with excitement as another very pleasant thought crossed his mind. “Does that mean we are also going home?“ Both elves listened for Haldir’s response with unconcealed hope.

“Aye, the Golden Wood awaits us, as does this fine skin of wine our Lord sent with his summons,” Haldir affirmed, smiling happily as he briefly placed an arm around each of his brothers’ shoulders before filling their cups. Seeing Boromir approach, Haldir filled an extra cup and offered it to his friend.

“Will you join us in a toast to homecomings, Boromir?” The man accepted with a nod and moved to take his usual place around the fire, ignoring for the moment his bodily aches and pains and his need for rest. Sweet elvish voices sang merry songs, Lord Celeborn’s wine made the tasteless broth more palatable and Boromir found himself laughing more than he had in months as tales of childhood antics were exchanged among Haldir, his brothers and the bearer of the good tidings from Lothlorien.

Later that night as he lay in bed waiting for sleep to take him, Boromir’s mind was still clouded with doubt and uncertainty about his own future, and he wished he felt the same peace and contentment that his friends displayed as they eagerly made plans for their return home.

Dreams of a ravaged Minas Tirith, of death and destruction and the cruel laughter of the mad voice that had convinced him to steal the ring from Frodo once again haunted Boromir’s rest. Although he knew the images and feelings would disappear when he awoke, he was unable to open his eyes and seek escape and so spent the night writhing and thrashing in the bed, soaking the sheets with sweat and tears. When finally the ordeal was over, his head was pounding and even the pale morning light was enough to cause him to close his eyes in agony against the searing pain and he berated himself for drinking too much wine the night before.

Determined to rise and see to his bodily needs, Boromir made an unsuccessful attempt to sit up only to find he had barely the energy to cast aside the bedcover with arms that felt too heavy to move, the effort simply to lift his head causing a shortness of breath. Physically and emotionally exhausted, he slumped back onto his pillow and almost too eagerly sank into the welcoming blackness that overtook him.

Haldir, who was already on his way to see how his friend fared after returning from the night watch, heard the laboured breathing, rushed to the stricken man’s bedside.

“Boromir? Can you hear me?” The Elf asked his alarm increasing when there was no answer. Reaching for a wet cloth, he wiped it over cheeks that were almost white and a brow covered in sheen of sweat. Boromir’s breathing slowed until the rise and fall of his chest was barely noticeable, but, Haldir thanked the Valar, it did not stop. He carefully removed Boromir’s sweat-soaked sleeping shirt, knowing even before he looked that the scars caused by the Uruk arrows would be black and cold to the touch. Scars that spoke of death seeking another soul. Only the healing hands of the King could draw out the evil darkness entwined within the body of the brave Man of Gondor.

“Rumil! Orophin!” He called out, taking his friend’s hand and offering what warmth he could. Hearing the fear in their brother’s voice, the two elves made their way quickly to Boromir’s talan. One look at the desperation in Haldir’s eyes told them what they needed to do before he had a chance to utter a word.

“He needs Aragorn! Now!”

--------------------------------------------------
Aragorn and Legolas had made good time to Parth Galen, and were now heading towards the part of Amon Hen where they hoped to find Boromir. The forest was thick with trees in this place, the lack of sunlight shrouding it in mist and shadow, the only sounds to be heard were the rustling of leaves and the eerie whispering of the breeze that played amongst the ancient trees and the weathered ruins

“Faramir was right about these woods, I can feel eyes watching every step we take,” Aragorn spoke softly to his companion. Legolas nodded his agreement.

“Aye, I have caught the occasional glimpse of movement in the shadows, but we are in no danger,” the Elf stated confidently.

“How can you be so certain? When we were here before, I admit I sensed a presence but it thought it only a waking dream” Aragorn explained, feeling a cold shiver run down his spine that his feelings had perhaps been much more than a dream. .

“They are no dream, Aragorn. When were here during the war, the darkness of Sauron’s shadow overwhelmed my senses and I could neither feel nor see anything else but his evil minions. Now the only ghosts I see here are those of your ancestors. “ Legolas said, bowing his head respectfully and placing his hand over his heart as if offering elvish greeting to those unable to be seen by Aragorn.

“Ah, I forgot for a moment that you see those I cannot,” Aragorn replied wishing that he could see them also. Was Elros among them or perhaps Elendil..? Isildur? He wondered, suddenly finding the thought of his forefathers watching over him comforting.

“Welcome, King Elessar, long may you rule...“ Hearing the voices, Aragorn turned his head swiftly from side to side looking for the ones who had spoken but, as expected, saw nobody other than Legolas.

“Can you hear them? “ Legolas asked, obviously having heard the same words Aragorn thought he had just imagined. Aragorn nodded, any further answer halted by a voice that begged,

“Help Boromir... ,”

“Did you hear that? We must hurry,” Aragorn said, his voice filled with the same urgency he had heard in the disembodied voice. Legolas nodded and they quickly scouted around for a sign of the trail that would lead them to Haldir’s camp. Before either had a chance to find it however, someone else spoke.

“Look no further, my brother and I will lead you, but you must make haste.“

Not his ancestors this time, Aragorn knew, easily recognising the melodious tones of one of the Firstborn. He turned and breathed a sigh of relief to see Rumil and Orophin emerging from the mists surrounding a particularly ancient stand of trees.

Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

From the Shadows

Chapter 9.

“How fares Boromir?” Aragorn asked, after brief words of greeting had been exchanged. He did not really need to hear the words, the sorrow and concern evident in the elves’ eyes was answer enough.

“If he were an elf, I would say that he is fading and there is nothing Haldir can do to heal him,” Orophin replied sadly.

Legolas momentarily closed his eyes to hide his own grief at the news and prayed silently for the Valar to keep death from taking a man who was both friend and a kindred spirit. He did not blame Boromir for his gradual seduction by the power of the ring, it was an evil that many others, Elves and Men alike, had succumbed to in the past and certainly for less pure motives than Boromir professed. Mirkwood had been as enshrouded in the evil of the shadow as had Gondor and Legolas fully understood both the allure of such a weapon as Boromir had come to believe the ring to be and the desire to protect his home at any cost.

“Haldir says ‘tis the healing hands of the King he needs,“ Orophin added.

“ That is the reason we were seeking you out with such urgency and would have travelled all the way to Minas Tirith to do so if necessary.” Aragorn smiled and bowed his head acknowledging the depth of the friendship Rumil’s words implied.

“I will do all that I can,” Aragorn assured them all, turning to catch Legolas’s eye. The King saw that his friend stood slightly apart from the others, his mind obviously elsewhere judging by the way that he started when Aragon placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Come Legolas, we must make haste. Faramir will never forgive us if we lose Boromir now.” The words were an attempt at jest but both knew well there was much truth behind them.

“Aye, likely as not he will bar the gates to our return, should we do so alone,” Legolas replied with a half smile as he stepped onto the path indicating for the Galadhrim to lead the way.

“Faramir would do no such thing, but friend Gimli might be sorely tempted to punish us in such a manner for leaving him behind,” Aragorn replied as they made their way swiftly to Haldir’s talan. Legolas laughed merrily at that notion. Had not the Dwarf been otherwise occupied at Algarond, he would have indeed insisted on accompanying them on their journey.

----------------------------------------------------------------

“Thank the Valar you are here,” Haldir said, the relief in his voice and eyes was unmistakeable as he rose from the chair next to Boromir’s bed to greet Aragorn and Legolas.

“Greetings, Haldir. I have brought a supply of athelas, ” Aragorn said removing his herb pouch from his belt as he strode quickly over to his patient‘s side. He handed it to the Elf who immediately removed the precious leaves and began preparing the potion and salve he knew the King would need.

“He is so pale and is barely breathing, but he lives. You have been sorely missed, Son of Gondor,” whispered Legolas who had moved to the other side of the bed and taken Boromir's cold, limp hand in his own. Imitating Aragorn’s final gesture, only this time meaning it to be one of greeting and not farewell, Legolas leaned over and placed a chase, feather light kiss on the man’s forehead.

“Aye, indeed you have,” Aragorn agreed as he took a moment to study the face of the man he had believed dead, and who was so close to death once more he realised when he lifted the sheet that covered Boromir’s
naked chest. The sight that met his eyes caused him to draw in a sharp breath. Rather than being covered with the pinkness of new skin, the scars where the arrows had pierced Boromir's body were a sickly grey colour and a black liquid with a foul stench oozed slowly from them. Aragorn drew his hand back quickly when his fingers encountered the icy cold fluid. It was not so much the temperature that concerned him, for he knew such wounds would not have the heat of a normal infection. It was the utter evil he sensed coursing through Boromir’s body, entwining itself around every fibre of his being as it slowly strangled all the life from him was almost overwhelming.

The sensation was not unlike that which he felt when he treated Frodo for the morgul blade wound, or those of both Eowyn and Merry, but in Boromir it was so much stronger. Reaching for the steaming bowl of athelas and water that Haldir had silently placed art his side, Aragorn began to cleanse the wounds as best he could.

“Aragorn, he is not breathing! I can no longer hear his heart beating,” Legolas cried out in despair as he suddenly felt Boromir’s life force slipping away.

“No! You will not take this Son of Gondor!” Aragorn shouted vehemently to the unseen shadow of death whose bone chillingly evil laughter seemed to be filling his mind.

“Fight for him... die for him... give yourself in his place, King of Men,” taunted a raspy voice.

“Nay I will not!“ Aragorn replied his own voice tinged with a dangerous edge born of anger and determination not to let the darkness win. He had fought too long and hard and sacrificed much, as had Boromir, to see the world of men survive and he would not admit defeat now. Taking the almost lifeless face in his hands he drew on his inner strength and all the healing power he possessed to try and rid Boromir’s body and soul of the darkness that was leading him to his death.

“Reach for it and I will bring you back into the light, Boromir,” Aragorn whispered insistently, imagining hw was sending out a tendril of mithril to the hands reaching out so desperately to be saved from the edge of the abyss the man was teetering on. Each time he felt as if Boromir had grasped the lifeline, he heard that evil laugh he despised with a passion and the link would be broken. That his strength was failing against the power of the evil he was fighting was undeniable, and Aragorn knew it was only a matter of time before he was lost.

The shadow of death knew it too, and rejoiced.

“You can not win Elessar. I feel you weakening already, Your body tires and soon I will have you both!“

“Nay, you will not!” Declared another voice, one that sounded vaguely familiar but yet was not.

