“One day, our paths will lead us there, and the Tower Guard shall take up the call, ‘the Lords of Gondor have returned!’ – Boromir to Aragorn, in Peter Jackson's film, The Fellowship of the Ring

“... they blew a great fanfare, and the heralds cried aloud: ‘The Lords of Gondor have returned...’” -- Return of the King "The Black Gate Opens"

*******

The hill was steep, and strewn with moss-covered relics of Gondor from days of old. Boromir spared no glance for them; they meant nothing to him now except as obstructions in his path, hindrances to his progress. Fear drove him up the hill -- fear that he would be too late to do anything but take his revenge. He no longer thought of redeeming himself in the eyes of his companions, or of fulfilling his vow to the Ringbearer.  His only thought was for Merry and Pippin, and for their safety.

Aragorn had been right to fear Orcs on the western shore; Boromir had already met a few of them, in his search for the wayward hobbits. They had proved no match for his fierce anger fueled by despair, but the little ones would have no such protection -- if they even realized their danger. They sought Frodo, and would be oblivious to all else, until it was too late.

He paused briefly, to listen for sounds of pursuit. All was quiet.  He could hear nothing on the breeze. No, wait... what was that? He jerked his head up and tried to catch the elusive sound. Had it been a cry for help?  
Whatever the sound might have been, it was swallowed up by another, which quickly grew in intensity as it came ever closer -- the clamor of myriad Orcs, grunting, growling and squealing hoarsely, and the crashing of heavy feet under the trees. Boromir leapt forward and ran with all his might, grimly pushing away the thought of what he might see when he topped the next rise of the hill.

Suddenly, the trees opened up, and he could see clearly ahead.  His worst fears were realized. Merry and Pippin stood at bay, watching stunned as hundreds of Orcs swarmed towards them, down the hillside from one direction, and through the trees from another. They were trapped and had nowhere to run. The hobbits stared helplessly as a huge Orc ran straight towards them, brandishing an ugly axe with a long curved blade.

Boromir's heart gave a great leap of fear as he realized he would not reach them in time -- but he must! Though his muscles burned and his breath caught in his lungs, he lengthened his stride and pumped his arms in a great effort to close the gap between himself and his friends.

He was closer now, close enough to see the hobbits' faces, and the fear in their eyes. Pippin stood as if mesmerized, hardly believing he was about to be sliced in two by an Orc blade; Merry stood irresolute, as if he wanted to act, but did not know what to do. Merry's eyes darted this way and that, looking for a way out. His eyes met Boromir's -- suddenly, unexpectedly -- and they widened.  Then Merry looked aside quickly, so as not to give Boromir away.

Feet pounding, cloak snapping behind him, Boromir ran; his face was implacable, set with determination. He would reach them in time -- he would not fail! As he drew level with Pippin, he tossed his blade aside and it stuck quivering in a pile of leaves -- a sword would do little now to stop the momentum of Orc and axe. He reached out with both hands just as the axe was swung downwards, blocking the blow. All his pent-up fear and anxiety rose in his throat, and he gave a great bellow of defiance as he wrested the axe away from the Orc. At the same time, he brought his knee up sharply and kicked out with his foot. The Orc fell back with a cry, and twisted sideways in pain. Boromir swung the axe up and down again with all his might, striking the Orc squarely in the back. Air rushed from punctured lungs with a strange sound like wind, and his foe fell dead.

Boromir dropped the axe, and, crouching, scooped up his sword. As he came out of his crouch, he reached behind and beneath his cloak, where his knife in its sheath was fastened. Drawing it quickly, he took aim and threw hard; the knife flew straight and true, impaling an Orc full in the throat.

Merry and Pippin had not been idle; they had their swords drawn and leapt to the attack. Their skill and ferocity was unexpected and took the Orcs by surprise. In a matter of moments, the Orcs in the first wave of the attack lay dead around them, and the rest were fleeing through the trees. They had a moment of peace in which to catch their breath.

Boromir laughed, suddenly and unexpectedly, and the forest rang with the sound. His laughter broke the tension that had gripped him since the moment he had come back to the waiting Company to find that Frodo had not returned, and realized that there would be no opportunity now to seek forgiveness from him for what had passed between them. Aragorn had then sent him after the little ones, and he had gone willingly, his fear for them choking him; against all odds, he had found Merry and Pippin in the vast forest, and had rescued them from certain death.

It was not much, but it went a little way towards easing the fierce knot of shame that burned in his heart because of what he had done to Frodo. Nothing would make that shame disappear, nothing short of death, but this small victory was enough to give him some passing relief from the pain.

He drew in a great gulp of air to settle his labored breathing and after retrieving his sword, he turned to the hobbits.  They stood gazing in wonder at the Orcs that lay dead all around them.

"So, I have found you, my hobbits! And in the nick of time, it would seem! You should not have run off so quickly, without Aragorn's leave.  But you fought well, and did not forget the lessons I taught you."

Boromir's face grew suddenly grave.

"Come quickly now; let us return before we are set upon once more. I fear we have not seen the last of this enemy. Follow me closely.  Let us not become separated again."

They had only gone a short distance on the way back to the lawn of Parth Galen, when Orcs were upon them once more, in even greater numbers than before. Boromir did not hesitate.  He turned and met the attack with fierce determination, and the woods rang with the sound of clashing swords. The forest floor was soon littered with the black bodies of the enemy.

At last a break in the onslaught gave him the opening he needed.  Grasping his Horn, Boromir blew three great blasts which rang among the trees, and echoed like a shout that could be heard even above the thunder of Rauros. The Orcs were dismayed, and drew back, hesitating.

It was only a moment's respite, but it was enough for Boromir to pause and collect his strength. Drawing a long, deep breath, he let it out again slowly, forcing himself to remain calm in spite of the imminent danger of another attack. Flexing his knees slightly to loosen his tense muscles, he swung his sword within his hand to test his grip, and swallowed his fear.

For he was indeed afraid. These were no ordinary Orcs he was facing, like those they had fought in Moria. These were Uruk-hai, a formidable breed of Orcish warriors bred by Sauron.  Tall as men and exceedingly strong, they fought ruthlessly by night or by day, for they did not fear the sunlight. He had met them before, many times -- in fighting on the bordors of Gondor, and at the line of defense in Osgiliath.

But what were they doing here, on this side of the River? Was the Enemy now in Rohan as well? Was the wizard Saruman involved in this attack somehow? Boromir felt a thrill of fear at the thought of Gondor caught between two enemies, threatened upon two sides...

Forget such thoughts! Boromir reminded himself sternly. There is little I can do now for Gondor, and the task at hand is quite sufficient! I will need all my wits about me if I am to save the little ones. These Uruk-hai shall not harm the hobbits, if I can prevent it! I have fought this foe many times in the past and this time is no different; I have been outnumbered before, and I have prevailed.

Then the brief moment of peace was over. The fierce call of the Horn had given the Uruk-hai pause, but now, as the echoes of its call died away unanswered, they hesitated no longer. Grinning and growling ferociously, the enemy advanced once more.

Boromir's face set grimly.

"Listen to me, Merry, Pippin," he said, without taking his eyes from the advancing enemy. "We shall prevail if we do not panic. Do as I say; if I tell you to stand, then stand. If I tell you to run, then run. If you run, do not look back."

He turned to face them. "Do you understand me?"

The hobbits nodded wordlessly.

"Good." Boromir looked each hobbit in the eye. He nodded once, briefly, before turning back to face the foe now approaching at a run. "Then we are ready. Let them come."

***

Aragorn sat in the high seat atop Amon Hen, and strove to see something -- anything -- that might help him better decide his course.  But there was nothing.  Nothing but a darkened sun and distant hills, and a great bird like an eagle on the horizon.

He sighed and rose from the stone chair, but before he could step down from it, his attention was caught by cries in the wood below, and he realized he had been hearing the sound for some time. With cold fear in his heart, Aragorn recognized the harsh sound of Orc voices.

Orcs! he thought. Orcs on the west side of the River! I feared something was amiss; alas, that I am proved right!

Suddenly the deep shout of a horn's call rang out, rising above the cries of the Orcs to echo in the surrounding hills.

"The horn of Boromir!" cried Aragorn aloud. "He is in need!"

He leapt down from the high seat and ran like the wind down the path. As he ran, the cries of the Orcs grew louder, but the horn's blowing sounded more and more faintly, until abruptly it ceased.

Aragorn quickened his pace, fearing he would come too late, dreading what he might find as he came to each turning in the path, and as he passed through each clearing in the trees. But he saw no one, not even the enemy.  The sound of them was always ahead of him, diminishing into the distance, until finally the forest was silent again, but for the pounding of his feet and the ever-present roar of the Falls.

***

The council chamber began to grow dark as the late afternoon sun set behind the mountains, and the shadows lengthened over the city of Minas Tirith. A chamberlain brought lamps and set them upon the long table, where Denethor sat bowed over maps of Gondor and Ithilien. Faramir stood beside his father's chair, leaning forward to look at a map, as he listened quietly to his father's instructions. He nodded to the chamberlain, and reached out to pull a lamp closer to the map they were studying.

"What think you of the garrison at Cair Andros?" asked Denethor, seeming not to notice the appearance of the lamps.

"It will do," replied Faramir. "The fortifications there are strong and well-manned. Boromir left the garrison there in good stead; the men are as stalwart and as ready as any of our forces. I wish we could spare some of them to strengthen the troops at Osgiliath..."

At the mention of Boromir's name, Denethor's head lifted, and he looked out across the room to a tall window that looked to the north. Faramir's words fell on deaf ears.

"Ah, Boromir!" Denethor murmured gruffly. "Why do you tarry? You should have come by now! We have such need of you!"

Faramir frowned.

"You speak as if you have had word of him, Father. Have you heard of his coming, and said nothing to me? Is there news of him, then?"

Denethor looked sidelong at Faramir, then shook his head.

"No, there has been no word, but for the feeling that I have in my heart that he is near."

Denethor turned on Faramir suddenly.

"Do you not think that I would know when my son, my Boromir, has set foot within the bounds of Gondor, his own country?" he demanded coldly. "He is here -- or near, at the least -- on the borders of our land.  He is coming. I know it."

Faramir put up a hand in an attempt to calm his father.

"Forgive me; I did not mean to question you. I was merely surprised to hear you speak so -- for I, too, have felt this, that my brother is coming soon. Yet I deemed it only wishful thinking..."

Faramir turned his gaze to the north-facing window and sighed.

If only he would return! Faramir thought. He did not know the same words rang at that moment within his father's heart.

They remained thus for a moment, united in their longing for the one they both missed, though they knew it not. Then the moment was gone, as Denethor straightened, and pulled the map closer.

"You were speaking of Osgiliath."

"Yes, Father. The garrison at Osgiliath is..."

Faramir broke off in midsentence, for the room seemed suddenly to be filled with the sound of a horn blowing. It was a distant sound, like an echo in the mind, yet it was no dream; for Faramir could see by the sudden blanching of his father's face that he had heard the sound as well. Though the horn's call seemed to be coming from the north, far away, it was yet clear and unmistakable. There was an urgency about the call that tugged at their hearts, for there was no doubt in either of their minds what that call meant: Boromir had reached the borders of Gondor, and he was in need.

Denethor stood abruptly, and his heavy chair fell backwards to the floor with a crash. He turned sharply and strode from the room.

Faramir stood pale and trembling, straining to hear the sound of the horn if it should come again. He felt helpless and afraid, for there was little he could do, not knowing where his brother might be. If only there might be some way to seek him out! But would there be time...?

The horn call sounded again, dimly, then faded, and was gone.

***

Boromir was beginning to worry. Where were the others? Where was Aragorn? The blowing of the Horn had never yet failed to bring aid in his hour of need. Were they all dead? Was he the last?

He bent quickly down to avoid the swinging blow of an Uruk soldier, then stood upright abruptly with a wordless shout of anger, flipping his adversary over his shoulder. He turned swiftly and thrust his blade through the leather armor and into its chest, twisting his sword to free it.

At last, a moment's peace! he thought, panting, as he saw a break in the advance of the Uruk army. He grasped his Horn once more, and putting it to his lips, blew a strong blast of three long notes. The Horn's call echoed in the trees as Boromir's eyes darted back and forth, seeking for signs of anyone coming to his aid.  But there was no one; only more of the enemy. Hordes of Uruk soldiers were flowing down the hillside like a flood of black water. There were so many! So many!

Boromir grabbed at Pippin, who stood near him with his sword drawn.  He pushed him away, turning him towards the only way of escape.

"Run!" he cried, pushing Merry after him. "Run!"

The hobbits obeyed instantly, and with a cry, they sprang away and ran as fast as they could through the trees, in the direction of the lakeshore. Boromir stood in the path between the retreating hobbits and the advancing army. He turned his head and body just enough to keep their retreat in sight as he backed away to follow them. Then he lifted his eyes to the hillside once more, searching for any sign of help, but he saw nothing but more and more Uruk-hai, advancing relentlessly.

So many! he thought again, despairingly; then they were upon him, and he was fighting for his life once more.

Stab... cut... thrust... parry... It was a never-ending dance of pain and death, of black blood hardening on his face and clothing. Boromir had no time to think, no time even to feel the pain of his wounds, except fleetingly; he was cut by sword, bruised by blows, and scraped by nail and by teeth, but he refused to give ground. He swung his sword two-handed, and all around him the foe fell back, dead and dying -- and still they came on.

Have Merry and Pippin gotten free? he wondered as he fought, for he had no chance even to glance back, not even for an instant. Please...let them be away, let them be safe!

He felt sudden, sharp fear as he realized he would not be able to hold the enemy back. There were too many of them, and they were coming at him too quickly. But what else could he do? There was nothing else for him but to fight. He could not allow the enemy to get past him, for if even one were to succeed, it could mean the death of the hobbits. The longer he held back the army, the better chance the little ones had of escaping.

So he swung his sword frantically, to and fro, all his long years of training and experience meeting in this moment, and the enemy fell. But more came on, and he was slowly, relentlessly pressed back...

He was surrounded.

Hundreds! moaned Pippin silently, fear catching in his throat so that he almost choked. There must be hundreds of Orcs! How will we ever escape?

Such a relief it had been to see Boromir come leaping through the trees and up the slope to rescue them from the horde of attacking Orcs. He had made those creatures flee with his bright sword and the sound of his horn! Pippin had been certain they would escape then, for they had not been followed as Boromir led them on the way back to the boats.

But the Orcs had once more assailed them, in greater numbers than before, and now they were surrounded. He and Merry had done what they could to help fight off the enemy, but it was Boromir now who bore the brunt of the attack, Boromir who stood between them and the horde that threatened.

Pippin watched in horrified anticipation as the Man fought on and on, without seeming to tire. He was magnificent! No Orc could get past him! Even in the midst of their fearsome danger, Pippin could not help admiring their friend and protector -- so big, so strong and proud! Nothing could stop him!

But he was mistaken.

***

Boromir was beginning to tire, and his limbs felt very heavy. His weariness made him angry, and he fought all the harder, as if to deny that weakness. The sweat of his exertions rolled down his face, soaking his hair and stinging in the cuts and bruises that covered him.

Arrows flicked past, and stuck quivering in the ground nearby. He looked up in dismay and saw many black archers positioned amongst the trees, their heavy bows sending a rain of arrows down upon him. He felt one brief stab of fear at the sight; then suddenly, there was a rush of sound and a blow to his chest. He was knocked back, staggering with the sheer force of the blow.

No! he thought fleetingly, and his heart seemed to freeze. No...

He willed himself to stay on his feet, to keep on fighting, but instead, he felt himself drop slowly to his knees. He fought for breath, and the pain of his gasping made him choke with anguish. His proud head drooped, and his chin fell to his chest.

Gondor! he cried soundlessly, as he knelt in the dirt.  He would have wept were he not so weary. How can I save you now?

***

Pippin struggled against the iron grip of his Orc captor, but it was useless; the creature only laughed at his squirming and gripped him all the more tightly. Pippin could hear Merry's angry shouts beside him as he, too, struggled to get free. He strained to look for his friend, then caught sight of Boromir.

Though pierced by arrows and bleeding from many sword cuts, Boromir still lived. He knelt wearily on the ground, his horn split and bloodied, the blade in his hand broken. The Orcs were moving, passing him by, ignoring the wounded Man as he crouched helplessly amidst the dead and the dying.

"Boromir!" cried Pippin wildly. "No! Let me go to him!"

He saw Boromir lift his head and lean towards them, as if trying to reach him and Merry, but the effort was too great, and he sank down again, head lowered in utter dejection.

"Boromir!" shrieked Pippin one last time before all went dark.

***

Boromir struggled to his feet, in one last attempt to pursue the enemy, but he could not keep his balance. He stepped backwards, then fell. He lay still for a moment, trying in vain to catch his breath, but he was wracked with a fit of coughing, making it even more difficult to breathe freely. The taste of blood was in his mouth.

Rolling onto his side, he dragged himself forward to the base of a nearby tree, being careful of the arrows that protruded from his body. He lay back against the soft loam at the roots of the tree, exhausted from the effort and fighting for breath. He could go no further.

He was dying; he was certain of it. He had fought with all his might to defend the little ones, to free them from their captors, but it had been for naught. The hobbits were taken, and he was wounded to his death. Tears stung his eyes at the memory of Merry and Pippin being carried away through the trees.  He had tried to follow, but he had not the strength even to stand. He had failed them.  He had been too weak, his strength insufficient to save them. His honor was broken and no hope was left.

All he had left of his pride and his hope was his sword, and that, too, was now broken. The blade had been smashed, and the shards scattered. Boromir looked at the hilt in his hand, black with the blood of many Orcs, and found that he could not release it. Whether it was foolish pride, or the last vestiges of a forlorn hope, he felt that if he clung to that sword, there was still a chance.  If he let go, it would be the end of him, the final acknowledgement of defeat.

At least I die with my sword in my hand, he thought. There is some comfort in that.

Was this truly where it would end, then? Here, against a tree, on the very borders of his country? He had faced death before, countless times, and had always wondered when and where he would finally meet his end. It was hard to think that death should come in such a lonely place, and not on a crowded battlefield, or before the walls of his City...

He felt his wounds with careful fingers. He considered plucking out the arrows, but he did not have the strength; even a light touch on one of the shafts caused him great pain, sending waves of agony washing over him.

So... I am not indestructible after all, he thought sadly.

He heard the sound of pounding feet as someone approached at a run. Boromir slowly opened his eyes as Aragorn knelt beside him.

"I thought..." Boromir said haltingly, for he was in great pain, "I feared you were all dead... No one came. I sounded the Horn and no one came..."

"I am here now," replied Aragorn gently. He ran his eyes quickly over his friend's wounded figure, and winced at the sight of the damage that had been done.

"Too late!" rasped Boromir. "They have taken the little ones... I think they are not dead... not yet..."

He struggled to sit up, and Aragorn pressed him back gently.

"No! Be still!" Aragorn touched an arrow that protruded from Boromir's leg, then fumbled at the fastenings of his clothing.

"Leave it be!" said Boromir roughly, stopping Aragorn's hand with his own. "It is over for me. I have paid."

"Paid?" Aragorn said, a frown furrowing his brow. "What do you mean?"

"I tried to take the Ring from Frodo... I am sorry."

Aragorn bowed his head in grief.  Taking Boromir's hand, he gripped it tightly and pressed it to his lips in sorrow.

"Forgive me..." choked Boromir.  "I did not... I did not understand until too late." His breath caught in a sob. "I have failed you all!"

Aragorn leaned close and spoke urgently. "No, Boromir! It is I who have failed you! I did not see what was happening. I should have understood you better; I should have listened. I sent you into danger, alone... I am sorry!" He laid a hand on Boromir's cheek. "No, Boromir, do not despair; you fought bravely! You have kept your honor, and you have conquered! Few have gained such a victory!"

Boromir shook his head feebly.

"Gondor will fail," he replied bitterly. "My City… will fall into darkness and ruin!"

"No!" said Aragorn firmly. "There will be no failing. The White City shall not fall! You and I -- we will not allow it." He stretched out his hand again and gently lifted the edge of Boromir's surcoat. "Let me look; there may be something I can do for you. Perhaps I can ease your pain, if nothing else." He attempted a smile. "Yet it may be that once again you will prove indestructible!"

"Do not waste time on me," said Boromir, weakly pushing Aragorn's hand away. "I am finished! Go now! Go after the little ones!"

"You are not finished, Boromir, and I deem it time well spent if I can do something to ease you," Aragorn gently chided. "I shall work quickly.  There will still be time to go after the hobbits. We will not forsake them, I promise you."

Seeing the stern resolve in Aragorn's eyes, Boromir relented.

"Very well, then," he said with a faint sigh, "but I fear your attempt to save me will be in vain."

"It is not for you to decide," replied Aragorn firmly.

Aragorn wrapped his hand around Boromir's tightly clenched fist, still gripping the hilt of the broken sword, and pressed it reassuringly.

"Do not regret the loss of your blade, my friend," he said soothingly as he opened Boromir's hand and took the sword from it. "A broken blade is an honorable thing, for to break in good service is to finish well. Yet if we can find the broken shards, there is hope your sword can be reforged. You shall wield it again."

Boromir shook his head. Now that the sword was no longer in his hand, he felt as if he were being crushed under the weight of his despair and failure. Hope was indeed gone.  He had been foolish to think otherwise. Aragorn could do nothing for him, it was all pointless...

"No!" he moaned. "There is no hope or honor in brokenness! What good is my service if I fail in the end?"

Aragorn was silent for a moment, and paused in his examination of Boromir's wounds. Boromir turned his face away, but Aragorn gently touched his cheek and turned him back to look into his eyes.

"Ah, my friend!" he sighed. "It saddens me to see you like this! Put aside your despair, if you can. Your broken oath is a burden that cannot be forgotten, but there may yet be a chance for you to set things right with Frodo. You have done much already to redeem yourself!"

"Little chance to make it right... if I am dead," murmured Boromir.

"Your death is not yet certain, my friend. But it will be, if we go on arguing... and if you give in to despair. I say again, put aside your despair and let hope return; I am here now, and we will continue this fight together."

***

Thus it was that Gimli and Legolas found them.  They came fresh from battle, with axe, knife, and bow in hand. Upon entering the glade where Boromir lay, they stopped as one, then approached cautiously, silently, their faces etched with grief.

"Alas!" cried Legolas. "We have been battling Orcs in the woods, when we should have been here, defending our companions. We heard the Horn, but I fear we have come too late. Are you injured, Aragorn?"

"I am unhurt," answered Aragorn. "Boromir may yet live if we work quickly."

"What must be done?" said Legolas, kneeling beside Boromir. He touched his shoulder briefly, gently. "Tell us, and we will aid you."

Aragorn nodded gratefully.

“First, Legolas," he answered, "you must run swiftly to the boats and bring whatever you can find there which may serve as dressings for his wounds. I will also need as much water as you can carry, and a clean swath of supple leather."

Aragorn touched the pouch at his side. "I have sufficient herbs here, I think.  That is well, for it will save me from having to search for what I need."

He reached out and gently laid his hand on Boromir's chest.

"Time is our enemy now; he grows weaker by the moment, and his breathing is more shallow. Go quickly, Legolas, and do not tarry, for I have another errand for you when you return."

“I shall be swift,” vowed Legolas, with a sharp nod.  Turning, he sped away in the direction of the lake.

Aragorn turned to Gimli, who hovered anxiously nearby.

"Gimli, have you flint and tinder with you?"

"Aye!"

"Then light a fire, and heat this knife in the hottest part of the flame, while I finish examining him."

Boromir lay quietly, in spite of the pain that twisted within him. He closed his eyes and listened to Aragorn give orders to his companions. The sounds of their speech together seemed to him distant and muffled.  He felt faint and ill, and every breath was a struggle. He was so very tired...

He felt the hands of Aragorn upon him, touching him gently here, there; slowly and carefully exploring his wounds, feeling the tender flesh where the arrows protruded from his leg, his arm, his abdomen, his shoulder. He made no sound, though there was pain with every touch of Aragorn’s hand.

He began to drift away, and the pain seemed to lessen. Darkness beckoned invitingly.  If only he could rest, then the pain would leave him, he thought. Aragorn would understand... He would let him go...

Suddenly, Boromir jerked awake with a faint cry.  Aragorn was leaning over him, shaking him gently.

“Stay with me, Boromir," said Aragorn urgently. “I do not give you leave to depart just yet. Legolas is here now with water and bandages, and we can begin the work of repairing your brokenness."

Leaning close, Aragorn smoothed the damp hair back from Boromir's face.

"I will not hide the truth from you, Boromir. It will not be easy.  Your wounds are many, and several are very serious.  Time is against us as you grow weaker.”

“You should let me go,” whispered Boromir. “It would be easier... save time...”

“It is not like you to take the easy way, my friend. Nor is it my habit to turn my back on my friends when things seem difficult. Hope yet remains, and I shall not give up. I beg you also not to give up now; help me! Stay a while longer, and let me see if there is aught I may do to save you."

“As you wish," Boromir responded feebly, "but you must make haste. I grow weary of this pain... and the little ones are waiting.”

"Thank you, my friend," said Aragorn. He leaned close and kissed Boromir's forehead. As he proceeded to unfasten Boromir's belt and cloak, Legolas came forward, and kneeling, set beside him a bundle of cloth and skins of water from the boats.

“Aragorn,” he said quietly, “The packs that belong to Sam and Frodo have been taken, and one of the boats is missing."

"So!" said Aragorn slowly, glancing quickly at Boromir, who made no sign he had heard. "It would seem the Ringbearer has made his choice, and has moved beyond our aid. Alas, we cannot follow! It is Boromir who needs us now, and we cannot leave him yet."

Gimli took from Legolas a skin of water, and kneeling beside Boromir, tried to help him drink, but Boromir shook his head and pushed the water away.  All his strength was devoted to his breathing, and there was none to spare, not even for the quenching of his thirst.

“Why does he seem to have no breath?" asked Legolas, full of concern. "Is it from the pain, or is it because of one of his wounds?''

"He has many wounds, from sword and arrow, and therefore much pain," replied Aragorn. "This wound to his midsection is deep and will affect his breathing to some extent, but I do not believe it is life-threatening. No, it is this arrow in his shoulder which is stealing the breath from him. That is the wound which will kill him, if it is not soon tended."

Aragorn worked swiftly as he spoke, laying out upon a clean cloth beside him all he would need for the task ahead.

"I have seen this before," he said as he unbuttoned Boromir's surcoat and silk tunic, gently freeing each layer of cloth from the dried blood which caked it. Unlacing the points of the undertunic to which were affixed Boromir's mail sleeves, Aragorn pointed to the wound revealed beneath. "The arrow has penetrated the space beside the lung, so that air enters through the wound when he inhales, rather than through the air passages. That air is trapped, putting pressure on the outside of the lung, so that it is in danger of being crushed. I must work quickly to prevent that, or we shall lose him."

He tore off a piece of cloth and tucked it between chest and tunic, to staunch the slow bleeding of the wound which had begun again with the loosening of the clothing. Sorting through the items Legolas had brought from the boat, Aragorn found an empty water skin from Lorien that was clean and unmarked, soft and pliable. He smiled suddenly, and a weight of care seemed to lift from him.

"I do believe we shall succeed," he said, with new confidence in his voice. "This is perfect for our purposes. Legolas, do you recall the other errand of which I spoke? Take Gimli's axe and cut me a limb from an evergreen tree, one with needles long and in clusters. The limb must be at least as thick as my arm, so that sap flows freely within the wood.  The season is just turning from winter, so a smaller limb will be too dry; but it should not be so large as to damage the tree unnecessarily."

Legolas nodded in understanding.

"Such a tree will heal quickly," he said, "for the sap will cover the wound in time, and the tree will not greatly feel the loss."

"Just so," replied Aragorn. "When you find what is needed, bring the wood here to the fire."

Legolas grasped the handaxe Gimli held out to him and ran up the hill. Aragorn nodded to Gimli, who bent to retrieve the knife that had been heating in the fire.

“Boromir," Aragorn said gently, laying a light hand on Boromir's chest. "I am about to begin. I fear this will bring you great pain, but I shall do what I can not to hurt you more than is necessary."

"So be it," murmured Boromir with a weak attempt at a smile. "I can bear it, if it be from your hands. I doubt... "

He paused for a moment to catch his breath before continuing.  "I doubt the pain can grow worse, in any case. Have you leather?"

"Yes," said Aragorn, drawing a wad of folded leather from his pouch. He reached forward to place it between Boromir's teeth, but Boromir stopped him with one hand.

"Promise me... promise me one thing," he said faintly.

"Anything, if it be within my power to grant."

"If I cry out, or faint... speak of it to no one. I will not have it known I showed weakness..."

The corner of Aragorn's mouth twitched, but he answered with a nod.

"I swear it," he vowed.

Boromir turned his head slowly, seeking Gimli.

"Gimli?"

"Aye, lad," the Dwarf responded gruffly. "I'll not say a word. But you'll fare well, I'll wager."

"Then... if you are determined to save me, let us have it finished... so I may breathe again."

*******

Author's note

References to Boromir's indestructibility are from other tales I have written. It has become a standing joke of sorts between himself, his brother and his men who fight with him -- no matter the predicament, Boromir, Captain of Gondor seems able to get out of it, if not unscathed, then at least alive!

Heartfelt thanks go to my friend boriel, to whom this chapter is dedicated; her knowledge of first aid helped me take an idea I had one day and turn it into a real possibility.

Saving the life of a wounded comrade will naturally involve a bit of surgery; for those who might be bothered by blood, be aware that there is a bit of that in this chapter. I have tried to keep it short, and not graphic; I hope I have been appropriately sensitive while still being realistic.

Aragorn gently placed the wad of leather between Boromir's teeth, and Gimli held him steady while Aragorn used his sharp knife to slice off the shaft of the arrow in the shoulder. He then carefully lifted the layers of Boromir's clothing up and over the shortened shaft, and folded the cloth back so that the wounded shoulder lay bare. He probed the wound carefully, and after a moment, the concern on his face cleared.

"There is no smell of poison," he said with relief. "This arrow is deeply embedded, but thankfully, the arrowhead is not barbed. I believe I can draw it out without further damage to the shoulder and the air passages."

He deftly slit the flesh with the heated knife, on either side of the shaft, and worked the knife carefully into the wound until he had located the arrowhead. Boromir's jaw knotted as he bit down hard upon the leather. The sweat drops collected on his brow, and his breath came shallowly through the leather and his clenched teeth, but he made no sound or movement, other than a tightening around his eyes.

The arrow at first seemed to resist all attempts to draw it out carefully, and Aragorn's face grew as pale as Boromir's with strain and worry; but at last, with a sharp tug, it came free. Fresh blood flowed from the wound; Aragorn let it flow for a moment, to allow the wound to cleanse itself. When at last Aragorn nodded to him, Gimli was ready with water for washing, and a clean cloth to staunch the bleeding.

While Gimli cleansed the wound, Aragorn opened his pouch and drew out several dry leaves of athelas.

"I have only a few leaves left," he observed. "I hope they are sufficient."

He breathed lightly on the leaves in his hand and murmured over them softly in Elvish,

"Athelas... Cuil 'nin gwannyl, caeda vi cam Aran." (1)

As Aragorn crushed the leaves between his palms, a sweet fragrance filled the glade, dispelling the smell of blood and death so that all their hearts were lifted. In his palm, he mixed a few drops of water with the crushed leaves, which he spread on the folded cloth and placed over the open wound.

Boromir felt a distinct lessening of pain at the coolness of the poultice against his skin, and the sharp, refreshing scent of the athelas eased his breathing a little.

Gimli leaned forward to remove from Boromir's mouth the lump of leather, which had become sodden with blood and spittle. Rinsing it, he refolded it and placed it in Boromir's hand.

"You'll be needing this again soon enough, lad," Gimli said gently. At a nod from Aragorn, the Dwarf placed his hand over the poultice and held it firmly in place, applying pressure to help curb the bleeding of the wound.

"You're doing fine then, lad," he went on, pretending not to notice Boromir's wince of pain at the firm touch. "That wasn't so bad, now, was it?"

"No," replied Boromir faintly, inwardly pleased he had managed not to cry out during the procedure, in spite of the pain. It had been more difficult to endure than he had expected. "No, not so bad..."

After cleaning his knife, Aragorn proceeded to cut a patch of leather from the empty waterskin Legolas had provided, glancing up briefly when the Elf returned with the cut limb of a tree. Aragorn touched his finger to the raw edge of the limb and nodded.

"Yes, this will do," he said. "Now cut several notches in the branch and place it on the coals of the fire."

Legolas obeyed, then knelt at Boromir's side.

Boromir was beginning to feel increasingly ill and disoriented.  The momentary easing he had experienced from the athelas was gone. A great weight seemed to be crushing the breath from him; the world was darkening and there was a loud roaring in his ears. He felt a growing panic, for he was desperate to draw in enough air to dispel the feeling of heaviness that was weighing him down. He drew in breath with a gasp and a wheeze, but it was as if that air had nowhere to go, and he could find no relief; the weight instead seemed to grow heavier and more oppressive.

"Help me..." he choked, his voice almost inaudible.

He felt a slim arm slip under his shoulders, and he was pulled upright into a sitting position.

"Lean forward," came Legolas' gentle voice in his ear. "Your breath may come easier."

Boromir felt Gimli bracing him up upon his other side, still holding the folded cloth over his wound.

"Slowly now, lad! Relax, if you can.  Don't be trying to take in too much air at once. Small breaths for now, that'll do the trick."

Boromir leaned forward, though he was hampered by the arrows that still pierced him.  To his relief, his breathing eased somewhat, enough that he was able to take short, gasping breaths. The weight on his chest diminished, and he closed his eyes gratefully.

"Hold him steady," said Aragorn. "I am almost ready here."

The cut tree limb was crackling and popping in the fire, releasing a sharp, piney scent into the air. Aragorn bent over the wood and gingerly moved it away from the flames.  The heat of the fire had caused the sap in the wood to bubble and boil out of the notches Legolas had cut. Aragorn dabbed the edges of the patch he had prepared in the sticky sap, being careful not to burn himself. Moving quickly, he knelt beside Boromir and removed the poultice from his shoulder. After wiping the skin clean of the athelas, he carefully stuck the patch over the wound in the shoulder, and held it for a moment. When he released his hand, the patch remained, anchored in place by the sticky sap.

"What is the purpose of this patch?" asked Gimli curiously. "Would not a bandage of cloth be more suitable? And you have forgotten to seal the bottom edge, I think."

"Do you recall the nature of this wound? replied Aragorn, working to clean the residue of sap from his fingers. "He is taking in air through the wound, rather than through the air passages.  The purpose of the patch is to prevent this. When he draws in air, the patch seals the opening made by the arrow, so that air passes in as it ought, through the lungs. When he exhales, the patch unseals and allows air to be released; any trapped air will also be expelled. A cloth dressing would allow the passage of too much air through the wound, whereas the leather blocks it sufficiently, except where I have left it open."

He regarded Boromir's wounds again, and touched the patch lightly. "The opening allows for drainage of the wound, as well, until the bleeding slows."

"Ah!" exclaimed Gimli, shaking his head in wonder. "You are quite the healer, Aragorn.  It is well you knew what to do!"

Aragorn touched Boromir's face gently, then grasping his hand where it lay limply upon his knee, he gripped it reassuringly.

"Soon, my friend," Aragorn said quietly. "You will have relief soon."

"One way -- or another," gasped Boromir through clenched teeth.

"Do not lose hope just yet, Boromir," answered Aragorn with a smile and a shake of his head.

Boromir attempted a nod in return, but the effort was too great for him, so he kept still. He concentrated on his breathing; one small, labored breath at a time, slow and steady, trying desperately not to panic.

They waited; silently, patiently. The only sound to be heard in the stillness was the distant thunder of the Rauros and the rasping of Boromir as he struggled for each breath. After a time, his gasps for air seemed to quiet, and the strain in his face lessened. The muscles of his neck relaxed and his breathing became more measured and even.

At last he sighed, and looked up into the worried faces of his friends with a strained smile.

"I believe... I believe I will have that drink of water now," he said hoarsely.

***

Boromir felt refreshed after drinking. He could only manage a few sips before he lapsed into a fit of painful coughing, but it was enough. The whole ordeal had left him feeling exhausted, more weary than he had ever felt before. He felt giddy with relief at being able to breathe again, and light, as if he were floating; yet his limbs were heavy and he wanted nothing more than to lay down and close his eyes. But he was afraid.  The panic he had felt during his hours of breathlessness was still fresh in his mind, and no matter how he berated himself for being afraid, he could not face that again so soon.

Aragorn watched him with understanding in his eyes.

"It is best that you not recline fully just yet, though I suspect you are very weary. We will brace you up so that you can breathe while I proceed with removing the remaining arrows."

Boromir nodded gratefully. Gimli and Legolas removed their cloaks, and folding them together with Boromir's, braced him up enough that he could lay back in some comfort, and still breathe with relative ease.

"Now do I regret my lack of armor!" murmured Boromir, as he looked down at the arrows that remained. It was still difficult to speak, yet he made the attempt nonetheless, for he was glad to still be alive, and he took great comfort in his friends' conversation. "A mail sleeve serves well against the sword cut, but more was needed, it would seem... I had far to travel when I first set out for Rivendell, and I wished to spare my horse a great burden. Leather for travelling; that will do, I thought..."

He paused a moment to catch his breath before proceeding.

"My skill should have been sufficient to avoid serious injury along the way. But it was not, in the end..."

Aragorn glanced around the clearing, eyebrows raised, noting the large number of dead Orcs that lay piled all about them.

"Your skill was not lacking, my friend," he replied. "But even the most highly skilled warrior can be felled by one arrow. And we have as yet only relieved you of one of those which plague you.  Do you think you can endure the next round?"

Boromir gazed at the folded leather pad in his hand, before lifting it to his mouth.

"We shall see," he said, as he placed the leather between his teeth once more.

***

Denethor stared down at the darkened globe before him and cursed in frustration. He had sought for over an hour to see an image of any kind that might tell him what he needed to know so desperately: what was happening to Boromir, and what was the danger that threatened him? He had seen much in this viewing of what was going on beyond the borders of Gondor, but these events were of no concern to him now. Nothing mattered but the fate of his son.

He had been so confident that Boromir would soon return; had he not seen him in the palantír, only a day ago? The image had been small, but clear: three small boats floating upon a broad lake obscured by mist. He had been unable to focus to bring the image closer, but he knew Boromir was there in one of those boats, as surely as if he had seen his face.  He knew his clothing, the set of his shoulders, his wind-tossed head of hair.

Denethor had recognized that mist-covered lake, Nen Hithoel, as well as the stark figures of the Argonath which stood tall and forbidding on the horizon beyond the three small boats. The image had lasted but a few moments, and then it was gone, lost in the mist; but it had been enough to tell him that Boromir was coming, and his heart had rejoiced.

But that joy had suddenly been replaced with cold fear at the dim sound of the blowing of the Horn of Gondor. That call had been no glad blast of the Horn to annouce Boromir's return to his land. Denethor himself had carried the Horn for many a year, and he knew its voice well.  He knew the call for aid of a desperate man fighting for his life.

His face was grim as he covered the palantír with its cloth and descended the tower.

I will not sit idly by while my eldest calls for aid in his peril! Denethor vowed inwardly. He will receive help from Gondor, if there be no one else to help him. I know this at the least, that from the North came the call, and I have seen him pass the Argonath. To Rauros they will go, then, the ones who will seek out my son and bring him back to me.

***

Faramir sat in the grey gloom of the council chambers, his head in his hands. The lamps had gone out long ago, and though the day had not yet turned to darkness, the room was full of shadows. The sound of the Horn still echoed in his memory, and he could not stop the fear that clawed at his throat -- fear for Boromir who was in danger, fear that he would be lost before aid could come to him.

May the Valar protect him! Faramir cried silently. Let him not be alone in the wilderness with no one to help him in his time of need!

A thought sprang suddenly to Faramir's mind. No one to help him... Might it be possible to send aid? Perhaps even now it was too late, but it might be that searchers could find him in the wilderness. If only he knew where to look! The sound of the Horn had seemed to come from the north... What course would Boromir be most likely to take, to bring him home to Minas Tirith quickly, upon completion of his quest? That question had plagued Faramir for many a month, so much so that he had pored over maps at every opportunity, trying to guess at Boromir's road. There were several possibilities...

A chamberlain entered and spoke hesitantly.

"My lord Faramir? Is all well? Shall I relight the lamps?"

Faramir stood suddenly, and the chamberlain drew back in alarm. Faramir stepped forward and laid a quick hand on his shoulder to reassure him.

"No, that will not be necessary.  You may take the lamps away. But do this for me; send word quickly to the barracks, to Grithnir, my brother's lieutenant and aide. Have him report directly here to the Hall."

"It shall be done, my lord."

***

When Denethor entered the Hall from the Tower, he saw Faramir pacing impatiently. Faramir, hearing his step, looked up with relief and quickly approached him.

"Father," he said urgently. "I feel we must do something to bring aid to Boromir, wherever he might be. I thought if we could organize several search parties..."

"Have you spoken of this to anyone?" Denethor demanded sharply.

"No, not yet.  But I have sent for Grithnir, Boromir's man. He is trustworthy; a good man to aid in such a mission, who would know of others who might be trusted to go." Faramir hesitated. "I thought it would be best to keep news of this quiet.  There will be great fear and dismay in the City if it were rumored that Boromir might... might be lost."

Denethor looked at his youngest son with raised brows, and nodded thoughtfully.

"You have done well, Faramir," he replied. "This thought has occurred also to me, and yes, the matter must indeed remain secret. Grithnir is a good choice.  He will be eager to see his captain restored and will do as we tell him. Leave this matter with me, now; I will set him on the right road. As for you, it is vital that you leave for Osgiliath at once, and see to the garrison there."

Faramir stood irresolute and did not move, as Denethor turned and walked to his seat at the front of the Hall. Glancing back, Denethor paused and frowned, as if surprised to see Faramir still standing there.

"Why do you tarry?" he said over his shoulder. "I shall deal with Grithnir when he comes. You have other duties, as I have told you. You know what needs doing, so why this hesitation?"

"I had planned to join the search..." Faramir stammered in dismay at his father's words.

"No!" interrupted Denethor forcefully, turning to face Faramir. "This errand is not for you. You cannot be spared, not now! You must see to the defenses in Osgiliath, for did you not yourself say that the garrison there needs strengthening? We cannot lose even a day in our preparations in that strategic location -- it is all that stands between us and the siege engines of Mordor. You still carry the responsibility of your brother's position until he returns; had you forgotten? You cannot set your duties aside so lightly!"

"I do not consider finding my brother alive to be a light matter!"

"No," replied Denethor, relenting a little. "No, it is no light matter. Nevertheless, that is not your part. I will see to this matter."

Faramir was silent for a long moment, struggling with his fear and the burning desire to go to his brother's side. He heard then his own voice from out of the past, speaking words to Boromir that were as binding as a vow...

I only hope you will find what you seek, and return to me safely. I shall be Captain in your absence, and your faith in me will be justified...

"Very well," he said at last, and sighed heavily. "I will go to Osgiliath and leave the search for Boromir to others. You are right to remind me of my duty. What are your orders, my lord?"


*******

Footnotes

(1) "Athelas... Cuil 'nin gwannyl, caeda vi cam Aran" means "Athelas... Life to the dying in the king's hand lying." (Taken from the athelas poem in ROTK "The Houses of Healing"; translated into Elvish by boriel)

Author's Note

This chapter is again dedicated to my friend boriel, for without the benefit of her counsel and expertise in first aid, even Aragorn's healing hands would not have been enough.

