Faramir felt a sharp sting as the sword slashed through his shirt and bit into the skin of his shoulder. He heard cheers from the spectators as he stumbled back a few paces, clutching his own sword with white knuckles.

Determination burned in his grey eyes as he stared at his brother. Their fights were always well matched and although the outcome remained constant, many of the Steward's household enjoyed watching.

Faramir could have dealt with hundreds of spectators, but it was only one pair of eyes that really affected him. Denethor watched with quiet satisfaction and it was this surety in Boromir's victory that made Faramir's desperation to prove himself so strong.

It was the same in everything he did. Boromir was stronger, broader, more skilled in battle and according to their father, more loyal to his duty than Faramir could ever hope to be.

Faramir brushed a strand of dark hair from his wet face and lunged forwards, his light sword slipping under Boromir's defence, which was slowed by the knowledge that Faramir had never yet beaten him.

Boromir took a step backwards just in time to avoid being hit and suddenly he was off balance. He tried to keep his feet but a downward attack from Faramir forced him to lift his sword to defend himself. The force of Faramir's blow, fuelled by the chance of seeing his brother off balance, knocked Boromir to the ground.

A quick smile of triumph graced Faramir's lips as he realised how close he was to victory. Suddenly, Boromir's thick sword lunged at his sword arm and he pulled away just in time to avoid loosing a finger. Unfortunately, the surprise of the attack had loosened his grip and with a heavy swing at Faramir's blade, Boromir knocked it his grasp.

Faramir, now unarmed, backed up quickly and suddenly felt himself falling. A well-placed kick to the back of his ankle had swept his feet from under him and Boromir was over him in a second, the point of his sword against Faramir's neck.

Faramir heard laughing and he tore his eyes from his brother's and looked over at the crowd.

"I thought he might have won for a moment," one voice said.

"So did he!" another laughed loudly making Faramir's face burn with shame. His eyes shifted to those of his father and he felt the old man's piercing gaze upon him.

"You must give him points for determination," a man on Denethor's left said in a voice Faramir could just overhear. "Most youths would have given up long ago."

Denethor smiled slightly, the smile not reaching his eyes. His gaze bore into Faramir's and he wondered whether his father had known he could hear what was said next, or perhaps wanted him to.

"He will never defeat Boromir in battle, he has neither the skill nor the will to win."

Faramir felt tears fill his eyes and pushing his brother's sword away from his face, he fled the hall before they could fall. His face was red with shame and disappointment and his shoulder stung where it had been cut.

He burst into his room and flung himself on the bed, burying his face in his pillow. There was no one he could talk to, no one who would listen and console him. Why DID he try? Why didn't he just give up and let things be as they were.

Faramir heard a slight noise from the direction of the door but being sure it was his father coming to reprimand him for being childish and weak, he stayed where he was. He had never displayed his disappointment in public before, keeping it all held inside. He was known for his calm disposition and he felt as though he had betrayed himself with the momentary loss of control. It was his hopes that had made him react so, the chance of defeating his brother in battle, showing Denethor he was worthy of his love.

In a few moments he felt a weight descend onto the side of the bed and memories flooded to him. In his mind, his mother reached out and took his face in her cool hands. She told him everything was going to be fine, that his father loved him despite his words. And best of all, he would believe her.

Faramir felt a hand on his shoulder and he raised his hot face from his pillow, reluctant to let go of the dreams where his mother was still living and walking in the world.

Boromir's concerned face looked down at him, still flushed from the fight. He was sitting on the side of the bed, his grey eyes showing all the apology Faramir had grown to expect. He knew his brother regretted making him fall in the eyes of their father but he also enjoyed the praise and attention he received from being the favored child. There was nothing Boromir would ever do to change this, the admiration of Denethor meant too much to him. But Boromir did his best to make up for it and show his younger brother that the distinction so noticeably applied by their father meant nothing to him.

"I suggest an adventure," Boromir said, not at all referring to the past events, "What do you think about exploring the caves we saw at the base of Mindolluin, when we went to meet with the Embassy from Rohan?"

The suggestion surprised Faramir for he did not think Boromir would risk such an obvious trigger to anger from their father. He remembered the time Boromir had convinced their father to let his younger son accompany them on a conference between the two Kingdoms. Boromir was bound to attend by his position, as Denethor rarely left the city, but their father frowned upon Faramir joining the party. Boromir had convinced Denethor, Faramir knew not how, and they had sighted an opening in the rock some miles after passing out of the Pelennor Fields through the north gate in the Rammas.

"Just you and I," Boromir went on, undaunted by Faramir's doubtful looks.

"But Boromir, you are not allowed to leave the city without the palace guard. There are said to be Orcs roaming the plains."

Boromir smiled, "Just a story to make us too scared to go exploring. What do you say?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In less than fifteen minutes, Boromir had dragged Faramir up to the sixth level of Minas Tirith and he found himself standing self-consciously outside the stables with his hood up and grey cloak wrapped around him, listening in disbelief while Boromir bullied the young stable boy into giving them some horses. Threatened with being brought before Denethor if he refused, the boy relented and Boromir emerged a moment later with a broad smile and two strong horses.

Boromir handed the reins of the white one to his brother and jumped upon his own with the practiced ease of one who had been riding since infancy. His horse was black as night and its shining main glistened in the late afternoon sunlight.

"Race you to the gate!" Boromir shouted as he dug his heels into the horse's sides and thundered down the street. Faramir spared a quick grin before racing off after his brother.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The horses' hooves kicked up rich smelling dust from the plains as they galloped towards what they thought had been a small raised network of caves in the side of Mindolluin. It was north of the city, some leagues after they passed through the gate in Rammas Echor.

In the orange light, the dark and twisted passages held a promise of an exciting exploration and Faramir's heart leapt at the thought that they were free.

Being cooped up the city of stone gave Faramir some of the feelings it had occasioned to his mother. Although he without doubt loved the White City as a home, a place he could always return to, and as a symbol of who he was, he needed to have enough freedom to be able to roam the outdoors, exploring and learning.

His mother, Finduilas, had fallen into depression when Denethor took over the full duties of being the steward of Gondor. Faramir had always thought since that even without the companionship of her husband, she would have been happier if she had been able to leave the city and see nature again. She had died when he was only five years old.

Back then, Orcs had been said to be seen roaming the lands outside the city and as many of the creatures Denethor's army destroyed, the more appeared. This had prevented Finduilas from having the freedom she needed so desperately, and now it seemed to be happening all over again. The same problem was haunting her son.

Faramir hoped, rather than believed in Boromir's skepticism of the recent Orc sightings but as they grew nearer to the circle of caves, he began to grow uneasy. There was a change in the air, although Boromir told him he was imagining it. He could smell something other than the crisp evening breeze.

They neared the caves as the orange sun slipped below the horizon and the silhouettes of the rocks and shapes on the landscape became all the more threatening.

"Boromir, is it not time we turned back?" Faramir said quietly as the steadied their horses, the noises they made becoming uncomfortable in the silence of the evening.

"You're not afraid are you?" Boromir teased.

"You should ask yourself that question," Faramir responded readily, determined not to be branded a coward as well as his other faults, "you were the one who slowed the pace." He spurred his horse past his brother's and left Boromir smiling at his back.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Faramir kept his hand on the hilt of his sword as they entered the cave, urged on by the friction and the unspoken bet between them that proclaimed the one who turned back first to be the weaker.

The darkness swept over them in a wave, the cold air blowing in their faces as they ventured further into the rocky passage. The floor was sandy and in the light from Boromir's torch, Faramir was alarmed to see what looked like foot marks in the sand. There was a smell too, foul was the only word fit to describe it. Faramir now knew something was wrong; the caves were plainly lived in, and from the smell it was obvious the inhabitants were not friendly.

He was about to call his brother a warning when his breath caught in his throat. The passage had suddenly sloped heavily down and they found themselves having to run to stop themselves from stumbling.

Instead of evening out, the tunnel grew even steeper and their feet began slipping and sliding on the sand. Their alarmed voices echoed loudly in the confined space, bouncing of the walls eerily.

As he tried to steady himself, Faramir noticed vaguely that the tunnel was widening and the entrances opening on either side were becoming less frequent.

All at once, Boromir disappeared from sight and Faramir called out his name, searching with wide eyes for any sign of his brother. As he skidded closer to the place where he had lost sight of Boromir, he suddenly felt the ground under his feet fail and he pitched forwards, tumbling over three metres before hitting the ground hard.

His whole body ached and his head spun. Faramir felt a strong grip on his arm and managed to pull himself up groggily, using it for support. His eyes widened with horror, his mouth opened and he just stared. And they stared back. Then laughed.

Up to thirty Orcs stood, or slouched on the rocks before them, hungry yellow eyes fixed upon the two boys who stood backed up against the rock wall they had fallen from.

The opening above stood just out of reach, enticing and frustrating.

Faramir glanced at his brother and seeing he had drawn his sword, managed to pull his own from its sheath. Boromir's face was smeared with blood, running from a deep cut on his temple he must have received from the fall. But his determination gave Faramir heart, at least they would face the enemy with pride and dignity. Together.

Boromir's mouth was set in a hard line, his eyes cold and determined. Faramir tried to look as brave as his elder brother but his heart quaked at the thought of being so outnumbered. Memories of his battle training came at him in a rush of words and movements, then his mind stuck on the one thought that he had never actually killed another creature. He had fought in many skirmishes, but had always had many others to protect him and the necessity to kill never arisen.

The Orcs came forwards in a rush, malicious grins directed at the courage in which the intruders faced such a hopeless situation. Faramir realised he had shut his eyes when the first assault came and if Boromir's sword had not blocked the downward thrust from the Orc's twisted weapon, both brothers would have been crushed.

He realised Boromir was standing in front of him, protecting him from the intensity of the battle. Faramir could not let Boromir take the full force of the assault alone, he pushed away the arm that shielded him and was immediately surrounded by the violence of the fight. Blow after blow rained down upon them and Faramir felt as though his sword arm would collapse under the strain. He parried, stabbed and did anything he could to avoid being skewered by the bent swords and scimitars wielded by the enemy. He noticed with confusion that the Orcs were not aiming at his head or chest, it was as though they were trying to disarm him. Dark possibilities lay behind this realisation but he had no time to ponder further as an Orc came at him from the side. Faramir's peripheral vision and quick reflexes saved him, he lunged forwards, ducking underneath his attacker's weapon, and felt the rush of air through his hair as the blade passed above. He rose, still moving forwards, and plunged his long sword into the Orc's chest.

Time slowed, and the horrible reality of his first kill had enough time to leave a serious impact for years after.

He heard the Orc's weapon crash to the ground and felt the horrible convulsions that ran through the creature's body as his sword pierced its heart. He wrenched the blade out and time began again.

The Orc's body slumped to the ground and Faramir's sword lay in his hand, stained with the blood of the creature. A wave of horror and nausea swept over him, he felt none of the exultation some felt when having the power over another's life. It was a precious gift, life, and however evil the creature was, what right did he or any other being have to take it.

The battle at hand overcame his senses once more. He noticed with confused horror that the Orcs seemed to be concentrating most of their energy of himself. Perhaps they thought that by taking one of them out of the fight, it would be easier to bring them both down. More Orcs had joined the fight after they saw the two boys would not be subdued easily and Faramir was finding it increasingly difficult to fend them off. The foul creatures pushed forwards, forcing them to draw back towards the wall with hardly enough room to swing their swords. All at once, a heavily armoured Orc rushed him, slamming into him so hard that he was thrown against the wall with all the air knocked out of him. He groaned, clutching his ribs with his other hand. He knew if he did not move quickly, it would be the end of him, but the struggle for breath made him dizzy and disorientated. Boromir was at his side in a second and his thick sword swiped through the air, decapitating the Orc that had pushed Faramir. Boromir's eyes lit up momentarily and Faramir saw rush of adrenalin and the enjoyment in his brother's eyes as he made the kill.

~"He has neither the skill nor the will to win"~

Denethor's words came back to him in a rush. Did Faramir's doubts about killing make him weak? Did his compassion prove his father right in saying that he could never equal his brother because of the said weakness in his disposition?

In the seconds that followed, he was drawn out of his moment of reverie as his world tipped upside-down. He saw the spear fly at him, but found he was unable to make his body react. His mind screamed at him to move but something inside him hesitated. Doubt? Fear? All he could do was watch as it flew towards him, his mind thinking numbly that his life would be over in less than a moment.