A fleeting notion that perhaps it was Legolas floated somewhere in than back of his mind but any further thought was lost when Aragorn felt strong hands covering his own where they gripped Boromir’s face. He felt a surge of energy so strong and pure fill him and brightness surrounded him that almost blinded even closed eyes. Suddenly he had the strength to not only reach Boromir, but to swiftly draw him out of the hands of death. Boromir's life force once again slowly moved throughout his body, the warmth and brightness engulfing every shred of darkness as it went.

Finally, after several anxious moments, sighs of relief were heard when, with a shuddering breath, the Man of Gondor opened his eyes.

“My King...” were the only words Boromir was able to mange, again pledging his loyalty as he had done at his death.

Tears of joy and relief filled not only Aragorn’s eyes but also those of the Elves who had been standing silently at the end of the bed, waiting to offer whatever assistance they could. With a slight nod of his head, a weary Aragorn gave silent permission for each of them to have a brief word with their friend whilst he prepared a sleeping potion for Boromir.

“Come, you must rest also, Aragorn, you must be exhausted,” Legolas said, offering Aragorn a cup of his own sleeping potion. The exhausted King shook his head and pushed the cup aside.

“Nay, I need to watch over Boromir, and I have yet to bandage his wounds with the athelas \salve,” he offered by way of explanation.

“Haldir is more than willing to sit with his friend. He can apply the bandages, after all he has cared for him well all this time, has he not?” Legolas pointed out.

“You speak the truth, my friend, “ Aragorn agreed. The extra bed Haldir had placed in the talan where Boromir was sleeping certainly looked inviting and he suddenly felt very tired. “Very well, I will do as you ask, but are you not also weary? You must have used a great deal of energy as did I,” he suggested, suddenly remembering that he had not healed Boromir on his own.

“Doing what? Sitting at Boromir‘s side and holding his hand for comfort required no feat of strength on my part,” Legolas replied, looking at Aragorn strangely.

“Did you not add your strength to mine when it was failing? I heard your voice, felt your hands... or so I thought.” Aragorn was still certain he recognised the voice, but could not place it.

“You did indeed have aid, but not from me,” Legolas replied with an enigmatic smile. Aragorn frowned at his friend choosing this moment to be particularly elvish in his response.

“Just tell me who it was Legolas, ” he said, exasperation evident in his voice.

“If my eyes did not deceive me, the ghostly image I saw at your side was none other than Lord Elrond’s brother, Elros.”

Chapter 10

“Elros! Could it really be? ” Aragorn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. That it was the presence of Elrond’s twin brother he had sensed would certainly explain why the touch on his shoulder and the whispered voice he had heard had seemed so familiar, yet different at the same time. More than once he had felt Elrond‘s healing hands on his own wounds and followed the sound of the much-loved voice that called him back from darkness.

“Unless my eyes have deceived me, I believe the apparition I saw at your side was indeed the first King of Men. Although Elros died long before I was born, I have seen the portraits of him and Lord Elrond that hang in the gallery at Rivendell. The peredhil brothers appear as alike in countenance as are Elladan and Elrohir, “ Legolas explained. A slight incline of Aragorn’s head indicated that he thought the observation was certainly true. He had seen the paintings many a time.

“Aye, those who did not know them well often found it difficult to distinguish between the twin sons of Earendil,” agreed Haldir, his eyes momentarily focussed inwards on a fleeting memory of a day long ago. A day when he had watched the two young brothers engaged in sword practice under his tutelage. He could not help but smile at the looks of surprise this remark caused on the faces of the Elf and Man. Obviously neither had realised just how long lived the march warden was, nor that he might have many an interesting tale to tell.

“You knew them both? Will you tell me about Elros?” Aragorn requested his eyes alight with curiosity despite the fact that he was too weary to stifle a yawn or keep his eyes open long enough to see Haldir shaking his head. The Elf could plainly see the King was fatigued and he nodded his silent approval when he saw Legolas place the now empty cup on the table beside the bed.

“Rest now, Aragorn, there will be time for talk later.” Underlying Legolas’s softly spoken words was a hint of command that, as stubborn as the man could be at times, brooked no argument.

The combined effects of the trauma of the last few hours and the sleeping potion the Elf had already given him were now quickly taking their toll and Aragorn offered his friend only a half-hearted glare of annoyance when he felt his shoulders being gently pushed back onto the pillows. Casting one last glance over at Boromir and apparently satisfied that he was sleeping peacefully, Aragorn finally allowed his own eyes to close.

“It seems that Boromir has many friends, both alive and not.” Haldir’s quietly spoken comment drew Legolas’s attention and leaving Aragorn to his rest he walked over to join the march warden at the other man’s bedside. In his haste to see to Boromir’s well being he had not really had a chance to come to terms with the fact that the man he had believed to be dead was still counted amongst the living. Wrapping his fingers around the pale wrist that lay limply on the bed cover, the Elf allowed a small sigh of relief to pass his lips when he felt the warm skin, pulse of blood flowing through the veins.

“Aye, and his loss is still mourned by many in Minas Tirith. The people will be overjoyed, as am I, I freely admit, to learn he still lives, although their joy will be tempered with sorrow if Aragorn cannot convince him to return home.“ Legolas whispered, his eyes never leaving the sleeping face. Haldir wanted nothing more than to ease his friend’s mind, to tell him of Boromir's decision, but knew it was not his place to do so. Instead he took Legolas’s arm intending to usher him towards the door.

“Come let us leave them to sleep. Perhaps you would like to rest also?” Legolas shook his head at Haldir’s suggestion.

“I am not in need of slumber, but I would not refuse a meal and perhaps a cup of wine while I watch over them,” he replied, settling himself in the chair at the end of Boromir’s bed. A small smile curved his lips as he realised how like the Hobbits and Gimli he sounded. It had never ceased to amaze him how determined his companions had been to partake of food and drink, no matter the gravity of the situation.

“As you wish, but should you tire, my brothers and I will gladly keep vigil in your stead.” Haldir reassured the younger Elf.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Setting aside the remnants of the meal Haldir had brought him, Legolas checked to ensure that both men were sleeping peacefully. Whilst it was not uncommon for Aragorn to suffer from exhaustion after healing those affected by the shadow of evil, as had happened when he laid his hands on Faramir, Eowyn and Merry, and many others in the aftermath of the war, Legolas sensed that this time was different. The struggle to hold on to Boromir had almost drained the king of his life force and had it not been for Elros’s presence and added strength, Aragorn would likely have passed into darkness along with Boromir. Legolas thanked the Valar for sparing the man he looked upon almost as a brother.

The raspy sound of Boromir’s still laboured, but more regular breathing reminded the Elf that the brave son of the Steward had also survived this particular battle, but so many others had perished. Not only in Gondor, Rohan and even the Shire, Legolas thought sadly, but also among his own kin. His heart filled with a deep and overwhelming grief for the elves he knew had been sent to Mandos’s Halls whilst defending Mirkwood.

Moving as silently as only an Elf can and softly singing a lament for those lost, Legolas made his way over to the open window and looked up, seeking comfort in the stars he loved so well. To his sorrow, the thick canopy allowed only dappled moonlight to penetrate the darkness of night, but as if they sensed his need, the branches parted slightly allowing him a clear glimpse of Earendil, most beloved star of all Elves. It was reassuring to know that, as was his son, Elros‘s father was also watching over them this night.

The sound of the sweet voice of one of their own singing of such sorrow drifted to where Haldir and his brothers sat idly around the campfire enjoying a cup of wine. Seasoned warrior that he was, Haldir sensed that the cause of Legolas’s melancholy was more than simply the near death of one man. He still keenly felt and mourned the loss of the brave Galadhrim who had fought by Celeborn and Galadriel’s side at Dol Guldur, as he knew did his brothers. Compelled by their own sorrow, the three added their voices to the lament. Legolas was not alone in his grief.

“A lament for Gandalf...”

The words were spoken in barely more than a whisper but the dry, raspy voice penetrated Aragorn’s slumber, forcing him fully awake. Despite the lingering effects of the sleeping draught that had left him slightly disoriented and his limbs heavy and difficult to move, Aragorn finally managed to arise. He sat on the edge of the bed, the sweet sound of elvish voices he had heard in his dreams making him believe for a moment that he was back in Lothlorien listening to the melancholy farewell to Gandalf. Focussing on the words he was relieved to realise he was mistaken. This was no song of mourning for the Istar, but Legolas and the Galadhrim mourning for the many elvish warriors who had fallen defending the two woodland realms to the north.

Apparently the restlessly slumbering Boromir had come to the same conclusion. However rather than awaken, it seemed that his dreams had become more nightmarish as he began thrashing about, tossing his head from side to side, waving his sword arm as if he was brandishing his weapon... or fighting for his life and those of the Hobbits.

Indeed, the elvish lament had penetrated the haze of the sleeping potion and Boromir believed for a moment that he was safe in Lothlorien. But even there he had not been protected from the ring. His heart was overwhelmed by his loss of hope, of fear for his city, of the need to possess the power of the ring just as his mind was flooded with images of all that had come to pass. As if merely a being entertained by actors in a play, he watched in horror as the lust for power drove him temporarily mad, pride and honour forgotten as he tried to steal the ring from Frodo. He desperately waned to pull the raving Boromir away from the Hobbit, but his feet were seemingly fixed to the ground.

The scene changed rapidly and now he was fighting the Uruks, giving Merry and Pippin a chance to escape, trying to redeem his honour with his life. He felt again every blow, and each jolt of excruciating pain as the black arrows pierced his flesh but determined to save the Halflings, he fought on.

As he felt the life flee from his body in a bloody red haze, he saw Aragorn rush to his side, try to ease his passing. He recalled the last word he had spoken before the darkness took him, but this time he remained aware of all that transpired afterwards. This time he felt the hot saltiness of his King’s tears as he kissed his brother in arms farewell. He saw the pain and anguishes in the eyes of the Elf who had been so forcefully introduced to the true nature of death and heard the gruffly spoken words of the Dwarf he had come to call friend. He watched as they sent him to his rest, the elvish boat as his coffin, the swirling waters of the Falls of Rauros his grave.

Boromir saw and felt himself floating downstream, enveloped in a shroud of mist, the speed of the boat becoming more rapid as the falls approached. He drew in a sharp breath when he saw felt himself falling over the edge.