The last arrow had been removed, the final wound bandaged and poulticed with athelas. Boromir lay huddled and trembling after the ordeal, his body wracked with pain, yet still he was determined to have the mastery of it, no matter how intense it became. He would not cry out, nor would he swoon, if he had any choice in the matter. The wound to his midsection was especially painful, for though the arrow had missed the vital organs, the wound had been deep and the arrow difficult to remove.

Aragorn watched him with pity in his eyes, for he knew how severe Boromir's suffering must be; the athelas would provide some relief, but even so, the pain would be hard to bear.

"Your endurance does you credit, Boromir," he said with a sigh. "You have borne well the ordeal -- but I wish you had been less stubborn! It would have been easier on us all if you had fainted!"

"Easier, perhaps," growled Boromir. "But since when have I taken the easy way?"

Aragorn smiled and shook his head in mock despair. Turning, he beckoned to Gimli and Legolas.

"We must get Boromir away from this place.  There is too much death here, and the air is becoming poisonous with decay."

"Can he be safely moved?" asked Legolas with concern.

"Yes, with care. Even so, it will hurt him."

"We can make a litter to carry him to the shore," suggested Gimli. "Our cloaks laid over some branches would accomplish the task, perhaps."

Aragorn nodded. "Go quickly, then.  Look first upon the ground for wood that might serve, then cut branches if more is needed."

"Make certain you prepare a litter for my carrying, and not a bier," Boromir muttered, as he watched the two companions run from the clearing. "Though perhaps the latter will still be necessary."

"Fear not, my friend!" laughed Aragorn. "In spite of how it may seem to you in your suffering, our efforts here have not been wasted.  It would seem you will live a while longer. Your breathing seems improved, am I correct?"

Boromir attempted an experimental breath, slow and deep.

"Yes, better, though not quite what I would wish. Though there is still pain, the pressure is gone, and the lightheadedness." And the feeling of panic, he added silently to himself.

"That is good!" replied Aragorn. "It should continue to improve steadily, though you may yet find it difficult for a day or two if you exert yourself too much. When it is necessary to walk about, be certain you take it slow and easy."

"I will do so," promised Boromir, wondering if he would ever have the energy again to walk anywhere.  Loss of blood had left him weak and shaking, and most of what little strength remained to him was taken up in ignoring his pain.

"Do you feel comfortable enough in your breathing to lie back?" asked Aragorn. "We will have need of the cloaks that cushion you to prepare the litter, and I think you should be covered now, to keep you warm. The afternoon sun is still strong in this clearing, but with the loss of so much blood, there is danger of you growing too chill."

Boromir nodded his assent. Aragorn gently removed the rolled up cloaks from beneath Boromir's head, and helped him recline once more, stretching out his limbs carefully and turning his head slightly to one side, all the while murmuring words of instruction and encouragement. Shaking out Boromir's own cloak, he laid it over him and tucked it around him carefully.

When at last he was settled, Boromir gave a small sigh of relief and closed his eyes. The pain was more bearable now, whether because he had mastered it, or because the athelas was having its full effect. But now that his concentration was not bent fully upon bearing the pain, other thoughts intruded, and they could not be kept away. After only a few moments, he opened his eyes once more, and turned his head to look at Aragorn who sat beside him, awaiting the return of Legolas and Gimli.

"Aragorn?"

"What is it, my friend?"

"Will you tell Legolas and Gimli of my failure? Of my attempt to take the Ring?"

Aragorn was silent for a long moment. "Only if you wish it," he said at last.

"They should be told," said Boromir slowly. "I should speak of it myself, but... I fear what they will think of me."

Aragorn laid a hand on Boromir's arm where it was covered by the cloak.

"I will tell them, my friend, when the time is right. They will not blame you, I think."

Boromir nodded, and fell silent, but after a moment, he spoke again.

"I wish..." He hesitated, but then pressed on. "I wish to tell you all, Aragorn. I cannot speak of it yet to the others -- but I can tell you what passed between us... between Frodo and myself..."

"No!" responded Aragorn sternly, and then softened his tone. "Save your breath, Boromir; you need not speak of it to me. I heard your speech at the Council, and I have heard your arguments throughout our journey. I know of the need of Gondor and your long battle with despair. I can guess how you were drawn to It, and guess what you said to Frodo."

He paused.

"Indeed, I can well guess, for have I not also heard the Ring's call?"

Boromir's eyes widened.

"Yes,” nodded Aragorn.  “Even I have heard that voice, calling my name, suggesting the quickest way is best; that the way of power is the way to... the way to what I desire."

"But you did not listen."

Aragorn gave no answer, and Boromir looked away.

"I was afraid," Boromir said after a time. "Afraid of defeat, and of failure… afraid of slavery and the loss of that which I love most. I was willing to do anything, grasp at anything to prevent that! I... I only wished to defeat Sauron! The Ring would have given me what I needed to do that..."

He looked pleadingly at Aragorn. "Was it so wrong to want some hope for my people?"

"You know the answer to that."

"Yes, I know," agreed Boromir reluctantly. "I did not know then what I know now -- that perhaps there are some things that should not be used to gain a desired end... that some victories might come at too great a cost. Or perhaps... I did know, and did not wish to admit it. It is still very hard to admit... to admit that I might have been wrong..."

Suddenly, Boromir wept.

"I see the truth," he said through his tears, "yet still I desire It! I desire to test my plan... to seek final victory; for my people are still in need of hope. It could have solved everything!"

"No! It would have solved nothing," said Aragorn firmly. "What service would it have been to your people, your father, if you had fallen into evil? In the end you would have been against them."

Boromir sighed as he rubbed the tears from his face.

"I know it," he said once more, and his voice was full of regret.

Closing his eyes, Boromir was silent for a time; then he sighed again heavily.

"Perhaps it is as well," he added ruefully.

Aragorn looked at him quizzically.

"As well that Frodo has put some distance between us," Boromir went on. "And that I am now less capable of following him. I... I tried to find him afterwards, but now I am glad I did not; it might not have been safe -- for either of us! If even now I still desire to hold this Thing and use It, knowing what I know, then might it not be possible I would still follow him in my madness, to make another attempt?"

"Is that likely?" asked Aragorn, though there was no hint of concern in his voice.

Boromir thought for a moment, his head to one side as if listening -- listening for that voice, that whispering which had plagued him for so long. But no voice called to him, no whispering of his name sounded in his ear.  There was nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees and the thundering of Rauros.

"No," he answered at last. "You need not fear that from me, I think. I shall have to let It go, and find another way to save my people."

He was distracted from his thoughts by the return of Legolas and Gimli, laden with branches for the making of the litter, and with other things found along the way. Boromir gave a glad cry when he saw that they carried with them his shield and his knife.  His shield he had let fall during a skirmish with Orcs in his flight to reach the side of Merry and Pippin; his knife had been lost in defense of the hobbits. They set his gear beside him and he smiled up at them gratefully, his sorrow forgotten for the moment.

"Thank you," he said simply, unable to say more. Legolas nodded in return.  Gimli muttered something under his breath, but he looked pleased.

Boromir watched with interest as his companions lashed the branches together with bowstring, and spread their cloaks over the frame to make a rough litter.  Yet he felt a growing doubt as he eyed the result of their handiwork.

"Perhaps it would be better if I walked..." he began. The thought of being carried or dragged over the rough ground to the lakeshore filled him with dread.

"You'll have the better part of this journey, I'll warrant, said Gimli, dubiously eyeing Boromir's long and sturdy frame.  "All you'll be doing is lying there, taking your ease, while we do the heavy work."

"The sooner we get to that heavy work, the better," said Aragorn.

***

It was no easy task to carry Boromir down the hill to the lakeshore.  They were only three and he was heavy, and they went carefully, for they wished to spare him as much jolting as possible. But they managed it in the end. They settled him beside the crumbling remains of the stone boat landing that lay at the edge of the shingle of beach, where he would be protected somewhat from the wind blowing off the lake, and where the sand was smooth underneath. Gimli busied himself with building a fire to warm him, while Aragorn and Legolas contemplated the missing boat, and what it might mean.

It now seemed obvious from the signs that Frodo and Sam had crossed the lake to the other side, and had gone on towards Mordor alone.  To follow them now would serve little purpose, and would leave the captured Merry and Pippin to face torture and possible death at hands of the Orcs.

And what of Boromir? wondered Aragorn. His injuries were too severe to allow him to travel for some days; yet if they waited for him to heal sufficiently to travel, Merry and Pippin would surely be lost. It was a difficult decision to make -- should they leave Boromir alone in order to rescue the captive hobbits? Or stay with the wounded Man until he was out of danger? Or should they divide their company even further, in order to see Boromir cared for, as well as the Orcs pursued?

One look at Boromir's face was enough to tell his companions what he would have to say on the matter. He seemed determined that no effort be spared to seek the release of his little ones, and if that meant leaving him behind, alone, then so be it.

With heavy hearts and disquieted minds, they set about the task of gathering together the things Boromir would need to hand, whether he was left alone or with a companion: stacked wood to keep the fire alight, blankets and water, dried food and packets of lembas, a staff of wood to support him should he need to move about, his shield and knife and the shards of his sword wrapped in cloth.

Boromir watched them quietly for a time, but as Aragorn leaned over him to check his dressed wounds once more, Boromir broke the heavy silence.

"So!" he said decisively. "We come to it now, the hard parting. Difficult it is to say farewell, I know -- but you must! Delay no longer! I will keep well enough here, alone."

Aragorn shook his head doubtfully.

"We cannot abandon Merry and Pippin to torment and death," he agreed, "but I am also reluctant to leave you alone like this. You are not yet out of danger..."

Boromir frowned fiercely.

"No, do not stay for me! I shall be well, I tell you. I am not a healer, but my knowledge is sufficient to continue treatment of my injuries, and to know what to expect as I wait for my body to heal. I have been alone and injured before this, and I have survived. This time will be no different."

He smiled then, and attempted to lighten his tone.

"Do not fear for me. It is said of the Horn of Gondor that if it is blown at need anywhere within the ancient bounds of our land, its voice will surely be heard, and help will come. More help will come to me, then -- though perhaps not quickly. But I have what I need to hand; I can wait. I despaired during the battle when the Horn's call went unanswered, yet you came in the end -- and see? I live... though I was in doubt of it for a time!"

Boromir grinned suddenly, his confidence restored.

"Others may yet come who can aid me in my return to Gondor. If not, I shall make my way alone, once my legs can support my weight."

"What of the enemy?" growled Gimli anxiously. "We cannot leave you here defenseless! Let me find you a weapon at least, to defend yourself at need. You need more than a broken sword to hand!"

"Of what use is a weapon to me now?" replied Boromir with a shake of his head. "I have sufficient strength, perhaps, to lift food to my mouth, but it will be some time before I am able to grasp a sword and wield it to save my life. A weapon will come to hand when I am ready for one; in the meantime, let it go.  It matters not. The danger seems to have passed for the time being."

He looked at them meaningfully. "You who go after the Halflings are the ones who go into danger -- not I. I am of little consequence to the enemy now. The foe has moved on and I am left behind..."

His mouth twisted ruefully, and with a sigh, Boromir lapsed into silence. His friends watched him silently, as he sat quietly for a time, listening to the lap of water on the shore.  It sounded loud to his ears in spite of the nearby roaring of the falls.

"A fine thing!" he murmured, as if to himself. "Boromir, captain of Gondor, pride of his people, defender of Minas Tirith -- of such little consequence to the enemy! The wave of war has passed over me and cast me upon the shore, and now the tide recedes and I am left behind."

He saw sorrow written upon the faces of his companions, and pushed away his own disquiet, smiling in an attempt to dispel their fears.

"So be it!" he said firmly. "I am content that it should be so -- for now! Do not fear for me, I say! I mean only that I do not believe I shall be in danger, though I remain here alone. The tide has receded, the battle moves on.  I am one warrior only, wounded and of no further concern to any of our enemies."

Gimli was still not satisfied.

"They will not hesitate to put you out of your misery, should they come on you wounded and alone," he argued.

Boromir shrugged, wincing winced at the pain in his shoulder.

"A chance I shall have to take, for obviously, I cannot accompany you, and you cannot remain here to protect me. Truly, I am of no consequence now. Leave me in the care of others who come seeking me out, having heard the call of the Horn."

Suddenly, he reached out and grasped Aragorn's hand as he knelt beside him.

"Please!  Tarry no longer! Follow after the little ones and rescue them! The wave of war may have passed me by, but my time will come again; I shall find the current that will bear me swiftly back to where I belong. We will meet again, my friend, though all the hosts of Mordor and Orthanc stand between us!"

Aragorn nodded, but made no attempt to move.

"Did you not earlier this day assure me that we would fight again together?" Boromir said urgently. "Then trust to that. A way will present itself for my safe return. Have I not been drawn back once again from the brink of death?" He laughed. "'Indestructible!' I can almost believe it now!"

"Indestructible, perhaps," replied Aragorn with a wry smile. "But not invulnerable! Once alone it will be easy enough for you to fall into despair."

"Well I know it!" replied Boromir, meeting Aragorn's steady gaze. "I have been the friend of despair for too long, it may be hard to break that bond."

He shrugged, and winced again.

"We shall see. In any case, you cannot remain here. Though my future is uncertain, that of the hobbits is even more uncertain. I can hold off despair with the knowledge that there is a chance for them, if you go now. Do not linger, and do not waste time upon the way with the thought of seeking out those who can come to my aid. You must concern yourself with me no longer."

"Yes, my lord!" Aragorn responded, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Forgive me," stammered Boromir, abashed. "I forget sometimes I am not in command."

"You encourage me, Boromir," laughed Aragorn. "If you are once more thinking of command, then that is a good sign! But I assure you, you need not apologize for speaking forthrightly. The one who leads must have beside him those who are not afraid to speak the truth when it needs to be heard. You know yourself, and your abilities, and I will trust your word. I am not yet convinced that you should be left alone -- but I will consider it, since you are so confident."

Aragorn stood and turned to Legolas and Gimli.

"There are things I would know before I make a final decision.  We must see what the signs tell us in the forest where the hobbits were taken. Come with me now, and help me read that tale. Boromir will do well enough alone for a time."

"Do not return," growled Boromir sternly. "I know in my heart that all three of you will be needed to save them, so I beg you to go now and leave me here. Read your signs in the forest, then follow swiftly after my hobbits. Farewell!"

"Farewell, Boromir," replied Aragorn with a small sigh and a smile. "Farewell -- at least for a time!"

Legolas and Gimli nodded to Boromir, then followed after Aragorn as he strode away into the wood. At the top of the rise, they hesitated as one and turned back. They could still see Boromir clearly through the trees, looking strangely small and forlorn. He was watching them go, but now he waved them on as best he was able, despite his pain, as if determined to have the final word in the matter.

"Come, lad; let us go see what we may learn," said Gimli. "You can do no more for Boromir until you know what is to be done for the hobbits."
"I do not think he should be left alone," said Aragorn with a frown.

Legolas laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"He has great strength within him, Aragorn," he said. "And he has the confidence to survive, even left behind on his own."

"Indeed!" replied Aragorn ruefully. "But confidence can make a man foolish, in an attempt to do too much too soon -- and more than confidence is needed to hold back despair, even for one so confident as our Boromir. May the Valar keep him!"

Aragorn sighed heavily and turned away.

"Come. Boromir speaks the truth in this at least, that something must be done for Merry and Pippin -- and swiftly. We shall see what is to be seen, and make our decision then."

***

Boromir watched until his companions had disappeared into the trees.  For some time after they had gone, he kept on watching, half in hope that they would obey him and seek the hobbits before it was too late, and half in hope that one, at least, would turn back to remain with him, for he did not truly want to be alone. But they did not return.

Feeling a sudden chill, he pulled his cloak more tightly about his shoulders and leaned back wearily against the rough stone of the landing.

Admit it! he thought to himself. You are afraid. Afraid to be alone with yourself, afraid of what you will see in your heart when there is nothing left to do but think... and remember.

Now that he was truly alone, the confidence he had felt earlier vanished, and with it, any hope of rescue.

No one will come, he thought. You hope in vain.

His glance strayed to the opposite shore, and he thought fleetingly of Frodo.  At least he was not alone, if Sam had truly gone with him. What might Frodo be thinking now? What would he have told Sam? Only a few hours had passed since he and Frodo had parted, but it was as if an entire lifetime lay between them now. He shied away from further thoughts of the Ringbearer as sorrow pierced him anew. He eyed the lengthening shadows and suppressed a shudder at the thought of the night to come.

It was going to be a very long night...

Aragorn led the way back to the glade where he had first come upon the fallen Boromir. Slain Orcs lay piled all about the clearing, and the air was heavy with the smell of death. The trail the surviving Orcs had taken was unmistakable, for the ground was trampled and slashed where the horde had passed. The companions looked closely at the bodies of the slain to learn what they could about the enemy they would be pursuing.

"Look!" cried Aragorn, holding up two leaf-bladed knives, stained black with Orc blood. "These weapons were borne by the hobbits!"

"They put up a bit of a fight, it would seem!" Gimli exclaimed with satisfaction. "I hope they did not pay for it with their lives! They now go weaponless."

"I will take these in hope that they might be returned to their owners."

"And I will fill my quiver with any arrows I can find," said Legolas, "for it was emptied in battle with Orcs on the other side of the hill. There are many here that are undamaged and which will suit my need well."

While Legolas searched the pile and the ground for arrows, Aragorn and Gimli continued their inspection of the slain Orcs. Among the many that lay dead around them, Aragorn recognized some as having come from the Misty Mountains; but others there were of a kind he had not seen before. These Orcs were great of stature and armed with bows of yew.  Their shields displayed the device of a white hand, and their helms were marked with an S-rune.

"S is for Saruman, I guess," said Aragorn. "Sauron does not use such runes, nor does he use any white device.  Therefore, it seems likely to me that these Orcs are heading to Isengard, since their trail leads west and not east. Saruman has by some means learned of our journey, and he seeks to waylay us. He has taken the hobbits for some evil purpose, either by chance, or more likely because he knows of the Quest of the Ringbearer. Did not Gandalf say that Saruman desired the Ring for himself, or for his new Master?"

"What are we to do, then?" demanded Gimli impatiently. "Frodo is beyond our aid by now, but it is still within our power to rescue the young hobbits. We cannot let them remain prisoners of that evil wizard! Why, they might be tortured, and Saruman could learn of our plan for the Ring, and then it would only be a matter of time before Sauron learned of it as well."

"They will be rescued," said Aragorn resolutely. "I have given my word."

"Then let us be off! The more we talk, the more miles they put between us."

Aragorn shook his head. "There is still the matter of Boromir. Are we all three needed to save the hobbits, as he says, or ought one of us to remain by his side? It is true I have done what I could for his wounds, and he has urged us to go, and not delay; yet, it does not feel right to leave him..."

"I do not wish to leave him, but it is also true that we gave him our word we would go after the hobbits," argued Gimli. "That is what he most desires now. Should we not honor that, now that he has persuaded us?"

"I fear I am not yet persuaded," replied Aragorn. "He spoke convincingly of his ability to cope alone, yet while the need of the hobbits is great, Boromir, too, is one of the Company, and his needs are as important as those of the captives. If aid does not come from Gondor in answer to the call of the Horn, he could still be lost."

Legolas had been listening silently to the discussion, but now he stepped forward and mutely held out one of the arrows he had gathered.  The darkening red stains of Boromir's blood could still be seen on the shaft and the sharpened point.

A heavy silence filled the glade as the three companions gazed upon that blood, and recalled the extent of Boromir's wounds.

"We cannot leave him," Aragorn said at last. "Almost he persuaded me with his brave words, but I cannot in good conscience leave him alone. I have done what I can for his injuries; they should heal cleanly, but there is still some chance of danger, if bleeding continues, or he falls prey to a fever. His position is very precarious, more than you know. He is in great peril from despair and guilt, and in spite of his confidence in himself, I fear Boromir does not take that into account. I fear how his mood will affect his health at this time of weakness; if he is alone, he may grow despondent, and that may affect his ability to heal. He has great strength, as you yourself said, Legolas, but even such strength will not avail him if he falls into despair."

"What do you mean?" queried Gimli. "Why should he feel such guilt? He could have done no more than he did for the hobbits. There is no need for despair just yet.  There is still a good chance we may find them alive and rescue them."

Aragorn shook his head. "That is not what I mean."

Legolas looked at Aragorn thoughtfully.

"Boromir spoke of Frodo," the Elf said slowly. "Earlier, when we were gathered by the shore together, he spoke of an argument with him.  He said Frodo had put on the Ring and disappeared. Did Boromir attempt to seize the Ring, then?"

"Yes," replied Aragorn heavily. "Boromir told me of what he had done when I found him wounded; he was sorry, and asked my forgiveness. He asked me to tell you... he feared you would blame him."

Legolas and Gimli both shook their heads, but neither spoke a word.

"We must choose now," said Aragorn, and his face was troubled. "All that I do this day goes amiss.  May I now choose aright, and change the evil fate of this unhappy day!"

He thought for a long moment.

"I am the leader of this Company since Gandalf fell. I would have gone with Frodo to the end, but he has taken that journey upon himself, and I would be abandoning these others if I sought him now. He made his choice -- if not willingly, then at least the decision was his -- but the other two had no choice in the matter.  They are prisoners against their will, being taken to torment and perhaps even death. Their rescue must be attempted. On that we are agreed."

The Dwarf and the Elf both nodded and murmured their agreement.

"The Company has played its part," Aragorn continued. "Yet still we have a duty to those who remain.  Boromir needs care, at least until help arrives from his own people, and the hobbits are in need of rescue."

"Do you think Boromir's people will come?" asked Gimli doubtfully. "How will they know of his need?"

"I have seen much that is strange in this world," replied Aragorn. "I believe it is true what Boromir said of the Horn of Gondor: that help will come to the one who sounds the Horn in dire need. And there is this: I know something of the Steward of Gondor, his father.  He knows and discerns much of what passes in his realm. He bore that Horn before it came to Boromir, and he would surely have heard its call, and would seek to answer it by any means he could. The borders of Gondor extend to the very foot of Rauros; likely there are watchers close enough by who might be enlisted to seek out the Steward's son in the wilderness, once it is known from whence came the call."

"Yet it is uncertain when such help might arrive, if it comes at all," said Gimli slowly.

"Yes," agreed Aragorn. "And for that reason Boromir ought not to be left alone."

"What is your wish, Aragorn?" asked Legolas. "Tell us, and we shall do it."

Aragorn's answer was decisive.

"One of us must stay with him."

They were silent for a moment, as they pondered the implications.

"Very well," announced Gimli suddenly. "I will stay. He comforted me beside Balin's tomb, and when Gandalf fell.  It is the least I can do for him now in his own time of need. Besides, you two will be better off without me.  Your long legs are better suited for speed, and haste is needed if you are to catch up with the hobbits."

"Nay, Gimli," replied Legolas, laying his hand on the Dwarf's shoulder. "This race may be won by the enduring as well as by the fleet of foot. Aragorn must go, for he is skilled in tracking, and the burden of responsibility for the hobbits weighs heavily upon him; you, Gimli, must go with him. He will need your endurance and your stout courage, as well as your Dwarvish axe wielded mightily in his defense. I will stay with Boromir."

Legolas turned to face Aragorn.

"I am not the healer you are, Aragorn, but I am able to keep the wounded from bleeding to death, and calm the fears that plague those who are gravely ill. Should Boromir's people come sooner rather than later, I can be swift to catch you up; for you will need me with you ere you reach Isengard."

"So be it," said Aragorn simply, but the relief on his face was clear. "I know you will care well for him."

"He will not like it!" cautioned Gimli.

"No," agreed Legolas. "His pride may not allow him to accept help which he feels should be given to others."

"For now, his pride is greater than his strength," said Aragorn with a fond smile. "He will have little choice in the matter, I think. I trust you, Legolas, to explain it to him."

***

Boromir shifted uncomfortably, wishing he had the strength to reach for another blanket. He was shaking with cold, in spite of the fire that burned nearby, and the cloak and blankets which already covered him.

If only I could sleep, he thought. Then I might forget how cold I am...

He heard a rustle nearby and soft footsteps approaching. He rolled as quickly as he could manage onto his side, as he reached for his knife.  The world spun dizzily and he felt as if he were falling.

Suddenly, gentle hands were holding him and settling him again, and a reassuring voice spoke quietly in his ear.

"Be still," said Legolas. "It is no enemy that comes upon you. I am here now.  You are safe."

"Why have you returned?" growled Boromir angrily. "I need you not! Go back at once, I am of no importance! Only the welfare of the little ones matters now, and Aragorn will need you by his side if he is to rescue them. You could have been well on your way…"

Strength spent, his voice trailed off. Legolas was unperturbed at the rebuke in Boromir's voice.

"This is not a matter of choice between saving one or the other," he answered calmly. "Aragorn would have you all saved. But you are right. Aragorn will need me, and I shall go to him as soon as I am able. You are wrong, however, to think you are not important to us. You are as important to Aragorn as are the hobbits; he cannot bear to go on, knowing you are here and in danger from your injuries. If your people come soon, I may still be able to seek him in the wilderness, but for now, I am here, and I will care for you."

Boromir sighed.

"I thought I had convinced you!” he complained, shrugging feebly.  “I had hoped to avoid having a nursemaid."

"You spoke most eloquently, but your spilled blood on the ground in the glade spoke louder still, and seeing it, we could not bear to leave you alone."

Boromir was silent for a time; then he sighed again, wincing slightly at the pain it caused him.

"Very well," he said reluctantly.  Yet at the same time he could not keep the relief from his voice. The thought of being alone as night fell had filled him with fear and dread.

"Perhaps..." Boromir tried without success to quell his shivering. "Since you are here, perhaps you might put more wood on the fire. I am feeling a bit chilled…"

He clamped his jaw shut in an attempt to keep his teeth from chattering.

"Of course," replied Legolas, as he shook out a blanket and tucked it around Boromir's shoulders. "Rest you now. I will see to the fire, and take the first watch."

The weight of the added blanket was comforting, and Boromir began to relax.

"Call me -- when it is my watch," he murmured, as he allowed sleep to take him.

*****

A/N: Parts of this chapter are taken from and based upon Chapter 1 of The Two Towers, "The Departure of Boromir."

Curse you! Curse you and all Halflings to death and darkness!

It was his own voice shouting from out of the darkness that was his dream.

Boromir groaned and covered his ears to stop the sound of that horrible curse, but to no avail; the words rang in his ears and echoed in his mind until he thought he would go mad. Knowing it was all a dream was no comfort to him, for he knew with cold certainty that even in waking, there would be no release from that hate-filled voice. He could not escape the harsh memory of his rage, nor the cold knowledge of his failure.

Mist swirled, and the darkness changed.  Light grew and he saw before him Merry and Pippin, staring with horrified expressions upon their faces.

I am sorry! he cried, but he had no voice, and he could not make them hear. I did not mean it! Forgive me, I could not save you...

He reached out to them, but they drew back in fear, and he saw that his hand was covered with blood. He tried to wipe it on his tunic, but the stain would not come clean. Suddenly the hobbits lay dead at his feet and he realized the blood on his hands was their blood.

You have failed, cried a voice out of the night; he could not tell who spoke. Was that Mithrandir? His father? Or was it his own voice, angry and full of disgust?

Your oath to be of aid is broken, the voice went on coldly, relentlessly. They trusted you! Frodo trusted you, and you have betrayed him. The little ones trusted you, and you failed them. They are dead because of you. Frodo has fled because of you; he will go to Mordor and be taken. Gondor is doomed because of you. The world is doomed because of you. Your hands are stained with blood and your fingers with guilt...

“I know it!” Boromir moaned in his sleep. “The blood of the world is upon my hands...”

***

Boromir moaned pitifully and shifted restlessly in his sleep.  Legolas was immediately at his side, murmuring quiet words of encouragement. He laid a hand on Boromir's brow, and after a moment, the Man relaxed and his muttering ceased.

"No fever," said Legolas aloud. "I am encouraged, Boromir. The athelas is preventing infection in your wounds that might cause fever, and that will surely aid you in your healing."

He did not know whether Boromir heard him or not, but Legolas noted the Man did seem calmer when he spoke to him quietly. If the sound of his voice and the knowledge of his presence brought comfort, then Legolas was willing to continue talking for as long as it was needed, whether or not there was any answer.

He felt Boromir's cheek and sighed.

"No fever," he repeated, "yet almost I would welcome it, if this chill that seems to have settled in you might be driven away. You are cold and clammy to the touch, though you lie close by the fire."

The fire was beginning to burn low once more.  Legolas reached out and put another piece of wood on the flames, stirring the fire until it flared up again and he could feel its strong warmth upon his face. He knew he must keep Boromir warm, to prevent the illness that could come with the severe loss of blood he had endured. The bleeding seemed to have stopped now, even in the wound to Boromir's midsection; even so, Legolas knew there was still some danger of hidden bleeding in such a wound, in spite of the great care taken by Aragorn in the removal of the arrow. Legolas hoped that help from Gondor might arrive soon, in the event Boromir needed more aid than his own skill could provide. In the meantime, he would do what he could, even if it was no more than speaking soft words of comfort and building up the fire.

Legolas glanced at the dwindling pile of wood at his side. Gimli had gathered as much wood as he could find for Boromir's use.  It had seemed sufficient for several days' supply, yet now, hardly more than a day had passed since the attack and Boromir's wounding, and already the wood was getting low. Legolas had been generous with the fire to keep Boromir warm.

"I shall have to fetch some more wood soon," Legolas commented aloud. "But not until this restlessness passes.  I will wait until you sleep more soundly."

Boromir stirred and cried out. Taking one of the Man's hands in his, Legolas clasped it firmly.

"I am here," he said soothingly. "Do not be troubled, Boromir. In a while I will go for wood, but now I am here and I shall not leave your side until you give me leave. Sleep in peace, if you can.  May your pain be forgotten and your dreaming be without fear."

He began to sing softly. Slowly, the tension left Boromir, and he began to breathe more evenly as sound sleep enveloped him.  Yet the troubled frown upon his face remained, and could not be soothed.

***

Pippin fought with despair in the growing darkness.  He lay where he had been thrown down, afraid to move, afraid almost to breathe, for fear the Orcs would remember him and perhaps decide to kill him. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was somewhere else, somewhere safe, but he could not. All he could see when he closed his eyes was the bowed head of Boromir, and the look in his eyes as he gasped for breath...

No! Don't think it! he said fiercely to himself. Think of something else...

Pippin wished he knew what had become of the others. He hoped against hope that someone would be following to rescue them, but it hardly seemed likely. Surely they would have all gone with Frodo once he was found. The others could not afford to follow the Orcs to attempt a rescue, could they? No, that would throw out all the plans; they would go to Mordor with Frodo...

He could not stop thinking about Boromir. What had become of him? Surely he could not be dead; not Boromir! And yet, Pippin had seen him fall, pierced by black Orc arrows.  Could even a great warrior like Boromir live after that?

If only I could have helped him! he thought, choking back a sob. I wish I hadn't run off into the forest like that, calling for Frodo. Boromir had to come looking for us, then, and look what came of it! If only...

He looked around for Merry.  He was close by, but his eyes were closed, and his face was covered in blood. A moan escaped Pippin before he could stop it, but it went unnoticed by the Orcs who stood over him.

Ah, Merry! Pippin thought, struggling futilely against his bonds. What have I gotten us into? What good have I been on this quest? I'm nothing but a nuisance, who brings trouble to others -- trouble and death. Who will rescue us now? They've probably all gone with Frodo... I wish I could get free!

***

Boromir moved restlessly. He had been sleeping soundly, but now the soothing sound in his ear was gone, and he felt cold and alone. The wisps of evil dreams that had been held at bay by that sound now returned to plague him. He twisted and turned to free himself from the mist that threatened him, but he could not get free...

Boromir!

He heard Pippin call, and suddenly, Boromir was awake. He struggled to rise, but he was stiff and sore, and the pain was terrible. He fell back with a groan and lay still for a time, his eyes closed.

Pippin...

Opening his eyes once more, he looked about him, trying to focus, trying to remember where he was.  Memory returned, but slowly. Boromir felt confused and anxious. Was he alone? Had they left him? Everything was so hazy! Was he dreaming still?

Boromir cast about seeking something tangible, something solid that would help anchor him in reality. He gazed upon the water of the lake and heard the roaring of the Falls behind him.  He saw the boats drawn up upon the shingle and the fire beside him, burning low.

His eye then fell upon the Horn of Gondor which lay beside him at his right hand; grasping it weakly, he drew it towards him. It was split almost in two, barely held together by the cracking edge of horn and carved silver. Blood stained both halves.

Your hands are stained with blood and your fingers with guilt...

He dropped the Horn as if it had scalded him, and searched his hand for any sign of a stain. Nothing... no blood was visible, but he knew it was there. The blood of the innocent was upon his hands and on his Horn. He must get them clean; he would not be able to rest until he was clean.

Spurred on by an odd sense of desperation, Boromir grasped the Horn once more and with the help of a stave of wood he found laying beside him, he struggled to his feet, making his way slowly towards the edge of the lake. It was only a few steps away, but the distance seemed vast to him in his weakened condition.  The pain of his wounds impeded his progress, but a growing feeling of anger lent him strength.

He waded out into the lake until the water was hip deep.  He went haltingly, for the current was strong, but he was determined, and pressed on in spite of the pain and dizziness that assailed him. The sting of water in his wounds was somehow refreshing and made him feel almost awake. Yet he still was confused and disoriented, and knew deep within that something was not right with him.

I must get clean, he thought. That is what troubles me... the stain of blood...

Determined to succeed in spite of his weakness, he tightened his grip on the staff, and leaned against it to brace himself against the tug of the current. Leaning forward slightly, he immersed the soiled Horn in the flowing water of the lake, scrubbing at the stains with his thumb. The blood was dry and hard, and it would not come clean.

He cursed angrily at his weakness and his clumsiness; the hand that braced the staff slipped, and he stumbled. The force of the current pushed against the Horn in his hand, and it was more than the cloven heirloom could endure.  The seam cracked, and one half of the Horn floated away on the swift current.

An overwhelming sense of loss threatened to overwhelm Boromir as he watched the shard of horn spin away from him -- loss was replaced a moment later by a fierce anger that rose up and choked him. He stared at the half that remained clenched in his hand. The Horn had always symbolized the Stewardship to him, the rule that one day would be his. Had not the Horn been borne by each Steward's son since the days of Vorondil the Hunter? And now it was lost, broken, never to be mended! It would never be the same again. Nothing would be the same...

How fitting...

"Broken!" he wailed suddenly, bitterly, his voice ragged from the effort it had taken to drag himself this far. "Broken and useless, just as I am! My sword is broken... my oath is broken... my Stewardship is broken!"

With a strangled cry he flung the remaining shard from him.  It splashed into the water and was immediately taken by the current, bobbing and spinning as it headed for the Falls.

Boromir felt a wrenching pain in his shoulder and stomach, and he gasped, doubling over in agony. He staggered and knew he would not be able to stop himself from falling.

There was a loud splashing behind him, and strong hands unexpectedly gripped him.

"Boromir!"

Legolas' voice spoke urgently in his ear. "What are you doing? You should not be here!  You will do great harm to yourself if you do not rest quietly."

"Legolas..." Boromir sighed, relief flooding through him. "How came you here?"

"I have been with you all along, do you not remember? You were sleeping soundly and I went to gather wood. I thought I could leave you for a moment, but I see I was wrong!"

"I had to rid myself of the stain," muttered Boromir. "But I could not..."

Legolas put an arm around him and gently began guiding him back towards the shore.

"Come, Boromir, let me help you. You are not yourself."

Boromir pulled back and stared at Legolas as if seeing him for the first time. The familiar words echoed sharply in his mind.

"Not yourself..." he replied slowly.  "He... he said the same."

"Who said the same?" asked Legolas, but he thought he knew the answer.

"Frodo," replied Boromir, and his voice broke. Suddenly, all anger left him.  His face crumpled and he wept on Legolas' shoulder.

"Come, my friend," Legolas said softly. "You must come up out of the water. Lean on me, and I will help you. I can bear your full weight if necessary. Come."

Boromir allowed himself to be drawn away out of the water. Before they reached the shingle, he was leaning heavily against Legolas. He did not know how or when they finally reached the fire, but at last he found himself laying wearily back once more against the stone landing.

"Sleep now, my friend," said Legolas, covering Boromir with blankets and tucking his cloak closely about him. "All will be well, though you may not believe it yet. There is light beyond the darkness and you will see that light. But first, you must rest and heal. Give me your word you will rest now and attempt no more foolishness."

"I am not so good at keeping my word, I fear," replied Boromir weakly.

"You do yourself an injustice if you believe that. Rest now, and forget your fear. It will look less dark on the morrow."

"Very well," murmured Boromir, as sleep took him. "Perhaps I shall sleep, then... you may take my watch..."

The wind off the mountain caught at Grithnir's cloak as he came up out of the shelter of the tunnel leading from the sixth level to the Citadel. He shivered at its sudden bite, for though the days were lengthening and the air was beginning to warm as spring approached, the air off the snows above remained cold and crisp, and the wind was brisk on the heights of the City.

He shivered again, but this time it was with apprehension. He had not been to the level of the Citadel since his Captain had left on his mysterious errand to the north, some seven months ago.  His duties now took him most often to the battlements of the Rammas Echor, or to the wide walls on the lower levels of the City. In Boromir's absence, he served as one of the City Guard, and had command of the small company of men -- his Captain's chosen men -- who had been wont to accompany Boromir on his special missions outside the City.

Now he was summoned by Captain Faramir to the Great Hall. Grithnir could count upon one hand the number of times he had been in the Hall, and the thought of standing in that exalted place was daunting, and filled him with awe and a touch of dread.

Another gust of wind lifted his hair and whipped his cloak about his knees as he passed along the walkway to the great door of the Hall. As he mounted the wide steps to the entryway, he was challenged by the Tower Guard who stood on either side of the door; but as soon as he spoke his name, they stood aside and allowed him to enter. He was expected, and a chamberlain awaited to escort him into the Hall.

"The lord Faramir sends his greetings, commander," announced the chamberlain with a slight bow. "He thanks you for attending him, and wishes you to know that he has been called away.  The matter which he wished to discuss with you will be taken up by his father. My lord Denethor awaits you within."

The lord Denethor? thought Grithnir, suddenly alarmed. He willed himself not to hesitate. He had not expected to be brought before the Steward himself! Captain Faramir -- even in his standing as the son of the Steward and a captain of Rangers -- remained approachable and kind, a man who treated all with grave respect, even friendliness. Denethor was another matter entirely!

Not that Grithnir had anything to fear from him. The lord Denethor was a man who remained distant from those who served him, grim and cold to the point of harshness; but he was also a fair man, a strong leader and a keen judge of character. Grithnir did not doubt himself.  He was a loyal soldier and commander of the men under him, and that would serve him well in this meeting -- no matter how daunted he was at the thought of speaking face to face with the Steward of Gondor.

He paused in the outer Hall long enough to straighten his cloak and smooth back his windblown hair. He took a quick, deep breath, then followed after the chamberlain down the long marbled expanse of the Hall. By the time he reached the end of his journey to the Steward's chair, he was calm again, and ready to meet the gaze of the man who sat waiting, silent and brooding in his chair at the foot of the King's throne.

Denethor looked steadily at Grithnir for a long moment, observing him from under lowered brows. When at last he spoke, his voice was smooth and deep and even.

"So," said Denethor. "You are Grithnir, the one who commands Boromir's company in his absence."

"I have that honor, my lord."

"And what are your duties in the City while my son is away?"

"I serve the White City wherever I am needed, lord," replied Grithnir confidently. "My men and I have recently returned from a tour of duty along the eastern wall of the Rammas Echor."

"Ah!" responded Denethor. He watched Grithnir's face keenly. "And what think you of our defenses there, commander?"

Grithnir hesitated, but only for the briefest moment.

"The defense is sufficiently strong for the current need, my lord," he said carefully.

Denethor's smile was grim but satisfied.

"Indeed! You bear yourself well, Grithnir, and your answer is sound, though my question puts you in a difficult position. I know very well the strength of our defenses, and what our chances might be against a great force out of Mordor."

Denethor was silent for a moment, then moved his shoulders as if to shrug away his grim thoughts. "As you say, our defense is sufficient -- for now."

The Steward rose and walked away from his stone seat, to stand beneath a tall window which faced north. He gazed upwards for a long moment, as if straining to look out; then suddenly, he turned, and pinned Grithnir with a sharp, fierce look.

"Boromir has need of you."

Grithnir was stunned at the pronouncement, and caught his breath in dismay. Though the words had been spoken sternly and without emotion, the look in the Steward's eyes for a brief moment had been one of stark fear. When at last Grithnir could speak, he was unable to keep his own fear from his voice.

"You have had word of him, then?" he stammered. "Is... has any harm come to him?"

"I have indeed had word of my son," replied Denethor; his voice was distant and weary. "Messages have come to me of his arrival near our northernmost borders, above Rauros beyond the North Stair. There, it would seem, he met with some difficulty, some danger, but the messages were not clear. Yet I fear the worst."

No... thought Grithnir, and his fear sharpened. He cannot be lost!

"What can I do?" he asked aloud.

"Faramir knows of his brother's danger," replied the Steward. "We have agreed that aid should be sent to Boromir in his hour of need, if he can be found. Faramir claims you are a man who can be trusted to take on such a venture, and to keep this matter secret. Know this: if word reaches the ears of the people that Boromir may be lost, the morale in the City will suffer; we cannot afford that at this time. Do you understand?"

"I do, my lord. I will say nothing of this. And I will gladly go for you to seek him out and render assistance. Boromir is my Captain, and I will go to him, lord -- I shall find him."

Denethor nodded slowly, not taking his eyes from Grithnir's face.

"Very well, Grithnir. You shall go and bring Boromir back to us, for we have great need of him. Seek him in the wilderness near Rauros and northwards. Do you know that country?"

Grithnir shook his head. "I do not, but there is a scout who has served with me under Boromir who has traveled there, and knows those paths. He will be able to find the fastest road north for me and those who accompany me."

"You will travel with as few companions as possible for the task at hand," instructed Denethor. "They must be trustworthy men, known to be loyal to Boromir and to the White City. One man, at least, should be a healer, in the event Boromir is injured. Fewer men in your company will mean more difficulty if you come upon danger along your way, but speed is of greater importance now. I will see that you are given whatever you may need for your journey. Have you any questions?"

"No, lord; I know what must be done."

"Very well, then. See to it. Go quickly, and bring back to me my son."

Grithnir bowed low, and hurried from the Hall.

***

Faramir waited patiently by the fountain and tried to keep his fear at bay. The wind sighing mournfully in the barren branches of the withered Tree fit well his melancholy mood. He awaited Grithnir, whom he knew to be inside the Hall with his father.  He hoped to speak with him before they both set out for their assigned duties -- Faramir to the garrison at Osgiliath, and Grithnir to find and save Boromir, his brother.

Faramir saw Grithnir approaching at a fast pace, and rose to greet him.  The commander stopped short when he recognized the Captain, and inclined his head respectfully, waiting for him to speak.

"You have spoken to my father and know of our need?" Faramir asked, drawing Grithnir away from the guards who stood at attention beside the fountain.

"Yes, my lord," responded Grithnir. "He told me of the messages he had received of Boromir's danger, and where I might seek him in the wilderness. I go now to gather the men and make preparations for departure."

Faramir nodded gratefully.

"I knew you would be the right choice for this venture," he replied with relief. "I had hoped to accompany you, but I have another important errand to undertake for my father to the garrison at Osgiliath."

He paused and looked at Grithnir quizzically.

"So there will only be the one search party sent out? And you say my father told you specifically where to search?"

"Yes -- northwards to Rauros and beyond, up the North Stair. He claimed that was where Boromir was last seen."