A shadow flickered across his vision and he felt a heavy shove on his shoulder. A violent shudder passed through the hand that was pushing him and he hit the ground, his head and shoulder colliding with the rock of the wall.

It was only with a tremendous effort that he raised himself again and saw the full implications of his short hesitation. His momentary amazement at being still alive changed quickly to horror when he saw his brother. Boromir was on the ground behind him, the spear that had been meant for him, lodged deep in his brother's thigh.

The sight was terrible, made even worse by the fact that it would not have happened if only he had moved faster. The wound did not seem fatal, but blood poured from it and had already soaked through his brother's pants leg.

"Why?" Faramir asked, holding up his sword and moving into a defensive position by his brother. "Why did you do it?" The Orcs, having drawn back a few paces, were regarding them with cruel satisfaction, knowing it would not take long to bring the younger boy down without the damaging sword of his brother to protect him.

Boromir grimaced, his face white, "you would have done it for me," he answered. Then he frowned. "If you get the chance," he was forcing the words now through clenched teeth, "get away, get help!"

"I will not leave you," Faramir said.

Although he knew the Orcs initial plan had been changed by Boromir's sacrifice, they were not put off in the least and they grinned in eager expectation as they closed in on him.

Faramir had done all he could. He had kept determinably calm, many Orcs had lost hands, eyes and limbs trying to break through his defence. He was fast and clever, every time the Orcs thought they had him trapped, his quick thinking got him out of danger.

Due to being outnumbered twenty to one, an Orc finally got under his sword, body-slamming him sideways so the access to his brother was cleared. Faramir was on his feet again at once, but too late. The Orc was at Boromir's side before Faramir could even get within a sword's length. But instead of cleaving Boromir's head from his body, which both boys had expected, the Orc pressed his sword against Boromir's heaving chest, its iron boot resting on his brother's sword arm. Faramir froze, his eyes fixed on the weapon that could end his brother's life in a moment.

"Drop it," the Orc growled, leaning more weight on Boromir's arm and making the young man close his eyes in silent agony.

Faramir did not hesitate. He opened his fingers and let his sword fall to the cave floor. Immediately, he was grabbed by rough hands and his arms were bound behind his back. The thick ropes were rough and so tight that they tore into his skin. He felt alone and afraid, Boromir seemed to have passed out with the pain leaving the Orcs to focus all their attention on him.

One of the Orcs shoved him roughly backwards towards the rock wall where Boromir lay. He stumbled and fell, landing on his back without being able to use his arms to cushion the fall.

He looked sideways at Boromir. His face was peaceful, free from the pain he would feel when he woke. The pool of blood beneath his leg made Faramir's stomach lurch and he thought for a moment that Boromir might not just be sleeping. Terror for his brother's life and at being left here alone overcame him and he scrambled towards the still body.

He was plucked up by another Orc who brought its face close to Faramir's, yellow, rotten teeth and foul smelling breath making him feel ill. He somehow managed to keep the fear from his face as he was lifted higher, but could not disguise the disgust and strange pity he felt for these loathsome creatures.

"He's not dead, you little runt," it laughed at him. Then grabbing him by the shoulders, it threw him back into the stone wall, holding him there with an iron grip. Faramir winced as the Orc's fingers dug into the cut he had recieved from Boromir's sword just a few hours ago.

Through angry, narrowed eyes, Faramir saw another Orc approach. This Orc was not overly large and its long bent arms and hunched shoulders gave the impression it was well adapted to their current home in the caves. There was blood running from a great wound across its eyes and Faramir supposed it had been one of the Orcs unlucky enough to get in the way of his precise swipes with the sword. The creature was obviously blind, for as it approached it seemed to be smelling rather than seeing its way.

Faramir pressed back against the wall as far as he was able, as the Orc approached, but the hands holding him prevented him from moving. The black hand reached out and finding his shoulder, it moved up to his throat, making it hard to breath.

"Tell me, boy, do you enjoy killing?" The Orc's face was a mass of torn black skin, Faramir wished he could turn away from it. The Orc loosened its grip so he could answer the question. The question to which they already knew the answer.

"I am no boy," Faramir said, avoiding the topic which he knew could lead to nothing but trouble. He bit his lip to stop himself making a sound when the blind Orc backhanded him across the face.

"Answer my question . . . boy," it said, emphasising the last word. "Do you enjoy feeling the blood on your hands, seeing the body of your foe fall in the dust at your feet?"

Faramir shuddered, "I do not," he said quietly, and heard the snickers of the Orcs behind the blind one. The Orc shook him roughly, "you are smarter than you look," it said, smiling dangerously, "there are so many things worse than death." Upon feeling Faramir's start of dismay at the comment, the Orc laughed, "Ah, I see now. You were attempting to be merciful?" He gestured to his destroyed eyes, then to Boromir's still form on the ground behind. "Perhaps your brother would like a taste of your mercy?"

The Orc let go of him, letting him take in the air his lungs craved. After the first gulp, the air tasted sick once more. The smell and feel of it was revolting, and it was not just the dirty Orc lair they were in, it was the Orcs themselves. The creatures seemed to revel in being unclean; their faces black and unwashed for who knew how long. The blind Orc moved away and drawing a crooked knife from its belt, it moved towards his brother. To Faramir's surprise, Boromir's eyes were open and he was staring at him. He wondered whether his older brother had heard everything; his weakness for killing. He prayed he had not heard. He did not want Boromir to believe he was really as useless as their father thought him.

Boromir's eyes shifted blearily to the Orc standing above him and following his line of sight, Faramir realised the meaning of the Orc's words.

"No! You can't! You can't!" He shouted and struggled to no avail, he was going to be made to watch while the Orc took vengeance by destroying for Boromir, what Faramir had destroyed for it. Boromir's life was centred around wars and battles. He thought of little else. How could his brother go on living if his eyesight was taken from him? A blind warrior would prove to be more of a hindrance than a help. This could not be happening!

But it was. The knife rushed downwards towards his brother's beautiful grey eyes. Faramir shut his own . . .

The knife rushed downwards towards his brother's beautiful grey eyes. Faramir shut his own . . .

They were forced open again when a cry echoed around the cave. It was not Boromir. The Orc with the knife was growling now, holding his hand as though protecting it from further assault. The knife lay on the floor some metres away and another, larger Orc stood above the first. The blind Orc at once began groping around in the dirt, searching for his lost weapon. But without his vision, he found it an impossible task.

"What did you that for, Lurbak, you great fool?" It moaned, abandoning its search and rising before the newcomer. "It's my right to have vengeance for what he did to me!"

"Shut up, Gorburg, You'll get what you want," Lurbak said, shoving the blind Orc, now identified as Gorburg, away and reaching for something out of Faramir's sight.

"It seems our little warrior has brought with him a pretty prize!" Faramir was not left long in doubt and when he saw what Lurbak held. His heart plummeted and for a moment hope was lost to him. The large Orc held it high, laughing insanely at his discovery.

"Tell me what this is," Lurbak smiled, kicking Boromir's side to bring him out of delirium.

Boromir did not answer, which was what the Orc seemed to expect. "I'll tell you what we've found," he raised his voice to the other Orcs, "the Horn of the Stewards! Made from the wild ox of the East, my informer tells me, passed on to each eldest son." He let this sink in, the other Orcs seeming to be confused by this revelation.

Faramir lowered his eyes from the silver horn, its bright characters glowing faintly red the torchlight. It seemed ironic to Faramir then, that the Horn, said to be the bringer of help for those who blew it within Gondor's ancient borders, would also betray their identity to the enemy and destroy any hope of an easy escape. Faramir knew not how Lurbak had come upon the knowledge of their family's Horn, but he suspected a traitor within Minas Tirith who could have given the Orcs information about the city's defence and rulers in exchange for a reward.

It was hard to imagine any man having the guile, and though he hated to think it, the courage to deal and trade with Orcs. It was a terrible betrayal to any man of Gondor's upbringing and heritage to consort with the vile creatures.

"So lads," Lurbak's voice rose, dragging out the suspense. "we've got ourselves Denethor's royal brats!" Faramir closed his eyes against the shouts and cheers of the Orcs, not showing anyone, least of all his brother, the fear that was racing through his mind. The Orcs holding him against the wall jostled and prodded him, trying to get a rise out of the young man, but Faramir kept his cool, glaring at them with dangerously controlled anger.

"The future King," Lurbak continued, nudging Boromir with his foot, "and the runt of the family." His sadistic gaze looked Faramir over in amusement then spoke, "Sorry children, but the adults need some time alone." Faramir felt the hands holding him pull him away from the wall. His feet were kicked from beneath him and he fell roughly to his knees. His wide eyes met those of his brother for a frightening moment of uncertainty before the butt of a sword smashed into the back of his neck and his vision of his brother disappeared into blackness.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

His face was streaked with blood and dirt, his wrists scraped and bleeding from the ropes that had cut them, but he stood straight-backed before his father.

"You left him there?" Denethor asked in a dangerously quiet tone. Faramir began backing away from his the anger he knew would vent itself shortly.

"Boromir told me to," he protested weakly, "he said . . ." Faramir's head was pounding and he could not form the words he needed to say. Something was wrong, he could not remember how he had come here. He had blacked out in the Orc cave and then . . . then . . .

"You are no better than the Orcs themselves!" Denethor thundered and Faramir was surprised by the vehemence in his tone. "You are my son no longer!"

"Father, no!" Faramir pleaded, taking another step back but finding himself blocked by two tall figures.

"Take him away, I do not wish to see him again," his father said with a cold finality that scared Faramir. Panic washed over him as the guards seized his arms and dragged him backwards . . .

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The dream world faded as it had come, with a rush of confusion and forgetfulness. He was suddenly cold and the aches in his head and arms came upon him in a rush. He was lying on his side, his arms still bound painfully behind him and his feet in a similar state. He did not dare move, not wanting to attract the attention of the Orcs who were making a loud racket some distance away. Instead he looked around him, studying the walls and searching for any hope of escape.

The stone work was rough, chiselled and hacked with none of the care used in Minas Tirith. There were supports made from thick wood propped at uneven intervals along the walls, a safe guard in case of a cave in. The roof had similar planks of wood for extra support but nothing the Orcs could do would make this cave look safe. Only one of the walls seemed strong, the one they had originally fallen from. The others were crumbling and unsteady. Faramir wondered why the Orcs stayed in this cave when surely others in the tunnels would be safer.

Faramir's blurry eyes shifted slightly, focusing on what was closer to him. A dark shape was before him and he realised at once that it was Boromir. He saw with shock that the Orcs had done nothing about Boromir's wound. It was still bleeding profusely and although his brother was conscious, he must have been suffering from the loss of blood.

"You must get away," Boromir whispered urgently, as he had the last time they had spoken. It seemed the only hope Boromir was clinging onto now was Faramir bringing back help. Faramir's dream of his father came back to him at once and he knew leaving his brother was the last thing he would do.

"Not without you," Faramir said earnestly and his brother's eyes grew concerned, "we will escape together."

"I cannot walk," Boromir said, wincing at the slight movement.

"Gather your strength," Faramir said, "do not give the Orcs any reason to make things worse. They can ill afford to risk losing Denethor's favoured son." Faramir saw his brother was about to protest but he cut him off. "They know much about us, our family. I know not how. But I WILL stay with you until you are able to move. We will escape, we will!"

Boromir's eyes did not change with Faramir's encouragement, in fact he was sure they grew darker. "Do you not see?" his voice was touched with desperation now and Faramir thought perhaps the pain was becoming too much. "They can only hurt me by hurting you!"

Faramir did not have time to take in the meaning of this for their movement had attracted the Orcs' attention.

Faramir felt their foul stench before feeling their rough hands on his back. He was pulled away from his brother and dumped near the wall, neglected for the moment.

Lurbak approached Boromir, and Faramir saw at once how brave his brother was. He showed no fear, only anger and hatred. Lurbak found this amusing and, as he seemed to have appointed himself the leader, basing his claim upon finding and identifying the Horn, he shouted orders to the other Orcs.

Lurbak knelt by Boromir while the others fetched the things he asked for. "You won't seem so brave soon, future king. Something has to be done about that leg." Lurbak smiled as he peeled away the material that had stuck to the wound. The spear was still deeply lodged in the flesh and Lurbak tugged upon the end of it, causing Boromir to suck in a sharp breath and close his eyes against the pain. Faramir clenched his hands into fists behind his back and wished for the hundredth time it was all a dream.