“Help me, Haldir.” Boromir, his voice filled with pain and fear, begged.

The plea was not lost on Legolas who immediately ceased his song. He turned from the beauty of the starlight and hastened to Boromir’s side only to find Aragorn already seated there, his face showing his concern that Boromir’s movements would cause his wounds to reopen.

“Haldir is not far away, but Legolas and I are here, ” Aragorn spoke reassuringly as he took the badly shaking outstretched hand in his. The healer’s touch calmed Boromir immediately.

Chapter 11

When he heard Aragorn’s voice speaking softly to him in soothing tones, Boromir felt as if he was making his way through a thick early morning fog that was thankfully slowly beginning to rise taking with it the dreams that had clouded his mind and plagued his sleep. As comforting as the firm yet gentle touch of the hand grasping his felt, confusion and uncertainty forced Boromir to wonder if this was not merely another means of torment that the shadow of darkness he sensed still lingered deep inside saw fit to inflict? A torment he knew that the brave soldier he once believed himself to be would have easily defeated.

“Only in your own eyes have you ever been less than a brave soldier, nothing more than a dishonourable man. Use your courage and your pride to turn the darkness away, do not embrace it. Come back to the light.”

In the echo of the voices that had drawn him away from his nightmares, Boromir found a renewed strength of will and determination not to allow the evil within to prevail. In his mind's eye he pictured himself no longer hampered by injury raising his sword high, cutting a swathe through the veil of darkness, and allowing the light to shine through so brightly that no shadow could survive.

“Be gone, evil one! You hold no more sway over Boromir, son of Denethor, son of Gondor!” The words were spoken out loud surprising both Aragorn and Legolas who had assumed their friend had finally fallen into a peaceful sleep. Boromir’s voice was weak and raspy and the defiant words so proudly spoken caught on the dry lips and parched throat, resulting in a mild coughing fit.

“Boromir, wake up,” Aragorn’s voice was insistent and sounded so very real as was the welcome coolness left on his skin by the damp cloth wiped across his fevered brow. With some difficulty he opened his sleep heavy eyelids and was greeted with concerned smiles on the faces of his friends.

“Here, this will help.” There was no mistaking the almost musical sound of the elvish voice he recognised as belonging to Legolas. A strong arm eased him into a sitting position, holding him a little higher up on the pillows to ease the coughing and to allow him to take a few sips of the cool water from the cup that was held against his lips. He offered a nod of thanks to Legolas for the water before rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his free hand, his other gripping Aragorn’s a little harder.

“I fear my eyes deceive me. You two are indeed a welcome sight, but where is the other?” He asked, looking around as if expecting to see someone else.

“Other? Haldir is taking his rest?” Aragorn offered concerned that Boromir was apparently still not fully in control of his thoughts.

“Nay, I refer not to my elvish friends, but to the other healer.” Aragorn exchanged a glance with Legolas that spoke of his astonishment at this unexpected turn of events. Even when lost in the thrall of his dark, inner turmoil Boromir had apparently had some sense of Elros’s presence at Aragorn’s side.

“In truth I do not fully understand how it came to be, but it seems that my ancestor, Elros, saw fit to offer the aid I needed to heal you. It was he you must have felt.” Aragorn replied, looking curiously at Boromir who seemed less surprised than might have been expected at the response.

“Ah, that explains much. Ever since Haldir brought me here, I have sensed the presence of our forefathers in this forest, as if they were watching over me.”

“Faramir said much the same, and I assure you neither of you were mistaken,” Legolas informed him.

“Our elvish friend speaks the truth.“ Aragorn confirmed, noting how weak Boromir‘s grasp was, how much difficulty he was having merely holding his head up. “And if they can see you now they will know you are still not yourself and I believe they would agree with me that perhaps you should try and eat a little to regain your strength.”

“As you wish,” Boromir sighed wearily, resting his head on Aragorn’s shoulder for a moment.

“ Legolas please find Haldir and ask him for a light meal for our patient while I change his bandages.” Boromir settled back against the pillows and allowed the healer to complete his task, but thinking on what he remembered from his healing, he found his curiosity would not allow him to remain silent

“Aragorn, I assume that Faramir told you that I was called back from death’s door by the voices, the spirits of the Kings and Stewards of old who wander among the ruins of Amon Hen?”

“Aye, he related every word you said,” Aragorn nodded as he secured the last bandage in place, relieved beyond measure to see that the wounds were already beginning to heal. All Boromir needed now was rest and several more days of it before he would be in a fit state to travel home. Or for that matter to deal with the arguments Aragorn knew would ensue when he tried to convince a very stubborn man of Gondor that it was in his, and Minas Tirith’s best interests that he do so.

“Did you see him? Did you see Elros?” Boromir’s face was alight with awe and Aragorn found himself suddenly wishing he had been able to look upon the face of the first king of Men, rather than merely feel his touch.

“Nay, he was visible only to elvish eyes.“ Boromir frowned, his confusion obvious in his furrowed brow. Haldir and his brothers had never mentioned seeing the ghostly wanderers.

“A pity. I owe him my life and it would please me to be able to offer him my thanks, as I do to you, my King.” Boromir said he lifted Aragorn’s hand to his lips, placing a kiss of fealty on the ring of office he wore with an unmistakeable air of nobility that not even being bedridden could erase. It was a simple gesture but one full of meaning and to Aragorn’s delight, one that offered some hope that Boromir could be persuaded to return to Minas Tirith.

Until this moment, he had been pondering how best to approach the subject, but now he realised his answer lay in the reverence of Boromir's word and voice as he spoke of those who had come before, and of those to his King. For less than a heartbeat he felt as if a hand rested on his shoulder in silent encouragement, and he turned and smiled, bowing respectfully to the invisible one he knew stood at his side when he saw Legolas, who had just entered the talan, do likewise.

“I have brought enough for both you and Boromir to eat,“ Legolas said, looking pointedly at Aragorn who he knew must surely have also been hungry since it had been almost a full day since his friend had eaten. Aragorn accepted the broth, and acknowledged the thoughtfulness behind it with a slight incline of his head. Legolas smiled in return and selected an apple for his own repast. “Rumil bid me reassure you that he and Orophin prepared the broth,” He told the two men as he set the meal tray that he was carrying on the nightstand. Boromir, who had spent many an evening listening to complaints about Haldir’s cooking, laughed out loud, startling both Aragorn and Legolas.

“Something amuses you?“ Legolas asked, completely perplexed by the response to such a seemingly simple message, as was Aragorn.

“Let me just say that the quality of the good march warden's broth is infamous, and not because it is good!” Boromir replied diplomatically.

“The same can be said of Gimli’s notion of a palatable stew, ” Legolas told Boromir, a cloud passing over the amused glitter in his eyes as he recalled the reason why there had only been three hunters following the trail left by the Uruks who had taken Merry and Pippin.

Once they had finished their meal, Aragorn offered Boromir another sleeping potion. At first the, man was reluctant to accept, fearing his nightmares would return, but when Aragorn explained he would make it only a mild dose that would ease his weariness without causing dreams, Boromir gladly accepted. Within minutes he was asleep, and confident that the worst had passed, Aragorn took his pipe and tobacco pouch and, invited Legolas to join him outside on the balcony.

Legolas eyed the curling smoke coming from the pipe with his usual distaste for the habit, but rather than comment, he merely chose to sit on one of the overhanging branches, resting his back against the tree trunk. For a while there was only the sounds of leaves rustling above, and night creatures rustling below to break the silence between the two, until Aragorn decided to speak his mind.

“I think I know how to convince our stubborn friend that he should return to the White City,“ he said without preamble. Neither Elf nor Man was aware of Boromir’s change of heart, and had spent much of the journey to seek him out discussing how beat to achieve their desired goal.

“That is welcome news, indeed, and if I am not mistaken, your plan meets with Elros‘s approval,” Legolas replied, referring to the scene he had witnessed earlier. In all fairness, he had to admit that there was some validity to the arguments that his friend had offered for his decision, but he saw none compelling enough to cause him to remain in exile as Boromir intended. Nor did Aragorn.

“Aye, and I have my ancestors to thank for making me see the way.” Aragorn said, pausing to take another puff of his pipe and gather his thoughts. Legolas nodded his understanding as if a silent conversation had occurred between the two.

“I believe you have indeed chosen the correct path, my friend, “ the Elf agreed with an encouraging smile.

It was a mark of the depth of their friendship, of an understanding born of both adversity and joyous times spent together over the years that minds so different could think so alike. Not a word of explanation had needed to be spoken.

Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

Chapter 12

Noonday sunlight filtered through the canopy overhead, and cast dappled shadows on the ground below, except for where the occasional slender shaft found its path unobstructed by a gap in the leaves. One such beam streamed into the open window of the talan, bathing the face of the sleeping man with warmth that became uncomfortable when sweat began to form on his brow. The droplets of moisture that trickled down the sides of his face roused Boromir from his rest and as he slowly opened his eyes, he was forced to squint until he became accustomed to the glare.

Conscious of the dull ache in behind his eyes, Boromir slowly shook his head slightly to dislodge the annoying beads of sweat and was immediately thankful he had not attempted a more strenuous movement. His feeling of well being, thanks to a slumber undisturbed by either dream or nightmare, as Aragorn had promised, apparently did not extend to his weary body

Anxiety and uncertainty briefly flashed through Boromir's mind as he sat up a little and looked around intending to thank his friend for the sleeping draught only to unexpectedly find himself alone. Surely he had not merely imagined Aragorn’s presence, his healing touch, nor the sound of Legolas’s silvery laughter. Boromir breathed a heavy sigh of relief, the sight of the familiar bow and quiver lying next to the travel packs on the unmade, but definitely slept in bed over near the window were proof enough that his memories were real.

Now perspiring from the effort it cost him to move, as well as the noonday heat, Boromir reached for the damp facecloth he saw on the nightstand, groaning in agony when he stretched too far. Haldir, who had just entered the talan carrying a jar of freshly prepared salve and some clean bandages moved quickly to the bedside and took the cloth from Boromir's hand.

“Let me do that my friend, you should not be moving about so,” he scolded gently, indicating that Boromir should rest back against the pillows. Acknowledging the concern in Haldir’s voice, the man complied with the unspoken request and smiled reassuringly.