Faramir said nothing for a moment, his thoughts in a whirl. He remembered now other times when his father had seemed to have certain knowledge of events far away, information seemingly impossible to have gained. How did he come by such accurate knowledge of events so quickly when no messengers had been seen to be in attendance? His father must be very confident of whatever messages he had received, to risk sending only the one small party in search of Boromir.

But there was no time now to wonder further; Faramir had only a short time before he himself had to depart on his own errand, and he did not want to keep Grithnir from his.

"My father knows much of what passes in this realm that others do not know," he replied. "He has ways of receiving news that even I do not know or understand. If he has said it, then it is so; you may trust his information. I can vouch for this, that the danger is indeed to the North -- yes, I fear there truly is danger. Whatever secret messages my father may have received, we both have heard the desperate call of the Horn of Boromir only a few hours ago, coming from that direction. It seemed more like an echo in my mind than an actual sound in my ear, but I doubt not that the Horn was sounded in truth. Boromir is in need, and someone must go to him, even if it is only to find his dead body to bear it home."

Grithnir looked at Faramir in awe, even as he shuddered at his grim tone.

"You heard the Horn at such a great distance? How is such a thing possible?"

"I do not know how or why we should hear the Horn," answered Faramir with a shake of his head. "No other seems to have heard it sounding.  I have questioned a few whom I trust and it would seem that only my father and I heard the call. You are close in friendship to Boromir; did you hear the Horn?"

Grithnir shook his head in denial.

"The lore does not speak of this," mused Faramir. "It says only that if the Horn is blown within the ancient bounds of Gondor, aid will come to him who is in need. Perhaps my brother's need is so great that we his kin are needed to provide what cannot be given by any companions who might be with him. I pray the call was answered by those within earshot, if any were nearby."

Grithnir's face set resolutely.

"I will find him, my lord Faramir, and bring him back to you."

Faramir rested a compassionate hand on Grithnir's shoulder.

"I know you will do all that is within your power, for he is your lord, and you love him -- as do I. Have you given thought, then, to those who will accompany you?"

"Yes," replied Grithnir. "I will take Henderch and Dirhavel, who are attached to our company as scouts; they will find the quickest path for us. There is another, Arthad, who has been of great service to Boromir in the past. I know he is trustworthy and will beg to come. I have need of one other, a healer. Would it be too much to ask if Linhir could be spared?"

Faramir nodded approvingly.

"Yes, yes; all wise choices. I will find Linhir and tell him of our need. He is the chief of healers, and will be the best man to accompany you, if Boromir is injured in any way. I will arrange it with him so that he is not missed from his duties here."

Faramir hesitated, and looked at Grithnir intently.

"Did my father impress upon you the delicacy of this venture? There is enough despair in the City without word getting out that Boromir might not return..."

"He did, my lord Faramir," answered Grithnir emphatically. "I am sworn to secrecy, and I understand the reasons why. The men I have in mind will follow me and say little. We need only a short time to prepare, after which we will rest for a few hours and leave before dawn tomorrow. With Henderch and Dirhavel to guide us, we can travel some distance before the fens of the Entwash become a problem in the darkness."

"Then go make your preparations," Faramir said. "I shall send Linhir to you directly. May the Valar guide you in your search!"

Grithnir bowed low to Faramir, then walked swiftly away towards the tunnel to the lower levels.

"Fare well," said Faramir softly as he watched Grithnir go. "Bring back to me my brother."

***

Grithnir stood upon a grassy rise and looked out over the vast marshlands formed by the mouths of the Entwash, now shapeless and vague in the deep twilight. The air was filled with the creak of insects and the sigh of wind in the tall reeds that thrived in the fen. The murmur of water was faint as it moved sluggishly through many channels amidst the grass, seeking a way to reach Anduin in the distance.

Behind him, the horses stood silent and waiting, harnesses held close by their riders to prevent any jangle of noise that might alert an enemy to their presence. There had been no sign of any such enemy throughout the day, but it was presumptuous to believe they were safe here, particularly at night, when Orc-sight was at its keenest. Grithnir had not yet heard that Orcs had dared to cross into the lands west of Anduin, but the River was close enough by that it was a danger which needed to be taken into account.

Two figures approached out of the darkening gloom, moving as silently as possible over the wet terrain; Henderch and Dirhavel had returned from scouting out the path ahead.

"What have you to report, Henderch?" Grithnir asked, when the two men stood before him.

"It is as I feared, sir. It will be difficult."

"What is your advice, then?"

"We cannot go on this night," replied Henderch with a shake of his head, and Dirhavel murmured his agreement. "The fen is safe enough to traverse in daylight, if care is taken to find the firm ground -- but it is foolish to attempt passage in the darkness. I know that time is of the essence here, but I also know the extent of my skill. I cannot lead you safely through these lands at night."

"Very well, then," agreed Grithnir reluctantly. "We will rest here until dawn. We are weary after a long day of travel, and it will do our Captain little good if we stumble and lose ourselves in the darkness for lack of sleep and a safe path. If we ride hard on the morrow, we should reach by evening the outpost below Rauros, where men of Gondor watch the northern borders."

The searchers made camp atop the rise where it was at least partially dry. They ate a cold meal, for they did not wish to light a fire which might be seen by an enemy; instead they wrapped themselves closely in their cloaks to keep out the damp chill flowing up from the marsh all around them.

"I will take the first watch," announced Linhir with authority.

Grithnir did not gainsay him. He settled himself gratefully upon the ground, hoping sleep would come quickly.  He was weary after a long day of hard riding and he had slept little the night before, as he saw to the preparations for the journey.

Yet, in spite of his great weariness, sleep eluded him. His heart was sore and full of fear and dismay for Boromir.  His mind still echoed with the harsh words of Denethor that had sliced through him like a cold knife:

"Boromir has need of you."

He pushed away his desolation and willed himself to sleep, to forget his fear.  He needed his rest so he could be strong to lead the men forward at daybreak.

"I am coming for you, my Captain," Grithnir murmured as sleep took him at last.

Boromir came gradually to wakefulness, surfacing slowly from a deep sleep without dreams. At some time in the night he had slipped down from a half-sitting position, and was now lying on his side, almost flat on the sandy shingle of beach. He was surprised to discover he was able to breathe relatively freely.  Until now, he had only been comfortable when sitting up.

Something rough was pressing against his cheek. Shifting his position, he realized he had been lying with his head cradled upon his upper arm, and the frayed edge of embroidered gold wire that adorned the sleeve of his tunic was scratching sharply against his face. Boromir rolled onto his back, rubbing at his scratched face, then pushed himself up into a sitting position.

He stifled a groan. The early morning air was cold and damp, and his blanket and cloak were heavy with dew. He felt cold and stiff, and ached all over -- but it was the pain accompanying grave injuries and abused muscles, rather than the ache of fever and illness. He took in a breath, slowly and carefully, and found himself refreshed by the cool air in his lungs and the smell of wet leaves in his nostrils.

Light grew all around him, and Boromir saw that the sun had risen above the mist that hung over Nen Hithoel. The name was apt -- Lake of the Misty Water -- for shifting tendrils of morning fog drifted upon the surface of the water and light glinted off the spray of the Falls of Rauros, filling the air to a great height.

Legolas stood nearby, gazing out over the lake to watch the rising of the sun. He turned, as if sensing that Boromir was awake, and smiled in greeting.

"You have slept well," he remarked as he knelt by Boromir's side. "I can tell by the ease in your face that your night passed peacefully. How are you feeling? Do you have much pain?"

"I am stiff and sore," replied Boromir, surprised to hear his own voice sounding reasonably strong once more. "But that is to be expected. My breath comes easier, and in spite of the pain, I do feel better."

"This is good news, my friend," Legolas said happily. "The tales of the endurance of the Men of Gondor are true, it would seem. It is only the second day since your wounding, and already you begin to mend."

"Still, at present I have little strength in me," replied Boromir, with a rueful smile. He held out a shaking and unsteady hand to prove his point.

"Do not despair," answered Legolas consolingly. "Two days is still only two days, and your exertions of yesterday have no doubt taken a toll. But you grow stronger; I can see that plainly. Great is the power of athelas against pain and the shadow of despair, especially in the hands of one who has the healing touch. While there is no more athelas to be had, and I am not Aragorn, there is still much I can do for you to care for your needs, and your own strength will do the rest."

Legolas stripped off the dew-soaked blanket that lay across Boromir's knees and lifted the edge of his open tunic to look at his wounds.

"May I see to your dressings?" he asked. "They should be changed and the wounds cleaned, now that the bleeding has stopped. Then you should try to eat, if you are able. Lembas is all I have to offer, but there is no better food for strengthening the weakened traveler, whether his lack of strength be from the journey or from a wounding."

Boromir nodded. "Yes, I do feel I could eat a little."

Legolas proceeded with the changing of Boromir's dressings and the washing of his wounds. He was careful and considerate of the wounded Man, and Boromir felt little pain at the Elf's ministrations.

"You have a gentle hand and manner," Boromir commented. "Your light touch reminds me of a man of Gondor whom I know well. His name is Linhir.  He is chief among the healers attending my men who sustain injury in our war against the Enemy. He also has a gentle hand, though his manner is otherwise -- especially with me!"

Legolas smiled. "I can well imagine you might be one who would need a stern word and a firm hand when wounded."

Boromir laughed, grimacing at the pain that shot through him as a result.

"Yes, I believe he has mentioned once or twice that he considers me a difficult patient. I have had a scratch or two in my day. The one who leads his men into battle can hardly avoid a wounding."

Boromir turned away suddenly, as his voice faltered.

"Fear not," said Legolas gently. "You shall return to lead your men into battle once more."

"But will it be in time?" Boromir sighed.

Setting aside the soiled bandages, Legolas retrieved a dry blanket from the gear piled in one of the boats, and covered Boromir well, for the morning was still cool, and in spite of his efforts to disguise it, Boromir was shaking with cold and the exertions of having his wounds worked over. Sitting next to Boromir, Legolas handed him a wafer of lembas and a skin of water, and took the same for himself.

Boromir ate silently, savoring the taste of the lembas. He felt better almost immediately, and his trembling stilled. He had not been so keen to accept the virtues of the waybread, when first it had been presented to the Company; the taste of it was fine, but the idea that such a small wafer could carry a man for an entire day was a bit far-fetched, to his mind. Yet the Elvish bread was indeed sustaining, and light enough for even his battered stomach to bear.

"You mentioned my exertions of yesterday," Boromir remarked, after they had finished eating. "I must have been mad to do such a thing! It was indeed rash of me to wade out into the lake because of a wild dream..."

He broke off, and sighed heavily.

"I feel utterly foolish! The Horn was an heirloom of my house and I have thrown it away in my madness!"

"You knew not what you were doing then," answered Legolas calmly.

"Perhaps," agreed Boromir reluctantly. "Nevertheless, the Horn is gone, and it saddens me."

He was silent again for a time, and Legolas waited respectfully.

"Do you think anyone will come?" Boromir wondered aloud. He gazed out over the water of the lake, where the mists were retreating as the sun warmed the water. "Even if the call of the Horn was heard, my people are more likely to think me dead now, once the shards of the Horn are found in the River."

"Think you not that they will come looking for you, even if they believe you dead?" Legolas' voice was firm. "If they have any idea where to search, I believe they would come to find you, if only to bear you home in honor. Finding the Horn on the River would at least give some sign to them as to where you might be found."

"That is so," replied Boromir thoughtfully. "There are watchers on our borders who might find the remnants of the Horn, and though they may not be able to leave their post to search, they might send word to my father. He would send someone for me, if any can be spared from the defense of the City."

Hope flared suddenly in Boromir's breast at the thought of his brother Faramir leading a search party to rescue him in his great need. But he quickly put the thought aside as frivolous. Faramir would have many duties to keep him busy; he would not be free to come to him, no matter how much he would wish to join the search for his lost brother in the wilderness.

Boromir sighed and looked up at Legolas, who was watching him kindly.

"Fear not," said the Elf. "They will come."

Boromir nodded, but said nothing. After a long moment he spoke again, haltingly.

"You comfort me, Legolas. I thank you for it. I... I am a proud man, and it is difficult to freely admit my need. But I want to tell you I am grateful for all you have done... for your care and for being willing to stay with me, so I would not be alone. I think... Surely I would have been lost but for you being here with me."

Legolas smiled and reached out to grip Boromir's hand tightly.

"That is what friends do for one another," he said softly. "It is what Lord Elrond intended with the formation of this Fellowship -- that we might support one another on the journey, as well as see the Ring-bearer safely to his goal. I will remain loyal to that, for though we are now sundered from one another, we remain a fellowship; and I have taken a personal vow to protect to the best of my ability my companions in this Company."

A shadow crossed Boromir's face, and he looked away.

"The Company is sundered because of what I have done."

"No," replied Legolas firmly, gripping Boromir's hand the harder. "Not only because of you; there were other forces at work. You did not bring the Orcs to attack us, did you?"

"No, of course not. But you do not know what I have done, what I did to Frodo..."

Legolas shook his head.

"I do know, my friend. Aragorn spoke of it, for he was afraid for you in your despair. It was one reason why I knew you should not be left alone. It was not difficult to imagine what must have passed between you and Frodo."

Legolas gave Boromir's arm a little shake to emphasize his words.

"Listen to me now," he said. "Frodo may have fled from you, but in the end, the decision to go to Mordor was his own. I have no doubt he knew it was his fate to do so, and your attempt to wrest the Ring from him brought him to the point of decision. He left when he did in order to save the rest of us from further temptation. Do not take on more than is your due."

"You say, 'do not despair'," Boromir lamented. "But how can I not? How can I forget the pain of my betrayal? Even now it pierces me, as sharp as any Orc arrow -- yet I tell you, that pain is far easier to bear than the memory of what I have done!"

"You cannot forget that pain, nor should you. You are right to acknowledge the guilt you bear for your attack on Frodo, and the betrayal of your oaths; but let it end here. Do not let it rule over you, to the exclusion of all else -- if you do, evil will triumph. Have you forgotten? Aragorn has forgiven you.  Now you must forgive yourself, at least enough so that you can rise out of your despair and go on to the task that is set before you. Your people have need of you -- but their need is for a Captain who is strong and confident, not a Man who is weakened by despair."

The words of Legolas, spoken so firmly and with such conviction, pierced the knot of guilt which was choking him, and Boromir felt some part his despair retreat. He doubted he would ever be free of the sting of his failure, but he knew what Legolas said was true; if he did not put it aside, he would be crippled, and useless to his people. And to Frodo.

"I will try to do as you say," he said softly.

Legolas squeezed his hand and released it. "To try will be enough, for now."

Boromir stared at his hands which lay now limp upon his knee.

"Did... did you struggle with being tempted by the Ring?" he asked hesitantly.

"I heard Its call," answered Legolas simply, "but it meant little to me. I knew the danger It represented, and I feared It too much to heed the wiles of Its voice."

"You have never had doubts about this Quest, have you?" said Boromir in wonder. "I remember now -- you seemed confident from the first over the decision of the Council to see the Ring destroyed."

"No," replied Legolas with a sad smile. "I had no doubts. How could I? I know too well what it would mean if Sauron regained the Ring."

"How so?" asked Boromir, puzzled.

"Thranduil my father was there, Boromir, when the Last Alliance met the Enemy before the Gates of Mordor. He saw his own father fall, and he saw the vast power of the Evil One. Yes, he was there to witness the overthrow of Sauron and the fall of Mordor; but my father knew in his heart it was not the end. He feared that Sauron was not defeated forever: that He would rise again. My father spoke little of it afterwards, but the fear and the memory were always there, casting a shadow over his heart. At times I would see him looking southwards, and that fear in his eyes was hard to bear."

Legolas paused and looked northwards, as if straining to see with his long sight his homeland, far off on the distant horizon.

"I would see the Ring destroyed," continued Legolas, and his voice was determined.  "If there is a part for me to play in bringing that about, then I shall do it, for the sake of my people. I wish to do all I can to strike a blow against the Evil that has cast this long shadow over my father and my people."

"As do I!" sighed Boromir.

He thought of his own land, his own people.  He remembered the oppressive darkness of Mordor on the horizon, the daily sight of fire from the Mount of Doom lighting the eastern sky, the grim silhouette of Minas Morgul against the Mountains of Shadow, and the sad ruins of Osgiliath only a few leagues from the City gates. He thought of his own father, and the fear he had sometimes seen in those eyes, old before their time. He had never seen Sauron in visible form -- but he had seen the Dark Lord's handiwork, and its slow, inexorable draining of hope from the heart of his father and his people, leaving only despair in its wake.

"As do I," he murmured once more. "My father has always looked to me, to do whatever it might take to save our people, to seek the way that leads to victory and away from slavery... I would do it, if it is in my power! I would bear that burden, no matter how heavy. And the Ring... I thought I knew the way of it, how to manage it. I thought that must be the answer! I was desperate, weary of waiting, tired of the long struggle of watching my father and my people lose hope... "

"Using the Ring is not the way, Boromir," said Legolas gently.  "That is the way of destruction, not of salvation for all our peoples."

Boromir heaved a heavy sigh and bowed his head. After a long moment, he looked up and smiled.

"I see it now, Legolas," he answered, and though a faint flutter of desire was still there for the sure answer to his need, confidence now grew in his voice. "You are right to remind me of this. I said as much to Aragorn, not long ago. 'I shall have to let It go,' I said, 'and find another way to save my people.' So be it, then. Let the long struggle begin once more, since I cannot take the easy way."

"It may not be such a long struggle," replied Legolas, returning Boromir's smile. "And there may be more hope at the end of the road than you might think."

"I trust you are right in that, my friend. May it be so!"

The road from Minas Tirith to Osgiliath was wide and well-tended, running northeast from the City Gate past the homesteads and farmlands, pastures and orchards of the Pelennor, now almost deserted of its people. The herdsmen and husbandmen who dwelt there had for the most part taken their families south to the fiefs of Lossarnach and Lebennin, or moved them to join their kinsmen within the walls of the City.  It seemed less safe in these days to remain in the open, particularly after battle had been waged the previous year in nearby Osgiliath. During that battle, the great bridge had been thrown down by Boromir and his company, holding back the advance of the Black Captain and his army. Thus Gondor retained control of the west bank of the River.

Women, children, and the elderly now waited uneasily in the City while arrangements were made for their transport to a safer haven southwards, should Sauron decide to loose his war upon Gondor at last. Those who could fight had already gone to strengthen those places where the hammer of the Enemy would certainly fall, when Sauron deemed his time had come -- to the fortress of Cair Andros northwards upon the Anduin; to the western shores of ruined Osgiliath and the overthrown bridge, which was all that stood between Gondor and the mighty seige engines of Mordor; to the Causeway Forts that guarded the point where the road from Osgiliath pierced the Rammas Echor; and to the Tower of Guard itself, Minas Tirith, whose walls and battlements bristled with men who slept little as they watched the eastern sky, wondering when that hammer blow would fall.

It was four leagues from the Gate of the City to the guard towers in the northeast wall of the Rammas. Beyond the guarded gates, the land sloped suddenly down from the embankment to the flatlands by the River, but the road passed on above that sloping land for another league, over a walled causeway to the edge of the River and ruined Osgiliath.

Faramir stood at the outskirts of that city, at the day's dawning, looking out along the road that led across the causeway to the Pelennor. As the sun rose behind him over the shadow in the East, he fixed his gaze upon Minas Tirith looming above the plain upon the knee of Mount Mindolluin, and waited. This was a daily custom for him, and for many who found themselves outside the walls at daybreak.  No matter how urgent the errand, or how pressing the business, this was the time of day when any Man within sight of the City walls would pause for a moment, to watch the white stone catch the light of the dawn, and to hear the trumpets sound, greeting the new day.

At last, when the rosy blush of the sun had brightened the high walls and glittered upon the pinnacle of the Tower of Ecthelion, and the trumpets' call was carried to him on the morning breeze, Faramir sighed and turned away. He wondered if he would ever be able to hear that call again, and not think of the desperate blowing of Boromir's Horn, echoing still in his memory.

If only he could have gone to Boromir's aid! As much as he trusted Grithnir with the task of leading the search for his brother, it galled Faramir not to be one of the party.  Yet he knew very well that with Boromir away, the duties of the Captain-general had fallen to him, and he could not lightly set that aside. He had promised Boromir that he would lead in his stead until his return, and he would do it; he would not forget his duty, no matter the cost.

His current errand was to the garrison at Osgiliath, speaking with the commanders there to determine if more men were needed, and if so, from whence the troops could be drawn in order to strengthen the defenses at this strategic location. The task would take but a day or two, at the most; then he could return to the City. There would be no word from the searchers so soon, but perhaps some other strange bit of news might have reached his father in the meantime.

Faramir again pondered what Grithnir had shared before he had departed -- that the Steward had known where to search for Boromir.  But before he could come to any conclusions, his thoughts were interrupted by the coming of a messenger from one of the commanders of the garrison. Faramir sighed once more, and putting aside his fear and his doubts, he went to do his duty.

***

The new day dawned bright and clear, but on the River, northwards below the infalls of the Entwash, the mists were slow to be dispelled. The fog of early morning clung to the reeds at the edge of the riverbank, and shrouded both the swirling waters of the Anduin and the Men whose task it was to keep watch there on Gondor's northernmost border.

Gethron shivered and pulled his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. He found this time of day to be the most difficult for keeping watch on the River, for it was easy to become deceived by phantom-like forms on the water and sounds muffled by the mist. At least here they were far enough away from the foot of Rauros to be free of the drenching mist of the Falls. It was cold and damp at this hour, but the fog would clear soon enough and the sun would warm the air.

"There is something on the water!"

The call of his fellow watcher was low, but the man's voice carried clearly over the water in the cold air. Gethron could not see his companion from his vantage point, but as he peered through the reeds on the bank of the River, he thought he could discern the movement of an object in the water.

"I will see to it," Gethron called back. "Do not leave your post. If it leaves the main current of the River, it will lodge here on this bank, as often happens with those things brought to us over the Falls."

Warm light began to break through the bank of fog, and the mist among the reeds retreated. Gethron strained to see through the dimness. Yes, there was something there.  He could see light glinting on something bright at the edge of the stream, caught and held by the long grass that trailed in the water. He stepped carefully as he waded out to get a closer look.

His boots in the water created small waves that pushed against the swirl of the current, dislodging the object. His hand shot forward to stay the bright thing, lest it float away before he had a chance to see what it was; but he quickly realized it would not have gone far, for the object was attached to a leather cord now tangled in the reeds, so that it could not float away on the current.

He could see the object clearly now, and Gethron felt a thrill of fear at the sight of the familiar shape which lay before his outstretched hand -- a large white horn, tipped in silver, attached to a woven leather baldric. His heart sank as he saw that the horn had been split asunder, and its once smooth side was scored and stained. He grasped the horn, tugging slightly on the cord to free it from the reeds.  Holding it up close to his face, he inspected the design of the silverwork. Yes, it was as he had feared; this was the Horn of the Stewards, that Boromir always bore as heir to the House.

"Halmir!" he called sharply. "Come quickly!"

His companion came splashing to his side from his watch post nearby. "What is it, Gethron? What have you found?"

Gethron held out the object mutely, and Halmir's eyes widened.

"The Horn of Gondor!" he gasped. "The lord Boromir's Horn!"

  "Yes, it is his Horn," responded Gethron grimly. "But it is no longer whole. See? It has been split in two, by a sword stroke or by an axe."

"What can it mean?"

"No good, of that I am certain!" Gethron answered, with a sorrowful shake of his head. "It has been many months since Boromir left on his errand to the North, and there has been no news of him in all that time -- until now. And such news! If only we knew more! Who can tell how this shard came to be here in the River, or how far it traveled ere it reached the Falls, or why it should be cloven in two and there be no sign of our lord who carried it? May the Valar protect him if he is in need!"

"What should be done?" asked Halmir. "Shall we seek for him northwards by the Falls? Or climb the North Stair and search for him in the wilderness beyond?"

Gethron shook his head.

"Wait, let me think a moment," he said, holding up a hand. After a moment's thought, he gave a sharp nod and continued.

"Halmir, you must take one of the boats and deliver this shard of the Horn to the lord Denethor. You are the best oarsman; you can make good time and arrive soonest with this evil news. Time is of importance in this matter -- and yet, I fear there may be little now that can be done. It may already be too late..."

Gethron's voice broke, and he bowed his head to recover his composure.

"I will go," said Halmir quickly. "I have seen how the Horn was found. I will tell the lord Steward all I know and I will ask for guidance."

"Yes," replied Gethron, after a moment. "We are too few here to send any to search for the lord Boromir, for we know not how far afield we might have to go, and we cannot leave our post. The others who are on patrol along the River will not return here for several days, and we dare not wait upon them. We must leave it to the lord Steward to send word giving us leave to search, or to send others in our stead."

He wrapped the dangling hauberk around the split half of the Horn and passed it to Halmir.

"Take what you need for your journey and leave at once. I will find Handir and tell him of this news.  He will watch with me until the patrol comes, or until you can return or send word with someone. Go quickly now."

With a nod and a brief bow, Halmir turned and disappeared into the reeds. Gethron watched him go, then climbed up out of the River to go in search of Handir.

***

By the time the sun had climbed above the shadow in the East, Grithnir and his small company of men had risen to continue their journey north, towards Rauros. Once the grayness of the dawn had lightened the landscape enough that Henderch could distinguish dark grass from standing water, he led them unerringly along the firm ground between the channels of the fen.

The going was slow, for the land about them was a strange mix of linn and standing water, stone scarp and boggy swamp, grass, reeds and willow thickets. At times they were forced to dismount and lead their horses through knee-deep mud; at other times they rode as their horses swam the channel where the stream had deepened and flowed more freely on its way to Anduin.

Grithnir chewed on his lip as he tried to curb his impatience at the slowness of their progress.  He knew that Henderch was leading them along as quickly as he dared over the treacherous terrain, and there was little he could do to make them arrive any faster. Yet still he chafed at delay.

"Take heart, my son," said a voice at his elbow.

He turned in his saddle to see that Linhir had ridden up beside him.

Linhir was chief among the healers who accompanied the armies of Gondor, a man trusted for both his skill in the art of healing and for his manner with the men. He was a broad man and tall, with grey-streaked hair and beard, and face lined and weathered, for he was past his middle years. Yet he was still strong and hale, and put many a younger man to shame with his energy. He had the air of a captain of men, but a padded leather tunic was his only armor, and he carried no weapon but a long knife.

"Take heart," said Linhir once more, and his voice was calm and confident. "You can do no more than you are doing now, and fretting about the speed of our progress will not get us there any sooner. I know you are concerned, and rightly so, but do not let it show on your face; it will discourage the men. They need to see you strong and confident."

He smiled at Grithnir to take the sting from his words.

"You do well to remind me, Linhir," replied Grithnir ruefully. "A misspoken word or an unschooled expression is all that is needed to take the heart out of the men. I will try to be patient!"

Linhir nodded.  Looking up, he gazed at the sun as it climbed in the sky.

"Will we reach the Falls before darkness comes, do you think?"

"Henderch assures me we are making good time, in spite of my doubts," answered Grithnir with a slight smile. "By dusk we should come to the confluence of the last stream and the Anduin, where the land of Gondor ends, some two leagues south of the foot of Rauros. Men of Gondor have an outpost there, who watch the River on our northern border. We will stop with them for the night and continue on up the North Stair by daylight."

"Very good," said Linhir. "Then by this time tomorrow we may be with Boromir, if indeed the lord Denethor is correct and he is to be found by the Lake above Rauros."

"That, too, is my hope," said Grithnir fervently.

***

Aragorn bent and gave Gimli a shake to wake him. "Come, Gimli, we must go. The scent grows cold."

Gimli groaned as he rose to his feet.

"It is still dark," he complained as he looked around him. "How are we to see our way to follow the trail of the Orcs? Even if Legolas were here to guide us with his Elf-eyes, he could not see until the sun is up."

"Where sight fails, the earth may bring us rumor," said Aragorn. He stretched out upon the grass and laid his ear to the ground.  He lay motionless, listening, as dawn came and the light grew around them. At last he rose, and the look on his face was troubled.

"The rumor of the earth is dim and confused," he said. "Faint and far off are the feet of our enemies, but loud are the hoofs of horses: horses galloping, passing in the West. They draw ever further from us now, riding northward. I wonder what is happening in this land?"

Gimli shook his head.

"I do not know," he replied glumly. "But there is light enough to see by now, so let us be off! The trail is clear enough."

And so the third day of their pursuit began.

***

The light of the risen sun struck the peak of the high tower and shone full on the window of the topmost chamber, but the light could not reach inside, for the window was shuttered and a curtain was drawn across it, to keep the room in twilight.

Denethor sat crouched over the palantír, searching within the depths of the crystal for any sight of his son. He had been gazing into the sphere for over an hour, ever since light had begun to grow in the sky, but nothing of interest to him was to be seen in any direction.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily.  Shifting his position slightly, he bent over the sphere and turned his gaze northwards once more, towards Rauros and the Emyn Muil. Again he was frustrated, for the palantír remained dark. It happened this way sometimes, for what he saw in the Seeing Stone was often governed by chance, and not by skill or strength of will. He forgot that at times, being skilled in the use of the crystal, and he had often been able to see places and events that he chose to view, rather than at random.

But not today, nor any day since he had heard the blowing of the Horn. The last glimpse of Boromir had been three days ago, when he had seen him, small and far off, as he paddled his boat on the waters of Nen Hithoel. Since then, there had been nothing.

Denethor uttered an oath and turned his attention westward toward Rohan.

At last! There was something to be seen here -- but what was it, and did it have anything to do with Boromir? Two tiny figures were moving across the wide, empty plains, moving at a fast pace. They were strangely difficult to see clearly, blending against the background of the grayish green fields, so that at times the figures seemed to disappear altogether; but Denethor's eyes were keen, and his mind sharp, and as he focused on the figures, the vision grew more clear.

After a moment, Denethor was able to enlarge the vision so that he could see that it was a Man and a Dwarf, sometimes running, sometimes striding swiftly across the plains, at intervals stooping, as if following a trail. He concentrated harder and the vision was enlarged further, until he could see their faces clearly.

Denethor uttered a sudden exclamation of shock and amazement -- he knew this Man! Forty years at least it had been since he had seen him last, when he had served in Gondor as a captain under Echthelion, Denethor's father.  He had changed since that time, yet there was no doubt in Denethor's mind as to who this Man was --

Thorongil!

So! thought Denethor grimly, after he had recovered from his surprise. Thorongil comes to Rohan; what business brings him, I wonder? Will he come to Gondor? And what does he have to do with my Boromir?

He attempted to bring the vision even closer, but he was weary now, and the shock of recognition had upset him.  The palantir went dark, and he could not raise the vision again. With a sigh, Denethor slowly covered the sphere with its cloth, and fell back into a chair, exhausted.

Ah, Boromir! he cried silently. Where are you now? How do you fare? And what -- oh, what have you to do with this Man?

***

When the sun had risen high enough in the sky to clear the rough hills of the Emyn Muil and the tall cliffs of Tol Brandir, Boromir asked Legolas to help him move out into the sunlight, where it shone upon the open shingle. He was tired of being cold, and he felt the need to move about, if only to see if he had regained any of his strength.

The short walk to where he could sit in the sun, propped up against the keel of one of the boats, left him weak and shaking, despite Legolas' help -- but it was good to be out in the open instead of leaning against the cold stone of the landing in the shade. The sun was warm and bright, and felt good on his outstretched legs.

As the bright rays of sunlight warmed his limbs, the stiffness began to leave him, and with it some of the pain. Boromir sighed with relief. The bright sun on his face, and the feeling of warmth reaching his aching bones, encouraged him greatly. Hope stirred in his heart.

Perhaps there is still a chance for me, he thought. Perhaps I may yet recover my strength and see my City once more, in time to be of some use to my people.

He turned his head and watched for a while the sun glinting on the mists of Rauros rising high up into the air above the Falls. Tears pricked his eyes, as he was reminded of how the light of the sun used to glitter on the pinnacle of the Tower of Ecthelion at dawn. He could almost hear the trumpets sounding their greeting of the new day.

"May it be so!" he breathed fervently. "May I come in time!"

Boromir awoke slowly from a sound sleep to find himself once more in the shade.  The sun had moved beyond the tops of the hills on the western shore, and the shadows of the trees by the lake stretched out to cover him. The coolness was pleasant now, after the strong warmth of the sun, but it would be cold in the open as the sun set. He would need to have Legolas help him back to the shelter of the stone landing before darkness fell.

But that would not be for some hours yet.  In the meantime, Boromir passed the time by trying to discern landmarks upon the opposite shore. There was little that could be seen in the darkness of the woods which advanced to the very edge of the water on the far shore, but the eastern hills were stark and bright in the light of the westering sun. Amon Lhaw stood out sharply against the sky, and the remains of the outpost that stood on the crown of the Hill could easily be seen. Even from here, he could see the shape of the high seat that stood up clearly against the graying clouds behind.

Legolas approached and offered Boromir some water to drink.  The Elf gazed silently at the far hilltop until Boromir handed back the skin. Capping it tightly, he laid it aside and sat down next to Boromir.

"What do you know of the high seats of Númenor, Boromir?" he asked. "I recall Aragorn's discussion with you concerning the Hills of Hearing and Seeing, and the Seats of the Kings, but I know little of this."

"Yes," agreed Boromir pensively, recalling the lengthy argument that had taken place on that occasion, over which road to take with the Ringbearer. "Aragorn intended to stand in the high place, before he decided his further course -- but I do not know if he had that chance, before his course was decided for him."

Boromir fell silent; after a moment he shrugged, in an effort to dispel the melancholy that threatened to engulf him. Two days it had been since his own course had been decided, and the pain of his failure still troubled him when he could not distract himself.

Legolas smiled at him fondly.

"You should try not to do that," he said gently.

"Do what?"

"Lift your shoulders in that way," Legolas explained. "You should be careful not to dislodge the leather patch sealing the wound in your shoulder. Your breathing is much better, and the bleeding is well stopped, but that wound was severe, and may still need the care of a healer before it can fully repair itself."

Boromir shrugged in response, then laughed when he realized what he had done.

"Indeed," he replied, "it does pain me when I do that.  But I can no more stop that habit than I can keep a hobbit from smoking pipe-weed!"

They laughed together at the thought of that futile venture.

"The Hill of the Eye of Númenor," mused Boromir after a moment. "I know something of it, and the other, which is the Hill of the Ear. I studied such things in my days of being tutored in the military history of my people. Each hill was an outpost of Gondor in the days of the ancient kings, where there was a watchtower and a garrison to guard the northern borders of the kingdom, and perhaps even a beacon. The high hill was a lookout point for the garrison, and commanded a wide view of the valley."

"What of the Seat Aragorn spoke of?"

"It was said in the old lore that one sitting in the Seat of Hearing could hear what passed in the land, as if all sounds were being magnified and whispered in the ear. One sitting in the Seat of Seeing could see for many miles -- even as far south as the Sea -- images small and clear, as if laid out upon a table."

Boromir hesitated and frowned.

"I know little enough of these matters," he continued. "It is hard to believe such things could be so -- yet, I have learned of late there is much that passes in this world that I do not understand. In any case, the view from the Seat would be far, even without the aid of any magic."

He paused once more, and a look of sorrow crossed his face.

"I... I wish I could sit there, Legolas, to look out over the valley. Perhaps there is nothing to be seen, beyond empty plains with the River laid out below.  Yet there might be something -- the movement of troops, incursions by Orcs..."

He sighed heavily. "I would know what is happening in the world, while I sit here weak and useless!"

Legolas shook his head as if disagreeing with Boromir's assessment of himself, but he said nothing.

"I wonder if one could see Minas Tirith from the Hill?" Boromir went on, as if to himself. "I am tempted to try it, for I yearn to see my City again -- so much so that it is a constant pain in my heart! I wish to see the Tower of Ecthelion catching the rays of the sun, and the Fields of Pelennor laid out green before the Gate! I wish... I wish to know if Minas Tirith still stands..."

He looked up suddenly and saw Legolas gazing at him, a worried expression upon his face. Boromir smiled faintly and sighed.

"It is but a foolish fancy, Legolas," he said with shake of his head. "I know I cannot manage the climb to the Seat, for I am still weak and weary, and it would undo all you and Aragorn have done to try to save me."

Legolas laid a hand on Boromir's arm.

"I understand why you desire to do this," he said. "Who would not want to see their home after a long time away, if such an opportunity presented itself? But what you say is true, you cannot manage this now. Let me go then, in your stead. It is wise to see what lies ahead, if there is anything to be learned from what passes on the plains. Perhaps there will be something to be seen that will be of some use to Aragorn, as well."

Boromir's face brightened.

"Indeed, it would comfort me to know if there is anything to be seen from the high point -- even if I cannot see my City for myself." His smile broadened. "Who knows? It may be that you will see some of my people coming to rescue me!"

Boromir laughed suddenly, a short sharp laugh that was both hopeful and tinged with doubt.

"If I am to speak truthfully," he said with a shake of his head, "I have little hope of that possibility. I fear I shall remain a burden to you, my friend, until I am well enough to travel. I am sorry, for I know you wish to return to Aragorn."

"Do not despair, Boromir," Legolas responded. "I believe someone will come -- and not because I would be rid of you, so that I may go about my other business! Aragorn was confident that someone would hear the call of the Horn of Gondor.  He believes there are those in Gondor who would have heard that call, and will stop at nothing to come to your aid. Do you not believe it? You were the one who urged us to go after the Orcs because you were confident someone would come."

"I was eager to convince you to save the little ones," said Boromir sadly. "And I did believe what I said... then. It seems not so likely to me now, for some reason."

"Do not look too far ahead when you are weary and ill, Boromir. The future indeed looks grim if seen through eyes that are dimmed by despair. Remember your confident words and trust in them -- you spoke more truly than you realize, I believe. Remember? Just now, you said there is much that passes in this world that you do not understand. Your people are searching for you even now; I am certain of it. I will go to see if they draw nigh, so that you might be comforted."

"Very well," Boromir said, his voice betraying his relief. "I will not give up hope of rescue just yet, then. Indeed, if there is anything to see at all, your Elf eyes will see it from that high place."

Legolas rose to his feet.

"I will go now, before the sun descends any further. Will you be well here alone until my return?"

"By that you mean will I promise to refrain from doing anything foolish while you are gone?" Boromir laughed. "Yes, friend nursemaid, I shall behave, and not move from this spot. But do not tarry!"

It was Legolas' turn to laugh. "I will return swiftly with news."

Legolas retrieved his bow and his quiver of arrows, and with a wave of his hand disappeared into the trees. Boromir watched him go until he could turn his head no further, then he laid back with a sigh, to begin the wait.

***

It did not take Legolas long to reach the top of the hill, though he took a longer path around to avoid as much as possible the dead and decaying Orcs that still lay all about the hill. There was no sound to be heard among the trees but the roar of the Falls.  If any birds called to one another or if any creatures moved in the underbrush, the sound was drowned out by the thundering waters of Rauros.

Though the sun had passed its zenith and was descending now into the west, it still shone brightly upon the summit of Amon Hen, for the crown of the hill was barren of trees. Atop the hill was an ancient outpost of Men, now fallen somewhat into ruin, but still impressive. A crumbling battlement surrounded a wide flat area of flagged stones, set in a circle; in the midst of the paved area stood a high seat set upon four carven pillars.

Legolas ran lightly up the many steps that led to the Seat on its high platform. The throne-like Seat was carved of stone in the shape of eagles facing north, south, east and west, commanding a wide view of the lands below. There was no need for Legolas to sit upon the Seat; with his Elven eyesight -- far keener than that of Men -- he could see for a great distance in all directions.

Standing upon the edge of the platform, he gazed outwards at the world that lay before him. Remembering first the desire of Boromir, he looked southwards, and beheld in the distance the proud, white towers of Minas Tirith, gleaming brightly against the darkness of Mordor looming in the nearby East, as if to overwhelm the City of Guard -- but it was not yet overwhelmed. Boromir would be comforted to know that his City still stood, awaiting his return.

Legolas then turned his eyes to the view that lay at his feet. Far below, the sun glinted on the mist that hung over the Falls of Rauros, and the River Anduin flowed away swiftly from the foaming pit at the foot of the cascade. He looked further on, following the winding path of the water to the fens and marshlands of the Mouths of the Entwash, in hopes of seeing a sign that might indicate a party of Men searching for their lord.

Yes, there was movement -- there, amidst the myriad streams and rivers that crisscrossed the great slough. Legolas shaded his eyes to help sharpen his focus, and saw five tiny horsemen moving slowly northwards across the marshlands.  Even now they were approaching the northernmost stream of the Entwash where it flowed into Anduin, some twenty miles south of the foot of the Falls. If this was indeed a search party coming to seek the whereabouts of Boromir, they would likely arrive soon -- perhaps even on the morrow. Boromir had not been forgotten.

Before descending the stairs once more, Legolas turned his gaze to the West, where lay the grassy plains of Rohan like a vast sea of green stretching for many miles, north, south and west.  Here, also, there was movement on the plain -- a large group of horsemen riding north at a fast pace.

Beyond the plain on the very edge of sight was a great black cloud like smoke hovering over the Vale of Isengard in the foothills which lay at the very end of the Misty Mountains.  In the darkness under the cloud Legolas thought he could discern the sharp spike of a black tower.

Trouble is brewing in Isengard, he thought, and a great sense of urgency gripped his heart. Saruman prepares for war and is certain to strike soon, in Sauron's cause -- or his own! I must follow as quickly as I may, for Aragorn may soon have great need of me; Boromir cannot be left until his people come, but once he is in their care, I must make haste...

Turning away, he descended the stairs and hurried down the hill through the trees to tell Boromir of all that he had seen.

***

Henderch rode ahead with his fellow scout, Dírhavel, sometimes leaning forward, sometimes sideways in the saddle to peer at the path ahead. He knew his way through the maze of streams and rills that snaked through the bog, and though progress was slow, it was steady. Grithnir and the others followed behind, guiding their horses to follow in the steps of the two scouts who rode ahead.

Grithnir gazed up at the bluffs of the Emyn Muil rising up before him, growing steadily closer as the riders made their slow way north. The light of the westering sun shone upon the heights, and upon the bare crown of Amon Hen before him.  He thought he could see stonework against the sky that suggested the presence of battlements and a watchtower.

"How much further is it, Henderch?" asked Grithnir, drawing his horse up beside the scout. "Will we come to the watchers' camp on Anduin before nightfall?"

"I believe so, sir. It is not so much further, and I think we will soon be able to pick up the pace. There is an upthrust of underlying stone in this part of the fen on which the horses can tread, which will greatly increase our speed -- if I can find the path."

"Very well, then. Lead on as quickly as is safe."

***

The River Anduin flowed swiftly, swollen by the waters of many streams and rivers which joined it upon the way. The current was strong and carried its small burden quickly along. The shard of horn floated lightly upon the surface of the water and followed the current wherever it led; the setting sun shone upon its whiteness, brightening the silver that tipped it. Now and then, for a moment, the horn was stayed briefly in its progress, as it bumped against an outcropping of rock, or a branch floating in the water. But it moved rapidly onwards, following the path of the relentless current, coming ever closer on its journey to the hand destined to lift it from the water.

Pushing himself to the very limit of his endurance, Halmir paddled his light craft as quickly and as steadily as he was able. When he could no longer keep up the grueling pace, he steered his boat into the fastest part of the current at the middle of the River, and allowed himself to drift swiftly along until he was rested. His knowledge of the River aided him, so that even in the darkest part of the night, he was able to avoid the rough spots and keep up a steady pace, thereby shortening his journey by many hours. Fortune also was with him, for thus far, he had encountered no parties of Orc archers upon the eastern shore. He took what precautions he could to avoid being presented as a target, should he be sighted by any patrols. He had great need of speed, and did not care to lose time by gaining the shore to avoid a battle -- but he also had need to deliver his message, and that meant he must stay alive at all costs.