"It's no use," Lurbak told one of the others, "we can't risk losing him, we'll have to break off the shaft and leave the head in there. He'll survive for as long as he's useful."

Boromir paled as Lurbak steadied both of his strong hands on the long, wooden shaft. Faramir closed his eyes; he could not bear to watch. But there was nothing he could do to block out the sound of the wood cracking and splintering, nor the terrible pain in his brother's voice as the shaft broke.

He opened his eyes slightly to the repulsive scene. Boromir lay on his back, the discarded spear shaft cast away. Surprisingly, his brother was still conscious, his eyes clouded with pain, and the other Orcs that were crowding around him seemed to revel in the despair he was feeling.

"We could have killed you and your brother, destroyed forever the line of the Stewards." Lurbak was speaking quietly to Boromir, whose eyes were blank with either defiance or incomprehension. Faramir thought then how lucky he was not to be the eldest son. However much he envied the love and admiration Boromir received from their father, he could never say that he desired to be the one to take over the Stewardship when their father passed on. It would have been a duty to him, rather than a pleasure. Boromir, on the other hand, possessed all the qualities valued at this time in Gondor; bravery, loyalty, power. And with it, a strong ambition to guard and rule his people in war. But with a burden such as future power, came an event like this where Boromir would be punished because of his position.

"Your father will not produce another son, we could end it all here and Denethor would die knowing his control over Gondor would pass out of his family. But we want to SEE him suffer for the thousands of Orcs he had destroyed in these lands. He'll have to watch when we kill you, then he'll see our kind will not be murdered without paying a high price."

Lurbak bent closer to him, his eyes blazing, "Perhaps you, as one who will make many decisions when you are King, will agree to my proposal. Do not be unwise in this, future king, for both you and your brother will pay dearly for your mistakes. It would be wise to think of the consequences, wisdom can only be judged by looking to the future."

Boromir had paled slightly at the mention of his brother but his face remained blank at the threat. He smiled, his lip twisting as though he knew a sick joke, "an Orc telling me the meaning of wisdom. My father will find this an entertaining story."

Lurbak's body tensed, he had not been expecting this. "I am offering you a chance. Think now of your brother. Refuse to answer my questions and things will no go well for either of you. Tell me now, are you willing to tell me all you know of your father? The defence of the city? His future attack plans for the Orc bands like ourselves? Answer wisely for Gorbug here claims vengeance upon your brother for the loss of his eyes, would you risk an unwise answer now?"

~"Do you not see? They can only hurt me by hurting you!"~

Faramir now understood the meaning of Boromir's words. He had known this would happen. His face was completely white. The threat hung on the air and despite his fear for himself, Faramir felt dreadful for his brother. He doubted Boromir even knew the things the Orcs asked, but the Orcs would never believe that. He could lie, but neither of them knew how much information Lurbak had received from his contact in Gondor.

To Faramir's surprise, Boromir's eyes came to rest on him and he knew exactly what the gaze meant. It was the same look he had received that morning when Boromir had come to cheer him up after he lost the fight. It spoke of apologetic regret, as usual, but this time he was not regretting the past, he was fearing the future. It lasted long moments, terrible seconds in which Boromir was trying to find a way out of answering the question without placing the consequences upon his brother.

Boromir's face remained grave and worried and the small fragment of hope, Faramir had not realised he still had, died. There was no way out. Gorburg would kill him and Boromir would be left with the guilt.

Lubak was watching them with cruel satisfaction. He knew the deadly choice he had given the elder and he enjoyed watching how it tortured him.

But, Faramir thought, they would not kill Boromir if he himself were dead, there would be only one link to Denethor then, and they could not do anything to harm him. Boromir could perhaps escape, and then Faramir's sacrifice would not have been in vain. He lowered his head to Boromir, showing his brother that the thing must be done, that the blame would not lie on him.

He saw Boromir swallow and drag his eyes away. Lurbak smiled down at him, "what have you decided, future King?"

There was a moment of pause before Boromir met the Orc's gaze. "My father is not the King," he said. Lurbak's eyes blazed at Boromir's complete defiance to even answer the question.

"You have given me no choice, son of Gondor." Lubak said angrily. Boromir met his burning gaze for a moment before the Orc turned his back, crossing the room and shouting orders in a language Faramir could not understand. He caught the name Gorburg amongst the run of foul syllables and sure enough the blind Orc came stumbling over.

"You have decided?" Lurbak asked, staring meaningful at the blind Orc, "you could always wait?"

"I WILL wait," Gorburg said smiling, then broke into another run of words in that black language. Lurbak smiled too, his lip curling maliciously. "Very well."

More black speech surrounded Faramir as several of the Orcs approached and pulled him to his knees. He was afraid now that he knew it was actually happening. Despite this, he was a man of Gondor and the son of the Steward. If death were what awaited him, he would face it with honour. He felt more pity for his brother than he did for himself, for him it would be over in a painful second, but Boromir would have to watch, knowing that it was his decision that brought them to this end. He wondered whether his brother blamed himself for this, if he did, he did not show it on his face.

Faramir swallowed with difficultly when an Orc approached him. He managed to suppress the trembling in his body so the ones holding him would not sense his fear. But he could not hide the dread in his eyes. He closed them tightly, shutting out Gorburg's horrible smile of anticipation and hoping that not being able to see would lessen the horror of the event. It did not. If anything it made it worse.

His hearing became acute, the heavy breathing of the surrounding Orcs, the crunch of an iron shod foot as it moved nearer to him on the sandy floor.

Time dragged out, the moment lasting hours. Faramir heard his own breath draw in slowly, squeezing his eyes more tightly shut and treasuring it as the last breath he would ever take . .

The sound was loud, splitting the anticipating silence with a sharp crack. He flinched, realising he was alive to do so. His eyes flew open with a start. Realisation dawned and with it came a burning pain down the side of his face. A drop of blood fell and landed softly on the dusty floor beneath him, starkly red in the grim and dark surroundings.

He raised his eyes quickly. His left eye was burning, stinging savagely with a fierceness that brought tears to it. With his good eye, he saw the thin whip descend a second time and just managed to close both eyes before it drew a stinging red line across his right eye this time, and slashed across his face to meet the other. It took a moment for Faramir to feel it but soon he was struggling violently in a vain attempt to escape the extreme burning sensation in his eyes. He kept them tightly shut, not wanting to move for fear of the pain it would occasion.

"Aren't you going to thank me for my Mercy?" It was Gorburg's voice, thick with pleasure and satisfaction. Faramir's breath caught in his throat with the wave of horror that swept over him. Had Gorburg's revenge been to take from Faramir what he had taken from the Orc?

Was he blind?

Faramir's breath caught in his throat with the wave of horror that swept over him. Had Gorburg's revenge been to take from Faramir what he had taken from the Orc?

Was he blind?

He tried to open his eyes, staring through the swollen soreness. His heart pounded when something shone between the darkness. Light? Yes, he could see something. Blurry but becoming visible. The feet of the Orc in front of him. He let out his breath slowly, he could see! His eyes began to sting again with the movement and he felt tears gather and then spill over.

"Aw, the little baby's crying for his mommy," Lurbak's sadistic voice made him cringe. "Oh yeah, how could I forget, he doesn't have a mommy."

Faramir stiffened at the mention of their mother. It had been so long since he had heard her existence mentioned aloud. Finduilas' name was not spoken in Minas Tirith. For the Steward, painful memories were a greater foe than any enemy that could break upon the walls.

It had been many years since his wife's death, but Denethor was yet to shed one tear. The grief he held inside was still an open wound and he would not even hear her name for fear of the hidden pain it might bring back to the surface. And so Denethor lived on, losing a small part of himself every day that went by without her.

Faramir had only been five years old when he lost his mother, and still the memory and trauma of her death lingered with him.

Boromir was five years older that Faramir, and at that moment he wondered whether his brother would defend her honour . . .

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Boromir had been forced to bite his lip to stop himself from reacting. His fists were clenched so tightly that his fingernails were cutting into the skin of his palms and his eyes were blurred with tears he was determined not to shed. Many of the Orcs had their malicious eyes upon him, eagerly anticipating an outburst of anger or tears over what had been done to his little brother.

Faramir had been brave, and Boromir was proud of him. He had not made a sound, nor shown any sign of fear. And it was only when uncertainty began to creep into his gaze that he had shut his eyes tightly. Boromir thanked the stars he had done it, for now there was at least a chance his brother's eyes had been protected. Gorburg seemed intent on having revenge, but after having done it, he had not even checked the effectiveness of his act. Boromir would have given anything to protect Faramir at that moment, but the cursed wound on his leg prevented any thought of moving.

In that horrible moment, Boromir had almost forgotten his leg. However terrible the pain was that flared from it, he would have welcomed it when the Orc's stroke had fallen across his little brother's face. It would have at least given him the comfort, however small, of knowing there was truly nothing he could have done to prevent it.

He was angry that he felt sorry for himself. It was no one else's fault but his that both he and his brother were trapped here. And to think, all he had wanted was to give Faramir an escape from the condemnations of their father.

Boromir had always suspected the reason Denethor shunned his youngest son was the very same reason Boromir held Faramir so dear.

Some said the two brothers looked much alike, and indeed their dark hair and features bore some resemblance. But in Denethor's eyes there was no similarity, nor in Boromir's own. For the elder of the two was his father's son, grey eyes and strong build as Denethor had been in his youth, and Faramir was the image of his mother.

His eyes were her very own and the joy this discovery had occasioned upon Faramir's birth had become a curse five years later when Finduilas' eyes had closed upon the world.

To Boromir, seeing Faramir being hurt was twice as painful because of his little brother's similarity to their mother.

"Aw, the little baby's crying for his mommy."

Boromir's head shot up at once, Lurbak's taunt breaking him out of the delirium caused by the loss of blood. Faramir was still being held between two Orcs. His head had fallen forwards and his dark hair, longer by far than Boromir's own, was matted against the fresh blood that ran from the cuts on his face.

Boromir's whole body trembled with anger and grief. He felt so helpless and weak!

Boromir's mind began to swim again with the image of Faramir before him. He was sure it was Faramir's resemblance to their mother that pulled father and son further away from each other with each year that passed. What evil fate, so thought Denethor, would take one so beautiful and leave behind another who bore such close resemblance as to make every moment spent in his company torture to the one who had lost who he held most dear. It pained Denethor to see his younger son because he was a constant reminder of what he had lost.

Faramir had raised his head when Lurbak mentioned their mother. It seemed that he too had memories and thoughts triggered by the mention of her name. With the sight of his brother's eyes, scrunched tightly together, Boromir dreaded that Faramir might not be able to see again, that his sight had been destroyed forever.

He thought of the many times he had found Faramir in the corner of the tower library, so deeply absorbed in his book that he would not even sense his approach. He would look up, startled, his grey eyes, the very image of their mother's, staring hazily up at him as though one half of him was still emerged in the land of literature.

Even if Boromir could not find the same overwhelming experience through reading, he knew how much it meant to Faramir to be able to pick up a book and escape reality. How much it would hurt him, Boromir thought, if that were taken from him.

"I have heard talk of her death," Lurbak grinned, "your mother that is. It is said Denethor has grown weak with her passing. Perhaps the death of his sons will be enough to push him over the edge."

"You presume much upon our father," Faramir's voice was clear in the silence. Lurbak whipped around, and grabbing Faramir's hair he pulled the boy's face up to meet his. Boromir clenched his fists in frustration as Faramir spoke, "Denethor is stronger that you think. Our deaths will only make him more determined to destroy you."

"Quite the little politician, aren't we?" Lurbak laughed harshly, but there was a fierce anger behind the jest. A muttering had risen within the Orcs. Faramir's words had spread the seed of doubt among them. Boromir was proud of his little brother. Though sometimes driven to frustration by his Faramir's keen wit and ability with words, this was a situation were he felt no ill will.

Denethor was a wise King, perhaps more gifted in thought than in body. It was said he could read the minds of men, and Boromir agreed that sometimes the Steward seemed to be able to see right through him. It was not so with Faramir.