“ I admit I feel somewhat tired, and these arrow wounds ache a little, but no more so than any of my past battle injuries.”

“ I know of what you speak, but the pain is good sign that you are beginning to heal properly, so our healers tell me when I am in their care.”

“Do you mean to tell me the great march warden has not always left the battlefield unscathed?” Boromir asked as Haldir settled him onto the pillows, his affectionate smile indicated he was merely teasing. “I find that difficult to believe,” he added with the sincere admiration and respect he held for the skills of the warriors of the Golden Wood of whom he was certain Haldir was the best.

“Even the most skilful, most courageous, most honourable warrior, Man or Elf, can fall victim to the weapons, words or the will of a more powerful enemy.” The unspoken meaning was not lost on Boromir and he wondered how it was that Haldir came to have so much faith in him.

“Your words mean a great deal to me, as does your regard, but if truth were told all is not yet as it should be Haldir. A vague echo of the shadow lingers still, and, if this is, as I suspect it may well be, what Faramir is also feeling, I must go to him, help him through his own dark times. My brother needs me, and regardless of whether I am received by others with good or bad grace, had I not already decided to return home, I would have done so now. ” Haldir nodded and grasped Boromir’s hand in the manner of warriors, understanding and respect glittering in the ageless eyes that held the mortal’s glance.

“As you need him to help you,“ Haldir voiced the words Boromir had left unsaid.

“Aye.”

“You are an honourable man, and a loving brother, Boromir of Gondor. I am proud to call you friend.”

“And I am equally proud to call you the same, Haldir of Lothlorien. Speaking of friends, where is Aragorn?” Boromir asked as he settled back to allow Haldir to perform the task of changing his bandages.

“He and Legolas decided it was well past time they bathed. Orophin has taken them to the hot springs, and then I believe they intend to explore some of the ruins before the evening meal. Aragorn is understandably curious about his ancestors.”

“As well the King should be,” Boromir replied, sighing wistfully, his mind not on the remains of Amon Hen, the bathing pool. There was no mistaking the envy in his voice so Haldir up his hand to silence his friend before he could ask for what he would be denied.

“Aragorn says you are to wait until your wounds are properly healed before you may bathe, at least in the springs. However, if you feel well enough, Rumil has prepared the tub we made for you when you first came to us.”

For many weeks after he was rescued from the Falls Boromir had been barely able to sit, much less stand and since cleanliness was a necessity, Rumil and Orophin had devised a bathing tub of sorts. It was only a small round wooden tub, shallow enough to permit the Elves to easily lift the injured man in and out, but deep enough to allow some modesty. Boromir had at first been uncomfortable with the idea of needing assistance to undress and bathe, but his unease had quickly disappeared in the wake of the respect for his privacy he was afforded, not to mention his own physical weakness due to his injuries. The water barely covered his hips, but certainly offered more dignity than was to be had by being washed while lying in bed.

“An offer I shall not refuse,” Boromir replied, reaching for Haldir’s outstretched arm and using his friend’s’ elvish strength to gain his feet.

Clean, refreshed and thoroughly exhausted from his bathing but not ready to return to his sick bed, Boromir was pleased to find that Haldir was willing to allow him to sit outside on the balcony. Rumil had prepared a light meal that the three of them enjoyed as they relaxed in the cooling shade of the afternoon. Conversation flowed easily between the friends, but more than once Boromir was unable to stifle a yawn and when Rumil commented how pale his friend was looking, Haldir decided it was time for his patient to take some rest.

“I believe that would be wise, I must regain my strength so that I can join you all for the evening meal. I have missed doing so, ” a rapidly tiring Boromir commented.

“If you remain unwell Orophin and I will visit you later tonight,” Rumil promised. Taking Boromir‘s other arm, the two Elves escorted the man to his talan and helped him into bed.

Haldir was not surprised to see Boromir fall asleep as soon as he was settled. Satisfied that he was sleeping soundly, and was unlikely to be disturbed by dreams, the Elf decided to go for a short walk. Although he had not spoken of his thoughts to anyone, he was convinced that Aragorn’s timely arrival was more than just good fortune, and that Elros was in some way responsible.

“My aid was but part of the many forces at work to prevent an untimely death. Rest assured he will recover in time.”

Familiar with the many strange gifts some Elves posses, the lady Galadriel in particular Haldir accepted the assurance, and Elros’s presence without question. It seemed the issue of Boromir’s ill health was resolved, as would be his perceived uselessness as a soldier due to his physical limitations in the near future. Or at least it would be resolved as soon as he became was well enough to resume his rigorous training exercises. It would certainly take time and patience, but if he was nothing else, Boromir was proud and stubborn.

"Indeed he is, does he not remind you of someone else.” The ghostly voice came from behind, and Haldir turned to face the misty form of Elros .

“Aye, Elrond’s capacity for patience was matched only by yours for stubbornness as I recall.“ Haldir agreed, his mind travelling back to a time long ago when he had spent much of his time carrying messages between Beleriand and Doriath. On one such occasion the message he had delivered had been to confirm his appointment as sword master for the sons of Earendil. Although Haldir’s weapon of choice was the bow, he was equally adept with the sword, and that was what would be needed in the battles to come.

“He was certainly more willing to spend time perfecting those boring training moves, and to use the wooden practice swords until he had mastered them,” Elros agreed, the tone of his voice indicating his own dissatisfaction with Haldir’s training methods.

“Whereas you were not content to develop your skills in that manner, preferring to constantly challenge me to allow you to fight with swords that would draw blood. That is until you learned your lesson,” Haldir said, reminding his former student of the last time Elros had practiced with his brother. Both had been gifted with swords for their coming of age and against his better judgement, Haldir had agreed to allow a mock battle between the brothers so that they could gain a feel for the handling of their new weapons.

Unfortunately, word of the contest created much interest, and many wagers were laid on the outcome. When the prideful Elros learned that most of the experienced warriors considered Elrond to be by far the better swordsman, he was more determined than ever to win. Elrond confided in Haldir that he was concerned that no matter how careful he intended to be to avoid causing his brother injury, he had no doubt Elros would like as not do something reckless to keep from losing. Haldir had no doubts in that regard either, but despite his best efforts to prevent it, the contest went ahead.

For much of the time, the two were really evenly matched, but whereas Elrond’s moves were well thought out in advance, Elros simply seemed to strike out blindly, hoping to catch his opponent off guard. When Elrond drew the first blood, Elros was furious and fought back so fiercely that Elrond had no choice but to defend himself as well as he could. Elros managed to inflict a few small cuts, but the fight ended abruptly when Elrond saw the blood on his blade and Elros’s eyes widening as he looked down and saw the deep gash on his chest.

“Aye, not only was I stubborn, but too proud to admit that Elrond was far more skilled than I. I still have the scar to prove it, and the memory of Elrond‘s angry words ringing in my ears. Never before had I seen my brother so enraged and upset, and I will always regret the unpleasantness it caused between us for some time after. I also learned that Elrond can be a stubborn as I am when he chooses, his forgiveness was not easily earned, and I suspect he still he blames me for your refusal to teach us after that day,” he added ruefully.

“I saw that the lessons were at an end, no longer needed by two such skilled swordsmen. There is no blame on your part, and should I see him before he sails, I will tell Elrond so,” Haldir reassured Elros, watching with alarm as the ghostly figure began to coalesce into the evening mist that was just now rising from the forest floor.

“Thank you, my friend and farewell,” The distant voice could barely be heard as it faded into the night.

“Farewell, my Lord Elros,” Haldir whispered to nothing more than a memory, smiling to himself when he heard the faint echo of Elros‘s last words.

“ A word of advice, my friend. Do not allow Aragorn and Boromir to spar with real swords.... “

Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

A/N: If anyone is still reading this, thanks for your patience. So sorry for the long delay but RL has been difficult since I last posted. Anyway as I said before, I fully intend to finish this fic.

From the Shadows

Chapter 13/14

Boromir had been forced to admit he was too weak to join in the evening meal that night, but he was relieved to find his strength returned slowly over the next few days. Although he still tired easily from physical exertion he managed to participate in a few brief sparring sessions with Aragorn, none of which he could be considered to have won, but his competitive nature saw to it that he tried his best. This was a development that pleased Haldir for it meant his friend was beginning to feel more confident in himself, that his true nature was at last reassuring itself. It finally seemed as if the evil of the ring no longer held sway over the Man of Gondor.

Hot and sweaty from their most recent encounter, the Men had retired to the bathing pool, verbally sparring in a teasing manner that spoke of their deepening friendship. Catching Haldir’s attention as they made their way back to the talan, Boromir asked for a few words in private. He had decided it was now time to leave, and he wanted the Elf to be the first to know.

“Are you sure you are well enough to travel? ” Haldir asked, studying his companion closely. In his opinion the man was not well enough to travel, but he realised that since Boromir had broached the subject of his impending return to Minas Tirith this morning, his stubborn friend would unlikely be dissuaded from doing so.

Boromir looked at Haldir, offering an affectionate smile for the concern the Elf was showing.

“Aye, ‘tis time we both went home. I admit I am still feeling a little weak, but that quickly passes with a few moments’ rest. I am becoming increasingly worried about Faramir, and I need to see my city, to walk its streets, to hear the sound of the silver trumpets at dawn.” The man replied, as images of all that he missed filled his mind and tinged his voice with a sadness and a longing that Haldir understood only too well. “And you have been away from your home far too long. I can almost feel the Golden Wood calling to you and your brothers.” Boromir added, smiling at the bright gleam of happiness that he saw in the Elf’s eyes as he spoke of his home.

“Indeed I admit I yearn to walk beneath the ancient mellryn, to see my Lady once more before she sails,” Haldir spoke wistfully, unable to deny the truth of the words.

Rumil and Orophin insisted they accompany Boromir and his companions back to the boat that was to be their means of transport. Travelling by river would undoubtedly be easier on Boromir and hopefully by the time they reached Osgiliath, the injured man would be better able to sit a horse for the final part of the journey to Minas Tirith.

“I will never forget all you have done for me, my friends. ‘Thank you’ seems so inadequate. I will miss you all,“ Boromir said, accepting a farewell embrace from each of the brothers in turn. These were the words of a simple, yet heartfelt farewell and they both realised it.

“I shall miss you too, Son of Gondor. May the Valar watch over you,” Haldir whispered, his sentiment echoed softly by Orophin and Rumil who stood at his side as the three of them watched the elvish boat until it disappeared around a slight bend in the river.