Halmir was trained to go many hours without sleep, if necessary, whether he was on patrol as a border guard, or running messages from the borders to the City. He had been on other journeys where he had traveled for many leagues alone without a rest. This new errand demanded such endurance, as well; the news and the token he bore to the lord Steward were such that it was vital he reach Minas Tirith without delay.

Halmir trembled at the thought of standing before the lord Denethor with his news.  It was an awesome duty at any time to deliver messages to the Steward, but this day his message was one that filled him with fear. This day he must tell Denethor of the death of his son and heir.

Glancing down, his eye rested briefly upon the cloven Horn, where it lay wrapped in cloth and set securely at his feet in the boat. Just as quickly, Halmir glanced away. He forced himself to stop thinking of his mortally wounded -- or dead -- Captain, and concentrated only on dipping his paddle in and out of the water, propelling himself forward swiftly upon his errand. His duty was not to think, or to waste time in regret, but to deliver the Horn shard with all speed, with whatever news and counsel he could offer, and then to receive orders from his lord to bear back to his comrades waiting on the northern borders.

A bend in the River marked his progress; he saw with relief that it would only be a few more hours before he would reach the landing north of Cair Andros.  There he would leave his boat and continue on by horseback to Minas Tirith, where Denethor waited for news.

***

It was well past midnight. Stars shone brightly through the mists that rose up from the Falls, and the wind off the lake was cold and moist. Legolas carefully set more wood upon the fire, and coaxed fresh flames from the dying embers. Boromir lay well-wrapped against the chill of the night, but he still must be kept warm, and Legolas did not wish the fire to die out before morning. He looked up as Boromir stirred and shifted restlessly; he was not asleep, nor had he slept this night.

Legolas watched him for a moment before turning back to the fire. The Man had been strangely quiet ever since he had heard that rescuers from Gondor were likely on their way, and might even arrive with the morning light. He had greeted the news with a joyful grin and excited questions, but he fell silent after Legolas had described what he had seen from the Seat of Seeing: the bright walls of Minas Tirith and the dark cloud that hung over Isengard. Several times Boromir had drawn breath as if to speak, but then shut his mouth once more and turned away.

Legolas bent forward and stirred the fire until the flames leapt high, warming his face.

"Do your wounds trouble you, Boromir?" he asked. "Or is it some other matter which causes you to be so restless, so silent?"

"No, the pain is bearable," replied Boromir, after a long pause. "That is not what troubles me. And I would sleep if I could, for I am weary -- yet sleep eludes me. No doubt the anticipation of being reunited with some of my folk has something to do with it. Yet... it is more than that..."

He hesitated, then shook his head with a weak laugh and a shrug.

"I... I fear bad news, Legolas," he admitted. "I fear what word my Men may bring with them of my father and my brother, of the war with Sauron and the state of our defenses. I have been gone almost eight months now; who knows how circumstances may have changed in that time?"

He unconsciously plucked at his blanket as he stared into the fire.

"You told me, Legolas, of the discovery that the Orcs who attacked our Company and stole away the little ones must be from Isengard. That concerns me greatly! I fear what may be happening in Rohan. Gondor relies heavily upon the Rohirrim as allies -- we need them to come to our aid when we call. Yet when I passed through Rohan on my way north, I was dismayed at the King's poor health.  Eomer, his kinsman, was greatly worried for him, and rightly so. Who knows what might have occurred since then, particularly with Saruman upon their doorstep? This blackness you saw, like smoke covering Isengard -- it is a sign of war coming to Rohan, of this I am certain. What will this mean for our alliance? How can they aid Gondor in this time of great need when they themselves are beset by war?"

Boromir looked up and met Legolas' eyes across the fire.  He saw there the same concern that must have been mirrored in his own face.

"Yes," Boromir went on quietly. "I fear, too, for the little ones -- and for Aragorn and Gimli, who run straight into the arms of that enemy. I know they are exceptional warriors, and I have seen what they can do against such a foe -- even those two alone -- and yet I am afraid when I think of them running towards that darkness..."

He sighed heavily as he gazed off westwards into the blackness under the trees.

"My people are coming, and they will help me return to my City. I hope soon to be strong enough to take up a sword again to fight. But I am of two minds -- I wish to return home, but I also wish to go with you, to help Aragorn and find the hobbits. It is foolish, I know. I will be of little use in that venture. I would only delay you, since I am not yet ready to be moved from this place, and you must be off after Aragorn and the others as soon as you are free of me. You will go to him, will you not? As soon as my people come?"

"Yes," replied Legolas. "I will go after him, and I will find him, to stand by his side against whatever foe stands between us and our goal. We will do what must be done, so that the hobbits are rescued and Rohan is delivered, to come to Gondor's aid."

Legolas rose to his feet and moved away from the fire to stand gazing up at the bright stars.  After a long moment, he turned back to Boromir, and the fire lit his smiling face.

"I see why you are a good leader to your people, Boromir," he continued. "You are always planning ahead, weighing your options -- thinking through all the possibilities. But the middle of the night is not the time for such thinking! Fret not for our companions; and put aside your fear for Rohan and your people. You cannot help them by worrying until you are ill.  Rest now and sleep, if you are able, so that you are ready to meet what the new day brings your way."

Boromir sighed heavily, but could not keep from chuckling.

"Very well!" he grumbled good-naturedly, drawing his cloak more closely about his shoulders and settling into his bedroll. "I will try to sleep now -- if only to spare myself another of your lectures! As long as I have your word that you will seek Aragorn, I am content."

"You have my word," said Legolas. "But I will not go until I am certain you are well-cared for."

Legolas returned to his seat by the fire.  "At dawn, I shall descend the Stair and meet your Men, who come seeking you.  If they come not, I will return to stay with you until they do come. I shall not leave you until you are restored to your people, Boromir, and I am assured of your continued health. When you are in their care, I will go after Aragorn."

"Thank you, my friend," said Boromir gratefully. "You comfort me.  Almost I can forget my fretting when you speak so confidently."

"Sleep, then; I will take the watch, and wake you at dawn."

***

Sleep was elusive, and Grithnir at last gave up the struggle.  Fear of what he might find on the morrow filled his heart and his mind, and he could not rest. Standing at the edge of the camp, he listened to the gurgle and swish of the River close by and watched the faint movement of starlight upon the water. Behind him he could hear the restless stirring of his men, and he knew the others were also finding their sleep troubled.

He turned at the scrape of a foot against stone and a rustle of grass behind him, and saw Gethron approaching from downriver where he had been keeping watch.

"I have not slept since the finding of the Horn," Gethron confided in a low voice, and Grithnir nodded in sympathy. Upon arrival in the camp only a few hours ago, he and his party had been greeted with news of the discovery of the cloven Horn in the reeds. The horror and dismay of what seemed to be proof of his Captain's death still bit freshly at Grithnir's heart.

"May we speak of it?" asked Gethron hesitantly, proceeding to speak after only a slight pause, as if pressed by a great need to share his disquiet. "It has been hardly a day since I found the token and sent it by the hand of Halmir to Lord Denethor.  Yet I feel as if I had been here an eternity alone with my thoughts! You came seeking Boromir before ever you knew of the Horn, did you not? Did you already have news of him?"

"Yes," replied Grithnir heavily. "We had news. A message came from a source unknown to me, but lord Denethor was convinced of its truthfulness. He said only that Boromir had need of me; that he had met with danger northwards, by the lake beyond the North Stair."

Grithnir hesitated, but only for a moment. He had been sworn to secrecy on the matter of Boromir by both the lord Denethor and by Captain Faramir, but Gethron was known to him, and Grithnir knew he could trust any secret to this man. Was he not one of the select few entrusted with the heavy responsibility of guarding Gondor's borders? Besides, as the finder of the cloven Horn, he already knew much of the situation. It would be a relief to speak of the matter to someone with whom he did not have to appear in control and unafraid.

"I have tried to appear confident before my men," he said quietly, "but I tell you frankly, Gethron, I fear we are too late. Your news fills me with despair, and seems proof that my Captain is lost."

His voice roughened suddenly, and he swallowed hard before continuing.

"I have never seen the Steward so afraid," he went on. "He could not hide the fact that he feared the worst -- in fact, he said as much. Faramir, too, was afraid. He told me they had heard the sound of the Horn blowing, calling for help.  I know not how such a thing could be, but like Faramir, I doubt not that Boromir was in need that day. Now you tell me that his Horn is found, cloven in two. How could his Horn have borne such a wounding, and he not be affected?"

"It seems impossible to me," agreed Gethron. "I fear he is dead, and that you will find nothing but his... his desecrated body in the wilderness."

Grithnir's face set grimly.

"Then so be it," he said solemnly. "At the least, we shall bear him back to the halls of his fathers with all honor due him. At dawn we will ascend the North Stair, and then we shall see."

"Yes," said Gethron, in a voice devoid of hope. "Then we shall see."

Dawn touched the grey sky and turned it red as the sun rose above the eastern horizon. The brightening of the sky was greeted with the sound of many hunting horns and the singing of men and the neighing of war-horses. The light of the new day glinted upon spear and shield as the Riders of Rohan sprang forward to do battle with the Orcs they had surrounded in the night.

Two small hobbits watched from their hiding place under the dark eaves of a vast forest of great, grey trees. The singing of the Men stirred their hearts, and they watched the battle eagerly for a moment, but the sight of an Orc loosing his arrows at a tall warrior who had been unhorsed in the attack caused Pippin to turn away suddenly. It reminded him too much of Boromir and his last battle, and he could not yet bear to think of that, so soon after being parted from his friend and protector. The memory of the dying Boromir, helpless on his knees in the dirt, was still a raw wound in Pippin's heart.

"We must get under cover," said Pippin, his voice gruff with pain. "We don't want to be seen."

"Yes," agreed Merry fervently. "Look! There's Uglúk! It looks like he might escape, even now. He's coming this way! I don't want to meet him again!"

The hobbits quickly turned and without a backwards glance, disappeared into the trees.

***

The light of dawn was just beginning to brighten the mist which blanketed the eastern shore of Nen Hithoel, when Legolas awakened Boromir from a sound sleep.

"I promised to wake you," he said, as Boromir sat up with a groan. "Dawn approaches, and I go now, down the Stair to meet your people if they are to be found. I have stoked the fire and laid out some food for you, for I do not know how long I shall be away."

Boromir nodded his thanks. He stretched cautiously, and drew in a long experimental breath, noting with pleasure that his breathing seemed to come easier with each passing day.

"Tell me once more what you know of this Stair," suggested Legolas, "that I might know what to expect, and waste no time in my seeking."

"The path to the Stair should be easily found," said Boromir after a moment's thought. "It runs half a mile, perhaps, through the trees and along the bluff until the cliff wall is reached. The Stair begins there, at the edge of the cliff over which Rauros falls. It was made to be a portage-way for those traveling the Anduin, and thus it is well-built and passable.  But it is long and winding, with many a sharp twist and turn, for it cannot go so steeply that Men with boats cannot traverse it. It has been some time since any of my people have made use of this pathway, and I do not know its current condition. At the very least it will be wet and treacherous from the spray of the Falls, so have a care!"

The Elf smiled encouragingly.

"Be easy, Boromir; I shall go with care."

"Ah, yes!" grinned Boromir ruefully. "I forget your Elven sure-footedness! Very well, then. You may well be gone some time.  That will depend upon how far you must descend before you meet any travelers. I shall wait for you here, as patiently as possible -- since there is little else I can do!"

"I will return as soon as I may," said Legolas, "with your friends, or with news of them. But first, you spoke of a token you wished to give me, to identify myself to your men as coming on your behalf?"

"I did," replied Boromir, reaching carefully into his tunic. He drew forth a small object and held it out to Legolas on the palm of his hand. It was a signet ring, crafted of heavy silver and set with a blood red gemstone; engraved upon the face of the gem were Elvish letters surmounted by three stars. Legolas lifted the ring from Boromir's palm and examined it closely.

"Arundur," he read aloud. "That means 'King's Servant' -- this, then, is the device of the Stewards?"

"Yes," said Boromir. "This is a copy of the signet borne by my father as Steward of Gondor. I bear this as his heir, for I have authority to act in his stead in many matters. I have used it but once on this journey -- when I stood before Elrond upon my arrival in Rivendell. I presented it to him as proof that I had come on a grave errand from Gondor."

Boromir smiled thoughtfully at a sudden memory. "Yet as it turned out, such proof was not truly needed, for Mithrandir was there, and stood ready to vouch for me as one known to him."

Legolas placed the ring carefully in a pouch at his belt, and bowed slightly to Boromir.

"I am honored by your trust in giving me this token," he said solemnly. "I shall see that it is safely returned to you."

"That seal will establish you as having been sent by me, and those whom you meet should trust you," said Boromir, but his voice held a small note of doubt. "That is my hope, at least; that you will be trusted readily, with this sign of having been with me. Alas that the days are so evil! We of Gondor have fallen into mistrust since we began to lose hope.  Many are now held in suspicion whom once we might have held to be friends."

Boromir frowned, and his eyes were troubled.

"I understand," replied Legolas soothingly. "It is the same in the Green Wood in these dark days. But be at ease; I do not fear your people. Their concern will be for you, and once it is known I can bring you together, I have no doubt they will accept me as a friend."

Boromir responded with a nod.  Reaching up, he grasped Legolas' hand briefly.

"Go safely then, and bring to me my people."

With a wave of his hand, Legolas departed. He passed swiftly along the shore until he came to a path which opened onto the shingle, just opposite the lonely isle of Tol Brandir. The mouth of the path was marked by a worn statue, now almost featureless with age and the effects of weather. He turned onto the path and followed it through the trees.

The path was relatively clear of undergrowth and wide enough to pass single-file with ease, even carrying a boat or any other gear requiring portage to the foot of the Falls.  The pounding thunder of Rauros filled his ears as Legolas drew ever nearer to the sheer cliff over which Anduin fell.

He came soon to the head of the Stairs, and saw immediately that he would indeed have to go carefully, even with his sure-footed tread. The Stair was steep and forbidding, cut into the stone of the rock face.  The steps were broad enough to allow the passage of Men carrying boats, and deep enough to provide stability when descending, if one went carefully. Nevertheless, the way was treacherous; the Stair was slick with water and visibility was poor, for cold mist and spray from the Falls hung in the air like a fine rain which never ceased.

Legolas did not hesitate. Plunging forward, he began his descent.

***

Grithnir and his party set out from Gethron's camp as soon as dawn's light had touched the sky in the East. It was two leagues to the Stair, following a path that hugged the banks of the Anduin.  By the time they reached the foaming pool at the bottom of the Falls, the morning was bright and clear. The spray from Rauros obscured the path at times, but there was breeze enough here on the plain that the mists were blown up and away, so they could see the way ahead. Yet they could not avoid the spray that rained down upon them, and they were thoroughly drenched before ever they arrived at the foot of the North Stair.

They passed the shelving shore upon Anduin where the portage-way ended, far enough downriver from Rauros that boats could again enter the River, avoiding the worst of the foaming rapids. The path turned sharply away from the River at this point and approached the cliff face. The area below the first steps was wide and paved with flagstones. A shelter of shaped stone stood at the far side of the terrace; here they left their horses in the care of Dirhavel, and mounted the stairs.

Each step was broad and evenly spaced and roughened to afford more traction, but while the cliff face provided protection and a handhold on one side as they ascended, the outside was open -- no railing protected them from a fall, nor was there any way to shield themselves from the soaking rain of Rauros. They hugged the inside of the stairs and stepped carefully, to avoid slipping on the stone, which was slick and treacherous despite the traction of the roughened steps.

The Stair twisted and turned, and wherever it bent sharply in a switchback to ascend to a greater height, there was a landing, wide enough to set down a small boat for a rest. They had stopped at one such landing to catch their breath, when Henderch appeared out of the mist before them, and held up a cautionary hand.  He had gone ahead to be certain the way was clear, for he had the best sight and hearing of the party and would quickly be alerted if anyone else descended to meet them upon the Stair.

"Have you anything to report?" asked Grithnir, drawing close to Henderch and speaking in his ear so that he might be heard over the thunder of the Falls.

"Yes," replied Henderch. "It was a glimpse only, but I believe I saw someone descending from far above. I can tell you little more, for the twisting of the path makes it difficult to see ahead, and nothing is clearly visible in the mist clouding the stairs above. I think we should proceed cautiously; if someone does approach, he could be upon us with little warning. We might not even hear his approach.  What sound I hear over the roaring of the water carries strangely, and is deadened by the mist."

"How many?" queried Grithnir, peering upwards through the mist in an attempt to see what lay ahead. "And were they Orcs?"

"No, not an Orc, and I believe he was alone. I can say no more with certainty."

"Very well," Grithnir replied.

He gazed at the upwards path before him as he pondered his decision.

"We will proceed with all due caution," he said at last. "There is no point in waiting here.  We may as well meet our enemy on our own terms, if indeed it be an enemy. At any rate, there is little to fear from one, be he Man or Orc, but combat here on this open landing is to be avoided. I shall go first.  Follow behind me as you will, and have your weapons ready to hand."

Grithnir led the way forward, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword as he climbed; Henderch was at his elbow. Arthad came up close behind and unslung his bow, though he did not yet nock an arrow to the string. Linhir loosened the knife in his belt and grasped more firmly the stout staff he carried to aid his climb.

They went forward cautiously, but had climbed only as far as the next landing when they heard floating down from above the sound of a clear voice, calling out to them.

"Men of Gondor!" cried the voice.

They halted as one and waited, for the cry seemed to have come from close by. When no one appeared, Grithnir stepped forward and went up a few steps towards the next level.

"Who are you?" he demanded in a loud voice. "Show yourself! Are you friend or foe?"

A figure materialized suddenly from out of the mist -- a tall Elf, very fair of face, clad in green and brown. He carried a bow and a quiver of arrows, and long knives in his belt, but his hands were held out palm upwards in a gesture of peace, and the expression on his face was genial.

"I am Legolas, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood," answered the Elf calmly. "I come in peace, and as a friend to Gondor."

Grithnir made a slight gesture with his head, and the men behind him removed their hands from their weapons, though they remained alert and ready to act, should Grithnir give the word.

"You are far from home, Legolas son of Thranduil," replied Grithnir cautiously. "What is the purpose of your journey here? Do you seek passage into our land?"

"Nay, that is not my purpose as yet," answered Legolas. "Rather, I am come to find you, Men of Gondor -- though you have not acknowledged it, I deem by your speech and by the device of the White Tree which adorns your clothing, that you are indeed come from that land. For you, I bring tidings which you will be glad to hear."

Grithnir felt a sudden lightening of his spirit, as he realized what that news might be, but he schooled his face carefully to show no emotion until he was more certain of this stranger.

"Tidings that we will be glad to hear? There is only one such item of news, and if you can bring us any word of that matter, than we shall indeed be glad. Tell us your news!"

Legolas dipped his fingers into his belt and held forth Boromir's token.

"I bring you word of Boromir of Gondor.  He has been my companion these past months, on a great quest that began in Rivendell. He bids you come to him, for he has need of you. I stand ready to guide you to him."

Grithnir extended a trembling hand and took the signet ring from Legolas.

"So he lives!" he breathed softly, but Legolas heard him and answered with a nod.

"Yes, he lives, but he is sorely wounded, by arrow and by sword. There was battle upon Amon Hen and he bore the brunt of it. Did you know of this?"

"We were sent by the lord Denethor, who had word that our Captain might be found here, having possibly met with danger," answered Grithnir. "We came as quickly as we could, but I hardly expected to find him alive!"

"How grievous are his wounds?" questioned Linhir, stepping forward. "Has he received any treatment?"

"His wounds are severe, but I believe him to be out of danger," Legolas said confidently, his smile conveying a quiet joy that was apparent to all. "One was with us who knows much of healing. He did what he could for Boromir, but he could not tarry here.  Some others of our companions were taken captive by the enemy who fought with Boromir, and that one follows after, to rescue them. I remained behind to give what care I could to Boromir, until someone else came to our aid. I saw your approach from the height of Amon Hen; hoping you were come to seek him in the wilderness, I told Boromir I would meet you and guide you to his side."

Grithnir made to hand back the ring to Legolas, but the Elf held up his hand to stop him.

"Return it to him yourself," he suggested, and there was a look of compassion in his eyes. "I believe it would mean much for him to receive it back from your hand."

"Thank you," replied Grithnir simply, as he tucked the ring safely away. He held out his hand and Legolas grasped it in token of friendship.

"I am Grithnir," he said by way of introduction. "I am lieutenant and aide to the lord Boromir and in command of his chosen men while he is away."

Linhir, too, held out his large hand in a friendly fashion.

"I am Linhir, master healer to the soldiers of Gondor."

"Linhir?" said Legolas with a smile. "Yes, Boromir spoke of you and your skill.  'A healer whose hands are gentle, but his manner is otherwise, especially with me,' he said."

Linhir gave a loud guffaw and grinned, while the other men smiled and nodded knowingly to one another.

"Captain Boromir needs a stern hand when he is hurt," laughed Linhir. "A more difficult patient I have yet to encounter! You have left him alone to come in search of us? Then let us go to him quickly; no doubt he is doing something foolish, beyond his strength, while we leave him unattended!"

"Yes," replied Legolas with the flash of a smile. "That is indeed possible."

"Then come, friend Elf," said Linhir. "Show us to our lord. We are eager to see him again."

After Legolas had gone, Boromir lay back on his bedroll and tried to ignore the strange feeling that gnawed at the pit of his stomach. He could not decide what it was he was feeling; was it fear at the thought that Legolas would find no one, and return alone? Or might it be anticipation and excitement at being reunited at long last with some of his own beloved countrymen? A mixture of both, perhaps...?

He wished briefly he could see the shore from where he lay by the boat landing, so that he could watch for Legolas' return, but then he turned resolutely from that thought. His back was to the southern shore, and it would stay that way.  He had better things to do than to watch nervously and wait impatiently, as he used to watch and wait for his scouts to return with their reports.

Boromir smiled suddenly as he realized the gnawing sensation in his stomach was a familiar one -- it was the feeling of mixed anxiety and excitement he always felt as he awaited the report of his scouts. How he hated waiting! As a captain of Men, he had to preserve as much as possible a semblance of patience, but he had always chafed at the wait; not only was he eager to accomplish whatever mission was his at that moment, but he worried for his men. He was never content until they were all present and accounted for, no matter the outcome of the reports they had to share with him. He was responsible for them, and when they were away from him, he worried, and was impatient.

It was no different now. He worried for Legolas, even knowing he was fully capable of defending himself against any foe. He worried that Legolas would find no one, that the men who sought him had met with some disaster; he chafed at waiting to be reunited with them. And he was impatient for them to come, because he wanted Legolas to be free to go after Aragorn and the little ones. He felt a deep certainty that the Elf would prove an invaluable companion to Aragorn in that quest, and he wanted him quickly away on the journey -- even though the thought of that parting froze his heart with foreboding and loneliness.

Yet even as he fretted, the familiar feeling of worry was a great comfort to him. He gave a sudden shout of laughter at the incongruous thought that while he was once again thinking as a captain might think -- worrying for those under his charge -- he still could not even stand on his feet without help.

"A fine captain I will appear to them!" he sighed ruefully. "I had best put aside my fears and see that I am at least presentable when they come."

He carefully stretched and straightened his limbs, testing his strength as he had done regularly since he had finally begun to have some control over his own movements. It was a ritual he performed often to prove to himself he was truly still alive, and to harden his will against the pain, keeping himself from despair. To spend time in exercise -- no matter how simple -- was to be strengthening his body for that day when he would take his first steps towards home.

Home! How he ached to be back there, back with his people, defending his City! There had been an empty place in his heart ever since he had taken the road that led northwards to Rivendell, and he would not be whole again until that void was filled -- nor would it be filled, until he once more walked the streets of white stone.

Boromir winced at the pain in his shoulder as he flexed his arms and tested his movements. It was still only a matter of days since his wounding, and the pain was yet a sickening knot in his chest, but it was receding daily, and that made it bearable. He rested for a moment, then reached for the food Legolas had left for him.

Before taking a bite, he contemplated the cake of lembas in his hand. This lembas was a strange food, like nothing he had ever eaten before; yet he had to admit, it did seem to put heart into him. He knew he had never before been so wounded and weak as he was now, and yet he could feel himself improving daily -- even hourly! Could this strange Elven food have something to do with it? He chewed thoughtfully as he pondered the mystery, then shrugged and stuffed the entire cake into his mouth and washed it down with a swig of water.

Boromir struggled to sit up.  The wound in his midsection made it difficult to rise from a prone position, but once he was up, it was easier to move about, if he did so with care. He eyed the distance to the little spring which ran through the grass near the boats towards the waters of the lake, calculating how much effort it would take to get himself there. He could as easily use water from the leather skin for a wash, but he felt suddenly that it was important to make the effort to reach the spring.

Stuffing a clean cloth inside his tunic and grasping his staff, Boromir pulled himself to his feet. His knees buckled and he almost fell, but he leaned on the staff and managed to keep himself upright. He felt sick for a moment and swayed slightly as he contended with dizziness, but he hardened his will and forced himself to move his feet. Slowly but surely, he shuffled forward across the sand and grass to the edge of the stream.

It seemed to take forever, and he was sweating profusely by the time he reached the shallow spring. Using the wooden stave as support, Boromir lowered himself slowly and carefully to his knees, faintly surprised to realize that it took much more strength to kneel than it had to stand. He braced himself with one hand and wet the cloth in the spring with the other. Carefully and methodically he washed his face and neck with the wet cloth, and was refreshed -- not only because he felt a bit cleaner, but because he had proved to himself he was not a helpless invalid.

Another wave of dizziness surprised him, and he dropped the cloth as he braced himself frantically with both hands to his staff. It would not do to fall face first into the spring and drown before any help could reach him! Boromir laughed, in spite of the morbid thought, then cursed as he realized he no longer had the strength to get back to his feet.

At that moment, he felt a gentle hand supporting him under his arm, and an amused voice spoke beside him.

"There was water in the skin for your thirst," said Legolas. "No need to come here for a drink."

"I wanted a wash with water that flowed fresh," growled Boromir. "But now I cannot rise!"

He shook his head in resignation and laughed again at his predicament, while at the same time cursing his weakness.

"A great fool I shall look to my men if they should see me this way -- unable to even wash myself, or to get up afterwards!"

Legolas smiled in response.

"I think they will not care if you are washed or not, nor will they despise you if you are kneeling on the ground in your weakness. They care only to see you living; that will be enough."

Boromir grew suddenly still and serious.

"You have seen them?" he asked intently.

"I have," said Legolas. "They follow after me, and may be here any moment. I came ahead quickly to prepare you for their coming."

Boromir looked up, and Legolas caught his breath at the joy that shone from his companion's face.

"Faramir? Was my brother with them?" Boromir asked eagerly. But before Legolas could respond, Boromir shook his head in answer to his own question. "No, of course not! He could not leave his duties, even to come to me."

"Your man Grithnir leads the party, and Linhir is also with them," Legolas said quickly, for Boromir's comfort.

"Grithnir...." Boromir's voice was suddenly gruff, and he fell silent. Looking down at the staff which he now held limply in his hands as he leaned against Legolas, he gripped the wood tightly, once. Then, bracing the staff in the soft loam beside the spring, he began to struggle to his feet.

"Get me to my feet," he demanded, then remembered himself. "Please... I will meet them standing."

"They know you are injured," replied Legolas gently. "You will not be able to hide it from them."

"I do not wish to hide it," answered Boromir. "But they need to see me strong in spite of my pain, or they will lose hope. I am their captain and I will not appear weak in their eyes -- or in my own."

Legolas made no further argument. He lifted Boromir up and bade him lean upon his shoulder as he guided him out onto the shingle. He settled him beside the boat landing, on the far side, where he could watch for the coming of his men, and yet lean upon the stone for support.

They waited there together in silence, watching the long shore as it retreated southwards into the mists of Rauros -- but they did not have to wait long. Soon, in the distance, they could see the Men of Gondor approaching, walking swiftly towards them. Legolas stepped away from Boromir, so as not to be seen supporting him, but he remained close, in case the Man should need a sudden hand to help him.

Boromir drew himself up, tall and proud, and though his face was still, and his expression solemn, Legolas could sense his joy as if he had shouted aloud. Yet Boromir spoke no word as he watched his men approach.

As he waited, Boromir felt a peace he had not known for a very long time. He no longer felt impatient or apprehensive, for his men were there before him, coming ever closer. He knew each face and was glad at the sight of them.

Suddenly, he felt whole again.  He had not yet set foot on the streets of his City, nor even seen her walls from afar, but that no longer mattered. That would happen in time. For now, he was content, because his men were here with him -- his chosen men, with whom he had fought many a battle and seen many a victory -- and it was enough.

Grithnir now stood before him, and devotion shone from his eyes as he stood before his captain.

"My lord," he whispered in greeting.

Placing his hands on Grithnir's shoulders, Boromir bent forward and kissed his brow. When he spoke, his voice was steady, though deepened with suppressed emotion.

"Well met, Grithnir," he said with a smile. "I have been waiting for you."

Sam was worried about Frodo.

In spite of his weariness and irritation at their wandering attempts to find a path through the bleak hills, Frodo had seemed in good enough spirits that morning. A nice breakfast of lembas and water had put some heart back into them both, after the cold night they had spent in the shelter of a stony hollow. It was a dreary business scrabbling about amidst the rocks of the Emyn Muil, seeking a way down to the flatter lands to the East, but Frodo had seemed relieved to be on his way, and the difficult terrain had not bothered him – at least, not at first.

Now as they walked, he seemed ill at ease, stopping at times to listen, or to look over his shoulder, as if worried that something or someone was following them. Sam wondered if Frodo was thinking of Gollum. They had seen something that might be eyes looking out at them from the rocks on their first evening alone, and it had given them quite a turn. But there had been nothing since then, and Sam was convinced they had given the creature the slip.

Midmorning came and they stopped for a rest. Sam observed Frodo closely as he handed him the water skin and urged him to drink. Frodo took it and drank thirstily, but he continued to look back over his shoulder in the direction from whence they had come. There was an odd expression on his face – worried, yet at the same time, wistful.

"Don't you be fretting about the others now, Mr. Frodo," said Sam, putting aside his own worry and trying to inject some cheerfulness into his voice. "Strider'll look after them, they'll all be fine. I know we were worrying that day we left, when we thought we'd heard that Horn of Boromir's blowin' from across the water – but I'm sure 'twas just them trying to find us in the woods. Why, I expect they've been lucky enough to find an easy path down to the plain and are already well on their way to Boromir's White City, by now! That ought to make Boromir happy, at least, since that's all he's been thinking about lately...."

Frodo glanced up warily at the mention of Boromir, then started in sudden fear at the sliding sound of rock falling somewhere behind him. He leapt to his feet and put a hand to his sword, as if he expected an enemy to spring out at him.

"Mr. Frodo!" exclaimed Sam. "What's wrong? It's naught but rock falling, beggin' your pardon, sir. That's been happening over and over again since we started this trip through these wretched hills. Why, do you think we're still being followed by that Gollum?"

Frodo sighed and sat down heavily.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he replied. "I am feeling a bit on edge. Forgive me."

He struggled visibly to calm himself, but he still could not keep from looking over his shoulder once more.

"It's not Gollum I'm worried about," said Frodo in a low voice, even as he stared behind him among the rocks along the path. "There are others who might be following...."

"Who?" asked Sam, puzzled. "Strider? And why'd we be afraid of him? I'd be happy to see Strider again, I would! He'd find a way out of this maze quick enough."

"No...  not Strider...."

Sam leaned forward, and grasping Frodo's arm, looked him sternly in the face.  "Something's happened, hasn't it? Tell me!" he demanded. "Who're you afraid of, master, and why?"

A distant, secretive look appeared briefly in Frodo's eyes, then his head drooped, and heaving a long, shuddering sigh, he covered his face with his hands.

"I delayed too long, Sam, and he was done with waiting," moaned Frodo. "The Ring was too strong! He tried to take it from me."

For a moment, Sam was at a loss. Who is he talking about? he wondered. Who was done with waiting?

But his wondering lasted only a moment, for almost immediately he realized he might be able to put a name to this one whom Frodo feared. Sam caught his breath, hardly daring to speak that name aloud, lest it turn out to be true – yet who else could it be? Who else had been impatient all along, so keen to have a decision made on the road they would travel, so much in a hurry to go south to Minas Tirith? Who else had thought the Enemy's Ring was something to be used rather than destroyed, who had been acting so strangely since Lorien...?

Sam felt sudden, intense fury like a hot wave flowing over him.  "Boromir!" he said in a flat, strangled voice. "You mean – Boromir tried...."

Sam fell silent, unable to say the words.

"Yes," sighed Frodo. "Boromir tried to take the Ring."

"Did he hurt you?"

"No!" replied Frodo firmly. "No, he did not hurt me... though he might have, had I been slower. He... he tried to grab hold of me, but I put the rock between us."

Frodo shook his head sorrowfully.  "Oh, Sam! He did not touch me, yet it did hurt.... It hurt to see him so... to see the madness.... His fair face was changed so that I hardly knew him!"

"And you're thinking he might be following us? To try it again?"

"No… yes... I don't know!" stammered Frodo. "He seemed so desperate! I can't help but think he would try again... the Ring is that strong – It would twist him again if It could! And yet...."

His voice trailed off into silence. When he spoke again, Frodo's voice seemed stronger and calmer.

"I wonder...." he said slowly.  "I wonder if maybe Boromir would be all right, once I had gone. I almost think I heard him calling after me as I ran from him, calling out that he was sorry.  But I couldn't really hear, not well, anyway, for I had put on the Ring. I might be wrong...."

Frodo looked up into Sam's eyes, and the expression on his face was one of hope mixed with dread.  "He would have recovered his senses, surely? After I took myself away?"

Looking at Frodo in amazement, Sam suddenly understood that the fear and sorrow his master now felt was not for himself, but for Boromir. He was surprised to feel the edge of his own anger dulled by this revelation. Sam drew in a deep breath to steady himself, before speaking.

"Tell me what happened, Mr. Frodo. Tell me everything."

So Frodo told him: how Boromir had come upon him suddenly in the forest, and had tried to convince him to go to Minas Tirith. He told how Boromir had grown angry and impatient with fear and longing, and of the madness that had suddenly changed him. He told how he had run from the Man, and of everything that had happened afterwards to bring himself to the point of deciding to set out for Mordor alone.

When Frodo had ended his tale, he sighed and fell silent, then sat with his head bowed over his drawn-up knees. Sam watched him for a long time and did not speak, as he mulled over in his mind all he had heard from Frodo and seen for himself on their journey. A small tear trickled down his cheek, at the thought of his master's suffering, and in one part of his mind the sturdy hobbit wondered at how Boromir could have fallen so far – such an honorable fellow, who had been so kind to the hobbits throughout the journey. Why, he and Boromir had talked about the gardens in his fair White City... and about Sam's own Rosie, waiting for him back home in the Shire. Boromir had seemed so friendly and understanding, and yet at the same time sad, missing his own home after being away so long....

Sam knew he ought to be very angry with the Man, but he could not help feeling sorry, too, somehow, at what had happened. That look on his dear master's face, and the worry in his voice, moved Sam deeply, though he could not have put into words exactly what was taking place within his own heart. He only knew he was sorry and sad – not just for Frodo's pain, but for Boromir's as well.

Frodo broke the silence with another sigh, and looking carefully at his master, Sam saw a faint smile upon his face – a smile of relief, perhaps, at having finally shared the burden of his secret sorrow over Boromir's betrayal. But the smile was only there for a moment, replaced soon by a look of regret.

"I did not want anyone else to be hurt by my indecision," Frodo said sadly, "and so I left to make my way to Mordor alone. If I had stayed, who else might the Ring have tempted? Aragorn? Merry and Pippin? I should have parted with the Company long ago; it would have been better for all of us."

Frodo glanced up suddenly at Sam and smiled.  "But I couldn't escape you, could I, Sam?"

"No, you couldn't, and it's a good thing, too!" replied Sam stoutly.

"I wish I'd left sooner," said Frodo, as if to himself. "It is my fault Boromir fell.  If I'd gone sooner, perhaps he'd not have been tempted beyond his endurance…."

"Maybe," said Sam doubtfully. "But don't you go takin' on more than your fair share of the blame, Mr. Frodo. It's hard enough deciding things for oneself day in and day out, but to have to decide things that affect the whole world? Well, that's more than should be expected of any hobbit, or Man, for that matter! I think you've done fine so far, sir, and I'll not hear any more of you second-guessing yourself. What's done is done, and we have to go on from here, like it or not. Like I said before, they'll be fine…. Strider'll look after 'em, and I'm going to look after you. Even if Boromir does come after us, I'll be here to talk some sense into him. Maybe he's been taken in bad by that horrible Ring, but he's still a good Man underneath. He's more than that, even, he's a lord! He's got to think higher, or different, somehow, to other Men! He'll listen to reason, I expect, sir, and if he don't, I'll make him listen."

Frodo looked fondly at Sam.  "You are right, of course, Sam. I am glad you are here with me to remind me of these things."

Sam gazed thoughtfully back in the general direction of the lake and the friends they had left behind.

"Thing is," Sam said musingly, "I'm thinkin' that Boromir won't be following after us. Sure, it makes me plain mad to think of him trying to hurt you – him bein' so much bigger and all; he should've known better! But you say he might've been sorry, and I think you may be right. He near as said as much himself, that day we parted company. Not with words, maybe, but you could tell he was sad, come to think of it."

Frodo looked up startled and wary.  "He... he said that? You saw him? When?"

"Well," said Sam slowly, trying now to recall all that had happened that morning when things had suddenly fallen apart. "We were all there waitin' for you to decide which way you were going, and he disappeared and I thought he'd gone off to his City like he said he was going to. But then he came back, lookin' kinda upset and all. Strider asked if he'd seen you. That's when he said he had, but that he'd gone and upset you – he said he'd got angry because you wouldn't come with him to Minas Tirith, and he said you put on the Ring. He was right upset about it, I could tell, but I wasn't listening by then – I was that desperate to find you for fear you'd go off without me. I ran off after you, and I don't know what happened after that. I'm thinking Strider was giving him a talking to, so maybe he'll have helped him settle the matter?"

Frodo looked at Sam hopefully.  "And he seemed... sane to you? Like... like himself, as he was before?"

"Why, yes, sir, surely," replied Sam. "Just upset and sad, like."  He scowled suddenly. Though his fierce anger had abated, he was still upset over the harm that could have come to his master at the hands of the Man in his madness.

"He'd better be sorry, that's all I can say!" Sam grumbled. "He had no call to try to hurt you like that!"

"Oh, but he did, Sam," argued Frodo. "He did have call to hurt me – at least, it would have seemed so to him, if only for a moment. And a moment is all it takes for the Ring to take hold of a person and twist him."

Sam looked at Frodo with grave worry on his face.  "Don't you fret now, Mr. Frodo," he said firmly, trying to keep the fear in his heart from reaching his voice. "I won't let that happen to you. I'm here, and you're safe now. Don't worry about Boromir; Strider'll help him find his way."

"I hope you are right, Sam," sighed Frodo. "I hope you are right!"

As his men gathered about him, Boromir greeted each one by name with a kiss and an embrace, speaking warm words of welcome and encouragement to each man.

Legolas stood close by and watched attentively, a strong hand ready to support Boromir if it was needed. But it seemed his helping hand was necessary, for Boromir appeared to have gained a new and unexpected strength with the coming of his men.  He was frail, to be sure, for his wounds were still recent and only beginning to heal, but a new confidence flowed from him which seemed to renew his strength and endurance, much to the interested surprise of Legolas.

The race of Men was not unknown to him, for he had at times served as an emissary on behalf of his father Thranduil to the men of Laketown and Dale, close neighbors to the Elves of Mirkwood -- but he had not known them well, nor had he spent any great amount of time among them.

Legolas had therefore been pleased to be assigned to the Company of the Ring, for it gave him more opportunity to observe and to learn of Men. He had admired Aragorn at once upon their meeting in Rivendell, and he desired to learn more of Boromir and the people of Gondor, for it was Men of that land alongside whom his father and grandfather had fought that fateful battle with the Enemy, so long ago.

As they traveled together, he had noted Boromir's pride in his own strength and heritage, and how he had chafed under Aragorn's leadership.  He had watched the relationship between the two Men strengthen and change, as Boromir reluctantly accepted his lesser role in the Company and nurtured a growing respect for Aragorn. Yet after their time in Lothlorien, Boromir had gradually withdrawn, holding himself aloof from his companions.  At the time, Legolas had attributed that withdrawal to an argument with Aragorn over their road -- but after what he had learned and seen in recent days spent with Boromir, he knew the truth of the matter was far more complex.

Boromir now stood tall and proud as a captain surrounded by his devoted men, and Legolas marveled at the change in him. During their journeying together, he had seen only glimpses in Boromir of this supreme confidence, this mantle of command:  at the Council where he had first stood and declared his quest for the answer to a riddle that might aid his people; upon Caradhras, where he had urged the Company to gather wood for the cold journey in the mountains and had ploughed his way through heavy snow to lead them to safety; in Moria, where he had been first to battle and last to retreat.

Now he was here in his element: Boromir, as none of the Company had ever known him or seen him before -- a captain in command of Men who adored him and trusted him because he had proved himself to be the leader they wanted and needed; a Man comfortable in his own ability and his standing with the men who followed him. The eyes of his men hung on him, as if trying to convince themselves that he was truly among them once again, and even Linhir, who was almost old enough to be Boromir's father, and deserving of deference in his own right, was gazing at Boromir with eyes that shone with grave respect and love.

Linhir stepped forward now, and put a hand under Boromir's elbow.  A look from him brought Legolas forward to stand at Boromir's other side.

"Now that you have shown yourself to be strong before us all," Linhir said in a low voice, full of affection, "let us help you to sit -- before you fall on your face!"

Boromir laughed.

"Very well, if you insist! I will not deny my weariness, and would welcome your help in getting me to my bedroll."

***

The boat landing was well-hidden in a narrow inlet on the western side of the River, just north of the isle of Cair Andros.  Many archers stationed along the banks guarded the approach so that no boat could draw nigh the landing without being seen. Halmir knew he had been observed and identified before ever he steered his boat towards the shore, but he was not concerned; the watchers knew every man posted along the River, and they would have recognized him as friend rather than foe. Even as his boat bumped against the stone that marked the landing place, he was being hailed by Rodnor, the commander of the regiment which guarded the outpost and kept the horses for message riders from Cair Andros.

"Halmir!" he exclaimed, his voice full of concern. "What do you here? It is not your time to return.  Is something amiss in the north that you have returned early from your watch?"

"Aye!" exclaimed Halmir as he clambered up the bank, drawing his boat behind him. "I bear a message of great urgency to the lord Denethor. I have need of haste; have you a horse ready which can bear me there swiftly?"

"Yes, horses stand saddled and ready at the picket. The last messenger from Cair Andros returned several days ago, and there has been no other since.  The horses are well rested, and you shall have the best of them."

Rodnor nodded to one of his men who ran to the picket line to choose a horse for Halmir.

By the time Halmir had retrieved his weapons and the Horn shard concealed in its cloth, the horse chosen for him had been brought. He grasped the harness with one hand, and with the other flipped open the dispatch pouch that hung from the horse's saddle. As he tucked the wrapped Horn into the pouch, a corner of the cloth fell away to reveal what lay inside. Halmir quickly rewrapped the Horn and stuffed it into the pouch, but not before Rodnor had caught a glimpse of it, and had recognized it for what it was.

"How did you come by this, Halmir?" Rodnor stammered, laying a trembling hand on the pouch. "What does it mean that you carry this and not... not the bearer himself? What has happened?"