Denethor had never understood, or else refused to show that he cared about the feelings of his younger son, ironically the one most like him in many ways. Boromir often wondered whether things would have been different in the Steward's house if Faramir had been the elder. Would Gondor hold a brighter future if the upcoming Steward was as quick with his wit as he was with a sword? Boromir knew all to well his lack of skill when it came to dealing in words, their father's greatest accomplishment. Words were a game to Denethor and Boromir knew he would never develop a wit to match that of their father. But Faramir, well, that was yet to be seen. Many a battle of words had taken place beneath the Stewards chair, and Faramir was only fifteen.

Despite knowing how far he fell short when it came to words, Boromir never doubted his duty and ability to rule. In his opinion, Denethor had dwelt too long in shadow, closing himself off from his subjects. It was a Steward's duty to assess the needs of the people and undertake measures to meet them. Gondor needed someone like himself, a man of action. The city needed a great leader, a warrior who could inspire the courage to walk to battle with pride.

And until a King came, which seemed as unlikely as it had all his life, Boromir was prepared to become the leader Gondor so sorely needed.

Boromir's head shot up at once, realising he had been drifting, slipping back into the easy land of his future aspirations. He was happier there, where he did not have to worry about the savage pain in his leg every time he made a movement. But he was here, where his little brother needed him to be strong, to be the protective elder brother he had always been.

"I have heard it said that this one resembles his mother," Lurbak jerked Faramir's head back once more, looking him in the eyes. "I'm surprised Denethor married her if she was as repulsive as I've heard tell."

Boromir looked at the Orc through a red haze of anger. He could hear insults about himself, even his father. But his mother's memory and honour was sacred to him, and he would not let the insult stand. "You speak of her again and I'll kill you here and now!"

Lurbak just laughed at him, "ashamed of having a filthy Elf for a mother, are you?"

Boromir had heard the rumours of the people of Dol Amroth having Elvish blood from far back in the line of rulers. And though there was never any proof to say as much, Lurbak had meant it as a cruel slander at himself and all his family.

A surge of rage leapt through him and he wanted nothing more than to bury his sword in the creature's foul heart, slowly, so he could make the Orc regret his words. With the anger came a sudden strength, and supporting himself with his hands, he tried to raise himself upon his good leg. Doing his upmost to ignore the pain that had paralysed him previously, he moved forwards towards the leader of the Orcs.

Lurbak did not seem at all concerned, in fact he laughed at the slowness in which Boromir moved. Encouraging the other Orcs to do the same. Boromir moved up to him, glaring with such anger that none of the Orcs would have blamed Lurbak if he had taken a step backwards. But the Orc stepped forwards to meet him, and Boromir was so close he could feel the Orc's rotten breath upon his face. Some of the other goblins started cheering, hoping a fight would ensue, or at least a beating.

Boromir was quite ready to have a go at Lurbak, and though there was little hope, he would at least show them not to degrade his family. His heart beat faster as the Orc smiled at him, one side of his lips curled to show black teeth.

Gorburg's knife was clenched tightly in Boromir's fist, hidden from the time Lurbak had foiled the blind Orc's attempts at slashing his eyes out. He had planed to keep it for a time when they might escape, but for the sake of himself and his family he could not let the insult stand. He shifted the knife in his hand, Lurbak seemed to be waiting for him to make the first move, to see whether he actually meant what he had said.

But then Boromir stopped short, Faramir's voice rose over the shouts of the Orcs.

"Peace Boromir, please stop!" Boromir's shoulder's slumped and his hand loosened. How could he start a fight now? What had he been thinking?

"Listen to your brother, Son of Denethor," Lurbak hissed in his face, "You should care more about him than your dead mother. Pity you're not what he thinks you are, the perfect big brother, ha. You only care about yourself!"

Lurbak shoved him backwards and Boromir fell onto his back, steeling himself against the agony in his leg. Lurbak's words had stung him, perhaps it had taken an Orc to see it. Did he really care more about his own safety than his brother's? He had always thought himself a true support for Faramir but now all the times he had failed to defend him against the anger of their father flooded into his mind.

Lurbak must have seen the doubt and worry in Boromir's face for he laughed and signed to the Orcs holding Faramir. They brought him forward and threw him at Boromir's feet. "Take care of him while he still has faith in you," Lurbak said, turning his back on the boys with a snort of amusement. Boromir pulled his little brother closer to him and wrapped his arms protectively around him, all the while hating himself for not being a better brother. He felt what he thought must be a sob run through Faramir's body and he raised the boy's head gently.

If he did not have someone to be strong for then, Boromir would have cried himself. He brushed the dark hair away from his brother's eyes and gently ran his finger over the red wounds. He pulled the boy closer to him and let him rest his head upon his shoulder.

Faramir fell asleep quickly, tired out from the physical and emotional stress, finding comfort in his brother's strong hold. But for Boromir, there was no rest. ~You only care about yourself~

In the late hours of the morning, Boromir stirred from his brief slumber. The pain in his leg had been savage enough to keep up a constant barrier against the rest he needed. It had been less than an hour since he had finally slipped into unconsciousness and if it could have been possible, he felt worse than he had the night before.

He licked his cracked lips, longing for the taste of water, and with the thought of drink came food. He had not eaten since the morning two days since. He had not wanted to put himself at a disadvantage in the duel with Faramir by filling his stomach. How trivial that fight seemed now, yet it had meant much to him. Seeing the admiration in his father's eyes was a pleasure Boromir often received, and yet each time he was just as determined to impress and show his skills. But with what cost to others? Boromir asked himself bitterly. Faramir did not blame him, and Boromir almost cringed when he remembered the looks of admiration he had received from his brother when they were both younger, and sometimes even now. No, Faramir did not blame him for defeating him in fair fights, even if the loss added another weakness to Denethor's list. But should Boromir blame himself?

He moved slightly, trying to shift his body to a more comfortable position. He was still not fully awake and he delayed opening his eyes for as long as he could. They felt dry, and Boromir thought perhaps he had been crying in his sleep without knowing it. A shudder passed through him at the thought of the Orcs seeing such a weakness.

He shifted his weight again, moving carefully so as not to jar his leg. He felt strange and forced his eyes open to see what was wrong. He stared blearily at his hands and growled when he realised they were bound together. He had counted himself lucky before, when the Orcs did not consider him strong enough to pose a threat. Poor Faramir had not been free for days. It must have been done while I was asleep, Boromir thought, the cowards! Lurbak did not realise I had enough strength to face him. Boromir was pleased that the Orc now saw he was not just a little boy to be pushed around, but knew as well that his action had been stupid. ~Gather your strength, do not give the Orcs any reason to make things worse.~ Why didn't he ever listen! Faramir had warned him of this and he had rushed ahead, heedless of the consequences. Boromir could not even find the strength to blame himself, and as he often did he pushed the blame upon another. In his mind, he cursed Lurbak with all the foul words he could think of. If only he had not mentioned their mother, he would have been able to contain himself!

For a moment Boromir wished he had stabbed the Orc while he had the chance. Soon though, he heard Faramir's voice in his mind, calling, as it had the day before, for him to stop. He blinked, Faramir's cry was not just a memory from the previous day. His brother was in pain now and calling for his help! He realised that while Faramir had fallen asleep next to him, he was now nowhere to be seen!

He sat up with a jerk, terror overcoming the aching pain in his thigh.

He peered into the light at the other end of his cave, much brighter than it had been the night before. The low torches burned with a fierce light that illuminated the group of Orcs that stood with their backs to him. Through a gap between two of the thick bodies, Boromir could only just catch a glimpse of his brother within the circle. He seemed to be standing up straight, and yet by the look of him he should have been on the ground long ago. The Orcs shifted slightly, stamping their feet and shouting in their foul language, and Boromir realised in dismay that Faramir was being held upright, not standing as he had at first thought.

An Orc's fist slammed into Faramir's chest and he was thrown to the ground with a cry. Boromir's mind spun as the cry burned in his ears, he remembered when Faramir had been thrown against the cave wall, Boromir was sure he had broken a rib then with the impact, if so . . .

Faramir lay on the floor, doubled over trying to protect his chest. But the Orc just kicked him hard in the legs until Faramir released his hold on his knees. When the Orcs foot smashed into Faramir's mid-section, it was his brother's name he cried, and it ripped through Boromir until he forced himself into action.

Boromir had no idea how long it had been going on, but by the look of the blood upon Faramir's face and the way he was bending over his chest, he guessed it had been some time. He could not afford to wait a moment longer.

"Lurbak!" he shouted, putting as much strength as he could into the word.

The Leader of the Orcs emerged from the throng, surprisingly calm under the circumstances. He looked Boromir over with a smirk, "the sleeping baby's awake. Come to protect your little brother, have we?" Lurbak shot a meaningful glance over his shoulder to where Faramir lay within the circle. "I'm afraid you're too late." He motioned to one of the Orcs, "Bring him."

The Orc grabbed Faramir by the hair and forced him to straighten. His grey eyes, seemingly darker than usual, fixed upon Boromir a look of relief and Boromir's heart soared. Faramir could see him! But a moment later he had to look away from the hopeful gaze for although more than anything, he wanted to help, there was nothing he could do.

"I'll kill you for this, Lurbak," he muttered savagely under his breath.

"What was that?" the Orc said, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Would you like to repeat that?" He signalled the Orc holding Faramir to approach, and transferring the hold on the boy to himself, he dragged Faramir closer to his brother.

Boromir could not bear the look in his brother's eyes, they reminded him too much of the haunted look his mother would take on after being disappointed by Denethor. He did his best to look away, but it became increasingly difficult when Lurbak came within an arm's length of him.

"Kill me?" Lurbak laughed, "And how would you do that?"

Boromir held up his bound hands in response, "Let me free and I'd match you in battle this minute."

For a moment Lurbak looked intrigued, Boromir knew how highly the Orc thought of himself. If he could turn this conversation in the right direction, they might just have a hope.

"Why should I fight?" Lurbak growled, "there is nothing you could give me."

"You are afraid to face me," Boromir smiled, disguising a wince as the Orc pulled roughly on Faramir's hair to prevent him from trying to slip out of his grip.

Lurbak laughed again, though his eyes were dark when he looked at Boromir. "You need to be taught some manners, son of Gondor. If you weren't so valuable I'd give you to the boys to play with. Your brother enjoyed it, didn't you?" He patted Faramir's cheek and laughed when the boy's eyes filled with anger and fear.

Boromir breathed in slowly, forcing himself to ignore the Orc's comments that were so obviously aimed at making him lose his temper. "You are too weak to challenge me, even my brother could defeat you, Lurbak."

Lurbak's reply was a short, harsh laugh. "Would you bet his life on that?"

Boromir swallowed uncomfortably, avoiding the look he knew Faramir to be giving him.

"If he wins," Boromir began, staring at Lurbak and daring him to accept the challenge, "you let us go."

"And *when* I win . . ." Lubak grinned "well, we'll see, won't we? I'll let you two talk it over." Lurbak released Faramir and he sunk immediately to the ground.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"I cannot, Boromir. Please . . ." Faramir was on the point of tears. His mind was distraught he could not focus his thoughts. Boromir's eyes had not left him for a moment, and the obvious expectation in them was more pain to Faramir than the wounds to his ribs. The overwhelming relief when Boromir had saved him from the mindless pain of the Orcs' kicks and punches quickly deteriorated with the burden now laid upon him. He could not even defeat Boromir in a duel, how was he expected to be able to stand up to an Orc leader.

"It may be our only chance!" Boromir urged, "Without their leader the Orcs will be weakened and we will be able to make our escape."

'A fair fight,' that had been Boromir's challenge. That had been how he had acquired a bandage for Faramir's chest and his own sword to be returned to him. But the words 'fair' and 'Orcs' in the same sentence were unheard of and Faramir sincerely doubted the creatures would honour the bargain. They would not let two such valuable prisoners escape them so easily.

He could not tell whether or not Boromir believed Lurbak's promise, but the suggestion that without their leader the Orcs might become less formidable was at least heartening. But that was no help, for Faramir knew he could not defeat Lurbak.

"I cannot do it Boromir! I cannot!" His brother looked at him with concern and reached over to adjust the bandage around his ribs. "It's not that!" Faramir said, slapping the hand away more angrily than he meant to. "I cannot fight! I am not good enough, you know it as well as I."

Boromir shot him a worrying glance, "I am not afraid!" Faramir said, and Boromir seemed startled he had interpreted the look so accurately. "It's just, it is so dark in here," he said quietly, "I could not see them when they were around me and I just had to wait, and guess when they would chose to strike me again."