***********************************************************

Twilight was rapidly fading into the dark of night and the evening mist was slowly rising from the surface of the river as Legolas expertly manoeuvred the boat to it’s mooring. Boromir could not help but suck in his breath as if he were in pain at the sight of the battle scarred buildings of Osgiliath that were illuminated by pale moonlight and starlight. It was a sight not unexpected since Faramir had warned him that neither of the cities they had fervently defended for so long had survived unscathed, but his heart was breaking at the thought of this kind destruction being wrought on his beloved Minas Tirith.

The glitter of unshed tears in Boromir’s eyes did not go unnoticed by either of his companions, ands he was brought out of his despair by the touch of a hand on his shoulder. He turned to lock eyes with Aragorn, silently accepted the offer of comfort.

“Repairs are well underway with the help of Gimli and his friends, if you trust such a task to a handful of Dwarves,” Legolas reassured him, offering his own kind of compassion. Boromir knew the slight against Gimli was spoken in jest and he could not help but allow a small smile to curl his lips in response.

“Faramir says the new gates are a work of art, so indeed I do trust our gruff friend,” Boromir replied, suddenly very eager to see both the work of the Dwarves and the smiling face of his brother.

Aragorn must have read the thoughts on his face for he gestured towards the tavern a short way up the street that had miraculously escaped any major damage. Although the windows were boarded up, there was a hint of candlelight flickering behind them, a sudden loud burst of laughter, the last thing Boromir expected to hear in this desolate place, indicated the tavern was open for business. Aragorn looked towards the raucous noise then glanced back at Legolas who nodded agreement at the unspoken question. Both were concerned for Boromir. His strength appeared to be fading rapidly and if his pale colour was any indication, he needed food and rest.

“I think we should find a room for the night so that we can make an early start in the morning,” Aragorn said, leading the way. There was no mistaking the King and his friend the Elf and within minutes a very honoured innkeeper met the needs of the King and his companions. All the while he was preparing their meal and pouring their drinks, the innkeeper was casting confused glances at Boromir. The Steward’s sons had both been well loved by the inhabitants of Osgiliath, and there had been much sorrow when they learned of the death of Boromir.

The Steward’s elder son had come to know many of the tavern owners over the years, and he had frequented this particular establishment many times, but he did not recognise this owner. A wave of sadness engulfed him as he realised many of the people he had known had been lost in the war. That knowledge was even more devastating than what had happened to his city. A remorseful Boromir silently berated himself for allowing the destruction of stone that could easily be rebuilt to be filling his thoughts when he should have been expressing his sorrow for the fallen, lives that could not be replaced.

If the innkeeper was confused by the resemblance of one of the King’s companions to the late Lord Boromir, the man who just entered the tavern had no such uncertainty. With a brief bow of acknowledgement for his King, he turned his attention to the man he knew so well.

“My Lord Boromir! Faramir told us he had seen you, that rumours of your death were unfounded. You have no idea how happy we were to hear that,” he exclaimed, a smile of intense happiness on his face as he dropped his bow and quiver on the table and he strode over to engulf the surprised Boromir in a strong embrace. A surprised whisper of “Lord Boromir has returned,” travelled among the patrons with the swiftness of the onset of a summer storm.

“Aye, Dareth! As you can plainly see, I have returned. I hear you are the new ranger Captain,” he said, returning the embrace with a welcoming smile for an old friend. Dareth had been Faramir’s second in command for many years, and had always had ambitions of becoming the Captain. Not that he would have ever challenged for the position, for he had too much respect for Faramir, and loved him like a brother. Still, he had always hoped that one day...

“Aye, and that means you owe me as many tankards of the finest ale as I can drink,” the ranger replied, taking a seat beside Boromir and indicating for the innkeeper to bring the ale.

“I take it there was some kind of wager on this outcome?” Legolas asked, his curiosity piqued. Gimli often used tankards of ale to settle wagers, although he had lost at least once Legolas recalled with a self-satisfied smirk. Aragorn read his thoughts and laughed at the private joke.

“Aye,” Dareth confirmed, patting his friend on the shoulder and winking conspiratorially at the man. “Boromir here never believed that his brother would relinquish his role as Captain, and naturally I thought otherwise. Hence the wager.”

“Nor would he have done so, under normal circumstances,” Boromir declared with certainty. Faramir had always only ever wanted to be a Ranger. Although he was an excellent soldier when called upon to take that role, the Steward’s youngest loved the freedom from the more military life afforded a ranger, he loved the forests of Ithilien, and he the ties to the Elves of ancient times that were part of their ancestry.

Denethor had barely tolerated Faramir’s lifestyle, but he could not deny that he provided a necessary service in the defence of the city. Besides, it was Boromir who was being groomed to be the next Steward. Briefly he wondered how his younger brother was handling the role that had been thrust upon him, and if Faramir was now the Steward, what was Boromir to be? He had not really contemplated his future other than returning home, but he realised that he would need to discuss tis with Aragorn and Faramir as soon as he was well enough to resume whatever role was now to be his.

“ Then no thanks to the Dark Lord, Faramir became the Steward, and I became Captain of the rangers.” Dareth nodded a sombre agreement. “So, shall we drink to my good fortune, and your return?” He asked, raising his first tankard into the air before downing it in one long gulp.

During the course of the evening, the number of patrons in the tavern increased markedly. As soon as word spread of Boromir’s return, many of those who had mourned the loss of their beloved Lord Boromir had naturally come to see for themselves that he was indeed alive and well.

Acquiescing to Legolas’s suggestion that he and Aragorn move to a quiet corner on their own since Boromir’s admirers seemed reluctant to approach him at the King’s table. Aragorn was pleased to see not only how well loved Boromir was, but also how much at ease he was becoming in the famiiar surroundings. All the while they were at Amon Hen, Boromir had rarely smiled, but as the night wore on he was laughing merrily whenever something humorous was said, and when several of his soldiers joined his table, he looked positively overjoyed. He even joined in the singing of somewhat bawdy drinking ballads, much to Aragorn’s amusement. Aside from when he was with Merry and Pippin during the quest, the opportunity to see the man so relaxed had rarely presented itself.

Nonetheless, Aragorn was still concerned about the man’s poor stamina, until Legolas pointed out that Dareth was still drinking only his second tankard of ale, and was closely watching that Boromir did not overindulge as well. When the ranger realised his friend was finally succumbing to fatigue, he nodded at Aragorn, and the King and the Elf helped their friend to the bed that had been prepared for him. Aragorn looked back to give Dareth a nod of thanks and smiled when the ranger donned his bow and quiver, and headed for the door mouthing a silent “Faramir?”

Aragorn had no doubt that when they finally arrived at the gates of Minas Tirith, every single person dwelling there would be lining the streets to welcome their dearest son home.

Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

From the Shadows

Chapter 14

While he waited for the messenger he had summoned, Faramir once more read the letter he had written to King Eomer informing him of the news regarding Boromir. Due to the strained relations between Denethor and Theoden, dealings between Minas Tirith and Rohan had normally been conducted in this manner, but there had been occasions when the paths of Boromir and Eomer had crossed. Over time the men had gained respect for each other and had formed a lasting friendship, just as the Steward had with his newly acquired brother in law. Faramir knew the young King was still mourning the loss of his uncle but he was certain that he would be pleased to hear Boromir lived, and even more pleased to pass the glad tidings on to Eowyn and Arwen who were currently visiting Edoras.

“Enter,” Faramir called out when he heard the knock on his study door. Without raising his eyes from the letter he was about to sign and seal, he silently gestured for the man to take a seat and wait.

“Is that any way to greet a dear friend and the Captain of your Rangers, no less?” Dareth teased as he walked over to the desk and casually glanced at the missive in his friend’s hand. “Edoras, I see,” he said indicating the message that Faramir was now placing in a leather pouch. Their eyes locked momentarily and no words of explanation of the content were needed.

“I thought you were my messenger,” Faramir explained as he stood and gave his friend an affectionate hug. Dareth returned the gesture then settled himself in Faramir’s chair and took a large sip from the goblet of wine of which the Steward had not yet partaken.

“Well, my Steward, I am not your messenger to Rohan, but I do bear some good tidings. Boromir is in Osgiliath.”

“Are you certain?” Faramir’s surprise quickly turned to relieved happiness and he could not help but smile.

“I will admit to distrusting my own eyes for a few moments, but once he acknowledged me, and our long-standing wager of course, there was no doubt our Lord Boromir had returned.”

“How is he feeling? I assume Aragorn and Legolas were with him? When are they coming to Minas Tirith? We must prepare a welcome!” The words were spoken rapidly but with such joy that had not been seen in his friend for a long time that it warmed the ranger’s heart to see it. As one of the few whom Faramir had turned to in his grief and knowing how close the brothers were, Dareth understood the man’s obvious excitement at Boromir’s imminent arrival.

“In answer to your questions, Boromir is still not entirely himself, and yes the King and Legolas are accompanying him home. I suspect the journey will take longer than usual so you have ample time to prepare a celebration... does anyone in the city know he is alive?” Dareth asked almost as an afterthought. He had not spent much time in Minas Tirith since the war, there were still followers of the Dark Lord to be found lurking in the countryside where the rangers patrolled.

“Who would have believed me had I told them? Will they believe me even now?” Faramir frowned and shook his head knowing the people would have simply thought such a revelation was nothing more than a grieving brother’s wishful thinking.

“Some will not, at least until he rides through the gates, but we rangers can be very persuasive when the need arises. I will have our friends spread the word, you have the servants prepare the feast,” Dareth said as he stood and placed a reassuring hand on Faramir's shoulder and was surprised to feel him shaking slightly. The ranger took a closer look at his friend who had not long since recovered from his own near death. The man was obviously tired and under much stress, judging by the dark circles under his eyes and the paleness of his complexion, but there was no denying the glimmer of happiness in his eyes.

“Boromir will likely prefer only the company of his friends but I trust you will see that they travel in safety from Osgiliath?” Faramir stated. Dareth nodded his understanding the implied ‘from a distance‘.

“Send Eomer your message, and then, my friend, try to get some sleep. No doubt you will find little time to do so once you have Boromir back here to annoy!”