Halmir held a finger to his lips to silence the Man, and drew him close as he spoke softly, so that none of the others would hear.

"It was found on the River at dawn just yesterday, in the reeds by our watch post.  I am sent to deliver it to the lord Steward with what news I can offer, and to receive his instructions. Say nothing of this to anyone until we know more.  The spreading of such news before its time could do grievous harm to the morale of the people of Gondor."

"I see," replied Rodnor quietly. "You are correct, of course; it would not do to speak of this too soon. I will say nothing of this matter until I hear otherwise."

He looked at the pouch on the horse's saddle and shook his head in sympathy. "I do not envy you the task of bringing this news to the lord Denethor."

"No," Halmir replied with a grim smile. "Yet I am the one appointed. Wish me well!"

"Indeed! Go swiftly, and may you find favor with our lord Steward, in spite of the news and the token you bear. Return to us with news when you are able."

"I will do so."

Halmir sprang into the saddle, and gathering the reins in his hands, he galloped away upon the road to Minas Tirith.

***

Boromir lay back with an inward sigh of relief. He felt better than he had for some time, but he was still weak and in pain, and the effort to appear stronger than he truly was had taken its toll. But it had been worth the effort to have his men see him determined and confident, despite his injuries. Now if only Linhir would provide some encouragement concerning his ability to travel...

He looked at Linhir quizzically as the healer finished the examination of his wounds.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"I do not see you laughing."

"Laughing?" Linhir frowned, then suddenly he grinned, as he realized what Boromir was referring to. "Ah! You remember that, do you?"

"I do -- very clearly!" replied Boromir with a grimace. "A day of battle, I was wounded, and you insisted the wound must be tended with stitching."

"Rightly so!" interrupted Linhir.

"Perhaps," acknowledged Boromir reluctantly. "Still, your manner with me was quite rude, as I recall! You told me, 'Never in all my days as a healer in the army of Gondor have I had such a poor patient! Everything is "but a scratch" with you! One day you will receive a truly serious wound, and then I shall laugh to have you at my mercy.'"

Boromir looked at Linhir accusingly. "So! Here I am, at your mercy, awaiting your laughter -- and your verdict concerning my condition."

Linhir gazed solemnly at Boromir for a moment without answering. When at last he spoke, his voice was gruff with affection that could not be disguised.

"I believe I shall save my laughter for another time," he said with a smile and a fond wink. "Your wounds are indeed serious, but another has tended you well in my absence, and I am robbed of my opportunity to be gleeful at your expense."

"Then I shall live?" laughed Boromir.

"You know that already, I think, though there may have been some doubt in your mind at one time." Linhir smiled kindly as Boromir glanced quickly away.

"Yes, you will live to return to your people who await you," continued Linhir, but then he held up a preemptory hand. "But mark this; it will not be until I say so! There will be no premature attempts to test your strength to prove you are fit for the journey. I shall be the one who decides when we leave, not you, my dear Captain!"

He gazed at Boromir's scowling face and grinned. "There may yet be opportunity for laughter on my part!"

Legolas had been watching the entire proceeding with a faintly amused expression on his face; at the sight of his smile, Boromir bit off the retort that came to his lips and sighed. Linhir chuckled, and took pity on him.

"Do not fear, my friend!" he said comfortingly. "You shall be on your way soon enough. I will be able to ease some of your pain so that you may travel with greater comfort, and some of the wounds which trouble you now will begin healing more quickly with a bit of stitching. You are doing surprisingly well for a man who has been so wounded -- how many days has it been?"

"Three days have passed since his wounding," replied Legolas.

Linhir shook his head in disbelief.

"Three days only! The one you mentioned who knows much of healing did well with what he had to hand. This leather patch on the chest wound is a marvel! I will not disturb it yet, for it does what needs to be done for this severe a wound. It needs a few more days yet to heal on the inside, before I can remove the patch and close the wound with a stitch."

"You are determined to do your needlework on me!" growled Boromir.

"If I do not, you will reopen the wound the moment you take up a sword again -- and I know that moment will come sooner than I would like!" answered Linhir firmly.

He turned once more to Legolas.

"Tell me, I am curious; what salve or medicine did your friend apply to Boromir's injuries? There is a faint aroma still about some of the wounds that is pleasing and wholesome."

"He made a paste of athelas leaves and applied it as a poultice."

"Athelas?"

"Kingsfoil it is called in your land, I believe."

"Indeed!" Linhir responded in wonder. "Kingsfoil is known to me, yet it would seem I have not explored all of its uses. I would learn more of the healing virtues of this plant.  I shall look forward to meeting this companion of yours, who seems to know much of the lore of healing -- should he be successful in rescuing your lost ones and find his way to Minas Tirith."

"He must be successful!" said Boromir in a low, intense voice, gesturing to Legolas from where he lay upon his blankets. Legolas knelt quickly beside him, as Boromir grasped his hand.

"There is no need for you to tarry now, Legolas," Boromir said urgently. "You have heard that I shall recover, and you can tell Aragorn so. Linhir will see to my care, and my men are with me to aid me in my return to Gondor. Go you now and find Aragorn -- help him rescue my little ones!"

"I will go, Boromir," replied Legolas, "now that I am certain you are indeed well-cared for, and you have no more need of me."

"I assure you, it is not that I do not desire your presence here," Boromir said, as much to reassure Legolas as himself. Now that it had come to it, he felt suddenly reluctant to see Legolas leave.

"I wish... well, truth be told, I now find it hard to imagine you gone! Yet it is better, I believe, for you to go as we discussed. Aragorn has more need of you now than I -- though I shall miss your company, Legolas."

Legolas bowed his head in acknowledgement of Boromir's confession and smiled to see the Man's sudden confusion at his own frankness.

"I am glad that we had this time together, my friend, in spite of the circumstances that brought me to stay with you here," said Legolas. "There is no barrier between us now, for we have shared much together, of thoughts and experiences which remain hidden and secret from others. What has passed between us will not change, simply because we are parted by many miles and for many days."

Boromir nodded, but spoke no word. Linhir quietly rose and moved away, to give the two companions the time they needed, alone, to say their farewells. Boromir watched him go, a thoughtful look upon his face, and then turned to Legolas. With a hand on his arm, he drew him close and spoke quietly.

"There is something I would have said to Aragorn, if there had been time, and if I had been able to put my thoughts in order. Tell him to take care, to beware and to be cautious, should he reach Minas Tirith before me. I love my father well, but I know him -- he will not welcome Aragorn if he comes claiming the kingship, and that might bode ill for the loyalties of the people."

Boromir broke off with a sudden rueful sigh.

"Even I, who have come to know Aragorn and to love him for his wisdom, his strength, and his ability... to acknowledge his royal lineage as legitimate -- even I have not fully come to terms with his claim to Gondor's throne!"

He fell silent for a moment, then shrugged away his indecision.

"No matter; there will be time for that later. Do not concern yourself with my doubts!"

"Do not be troubled over this, Boromir," said Legolas reassuringly. "Aragorn knows much of what passes in the land of Gondor.  He will not act without careful thought. I will tell him what you have said, and he will understand."

"Do you have what you need for the journey?" asked Boromir, changing the subject.

"Yes," replied Legolas. "My needs are few, for I must travel swiftly if I am to find Aragorn and Gimli in the wilderness. I will follow the trail of the Orcs from the point whence they descended to the plains of Rohan, until I can determine more clearly which path was taken. I can leave immediately; I need now only your leave to go and your blessing."

"You have my leave, and my blessing. Assure Aragorn and Gimli of my health -- may we meet again before too many more days pass! And tell the little ones... tell Pippin and Merry that -- "

Here his voice failed him, and he could not go on.

"I know what you would say to the Halflings, Boromir," said Legolas solemnly. "I promise you, I shall speak with them of you and of all that has passed here. Fear not; there will come a time when you yourself can say what you will, in their presence."

Legolas leaned forward and embraced him, and Boromir returned the embrace, holding the Elf tightly for a brief moment before releasing him.

"Farewell, Legolas, my friend. I thank you for your kindness and your care in my time of need, a debt I can never repay. Go now, and do not look back. There will be other times for us, when we meet once again."

"There is no debt between us, Boromir.  You would have done the same, would you not, if fate had reversed our fortunes?"

The Elf smiled as he studied Boromir's expression. "Yes, I see I have spoken truly. So speak you no more of debt and repayment."

Legolas gripped Boromir's shoulder once, briefly, then stood and stepped away.

"Farewell, Boromir my friend; do not watch me go -- we shall meet again, and there will be time then to say all that we have left unsaid."

Thus they parted, each to his own road -- hoping, yet not fully confident, that they would indeed meet again one day.

The child's voice was high and sweetly clear as it came to him, carried upon the wind. Denethor knew immediately the familiar tones and pitch of that voice, and turned his head to listen more carefully. The lisping speech sounded again, from across the Fountain lawn, and Denethor found himself turning aside from his duties to go to his son. He felt a sudden need to see him again; it had been too long since he had spent time with the child. He should not have left it so long.... But it was not too late.  He would go to his boy, and the sight of him would ease the cares and burdens of the day, for the child had a way about him that could lighten a father's heart and make him smile.

As he crossed the Court of the Fountain, he saw Boromir sitting against the wall of the Embrasure, a Man at his side -- it was Captain Thorongil. As Denethor watched, he saw the child speak earnestly to the Man, then look up into his face with great concentration, listening carefully to Thorongil's quiet response.

Denethor frowned, and felt a sharp pang of jealousy at the sight of the two together. It was often so, he realized, for Boromir spent much time with the captain, and Thorongil made a point to make time for the child.

What do they find to talk about? Denethor wondered. Why should Thorongil be so keen on befriending my son?

The sound of Denethor's boots on the flagstones of the walkway echoed in the recess of the Embrasure where they sat. Man and boy scrambled to their feet when they saw who approached. Denethor's heart lifted and his jealous thoughts were forgotten at the look of pleasure on Boromir's face upon seeing his father. The child ran to him with a happy cry.

"I was talking to Frongil," Boromir announced importantly. "He let me look over the wall!"

Denethor smiled down at the boy, taking little notice of the captain who stood silent in the background.  He had eyes only for this child of his, who seemed so glad to see him.

"Yes, my son," replied Denethor, taking Boromir's small hand in his. With his other hand, he smoothed back the child's windblown hair. "I saw you speaking with the captain, and it is quite clear you have been looking over the wall."

Boromir grinned up happily at his father.

"Come, child," Denethor said. "The captain is a busy man, and he has no more time for you now. There are important things for him to discuss with your grandfather."

Denethor turned slightly and spoke to Thorongil.

"My father is asking for you," he said shortly. "You will find him in the Council Chambers."

Thorongil nodded and bowed.

"I will attend him directly, my lord."

Denethor drew Boromir away, but the child resisted for a moment; he had to wave and call his goodbyes to Thorongil, before turning away and trotting along beside his father.

"What were you discussing with the captain, my son?" Denethor asked as they walked.

"We talked 'bout the best sword ever!" cried Boromir joyously. "Gran'fa told me a tale 'bout it once, the one that the Great King used to fight the Evil Dark Lord, the one that got broken. 'Twas the best sword ever, but now it needs fixing."

"Yes? What about this broken sword?"

"Frongil knows 'bout a sword like that, too. A broken one. He promised to show it to me someday, when it's good again."

Boromir pulled away from his father and ran ahead, dodging and leaping as he pretended to slash at the air with an imaginary sword; suddenly he stopped and ran back. Catching up his father's hand, he gazed up at him appealingly.

"Will I be big soon, so I can have a sword?" he asked seriously.

"Soon, Boromir, my son," replied Denethor, with a gentle smile. "The time for your sword will come soon."

He stroked the silky hair once more....

... and the scene changed. Now beneath his hand was no longer the soft windblown hair of his small son, but the cool smoothness of the marble tabletop in the Council Chamber. He heard the voices of the Elders speaking softly as they debated around the table. Looking up, he saw across from him Faramir, sitting slumped in his chair with a resigned look upon his face. He was listening to Boromir beside him, as he argued his point with one of the Elders.

"....Faramir has spoken eloquently of why he should be chosen," Boromir spoke up loudly, and all eyes turned to him. "But I say to you, I am the better choice. I am the hardier for a difficult journey, and I am the eldest; is it not fitting that I should go -- the Heir of Denethor, Captain General of the armies of Gondor? Who better?"

Denethor felt a sudden thrill of fear, but he pushed it sternly aside. This was no time for such fantasies.  He had heard all the arguments, and now would give his judgment. Boromir would go and Faramir would stay.

"So be it!" Denethor said to Boromir, and the Council of Elders supported his decision, nodding their heads gravely. "Go, since you will not be stayed. Go north and seek Elrond Half-Elven in Imladris.  Tell him of the dream and of our need. Seek this Sword-that-was-broken, if it exists, and bring me what aid you can, whether it be weapon or army."

Boromir grinned and clapped a triumphant hand to Faramir's shoulder. His brother shook his head and sighed in response, but clasped the hand on his shoulder affectionately.

Denethor watched them together and felt neither triumph nor pleasure at the decision. His heart was heavy with dread and he knew not why. He closed his eyes....

... and when he opened them again, he was awake in his own bedchamber, and it was morning. The dream slowly faded, leaving behind it a feeling of loss -- but the dread in his heart was the same as in the dream. He had awakened with that weight of dread every day since Boromir had gone away...

***

The day was passing into evening when Halmir rode through the Great Gate of the City. His horse's mouth was flecked with foam and its sides heaved from the steady pace they had taken since morning, yet the horse did not falter as Halmir guided it through the City streets, level upon level, gate after gate. Upon reaching the seventh gate he sprang down from the saddle, flinging the reins to a groom who ran up to meet him, ready to lead the horse away to the nearby stables. Halmir spoke a gentle word of thanks and an apology for the grueling ride into the horse's ear, as he unslung the pouch from the saddle and tucked it carefully under his arm. The Guard at the gate nodded him through, for it was evident he was the bearer of important news for the lord Steward.

Halmir strode up the tunnel passageway to the Citadel, and was admitted at once into the Court of the Fountain, now lit by the setting sun. Heart pounding, he approached the steps to the Great Hall. A brief announcement of his name and his errand, and he was allowed to proceed.

A chamberlain met him at the door to the Hall and led him in and through a side door into the Council Chambers. The Steward was seated at a long marble-topped table spread with parchments and maps. Several of his advisors were with him, but at a word from Denethor, they bowed and left the room.

Denethor half turned in his chair as the chamberlain spoke in his ear Halmir's name; he nodded briefly and indicated with a wave of his hand that Halmir should approach.

"Do you require refreshment before you speak?" Denethor asked. "You have ridden hard today, have you not?"

"I have, lord, but that can wait. The news I bear must be told before I turn aside for my own needs."

Denethor nodded his acceptance of this adherence to duty.

"Tell me your news, then," he said, with a sharp look at the pouch in the messenger’s hand.

Swallowed hard, Halmir began to speak as he slowly removed the Horn shard from the pouch.  "I am one who is assigned to watch the borders in the North, just below the Falls of Rauros. A day ago at dawn, the River brought us this token."

He stretched forth his hand, and the cloth fell away to reveal the cloven Horn of Boromir. Light glinted dully on the scarred sides and highlighted the faded brown stains that marred its whiteness.

Denethor sat as if suddenly frozen in his chair, staring wordlessly at the Horn before him. Halmir stood holding out the Horn for a moment longer, then stepping forward, he gently laid it, cloth and all, in the lap of Denethor. Only then did the Steward shift in his seat, as he laid a trembling hand over the Horn to keep it from sliding to the floor.

"Did you search?" he asked, and the hollow pain in his voice cut Halmir to the heart as if he had been stabbed with a knife. He would rather have seen the Steward shout and rave in anger, than to see him so stricken and lifeless.

"No, lord," he replied sadly. "We were too few, and could not leave our post. I was sent to bring word, and to return with orders of how to proceed."

"And the other half?"

"There was no sign of it, lord, nor of anything else belonging to... to the Captain." Halmir could not quite bring himself to speak the name of Boromir in the presence of his grieving father.

Denethor did not speak for some time, and Halmir stood silently at attention, watching and waiting. At last, the Steward stirred in his chair.

"Leave me," he said in a voice cracked with strain. "I must have time to think on this. I... I cannot advise you now. I will send for you when I have determined what is to be done."

"Shall I..." Halmir hesitated. "Shall I send for your chamberlain?"

"No!" cried Denethor sharply. "I need no one. I wish to be alone now. Leave me."

Halmir bowed hurriedly and left the Chamber, but not before he had seen the glint of tears on the stone-hard face of his lord.

***

After the messenger had left, Denethor turned slowly in his chair and placed the cloven Horn upon the table before him. His thumb traced the jagged edge where the Horn had been cut in two by axe or sword, and rubbed gently across the blackened silver mouthpiece. He ran the braided baldric through his hands until they began to feel numb where the leather roughened his palm.

He let the leather cord fall from his fingers and laid his hands flat upon the tabletop.  The cool smoothness of the marble was there beneath his palm and the familiar weight of dread rose up in his heart to choke him. The cold marble brought to his mind a fleeting memory of a sweet clear voice and the feel of soft hair under his hand, as fine as silk. Then it was gone, as if it had never been.

"Boromir..." he whispered. "My son..."

  Denethor laid his head down upon the marble table before him and wept.

Halmir leaned against the carved wooden door of the Council Chamber, his hand still upon the latch, struggling for composure. He heartily wished that fate had not handed him the task of delivering to Denethor the news of the death of Boromir; the sight of tears upon the face of the proud Steward had been more than he could bear.

As he turned away from the door at last, he saw the chamberlain approaching, and hurriedly blinked away his own tears.

"Is your business accomplished, my lord?" inquired the chamberlain. "Have you need of lodging? I will make arrangements for you, if you do not have family in the City."

"I have no family here," answered Halmir, thankful that his voice did not betray his agitation. "If I may stay in the barracks until the lord Steward is ready to receive me once more, that would be all I require. He... he needs time for thought on the matter of business I brought to him. I shall await his orders, before returning to my post in the North."

The man bowed in acknowledgement and laid his hand upon the door latch, but Halmir stayed him with a touch on his sleeve.

"The lord Steward requests solitude for a time," he said, drawing the man aside and away from the door. "He commands that no one disturb him."

The chamberlain looked at him, startled.  He must have seen the brightness of remaining tears in Halmir's eyes, for he gave a low gasp and shot one quick glance at the closed door of the Chamber.

"Your news..." he stammered in a trembling voice. "Was it ill news, then?"

"Yes," sighed Halmir, and a tear unbidden trickled down his face. "The worst possible news -- for us all!"

He looked back at the closed door of the Chamber for a moment, then turned away, leaving the chamberlain standing shocked and irresolute. He strode through the Hall and out, his footsteps echoing hollowly behind him in the emptiness.

***

The long day was almost over, and Faramir welcomed the darkness and a chance to be alone with his thoughts. He had made the rounds of the Osgiliath garrison, seen the guards set and the defenses secured, and left Anborn and Mablung to make their way to their assigned posts on the flatlands by the River beneath the Causeway. He had taken up his own post a little further north, beyond the Causeway and the ruins of the old city, in a spot which gave him a good view of the distant bank opposite, as well as of the River itself. He had chosen this spot for himself because it was quiet here, far enough away from other watchers that he could be alone, but not so far that a shout for aid would not be heard.

Faramir had much need of thought this night, for his heart was heavy with foreboding. His dreams had been troubling of late, filled with images of Boromir in futile battle with a formidable enemy... Boromir wounded and bleeding... Boromir lying still and pale -- as if dead -- his face drawn with pain. And all the while, throughout his dreams, came the echoing sound of Boromir's Horn, calling, calling….

It had been now three days since Faramir had heard the Horn of Gondor blowing at the edge of hearing; three days since he had heard the desperate call of his brother in need somewhere on the northern borders of his land. There had been no word of Boromir since he had left, so many months ago -- nothing, until the sounding of the Horn.

Faramir stirred and shifted his position. He was weary, but it was fatigue born of despair, rather than lack of sleep. If only Boromir would return, safe, and whole! If only something could be done to bring his brother back to the place where he was so sorely missed, so sorely needed!

The night was dark, but the moon shone palely bright upon the mist that drifted across the surface of the River. The midnight stillness was broken only by the lap of the water at his feet, and by the sad rustle of the wind sighing in reeds all around him. He listened to the soft sound of the wind, and almost he could imagine he was hearing the wind in the trees of the forests of Ithilien….

... but it was not Ithilien. He looked about him and saw he was in another place, a forest of pines on a steep hill, dappled with sunlight.  The sound in his ears was a distant roaring, as if a great fall of water was there, beyond sight but not beyond hearing.

A heavy sense of dread fell upon him as he gazed up the hill through the trees and saw a battle being waged. He heard the harsh cries of many Orcs and the calling of young, frightened voices -- and then the shout of the Horn call and the battle cry of Boromir, his brother. He strained to see what was happening, and suddenly he was there, in the midst of the battle. All about him was confusion, but he had eyes only for the tall figure of Boromir who stood before him, bloodied and bruised, his Horn cloven and his body pierced with black arrows.

Even as Faramir watched, frozen into immobility, he saw another arrow flying, striking his brother with great force in his midsection; his head snapped back, and he staggered backwards several paces. Somehow, he was able to keep from falling completely to the ground, but he no longer seemed to have the strength or the will to remain standing.

Faramir stared helplessly as Boromir dropped slowly to his knees, his useless Horn slapping and bumping against his side. His sword was still in his hand, and he gripped it tightly, but he could no longer raise it. Boromir's proud head drooped, and his chin fell to his chest. His mouth opened and he strove to speak --

Faramir....

Boromir could only mouth his brother's name, for his breath was almost gone. He looked up, straight into the anguished gaze of his brother, and the look in his eyes made Faramir cry out in pain.

Faramir....

"I am here, Boromir!" cried Faramir running forward. He stretched out his hand to his brother....

... and awoke to find himself standing knee-deep in water, his hand outstretched and empty. The sighing of the wind in the reeds was in his ears, and the force of the River's current was pushing against his legs. Boromir was gone, leaving behind him nothing but an aching, empty void.

Faramir swayed with the shock of the sudden transition, but he recovered quickly. Sometimes his dreams were like this, coming to him even when he was awake, but he had never before been drawn in so thoroughly or so suddenly.

He inhaled deeply and let his breath out again slowly in a long shuddering sigh. Leaning forward, he scooped up water with his hands to wet his face in an attempt to wake himself and recover from the effects of the dream.

As he straightened, he caught out of the corner of his eye movement in the mist, and the glint of moonlight upon an object in the water. Faramir stepped forward cautiously, peering into the darkness. Yes, there was something there, spinning on the surface of the water....

Faramir stretched out his hand towards the object and it floated to him as if bidden. As he closed his hand upon it and lifted it from the water, a wave of fear and loss smote him, for he recognized the familiar curve of horn tipped with silver -- now a cloven half, scored and bloodied, just as he had seen it in his dream.

Faramir's throat closed with grief as tears sprang to his eyes and flowed down his cheeks.

"No!" he breathed, and did not know he spoke aloud. "Boromir! You cannot be lost to me!"

But he knew his dream had been true. He had no doubt that Boromir had fallen even as he had seen in his dream. He looked northwards, but all was gray darkness, and no sound came to him but the endless sigh of the wind in the reeds. Boromir was gone into the North, and would not now return; his Horn was silenced, the last voice of his brother.

Words from the past now echoed in his mind, words shared with Boromir before he departed upon his fateful journey:

"I only hope you will find what you seek, and return to me safely," he had said to Boromir. "I shall be captain in your absence, and your faith in me will be justified; but my hope will ever be for your speedy return."

"I fear my journey will be long, and my return delayed, but I will come as swiftly as I may."

The sound of his brother's voice in his mind made Faramir's breath catch in pain and sorrow. Even now, he could feel the weight of Boromir's arm upon his shoulders, as he spoke of his hopes for the success of his quest and what it might mean for Gondor.

I will come as swiftly as I may....

He heard another echo, from even further in the past:

"... Do not fear! I am not lost to you yet, and I do not look to be! You will wait long for the captaincy, I assure you! Did you not know? I am indestructible!"

Faramir gripped the Horn and hugged it to his breast, and gave himself up to his sorrow. Bowing his head, he let his tears fall freely to mix with the waters of the Anduin which had brought to him proof that his brother was not indestructible after all.

***

Boromir stifled a sigh as he stirred restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position for sleep. But sleep proved elusive. Linhir, who lay beside him, sat up and laid a comforting hand upon his arm.

"What troubles you, Boromir?" he questioned quietly. "Do your wounds pain you?"

"Forgive me if I have disturbed you at this late hour," sighed Boromir, as he struggled up into a sitting position. "I am not in pain -- in spite of all your prodding and bandaging and stitching of wounds!"

"Why then are you wakeful?"

Boromir was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was gruff with emotion.

"They will think me dead," he said plaintively. "You tell me that a part of my Horn has been found by the watchers at the foot of the Falls?"

Linhir nodded.

"It will be in my father's hands by now," Boromir continued. "He will despair of my coming. If only I could get word to him…."

"Let it go, Boromir," said Linhir firmly. "You can do nothing more than you are doing now. We shall come to the City as soon as may be, and then your father shall see you with his own eyes, and know you are well and not dead. No other messenger now will he believe."

Boromir frowned fiercely at this reminder of Linhir's news of his father's slow slide into despair.

"It seems that before ever I left upon my journey, he was losing hope and falling into despair, which made him hard and strict -- even with me! Alas for Faramir, if my father should think me dead! The burden of my duties and my father's ill mood shall be upon his shoulders one hundredfold!"

"Do not concern yourself with Faramir," advised Linhir. "His shoulders are as wide as yours, and as strong. He will bear it well, until you return to relieve him of some of that burden."

"And my father?"

"Your worry for things you cannot change will not help him -- nor will it help you come to him any sooner. Rest now, and get yourself strong and well, so that you may return to him whole, to heal his sorrow. Trust Faramir to deal with your father, in the meantime."

"Faramir, too, will think me dead," Boromir said in a low voice filled with pain. "I have broken my promise to him for a swift returning. It is not the worst of my broken promises, but it is one that I feel keenly."

Linhir gripped Boromir's shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.

"Again I say to you, let it go, Boromir! We shall see you home as swiftly as may be, so that your promise to Faramir, at least, may be mended."

He pushed Boromir back with one hand and with the other supported him until he was once more lying back upon his bedroll.

"Now will you rest?" Linhir said sternly. "Or must I give you something in your drink to make you sleep?"

Boromir shuddered.

"Nay!" he responded with a grimace. "None of your bitter herbs for me, I beg you! I shall sleep -- I must, if I am to be back on my feet and home to my family once more."

"Exactly!" said Linhir decisively.

He rose to his feet and shaking out his blanket, placed it carefully over Boromir's own, and tucked it about his shoulders.

"It is my watch now," he said to Boromir, "but when I return, I had better find you sleeping, or it will be bitter herbs for you, my Captain!"

"A good night to you, Linhir!" growled Boromir, as he turned on his side and pulled the blankets over his head, to muffle the sound of Linhir chuckling as he walked away to take up his watch.

He was certain -- in spite of what he had said to Linhir -- that he would be unable to sleep, for he was still greatly disturbed at the thought of his loved ones thinking him dead. But after a time, he found himself relaxing, and at last he grew drowsy.

"I am coming, Father... Faramir..." he muttered, as sleep took him away. "I am coming... as swiftly as I may...."

Pippin lay stiff and still, waiting anxiously for the terror to drain away, so that he could move again. The fear would leave him after a while -- it always did -- but the sorrow would remain, and there was little he could do for it but to try to shut it away... until another dream released it, to disturb his sleep yet again.

He tried to still his ragged breathing, but his heart continued to pound in his chest and a lump caught at his throat. Had he cried out, awakened the others? He looked cautiously around. Merry snored gently beside him, still sound asleep. Outside, beyond the enclosed alcove where the hobbits lay side by side upon the leafy bed, Pippin could see Treebeard, sleeping where he stood under the arch, the stream spilling down over him in a glittering curtain of bright water drops.

Pippin breathed a small sigh of relief. He would have hated for them to wake up and question him, for he disliked having to explain -- it was bad enough having the same nightmare over and over again, but to have to talk about it when it was yet still so fresh in his mind... No, he did not want that. It had taken many days for him to be free of the dreams he had experienced after Gandalf's fall into darkness; he trembled now at the thought of this dream staying with him for that long.

He sighed again, this time in distress. The fear of the early morning, as they had witnessed the battle between the Orcs and the Riders; the retelling to Treebeard of all that had befallen them since they had left the Shire -- it had brought it all back to his mind so clearly! No wonder the dream had returned so powerfully to plague him.

He moaned softly at the memory of it, trying to shut out the images that floated before his eyes -- images of Boromir falling; of his struggle to speak to the hobbits as he knelt before them, mortally wounded; of him straining to reach them as they were borne away into the forest by the Uruk-hai....

Ah, Boromir! A tear escaped the corner of his eye, running down the side of his face to be lost in the folds of his cloak. Why did you have to die?

Pippin suddenly felt desperate to get up and move about. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed and carefully lowered himself down to the ground. He waited for a moment, to be certain Merry was well asleep, then turned and exited the hall. He paused just outside the entrance, and drew in a deep breath of night air which did much to chase away the remaining cobwebs of fear that clung to his mind. In silence he stood gazing up at the brilliant stars glittering in the night sky above and tried not to think about anything but the starlight and the sound of the wind in the trees.

He walked forward a few steps as if to go out into the forest, but as he passed by Treebeard, the Ent opened his eyes and spoke.

"Hoo, now! Where do you think you are going, young Pippin?" said Treebeard in a soft voice that yet rumbled and reverberated in the clearing. "Do you not care for my hall for sleeping? There is no bed better for small hobbits and no place safer in the dark hours of the night to be found in Fangorn Forest."

"No, no, Treebeard," stammered Pippin, feeling very much like a child being questioned by an uncle who had caught him in some attempt at mischief. "Your hall is marvelous, and the bed is so very comfortable, but... well, I was having trouble sleeping. I thought a walk might clear my head...."

He looked up at Treebeard, who gave no answer other than a murmuring hum.

"I wasn't going to go far," finished Pippin lamely.

"Ah! Hmm! Well, you have been through much trouble of late, for a small hobbit not used to adventures," said Treebeard gently. "It must disturb your dreams at times. Hm, hum! Perhaps our talk together has reminded you of things you wish you could forget?"

"Yes, it has," answered Pippin with a sigh.

"You are sad for the loss of your friend, perhaps -- the Man of Gondor."

Pippin's shoulders slumped and he sat down heavily in the grass.

"Yes, I miss him," he said sadly. "I cannot stop thinking about him! Boromir was a good friend to me. He did so much for me on our journey; he looked after me and Merry -- but especially me."

Treebeard stepped out of the falling water and bent forward, extending a leafy arm to Pippin in mute invitation. The Hobbit scrambled to his feet and climbed into Treebeard's embrace.

"Hoo, hroom! Come, let us walk into the Forest together for a short distance, while we remember your friend. Ah, hm! We will not go far; it would not do to leave young Merry alone for too long. Do not fear the shadows, you are safe with me. Hararrum!"

Pippin nestled in the crook of Treebeard's arm and felt strangely eased.

"Boromir," hummed Treebeard as they walked under the dark trees. "Son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, he named himself. Hah, hrum! Yes, a valiant man and a formidable warrior and slayer of Orcs, he was -- that I do remember."

"Remember?" exclaimed Pippin, incredulous. "Boromir is known to you?"

"Ah! Hm, we met on a time," answered Treebeard. "Chance brought him to me. Our time together was brief, but I still recall the day, for my memory is long, and my meetings with Men have been few enough that I would not forget him -- a Man so young, yet confident and daring enough to enter my Wood with sword drawn. Hoom, hararum!"

"Tell me everything!" demanded Pippin eagerly.

Treebeard paused for a moment, humming quietly to himself; the deep pools of his eyes shifted and changed as if he were trying to visualize every detail of that strange meeting between Man and Ent. After what seemed a very long time to Pippin, he began the tale.

"Orcs brought him," said Treebeard with a deep rumble in his throat. "He came to my Forest fresh from a battle in the Emyn Muil, pursuing the bararum across the plains, seeking vengeance upon the creatures who had wounded his brother -- to the death, he thought. Hmmm, hrum! He found the Orcs, but they were dead. Some of my flock had found them astray in the Wood and... dealt with them -- hoom, hah!"

"How... how did he look? Boromir, I mean!"

"Hoo, ah, well! Young I called him, and so he was; in age, only a score of years as Men count them, perhaps a few more. Tall and proud he stood before me, in spite of being wounded. He hid his fear of me well, and answered when spoken to -- hah, hoom! I liked that! A well-spoken Man, but hasty -- very hasty, indeed, and afire with his sense of duty to his wounded brother."

Pippin shook his head in wonder.

"Yes, that was Boromir, that was what he was like. How strange, though, that he never mentioned meeting you!"

"Ah, well, hm! Not so strange, I think," answered Treebeard. "He may have truly forgotten me, though not even a score of years have passed since that day. It does not surprise me he said nothing of our meeting. Indeed, I dare say that few men who have seen me speak of it to others, for fear they will be thought tellers of tales, believers in things meant only for the ears of children. Humm, hoom! That is what we have become, we Ents -- memories so distant that we must be the stuff of legend, and therefore not true. I saw disbelief and fear in his eyes when he spoke with me."

Treebeard was silent for a time, until Pippin began to wonder if he had fallen asleep. Suddenly, with a rumble, he spoke once more.

"Perhaps your warrior chose to forget our meeting. He did not seem to be the kind of Man who would easily believe in... talking trees. Hararoom! Yet he was very courteous, and I valued our meeting. It is good to know that such Men exist in the world, defending our borders against those who might seek to harm us -- though such Men may not acknowledge our presence."

Pippin's mind was filled with visions of a young Boromir, who for the love of his brother was willing to risk his own life to pursue Orcs alone across the plains of Rohan, daring to enter Fangorn to avenge the hurt done to Faramir. He felt a sudden thrill as he remembered Boromir standing between himself and hundreds of Uruk-hai, and he knew suddenly that Boromir had done the same for him -- for Pippin -- as he had done for Faramir. And Boromir had done so for the very same reasons.

"Faramir," said Pippin aloud. "His brother's name is Faramir. Boromir spoke of him to me many times. He did not die that day, that I know. It was because of his brother that Boromir was eager to return to his City -- one of the reasons, anyway. He missed him very much."

"Hoo, humm! Ah! I am glad to hear that his brother was saved," hummed Treebeard. "And more glad to hear their brotherhood was still strong after so many years. Brothers should support one another, indeed. Hroom, hoom! That one, too, shall sorely miss Boromir, son of Gondor."

"Yes," sighed Pippin sadly, but his sorrow was sweetened by memories of Boromir's valor and courage on his behalf, and the pain of his loss no longer felt quite so keen.

"I hope to meet Faramir someday," Pippin mused sleepily. "Boromir said I would like him."

"Ah, well! Hmm! Perhaps you shall meet him," agreed Treebeard. "You will have much to say to one another, I think. Come now, Master Pippin. It is time once again for young hobbits to be sleeping. There will be much to do and discuss and think about when the new day comes, and you will need your rest for that."

"I think I can sleep now, Treebeard," mumbled Pippin. "Thank you...."

"Hoo! Well, hmm! It is my pleasure to serve you, little one."

Little one.... Pippin smiled at the name, even as he drifted off to sleep.

***

At first light, Faramir left his post on the banks of the River and went in search of Anborn and Mablung. He said nothing of his dream and he kept the cloven Horn hidden inside a pouch at his side, but they knew by his face that something was terribly wrong.

"What has happened, Faramir?" questioned Anborn in a worried tone. "What news has come in the night, to leave you so drawn and pale?"

"News has come to me... yes," said Faramir mournfully. "Very strange news, indeed! But I fear I can say no more for the present. Such news as I have must be told first to my father; only then might I be free to speak it abroad."

His men fell silent and did not question him further.

"See to the garrison in my absence," ordered Faramir. "I shall return when I am able, with news and further instructions. It... it may not be today; I do not know how much time this matter will require. It will be... difficult."

"Rest easy, Captain Faramir," replied Mablung in a sturdy voice that belied the fear on his own face. "We shall see to everything until your return, whenever that may be. And we shall say nothing of this."

Faramir nodded his thanks, and mounting his horse, he rode like the wind to Minas Tirith, even as the rosy blush of the sun brightened the high walls and glittered on the pinnacle of the Tower of Ecthelion, and the trumpets' call was carried to him upon the morning breeze.

***

After leaving his horse to be cared for in the stables, Faramir took a moment to compose himself before taking the passageway from the sixth level to the Citadel. He did not know how he was going to broach the subject of Boromir's death to Denethor; he knew that no matter what he said, it would go hard with his father. Boromir was the eldest, the heir, and the holder of all his father's hopes for victory in the war with Mordor. To lose him now, on what was certainly the eve of that great offensive, was unthinkable; to never again see his favored son and to know he would never return, was a grief unbearable. Faramir himself could scarcely bear the thought of it -- never again to hear his brother's cheerful voice, or feel the clap of Boromir's steady hand on his shoulder.

He quickly blinked away tears as he realized someone was approaching, seemingly intent on speaking with him.

"My lord Faramir!" said the man urgently, as he drew close. "May I have a word with you, sir?"

Faramir looked into the man's troubled face.

"You are... Halmir, yes?" he said, with only a slight hesitation in his voice as he recalled the name of the man. "Your posting is to the northern borders, below the infalls of the Entwash, nigh Rauros."

"Yes, lord," answered Halmir, pleased to be recognized so quickly.

"What brings you here, so far from your watch?"

"I was sent with news of great import," answered Halmir gravely. "Two days ago at dawn, the River brought us a token...."

Faramir knew suddenly what Halmir was about to tell him. He held up his hand to stay the Man's speech, and drew him aside into the shadow of a doorway, away from the open street.

"Tell me everything."

Drawing in a deep breath, Halmir plunged into speech, as if to be done with a task he abhorred and wanted over quickly. He spoke of the cloven Horn which had been found caught in the reeds, and of his own journey to bring the shard to Denethor with all speed. He related carefully his message to the Steward, but at the memory of the stricken face of Denethor, his voice faltered and he fell silent.

"This was dawn, two days past?" queried Faramir, even as he silently calculated the timing of his hearing of the Horn distantly blowing with the appearance of the shards and his vision of the previous night.

"Yes, lord," replied Halmir. "There was nothing more to be seen upon the River or in the surrounding lands, nothing to indicate what had taken place, not even... there was no sign of him, my lord Captain, and not a trace of the other piece of the Horn."

Faramir closed his eyes briefly, to steady himself; he had to clear his throat before he could speak again.

"The other half is found, Halmir," he said in a low voice, touching the pouch at his side. "The River has also brought me tidings of my brother..."

Halmir's eyes widened, and a soft moan escaped him.

With great effort, Faramir spoke again. His voice sounded distant and hollow in his own ears. "We have been seeking news of my brother, but I had not… I had not expected this! You say my father has known of this since yesterday?"

"Yes," sighed Halmir. "He... he sent me away, told me to wait. He needed to be alone, he said. But I have heard no further word, and I do not know what I should do."

Faramir thought for a moment.

"Return to your duties, Halmir," he said at last. "You are needed there, and your fellows will be waiting for guidance. I shall vouch for you before the Steward, and tell him that I have sent you back to your post."

"Thank you," answered Halmir gratefully. "And what shall I tell the others, lord? Should I take more men with me to conduct a search?"

"No, that will not be necessary," replied Faramir. "All that can be done has already been put into motion. You would not know this, but we had word some days ago that Boromir was in need northwards; a party of searchers was formed and has gone to seek him in the wilderness."

"That is well!" declared Halmir, relieved. "Perhaps the searchers will have found something we could not, being unable to leave our post. Alas! Should they pass by the borders where Gethron and Handir await me, they will learn of the finding of the Horn, to their sorrow. But there may be more to discover in the hills above Rauros. I shall send word -- or come myself -- if anything else is discovered."

"Yes, send word as you are able," replied Faramir. "But do not leave your post unattended. I will see that others know of our need for more news concerning this matter. We will know the truth of it, soon or late."

Halmir bowed respectfully to Faramir and turned to go, but at the last moment, he turned back.

"I am glad you have come, lord Faramir," he said. "He... your father needs you now. He took the news very hard."

Faramir nodded wordlessly. He stepped forward, and laying his hands on Halmir's shoulders, he kissed his brow.

"It shall be a difficult time for us all, Halmir," he said. "But I am encouraged by your concern for my father and myself. It will be a great comfort to me in the days ahead."

Halmir bowed once more before heading for the stables. Faramir watched him stride away, then turned with a sigh towards the gate to the Citadel, to go in search of his father.

But the Great Hall was deserted, and the Steward's chair was empty. There was no sign of his father in the Council Chambers, and the chamberlain was unable to say where he might be found. He had been seen walking upon the battlements at dawn, but no one had seen him since.

Perhaps he has returned to his chambers, thought Faramir. I shall seek him there, for I cannot rest until I find him....

As he climbed the stairs of the Tower to the upper level and the living quarters of the Steward's family, he felt the Horn shard in its pouch bumping against his side, and a thought came to him. Instead of turning in at his father's door, he walked the length of the hallway to Boromir's rooms.

The door was ajar. He entered the room and closed the door quietly behind him. Denethor was there, his back to the door; he sat on the edge of the bed, facing the window that looked east, towards Mordor. His head was bowed almost to his knees, as one utterly forlorn and dejected.

"Father," said Faramir in a low voice. "Do not despair, Father; I am here."

Denethor stirred, and lifted his head, but he did not turn to face Faramir.

"You return early," he said in a lifeless voice. "That is well. I... have need of you."

Faramir came round the end of the bed and sat at Denethor's side. His heart missed a beat when he saw upon his father's knee the other half of the cloven Horn of Gondor.

"I have had tidings of Boromir," said Denethor, caressing the Horn in his lap. He looked up, and Faramir bit his lip to hold back a cry of dismay at the sight of his drawn face and haunted eyes. Blinking back tears, Faramir fumbled at his side; flipping open his pouch, he removed his half of the Horn and laid it beside the other in his father's lap.

"I, too, have had tidings, Father," he said softly.

Denethor did not speak. He lifted the two pieces from his lap and carefully fit them together. For a moment, the Horn seemed whole once more, but as Denethor took his hand away, the pieces fell apart. One rolled aside and fell to the floor with a dull clatter. Denethor groaned faintly, as Faramir snatched up the shard and replaced it in his father's lap.

"Tell me everything," Denethor demanded, gripping the Horn tightly. "Leave nothing out!"

Faramir began to speak, haltingly at first -- but his voice eventually steadied, as he told his father of his feelings of foreboding; of his dreams of Boromir wounded and pale as if dead; of his watch upon the shores of the Anduin, and his waking dream of Boromir's fall to enemy arrows. Denethor listened in silence, his eyes never leaving Faramir's face.

"... I awoke from my dream," Faramir said sadly, as he stretched out his hand and touched the pieces of horn with a trembling finger. "The Horn came to me on the River, floating to my hand as if bidden. As I grasped it I knew... I knew it to be true. Boromir has fallen, and he will not return."

Denethor's face crumpled, but he did not give in to weeping. He bit his lip until it was biddable.

"So, he is lost to us," he said heavily. "I... I thought to hold on to the hope that there might still be some chance for him... but your dreams do not lie. He is dead."

Faramir slipped from the edge of the bed to kneel upon the floor before Denethor. Leaning against his knee, he looked up into his father's face.

"What will become of us, Father?" he asked in a stricken voice. "What shall we do without him?"