Boromir's eyes grew very dark and his lips tightened into a thin line. There was such anger in his eyes that Faramir almost drew back. "I will not let them hurt you again, I promise. I will see every one of them killed for what they did." Faramir was more than a little frightened, he did not like this side to his brother, it was so cold and cruel. And at times Faramir worried about the future, when Boromir would have the power he so desired. He had no doubt that his brother would make a fine Steward, but there was a small doubt in the back of his mind about the way Boromir seemed to crave having power over others.

"I know you can do this," Boromir said sincerely, "or I would not have suggested it. I would gladly fight myself, if I were able. But there has always been something inside you, I have never seen the like of it before, nor will again."

Faramir smiled grimly, taking Boromir's comment as encouragement. But he could not help but think he saw something akin to sincerity in Boromir's eyes. He drew a shaky breath, "I will do it."

Boromir smiled in what must have been relief, "I believe in you."

Faramir gazed up at the dark sky, breathing in the cool night air. And for a small moment, he almost forgot the weight of his brother's arm around his shoulder and simply wished he could see the stars again. But either the night clouds were too heavy, or his own eyes had become unaccustomed to seeing things of such beauty, he did not know, but there were no stars that night.

He stumbled on the rocks under his feet as he emerged from the small tunnel into the larger anti chamber, and almost brought Boromir down with him, only just managing to catch himself in time. The Orc behind him gave him a shove and Faramir pressed his lips together, suppressing the urge to make a noise as pain flared through his ribs with the sudden movement and the additional weight of his brother. He had barely managed the walk through the low-roofed tunnels to the entrance, but he had not shown the Orcs any sign of this.

"If soldier boy here wants to come and see his little brother die," Lurbak had told them, "he walks on his own."

Boromir had managed only half the way before he collapsed against the cave wall and Faramir was forced to support him. Lurbak had not protested, for he was all too happy to let his opponent tire himself out before the fight. Faramir knew it would make the Orc's victory all the more impressive if it was done quickly.

Obviously, to have any hope of escape, Boromir needed to be alongside when, or IF in Faramir's opinion, he won the duel. In any case, Faramir could not see how they could make any attempt at escaping with Boromir in this condition.

Faramir grimly wished Boromir were not so heavily built for it would have made supporting him easier for the both of them. Boromir's rasping breath was close to his ear and with every step his brother took, Faramir could feel the shudder of pain as his injured leg bore his weight. When the journey through the tunnels had begun, Boromir had tried to speak, coaching Faramir on what he should concentrate on, but as time drew on, and Boromir grew weaker, he had to save all his energy for simply moving.

But as they emerged into the fresh air, Boromir seemed to regain some of his strength and his breathing grew more even. He even managed to straighten his back and look up at the sky they had missed for so long.

"The stars shine on us tonight, Faramir. It is a good omen," Boromir was breathless, but his words were comforting. Faramir looked up once again but still he could see nothing but darkness. His brow creased with worry and he began to wonder whether the cuts across his eyes were not more than what they seemed.

The Orcs spread out, forming what looked to be a rough circle. The creatures were noisy and excited. They shuffled their feet in expectation and talked in loud voices as the two boys emerged from the tunnel. Faramir suddenly found himself to be in the centre of what had become the field of combat and his heart began to thunder so loudly as to block out the shouts of the Orcs.

One of the Orcs approached them and took Boromir's arm in its black fingers. It grinned at them in an intimidating way and Faramir realised this could be the last time he would ever see his brother. He pulled him around into a hug, not caring that the Orcs yelled and whistled at his show of emotion. Boromir's eyes flickered with fear, and Faramir could feel the tremors that were shaking his brother's body. Boromir was afraid, and yet had enough faith to trust Faramir's ability. His brother had placed all his trust in him, and that meant more to Faramir than he could express. He was determined to show no weakness after this moment, nothing but anger would show upon his face and even death would be met bravely.

His brother was pulled away from him and Faramir stood, swaying slightly, while he watched with narrowed his eyes where they were taking Boromir. Inside he was trembling with fear and on the point of tears, but he took his own sword that the Orc offered him with a grave face and a steady hand.

Boromir had a clear view at the front of the circle. He was standing unaided, and Faramir tried to convince himself that through this positioning they might have some hope. It was through Lurbak's arrogance that Boromir was given a place at the front, to make sure he was watching when they killed his little brother. Faramir swallowed, no, he could not think that way. Hope brought opportunity, and if he had enough strength to believe in himself, he might just get to see the stars again.

Drawing a shaky breath, he tried to imagine there was no one watching him. Faramir's thoughts flickered back to all the other times he had been standing in this position, waiting nervously to fight a duel. Despite never winning against Boromir, Faramir's combat teacher, Master Nuridin had always been insistent that he prove himself against others of his own age. His teacher had always entered him, despite numerous protests on his part, in duels for the youngsters. Later on, when he had grown older and more adept, he proved himself among the youths. Faramir knew every stage of mental preparation, every thought he should be thinking, and every thought he should banish from his mind.

At that moment, surrounded by Orcs and staring death in the face, Faramir promised himself that if he were somehow to escape and return home, he would thank Nuridin for his vigilance.

He remembered how amazed he had been to find that he seemed to have a natural talent for swordplay. Nuridin had seen this and made it his own duty to train him. Perhaps he could have even improved upon his talent, as Boromir had, instead of 'burying himself in the library' as Denethor had put it.

Despite having fought many duels, never had he fought under such pressure, with so much depending on him. This was most likely their last chance of escape, and if they did not use it, he would die and Boromir would be trapped here until the Orcs found a way to claim their vengeance.

Lurbak sauntered out from within the group of Orcs, he circled Faramir once, looking the boy over as if, Faramir thought, he was sizing him up for a coffin. But if he died here, there would be no such reverence, his death would be painful and drawn out. His body . . . perhaps they would burn it. Faramir shuddered, fire was such a powerful and terrible force. Or maybe they would send his body to Denethor. What would the Steward say and think, would his thoughts only be for the one left behind, praising the heavens it was the younger lying dead and not the elder?

Lurbak was the first to make a move, and Faramir was hardly ready for it. The great Orc thrust its sword towards him with such power that parrying the blow sent him sprawling backwards. He hit the ground, his sword still clutched tightly in his hand. The surrounding Orcs erupted into yells and cheers. Faramir thought he could hear Boromir's voice among the foul cries and although he was quite possibly imagining it, it gave him courage.

Lurbak moved forwards, raising his sword and preparing to strike before his opponent could rise. Faramir waited till the moment before the stroke fell, then rolling out of the way, he clambered to his feet. Lurbak's sword cut deep into the earth and for a moment the Orc had to struggle to retrieve it, giving Faramir the time to recover himself.

Lurbak turned, his eyes blazing with hot fury at being taken in by such a simple trick. Faramir took the opportunity to wipe his sweaty hand upon his shirt before steadying both hands upon the hilt once more.

Lurbak came at him again, and Faramir carefully noted that patience was a virtue Lurbak did not posses. He dodged the advancing blade, making use of one of his few advantages, speed. He managed to also avoid the next few blows, forcing Lurbak to change his position if he wanted to attack. The battle had already gone on for longer than the Orc expected, Faramir could see it in the Orc's face.

"Stand still and face me like a man!" the Orc growled, his frustration clearly showing. Faramir was tiring, and knew that although he was trying to drag the fight out for as long as possible, he was going to have to slow down. Faramir focused his hopes on Lurbak's anger and frustration being a weakness, and tried to think of a way of turning them against the Orc.

He slowed to a halt, pretending Lurbak's comment had affected him. The Orc was breathing hard, holding his twisted blade before him as he slowly advanced. Faramir backed up towards the line of Orcs behind him. He did not turn his head, but soon he could feel their presence and after taking one more step, he raised his sword.

Lurbak smiled, still moving forwards, obviously relieved that Faramir was going to play by his rules. Faramir let the Orc come so close to him that he could hear it's heavy breathing.

The giant sword came up and rushed straight at him and he flung himself to the ground, feeling the blade pass over his head. A sickening crunsh marked the moment Lurbak's sword passed into the chest of the creature who had stood behind him, and Faramir wasted no time in rolling away before the dead body slumped to the ground. Faramir raised himself to his knees while Lurbak was trying to retrieve his blade from the body of his dead comrade, and using both hands, Faramir drove his sword into the toe of Lurbak's boot.

The Orc let out a horrible yell and spun around, his arm out stretched so that it glanced off the side of Faramir's head. He was thrown backwards with the force of the blow, and to his horror he felt his sword slip from his grasp. He landed on his back, his head spinning and so dizzy that he could not tell which way was up.

While he lay there, unable to comprehend movement of any kind, he heard Boromir's voice shouting for him to move. He swallowed his nausea and tried to search around the dusty ground for his sword. His eyes were so dim that the shapes of the Orcs around him were only black shadows, and the night sky, becoming brighter as dawn approached, was grey and dark.

Suddenly, even the faint glow of the sky disappeared as a shadow towered over him. A foot slammed into his wrist, preventing any further attempts to recover his weapon and his vision cleared enough reveal Lurbak standing over him. To Faramir's great relief, he saw that the Orc had not had enough time to retrieve his sword before being stabbed in the foot. Even if Faramir's small attack had done nothing to injure the Orc, at least now they were both unarmed.

Despite the numbing pain that was shooting through his hand, Faramir still managed to manoeuvre his fingers enough to search for his sword. When the tip of his finger suddenly touched something hard and cold, he almost wept with relief. Lurbak would have to lift the foot that was crushing his hand in order to make any further move in the way of attack, and when he did, Faramir might have just enough time to recover his sword. Despite being completely at the Orcs mercy, Faramir had to smile when he thought of the way he had been in the Orc's position only two or so days ago, thinking he had won against Boromir Yet his brother had still won. There was hope. If only he could stay calm and focus on what he had to do, there was a chance.

Faramir closed his eyes as Lurbak shifted more of his weight onto the foot pinning his arm to the ground. He tried not to imagine what Boromir would be thinking at this moment, and just continued using his trembling fingers to edge the sword towards himself.

"So," Lurbak said loudly, in the direction of Boromir. "You said even your brother could defeat me? Did you really believe this little runt could have any chance?"

Lurbak lifted his foot, and Faramir just managed to close his fingers around the sword hilt, before the heavy boot smashed into his already injured ribs. A searing flash of light and pain exploded his senses, and he could not help crying out. Through all this though, his fingers remained tightly wrapped around the sword-hilt. The roaring in his ears faded and he heard all the other Orcs laughing and yelling. They had obviously been warned not to interfere. Faramir wondered whether their loyalty came from devotion to their leader, or fear of being punished for disobeying orders. If it were the latter, Boromir would be correct when he said the band of Orcs would weaken without their leader. Therefore, Faramir's mind finally cleared and became focused on one thought. Lurbak had to die.

Lurbak was still turned towards his brother, and Faramir began to drag himself to his knees. With his left hand pressed against his ribs, and his right holding the sword he had finally reclaimed, he gazed over at Boromir.

"I did believe my brother could defeat you," Boromir said steadily, and to Faramir he looked stronger and braver than he had for days. "And I still do believe it."

Faramir smiled grimly, and edged up behind the Orc as Lurbak took several steps towards Boromir. Faramir was pleased to see Lurbak was limping on his right foot; his attack must have done some damage after all. The Orc laughed at Boromir and spat viciously at the ground in front of him.

"Well then," Lurbak said triumphantly, "I'll enjoy watching your faith die as I kill him."

Lurbak turned, expecting to find Faramir on the ground. He was not in the least ready for the sword thrust that sunk deep into his abdomen. Faramir wrenched his sword free, and the Orc staggered back a few paces, swaying on his feet. Faramir stared in dread anticipation to see whether the wound would be enough to take the Orc down. But whether through not being unaffected by the blood spilling from the wound, or realising that he had been defeated and had nothing left to lose, Lurbak swung a heavy punch at Faramir's head, who was able to avoid it easily. Unarmed and slowed by his injury, Lurbak could do nothing more than spit a curse at the two boys and make another swing at Faramir.

The Orcs around Boromir moved back to accommodate for their captain and the battle, not having seen Faramir's sword pass through the Orc's stomach. Lurbak, showing surprising intelligence for his kind and amazing endurance to the wound that must have been sapping his strength, seemed at last to realise that even before he had accepted the duel, the two boys had planned this as their escape attempt.