“Someone must be fully awake to prevent you and he from indulging in any ridiculous wagers,“ Faramir replied, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. Both men laughed at the friendly jest. “But how shall the people welcome him? As the Steward he rightfully is by our father‘s death?” Faramir had barely given this matter any thought, but he realised that he was fully prepared to move aside to allow his brother to take whatever role he chose, if any.

“We will welcome him as we always have, as a favoured Son of Gondor, as Minas Tirith’s champion returned to us by a miracle beyond our understanding,“ Dareth replied, voicing the sincere admiration and respect he felt for Lord Boromir.

Still a great deal of doubt remained in Faramir’s mind and he wondered whether Boromir would even consider resuming his role as General, let alone Steward. But that could be decided later. All he really cared about at the moment was that his long lost and much beloved brother was coming home.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dareth had not been exaggerating when he told Faramir that Boromir would need to travel at a lesser pace than usual, for indeed the man found riding again after so long to be an exhausting and somewhat painful experience. Mindful of this friend’s discomfort, Aragorn called for numerous rest breaks as they made their way back to Minas Tirith. They hoped to arrive in the city before dusk, and despite the many stops, they were making good time.

Boromir easily recognised the path they were taking and he seemed to gain an inner strength the nearer they approached their destination. He also became more pensive. Aragorn signalled it was time to take another rest and not being overly fond of the habit, Legolas eyed hid friend with unconcealed disdain as Aragorn lit his pipe as soon as he had dismounted.

“We are being watched,” Aragorn said to Legolas, his voice so soft only an Elf could hear his words.

“Aye, but I do not sense danger. I will see who is out there. I will return shortly, ” Legolas answered, his eyes constantly casting furtive glances around the small wooded area where they had stopped. He had felt as if they were being watched ever since they had left Osgiliath but since nothing untoward had happened he had not mentioned it. Now that Aragorn felt the same uneasiness, he decided to investigate. His absence would also give the two men time to speak privately, something he sensed they needed to do.

“You are concerned with how you will be received?” Aragorn asked of Boromir once Legolas had disappeared from view. He handed the tired man the water skin as they settled beneath the shade of one of the larger trees.

“Aye, in part, although judging by my reception at the tavern, I think I have little to fear in that regard,” Boromir admitted. His lack of self confidence, his self loathing had temporarily blinded him to the high regard and respect his people felt for him and he had indeed felt welcomed and very much at home. Aragorn merely nodded his agreement and waited for Boromir to continue. “I am more concerned about Faramir.”

“How so? Do you think he will stand aside for you? Or do you fear he will not?” Aragorn asked, thinking of how the young Steward would feel knowing the true successor to his position was in the city. This was a matter for the brothers and he to discuss when they were together, but he was interested in hearing Boromir thoughts on the subject.

“The role of Steward is his; I will not claim it. As for my position as General, that is also not an option in my present condition, but it was not in regards to my position that I was referring.” Boromir explained, noting the concerned frown on Aragorn’s brow. Although he was improving rapidly, it would be some time before the man was physically fit enough to wield his sword and shield with the skill and strength that he had once possessed.

“You do not have to make that decision yet, but I assure you that you have a wealth of knowledge and experience that will be of invaluable assistance to me.“ Aragorn stated, masking his surprise and disappointment at Boromir’s reluctance to assume an authoritative role, albeit with good reason at present, he was forced to admit. “If this is not the issue, then what is bothering you?”

“Faramir is still plagued by nightmares. The shadow of the Dark Lord, the pain he caused lingers inside him still, he grieves for our father... he needs me and I need him because I feel all those things too.” Boromir looked away, his shame for his past actions still very much an open wound.

“Aye, but you can help each other heal.” Aragorn could not fault his reasoning.

TThey sat in silence for a while simply enjoying the soothing sounds of the breeze rustling in the leaves and Aragorn was not surprised to see Boromir’s chin resting on his chest as he fell asleep. He wondered if Legolas was talking to the trees as was his wont, but the smile that thought brought to his face quickly vanished when he realised his elvish friend was no longer content to live in the forests. The call of the sea had claimed him, and although he hid it well, the man knew the Elf also suffered a silent pain, certainly not dark like Boromir's but it was pain nevertheless. The Dark Lord had left his mark on all his friends in one manner or another, and even his and Arwen’s happiness was overshadowed by loss.

Aragorn sensed rather than heard Legolas return, and he held his pipe up to indicate he had finished smoking. The Elf came and sat at his side so they could speak quietly without waking Boromir.

“Are we being followed?” Aragorn asked.

“Aye, but by friend rather than foe. Dareth sent a few of his men to see we arrived safely. They have not approached out of respect for Boromir’s privacy. The ranger felt our friend would prefer to travel with as few guards as possible.” Legolas confirmed.

“Has Faramir been informed of our arrival?” Aragorn asked, already knowing the answer and pleased to feel his own ranger instincts were still in tact. Undoubtedly it was his Steward who had asked the rangers to see to both the safety of the King and his travelling companions.

“Aye, and all of Minas Tirith is aware of who draws near.” Legolas replied with a sparkle in his eye that spoke of a little mischief and perhaps a secret or two. His silvery laughter of happiness warmed Aragorn’s heart and banished his dark thoughts, at least for a time.

“And you know this how?”

“Do you see that rise over there?” Aragorn nodded as he looked to where Legolas pointed. “Not only do my Elf eyes tell me we are close to the city, but also they can see the people bearing flowers and banners and gaily-coloured streamers gathered outside the gate waiting for the Lord Boromir. There are many market stalls and such, and much singing and dancing. I also see men on horses, riding this way, with your Steward in the lead.” Legolas explained, his eyes alight with joy for his friend.

“I would expect nothing less from his beloved city, he deserves nothing less,” Aragorn replied, equally as pleased at the obviously very welcoming reception that awaited Boromir.

Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

A/N: With many apologies for the delay.

From the Shadows

Chapter 15

A tendency towards understatement was a common trait among Elves that both Aragorn and Bormir had become accustomed to after living amongst them for some time. However, what had initially been a source of irritation, especially on Haldir’s part as far as Boromir was concerned, had now become a source of amusement for both he and Aragorn. Neither could contain their laughter at the looks of astonishment on the faces of the others as they topped the rise and reined their horses to a halt.

Faramir and Dareth turned as one to face the Elf when they saw the scene before them. Legolas had described it in far too inadequate detail to suit either one.

True there were many market stalls, but perhaps ‘very many’ would have been a better description and the myriad of colourful banners and welcoming crowds also numbered far more that the Elf’s words had indicated. To Faramir’s eyes it appeared likely that every inhabitant of Minas Tirith, as well as those from the outlying farmlands and villages were at the gates awaiting Boromir‘s return.

“Do my eyes deceive me or have many more people arrived in the last few minutes,” Dareth queried drily.

“Boromir is obviously well loved by all.” Legolas commented, choosing to ignore the hint of sarcasm in the man’s voice.

“Indeed he is and he was sorely missed,” agreed Faramir's moved close enough to his brother to place a hand on his shoulder. Boromir acknowledged his little brother’s unspoken pain with a comforting smile.

“Then perhaps we should delay no longer to join the celebration,“ Aragorn suggested. With a gesture of his hand he indicated that Boromir should take the lead.

“Nay, ‘tis your place as King.” As eager as he was eager to return to his city, it was the manner of his return Boromir found uncomfortable and he certainly felt he had no right to take the place of honour.

Every other time Boromir returned he had been hailed as the victorious general bringing home his warriors after another battle won. He would have not hesitated to ride proudly through the gates, head held high as he acknowledged the accolades of his people. This time such was not the case, he was no longer the General, the conquering hero. He was simply a man who could barely hold his shield, or wield his sword in his own defence. A man who, Like his father, had been seduced by the power of the Dark Lord and betrayed the trust of those he called friend. He was proud of nothing that had transpired since he journeyed to Rivendell, except the knowledge that all he had lost of himself had not been in vain. Although battle scarred, Minas Tirith still stood and his people were free from the darkness that had so long threatened to destroy them.

“You are wrong my friend, 'tis yours. Look around you, do you not see the smiles and tears of joy on the faces of the folk gathered here? Can you not hear them calling your name, wishing you well?” Aragorn asked, his words almost drowned out by the tumultuous sound of voices welcoming home their lost son. Someone in the crowd had spotted the group of riders and the news had spread like wildfire. Banners were waved wildly as the people began a chant of “Boromir! Boromir!“

Shaking his head as if in disbelief at the truth he could not deny, the slightly overwhelmed Lord of Gondor glanced at his brother who offered an encouraging smile. A smile that turned into a burst of laughter when Dareth, seeing his friend’s hesitation, took matters into his own hand and slapped Boromir’s mount firmly on the rump. The action startled Aragorn and Legolas almost as much as it did Boromir, however it achieved the desired result and the Lord of Gondor lead them towards his city, his home.

Making his way through the welcoming crowd had taken far longer than Boromir ever recalled it having done so in the past. Stopping as he did time and again to speak with friends, acquaintances and sadly offer his sincere condolences to the widows and children of so many of his soldiers who had bravely given their lives in the battle to save the city had been the cause of the delay. One he had neither the heart nor the desire to forgo. As he passed through each gate he felt a little more of his energy draining away, the pallor in his face and the sweat on his brow not going unnoticed by his companions. He barely managed to remain in the saddle as they rode into the courtyard, and had it not been for the support of Faramir on one side and Dareth on the other, he was certain he would have fallen when he tried to dismount.

Aragorn noticed his friend’s distress and insisted he immediately retire to his chambers to rest. Although he realised the wisdom of doing just that, Boromir found himself drawn to stand before the white tree. His hands were shaking badly from exhaustion, yet he nonetheless found the strength to bow reverently to the symbol of the King as he reached out to lightly caress the new bloom. For a moment his fingers could not seem to reach, and the image of a sinister shadow that was cold and black sent a shiver of fear down his spine. Trying more desperately, he managed to caress one of the soft petals and the images that now filled his mind changed to the misty faces of unknown kings, the ruins at Amon Hen.

“You are safe, you are home, son of Gondor,” a voice he recognised as that of Elros whispered reassuringly in his ear. It was the last voice he heard before he collapsed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Boromir struggled slowly to consciousness, awoken not by the sunlight that was streaming in the window, but by a sound he never thought he would hear again. The sweet sound of the silver trumpets calling him home. ‘Was he home?’ wondered his clouded mind as he listened as the trumpets called him once again. He slowly ran his hands over the bed covering that smelt and felt exactly as he remembered, and he reached over to where his night table should be. He was relieved to find it was there, so he must be in his own chambers, unless he was still back in Haldir’s talan and simply dreaming of home. He could look to make certain but preferred for now to keep his eyes closed, afraid to open them and be disappointed.