Denethor gazed down into Faramir's face and shook his head. He reached out tentatively and stroked Faramir's cheek, wiping away the tears with his thumb. He leaned forward, and gently kissed the top of Faramir's head; embracing him, he rested his cheek against Faramir's hair.

"I do not know, my son," he answered in a voice choked with tears. "I do not know!"

Though the sliver of moon rising in the sky behind him was pale and put forth only a weak glimmer of light to brighten the surrounding darkness, it was enough to send Legolas' shadow stretching and skimming over the grass before him as he ran. Since he had taken leave of Boromir, Legolas had traveled many leagues and many hours without rest, but the trail was still clear at his feet and he felt no need to pause in his pursuit.
    
Grithnir had offered him the use of a horse, but Legolas had been reluctant to waste the time it would take to descend the North Stair to where the horses had been tethered, and afterwards, to lose more time in seeking out the trail of the Orcs upon the plain. A horse would have lent him speed, but would also need to be rested along the way, which would delay him. Being an Elf, Legolas required little rest, and he meant to press on with all speed; he could follow the trail in the darkness as well as in the day, confident he would soon catch up with Aragorn and Gimli.
    
He had picked up the trail of the Orcs upon the hill of Amon Hen, leading away from the glade where they had found and tended the wounded Boromir. He followed the trail through the woods, along the escarpment, down the ravine and out onto the plains of grassland which were the fields of Rohan. The smell of the green grass rising up to meet him as he descended refreshed him and lightened his heart. The trail led him straight onwards, turning neither right nor left -- straight towards Isengard.
    
Even now, as he crossed the barren, empty lands of shortened grass and hardened earth, that trail was not difficult to follow, for the Orcs had discarded their gear along the way, and the trampling they made as they ran was visible to Legolas even in the dark.
    
The night passed swiftly. The pale young moon set, its light waning in the sky as it dropped behind a bank of misty cloud ahead. Stars stood out bright in the black expanse of the sky to illuminate his path. Legolas paused briefly to make certain of his way before running on once more, silent and swift as a hart. In the starlight, his shadow was shortened, but it still went before him over the dark grass, leading him on to Isengard.
    
***
    
Boromir awoke suddenly from a disturbing dream to find the day was advancing, the sun already high over the eastern hills. Grithnir sat close by, watching him with a careful eye. He reached out a supporting hand as Boromir struggled to sit up.
    
"I have slept late," Boromir observed.
    
"Are you rested?" asked Grithnir.
    
Boromir carefully stretched and flexed his limbs, and was pleased to note that the weariness which had plagued him since his wounding had lessened.
    
"Yes," he replied with a satisfied nod. "Yes, I have rested well enough -- in spite of my worries and disturbing dreams in the night."
    
He looked sharply at Grithnir.
    
"Is that why you are here, watching me so closely? Did I cry out in my sleep?"
    
"Once or twice, perhaps," admitted Grithnir reluctantly.
    
Boromir grimaced.
    
"You are to blame, my friend," he growled. "Your tales of Gondor preparing for war, and of my family's worry for me, were too much for a man who has nothing to do but lie about and think dark thoughts!"
    
Grithnir looked contrite but there was a glint of good humor in his eye which belied his remorse.
    
"You asked for news, my Captain," he reminded Boromir. "You begged for every detail."
    
Boromir sighed heavily, but there was a twinkle in his own eye, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a smile.
    
"Yes, I did indeed ask for news," said Boromir, clapping Grithnir on the knee. "And I have paid for it with a restless night, frightening dreams, and the ignominy of being the last one awake on a fine day! Have I missed the morning meal, then?"
    
"No, of course not!" declared Grithnir, jumping to his feet. "I will bring it for you. I have saved back your portion."
    
He turned to go as Linhir approached, laden down with an armful of dressings and water for washing.
    
"Are you bringing food for our sleepy Captain?" he asked, with a sideways wink in Boromir's direction. "If you would, bring along a cake of that Elvish bread for him, as well. There is wholesomeness in that food which seems to help in his healing."
    
Grithnir nodded and strode off, as Linhir knelt beside Boromir.
    
"I suppose you are here to clean me up and check your needlework," said Boromir, eyeing the cloth bandages dubiously.
    
"Indeed!" replied Linhir, setting to work. "You seem to be healing well, but you had a restless night, for all your declaration of feeling well-rested, and I want to be certain it was not due to any poison in your wounds."
    
Boromir was silent as Linhir carefully washed and re-bandaged each of his wounds. When he had finished, Linhir sat back at his ease, and looked at Boromir keenly.
    
"Your wounds must still pain you, but they are healing well, and you have the look of a man whose strength is returning. I gather it is some other trouble, then, that disturbs your sleep and affects your mood -- a wound to your spirit, perhaps, which cannot be healed by medicine. Do you wish to speak of it?"
    
Boromir frowned.  "You do not mince words, do you?"
    
"No, I do not," replied Linhir calmly. "I have found it saves time and trouble in the end to be forthright -- particularly where the health of one in my care is concerned. Something eats away at you, my lord Boromir, and if it is not stopped, you will continue to be weakened by it, to the detriment of your returning strength."
    
Boromir gazed at Linhir thoughtfully, then nodded his agreement.
    
"Yes, something gnaws at me, I must confess," he said slowly. "Something... unexpected happened on my journey. Not the battle where I was wounded, no... It happened before that. I... I was tempted to do a thing... Tempted because I was afraid -- of defeat, of failure, of loss -- and I found myself willing to do anything, to grasp at anything, to prevent that. I was confident I knew what was best -- but my confidence did not protect me from failure. I fought it for a time, but in the end, I was not strong enough to resist the pull of...."
    
Boromir stopped suddenly, and did not finish what he had been about to say. After a moment, he shrugged.
    
"I failed. I gave in and let it happen, because I was weak."  He searched Linhir's face for any sign of disappointment or censure, but there was none; only patient thoughtfulness.

"The circumstances of my failure were... unusual, perhaps," continued Boromir with a sigh. "Mayhap there were other forces at work than simply my own ability to resist. But others had resisted this... this thing, where I could not! It troubles me that I should have been so weak! I wonder now, was I always so? Will I ever be right again? How can I forget what I did? And how can I be confident that I will not continue to fail, now that I have opened the door to my weakness?"
    
Linhir laid a hand on Boromir's arm and gripped it reassuringly.
    
"I do not know what it is you have done that causes you to struggle so, but I do know this: you cannot forget it, nor can you undo it by dwelling on it and fearing it. Such thoughts will make you ill, and you cannot now afford to be weakened in this manner. Your strength will not return if you do not conquer your despair. Let it go, my friend."
    
"I know that," Boromir sighed, looking away. "And Legolas said the same: 'Your people have need of you,' he said. 'But their need is for a Captain who is strong and confident, not a Man who is weakened by despair.' Yet I cannot seem to shake the despair and the memory of my deed. If only I had been stronger...!"
    
Linhir gripped Boromir gently by the chin and turned his head so that their eyes met.
    
"Once a deed is done," Linhir said firmly, "there are consequences which cannot be changed -- for you, as well as for others. But those consequences can be tempered by how you respond to future testing. To dwell on your weakness now will only cripple you and open the door to further failure. If you allow your past yielding to weaken your future resolve, temptation will become an excuse for continued failure, rather than a fresh opportunity to make the right choice. You say you have failed -- so be it. Let that be the end of it. Do you wish this failure to bind you forever?"
    
"No, I do not wish that."
    
"Then do not let your doubt overcome you, or weaken your confidence. Surely you shall be tested again -- but let that testing be an opportunity for victory, rather than an assumed failure, or the means of proving your weakness. You have learned something from this; allow it to change you, so that you may move on -- not forgetting, but letting go."
    
Boromir looked at Linhir fondly and blinked away a tear, even as a slow smile spread over his face.
    
"How did you become so wise, my friend?" he asked simply.
    
"By failing," answered Linhir with a smile. "By making mistakes -- and learning from them."
    
***
    
"What will become of us, Father? What shall we do without him?"
    
The lament of Faramir hung echoing between them as they embraced one another, Faramir kneeling upon the floor, Denethor seated upon the bed. Faramir leaned into his father's embrace, and they clung to one another, until their tears were at last spent. The ache of loss remained, and with it an almost overpowering grief, but for this time, at least, their hearts were quiet as they took comfort in one another's presence and their shared sorrow.
    
At last, Denethor released Faramir and drew away. Faramir rose to resume his seat at his father's side on the edge of Boromir's bed.
    
"The man who brought me the Horn...." ventured Denethor, his voice still rough from the tears he had shed. "I sent him away with no instructions and little thanks. What has become of him?"
    
"I have seen him, Father," answered Faramir. "Halmir met me as I returned from Osgiliath, and we spoke together. I have given him leave to return to his post below the Falls of Rauros. He has promised to send word at once, if any more is discovered concerning... the fate of Boromir."
    
"You have done well, Faramir," answered Denethor, but his thoughts seemed far away. Faramir saw that he was gazing with renewed sorrow at the cloven Horn in his lap.
    
"To lose him now, in such fateful times -- in these last days! It bodes ill...." Denethor sighed, gripping the Horn tightly. "Such need we have of him! The Enemy shall surely consume us!"
    
Faramir shook his head and spoke resolutely.
    
"We will rue the loss of Boromir many times before this war is won, I know... but we are not yet consumed, Father. I am here, and I shall serve you, and Gondor, as best I can."
    
The Steward slowly raised his head to meet the eyes of his younger son; a spark of life shone briefly in his strained face and in his eyes.
    
"I am not Boromir, but I can still serve you, Father," said Faramir firmly. "Tell me what you wish me to do."
    
Nodding, Denethor reached out and gripped Faramir's hand.
    
"You comfort me, my son," he said, as he released his hand. "Yes, you must now bear his load as well as your own, I fear, for I shall be relying upon you heavily. Do not fail me, Faramir!"
    
Faramir shook his head emphatically. After a moment, Denethor sighed. With great care, he tucked the cloven Horn into his robes, and rose to his feet. Holding out his hand to Faramir, he drew him up to stand at his side.
    
"Leave me now, Faramir," Denethor said decisively. "Go, rest now -- and break your fast if you have not yet eaten. I must be alone for a time, to take thought for the future. I shall send for you when I am ready, and together we shall decide what must be done, now that Boromir… will not be returning to us."
    
Faramir kissed his father's cheek and bowed to him before leaving the room.  Denethor followed, standing at the door of Boromir's chamber to watch Faramir retreat down the long hallway. When his son had turned the far corner and was out of sight, the Steward made his way along the hall to the stairway leading to the top of the Tower.
    
The way was long and the stairs many, but at last he stood within the secret chamber at the top of the Tower. The palantír was before him on its plinth, hidden by a dark cloth. He gazed down at the silk-covered globe and hesitated.
    
What can this thing tell me that I do not already know? thought Denethor. I have had little enough success of late in finding news of my son who is lost! Who is to say that today will be any different? But all is dark to me now, and my future is shadowed. What indeed shall become of us, now that he is lost to us? Ah, Boromir! Boromir, enduring jewel of the kingdom of Gondor! Alas, that I am the one who must now endure a future without you!
    
He stepped forward abruptly, and reaching forth his hand, pulled the cloth away.
    
"More than ever before, I must know all there is to know," he said aloud. "How else can I fathom the mind of my Dark Enemy, to thwart him? How else may I decide what is best for my people in this dark time?"
    
Drawing in a deep breath, he grasped the Stone of Seeing in his hands; the cool smoothness of the hard stone against his palms calmed him and helped him compose his thoughts. He smiled grimly as he positioned the Stone.
    
"May what I see guide me truly," Denethor breathed, as he gave his full concentration to the visions he hoped would be shown him in the depths of dark stone.

Aragorn and Gimli passed the night in discomfort, for it was very cold. The wind blew out of the north, bringing with it the chill of snow on the mountains, and there was little protection from its cold fingers atop the long slope where they had made their camp.
 
Dawn brought a change in the weather. An easterly wind blew away mist and shadow; clear light brightened a cloudless sky above them and revealed in sharp detail the vast expanse of the empty lands all around -- lands empty of movement but for the grass tossing and bending in the breeze, empty of any other living creature, empty of their quarry.
 
Aragorn stood upon the crest of the hill, looking out across the grassy plains. This hill was the last in a long line of downs stretching northwestwards toward Fangorn Forest, beyond which lay the rough folds of the Wold of Rohan and the last tall peaks of the Misty Mountains. The Forest could be seen from the hilltop, though its closest edge was still many leagues distant.
 
The Entwash flowed swiftly past the foot of the hill, and the trail of the Orcs was clearly visible beside its steep banks. Aragorn followed the trail with his eyes as it hugged the bank and turned towards the Forest, until it was lost in the shadowy distance, where even his keen sight could not discern wood from grassy plain.
 
"What do you see?" asked Gimli. "Is there any sign of our quarry?"
 
"No," replied Aragorn heavily. "There is no sign of the Orcs to be seen. I fear they will have reached the Forest by now; perhaps that was their goal all along, though it is not the straight road to Isengard. Once they are among the trees, it will be difficult to find them. And the closer they come to Isengard, the more difficult it will be to effect the escape of the captives. I do not yet know how that shall be accomplished; first we must overtake them."
 
Gimli's shoulders drooped in despair, but only for a moment.  "Still, follow we must," he asserted, his face set with determination. "It now seems folly to think we shall be of any use other than to die with the hobbits -- yet, if that is our fate, then so be it! The trail is still clear; let us be after them! I am weary, but I will follow nonetheless. They have led us a merry chase through these hills, and I would not lose them now."
 
"Yes, we must follow," agreed Aragorn, but he made no move to do so. His eyes instead followed a course back along the trail whence they had come the day before, slowly retracing their steps as he gathered his thoughts and his strength. The sun was bright in his eyes as he gazed south and east into the distance, until his gaze reached the tumbled ridges of the Emyn Muil, now little more than a dark smudge against the sky on the eastern horizon.

His thoughts were ever drawn back to that place, where so much had happened in so short a time, to change their lives so drastically. Had it only been four days since he had watched the Fellowship dissolve before his eyes?

The fate of the two Halflings whom he followed was a constant concern to Aragorn, yet he did not forget those who had remained behind. What had become of them? Gandalf's fate he knew, and he still mourned that loss and what it meant to him personally, as well as what it meant to the Company and the Quest. And Frodo -- how did Frodo fare in the wilderness, with only Sam beside him, and the Ring a heavy burden that would certainly grow more and more difficult to bear?
 
Was Legolas out there somewhere, following their trail, eager to rejoin the chase to rescue the captives they pursued? Or was he still at Boromir's side, caring for him in his need, waiting for someone to come to help him with the fallen warrior -- and perhaps waiting in vain?
 
Aragorn sighed a long heavy sigh.
 
Boromir! he cried silently. If only I could have remained with you! At least then I would know how you fare. Do you even still live?
 
***
 
Boromir watched the late morning sun glittering and dancing upon the water where the current ruffled the smoothness in the middle of the lake. In spite of his restless night, he had been cheered by the attentions of Grithnir and Linhir; his wounds were freshly bandaged, his stomach was full, and his painful memories were soothed for the moment by Linhir's wise counsel. Boromir knew well it was not the end of his haunting despair, but for now he was content, and at peace.
 
The need to move, to be up and about his business, had been growing upon Boromir since he had felt the first lessening of pain. Several attempts in past days to walk on his own had resulted in disaster, as he had been felled by sickening dizziness after only a few steps. But he would not give up! That day was approaching when he must be strong enough to begin the journey towards home.  He was preparing for that time by testing himself, cautiously stretching his limbs at intervals throughout each day, until he could no longer bear the pain. Yet each day had brought with it a bit more strength, more endurance, and a little less pain.
 
Now he felt ready for more than just stretching.
 
Linhir caught Boromir's thoughtful eyeing of the staff laid close at hand, and smiled knowingly.  "You never were able to stay abed long, even when sorely wounded," he commented.
 
"Is it too soon, then, to attempt more strenuous exercise?" frowned Boromir. "If not now, then when? I cannot lie here forever while my father and brother despair of my return!"
 
"Now, now!" laughed Linhir. "Do not grow angry with me; I approve! Your wounds will suffer little further harm if you go with care. But keep Grithnir with you, and do not stray too far from your place here.  At the first sign of weakness or lightheadedness, turn back and rest. I do not wish to risk you falling, and reopening a wound."
 
"I shall go with care," Boromir agreed.
 
"Do you want a hand up, my captain?" asked Grithnir hopefully.
 
Boromir hesitated, then nodded.  "There will be little point to the attempt if I waste all my energy in getting to my feet," he said ruefully. "I shall be glad of your assistance, Grithnir."
 
As Grithnir stooped beside him, Boromir lifted a cautionary hand.  "But once I am on my feet, keep your distance. I am done with hovering nursemaids!"
 
Grithnir met Linhir's amused glance over the top of Boromir's head, and grinned in response.  "As you wish, my captain," he laughed. "No hovering -- but only on one condition."
 
"And that is -- ?" grumbled Boromir.
 
"That you let me decide when you will turn back to rest!"
 
Boromir frowned fiercely, then his face cleared and he laughed.  "As you wish, my friend," he promised, and held out his hand for the staff.
 
***
 
Denethor stepped back from the palantír, and with a flip of his wrist, replaced the covering cloth. For a long moment, he contemplated the rounded shape upon its plinth, his face grim and drawn -- but he was not truly seeing what was before him, as his mind sorted and categorized the images revealed to him in the Stone.
 
It was a struggle to concentrate. He had mastered his grief for a time, that he might see and understand clearly what was to be learned from the Stone -- but what he had seen had only served to deepen his pain, which now threatened to overpower him. How he had need of his eldest son, his Captain-General! But Boromir was no longer there to serve as his father's sword for the battle and shield against the Enemy now moving against Gondor. One son remained to him, to take on the full burden of those duties, and Denethor wondered if that son would be up to the task.
 
"I am not Boromir, but I can still serve you, Father" -- Faramir's determined voice echoed in his mind.
 
"Yes," Denethor said aloud to the empty room. "Yes, you can serve me, Faramir. Indeed, you can serve me well."
 
His session with the palantír had shown Denethor much of what was happening in his realm, to aid him in his decisions; but one thing was there that was of immediate concern: once again, Haradrim from the South were on the move, marching to Mordor to swell the army amassing against Gondor and the West. It galled Denethor that these Men who were the enemies of his people should walk so freely within the bounds of his land, with no fear of reprisal from Gondor in her weakness. He clenched his fist in anger at the thought, and vowed it would not be so.  These Men would learn to their sorrow that their passage through Gondorian lands would be dearly bought -- and Faramir would be the instrument by which this lesson would be given.
 
Denethor swung away from the Stone of Seeing, and descended the Tower without a backwards glance.
 
***
 
Boromir stifled a groan as he reached to grasp the water flask Grithnir held out to him.
 
"I fear you should have called me back sooner, Grithnir," he complained. "I may have attempted too much this day."
 
Grithnir grinned.  "Why, this is a day to remember!" he laughed. "Boromir, Captain of Gondor, admits to being weary and sore!"
 
"It is easy enough to admit a truth that is plain for all to see," replied Boromir sternly, but he spoiled the rebuke with a smile that could not be hidden.
 
Boromir was pleased with how far he had been able to walk with the aid of his staff, though it had hardly been any distance at all. It had pained him greatly, causing his breath to catch in his throat and his legs to burn and tremble with weakness, yet he had forced himself to stay upright until Grithnir had drawn him gently but firmly back to his shelter.
 
"My captain," said Grithnir after a moment. "Now that you are feeling better, might you tell us a tale or two of your journey? The men are most eager to hear of your quest... or, as much of it as you are free to tell."
 
"Indeed!" answered Boromir, pleased at the request. "There are a few tales I can tell which might interest you, and it would pass the time, while I recover my strength. Give me a moment more to catch my breath, and I shall begin -- with the tale of how I met Éomer of Rohan upon the road to Edoras."
 
***
 
Aragorn cast one last glance toward the distant hills, before turning away with a sigh. But a movement caught out of the corner of his eye arrested him in midstride. Turning back, he shaded his eyes with his hand and looked out over the Downs, searching for that which had drawn his attention.
 
Someone was coming swiftly across the plain, running, following the same trail they had followed themselves for so many days. At such a long distance, Aragorn could not clearly see the features of the one who followed, but it was not necessary to see his face -- the bright hair blowing out behind him, the familiar stride and form of the figure, were sufficient to reassure Aragorn.
 
"What is it?" asked Gimli sharply. He had grown worried at Aragorn's long silence, and had stepped forward to stand at his side. "What do you see?"
 
Aragorn turned to Gimli and his slow smile did much to ease the weariness in his face.  "It is Legolas," he replied with a sigh of relief. "He is coming."
 
Gimli's eyes widened and he gave a great shout of joy, which suddenly died away into a mutter of concern.
 
"Boromir must no longer have need of him," the Dwarf said slowly. "But is it because he has been given into the hands of his people to be cared for -- or because he is beyond all aid, being dead?"
 
The same thought had occurred to Aragorn, even as he had felt his heart leap for joy at the sight of their Elf companion.
 
"I do not know the answer to that, my friend," he answered with a shake of his head. "But we shall know soon enough, whether it be for joy or for sorrow. Come, let us not tarry here when there is news of import to be heard. Let us go down and wait for him below on the plain."
 
Gimli needed no further urging, and together they descended the long grassy slope. With the hill at their backs and the Orc trail laid out before them along the banks of the river, they sat down side by side to await the coming of Legolas.

Dûrlin began the new day as he did each and every day; upon rising, he went to his lord's chambers to see if Boromir had by chance returned in the night. He sighed, as he sighed every day, when once again he was met with silence and darkness, and the echo of an empty room.

He swallowed his disappointment, and continued about his duties for the day, such as they were. There were still things he could do, duties he could perform in service to the household, in spite of Boromir being long away. Faramir had need of him now and again, on those times when he was in the City, and there were a few small tasks to be done quietly on behalf of Denethor, though the Steward insisted he needed no attendant, keeping himself private and looking to his own needs, now that the esquire of his chamber had been given permission to go to the out-garrison. The days were long for a personal attendant with few men to serve, but Dûrlin filled them as best he could, while he waited for his lord to return.

The darkness of Boromir's chambers as he entered always caused Dûrlin a moment of doubt and distress, before his natural optimism reasserted itself. A man of cheerful nature, Dûrlin tried to remain ever hopeful about the future -- but even he was beginning to fear the delayed return of Boromir, and what it might bode. He dared not allow his thoughts to turn too far in that direction, for he did not wish to think of the loss to Gondor, and to himself, should he be bereft of the lord he had attended for so many years.

The room was cold, for no fire had been lit in the grate since Boromir had departed the previous summer. Skirting the bed that jutted out into the center of the room, Dûrlin walked to the casement, and pulling back the heavy curtains that sheltered the window, unlatched the carved shutter to let in the crisp early morning air. It was easier to imagine his lord's imminent return when there was light and a fresh breeze circulating throughout the chamber.

The shutter's hinge gave out a faint grating noise as the shutter swung open, and he smiled at the sound, remembering the unexpected trouble the hinge had caused him when it had frozen open one day, until he had figured out how to repair it. It still made a sound as the hinge mechanism turned, but it opened smoothly and stayed open without swinging free. Boromir had claimed to like that sound, saying it reminded him of the ingenuity of Dûrlin, his man of many talents.

Dûrlin smiled again as his thoughts turned to the memory of that last day with Boromir -- a memory that came to him every time he heard the squeak of the opening casement...

"If you would stop hovering over me while I worked, my lord, I could see what I was about with this broken buckle. You are standing in my light. My eyes are not as sharp as they once were, and the light here is poor enough without you blocking it. I know you are eager to be off on your journey, but your impatience will not help me work faster."

Boromir laughed and stepped back, but still watched closely as Dûrlin worked on the buckle of Boromir's sword belt. The catch had been pushed through to the wrong side so that it did not latch properly; Dûrlin was attempting to coax the catch back through the loop of the buckle with a small tool.

"I swear you can repair anything you put your hand to," commented Boromir with a shake of his head, as the catch suddenly slipped into place. "Whether it might be the broken catch on a buckle, a rent seam, or the workings of the hinge on the window shutter, you and your tool can fix the problem in no time! You are indeed a useful man to have at my side, in spite of your disrespectful manner!"

Dûrlin smiled as he handed Boromir the repaired belt and watched him strap it on.  "If I am so useful to you, then take me with you," he said.

Boromir frowned, suddenly serious.  "No, Dûrlin," he replied firmly. "I go alone for a reason -- to spare others of the dangers of the journey. You know that."

"Yes, I know, my lord," responded Dûrlin with a sigh. "But I do not like the thought of you going alone. It is not wise, nor is it fitting that the Prince of the City should travel unattended."

"Do you doubt my ability to take care of myself?" Boromir demanded.

"Of course not! But I doubt your wisdom in going alone."

Boromir laughed and clapped a friendly hand to Dûrlin's shoulder.  "You speak your mind, and I honor you for that. Never hesitate to speak plainly with me, Dûrlin."

"I will not -- though you never listen."

"I listen," replied Boromir with a faint smile. "I listen, and then I go my own way."

Dûrlin turned away with an answering smile, and lifting Boromir's heavy cloak from the bed, held it out to him.

"I have a favor to ask you, Dûrlin," said Boromir as he took the cloak and arranged it about his shoulders. "Faramir's man has asked leave to join him in Ithilien to fight as a Ranger, and leave has been granted. This means that Faramir shall be without his attendant whenever he is here in the City. Are you willing to attend him as he has need?"

"Of course," answered Dûrlin with a bow. "It would be a pleasure and an honor."

"Good, very good," nodded Boromir. "It pleases me to think that he will have a man such as you ready to serve him at need. Look after him well, and I shall be grateful. My father, too, if you will. Now that young Hallas has gone to the out-garrison, he spurns the services of a manservant. But if there is aught you might do for him...."

"Rest easy, my lord -- it shall be done." Dûrlin hesitated, then spoke quickly the question that had been on his mind. "When do you expect to return, my lord?"

"I do not know," replied Boromir with a shake of his head. "My road is dark before me. But I will come as soon as I may, for I fear being away too long. War is coming to Gondor, and I shall be needed here."

Boromir turned to go, then with a swirl of his cloak, he turned back. Laying a hand on Dûrlin's arm, he looked earnestly into his face.

"Look after them, Dûrlin," Boromir said. "Look after my father and my brother. See to it -- if there be any way -- try to see that they are not too hard with one another. I do what I can to bridge the gap between them, but it is widening -- and with me not here, I cannot say what will happen. My father will expect much from Faramir, and he will give it willingly -- even if it is the breaking of him. But I do not want it to come to that. You know much, you see much of what goes on in this household -- do what you can for them."

Dûrlin gripped Boromir's hand and kissed it reverently.

"You have my word, my lord Boromir," he said solemnly. "I shall look after them in your stead, until your safe return. Farewell!"

"Farewell, Dûrlin!"

...With a sigh, and a twinge of regret for his return to the present, Dûrlin stepped away from the casement and turned to leave. He paused to straighten and smooth the coverlet on the bed, but nothing else was out of place; all was ready for Boromir's return, whenever that might be.

***

Returning from the butteries with a bowl of dried fruit as an offering for the Steward, Dûrlin was surprised to see Faramir crossing the Hall and climbing the stair to the upper levels of the Tower. He had heard no word of his coming, nor was his return expected. He wondered if something was amiss; the look on Faramir's face confirmed his fears. Even in the dimness of the Hall, Dûrlin could see the grim set of Faramir's chin, and the purposeful stride which bespoke ill tidings.

"Look after them, Dûrlin; look after my father and my brother." The memory of his promise spurred him forward and he followed quickly after Faramir.

He followed at a distance, unable to catch him up, yet unwilling to call out after him. He did not clearly know why he was so determined to follow, rather than wait to be sent for -- he only knew he wanted to be at hand, should he be needed. And ever at the back of his mind was the thought that Faramir's news might have something to do with Boromir and the reason for his delayed return.

Dûrlin was surprised to see Faramir turn in at Boromir's door, and even more surprised, upon approaching, to recognize the deep murmuring voice of Denethor inside. Setting down the bowl of fruit upon a table in the hallway, he reached out to the door; then paused, hesitating, his hand upon the latch. No, it would be better to wait outside, until he was needed. If the news required privacy, he would give it, and be patient.

But the door was not tightly latched and it swung open silently under his hand. Swiftly he stepped in to catch the door and pull it closed once more -- but not before he had seen Faramir sitting beside his father upon the bed. They sat with their backs to Dûrlin, but their bowed shoulders and drooping heads spoke eloquently of sorrow and a great burden of grief.

Faramir turned slightly, but only to reach into the pouch at his side. He removed something which he laid upon the lap of Denethor, where it was clasped by a tense and shaking hand. Dûrlin's heart seemed to stop and leap into his throat at the sight, for the object that Denethor now clutched so tightly was the cloven half of Boromir's horn -- a sign of ill omen that his worst fears had been realized.

As Dûrlin fled the room and closed the door silently behind him, the sound of Faramir's sorrow-filled voice followed after him:

"Boromir has fallen, and he will not return...."

Dûrlin leaned his head against the hard wooden frame of the door to Boromir's chambers, and covered his mouth with his hand so as not to cry out. He had held out hope for so long, knowing his lord well -- how he seemed able to cheat fate, and escape death, though he constantly placed himself in harm's way, with little thought for his own safety. Indestructible, he had called himself, and it seemed to be true. But no man was indestructible -- not even Boromir the Bold.

He is dead, thought Dûrlin, as despair swallowed him. What will become of us now?

Since the night he had heard the bone-chilling cry of patrolling Nazgûl, high up in the sky in advance of the storm, Boromir had been restless and ill at ease. That restlessness was felt and echoed by his men, for they knew him and his moods, and realized his anxiety was now much more than simple chafing at his weakness.

All were now on full alert, for Boromir had told them what he had heard, and they knew what it meant for them. The possibility that they had already been seen and noted by the Nazgûl had occurred to them all, and so they had taken precautions to drag the boats away from the shore, and to hide their camp among the trees, where nothing could be seen from above.

Even so, Boromir was anxious and restless. He could not shake his feeling of impending doom. The thought that the Enemy was ready to launch his war against the West allowed him no rest, and the fact that he could not simply rise and stride away to the aid of his City irked him at the same time as it frightened him.

He watched his men patrolling the shore, and not for the first time, regretted drawing them away from the lines of battle in Gondor. Each one of them was a man of courage and renown amongst the fighting men of Gondor, and they would be missed if they were not present when the fight came to the Pelennor; here they waited with him, while he sat weak and useless.

I must send them back without me, he thought, but then sighed inwardly. But would they go? I am a fool to think they would leave me here, after all they have done to come to my aid! No more will they leave me behind than Aragorn did, sending Legolas to stay with me.  Now that my men have found me, they will not leave me.

The knowledge was comforting, in spite of his anxious thoughts.

A twig cracked behind him, and before he could turn to see who it was that approached, Linhir appeared at his side.

"No need to scowl at me, my captain," he chuckled, as he sat down and stretched out his long legs. "I have neither come to poke and prod you, nor to fuss with your dressings. I am here because this is a good spot for sitting, and I thought you might be willing to share it for a time."

Boromir inclined his head in welcome.

"If you come without your needles and your bandages, then I will be glad of your company," he replied with a slight smile.

There was silence between them for a time. At last, Boromir opened his mouth to speak, but Linhir forestalled him.

"I know what you would say to me," he replied. "I can read it in your face as if it were written there. You wish to press me to allow you to move on, to begin the journey back to Minas Tirith."

"That is so," sighed Boromir. "But do not think me merely irritable at inactivity. I fear for what we will find if we come too late, and I feel it in my very bones that time is now short. I would leave this place and return home, to do what I can to stem the tide of war -- though I be of little use, with no strength to wield even a broken sword."

"Mayhap you are right," agreed Linhir. "Matters are moving, and I see that you think not only of yourself but of your people and their need. But what makes you believe you are well enough to manage the journey? It could yet be the death of you, if you move too soon."

"I shall manage it," Boromir said through gritted teeth. "I must!"

Linhir watched him thoughtfully for a time, then laid a fatherly hand upon Boromir's arm.

"You do remarkably well for one so wounded. Only six days have passed since that day, and already your strength returns. But you are not yet well.  To move too soon may undo all your progress thus far. Another week at least I had hoped for you -- a fortnight would be even better."

"A fortnight!" exclaimed Boromir. "I cannot spare a fortnight -- or even a week! Already the Enemy is moving, setting his horde against the people of the West. Another week languishing here and I may return to nothing but a city in flames!"

"I know it," said Linhir heavily. "It is a hard choice -- not for you, perhaps, who are ever ready to put your own needs second to those of Gondor. But my own choice is the hard one; do I choose now as a soldier, who knows the need of battle and the importance of having my captain in place for the defense of the City? Or as a healer, who knows this journey will be difficult for you, and could harm you and weaken you further -- if it does not kill you?"

Boromir shrugged, at a loss for an answer. He knew this was not the time to urge his own desire, so he waited silently, wondering what Linhir's decision would be.

Linhir turned his keen gaze upon Boromir, and his smile of encouragement made Boromir's heart leap with hopeful expectation.

"Fear not, I see beyond those two choices," said Linhir. "I know you are anxious to be gone from this place, that it sickens your heart to be forced to remain here, on the borders of the land that awaits your return. I have known you from a young age, and have seen proof time and time again that your great strength is as much in your will as it is in your body. It may well be that by moving towards your heart's desire, your body will benefit the more, and heal even faster. Sometimes a sore heart is a detriment to healing, and I begin to think that I have done all I can for you here. Full health may return to you as we draw nigh our home -- as incongruous as that may seem!"

"I believe it!" Boromir agreed. "Almost I can feel the pain increasing as my heart grows heavier. I realize it will be difficult, but I can bear it! I have borne pain before, and I shall do so again."

"But not pain like this," Linhir cautioned. "You have never been so sorely wounded, and for that reason I must continue to be very strict with you. Though I have agreed that we may begin the journey, and I feel you may well benefit from the moving, do not take this to mean that you are free to direct as you please. I will still be the one who decides how long we travel, and where and when we halt. Traversing the North Stair will be very difficult, and it may well be you will regret your choice not to remain quiet here, before ever we reach the bottom."

"I can manage," insisted Boromir once more.

"Perhaps, but you will not be allowed to do so. You will be carried down the Stair, or you will not go."

"Carried!!" Boromir cried angrily.

"Yes, carried! It will be too much for you otherwise," replied Linhir calmly. "I tell you now, you will not have the strength to walk it, be your will of iron and your pride unbreakable. Even pride and hardened will shall desert you in the end, if you test your strength too quickly and too soon. You will need that strength when we arrive at our goal, so do not think to squander it because it is beneath your pride to be helped."

"You speak wisdom, as ever," muttered Boromir ruefully. "I would be a fool to ignore it. I will submit."

"Very well, then," smiled Linhir. "Knowing you well, I assume you have a plan in mind for our journey, once we reach the plain?"

"I do," Boromir answered. "I have had little else to do with my time but plan my journey home! I have spoken with Grithnir of this at length, and I think I see the best way forward, now that you have given permission for us to break camp and move on. Grithnir tells me you have five horses waiting below at the shelter on the terrace at the foot of the Stair.  As we are now six men instead of five, we cannot all travel together by horseback. One of us could remain behind at the border encampment, but I do not care for that idea.  I have been without my chosen men long enough and I am not content to be parted from any of them now that we are together once more -- and I think they shall feel the same! And there is this, as well -- the thought of a long journey on horseback is not a pleasant one; I do not believe I can manage it. Even I know my limitations, and I cannot sit a horse so soon for any length of time. It would be less painful to walk the distance!"

"Walk -- or travel by boat," suggested Linhir.

"Indeed!" came Boromir's answer. "Or travel by boat. Two boats remain of the three given to our Company, which can be borne down the Stair to the shelving shore, where the portage-way ends. Two may well be sufficient for our group, even for six men, for the boats are sturdy and can fit three men apiece, if we have little gear to stow. But if a third boat is needed, we might trade horses for a boat from Gethron of the border guard."

"That was also my thought," Linhir agreed with a nod. "Traversing the Stair will be difficult for you, even with us to support you, and time will be needed for your recovery from that ordeal. To continue our journey by river rather than by horse would allow you that time, without prolonging our return to Minas Tirith. I believe that was in Grithnir's mind from the first, since he chose not to burden himself with a spare horse on our journey here from Minas Tirith. If you were found, he knew you would likely be wounded, and unable to ride without aid. Boats have been the best choice from the beginning, for a swift and gentle return for our wounded captain -- or for the bearing of his body home for entombing."

"I should be less trouble to you now if I were but a dead body, perhaps," said Boromir with a wry smile. "But I am glad it has not come to that."

"Indeed, you are a great burden to us!" laughed Linhir. "But it shall be worth all the effort expended on your behalf to present you in Minas Tirith, alive and mending."

He rose to his feet, brushing dirt and leaves from his tunic.

"I shall send Grithnir to you so that you may instruct him on the portaging of the boats for our journey. We may leave as early as tomorrow morning, if you are feeling well enough. But make certain you do no more than give the orders, my lord! If you attempt in any other way to take part in the breaking of camp, I shall delay our departure. Save your exertions for the descent, and let the men do the packing and carrying."

Boromir waved him away with a grin at the stern look in his eye, and Linhir departed, satisfied that Boromir would behave, at least for the time being.

***

The day passed slowly for Boromir, who found it dull to sit and wait, while his men did the heavy work of carrying away the boats and what little gear they had to transport. Linhir remained at Boromir's side, ignoring his surliness and complaining, as he changed the dressings and checked Boromir's injuries once more. He allowed him several short periods of exercise, but no more; Boromir would need all his energy for the rigors of the journey down the Stair.

At last, as the sun was setting and the shadows lengthened under the trees, the men returned, and Boromir was able to relax, knowing the time for departure was near at hand. One more night and he would be on his way. It was time, high time indeed!

Grithnir approached, and before he could speak, Boromir motioned to him to sit beside him and give his report.

"All is in order below?" he inquired.

"Yes, my captain," Grithnir replied, watching Boromir finger a small bundle that lay beside him. "The boats are secured at the landing, where they are being watched over by Dirhavel. The horses have been taken to the border patrol camp, for their use until the animals are sent for from the City. We will pass one night with them before we continue our journey by boat."

Grithnir hesitated, then smiled at Boromir.

"They wish to see you, my lord Boromir, and spend time with you, if you are willing. It was they who found one of the shards of your Horn, and believed you surely dead."

"I am willing," nodded Boromir somberly, realizing afresh how very close to death he had been and what effect his death might have had on those who looked to him for leadership.  "I shall be honored to greet them," he went on, "and they will see for themselves that I yet live."

Grithnir leaned forward and lightly touched the bundle at Boromir's side.  "We took your shield into one of the boats along with the gear, that we might not be overburdened when we descend the Stair on the morrow. But it would seem we neglected to take this with the rest...."

Boromir pulled the bundle onto his lap and laid both hands over it.

"I did not wish to be parted from it," he said ruefully. "Though it would have been better had I sent it with my shield, for now someone shall have to carry it for me, that I would have both hands free to aid in my walking."

"What is it, if I may ask?"

Boromir made no answer except to open the bundle and draw out what was contained within -- the hilt and broken blade of his sword. Holding it up, he ran his thumb along the jagged edge where the blade had snapped in the battle with the Uruk-hai.

"Harthad!" he murmured in a soft voice.  "Like many a sword of legend you have paid the highest price for your service!  Your brightness is quenched, your strength broken.  A hard ending, indeed!  We are a fitting pair, we two...."

"A broken sword can still serve, can it not?" replied Grithnir gently. "It can be repaired, regaining its former strength.  A broken man can also heal, becoming strong once more."

Boromir gazed at Grithnir thoughtfully.

"Take heart, my captain!" Grithnir went on.  "You have seen hard service, as has your sword, Harthad.  But you are not yet finished."

"You speak truly!" smiled Boromir. "Indeed, I am not finished. And Harthad has served me well!"

He sighed heavily.

"Yet still I regret the brokenness. Harthad, my sword is named, which means hope -- yet even as hope can be broken, so too was the hope that is Harthad. Alas! It shall be long ere it can be made new again, and until then I am weaponless. Though not hopeless, as I once was, not so long ago."

"Take my sword, then, Captain!" urged Grithnir. "I would not have you be without a weapon for protection...."

Boromir shook his head even as he gripped his companion's shoulder gratefully.

"Nay, Grithnir! I thank you for your noble offer -- but I cannot take your sword. You shall need it more than I! I will not be wielding a sword for some time yet; Linhir shall see to that! You must be my sword and shield, to protect me from peril, until I get me another weapon. Harthad I will put away, until the time for reforging and renewal shall come."

Grithnir's face glowed with pride, and gripping Boromir's hand, he bowed his head over it, touching it to his forehead as a vow.

"My lord Boromir! I shall be your sword and your shield for as long as you have need of me!"

Boromir acknowledged the vow by taking Grithnir's hand between his own and holding it tightly.

"So be it! My sword and my shield you shall be -- may we see our way through to victory, unstained!"

The light of the westering sun was in Aragorn's eyes as he rode out from Edoras with the host of Rohan, to join those who fought to defend the Fords of Isen from the onslaught of Saruman. A strange fate it was that had brought him here to ride in support of the need of Rohan and her king, rather than pursuing his own quest of seeking the captive hobbits, or riding to Gondor in defense of the White City. He had promised Boromir he would do both -- yet often it seemed, a promise was kept in ways other than what had been intended when the promise was first made. The hobbits were no longer in need of rescuing, he was assured of that, and Gondor's need would be answered best by Aragorn's presence in Rohan and the fulfillment of another promise he had made -- his vow upon the fields of the Rohan to Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, that he would come to Edoras and that they would draw swords together.

"You are needed," Gandalf had said to him. "The light of Andúril must now be uncovered in the battle for which it has so long waited. There is war in Rohan, and worse evil: it goes ill with Théoden."

Gandalf!  Aragorn still marveled at the fortune that had come to them so unexpectedly in the form of Gandalf returned. Not only had he come back to them when they thought their friend and guide lost forever, but he had returned with power as Gandalf the White, bringing with him comforting news of the safety of the hobbits, healing words to sooth Aragorn's doubts concerning his choices upon Amon Hen, and wise counsel to guide their next course. Gandalf had led them to Edoras, where he had rescued the ailing King Théoden from the crooked counsel of his advisor Gríma, and brought reconciliation between the King and his nephew Éomer, imprisoned for rebelling against Théoden's commands.

His eyes strayed to Éomer, who now rode at his side. Here was a man he was proud to call friend, though they had first met only a few days earlier.  Aragorn had known Éomer's father Éomund, having served with him under King Thengel in the years when Aragorn had traveled in disguise to many different lands. Éomer was much like his father -- quick to decide and quick to anger, but solid in friendship and loyalty, and above all honest and fair-minded. From the moment the Marshal of the Mark had confronted him upon the plains of Rohan and demanded he declare his business, Aragorn had been certain that this was a man whom he could trust without hesitation.

The fact that Éomer had known Boromir and had nothing but praise for him made Aragorn all the more eager to know this man better. It had warmed Aragorn's heart to hear Boromir's name spoken with such respect and admiration by Éomer at their first meeting, and to see the dismay upon the Marshal's face at the news of Boromir's wounding and the answering joy at the assurance of his safety and returning health.

Boromir was never far from Aragorn's thoughts. He missed his strength and his unswerving zeal in opposing Sauron, and he missed the companionship that had grown between them during their long journey together. Aragorn had regretted the restraint that had sprung up when the leadership of the Company had fallen to him, no doubt strengthened by the influence of the Ring on Boromir, but he was grateful that his relationship with Boromir had not suffered permanently from that estrangement.