Faramir watched in horror as the injured Orc threw himself at Boromir. Lurbak's face showing his intention that if he were to die from the wound Faramir's sword had given him, he would take Denethor's heir with him.

There was a struggle in which Faramir could do nothing for fear of hurting Boromir as well as Lurbak, while they tumbled over each other in a desperate wrestling match. The other Orcs were in the same position, unable to act while their captain was in the fight. Faramir risked a quick glance to where they stood, it seemed for a moment that they wanted Lurbak to lose, he was not a good captain to them, and the chance of seeing him killed would give the others hope that they might become the next leader.

There was a sound like a weapon striking armour, and Faramir swiftly looked back to where his brother was fighting. All was still, and even the other Orcs seemed paralysed with confusion over who had won. Faramir felt as if time itself had stopped, and had to force himself to break the spell and throw himself down beside the two bodies.

Both lay still, and for a moment Faramir feared both Lurbak and his brother had been slain in the struggle. There was no doubt Lurbak was dead. A great patch of dark blood gradually soaked the back of his clothes. And though he would have liked to feel pity for the Orc, Lurbak's deep hatred and malice had destroyed any compassion Faramir could have felt for him upon his death. With a great effort, he pushed the giant Orc's dead body away from his brother. To his delight and overwhelming relief, Boromir lay on his back, breathing hard with Gorburg's small knife stained with Lurbak's blood clutched in his hand.

"Boromir!" Faramir cried, tremendous relief clear in his voice. He reached out his hand to his big brother and pulled him to his feet. Boromir swayed uneasily, his eyes still fixed on Lurbak's dead body.

Faramir gripped his brother by the shoulders, trying to shake him out of his reverie, "It had to be done," he said firmly, mistaking Boromir's silent triumph for regret.

Boromir glanced quickly over his shoulder. The Orcs were beginning to band together, recovering from their momentary confusion. "Hurry!" Faramir hauled on Boromir's arm, moving before his brother could resist.

Faramir ran back towards the cave, pulling on Boromir's hand to make him move. They reached the tunnel entrance and plunged into the antechamber before Boromir could even wonder why they were not running in the opposite direction to home.

The antechamber quickly split into two passages. The one on the left being the tunnel the Orcs had taken them up through for the fight. The right, the wider of the two, being the original entrance the two boys had used upon their first entry.

Faramir pushed his brother to the right, thrusting his sword into Boromir's hands.

"Wait, Faramir," Boromir breathed, leaning heavily against the wall to support his leg. "What are we doing here? We must get away . . now . . before the Orcs return."

Faramir was already backing towards the left passage. "Hide in the tunnel entrance until they have passed," he said quickly, pressing one hand over his sore ribs. "Then you must destroy the supports for the left tunnel. We will trap them inside their own caves!"

Boromir stood for a moment in shock, thousands of possible disasters filling his mind. But Faramir was already passing into the passage. "Once more you must trust me! It is worth the risk." The voice echoed through the darkness, as Faramir disappeared, "Father would kill us anyway if we returned without it."

Boromir's heart ached as he realised the real reason for Faramir's return.

"Faramir!" he yelled, "Faramir!" There was no reply. With a cry of anger and frustration Boromir slammed his fist into the wall. The pain cleared his mind and helped him to focus and control his breathing. He slunk into the darkness of the right-hand tunnel, following his brother's instructions however foolish he thought them.

The Horn, the cursed Horn! It wasn't worth the risk! They could have been half way home by now. Agh . . . Faramir and his stubborn ide. . .

But the Orcs were coming, swarming towards the entrance like flies to a dead animal. Boromir pressed himself closer to the rock wall and forced himself to breathe silently as they thundered through the mouth of the tunnel. As Faramir had supposed, they immediately took the left passage.

The wider right-hand passage, Boromir realised, was never actually used by the cave's inhabitants. It was a trap, a decoy, a deception he himself had been fooled by. Never again. They would seal off the tunnels so no other innocent travellers would be taken in.

The Orcs passed him by without so much as a glance. Boromir was just about to move from his hiding place when another Orc came stumbling through. Gorburg. The blind Orc, not having his sight to guide him, had fallen behind. With a burning recollection of Gorburg's expression as he claimed revenge upon Faramir, Boromir moved from his hiding place.

"Gorburg," Boromir said softly as he neared the Orc. Gorburg spun around, realising how vulnerable he was without his sight. Boromir moved swiftly to the left, driving Faramir's sword into the shoulder of the unsuspecting Orc. Gorburg howled in pain and fear, reaching out for his attacker. Boromir drew back, adrenalin giving him more strength than he would have thought possible. He moved carefully, so as not to injure his leg further. Gorburg swiped wildly at the air about him and Boromir watched, enjoying the Orc's fear.

There was an angry shout from the dark passage behind Gorburg. Boromir cursed himself for forgetting his duty. The tunnel, it must be destroyed! Boromir lunged forward and struck the Orc cleanly through the heart. A merciful death, Boromir thought with a grim smile as the body slumped to the ground, as Faramir would have wanted it.

Boromir moved into the left tunnel, dragging his leg after him. He studied the wooden supports that lined the tunnel. They were weak and rotten. Boromir chose a medium sized support, he had to be sure it would take down the whole tunnel.

Taking a deep breath, he swung the sword at the post. The blade cut deep into the rotten wood, splitting it almost through. Boromir stumbled backwards as a fine powder began to spill from the roof, followed by tiny pebbles. A great tearing, splintering sound ripped through the tunnel as the post snapped and crashed to the ground. Boromir only just had time to dive out of the way as it hit the floor. A shower of rocks and dirt thundered from the roof, and scrambling to his feet, Boromir ran from the tunnel.

A cloud of dust burst from the enclosed space. Boromir just stood for a moment, staring at the wreckage of what might be his brother's last hope of escape.

A moment later Boromir was moving down the right-hand passage. Using the wall as support, he forced himself to forget the pain in his leg and keep moving. He had to be careful this time, well remembering what had happened last time he ventured into this same tunnel. As the floor grew gradually steeper, Boromir made himself slow down despite his anxiety for Faramir.

He had taken too long! If only he had left Gorburg be and destroyed the tunnel at once. He tried not to think of how he could possibly lift Faramir from the Orc's chambers. Without his full strength he doubted his ability to support Faramir's weight.

But still he moved on. When, at last, the passages on either side of the path disappeared, and slope increased more than ever, Boromir drew to a halt and listened intently.

"Keep back!" Faramir's voice shouted, and to Boromir it seemed less than a few metres away. A flicking light illuminated the floor before him and Boromir carefully avoided the slippery sand in the centre of the path.

"What are you going to do, boy?" one of the Orcs laughed, "your brother's not here to protect you now!" Boromir cringed and lowered himself carefully to a sitting position. He may have neglected to protect Faramir in the past, but he was here now, and that was what mattered.

He crawled to the edge, peering over to the room below. Faramir stood against the wall just below him, painfully reminiscent of their position several days before. He wielded a flaming torch that seemed at least to be keeping the Orcs far enough away.

But still Boromir could see no clear way of lifting Faramir up.
The Orcs moved ever closer and Faramir was forced to back further against the wall . . .

He was trapped. But it was a risk he had been willing to take. He had kept imagining the look of Denethor's face if they had returned without the Horn. It was a symbol of greatness for the ruling stewards. The people of Gondor might have preferred a King, but until that day came, the Horn represented their right to rule. Generations of ruling Stewards had kept it safe, and Faramir was not going to let it be said his brother was the weak link of the family.

The flaming torch was burning closer to his hand now, he could feel its heat upon his skin. So far it had kept the Orcs back, but not for much longer. He had given Boromir his sword, that had been necessary to collapse the tunnel. Faramir had seized one of the torches from the walls out of pure desperation. He hated the flame and would have preferred any other weapon to this.

Faramir sensed a presence behind him. Boromir had come! He risked a quick glance behind, and sure enough Boromir was lying flat on his stomach on the path above. The Horn! Ducking to avoid a flying spear, Faramir swept the Horn from the ground and threw it up to Boromir's waiting arms.

The Orcs, following the path of the Horn, realised Boromir's position. As Faramir had suspected, the Orcs holding spears had turned their attention to the higher ground, sending a volley of weapons to the path above. Boromir drew back from the edge, barely escaping the deadly attack.

Blocking a sword thrust, Faramir wondered desperately whether his brother would understand the significance of what had happened. When Boromir's head reappeared Faramir knew he had not.

"Boromir, the spears! The spears!" he shouted, making another sweep with the fiery torch. Realisation dawned in his brother's eyes and he was gone again, scrambling back from the edge.

Turning back to the fight, Faramir saw how little time he had left. He now had hardly enough room to manoeuvre, and despite the fire holding the Orcs back, he could not defend everywhere at once. They were closing in on him, slowly but effectively.

He cried out suddenly as the flame from the torch singed his hand. The handle was suddenly burning hot, the flame so close to his fingers that he could no longer keep his grip. The torch slipped from his grasp and hit the cave floor, sending shower of sparks up from the ground.

Faramir jumped back at once, moving as far as he could away from the fire and the Orcs until his back touched the wall. Boromir was above him, he hoped, and would soon have a tool to lift him up by. But there was no more time! The Orcs had finally run out of spears, giving Boromir the opportunity to move, but that also meant there were more Orcs for Faramir to contend with.

The Orcs had chosen their new leader, and it was he who stepped over the dying torch towards the wall. Faramir shrank back as far as he could, feeling utterly vulnerable and defenceless without a weapon. Then, as Faramir watched with eyes wide open in fear, the Orc's hand darted out towards his neck. He threw himself to the side, but the Orc managed to catch hold of his shirt and he was dragged upright again.

"Lurbak was a fool!" the Orc told him, lifting a knife close to his face, "don't think I'll make the same mistake."

The knife moved downwards, and Faramir gasped out loud as he felt the cold metal slide into his shoulder. The pain was both ice and fire, it tore through his body as the Orc dragged the weapon slowly across towards his heart.

There was a terrible cry from above, and turning his face to the side Faramir felt the rush of air as the spear flew downwards and into the heart of the Orc. The creature fell heavily, its knife wrenched from Faramir's shoulder as it fell. Faramir almost sunk to the ground with relief, but Boromir had lowered the shaft of a spear to pull him up, just one final effort.

Faramir gripped the spear in both hands, breathing in uneven sobs as Boromir hauled on the other end. He could not climb, and had to rely of Boromir having the strength to lift him. The Orcs rushed forwards, reaching for his legs and ankles. Faramir tried to kick out at the clutching hands, but just as one caught hold of his ankle, Boromir's hand closed about his own. His brother was telling him to let go of the spear, to trust him, but Faramir's mind whirled and he did not hear anything. A last heave from Boromir dislodged the hand clutching his foot and pulled him up to the level of the upper path.

Faramir felt Boromir grab him under the arms and lift him up and over the edge, away from the Orcs and to safety at last. Faramir just kneeled there for several minutes, shaking from exhaustion and relief. Boromir did not speak for a moment, and looking up Faramir saw his face was pale and sick looking.

"Come on," Boromir breathed, "They may find a way to climb the wall."

Fear raced through Faramir at the thought. But climbing to his feet, he extended his good arm to Boromir, helping him rise to his feet.

They stumbled back up the passage, being cautious not to slip on the sand. Boromir laid an arm on Faramir's good shoulder to support his leg as they moved.

They came at last to the place where the passage grew level and Faramir stopped. "My sword," he asked, reaching across Boromir for his weapon. "Move further along, I will join you shortly."

It took Faramir three swings of his sword to hack through the thick wood of the support beam, and even when he had done so the tunnel still did not collapse. The wood splintered where Faramir had cut it, and a deep groaning noise sounded overhead. Quickly, he ran up the tunnel, arriving at the place his brother was waiting. There was a tremendous crash from behind as the supports finally gave way. A cloud of dirt and rocks filled the thin passage and Boromir and Faramir found themselves coughing.

One hand holding his straining ribs, Faramir thought of the horrible death they had condemned the Orcs to in their own caves. He shuddered, but feeling the burning pain in his shoulder return, knew that it had to have been done. The Orcs would ambush no more innocent travellers, they had seen to that.

When their coughs had died down, and all was quiet once more, Faramir took his brother's arm and together they left the caves into the dark night.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A chill wind swept the base of the mountains north of Minas Tirith as two dark figures made their way towards the city. The night air was icy to the skin and Faramir found himself shivering. But, he was more concerned about Boromir than about himself, the coughing had become worse, and Faramir was having to support more and more weight as his brother grew weaker.