“Good morning, Boromir. Are you feeling better?” That was definitely Faramir speaking and it was also definitely his brother’s hand that gently touched his brow. A very relieved Boromir opened his eyes, squinting a little before he was able to focus clearly.

“I feel quite well rested,” Boromir replied, realising that he did in fact seem fully recovered. “Thanks to one of Aragorn’s potions, no doubt.“ He surmised, judging by the rather unpleasant taste lingering on his tongue.

“I am afraid so, but if you are well enough I have brought you something to eat,” Faramir replied indicating the tray he had placed on the night table.

“Just some hot tea for now.” Faramir helped his brother to a comfortable sitting position and handed him a mug of herbal tea.

Boromir sipped the hot liquid as he looked around his chambers. He was a little surprised but very pleased to find that everything was exactly as he remembered.

“I never felt you were really gone, so I ordered your chambers be kept as they were,” Faramir explained, instinctively answering the unspoken question in Boromir’s eyes. “I missed you Boromir. I am so glad you came back to us.”

“I missed you too, little brother. I am very glad to be home,” Boromir replied, drawing Faramir into his arms. No words were spoken, nor needed for the next few moments as the two brothers simply held each other.

“So will you have the strength to attend a welcome home banquet tonight? ?” Faramir asked as he pulled away allowing Boromir to get out of bed and begin dressing. If the banquet was anything like the far too elaborate, not to mention tedious affairs he had endured in the past, Boromir decided he was not really interested in attending.

“I think not, but I would not refuse a dinner with any of my soldiers who still remain.”

“Are you sure?” Faramir asked, concerned that such company would only serve to remind his brother of the skills he could no longer boast of possessing. Boromir guessed his thoughts and smiled sadly.

“I may no longer be a capable soldier.... or their General,”

“Do not say that, you...” Faramir interrupted, his next words silenced by Boromir’s stern gaze.

“It is the truth, at least for now.” Faramir accepted that with a nod but was secretly pleased to hear the unspoken hint that perhaps his brother might be able to regain some of his skills. “As I was saying, those under my command served me well and they are good honest men. I prefer their company to many of those who are likely to be seeking favour in Aragorn’s court. I will leave such functions and those who attend them to the King and his Steward,” he said. Faramir looked up sharply at the bitter sounding words but smiled his relief when he caught no hint of envy, but only a glimmer of mischief in his brother's eyes.

“I will go and see to the arrangements at once. I almost forgot to mention that Aragorn wishes to speak with you. He was at your bedside most of the night so perhaps you should wait until he takes some rest,” Faramir said as he took his leave.

Boromir nodded and walked over to the window. He was not surprised that Aragorn had taken the role of healer, or that he had watched over him as he had done several nights at Amon Hen. What had surprised him was the two men who had been at odds from the day they met had now become close friends. In part that was surely due to the common goal that had brought the Fellowship together in the first place, but it was also a mark of the trust and respect they each had earned as they journeyed towards the final battle.
Aragorn had shied away from taking his rightful place as King, a decision Boromir had found very hard to accept or understand. So it was that Boromir had felt closer to Legolas and later Haldir because just as he would have died defending Minas Tirith, so would they have done to defend their homes. A far greater sacrifice in some ways for an immortal being, than a Man Bormir now understood, but the loyalty and devotion to their homes and their leaders was the same for both races. And they certainly had a common enemy in both the dark lord and the one ring.

The evil that had resided in Mordor was gone now and as he looked out the window towards that dark land he was relieved to see that the skies were once more clear and bright. No dense grey clouds lingered over the land but there was still one in Boromir’s heart. Denethor. For all his faults Boromir had, as had Faramir, loved his father and after his own experience with the power of the one ring, Boromir could not bring himself to totally condemn his father for his actions. The good in him had been forced into silence by the ring, his mind was no longer thinking clearly and he believed he would have killed Frodo in his efforts to take it from him. So it must have been with Denethor.

There was nothing that could be done to change anything that had happened, but Boromir knew there was one last duty he had to perform. A not so simple act of forgiveness, and a last goodbye.

It was with a heavy heart that he made his way to his father’s resting place.

Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

From the Shadows

Chapter 16

With a heart heavy with sadness at the loss of his father, and footsteps to match, Boromir made his solitary way to the House of the Dead. It was a path he had never travelled alone before and he wondered if perhaps he should have asked Faramir to accompany him, just as he had done so often in the past whenever the Steward had given his sons leave to pay their respects to their late grandfather. The cold, dank atmosphere and the eerie silence of the tombs had seemed very frightening to them both as boys and they had rarely spent more than a few moments paying homage to Ecthelion. However, as the years passed the significance of the last resting place of their ancestors as well as the last of the line of Kings became apparent to the men, especially Boromir for whom this place held both his past as well as his future. The elder son of the Steward had always felt humbled that he was being groomed to continue in the role that had such a proud and honourable history. He loved his city and his country and had spent his life aspiring to be counted amongst those who had kept the hope of Men alive in Gondor and Minas Tirith.

At first, Denethor had been such a man, Boromir reflected as he knelt beside the resting-place of his father, running his fingers gently over the roughly hewn image of a face he knew so well. There was no denying the subtle, yet evil skill with which Sauron had taken control of first his father with the palantir and later himself with the One Ring. Playing upon each Man’s fears and weaknesses had left them both defenceless, as Bormir had come to understand.

“Please forgive me, Father. We had always been close, I should have seen how you had changed, should have known you were not yourself long ago, ” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. The stone face was cold to the touch, but Boromir hoped that the love he felt for his father perhaps warmed it a little, that the silent tears he now shed would let Denethor know of his sorrow.

Boromir had many a sleepless night once he had learned of the treachery that had turned his father to eventual madness after Faramir’s first visit to Amon Hen. He was tormented by thoughts of what might have been. Had he remained in Gondor, perhaps he would have been able to save Denethor, or at the very least, keep his father from the being further influenced by the Seeing Stone, or even to keep him from trying to harm Faramir. When he had spoken of this with Haldir, the Elf had merely shaken his head and sadly explained that Sauron had likely been slowly using the palantir over many decades to enslave Denethor. Neither the healing hands of the King, nor the formidable powers of the Lady Galadriel would have had been able such break the hold of the palantir. Certainly such a feat would have been beyond any means possessed by Boromir.

When the King had come to Amon Hen he had related the events surrounding Pippin‘s fateful handling of the palantir and how difficult it had been for Gandalf to draw such an innocent mind back from the pull of darkness. Even the Istar would have found it impossible to save a more world wise, strong willed and stubborn mind, one swayed by the more baser instincts of power and greed, no matter the motive. Knowing that tendrils of the evil power still danced on the edge of his mind at times, Boromir knew there was nothing but truth in the words that only served to confirm what Haldir had spoken. Ever so slowly, with the aid of at first Haldir, and then Aragorn, he had begun to realise that on the journey with the Fellowship, he had been given no choice but to walk the path that had been ruthlessly chosen for him. A path not unlike Denethor’s and one with the same fate awaiting at the end... madness, death, the destruction of Minas Tirith and the ruin of Men.

“Our duty was to protect our people, as I am certain you intended to, at least at first. Our victories were becoming few, our losses many and the shadow in the east was moving ever towards the city. Gondor was in a dire position, our hope was finally fading and you had come to believe that the time of Men was over. Once I found myself in the presence of the One Ring I understand all too well how hard it must have been for you to resist the temptation to accept the power offered by the Dark Lord. False hope though it was, I did not see it as such at the time. I lost myself to the evil, but thanks to two remarkable Hobbits, my actions came to naught. For so long after I awoke in Amon Hen, I held the belief that Death would have been a fitting reward for my betrayal, as I am certain you would have believed yours to be. Apparently the Lady Galadriel thought otherwise, and perhaps we both should bow to her wisdom in this matter and realise that neither of us should have been punished for actions over which we had no control.”

“Nor do I, although I see how very much alike you and he were,” a soft voice said from the partly opened doorway. He had seen where Boromir was headed and did not want his brother to suffer his grief on his own. “I find myself wishing for a chance to tell him that I understand, that I love him, that you did not die,” Faramir whispered unable to hold back a tear as he moved silently to kneel beside his brother.

“For all his harsh words and even harsher attitude towards you, little brother, I know that he loved you as much as he loved me. He always held us both in his heart.” Boromir said as he placed ac comforting arm around Faramir’s shoulders. The devoted son in Bormir wished he had been able to say goodbye to his father, but the part of him that had been a committed soldier, and still was, he was surprised to feel, accepted the reality that in battle, death was often a solitary end.

“I know. I saw it in his eyes at the end. I knew it as a boy, when he would come to my room with a tray of supper after he had sent me from the table as punishment and he would stay and tell me tales of long ago.” Faramir was trying his best to ease the sombre mood.

“Well, even then you were fond of books and such,” Boromir said ruffling his brother’s hair with fondness.

“Much to Father’s disdain.” Faramir agreed, sharing a fleeting smile with his brother. “ And do you recall what he did after I announced I had decided to join the Rangers?“

“He made a public display of berating you for ‘deserting’ your rightful place at my side in the army,” Boromir replied. It had been a humiliating experience for Faramir, and one that had gradually become more common in the later years.

“Aye, but later that night I found my old bow had been replaced with another of the finest quality I have ever seen or used. I think it may have even been crafted by the Elves.” Faramir had been overwhelmed and grateful to realise that by his gesture, if not his words, his father did not totally disapprove. Nonetheless he had insisted Boromir ‘pinch’ him to make sure he was not dreaming.

“I am not certain, but I believe Gandalf may have had a hand in obtaining the bow, as I recall.” Boromir reminisced. “Father may never have spoken the words, especially in recent times, and but I am sure he was proud of you.” Boromir still felt his brother’s hurt when Denethor had refused to acknowledge his younger son’s part in the retaking of Osgiliath. Knowing that his father was not himself, only made it a little easier to bear now.