"You think of Boromir, do you not?"

Aragorn looked up to see Legolas gazing at him, a smile of understanding upon his face.

"Yes," answered Aragorn. "Would that he were here with us! I am certain he would consider this fight a worthy pursuit, though the battle be westward, and not eastward upon his own borders, nor before the walls of his City."

"He would indeed," Legolas replied. "It was of great concern to him that Rohan seemed weakened by the illness of the King when strength was most needed, for Gondor relies heavily upon her alliance with the Rohirrim, and if they cannot ride to her defense, Gondor will surely fall. By serving Rohan in her hour of need, we also serve Gondor -- and Boromir."

"Such were my thoughts as well, Legolas Greenleaf. May we be in time, then, and may our strength be sufficient for the saving of both Rohan and Gondor -- and the fulfillment of our vows to Boromir."

***

A sound like a steady wind in many branches was growing behind him, but Pippin refused to turn around to gaze upon the forest that followed. He was not afraid exactly, but the thought of vast groves of trees following in the wake of the Ents as they marched upon Isengard was quite daunting. He suddenly felt very insignificant.

His thoughts turned to the others and how they fared. Pippin wondered if anyone was searching for himself and Merry, and where their friends might be in these vast, unfamiliar lands. He wondered if he would ever see Frodo and Sam again, or Strider and Legolas and Gimli...

He heaved a sigh of regret at the loss of Gandalf -- if only he had not fallen, things might have been so different! And Boromir....

Pippin sighed again, a deeper, longer sigh, for the pain of losing Boromir was still very keen. Oh, how he missed him! He missed Boromir's quick laughter and his steady hand on Pippin's shoulder; he missed Boromir's kindness and his fearlessness in the face of great danger. He had always seemed so strong, truly indestructible -- it was hard to believe that Boromir was really, finally gone.

At least we go to avenge him, Pippin thought. The Orcs that had been the death of Boromir had all been slain by the Riders, but the one responsible for sending them yet lived. Saruman had much to answer for! The Ents would make him answer for his evil deeds, and Pippin and Merry would have a part to play in that, as well. Treebeard had said as much.

"You shall come with me," he had said. "You may be able to help me. You will be helping your own friends that way, too; for if Saruman is not checked Rohan and Gondor will have an enemy behind as well as in front. Our roads go together -- to Isengard!"

And now they had reached the end of that road, for Isengard lay before them, in a dark valley at the foot of the ridge upon which they stood.

"Night lies over Isengard," said Treebeard, and the wind in the trees behind them echoed his words.

***

Outside, the night air was cool and the sky bright with stars and a quarter moon which glimmered fitfully upon the waters veiling the entrance to the cave.  From the curtained alcove where he had set his chair and table of maps, Faramir watched the moonlight as it played on the falling water, and listened to the murmuring sound of the falls that filled the air. Those few of his men who were awake and had tasks to do moved quietly about the cave, speaking in low voices, careful not to disturb those who slept, or their captain, who was lost in thought.

Faramir had much to think about. He was greatly concerned for his father's mood, and afraid for him in his bereavement -- it had been hard to leave the Steward so soon after learning of the loss of Boromir. It would have been better, perhaps, to have stayed close, to provide a comforting presence so that his father might not fall into his old habit of taking refuge from emotion behind a wall of cold sternness, and of covering his pain by even stricter adherence to duty.

But regrettably, there was no time for that; it seemed there was never enough time for the gentler way of dealing with each other, and now that Boromir was gone, the urgency seemed greater than ever. Instead Faramir was here in Ithilien, serving the need of Gondor while his father no doubt sat alone in darkness, brooding on what the future might bring and lamenting the death of his eldest son.

Which was exactly what he himself was doing, Faramir realized with a grim smile. It was hard not to think of his brother, with the memory of his dream of Boromir's fall and the finding of the shard of horn upon the waters of Anduin still so clear in his mind. The sound of Boromir's Horn faintly blowing still troubled his sleep, and the thought that he would never again hear that bold laughter or the firm tread of Boromir's feet in the hall left him feeling empty and alone.

A boot scraped outside his alcove and a dark figure loomed up beside the curtain. For a fleeting moment, Faramir imagined it was Boromir come to discuss with him news which would take them both into battle -- but the moment passed as suddenly as it had come, as Anborn stepped into the light cast by the small lantern upon the table.

"The messenger is returned, Captain Faramir," said Anborn quietly. "I have received his report and sent him to his bed."

"Well done," Faramir nodded. "Speak, then; what did he have to report?"

"He brings word from our ally in the south, who confirms the report that the Southrons approach in great strength, on their way to the Black Land."

"And we shall be ready for them," said Faramir firmly, putting aside his grief for the time being. "They will rue the day they lost their fear of Gondor, and began to think it safe to travel our roads with no thought of reprisal! Come, sit with me and tell me what you can of their numbers and their strength of arms."

***

The breeze off the lake was crisply cold as the sun of the new day rose above the hills on the eastern shore and shone down upon the lawn of Parth Galen.  Boromir found the breeze refreshing after a restless night spent tossing and turning; in his eagerness to be on his way, he had found it difficult to sleep.  Sensing his impatience, his men had risen early and were now making their final preparations for the descent to the plain.

Boromir sighed heavily as he gazed in dismay at the litter upon which they planned to carry him down the Stair. It was the same litter that Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli had used to transport him to the lakeshore from the hill where he had been wounded; Grithnir and the others had strengthened it with more branches and covered it with some blankets and a cloak. He had hoped that Linhir had not meant it literally when he had proclaimed Boromir was to be carried down the Stair; at the very least, Boromir had thought he would be allowed to descend, if not under his own power, then on foot supported on either side by his men.

But Linhir was determined not to allow any such thing, and would brook no discussion of the matter.

"The descent will be rigorous even with you carried upon a litter," he said firmly, in response to Boromir's scowling complaint. "Though the men step with care, you will still be jostled and bumped, which will bring you much pain -- more pain than you have experienced of late in your days of resting and recuperation. You are not yet so healed that you can bear such treatment with little effect on your health. I fear that your return to strength will be greatly delayed if you do not submit to this manner of transport. If you wish to return to your City with sufficient strength to defend her upon your arrival, then you will do as I say, my lord."

Boromir scowled and drew in breath to speak, but he was forestalled by Linhir, who scowled at him fiercely in return.

"What do you fear?" asked Linhir sternly. "Do you think you will seem less a captain of Gondor if you are seen being helped in such a fashion? Do not let your pride take you down this road, Boromir! Your good health is more important to me than your pride as a warrior of Men. I shall have my way in this, or we will not make the descent. And if you do not agree to this with good grace, I promise you, I shall give you something to make you sleep, and you will be carried down by litter, whether you will or no. Then, at least, those of us who bear you might have some peace during the journey!"

The silence was heavy for a long moment as Boromir and Linhir glared at one another, while the others went about their business, pretending they had not heard the exchange between their captain and the healer. At last Boromir sighed in resignation.

"You must think me little better than an errant child, Linhir," he said with a rueful smile. "Put away your sleeping herbs! I will obey you in this, and bury my pride. You see more clearly than I, as usual -- once again my pride is greater than my good judgment. But it is hard, Linhir -- hard to be so helpless when I have always been strong and capable!"

"I know this well, my friend," replied Linhir gently. "It is also difficult for me to see you this way, and hard for me to be so firm with you, when I know your greatest desire is to be your own man and not have to rely upon others for your strength. But it is not weakness to allow yourself to be seen as needy -- on the contrary, it will strengthen the bonds between you and the men who follow you willingly. It is for them a great honor to be able to bear you where you would go, until you are ready to go on your own two feet. It is not often they have such an opportunity for service to the captain they love. Do not deprive them of this chance."

"I had not thought of it in that way," said Boromir quietly. "Very well, I shall do my best not to chafe at my helplessness."

"Be comforted!" Linhir said with a fond chuckle. "It will not be so much longer before you put that helplessness behind you. You will be strong and proud once again -- all the sooner for listening to me and doing as I say."

"So be it!" laughed Boromir. "Then let us be on our way at once, for I am eager to see this journey over and done so that I can be quit of this litter for good and all!"

A light breeze ruffled the waters of Nen Hithoel and sighed among the trees along the shore, but the faint murmur of the wind was all but drowned out by the louder thunder of Rauros. The midmorning sunlight was strong and warm, the air clear but for a mist which hung like a cloud over the Tindrock. Beyond that cloud of mist, the world seemed to drop away, and behind it was nothing but empty sky.

Despite the warmth and brightness of the sun upon the lakeshore -- and the fact that they were almost ready to set off upon the leg of the journey that would bring them at last to Gondor -- Boromir was concerned, though he strove to hide it from his men. He was more than eager to be on his way, for he was weary of inactivity and wished heartily to be home. Yet he knew it would not be an easy journey to undertake. The North Stair was treacherous, especially for those burdened with a litter and a wounded, helpless man. Visibility would decrease as they descended towards the warmer plains, and there would be no escaping the spray of the Falls and the fog-like mist which clung to the cliff face. They might avoid the worst of it by traveling in the heat of the day, when the sun was at its zenith, but it would still be a difficult journey.

But this was the road they must take, and they would walk it; and the journey would be no easier for him fretting about it in advance. So Boromir shrugged his worries away, and schooled his face to hide his impatience. The Stair was, after all, a portage-way, designed to be traversed by men carrying burdens -- whether boats or wounded captains upon litters. The men had recently traveled the Stair to deliver the boats to the shelving shore, so they would be well aware of the condition of the path; they would take proper precautions.

Boromir sat waiting upon the litter where it lay at the edge of the lawn of Parth Galen, his legs stretched out before him; beside him was set the bundle containing the shards of his sword and the staff of wood he used for support. He watched as his men discussed amongst themselves how best to manage the task of carrying their captain down the Stair, and in spite of his resolve not to fret, he winced inwardly at the thought of being carried like a piece of baggage. Not only would it be damaging to his pride, but it would also undoubtedly be very painful. He knew better than to think he was fully healed, no matter how much progress he had made in the week since his wounding. The pain of that day's jostling journey to the shore upon this very litter was still very fresh in his mind.

He looked up to see Linhir watching him, a knowing gleam in his eye.

"Your waiting will soon be at an end, Boromir," said Linhir. "The journey home will not be without pain or struggle, but you shall manage it well, I have no fear. As for the descent, it will hurt you, but your injuries are sufficiently healed that no lasting damage will come to you. If you wish, I can give you something to reduce the pain...."

"No!" answered Boromir emphatically. "I do not relish the thought of traversing the Stairs, as you seem to have noticed, but I have no need of your numbing herbs. I shall bear the discomfort so that I might be alert and prepared to give advice when it is needed, and to avail you of my leadership, though it be from a sick bed."

Linhir gave a shout of laughter.  "I would have it no other way, my friend! We look to such leadership in these times, though I will reserve judgment on the advice, if it counters my own concerning your health needs."

"Indeed," laughed Boromir. "I would have it no other way, my friend."

Grithnir approached and knelt, to be more at eye level with Boromir.

"Forgive the delay, my captain," he said with an understanding smile. "There were a few matters concerning the downward path that we wished to clarify before we leave; we are ready now."

"We had best be on our way, then," replied Boromir with a nod. "The journey is long enough for one on foot and lightly burdened, but it will be no easy task to bear me such a distance on the narrow and steep path. No doubt I weigh less than once I did, after eating little but Elvish bread for days on end -- but I am still weighty enough to give you all pause."

"We shall not feel the weight, with four of us to bear you," said Grithnir stoutly.

"It would save you some trouble and some pain if I might be allowed to walk at least as far as the mouth of the path to the Stair --" Boromir began.

"-- and would wear you out needlessly," finished Linhir firmly. "A worthy attempt, my captain, but I am still in charge of matters that concern your health, and there shall be no such activity. You must be content to be carried down at your ease. There will be time enough later for walking on your own feet, when you are stronger."

"Very well," sighed Boromir; but there was a twinkle in his eye. "I will rest, then, and enjoy the view from my litter. But have a care! I shall make note of every bump and jolt."

"We will not allow you to fall, my captain," assured Grithnir. "You are safe with us."

"I know it well, Grithnir," answered Boromir, as he lay back and settled himself upon the blanket-covered litter. "I am trusting in that, and I am well content."

***

Arthad and Dirhavel took the foot of the litter, and Grithnir and Linhir the head; lifting it up carefully and setting it to their shoulders, they started off down the sandy shingle. Henderch walked well ahead to act as scout. They came to the mouth of the path, marked by a standing stone which had once been a shaped statue, but was now worn and weathered. Turning aside from the lakeshore, they passed under the trees.

The path led them upwards at a gentle slope until they had drawn away from the lake, then onwards for a half mile or so along the ridge overlooking the channel of water which flowed from Nen Hithoel, past the Tindrock and over the Falls of Rauros. The lonely isle of the Tindrock cast a long shadow in the midmorning sun that darkened the path, and the air grew suddenly cooler; when they had passed beyond the shadow, the sun shone again, but it was veiled now in haze from Rauros and the coolness in the air remained. The sound of the waterfall was like thunder in their ears, never diminishing or passing away. From time to time as the path drew near the edge of the bluff on their left, they would catch a glimpse of rushing water and feel the dampening spray of the Falls upon their faces and their clothing, and they knew the Stair was nigh.

At last it lay before them, broad steps leading steeply downward, then turning towards the Falls, hugging the scrub-studded rock face on one side, and open to the wind and the sky upon the other. The broad steps descended inexorably, alternating at intervals with stretches of flatter stone and wide landings at each sharp switchback, until the path was lost in the mist. Only a narrow strip of tumbled stone lay between the edge of each stone step and the fall into nothingness.

"Set me down for a moment," said Boromir, and the men obeyed him. Linhir helped Boromir to his feet and Grithnir handed him the wooden staff which he had retrieved from the litter. Boromir leaned upon it as he contemplated the stairs before him.

"Let me walk down as far as the first landing," Boromir suggested after a moment of careful consideration. "It is not far, no more than two score steps. The passage here at the top is narrow and awkward for four men carrying a litter; well enough for two carrying a boat, but we are wider than that, with men on either side and me in between. The stair becomes broader after the first landing, and can be traversed with due caution -- though the men on the outside will have to step with care and keep an eye to the edge."

He looked inquiringly at Linhir, who was observing the path thoughtfully. At last he smiled and nodded his acquiescence.

"It is reasonable," Linhir agreed. "I can allow that much -- but Grithnir will be at your side to support you, lest you find yourself in difficulty."

He eyed the staff in Boromir's hand for a moment, then stepping forward, held out his own stout stave of dark, polished wood.

"Take this in exchange for yours," Linhir said. "It is strongly made, of lebethron from the slopes of Mindolluin. It has been shod so that it will not easily slip -- you may trust your full weight to it, even upon wet stone. I will take your staff for my own use now; it will be sufficient for my needs."

Boromir hesitated, but only for a moment.

"Thank you, Linhir," he said quietly, passing his own staff to the healer and gratefully accepting the other in its place. "You honor me greatly with this gift. It has been in your possession for as long as I can remember."

"Nay, Boromir," smiled Linhir. "You honor me by accepting it. May its virtue of finding and returning bring you safely once more to the White City in the shadow of Mindolluin, whence it came. Now wait a moment, while the others go ahead with the litter; then you may descend to the landing."

***

The descent was difficult, more difficult than he had expected; Boromir was thankful he had Grithnir's strong and steadying hand under his elbow and Linhir's staff to support him. He took each step slowly and carefully, bending his knees cautiously and looking down at his feet to be certain he placed them firmly. It was an odd feeling to realize he did not have complete control over his own limbs.

Before he had descended a score of steps, Boromir knew without doubt that Linhir had been right to be so firm with him; he would never have been able to venture the entire flight of stairs, even with aid, for his legs were shaking and weak, and his wounds ached fiercely even after only a short distance. A choking sense of despair welled up in his heart as he wondered if he would ever regain his former strength, to walk unaided. His steps faltered, and his head drooped wearily.

"Do not lose hope, my captain!" murmured Grithnir in his ear, gripping his arm encouragingly. "Your strength will return in time."

"The sooner, the better!" said Boromir through gritted teeth; but he squared his shoulders and pressed on with renewed heart.

As they approached the landing, the stairway opened out and leveled off to become a wide flat area, the first of many such landings which provided resting places for the descent. A bench of stone was placed under the arching rock face, so that it did not interfere with passage up or down the stairs, yet provided a place to rest for those beginning their descent, or gathering their strength for the final ascent to the top. Boromir lowered himself slowly and gratefully onto the seat provided and heaved a quiet sigh of relief.

When the trembling in his limbs had subsided, he rose and faced his men.

"It is time for me to submit once more to being burdensome," he said with a rueful grin. "I shall bear it more willingly this time, I assure you!"

As he stepped forward towards the litter, Boromir looked out into the empty space beyond the edge of the path. The cliff face was veiled and the plains far below were obscured by mist from the Falls; a gust of wind blew spray like fine rain into his face. He stood still for a moment, and let the breeze from below lift his hair, bringing with it a faint scent of new grass and flowers growing at the edge of marshy pools. Then it was gone in a swirl of damp fog and the smell of wet stone and damp leather.

But the wind quickened once more, and now the mist broke and blew away in tatters, so that the vale below was suddenly revealed, brightened by the sun marching above the mist. For a moment the air was clear and Boromir looked out to see the land of Anórien stretched out like a map before him -- the glittering ribbons of water that formed the mouths of the Entwash, the grass of the lowland plain undulating like a green ocean, and far beyond upon the southern horizon, the White Mountains of his home, capped with snow and shining in the morning sunlight.

Boromir caught his breath in wonder at the unexpected sight; he felt moved to tears even as his heart leaped suddenly light and hopeful. He had yearned to be home for so very long, and now it seemed it would only take a few steps more and he would be there... he would be home at last....

The mist closed in once more, and the view was cut off; the glimpse of his homeland, gone.

Boromir swallowed hard as a keen sense of loss smote him, but it was quickly replaced by a wave of joy, for he knew that his land was not lost -- it was there below, waiting for him. It would be only a journey of a few short hours before he would stand once more upon the soil of Gondor.

Turning, he saw his men gathered behind him, watching in silent respect and understanding.

"Let us go," Boromir said gruffly. "I would be home again."

*****

Author's note: The reference to lebethron comes from The Two Towers chapter, "Journey to the Crossroads," in which Faramir gifts Frodo and Sam with staves made of the wood, which are set with a virtue of finding and returning.

Boromir wrapped his Elven cloak more tightly about his body, to keep out the coolness of the night mists upon the River. Though the air here was much warmer than up above on the bluffs of Amon Hen where the wind yet blew chill, Boromir still felt the dampness of the evening keenly.  Weakness from his wounding lingered, and he was weary after the long trek down the Stair to the border guard's encampment. He had been carried much of the way upon the litter, but the trip had nonetheless been wearing, and the constant, cold drizzle of misty rain from the Falls had seeped into his bones to chill him.

He wondered if he should bend his pride to ask for a blanket, but after a moment he began to feel warmer. He fingered the soft material of the cloak thoughtfully, and marveled at its quality -- so light and cool when coolness was desired, yet warm and comforting at the same time. At times he still missed the heavy familiar comfort of the fur-lined cloak which had protected him from the elements upon so many of his journeys, now left behind in Moria.  But this was a fine replacement, which brought with it other comforting memories of friends and the experiences he had shared with them.

Boromir had much need of such comfort, for amidst his joy at being once more within the bounds of Gondor, and back among people who looked to him for leadership, he was greatly troubled by the news which had greeted him upon his arrival at the border outpost.

Gethron and the men who watched with him had already received word of Boromir's coming, and so he had been greeted with all the honor due both a beloved captain and a Steward's son, returned from the brink of death.  Boromir, too, was no less grateful to be present with them at last. But none had greater joy than Halmir, who had returned to the camp only hours before Boromir himself, his heart still heavy even after days of travel up the River -- for Halmir had been the one sent to deliver the shard of cloven Horn to the lord Steward which bore witness to his captain's likely death. Upon hearing the news that Boromir yet lived and was due to be among them shortly, Halmir had been overcome with such emotion that he wept, and it was long ere he was able to speak without tears.

Once Boromir learned the circumstances under which Halmir had traveled to Minas Tirith, he had demanded news of his father and brother, and had pressed the man for every scrap of information he could recall of Denethor's mood and Faramir's frame of mind. Halmir told him all willingly yet haltingly, for the memory of Denethor's tears and Faramir's empty eyes still haunted him.

Boromir now sat alone on the edge of the encampment, looking out over the wide waters of the River Anduin, dim in the twilight. The quiet lap of the water among the reeds, and the faint familiar cry of a night bird did little to soothe his sorrow, for the knowledge that his loved ones thought him dead and lost to them was like a weighty burden on his heart which threatened to choke him. If only he could get word to them, quickly....

But that was unlikely. No, better to deliver that message himself, though the news be slow in arriving. And who knew better than he that the way of his return was still perilous, and the news of his loss might yet become truth? Let them mourn awhile longer, until he could come himself and release them from their sorrow with a touch of his hand.

The mist from the River shifted and retreated as a man walked towards him to wait respectfully nearby. Glancing up, Boromir saw that it was Halmir.

"The healer asked that I bring you this," said Halmir, stepping forward to lay a blanket across Boromir's knees.

Boromir smiled.

"Ever he knows my needs," he murmured. "Even when he seems not to be watching me, he knows when I need tending!"

As Halmir watched, Boromir shook out the blanket and wrapped it about his shoulders, more to comfort the other man than because the added warmth was needed -- and he knew Linhir would be watching, as well.

"Will you sit with me, Halmir?" Boromir asked.

The man nodded gratefully.

They sat together quietly for a time, speaking no word, listening to the sound of the River and the wind in the reeds. At last Halmir turned a troubled face to Boromir.

"Forgive me, my lord, for bringing news of your family that is so disturbing to you."

"Nay!" replied Boromir firmly. "There is nothing to forgive. Glad I am that you are here to tell me how they fare. Though my heart is heavy to think of their sorrow, it is yet a great comfort to me to know they are together and preparing for the evil day that approaches, in spite of their certainty that I am lost."

"I vowed that I would send word at once if there was any other news of you," continued Halmir. "I would fain go myself, now that there is indeed news to tell, but lord Faramir said I was not to leave my post again after my return. He knows we are only a few here, upon the borders...."

"Do not berate yourself in your desire to do more," interrupted Boromir. "It was a hard duty to fulfill -- to be the one to bear such news to those who would be grieved by it.  Yet you did well, and even provided encouragement to my brother in his grief. For that I thank you!"

Boromir's voice faltered as he recalled what Halmir had told him concerning Faramir's finding of the second horn shard upon the River, and of the pain that finding had brought them both. How it must have rent his brother's heart to find such a token, and to learn that the other was found as well! And what brief peace he would have had, as well, to bear the news and mourn the loss, before being suddenly thrust to the forefront of the war as Captain-General in Boromir's stead, with all that position's burdensome responsibility. It was a position he had never wanted, though Boromir knew him to be eminently capable of filling it....

Boromir stopped his thoughts before they could lead him further. Clearing his throat, he turned to Halmir once more.

"You have done your part well," he repeated. "It is now left for you to take up your regular duties once again, to watch our borders against incursions of the enemy. I shall take word myself of my rescue to Minas Tirith."

Halmir nodded.  "Thank you, lord Boromir, for your kind words. Indeed, it was an honor to serve in this way, though I wish I could have done more yet, to serve you and yours."

"Serve me now by telling me all you can of your recent journey upon the River. Will that be a safe road for us to travel in our return to Minas Tirith?"

Halmir was silent for a moment, thinking back on the journey he had so recently completed.

"My passage to the City was uneventful, and I saw no signs of enemy activity upon the eastern shore. It was otherwise upon my return, however. I saw no enemy forces, but there were definite signs that Orcs watch the River. I was only one man, both going and coming, and so perhaps they did not bother to detain me, or fire upon me. But I fear you may not go as safely, if you go as a company. I urge you, my lord, to consider returning to Minas Tirith by horseback."

"I feared as much," Boromir said with a frown. "Yet the River is our best and quickest road home, in spite of all. Linhir is determined that I not exert myself overmuch; he believes that traveling by boat would give me yet more time to rest and recover from my wounding, while still making progress towards home. He feels that going by horse or on foot would undo what progress I have made thus far, and slow us down even further. And he is no doubt correct."

Boromir looked down at his bandaged wounds with a rueful expression. The thought of riding aback a horse or trudging through the marshlands was not appealing.

"You speak truly, lord," replied Halmir. "The way through the fen is slow and difficult even for those who go unwounded. Yet it would be safer. It is possible that Orcs from Mordor may have crossed the barrier of the River to harass us on the western shores, yet that is still only a possibility of danger, and so the road through the marshes would prove less perilous. Orcs patrol the eastern bank of the River -- this we know without doubt -- and they are certain to have archers among them, which will pose a great danger to you wherever the River's current takes a boat close to the eastern shore."

"Fear not, Halmir! We shall go with care, if we take the River road," replied Boromir reassuringly. "But I will consider what you say, and speak with the others on this matter. A decision must be made tonight, so that we might be on our way on the morrow."

***

Dûrlin sighed inwardly as he looked down upon the tray of food he had brought for the Steward earlier in the evening. It remained untouched.

What is this stubborn streak in these men of mine that makes them insist upon forgoing food when they are distraught? he thought irritably, then immediately regretted his uncharitable thoughts. Dûrlin knew his frustration stemmed from his own feeling of helplessness in the face of keen sorrow, his own inability to soothe the pain of the men in his care, and thereby do something to ease his own grief at the loss of Boromir.

"Have you finished with your meal, my lord Steward?" he said aloud in his most unpressing tones.

"Leave the wine, but take the food away," replied Denethor distantly. "I have no appetite this evening."

"Yes, lord," answered Dûrlin, setting aside the decanter of wine and a cup for drinking. He hesitated, then set beside it on a plate a small unbroken loaf and a round of cheese with a knife.

Denethor glanced at the food and smiled faintly.  "As gentle as always in your insubordination, I see!" he commented. "I say clearly to you that I have no desire for food, yet you insist on disobeying me to leave some anyway. Very well; I doubt not that your wisdom in such matters is greater than mine. I will eat."

Denethor tore a piece from the loaf as Dûrlin watched, and washed it down with a swallow of wine.

"It must be a sore trial to you, Dûrlin," Denethor continued, "to serve such men as we of the House of Stewards. Your desire is to serve our every need and we do not allow it, even when our need is very great. I have no doubt that Boromir... Boromir, in his day, was a source of vexation to you, even in the small matter of eating sufficiently in times of great distress."

"I have noticed, lord, that you and Faramir are much like him in that respect," Dûrlin said diplomatically.

"Indeed!" said Denethor in reply. He stared silently into his cup for a long moment, then tipped his head back and finished the wine in one swallow.

"That will be all now, Dûrlin," he said shortly, putting distance between them once more. "I shall call for you if I have need of anything else. Until then, see that I am not disturbed."

"Yes, my lord Steward," answered Dûrlin with a bow. Taking up the tray, he left the room, but not without a backwards glance at Denethor. Dûrlin watched until he saw the Steward pick up the cheese and the knife, then turned away, satisfied that he had been of service, even in such a small way.

***

When Boromir had finished relating all that Halmir had told him of the possible dangers of passage on the River, the men who were gathered about him turned to look expectantly at Linhir.

"You all do well to leave this decision to me," Linhir laughed. "Indeed, the decision of how we go should be mine. Boromir is captain here, but I am his healer, and I have authority to speak against any course which might bring him to further harm. We know what his decision would be -- the swift way home, and chance the danger! The advantage in taking the River way is that it will also be kinder to our wounded captain -- who, despite his urging to the contrary, still requires much rest and less exertion, if he wishes to continue his healing. So I am tempted to choose this way also -- a journey on horseback will go hard on Boromir, no matter how stoically he bears his pain. Yet the question remains: am I, a healer whose first concern is ever the comfort and welfare of those in my charge, willing to risk further harm to my wounded captain -- and to others of our party -- in order to take the swifter, gentler way?"

Linhir looked at each of them in turn, and they gazed back at him, unperturbed, trusting. Each of them had been under his care at one time or another, and they knew him to be wise in the ways of battle as well as healing; his decisions had ever been sound.

"We go by the River," announced Linhir firmly. "A day or two more of easier travel for Boromir will not be amiss, and we may avoid doing him more harm aback a horse or on foot. We made the journey here in good enough time, but then, we did not have a wounded man in our company. Journeying by River answers all our needs, though the danger of attack is increased. May the Valar protect us on that journey, and bless my decision -- for it is final."

Boromir nodded, content, and was pleased to see the others in happy agreement. They were all clearly eager to be on their way, and the sooner they arrived back in Minas Tirith, the better, no matter the danger.

"Good!" Boromir said, his spirits uplifted. "Let us leave at first light, then. We shall take the Elven boats, for though we are six, there is still room for all of us with gear. I know from experience that these boats go swift and sure in the most difficult current, and seem to have a virtue of protection upon them. May it continue! The horses will remain for Gethron and his men, until they are sent for."

"And now to sleep!" Linhir said, dispersing the men. "You especially, Boromir, have need of sound sleep this night. Sitting upright in a boat will be no easy thing for you, no matter my fair words of the journey being restful."

"Well I know it!" exclaimed Boromir. "But better the boat than a mount, for indeed I have been in dread of that journey."

He rose stiffly, and Linhir put out a hand to aid him.

"I am more sore than I realized," Boromir commented, leaning on Linhir's arm. "Help me to my bedroll and I shall be content. It will be good to sleep; this day has been long, and surely tomorrow will be longer. Sleep! I feel the need of it, in truth!"

***

"Sleep!" exclaimed Gimli, as he leaned wearily against the wall in the shadow of the Hornburg. "I feel the need of it, as never I thought any dwarf could. Riding is tiring work. Yet my axe is restless in my hand. Give me a row of Orc-necks and room to swing and all weariness will fall from me!"

"There will be no sleep this night, I fear," answered Legolas from his perch atop the parapet. "The enemy must be at hand. Rest while you can, my friend, but sleep not -- or you will miss your chance to swing that axe of yours when the battle begins."

"Aye!" growled Gimli. "'Twill not be long now. Let Saruman and his army come when they can, then! We here at Helm's Deep are ready for battle!"

*****

Author's note: Gimli's statement concerning sleep and a restless axe is a direct quote from The Two Towers, the chapter entitled "Helm's Deep."

Pippin's thoughts were in a whirl. He felt dazed, wonderstruck, and could not decide whether to shout with joyous laughter or weep with quiet relief -- or do both at once.

Gandalf had returned! In true Gandalf fashion, he had swept in and turned Pippin's world upside down.  There had been no explanation of where he had been, or how he had survived the fall into darkness in Moria, but it did not matter. He was in the world again, and Pippin had seen him, and heard him say "tom-fool of a Took" in a voice that was stern and yet merry -- and Pippin was content. Somehow, he felt safer knowing Gandalf was once more out and about, renewing hope and keeping folk from despair.

And, oh! Boromir! Boromir was alive! It hardly seemed possible he had survived that fearful wounding at the hands of Saruman's Uruk-hai. Yet Treebeard had told them it was so, and he had received word of the news from Gandalf himself, when he had come to arrange for Huorns to help in the battle that was then raging southwards.

Boromir alive! Sudden tears sprang to Pippin's eyes at the thought of his friend safe and recovering from his wounds. He could scarcely comprehend it, and wondered still if it might all be a dream. Would he at any moment wake up to find himself once more bereft and guilt-ridden, facing a world where Boromir was dead after all? No Boromir, with his kind, noble smile and firm, friendly hand upon the shoulder? No Boromir with his confident laugh and strong, reassuring presence? And would Pippin open his eyes to discover that Gandalf was gone and despair had returned?

Looking about him at the dismal reality of Isengard, Pippin felt the broken masonry under his feet, smelled the acrid stench of burnt wood and stone, and heard the lap of the flood waters against tumbled rock -- and he knew he was awake, and not dreaming.

The gloom around him could not dampen his joy. It was no dream! Gandalf had truly returned, alive, from wherever he had been, and Boromir had been drawn back from the brink of death, and was healing from his wounds. Why, even now he might be on his way back to his home in Gondor, where -- surely, when these battles were won -- Pippin would see him again one day. The thought of that reunion filled him with joyful anticipation.

Glancing up, Pippin saw the same dazed expression of wonder upon Merry's face, and he grinned. Merry shook his head and grinned back at his cousin.

"Can you believe the news?" Merry cried. "I can't! And yet it's true! Gandalf back, and Boromir, too!"

With a whoop, Merry tossed the pouch he was holding high into the air, and caught it again deftly with one hand.

"Come on, Pip!" he said happily."We've got work to do if we're going to have things ready for when the Lord of the Fields of Rohan comes, as Treebeard calls him. Strider will be there, too, no doubt, and the others! Now that we've gathered the "Man-food" for feeding everyone, let's get ourselves off to the gate, to watch for their coming."

"You be careful with that pipe-weed, now, Merry," laughed Pippin. "Remember, I'm the one who found it, hidden there in that store-room, and I won't take kindly to you tossing it in the water or down a crack in the stone, simply because you're happy about Boromir being alive after all, and old Gandalf coming back! Gandalf, I'll wager, will be glad to have some of that weed when he's got time to sit and have a smoke. Boromir never did take to it, as I recall. He called it a 'strange' habit, which he had no taste for developing. Can you imagine that?"

"We'll save him some of this Longbottom leaf and get him to try it," replied Merry confidently. "We'll win him over yet, you'll see."

"I wonder if Boromir's any closer to reaching his home yet?" mused Pippin wistfully, following Merry across the broken stones towards the main gate of Isengard. "I hope he'll be safe! Will it be dangerous for him, do you think, being wounded and all?"

"I don't know," answered Merry seriously. "I suppose there might be some dangers ahead for him, even in his own country. But he ought to be safe enough, with his men there to guard him. I can't see as how Boromir would worry about danger, anyway, even when he's wounded! Remember how he used to tell us he was indestructible? I know it was a kind of a joke to him, but I believe it!"

"I hope he truly is indestructible," exclaimed Pippin fervently. "I can't wait to see him again, with my own eyes!"

***

Gazing out over the reed-choked waters of the Anduin, Boromir recalled the words of Celeborn the Elven lord, spoken on the occasion of the Company's departure from the Golden Wood:

"...the River casts its arms about the steep shores of the Tindrock, and falls then with a great noise and smoke over the cataracts of Rauros down into the Nindalf, the Wetwang as it is called in your tongue. That is a wide region of sluggish fen where the stream becomes tortuous and much divided. There the Entwash flows in by many mouths from the Forest of Fangorn in the west...."

It was indeed difficult to navigate this part of the River, where the great Anduin met the Mouths of Entwash and became a many-channeled watercourse meandering its way through islands of long grass and sedge. The fen was vast, spreading for many miles inland on both sides of the River, and visibility was poor, as mist hugged the water and clung to the tall grasses, waving and tossing in the breeze. Where the ground was firm enough to support their roots, a few solitary trees grew, but they were few and far between in this land of reed, rush, sedge and cane.

The men steered their boats carefully through the marshy maze, avoiding entanglement in the trailing grass and long roots, and keeping a sharp eye out for changes in the treacherous current. In some places it was swift and sudden, despite the narrowness of the stream, while at other times, the main channel was as smooth as a pond, and the boats were only carried forward by hard paddling. It was many miles yet before the Anduin would widen and break free of the fen to become a swiftly flowing river once more.

Yet in spite of the difficulty, they went quickly enough, for they had received good counsel on the dangers of the River from Halmir, and both Henderch and Dirhavel were as skilled in finding a way forward on the waters as they were at scouting a path upon land.

Dirhavel sat well forward in the first boat, watching for changes in the current and obstructions in the water with one eye, while keeping the other trained on the east bank, alert for any hidden enemy. Arthad sat behind, bow in hand, an arrow ready on the string. Grithnir needed both hands for managing his oar, but his sword was drawn and laid at his side, ready for use at sudden need.

Henderch was first in Boromir's boat, following behind the others with two boat-lengths between them to avoid a collision, should the other boat run into any difficulty. He, too, watched the eastern shore with a keen and wary eye. Linhir sat behind Boromir and plied his oar; he had no weapon other than his knife to hand, but it would be enough if there was a battle at close quarters. He left the watching of the east bank to the others, and concentrated on reading Boromir's pain from the set of his shoulders or the bowing of his head. When he seemed to be too weary and pained to sit comfortably, Linhir would call a halt, and they would rest for several hours in safety on the western shore, until Boromir once more felt ready to continue the journey.

Boromir begrudged the halts, but he knew they were necessary; he needed the rest and the respite from sitting upright. He strove hard to keep from feeling disgruntled and useless as he sat in the boat between Henderch and Linhir.  In his weakened state, he could not help with the paddling of the boat, and he had no weapon with which to protect the small company, should they come under attack. His sword was broken, and even if he had borne a bow and a quiver of arrows, his shoulder wound was not yet sufficiently healed to allow him to draw a bowstring. He had only the stout staff given to him by Linhir, laid across his knees; it would have to serve, if the need arose.

The second day of their journey on the River was passing in much the same manner as the first -- long hours spent picking their way through watery channels, walled in by tall rushes and rattling reeds. The air was filled with the song of small birds, the creak of insects, the sigh of wind in the grass and the faint murmur of water where the hidden current sought the quickest way through the marsh. Boromir sat more upright in his boat, then tried to relax and garner his strength, though his senses sung to him keenly that danger lay hidden somewhere among the tall rushes. He willed himself to sit still and watch the shore slip by on either side, hopeful that they might pass the fens of the Wetwang without mishap.

He shifted his position with care, wincing as he felt the stitches in his shoulder pull slightly. The wound there had healed sufficiently that it could be closed with a stitch or two, Aragorn's patch replaced with a simple bandage. Boromir was pleased at this visible sign of progress in his healing, but the new stitches were a nuisance.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Linhir's voice in his ear.

"Are you in pain, Boromir?" Linhir asked softly. "It has been long since our last rest. Another would not be amiss."

Boromir squinted up at the westering sun, hazy and dim as it shone through the mists upon the River.

"Nay," he replied. "It is not so bad; I can go on a bit longer. Besides, there is no solid place for stopping here. If I must rest, at least I might choose a dry spot to do it in!"

***

Evening was deepening as Gandalf led the way out of the valley of Isengard towards the place where King Théoden and his companions would camp for the night. Pippin sat behind Aragorn on his horse and wished heartily that he were in Merry's place, riding with Gandalf. He desperately wanted another glimpse of that glass ball which had been thrown from the tower, the ball he had saved from being lost in a deep pool of water. So heavy, it had been, and so mysterious....  Pippin thought he had seen something moving within its depths, in the brief moment when he had held it in his hands. He wanted another look, if he could get it. Even if he could have just asked Gandalf about it, that would have been something! But it was unlikely he would have answered anyway; it was obviously a secret thing, which the Wizard wanted to remain hidden.

"Here! I'll take that, my lad!" was all he had said -- curtly, too, without even a thank you! "I did not ask you to handle it!" But he had had to, to save it from the water....

Pippin stirred restlessly.  I deserve another look, he thought fiercely. Even if it’s only for a moment!  I want to see if there really was something there, inside....

Aragorn turned as he felt Pippin's restlessness.  "Only a bit longer, my friend," he said with a gentle smile. "Then we will be stopping for the night and a well-deserved rest. I expect you are weary after your long and exciting day."

"Yes," replied Pippin, after a moment's hesitation. "I am tired. I shall be glad to lie down, I suppose. It has been an exciting day, hasn't it? I hope I can sleep!"

He cast another glance ahead at Merry's back, sitting behind Gandalf on the back of the tall white horse.

Perhaps when we stop for the night, Pippin thought. Perhaps there will be an opportunity then....

***

It was just turning to dusk, as the sun disappeared and the rising moon was briefly obscured behind a bank of clouds, when Boromir at last gave way to his weariness and called a halt for the night. As they turned their boats out of the main channel of the stream towards the western shore, a flock of resting birds flew up out of the grass behind them, calling out in alarm.

Dirhavel shouted a warning, but it was too late -- his shout was quickly answered by the sound of many twanging bowstrings and the coarse, guttural cries of Orcs. A rain of black arrows fell amongst the boats, some splashing into the water beside them, others finding their mark.

Boromir gave an inarticulate cry as he was struck from behind by a heavy blow.

He fell forward into darkness.

Pippin drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly to steady himself. He cast a cautious eye back towards the camp, past his own tumbled blankets and Merry gently snoring, to where the others slept around the small camp-fire. There was no sign of anyone stirring and the guards were out of sight in the bracken further up the hill. Pippin forced himself to relax and look away, turning his glance to the cloak-covered object in his lap.

It had taken all his courage to approach Gandalf while he slept, and remove the strange stone from the wizard's possession without waking him, but Pippin's curiosity had driven him until he could not rest.  He simply had to see it again.  And he had managed it, though not without a few heart-stopping moments.

I may as well have a quick look, he thought, pressing his hands against the hardness of the sphere. Where's the harm in that? I only want to have a better look at it, to see what it's all about. I can't put it back now, anyway, not until I settle a bit....

Having strengthened his resolve, Pippin slowly drew away his cloak and lowered his face to gaze into the ball.

The waxing moon was almost full and shone brightly down into the dell, gleaming upon the smooth surface of the dull black stone. At first there was nothing, and Pippin felt a vague disappointment that the stone might turn out to be unremarkable. Then, as he gazed searchingly into its depths, something glowed and stirred within, and the stone was no longer dull or dark. A pinpoint of light gleamed in the blackness at the heart of it, waxing ever stronger and brighter, until the globe seemed to be lit with fire.

Pippin bent close, staring, unable to look away. Images appeared and disappeared, at first tiny and unfamiliar, then larger and more clear as he focused upon them. A soft moan passed his lips as he caught a glimpse of a familiar face; closer he bent, until his nose was almost touching the cold stone. His mouth worked but no sound came. A bright tear fell from his eye, unnoticed, leaving a glistening track upon the stone's curving side.

No! moaned Pippin silently, unable to speak or cry out in his distress. Not that!

He grasped the glowing ball more tightly, causing it to turn slightly upon his knee -- and the image within changed. Pippin gasped in dismay, then in fear, as another vision took its place....

***

"Orcs!"

Dirhavel's cry of warning rang out over the water. The answering hail of black arrows came swiftly, too swiftly for him to avoid. He slumped sideways and fell against Arthad, stricken with an arrow in his throat; the paddle he held slipped from his grasp into the water, bumping against the side of the boat as it floated slowly away.

Grithnir shouted in horrified dismay and reached for his sword, then drew back his hand with a muffled curse. He realized at once that a sword would be useless against hidden archers, and it was likely too late to do anything to help Dirhavel. Instead he stretched out his hand to haul in the escaping paddle. It galled him to flee rather than fight, but he knew without question the small company was outnumbered and had no chance to win in a fight against an unseen enemy. Grasping the paddle, he hauled it into the boat, then leaned hard upon his own paddle, steering the boat out of range of the Orc archers and away from the immediate danger.  If they could gain the western bank, they would be safe enough, for the river was too wide for them to be a target of arrows from the eastern bank, and there was no place for leagues for the enemy to cross the river to reach them.  Alas that the River, which would now be their protection, had betrayed them by carrying the boats into ambush!

In front of him, Arthad sat looking backwards, tense and quivering as he strained to catch a glimpse of any target for his nocked arrow. Several of his arrows were already spent, having found their mark among the concealing marsh grasses. Even as Grithnir guided the boat away, Arthad loosed one last arrow; the twang of the string and the whoosh of the dart sounded loudly in Grithnir's ear. There was a hoarse, gurgling cry behind him in the distance, followed by a loud splash.