At last it was clear they could go no further. They were close to the city, even the dim lights of the Tower could be seen on the horizon. But Boromir's condition had taken another turn for the worse and they could travel no further that night.

"If only we could find some place out of the wind," Faramir said, "we could rest and you could recover your strength." Boromir did not answer, he had not spoken for over an hour. All his strength had to be regained for simply moving.

Faramir had been watching the wall to their right for some time now, hoping he might spot some shelter. But his eyes had been unusually dim in the past days, and in his mind he kept feeling the stinging pain caused by the cuts near his eyes. Gorburg had been intent on gaining revenge, what if his eyes had somehow been damaged by the blows?

But if he could not see, for whichever reason, he would have to find a place to shelter using his other senses. He guided Boromir over towards the wall, easing him down gently onto a tuft of course grass. Then he set to work searching for a wind-break. He discovered a large rock that was on a right angle to the cliff face. If they were to sit in the corner made by the cliff and the rock, they might just be out of the wind. He went quickly back to Boromir, wrapping his arms tight about himself from cold.

"Faramir?" Boromir groaned as he was helped to an upright position.

"Yes, Boromir. I have found somewhere we can be out of the wind. You must help me now, just one last effort."

"One last effort," Boromir repeated slowly, and although Faramir could hardly see his brother's face, he knew there was determination in his eyes.

It took almost five minutes for Faramir to help his brother to their little alcove. And when at last they collapsed behind the wind barrier Boromir was unconscious. Faramir had recovered his cloak from the Orc cave before they had fell upon him, and taking it off he laid it over his brother's still body.

Loneliness and fear flooded over him as he sat shivering in the dark. His eyesight was darker than ever, the only thing he could see being Boromir's pale face. Faramir laid a hand on his forehead, it was cold and wet with perspiration.

Something else caught Faramir's eye, something just bright enough for him to see. He reached out, curious as to its identity. His fingers closed over the smooth silver binding of the Horn. He lifted it carefully into his lap, wondering whether the Horn of Gondor, blown close to Minas Tirith, would truly bring them aid.

Doubt suddenly consumed him. The Horn belonged to Boromir, it was his by right. Faramir would feel wrong using it for himself. A glance at his brother told him that Boromir would probably never get the chance to blow the Horn if help did not come soon. If it was a matter of choosing between his brother's life and the dishonour of taking what was not his, Boromir came first every time.

He raised the mighty horn to his lips, feeling it tremble with anticipation as he tried to hold it steady. The note was clear and long, sounding out over the empty plains like the call of morning to a sleepy town.

Silence followed. Faramir lowered the Horn to the ground, resting his head in his hands. There was nothing he could do now but wait and prey that help would come.
 

Dawn was creeping slowly towards the horizon. He had ridden through much of the night, feeling a slight uneasiness about what he would find upon reaching the White City. It was at least ten years since he had entered Minas Tirith, and the memories of the last visit still weighed upon his mind.

He had arrived to find the lady of the city, Finduilas, on the point of death, suffering from an illness that seemed to be almost self-inflicted. She had been a gentle lady who had such a strange connection to the sea that it reminded him of the way Elves would long for the Ocean. He had tried to help her, but seeing that only her own will to return to the world would bring her back, knew there was nothing he could do. She had died soon after, leaving her husband with the care of her two sons. He had left the city then, for although it was not spoken of, he knew Denethor blamed him for not being able to save his wife.

So it was that he dreaded entering the city. He feared Denethor's despair over the death of his wife might have weakened his rule enough to let the city decay and weaken. A shadow grew in east, and Minas Tirith would have to bear the brunt of the assault if war came to the free people of Middle Earth. If they were not guided by a strong, wise hand then all of the land would be laid open to powers of darkness.

He had heard tidings in Edoras of the Steward and his sons. Denethor was still in charge of the city, and had two potential heirs for the day he could no longer carry on his duty. There was hope for Gondor in this, and even more if fate played its hand right and brought the king back to his rightful place.

It was strange that upon his last visit to the city, he had heard unexpectedly of a man, dark haired, stern and resolute, who had served the previous Steward until his death four years previous. The man had been named Thorongil, called so because of the star of rangers he wore . . .

He had chuckled when he heard of this, for although Denethor had hated the man, had he known that Thorongil was actually destined to rise higher than himself, Thorongil would not have been free to roam the lands of Gondor, nor return to his childhood home in the west.

In his heart, he was sure that the king would return, either in Denethor's reign or his son's. He had a feeling the Steward would like him even less if he had known the part he had played in bringing it about.

Denethor had trained his elder son from the time he was a small child. Denethor would see Boromir take his place as Steward, even the return of the king would not prevent it in his eyes.

He took his mind back to the last time he had seen the sons of Denethor. Boromir had been strong and stubborn even then, in the face of their mother's death. He had repeated over and over that she would not die, that she could not. In some ways it had crushed his faith to see he could do nothing to prevent her death. He would make a valiant steward in times of war, but there was some doubt over whether he held the deep wisdom of his forebears.

In this respect Faramir had appeared to have the advantage over his brother. Even at such a young age his perceptiveness had amazed those around him. He had seen the truth about his mother's illness more clearly than his brother or father. He had seen the loneliness in her heart and accepted, in the end, that there was nothing that could bring her back to them.

He thought for a moment. Ten years. Such a long time in the years of men. The sons of Denethor would almost be grown up by now. Boromir would be almost twenty years old, ready to take over his full duties in the city.

As the sun glittered on the horizon, he glimpsed the tower of Ecthelion in the north. It was a spectacular sight, and at that moment his fears for the safety of Minas Tirith faded. Without his worries he felt suddenly tired, realising how long he had been riding. He knew that upon entering the city it was duty to go first to Denethor, but found himself unwilling to do so. It would be easier, he thought, to rest here for a moment, and go on when his strength had returned.

Now resolved to do so, he rained in his horse towards the mountain face to his right and dismounted. Leading his horse to one of the rocks close to the cliff, he gave a small start. Behind the rock, upon the cold ground, lay a body.

Tethering his horse quickly, he moved towards the small form. The body was unmoving, and he feared he may have come too late. He sighed, wondering what cruel fate could have let one so young die within sight of his city.

Something suddenly caught his eye, a glimmer of silver caught by the rays of the rising sun. It was clutched in the child's fingers but he could still see it for what it was. The Horn of the stewards! There could be little doubt over the identity of its owner. But what would Boromir of Gondor be doing away from his city at night?

With a start he realised there was another body lying beneath that of the first. A grey cloak was draped over the still form, and from the features of the pale face he could see the strength and pride that lay beneath them. It was Boromir, though much changed from the innocent child he had known over ten years before.

He furrowed his brows with worry, if this were Boromir, then . . . Reaching forward he gently lifted the other child's chest from where he had slumped over Boromir.

"Faramir," he said gently, pushing the boy's shoulders back to rest against the rock behind him. "Wake, son of Denethor. Your brother needs your help now."

The eyes flew open at the words, and he knew his guess to be correct. The same grey eyes stared at him in confusion, just as his mother had done all those years ago.

"Mithrandir?" The voice was soft, almost wary. These two had been through much, he could see, but through it all the child's judgement had remained sound. The boy's eyes lit up with full recognition. "Mithrandir you have come back!"

Gandalf smiled. It was nice to know he was remembered fondly by someone. "Yes, Faramir. I am here." Gandalf nodded, "But come, we must bring your brother home to Denethor. He will be worried about you." Faramir seemed to cringe at the mention of his father, and Gandalf's heart sank.

He had feared it was so. Even from this small reaction, Gandalf perceived that Denethor's relationship with his younger son was not as he had hoped. He bent over Boromir, carefully drawing Faramir's cloak away from the body. The young man was as pale as death, and even in sleep his face was marked with lines of pain.

"They left the spear-head in his leg," Faramir told him in a pained voice. Gandalf did not need to ask who 'they' were. From the red cuts on Faramir's face, the way he was holding his ribs and the large prints he had seen further north, it was clear that Goblins were involved.

Replacing the cloak over Boromir, he turned to younger and asked, "How did this happen?"

Faramir met his gaze without flinching, and Gandalf found himself surprised at the depth of understanding in the child's eyes. "It was my fault," he said after a moment. "I was upset after losing a duel to Boromir. He . . he was trying to make me feel better. We went exploring and . . ." He stopped, swallowing hard. "We fell into their cave . . . Boromir took the spear for me . . ," Gandalf ran a worried hand through his beard as Faramir blinked back tears. "It should have been me . . ."

"Do not think that," Gandalf said gently, reaching down to lift Boromir to the horse. "Your brother wanted to protect you. He could not have borne it if you had been harmed."

Faramir nodded, moving an unconscious hand to his shoulder. Gandalf saw at once that the sleeve was soaked with blood. Rising to his feet with Boromir held in his arms, the wizard whistled quietly to his horse who stood very still while Boromir was placed in his saddle.

"Climb up behind your brother, if you wish," Gandalf said kindly. "You can hold him in the saddle for me."

But Faramir's shrewd judgement had told him that Gandalf was only comforting, "I shall walk," he said determinably. "I will only be in the way if I ride."

Gandalf did not reply. He knew how proud Denethor could be, it was probable his sons had been brought up the same way. "I cannot do anything to heal him here. We must take him to the healers in Minas Tirith."

Faramir nodded, blinking slightly as if to clear his eyes, and trailed after Gandalf as he led the horse towards the tower on the horizon.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The sun had finally risen, and Gandalf could see the faces of his companions more clearly. They were both dirty and dishevelled. Boromir's wound had festered, and in the morning light Gandalf could see dark bruises on the skin of Faramir's bare arms. It had been some time since they had run into the Orcs, several days at the least. He was surprised they were still alive.

From what he had gathered from Faramir's broken speech, the Orcs had discovered the identity of their captives. That could have made it worse, Gandalf thought, but then again it was probably their relation to Denethor that had kept them alive. Gandalf wanted to know how they had escaped, and what had become of the Orcs. But Faramir seemed reluctant to speak on the subject and the wizard did not press him.

They were in sight of the outer wall of the city when Faramir suddenly tripped and fell hard. He lay there for a moment, seemingly stunned, then refusing help from Gandalf struggled to his feet. Within a few minutes he fell again, and this time Gandalf drew the horse to a halt and knelt by the fallen child.

"We must go on," Faramir insisted, crawling to his knees once more. "Boromir needs a healer. It is just the darkness, I will be more careful."

Darkness? The sun was rising in the sky, the ground lit by golden light. Gandalf felt worry flood through him. "Faramir. Faramir, look at me." The boy's eyes seemed strangely out of focus, he did not seem to be able to look him in the eyes. "Faramir . . . Can you see me?"

"A little. The darkness makes it hard to see." Faramir's voice shook slightly, he had realised something was very wrong.

"I think it is time for you to ride," Gandalf said gently, so not to frighten the boy. "We will arrive more quickly that way." With a moment of thought, Faramir consented and Gandalf was helping him up to sit behind his brother.

Wondering what other surprises his visit could hold, Gandalf moved slowly towards the white city. Ahead, the tower of Ecthelion was glimmering in the golden light, the white banner of the stewards fluttering proudly in the morning breeze.

Rain had begun to fall as Gandalf entered to city, and now from his seat in the Houses of Healing, he could see the grey drizzle and the menacing clouds looming outside. The room was almost empty. And upon the only two beds occupied lay the sons of the Steward. Denethor had been sent for and would come directly, however Gandalf was not looking forward to that encounter. He had been sitting beside the boys' bedsides for more than a quarter of an hour, quietly smoking his pipe. He shifted slightly, resettling himself as he waited. The matron bustled in and glared at the soft rings of smoke that flowed from his glowing pipe. Gandalf lowered his bushy eyebrows, settling further into his chair and pretending he was asleep. The healers of Minas Tirith were renown for their strict vigilance.

Gandalf had entered the outer defences of the city just as the people of Minas Tirith were waking. To his surprise he had been met almost immediately by a company of the city guard dispatched expressly to resume the search for the boys who were then slumped upon the Wizard's horse. To Gandalf's slight annoyance, the captain of the guard, whose name he had not caught, had ordered the Wizard to be relieved of his charges at once.

By the time Gandalf discovered the location of his night time companions, they had already been made comfortable in the Houses of Healing. It was probable Denethor would wish to move his sons to more personal quarters in the future, but for now they were receiving the best treatment the healers of Minas Tirith could provide.