“I know.” Faramir acknowledged as he reached out to trace the image of his father's face as Bormir had done earlier. It was a gesture of both love and forgiveness that needed no words to be understood. Both became lost in their own thoughts for a while until, by silent agreement, the brothers stood and after bowing respectfully to their ancestors, they left them to rest in peace.

As they made their way into the courtyard someone called their names.

“Boromir!Faramir!” Recognising Aragorn’s voice both men turned in the direction from which the shout had come. The King was walking rapidly towards them waving a parchment.

“Good news, my King?” Faramir asked before he read the missive that was handed to him.

“Aye, it seems that King Eomer and Prince Imrahil, who are accompanying our ladies, are but a day’s travel from home,” he replied, his eyes alight with a look Boromir had never seen before. Faramir’s looked much the same and Boromir concluded it must be due to the love they each felt for their respective wives.

“Eowyn is eager to see you again,” Faramir told his brother as he read the note addressed to him.
As part of his duties, Boromir had travelled to Rohan on many occasions and had become friends with Eomer and Eowyn as well as the late King Theoden and his son, Theodred.

“And I am anxious to reacquaint myself with my sister in law,” Boromir replied with genuine affection for the young woman who had stolen his brother's heart. “And that of my Queen,” he added turning his attention to Aragorn.

“Perhaps that will change when they arrive. I believe the ladies are planning a welcome home banquet, one such has never before been seen in Gondor,” Aragorn added with a glint of mischief in his eye. “So far you have resisted any attempt at such a celebration, my Lord Boromir, even though you deserve such a tribute, so be warned ... Arwen will not be denied in this matter.”

Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

From the Shadows

A/N: Finally, the last chapter. All I can do is apologize for the delay and hope you enjoy the tale.

Chapter 17

Though he had been reluctant to allow a banquet to be held in his honour, Boromir had found it impossible to deny Arwen and Eowyn and had graciously acquiesced to their entreaties. He found himself feeling very pleased he had done so for it was indeed a grand event, with an excellent repast, fine wine and the attendance of as many of his friends, acquaintances and well wishers as the banquet hall could accommodate. It had been far too long since he had seen his people so happy and carefree, Boromir reflected as he cast his eye around the room, far too long since anyone in Minas Tirith had any cause to celebrate. The sounds of music and laughter were also more than welcome, a sure sign that the darkness of years gone by had finally been banished and that peace reigned once more.

Boromir  raised his goblet in a silent toast to all those who had been lost, unable to hide a momentary flicker of sadness in his eyes as he did so as his thoughts drifted to Haldir and his brothers. The war had taken a toll not only on Men, but also the Elves who were leaving Middle Earth, never to return. He knew that their realms would slowly fade into nothing more than a myth in time to come and he felt a stab of remorse to think that he would likely never have the chance to see the Golden Wood, nor to bid his friends a proper farewell.

“Why so melancholy, dear Boromir?”  Arwen, who was sitting next to him,   whispered discreetly into his ear, having noticed the somber mood of the guest of honour. She nodded knowingly as Boromir voiced his thoughts.

“Rest assured all who sail will find peace and happiness in Valinor,” Arwen told him with a sad, yet understanding smile of her own. She would sorely miss her kinfolk, especially Elrond, but a mortal life with her beloved Aragorn was the only choice her heart would allow. “Besides, they have not yet travelled the Havens, nor will they in the very near future. I am sure you will see Haldir once more.” Arwen spoke with a quiet conviction that allowed Boromir to believe that what she said was true.  Although at present he was not well enough to make such a long journey, he was suddenly determined to do so as soon as possible.

“Thank you, my Queen,” he replied, feeling much lighter of heart.  They sat in silence for a few moments, until Boromir realized that Aragorn was nowhere to be seen and Arwen was looking longingly at the couples making the most of the lively dance music that could be heard even above the chatter and laughter of the merry makers.

“Faramir and Eowyn make a lovely couple. I am so pleased to see that they have both recovered from their ordeals so well” Arwen commented as the two danced by, blissfully unaware of anyone but each other.

“Aye, and I have never seen him so happy, nor so in love,” Boromir replied, a single tear of joy indicating his own relief that his brother was healing tracing a path down his cheek.   A soft, compassionate brush of lips wiped it away, momentarily startling him, but he quickly regained his composure. Turning to his companion, he stood and held out his hand. “Since it appears the King is neglecting his duties, would you honour me with a dance?”

After barely one turn around the floor, it soon became obvious that slightly raised eyebrows, fluttering eyelashes and shy smiles were all silent requests from other willing dance partners. Boromir honoured as many as possible, and was pleased to do so, but found himself tiring rapidly and he was relieved when the musicians decided to take a well earned rest. Feeling the need for some fresh air, he made his way to the doors that lead to one of the private gardens. Settling on a stone bench that was out of sight of those in the banquet hall, he closed his eyes the better to feel the cool, refreshing breeze on his face, and to relish peace the silence of the night offered.  He allowed himself a small groan of disappointment when the sound of voices nearby interrupted the calm that had barely begun to descend.

 As he peered into the darkness his eyes became accustomed to the lack of light and he was able make out the shape of two people, one seated, and one lying on his back on the grass some distance away. Not wishing to intrude on what was probably a private conversation, he stood intending to leave, but before he had taken a step back towards the open doors, Aragorn called for him to join them. As he sat down next to Aragorn, Boromir was not surprised to see that the prone form belonged to Legolas. The Elf lay on his back with his hands behind his head was gazing up at the stars, in a manner that reminded the Man very much of Haldir.

“It is very peaceful out here, and the stars are especially beautiful tonight,” Legolas commented, his eyes remaining fixed on the night sky until he heard Aragorn reach for his pipe. Ignoring the feigned look of disgust and the whispered, “dirty habit” the first swirl of smoke earned him from the Elf, the King shared a conspiratorial smile with Boromir. During the journey of the fellowship, both Men had become well aware of Legolas’ distaste for smoking. Boromir smiled as he recalled the many insults the Elf and Dwarf had traded on the subject. No one was more surprised than Boromir when the gruff voice of Gimli, who had just been in his thoughts, called to them from nearby.

“So there you three are. You have the right idea, Aragorn,” the Dwarf stated taking out his own pipe as he joined the small group. “Now, what were we talking about?” He asked in his usual abrupt manner.

“If you must  know, Aragorn and I were discussing my plans to settle in Ithilien,” Legolas responded, fully aware that Gimli would see that there was no malice intended in the slight sarcasm that was  just a part of their usual bantering.

“Legolas tells me that you and he are going to journey back north to your homelands together,” Aragorn told the Dwarf.

“Aye, and then perhaps we will travel to see more of Middle Earth before I return to the Glittering Caves, and my friend to his forest full of trees,” Gimli added, trying to sound disinterested in anything to do with Ithilien, when in fact, he fully supported his friend’s plans to restore the forests with the help of his Woodland kinfolk.

“Aye, I think we will travel to Dol Amroth as well. I wish to learn more of Prince Imrahil, and perhaps some of the skills needed to one day build a ship,” Legolas added with a wistful note in his voice that reminded the others that the Elf had heard the call of the sea and would one day sail for Valinor.

“And what of you, Boromir? Have you any decided to take your rightful place as Steward?” Gimli asked in a forthright manner that neither Aragorn nor Legolas would have employed out of consideration for Boromir’s feelings. Fortunately Boromir did not seem offended by the Dwarf’s directness.

“No, as I have already told Aragorn, Faramir is the Steward of Gondor, and so he shall remain.”

“Then what will you do? Take command of the army?” Gimli persisted.

“No, I believe I will be content to remain as an advisor to both the new General and to Faramir, and to see my city recover and thrive under their charge,” Boromir replied, sounding as if he was trying hard to convince himself that this was the right decision. It was at least in part. He truly had no desire to take the Stewardship from Faramir, but to be forced to admit he was no longer capable of taking back his place as General was another matter. The road ahead would be difficult, and perhaps he would make a full recovery, but he would simply have to accept that Minis Tirith needed a strong, fully capable general now. There were still many small battles to be fought with the remnants of Sauron’s army. If he had learned nothing else from his encounter with the One Ring, it was that his city, his people always had, and always would, come first.

“And whilst I am certain that your advice would be welcome, I have a better solution.” Aragorn said.”I intend to travel back north as well, to rebuild the once great city of Annuminas, the seat of the King of Arnor.”

“Aye, as the King of Gondor and Arnor, that would indeed be a wise move,” Legolas agreed. “It was once a beautiful city, and the Dunedain deserve to have their King reside there at least some f the time.”

“I believe that,” Aragorn confirmed. “What think you, Boromir? Would you travel north with me, be my Steward in Arnor?” For a few moments Boromir was too stunned to speak and when he did, his words took Aragorn by surprise.

“What of the Shire, is it not part of Arnor?” he asked, the pain in his eyes letting the others know he was clearly thinking of the Hobbits and Frodo in particular.  Aragorn knew that Boromir had to make his peace with the Ring Bearer, and in time perhaps he would, but for now he was afraid Boromir would refuse the offer to be Steward of the kingdom in the north. All he could do was pledge his assurance that the Shire would remain free from harm.

“It is my decree that no Man, ourselves included, will be permitted to enter the Shire. It will be protected by the King of Gondor and Arnor for all-time.”

“Aye, ‘tis fitting that it be so,” Boromir stated. Aragorn allowed himself a smile of satisfaction at Boromir’s response, and that of Legolas and Gimli who both nodded silent agreement.

“So you will be my Steward?” Aragorn asked.

“It will be my honour, my King.”

Epilogue:

Boromir stepped from the elegant elvish boat Haldir had gifted him when he finally journeyed to the Golden Wood to see his friend for what would be the last time. Very slowly he made his way back to the ruins of Amon Hen, stopping briefly at the place he had tried to take the Ring, offering a silent plea for forgiveness to Frodo for the pain he had inflicted on the undeserving Hobbit. He moved on to where his life had been taken, or so it seemed. There was nothing there but a dark memory of his own pain and he quickly moved on to the ruins. 

 He felt no fear of the ghosts of the past, indeed he was listening intently for the voices of those who had come before, wanting nothing more than to let them know that he was proud to be a descendant of the Stewards, proud to be able to serve his King. As he stood among the remains of stone figures with their cold eyes never closing, ever watching over their realm, a feeling of calm and peace enveloped him.  It warmed him from within, finally driving the last of the darkness from deep in the back of his mind and from the shadows he thought he caught a glimpse of Elros smiling.