Both boys were asleep, and Gandalf was glad of it. They deserved a thorough rest after all they had been through. Gandalf also felt more than unusually weary. And he had just closed his eyes, to try and gather his strength before the arrival of the Steward, when there was a gentle touch upon his hand.

Gandalf looked down to find Faramir's hand upon his own. The boy seemed deathly pale against the white sheets, as did his brother on Gandalf's left. Studying Faramir's eyes intently for a moment, Gandalf noted the still dark, blackish colour of his pupils.

"Who . . ? Where . . . where is Boromir?" he asked slowly.

"You are in the Houses of Healing," the Wizard smiled comfortingly, "as is your brother. Rest now, son of Denethor, you have done well." Faramir relaxed slightly, sinking back into the soft sheets.

"I have sent for your father," Gandalf said, "he will be pleased to see both his sons returned home safely." If it were possible, Faramir's face became even paler. He struggled to sit up straight. Gandalf, somewhat surprised by his reaction, laid a care-worn hand on the boy's shoulder and eased him back onto the pillow.

"How are your eyes?" Gandalf asked, doing his best to avert the boy's attention from the thought of his father. It was not his place to pry into the family matters of the Steward's house.

"I can see . . . a little, but everything is out of focus somehow." Gandalf found himself unable to look away from the insistent gaze. "Please Mithrandir . . . please tell me what ails my sight."

The Wizard sighed heavily, feeling more uncomfortable than he had for a long time. He had looked into Faramir's memory as he slept[1], and seen much of what had taken place within the Orcs' caverns. But it had given him little or no clue as to what had affected the boy's sight so long after the wounds had been inflicted.

"It is a good thing to see a little of your vision has returned," Gandalf began. "I do not believe there will be permanent damage. We shall see . . . However, I am interested in how long the poison took to effect your sight."

"A slow working poison perhaps," Faramir suggested, "such as the type used on some arrowheads."

"Hmm," Gandalf nodded. "You may be right. But for the present we must wait and watch. The healers have done what they can for you, and I believe it was done just in time. Another few hours and . . . well . . . I will only say that even a Wizard could not see the consequences."

Faramir raised his eyebrows slightly at the revelation, "I believed that Wizards knew everything."

Gandalf chuckled at the thought. "Even Gandalf the Grey does not understand all things, young Faramir! And you would do well to remember it the next time you and your brother feel like an adventure!"

Faramir laughed, "It was Boromir's idea! You should be telling him this advice, not me!"

Gandalf was about to reply when he heard voices echoing in the corridor. The door swung open to reveal Denethor and the matron who seemed to be plaguing the Steward for an increase of staff. Gandalf could not help smiling at Denethor's bewildered reaction, and the matron who scuttled away from her Lord's angry reproach.

The Steward stepped slowly into the room, his sharp gaze taking in the wizard sitting close to the bed, the fading smile on his younger son's face, and his elder son lying alone and pale upon the other bed.

Gandalf rose swiftly from his chair, setting his pipe down carefully on the bedside table.

"Mithrandir," Denethor acknowledged the Wizard's presence with a cold glare. The Steward's voice seemed to crush the pleasant atmosphere of a moment ago, and make the Houses seem empty and cold.

"Lord Denethor," Gandalf bowed his head slightly, realising that he would receive no gratitude from the Steward for his part in the safe return of both his sons.

The formalities over, Denethor moved past the first bed, bypassing the wizard and his second son, and going straight to the bed where Boromir lay. Denethor had aged considerably since Gandalf had seen him last. And he was sure the trauma last few days had done nothing to help this. Gandalf noted the flicker of concern that passed over the Steward's face upon seeing the pale face of his son.

He took it upon himself to put the man's mind as rest. "Young Boromir has had an exciting few days," he said, deciding to try the whimsical approach.

Denethor replied with a look of such scorn that Gandalf decided against pleasantries, "The healers have already removed the spear-head from his leg. The wound will heal quickly now there is nothing to aggravate it."

Denethor gently touched the bandage upon Boromir's brow. "Just a small knock," Gandalf told him, "Faramir said it has not at all affected his mind."

Denethor glanced over his shoulder for a moment, taking in the state of his other son. His shrewd stare did not miss the wounds crossing his son's face, or the strange un-focused gaze the boy set upon him.

There was an uncomfortable silence in which Gandalf retrieved his pipe from the table. The noise of the rain outside and the thunder over head seemed to annoy Denethor, and finally he said, "I would speak to you over breakfast, Mithrandir. There is much to be discussed. Perhaps you would consent to coming to my personal chambers after you have refreshed yourself."

"Certainly," Gandalf nodded. With a last look at Boromir, Denethor turned and left without another word.

Gandalf was not surprised, nor much more when Faramir began to justify his father's unsociable mood, "You must pardon my father, Mithrandir. He is not himself this morning. I am sure he will give you his full appreciation over breakfast."

"No doubt he will," Gandalf smiled reassuringly. "But now you, young man, must get some rest so you will have enough strength to be up and about when your brother wakes."

Faramir looked over to the other bed for a moment, squinting his eyes in an effort to focus on his brother."

"Farewell, son of Denethor. I look forward to seeing Boromir and yourself well." Gandalf opened the door, and shut it softly behind him. Denethor was waiting.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They ate in silence, Gandalf maintaining a calm exterior. However long it had been since the Wizard ate, he could not now feel hungry.

After some time had passed, Denethor laid his knife upon the table with a clang and fixed his eyes on the Wizard across from him. "What is your errand in Gondor this time, Mithrandir?" he asked with a touch of scorn. Gandalf knew that by 'this time' Denethor was referring to the unpleasantness that had arisen from his last visit. "It appears my family are in constant peril when you choose to come to Minas Tirith. It is almost as though the danger follows you, as a cat does a mouse."

Gandalf bit back a harsh reply. Their conversation had barely started, and already the Steward had provoked him to anger. "I have been compared to many things in my time, Lord. But none so lowly as a mouse! Do you feel no gratitude for the return of both your sons?"

Denethor's mouth twisted cruelly, "You may seek praise and reward for your part in his homecoming, Mithrandir. But both of us know you had naught to do with it!"

"You realise that Boromir might have died from cold and fever had I not found them?" Gandalf began in disbelief. "That Faramir's sight may have been damaged for life?"

"What 'may' have happened to Faramir is not my concern." Gandalf was slightly shocked by the coldness of the words. "None of this would have taken place were it not for that boy's foolishness. Does he even realise how close Boromir came to his death? What would Minas Tirith done without her son?" Gandalf realised how much worry and fatigue Denethor must have endured while his sons were missing, but could not excuse the Steward's misplaced blame.

"I say to you, Steward of Gondor, that Faramir is no more to blame for this than his brother, or you yourself!" He lowered his voice and said with a sigh, "None are to blame for such occurrences, and you should only be thankful that both your sons had the strength of heart to bring each other home."

"You believe I do not care for them, is it not so?" Denethor's tone dared the Wizard to disagree. "You think I have a heart of stone, because I sit here while they lie injured in the common Houses. But you do not understand me, or how the last days have tortured me! They are my sons! My sons."

"I do not accuse you of not loving your sons," Gandalf said, "I know as well as any other man in this city what they mean to you. Boromir especially."

Denethor's expression turned sour once more. "You criticise me for favouring Boromir, and yet today you saw the reason. I heard the Horn high on the morning breeze, Boromir was calling to me! It was he, he brought them home!"

Gandalf said nothing. He saw again the silver Horn clasped tightly in Faramir's hand, and was at a loss as to what he should do. How would Denethor react if he knew Boromir had not been the one to blow the horn?

He was considering what to say, when Denethor looked in the direction of the chamber door, and called, "Faramir. You may enter."

It was an order rather than an invitation. The door opened slowly and Denethor's younger son entered. Gandalf was not surprised at Denethor's strange intuition. Faramir was dressed entirely in white, and Gandalf wondered how he had escaped the clutches of the healers. Holding one hand to his bandaged chest, he bowed respectfully to his father and moved into the room.

"You have been listening?" Denethor questioned sternly, as Faramir struggled to make his way to a seat on his father's left. "How much did you hear?"

Gandalf reached up and guided Faramir's hand to the seat of the chair. The boy's arm was trembling, whether through fatigue or some other cause Gandalf could not tell. "Very little," Faramir replied, attempting to recover his self-control. "I am sorry, I did not mean to intrude."

Denethor narrowed his eyes in mistrust, but pushed the plate of bread towards his son. "How long is it since you have eaten?" he asked.

Faramir's eyes misted over for a moment of recollection. "Not since the morning of my duel with Boromir. They gave us nothing." the voice was very flat, disguising any emotion. Very wise, Gandalf thought, studying the boy's face. He knew Faramir must have heard more of their conversation than he had admitted. The boy knew there would be no sympathy to be gained from Denethor.

"Perhaps I may take some bread to the Houses for when Boromir awakens," Faramir asked, rising slightly from his chair. Denethor nodded, dismissing him. Faramir transferred several slices of bread onto a smaller plate, and with a small glace at Gandalf, moved towards the door.

Gandalf turned back to Denethor, ready to resume their conversation, when the Steward suddenly started in his chair. There was a crash from his left and a small cry of pain.

Bread was scattered upon the floor, and Faramir lay in the midst of it, clutching his hand to his ribs. Gandalf rose quickly and moved towards the prostrate form. Denethor stayed where he was. Faramir rose to his feet with the old Wizard's help, and with a fearful glance at the spilt food and the dark face of his father, he left the room.

Gandalf moved calmly back to the table, resuming his smoking as if nothing had happened.

"Carelessness," Denethor said coldly. But Gandalf smiled under his beard, for he had seen the Steward's initial reaction, and could see that under all the proud and hateful past, there was genuine concern.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The two opponents lowered their heads, first to the Lord of the city, and then to each other. The fight had begun!

Boromir was the first off the mark, his extensive training having taught him to strike first and defend afterwards. Faramir was slower and more cautious. One thing the seemingly endless weeks of recovery had taught him was not to act rashly or overstep the mark. It was better for him to rely on his own strength rather than try to combat his brother's.

And this was also true in life. There was no way he could raise himself to Boromir's standard through trying to win against him. If he were ever to gain the respect he so desperately desired, he would have to do it through simply being himself. One day perhaps, when Boromir's strong presence did not cast such a shadow over him, he might be able to shake off the view that he was only the brother of the future steward, and be respected for his own qualities[2].

He parried the blow with some difficulty, the wound on his shoulder where the Orc's blade had cut him was still burdensome. Both he and Boromir had been advised not to fight, but Faramir had encouraged the event. Because it was where it had all begun, and where, he hoped, it would end.

Pressing his attack, Boromir was becoming frustrated with his inability to break through Faramir's defence. "You have improved," he said, before lunging forwards in another fierce attack.

Faramir, surprised by Boromir who had always concentrated solely on the fight, failed to recognise that the attack had been feigned. The blade slipped beneath his own, and trying to avoid the blow, Faramir sprang backwards. Boromir's sword came at him again, and this time he did not have time to even raise his weapon. He tripped backwards, landing heavily. Another moment and his sword was struck from his hand.

Looking up into the face of his brother, amidst the cheering of the crowd, Faramir felt as though he had never seen so clearly in all his life. After so many weeks with blurred vision and impeded movement he had become pessimistic that he would ever see clearly again.

But Gorburg had failed, losing his life to Boromir's hand in the process. For Faramir's sight had returned, slowly and frustratingly. But a few days ago he had been able to show Boromir, through reading allowed a passage of text, that he could finally see!

He smiled slightly as Boromir reached down a steady hand to pull him to his feet. His brother was grinning broadly. He too had recovered quickly after Gandalf had brought them home. Denethor still did not know it had been Faramir who had blown the Horn, and Faramir preferred it that way. Boromir would have told their father, if he had not been begged not to. Gandalf had also kept his secret, for surely the old Wizard had seen which one of them had been holding the Horn.

Boromir raised a hand to the crowd, forcing Faramir to do the same. The crowd cheered, but at that moment Faramir did not hear them. A sort of calm had come over him. An equanimity. He smiled.

To others it seemed he, like his brother, was looking to his father. But in truth Faramir's eyes were focused beyond the face of the Steward. To where, at the back of the hall, stood an old man in a grey cloak, with twinkling eyes.