"What do you see of the other boat? Have they escaped the danger?" Grithnir demanded urgently. He had heard Boromir's sharp cry of alarm from behind him when the attack came, and he feared the worst. But he dared not look back to see how the other boat fared, as he concentrated on reaching the western bank.

"Nay!" groaned Arthad. "Henderch alone remains upright.  He makes for shore as well, but he struggles to control the boat -- wait! He is free of the current now, and draws nigh...."

Raising his voice, Arthad called out to Henderch across the expanse of water that separated the two boats.

"Are you injured? Do you need aid in getting to shore?"

"I am unhurt!" shouted Henderch in reply. "I am weary, but can manage the boat alone, now that I am free of the current and the shore draws nigh. Get yourselves to safety; I follow!"

Arthad turned to obey. Dropping his bow into the bottom of the boat, he picked up the paddle that had been Dirhavel's and applied himself to helping Grithnir guide the boat to shore. There, on the western bank, they found a shallow inlet where a small stream joined the larger river, forming a narrow margin of muddy shoreline protected by tall sedges and a few shaggy willow trees.  There they beached their boat, and turned back to see how Henderch fared.

He was not far behind. As he approached the shallows, Grithnir and Arthad splashed forward, and grasping the sides of the boat, hauled it ashore beside their own.  Even after the boat was in place on the muddy bank, Henderch sat unmoving in the prow of the boat. Carefully setting aside his paddle, he cast a stricken glance backwards, then looked up at Grithnir and Arthad.

"I am afraid to move," Henderch said sorrowfully, "lest I injure them further."

Boromir lay on his side in Henderch's boat, his head wedged between Henderch's leg and the side of the boat. His face was pale and his eyes were closed.  There was a bruised and bleeding gash upon his forehead. Linhir sprawled atop Boromir, an arrow piercing his left side.

Grithnir nodded, unable for the moment to speak.

"Come," he said, when he had once more found his voice. "There may yet be life in them. Gently, now; Linhir must be moved first...."

***

"No, no!" cried Pippin, trembling with fear. "I can't say any more. I don't remember anything else."

"Look at me!" said Gandalf sternly.

Pippin hesitated, but then looked up, straight into the wizard's eyes. It had been so hard to tell Gandalf of the shameful thing he had done, and of the horror he had seen, the gruesome pain of being interrogated by... by....

He shuddered, but did not break eye contact with Gandalf. After a moment he felt his fear slip away and the sharp memory of the horror recede somewhat, so that he could think and breathe again. The bite of fear was still there, but it was bearable.

Gandalf's face softened and he smiled gently down upon the troubled face of the hobbit.  "All right, my lad!" he said kindly, laying a hand on Pippin's head. "Say no more! You have taken no harm. There is no lie in your eyes, as I feared. But he did not speak long with you. A fool, but an honest fool, you remain, Peregrin Took! Wiser ones might have done worse in such a pass...."

Gandalf looked at Pippin keenly, still keeping his hand upon the hobbit's head.  "Tell me now, my lad. You say you remember no more, but I sense you have not told me all you know. Was there not something more to be seen? Something that touched you closely? What more was revealed to you, which gives you such pain?"

Pippin was silent as he gazed up at Gandalf.

"You did see something more, did you not?" pressed the wizard.

The hobbit nodded mutely. Sorrow washed over him as he recalled the sight which had first caused him to catch his breath in alarm -- he had all but forgotten it in his terror, but now the memory returned, and with it a deep sense of loss, and reluctance to speak of it.

"What was it?" asked Gandalf gently.

Pippin hesitated, then turned away. Tears fell as he spoke in a low voice filled with anguish.  "I saw Boromir. He was... he was..."

Aragorn stepped forward and knelt beside Pippin, holding himself tense and silent.

"Tell me," Gandalf urged, yet more gently than before.

Pippin drew in a deep shuddering breath.  "I saw Boromir... dead. He looked dead!"

His voice rose to a wail, but he mastered it, and continued speaking rapidly, as if to get the words out as quickly as possible.

"He lay on the ground, in long grass -- there were others, too, lying beyond him, but I couldn't see them well. I... Boromir's face was dirty and bloodied. He had blood on his forehead and on his tunic. It was night, but the moon was shining down on him and I could see clearly. There were others there with him, men standing round him, weeping, and looking angry. One had a... a long arrow in his hand, like... like the ones the Orcs had that shot Boromir on Amon Hen...

Pippin paused and swallowed hard.  "Boromir's eyes were closed," he continued faintly.  "He was very pale, and he didn't move. I saw... I saw one of the men, a tall man, kneel beside him to kiss his face. Boromir still didn't move. He was so very still! I... tried to call to him, to speak to him in my mind because I couldn't say the words -- but he didn't hear me. He just lay there, still as death. The man spoke words over Boromir, but I couldn’t hear them. Then... then the man rubbed his face with his hand, and after a minute, he turned away. Then… then it was over, and I couldn't see any more. The stone went dark and... and... I saw the other things...."

Pippin shivered violently, and his voice faltered. His head drooped wearily.

"Come, Pippin," said Gandalf softly. He stooped, and lifting the hobbit gently, carried him over to his bed.  "Rest now, and be easy. Merry is here by your side, and the others are close by. You are safe with us."

"But… Boromir!" Pippin moaned. "What of Boromir? Just today we heard he was safe, and I was so happy! Now... now it seems it wasn't true, after all, and I shall have to get used to him being gone all over again!"

"I am sorry, Pippin," said Gandalf gravely. "I would comfort you if I could, but I fear that what you saw is altogether possible. There are many dangers in the world, and oft a great man is saved from one danger, to be felled by another. I wish it were otherwise."

"He was a great man, wasn't he?" sighed Pippin. He leaned against Merry, who put his arms around him and held him close.

"He was indeed," agreed Gandalf. "He will be missed."

"How is Pippin, then?" asked Aragorn softly, as Gandalf rejoined the group.

"He will take no lasting harm from his brush with peril, I think," replied the wizard. "He will recover and forget his fear after a time -- though his sorrow for Boromir runs deep."

"As does mine!" Aragorn sighed, contemplating the stone sphere which lay now upon the ground, covered with Gandalf's cloak.

"This stone is obviously one of the palantíri set at Orthanc by the kings of old," he continued thoughtfully. "It is equally obvious that the Enemy has one as well, and the two are linked through his influence. The Stones of Seeing were powerful tools in the hands of the Kings of Gondor -- and I wonder that the hobbit was able to use this one to such great effect, untrained as he is. I can understand why he might be drawn to see the Dark Tower and converse with the Enemy, who exerts great influence on this palantír... but why Boromir? How was Pippin able to find him in the wilderness, and see him so clearly?"

"I do not know the answer to this mystery," replied Gandalf, shaking his head. "It is surprising, to be sure. Perhaps his mind and heart are so attuned to Boromir that he was able to pick out that image from among all others and focus on it alone, before Sauron took notice of him."

"Do you think he saw truly, then? Is Boromir dead?"

"You know as well as I the lore of the ancient Men of Westernesse, and of the Stones of Seeing; what do you think?"

Aragorn's face was grave as he contemplated the question.  "The Stones of Seeing do not lie," he at last responded, shoulders sagging as if in defeat. "They reveal images of what is or what has been. There might be some error in the interpretation of what is revealed, but the images themselves are true."

Gandalf sighed heavily.

"Yes, there is room for error. But for all his young foolishness, the hobbit has great insight, and is keenly observant. The image of Boromir in the Stone was revealed at length and in great detail, which would have made a strong impression upon him. It may well be that there was a battle involving the Men of Gondor since you were parted from him, and it went ill for Boromir."

Gandalf lifted his head and his face took on an intense expression, as if he were listening to some faint sound upon the wind. He stood thus for a time, but at last, he sighed again, and turned back to Aragorn.

"I cannot tell you more, for it is not revealed to me to know what has happened to those who are so far away. I see more now than I once did, but still I cannot see all. Alas! I cannot shake the feeling that in this case, it may be true. I fear the worst -- that tragedy has befallen Boromir."

"Alas!" echoed Aragorn, and he covered his face with his hands.

***

Grithnir and Henderch waited in silent patience as Arthad gently cared for their wounded comrades. Though he was not fully trained, he had been apprenticed for a time to the healers as part of his combat training, and was capable of much when there were injured in need of care.

"What word, Arthad?" asked Grithnir, when Arthad finally rose from the side of Linhir. "Is there aught to be done for them?"

Arthad reached down and picked up the discarded black arrow which he had drawn from Dirhavel's body. He fingered the rough fletching thoughtfully as he spoke.  "Dirhavel is dead, alas! Even if we had been able to tend him on the spot there in the boat, it would have been no use, for the arrow took him in an instant."

"What of Linhir? He lives still; I heard you speaking together."

"Yes," sighed Arthad. "Linhir lives -- but his wound is mortal. He bleeds slowly, but there is no staunching the flow. The arrow has pierced some inner organ that is vital to life, and it cannot be repaired. If I remove the arrow, the flow of blood will quicken and he will be gone. For now, he lingers, clinging to life -- but his time is short."

"He knows this?"

Arthad nodded gravely, his eyes full of sadness.  "He knows. He would not allow the removal of the arrow, though it gives him some pain, knowing it is that which allows him to remain for a time."

"How long... before he leaves us, then?"

"I cannot say. It may be soon, or it may be several hours yet. He... he waits for Boromir. He wishes to take his leave of him."

Grithnir choked and hung his head in sorrow, tears coursing down his face.  Henderch turned away, angrily cursing the chance that had led them straight into the arms of the enemy, at such great cost.

"When will Boromir awaken?" asked Grithnir, his voice thick with tears.

"Soon, I think," answered Arthad. "He stirred as I tended his wound, though he lapsed back into sleep. The blow to his head knocked him senseless, but it will not lay him low for long."

Grithnir nodded gratefully. He gazed down at Boromir, who lay pale and still at his feet in the long grass. The moonlight shone full upon Boromir's face, and the cut on his forehead and the blood upon his face and tunic stood out in stark contrast in the bright light. Kneeling at Boromir's side, Grithnir leaned forward and gently kissed the sleeping man's brow -- but there was no response. Boromir was alive, but he lay pale and still, unmoving.

"Sleep now, my captain," said Grithnir softly. "Forget your sorrow and your pain while you can, for when you awaken, the burden and loss you will bear shall be heavy indeed! But I am here, and I will help you as I can, and as you allow...."

Sighing heavily, Grithnir covered his eyes for a moment, then rubbed his hand over his tearstained face. Rising, he spoke to Henderch.

"I shall take the first watch."

*****

Note: Some of the conversation between Pippin and Gandalf is taken directly from the text of the chapter "The Palantír" in TTT.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Boromir came up out of darkness into wakefulness. He lay quietly for a moment, trying to gather his scattered thoughts, recalling with disquiet the mounting tension of the day's journey upon the river, Dirhavel's sudden shout of warning, and the blow that had knocked Boromir forward into oblivion.

When the blow came, he thought at first that an arrow had struck him, but even as he fell forward, he realized it had come instead from a firm hand behind him, pushing him forward and down. Linhir! he thought, as cold fear settled in his heart -- for now he also recalled the heavy weight of a body slumping down upon his legs as he had lost consciousness.

Boromir sat up suddenly, now fully awake. His head swam dizzily, but he gave it a sharp shake, and his vision cleared and the tilting world settled. Grithnir, who had been standing close by, stooped quickly and knelt at his side.

"My lord!" he exclaimed with hoarse relief.

One look at Grithnir's face confirmed Boromir's worst fears.

"Tell me what has happened, Grithnir!" he demanded sharply. "Tell me -- who lives and who has fallen?"

Grithnir replied without hesitation, as if he had been waiting impatiently to relay the news and be done with it.

"Henderch and I are unharmed," he said, his voice strained. "Arthad also escaped unwounded. But Dirhavel is lost to us, taken by an arrow to the throat. Linhir...."

Here Grithnir sighed, but then pressed quickly on.  "Linhir lives -- but his wound is mortal. Arthad tells me that he bleeds slowly, but there is no staunching the flow. Linhir has forbidden us to remove the shaft, lest the flow of blood take him away before he is ready to depart. His time grows short."

Boromir closed his eyes.  It was a long moment before he found his voice again.

"Is... is he awake? Is he able to speak with me?"

"Yes. He awaits you."

"Alas!" Boromir cried, struggling to his feet. "Why did you not wake me sooner?"

"He would not allow it," replied Grithnir with a shake of his head, placing a steadying hand under Boromir's arm. "He said you would wake when your head had cleared, that you should not be disturbed until you returned on your own. He was very firm, in spite of his weakness."

Boromir sighed with heavy exasperation, and then smiled grimly.

"Even on his deathbed, he sees to my need first!" he exclaimed. "Very well, then; he need wait no longer. Lead the way, Grithnir, I will go to him quickly."

***

Linhir lay quietly peaceful, the moonlight bright upon his pale face. The arrow which had pierced his side and given him his death wound had been broken off at the shaft so that he could be wrapped warmly in blankets. His breathing was shallow but not labored, and his eyes were closed. As Boromir knelt beside him and kissed his brow, he slowly opened his eyes and smiled.

"Linhir..." said Boromir gruffly, his voice catching.

"Ah, good," Linhir said faintly, ignoring the look of pain on Boromir's face. "You are here. I am glad. Let me look at you -- are you well? Is there any dizziness from your wound? Your eyes seem clear and steady... a good sign...."

"Fear not for me, my healer," replied Boromir gently. "I have survived with little more than an ache in my head, it would seem, thanks to your quick thinking and my own hard skull. But look at you! You put yourself at risk to protect me, and see what has come of it!"

"I suspect I made an easy target in any case," replied Linhir calmly. "But I could not let all my care for the healing of your body go for naught, could I?"

"Perhaps not," Boromir agreed mournfully. "But I wish it had turned out otherwise!"

Reaching out, he smoothed back the hair from Linhir's face and tucked the blanket about him more securely.

"I do not regret that it has come to this," Linhir continued after a time. "My hour has come; I am ready to go. But you, Boromir? No... not you.  Your part is not yet finished... which is why it was important for me to see you safe and well; there is much yet to be done that only you can do, my boy."

"I feel the same -- thanks to you and your lecturing, my friend. Yet I regret that my future will no longer include you."

"Ah, but it will, Boromir -- if you do not forget me once I am gone."

"Never!" exclaimed Boromir. "Never," he repeated, more softly.

"Very well, then..."

Linhir fell silent and closed his eyes. Boromir watched him intently, marveling at the peaceful expression upon the healer's face.

"You should not have let me sleep so long!" Boromir said regretfully, when Linhir had once more opened his eyes. "I might have missed you, and I could not have borne that. I should have been awake, to sit with you and comfort you in your waiting.  Now our time together is shortened!"

"It was comfort enough, knowing you lived and would awaken in time, when your body should allow it," answered Linhir. "I had sufficient strength in me to hold myself back from the long journey, while I waited to take my leave of you...."

Linhir paused for a moment to gather his strength, before continuing his speech.  "Take care for a day or two," he went on.  "Head wounds are difficult, even for captains with hard heads such as yours... and mind those stitches...."

"I will take great care," grumbled Boromir, trying to sound light-hearted -- but failing. "And since I see Arthad hovering nearby with a critical eye upon me, I suspect you have given him orders to see that I do indeed take care."

"I have spoken with him," smiled Linhir. "He will provide aid as you need it. But you have no more need of a nursemaid, my captain; the remainder of your recovery is in your own capable hands."

"I am glad to hear it," Boromir answered. "Would that my weakness had left me sooner, so that this injury of yours might have been prevented! I want you back, safe and whole, pestering me with your needles and stitching, and your admonitions to have a care."

Boromir lifted Linhir's hand and placed it gently in his own, gripping it tightly. Linhir answered with a smile and a weak squeeze of Boromir's hand.

"I fear that is no longer a possibility," Linhir responded. "Even Boromir of Gondor at the peak of his strength is not strong enough to keep me from going where we must all go when that time comes. My final journey draws nigh."

"My life will not be the same without you," sighed Boromir.

"Fear not, my captain... We shall meet again."

Boromir could only nod in response, for his sorrow was great and his throat had closed with tears. He continued to sit in silence, Linhir's hand in his, until he heard a soft sigh from Linhir's lips.

"It is time..." he heard the healer say faintly.  "Give me your blessing...."

Leaning forward, Boromir kissed Linhir reverently on the forehead, and on both cheeks.  "Farewell, my father," he said softly. "You shall not be forgotten. Rest you well, now; you have earned your peace!"

"My lord..." breathed Linhir, drawing Boromir's hand to his lips. "My son...."

His eyes closed, his face relaxed, and he was gone.

Boromir slowly released his grasp of Linhir's hand, and placed it carefully upon his breast.  "Farewell!" he murmured softly. 

He rose stiffly, slowly, and walked away to the edge of the stream that flowed past their shelter towards the River. A tall willow tree drooped out over the water, its long leaves trailing mournfully in the current. Leaning against the tree, Boromir gave himself over to silent, bitter weeping.

From the window in the high chamber of the Hornburg, the Riders assembling on the green below looked small and far away, yet Halbarad could see them as clearly as if he stood in their midst. The time for departure was nigh, yet Aragorn had not yet stirred or made any move to descend to join them.

The two had come here alone together some hours ago, for Aragorn had felt the need to take thought, after receiving messages from Rivendell concerning what course his road might take. Lord Elrond had sent word through his own sons, who traveled with the Dúnedain of the North, and Halbarad himself bore a token and message from the Lady of Rivendell. The Dúnedain had ridden hard from the North to bring that word to Aragorn in Rohan; their coming in the dark of night had brought him great joy, but also trouble of mind. For now he must choose his road and haste was upon him -- but the choice could not be made in haste.

Halbarad turned from the window, taking breath to speak to Aragorn of the gathering of men for departure, but at the sight of his kinsman's drawn and haggard face, he held his tongue. Aragorn's use of the palantír to confront the Dark Lord himself and wrest control of the Stone to his own purposes had been a hard, bitter struggle, but Aragorn had claimed the mastery. As a result, he had learned much of events in the South and the East, of peril to Gondor unlooked-for, and the need for haste to bring aid to Minas Tirith.  It was this matter which now troubled him, as well as the weariness which passed only very slowly after his battle with Sauron.

Let him be alone and quiet a little longer, thought Halbarad. There is time enough yet for that.

After a time, Aragorn stirred and sighed.  "Do the Riders gather, Halbarad?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, but it is early yet," answered Halbarad. "Rest you now a bit longer, and gather your strength. I deem you saw much in the Stone to ponder out, before you make any decision concerning our road."

Aragorn nodded, and Halbarad followed his gaze to where the palantír now sat, wrapped in its covering cloth.

"Did you see aught of Boromir in the Stone?" Halbarad asked after a moment.

"No," replied Aragorn softly, his voice full of regret. "I sought him, I confess, albeit briefly. I dared not take the time to seek him out at length; there was much else of import to be seen and pondered, after regaining mastery of the Stone. Yet it would have been a comfort to see his face once more... yes, even though he be dead. It seems an age since last we were together."

"For me, even longer!" exclaimed Halbarad. "Nigh on four months it has been now, since we all traveled together from Rivendell, seeking in the wilderness confirmation of the destruction of the Nazgûl before the Ringbearer set out on his Quest."

Halbarad fell silent as he cast back in his memory to the short time he had spent with the Man of Gondor. Strain and caution there had been between them at first, but that had passed as they had learned to know one another better.  During that time, Halbarad had come to respect the proud and valiant Boromir, as he watched friendship blossom between the Man and Aragorn.

"He will be greatly missed by the Dúnedain of both North and South, if indeed he no longer lives," said Halbarad thoughtfully. "Do you believe him to be dead, Aragorn?"

Aragorn's face was troubled as he considered the question.  "I know not what to think. Gandalf believes it quite possible that he has not survived, from what the hobbit's vision in the Stone has revealed. It may well be so -- and a great loss to us all, as you say! Yet, now that I have mastered the Stone and seen for myself its use, and how it reveals the images of events, it may also be that what Pippin saw could hold several meanings.  Indeed, Gandalf agreed it might be so. The Stone reveals that which is true, but how to interpret it rightly is another matter."

Aragorn sighed heavily, and the sound of the sigh was loud in the utter stillness of the chamber.  "I have little hope," he continued, "that Boromir might still be alive -- yet even a little hope remaining is enough. He has cheated death before."

Halbarad nodded. "Then I, too, shall hope that Boromir and I might meet again one day -- perhaps even in battle, before the gates of his City. For I deem that is where we go now, by whatever road you decide. Have you made your choice as yet?"

"Not yet," answered Aragorn. "I would speak first with King Théoden, before I finally choose. Are you with me, Halbarad, whatever I decide?"

"Of course! Do you doubt it?"

"Nay," Aragorn smiled, and momentarily the weariness in his face was banished. "I ask only so that I might hear the certainty of your response and take comfort in it. Come then, let us go down, ere they must send for us."

***

The task of caring for the dead was both sorrowful and satisfying -- sorrowful, because it marked the end of long friendships, of love and mutual respect; satisfying, because it prolonged the final parting and gave the living one last opportunity to honor friend and comrade.

"We shall go on foot from here," Boromir had announced, after careful deliberation over the course of what remained of the night. "The river passage is still dangerous for some miles yet, and the peril grows before the greater safety of the isle of Cair Andros can be reached. I will not risk losing any more of you to arrows out of the darkness! We will leave the boats behind and proceed on foot southwards until we meet the Great West Road. As for our fallen comrades --" Boromir sighed heavily. "We shall lay them to rest here, in fashion befitting heroes of Gondor fallen far from home. It is a pleasant enough place. It is hard to leave them behind, but it would serve no good purpose to bear them with us, for the way is difficult enough on foot, and with me as a likely burden for you, if my weakness continues."

Two graves were dug in the soft earth on a rise overlooking the willow-lined stream which flowed towards the Anduin. The bodies of Linhir and Dirhavel were moved with great care and tenderness to be laid in the earth. Once the bodies were in place, the ritual of laying them out in seemly fashion began in reverent and mournful silence.

As limbs were straightened, hair combed, and bodies wrapped neatly in cloaks to cover wounds, the men found themselves recalling aloud some special memory they had of a brave deed done by Dirhavel or a kind word spoken by Linhir. They laughed quietly over remembered jokes that had been told around the fire, even as they wept tears of regret that such times would now remain only in memory. They were not ashamed of their tears or of their own fond smiles, nor did they hurry their task, for to hurry was to dishonor their friends who were gone and deny themselves a healing farewell.

When all was done to their satisfaction, Boromir chose a token from each of the dead as a keepsake of remembrance. Since neither man had any family remaining to whom such a token might be given, the tokens would be kept by the one who had been closest to the fallen man in life.

To Henderch, Boromir gave the silver clasp from Dirhavel's cloak, which was finely wrought with a design resembling a map. Henderch and Dirhavel had been close friends, traveling many miles together as scouts for the armies of Gondor. Henderch accepted the clasp gladly, though not without tears.

Boromir hesitated over what to choose for himself as a remembrance of his friend and counselor, Linhir.  At length, he reached for the packet of needles that had been the tools of Linhir's craft.

"His knife is exceedingly fine," Boromir explained, "made especially for him to serve as both tool and weapon; I have always admired it, even as a lad. But no man should be without his chosen weapon, even in death. I shall take that which recalls to me most clearly his deeds in life."

Grithnir stepped forward and, picking up the sword and sheath which lay at Dirhavel's breast, he held it out to Boromir.

"It is true that no man should be without his weapon," he said gravely. "That holds true for the living, as well. I have vowed to be your sword and shield until your own broken sword can be repaired, but Dirhavel no longer has need of this weapon, and he will rest the easier knowing his lord will bear it in his need."

"Nay, it is his; it should stay with him," objected Boromir firmly.

"He has his bow, lord," countered Henderch. "That was ever his weapon of choice. He will not miss the blade."

"Take the sword, I beg you," urged Grithnir. "I fear you will need it, ere long. It is only a standard soldier's sword, one-handed and lighter than your own which is broken -- but that might serve you well, until your arm regains its full strength."

Boromir hesitated, but only for a moment.  "Very well," he agreed, stretching out his hand for the sword. "No doubt you are right in this. Perhaps I may even have the strength to wield it by the time the need is upon me."

Still holding the sword to his breast, Boromir knelt, and with Grithnir helping to support him, he leaned forward to kiss the brow of each of the men, first Dirhavel, then Linhir. When he spoke, his voice was gruff with suppressed emotion.

"Farewell, my brother! Farewell, my father! Rest easy; sleep in peace until that day when we join you in that place where you have gone. While we remain here among the living, you shall not be forgotten."

As he rose to his feet, Boromir motioned with his hand to Henderch and Arthad, who stood ready to lay an upended boat over the top of each grave, sinking the boats into the soil so that the bodies were sealed beneath.

"Farewell," said Boromir once more, before turning and walking slowly away. His tears fell freely and he made no move to wipe them away. He glanced back only once, and seeing how peaceful the grey boats appeared in the soft morning light, he was comforted.

Boromir lifted a hand to shade his eyes against the midday sun and gazed out across marshy grasslands to the White Mountains looming up dark against the southern sky. Close enough to touch, they seemed, though Boromir knew many leagues yet lay between him and the road that hugged the forested slopes of the Ered Nimrais.

They had managed little more than five leagues in the two days since they had left the graveside of their lost companions. The fens were difficult to traverse on foot, even for a man who was not wounded and weary, and Boromir was both. He tired easily, requiring frequent stops for rest, and his wounds troubled him, for the ground was uneven and he stumbled often.

Yet their progress forward was steady, if slow, and though Boromir's heart cried out within him that delay could mean failure and death for those he loved, he knew they could go no faster. He was comforted to have Grithnir and Arthad at his side to steady him when he stumbled, and Henderch, who was skilled at guiding them along the firmest and swiftest path through the fen.

"In spite of the meandering path we have taken traversing the marshes, we are not astray," said Henderch at Boromir's shoulder. "The beacon-hill of Nardol is there before us as our guide; to reach the West Road at that point we must turn slightly to the east from here. Another league will see us to the edge of the marshland and the crossing of the last river tributary into the plain of Anórien -- twenty leagues beyond that lies the Road. We can reach the river by evening; if we make camp there for the night, we can make the crossing in daylight. Our journey will be swifter after that, for the grassland will grow more dry and firm as we draw nigh the mountains."

Boromir looked where Henderch pointed, and could discern a ribbon of bright water in the distance which flowed across their path. Grithnir, standing beside him, eyed the distance doubtfully.

"Another league?" he muttered, glancing sideways at Boromir.

Boromir grinned.  "Only a league!" he answered. "I can manage that much more today, Grithnir. Let us put these marshlands behind us, and then I shall rest, I promise you!"

***

Hirgon's booted feet rang loudly on the marbled floor of the Great Hall, but he took no pains to quiet his steps. He strode forward confidently, knowing he was expected and even welcomed. It was his duty to the Lord Denethor not to waste time with that which was secondary to the task at hand -- that task being haste to report, and haste to depart upon whatever errand the Steward might require of him.

"Welcome, Hirgon, errand-rider of Gondor," said Denethor as he approached. "I thank you for coming with all speed."

Hirgon bowed low before the Steward, but hesitated as he caught sight of what lay upon Denethor's lap.

"I see," he said gravely, nodding slowly. "So it has come to this -- the Red Arrow, token of desperate war! Then that battle which we have long feared has come upon us at last?

"It comes swiftly now," answered Denethor, "but it is not yet here. Little good will it do us, however, to call for aid when the enemy is already at the door. The days grow short, but we have a little time yet to draw our allies to our side before it be too late."

Rising, Denethor stepped forward and handed the arrow to Hirgon. It was black-feathered and barbed with steel, and the tip was painted red -- ordinary enough in appearance, but the message it represented was a summons of the most desperate kind.

"Much of what I will tell you now is known to you, Hirgon," continued Denethor, "for you have taken a great part in many of my preparations by carrying my messages, and you are well aware of all the news and rumor of war leading up to this summons. You were one of the errand-riders sent out with messages to the lords of Gondor after the southern beacons were lit, alerting those in the southern fiefs to prepare for imminent war; you were one who returned to me with assurances from those lords that they would be within these walls by the date set."

As he spoke, Denethor paced slowly back and forth in front of Hirgon, his head lowered as if in deep thought. Now he straightened and glanced keenly at the errand-rider, touching the fletching on the arrow with a long finger.

"I do not dispatch the Red Arrow lightly!" Denethor said solemnly. "But now more than ever does Gondor rely upon our ancient bond and alliance with Rohan. For it seems we cannot expect full aid from the South, which is threatened now from another direction. Long have I feared this, and now it comes to pass! This very evening I have received news of a fleet from Umbar which approaches."

"This is dire news!" Hirgon cried. "Such a force will certainly draw off much needed support from the cities of the South; the men they might have sent to our succor must now defend the coastlands and their own cities from attack. Our numbers will be divided, now when we are most in need of great strength!"

"Indeed!" replied Denethor. "The Dark Lord has many under his sway, while our allies are few and distant. But such as we have, we will use. Listen carefully now, and hear the message that shall accompany this token of war. This is what you must say to Théoden:

"I do not issue any command, yet I beg him to remember old friendship and oaths long spoken. Tell him that I judge the time has come that the strong arms of the Rohirrim should be within my walls, for his own good. The kings of the East ride to the service of Mordor, and in the North there is skirmish and rumor of war. The Haradrim move in the South, and fear has fallen on all our coastlands; little aid will come to us now from those who are nigh. Tell Théoden this, and tell him to make haste -- for it is here, in front of these walls, that the doom of our time will be decided. I ask for all his strength and speed, lest Gondor fall at last." **

"I hear you, my lord," answered Hirgon with a bow. "I shall be your emissary before Théoden, and he will learn of our great need."

Denethor gave a short, sharp nod of satisfaction.  "Go, then. Take one or two companions with you, so that the errand might not fail should one of you come to harm; and seek out Théoden in Rohan with all speed. Battles have been fought upon his own borders, and it may be that he will not be found in Edoras."

"I will find him, lord, wherever he might be. Fear not! And the northern beacons, my lord? Shall I take word to the first post as I go that the beacons be lit and the few who remain in Anórien warned?"

"Nay, word has already been sent, but if you are swift, you shall outride the beacon fires."

Without another word, Hirgon bowed and strode from the Hall.

***

Boromir and his men made their camp atop a rise overlooking the last branch of the Entwash which lay between them and the grasslands of Anórien; they would cross on the morrow at the narrowest fording place. The river here was wider than the other branches of water meandering through the reed-choked marshes of the fen, but slow-moving and shallow enough that it would not be difficult to cross, even for a wounded man.

Boromir leaned back against an outcropping of stone and gazed up at the sky to watch the moon rise. The stars shown out clearly, with only the light of the nearly-full moon to contest their brilliance. At Boromir's direction, no fire had been made in the camp, lest they be revealed to a watchful enemy who might be lurking in the wide flat lands that surrounded them.

Twelve days it had been since the breaking of the Fellowship, twelve days since he had last seen Frodo. Where was he now, Boromir wondered, in the vast empty lands beyond the wide water of the Anduin? Had he been discovered and the Ring taken? Was the Nameless One even now moving against Gondor?

Grimacing at his own gloomy thoughts, Boromir took a deep breath of night air to steady himself. He immediately felt better. This was Gondor, his own country, and there was a scent to it that was unique -- the air off the river, the new flowers in the grass still warm from the day's sunlight, the wind off the distant mountains which brought a faint smell of pine and snow on the heights. It was as refreshing as cold water to a thirsty man, and as calming as a stern lecture from a confident captain assured of victory. He had missed this special fragrance of Gondor, not even realizing it existed until he had nearly lost it.

Do not lose hope so easily! he chided himself. Have you not as yet learned that lesson? Loss of hope will lead only to darkness and despair, and you have had enough of that for a lifetime! Have a little faith in the resourcefulness of halflings -- you now know their strength! And do not fear the coming battle before it is fought. That is what led you to fall in the first place, to stretch out your hand to the Ring, thinking It would make you stronger even than the Dark Lord! Yes, the lord of Mordor is strong, very strong, even without the Ring, and he will make his move soon -- but he will not have it all his own way. Not with Gondor to stem the tide of battle. And I am here now. Though my arm is weak and my strength half what it might be, I will stand with my people and fight with them. I shall not come too late -- I shall not!

Even as he made the firm vow to himself, and felt a thrill as his heart was strengthened by it, his eye caught a flash of light in the sky that was neither the moon nor starlight.

"What is that light so high on the horizon?" wondered Arthad in a worried voice. "It is red, like fire on the mountain, and comes from the southeast, from the direction of Minas Tirith."

"The moon is bright, but not yet high enough to cast light upon the snows on the heights, or we might be able to tell better what manner of light it is," replied Henderch thoughtfully.

"Fire on the mountain," murmured Boromir slowly, and his breath caught in his throat. "Wait now and see...."

They waited and watched as the light grew and steadied, a tiny blaze of fire in the darkness. Then, suddenly, a second light flared and blossomed, to join the first; yet this one seemed larger, as if it came closer.

"It is the beacons," cried Boromir, struggling to rise. "The signal beacons are lit, calling Gondor to war!"

Beside him Grithnir gasped and Arthad leapt to his feet.

"The beacons lit!" Henderch exclaimed. "Then we are too late! The war has begun and we come too late!"

"No!" Boromir stretched out a cautioning hand to each of his men and shook his head firmly, yet without taking his eyes from the blazing signal fires.

"No, we are not late, not yet. My father is forward-seeing and has his finger upon every source of news. He would not light the beacons as a last resort, with war already upon him. Nay, he sends word now while there is time to all who remain outside, to get behind the walls of the City while they may. He sends for Rohan now while time yet remains for the muster of horses and men. But that time is short nonetheless."

Boromir continued to watch the flames as they leapt from hilltop to hilltop, beacon-tower answering beacon-tower westwards towards the border of Rohan.

"The Dark Lord makes his move," Boromir said slowly and steadily, "but Denethor is aware of him, and has made his own move to counter that of Mordor. Rohan will not forsake us! And I am here now; late, but not too late! I will come to Minas Tirith soon, and then we shall see. Though my arm is weak and my strength half what it should be, I will stand with my people and fight with them."

Boromir's face in the moonlight was set with a look of such resolution that his men fell silent in awe of him.

"I shall not come too late," vowed Boromir. "I shall not!"

*****

**Note:  Denethor's message for Rohan is taken (with only a few changes) from the words Hirgon spoke to Théoden in "The Muster of Rohan" (ROTK).

"... I will say this: the rule of no realm is mine, neither of Gondor nor any other, great or small."

Though spoken quietly and calmly, Gandalf's words rang in the hall and gave Dûrlin, standing in attendance upon his lord the Steward, cause to glance keenly at Denethor to watch for his reaction to the stern declaration.

"All worthy things that are in peril as the world now stands, those are my care," continued the wizard. "And for my part, I shall not wholly fail of my task, though Gondor should perish, if anything passes through this night that can still grow fair or bear fruit and flower again in days to come. For I also am a steward. Did you not know?"

With that he turned and strode from the Hall with the halfling running at his side.**

Denethor watched them go, still and silent as one of the statues lining the length of the vast chamber. Not until the polished metal door at the far end of the Hall had closed, and the echoes of that closing had diminished, did Denethor stir.

"I know of your stewardship, my lord Mithrandir," replied Denethor calmly and without anger. "May you succeed in the burdensome and difficult task set before you. Yet I repeat: I shall not be your tool. I am lord here in Gondor, and where your stewardship touches upon mine, I shall not give way. I alone know what is best for the care and saving of my people, and it shall be done according to my own design, with the knowledge I possess of what comes to us from the East.

"Your duty to other realms is worthy and necessary, but it will do those realms little good if Gondor should perish -- at Gondor's passing, the night you hope to prevent shall surely fall. Bulwark of the West are we, and all peoples shall be imperiled should we fail at last. You know this, or you would not have come here, to the place where the hammer will fall hardest and soonest."

Denethor abruptly slumped in his chair, as if all strength had suddenly been drained from him.

"Alas for Boromir!" he cried. "Alas that he should be lost to us, now when the strong Sword Arm of the White Tower would avail us most!"

Dûrlin leaned forward and laid a light hand upon Denethor's arm. Denethor allowed the touch, and seemed to derive some small comfort from it.

"Is it certain Boromir is lost, then?" asked Dûrlin hesitantly. "The halfling spoke of the news that Boromir had been found by Grithnir and his men, and was recovering from his wounds..."

"And what of the halfling's vision?" replied Denethor testily. "The vision of Boromir dead and the men with him mourning? It is unclear whence came that vision, for he spoke cautiously of the matter -- at Mithrandir's instruction, no doubt -- but I deem it to be truth and no deception. I know something of such visions, and they do not lie. Did you not notice, even Mithrandir was reluctant to gainsay the halfling's pronouncement of Boromir's loss? My son was dear to him, there is no doubt of that; he would cling to hope if he could, this halfling, and so would Mithrandir. That they do not, is significant to me."

Denethor rose, and turned towards one of the tall north-facing windows upon his left. The brightening light of morning shone revealingly upon his grief-lined face.

"There is no safe road left for him to come to me," Denethor murmured. "Even if he lives, his coming will be too late. All roads are closed. But he cannot come, for he is lost to me. I know it in my heart."

"Alas!" sighed Dûrlin. "Yet I cannot help feeling some small hope for my lord's return, though it seem impossible. Visions are not the same as seeing the event with the eye, and even such little hope brings comfort in the darkness of night."

"Do you think if Boromir were alive, I would not know of it in my heart of hearts?" demanded Denethor tersely.

"I know not, Lord," answered Dûrlin. "Your cares are many, and it is oft hard to see the light for the darkness that presses. Perhaps I am in error to hold out for hope, but I am a simple, practical man, and more wont to think simply. He may yet come."

"You are no simple man, Dûrlin," Denethor said with a faint smile. "Believe as you will, if it comforts you. I want no comfort that has its roots in doubt. I do not believe Boromir lives, and all my hopes now lie with his brother."

Denethor bowed his head; then, turning away from the window, he gestured towards the now closed door through which Gandalf and Pippin had exited.

"Let it be known that Mithrandir is to be allowed to come before me at any time, save only when I am resting. I sense there is news of great import which he has yet to share, that may be of use to me in ordering the defense of the City. You, Dûrlin, see personally to the needs of the halfling when the day is done; he spoke at length of his lost friend -- my Boromir! -- and his memories will haunt him keenly. Do I not know what pain the dark night brings? He will know that pain come evening. Comfort him if you can."

"I will do so with pleasure, my lord Steward."

"Go now about your daily duties. I shall call for you should I have any need."

Turning back to his chair, Denethor picked up the two shards of the cloven horn that he had laid aside when accepting Pippin's offered sword.

"Take with you Boromir's horn and put it away," he said, thrusting the artifact into Dûrlin's hands. "It cannot bring him back, and I no longer wish to see it."

***

Faramir was pleased with the ready state of the defenses at the fortress of Cair Andros, despite his preoccupied and somber mood. The ramparts were tall and strong, the watchmen upon the bastion well-placed and alert, and the men-at-arms were there in force. The island keep was vital to the defense of Gondor, for it guarded one of the few places on the River Anduin where an army from the East could safely cross in strength. It was therefore kept well-fortified on all sides, and heavily garrisoned with fighting men.

It was also here at Cair Andros that boats were kept for those who had errands upon the River. On the western shore, a picket of horses was kept in readiness for the use of Gondor's message riders and the Rangers who passed between Ithilien and Minas Tirith.

Faramir and his company had arrived that very afternoon, returning from their errand to Ithilien; they awaited now only the cover of darkness to begin the next leg of their journey. With a few chosen men, Faramir would be making his way to Minas Tirith to report to Denethor all that had occurred in Ithilien concerning his errand and the movements of the Enemy's allies; the rest of the company was to head southwards to reinforce the garrison at the fords of Osgiliath.

Standing atop the tallest rampart of the fortress, Faramir gazed south and west to the hill of Amon Dîn, darkening now at the onset of dusk. There but a day ago, the beacon fires had burned brightly, alerting all who were within view that the time for war was at hand.

Westward he cast his eye, knowing that the lighting of the beacons would have been accompanied by the sending of other messages of equal urgency. No doubt the Red Arrow was even now being sped on its way to Rohan, to bring Gondor's closest allies tidings of great need. Would they come? Would they come in time?

Eastward he turned, and observed with grave disquiet that even now the stars were being blotted out by the encroaching darkness seeping from Mordor -- another signal of imminent war. All that day as they traveled, the twilight had followed them. Ithilien would soon be under cover of darkness, and Faramir had no hope it would stop there; soon all the western lands upon the borders of Mordor would be in shadow. The Dark Lord's prepared assault was under way.

Northwards his eye strayed, reluctantly, and Faramir sighed heavily. Alas for Boromir, who had gone into the North and would now never return! Faramir sighed again, as he recalled with sorrow the tale of Boromir's fall, as told by the halfling Frodo.

Alas! he thought to himself. How we have need of you, Boromir! The words I spoke of you to Frodo were true: "a man of prowess, and for that he was accounted the best man in Gondor. And very valiant indeed he was: no heir of Minas Tirith has for long years been so hardy in toil, so onward into battle, or blown a mightier note on the Great Horn." But you will toil thus no more, nor blow again that mighty note, alas!

The scrape of a foot on stone caused him to turn, and he saw Mablung mounting the stair from the lower reaches of the keep.

"All is arranged, my Captain," Mablung announced as he approached. "There are horses for four men at the ready; the remaining mounts are out upon other urgent business."

"It is enough," replied Faramir. "You shall ride with me, as well as Damrod and Anborn. The others will go on foot to Osgiliath as planned. I will place Beregar in command, and conduct a final briefing with him before we depart. Are the horses fresh, or have they been ridden hard recently? I must hasten to Minas Tirith without delay, and it will not do to have a mount that is spent."

"The horses are fresh," confirmed Mablung. "Rodnor, in charge of the picket, assures me they are the finest of mounts and well-rested. He has been holding these horses in reserve, knowing you would have need of them upon your return from Ithilien."

"He has anticipated my need," answered Faramir, satisfied. "A trustworthy man is Rodnor. He had early word of the loss of Boromir; he knew of it from Halmir of the border patrol, who brought to my father the shard of horn found upon the northern borders. Yet he said nothing of it to anyone but me -- he spoke of it when last we passed this way, journeying to Ithilien, but promised to keep the matter to himself. He knew the danger of despair which results from a rumor broadcast too soon."

"Yet the rumor of Boromir's loss will have gone abroad by now, I should think," Mablung said, "whether an announcement has been made or no."

"No doubt," sighed Faramir. "It is difficult to keep such news quiet, when all look for his coming and feel keenly his long absence."

"He is sorely missed," said Mablung quietly. "All the more because his duties fall upon shoulders already bowed down with many cares."

Faramir smiled warmly as he clapped Mablung on the shoulder.

"Fear not, Mablung!" Faramir's tone was reassuring, even as his glance was rueful. "I am not yet in danger of toppling from the weight of my brother's duties. My shoulders are broad enough to carry the load of two if that is what is required of me. I do not begrudge it, though I miss having him here to share it!"

They stood together in silence for a time, gazing at the darkening sky to the East. The setting sun shone red upon the gathering gloom, yet could not penetrate the darkeness with its waning light.

"The twilight from the Black Land approaches steadily," observed Mablung. "Mordor is on the move, and that will prove ill for the halflings so recently our guests -- they will be walking into certain danger."

"They knew of that danger ere they ever began," replied Faramir. "Yet their errand is as important as any in these days, if not more important! It cannot be set aside, merely because of the danger involved."

"You will tell your father of this meeting?"

"Of course! If nothing else, I must tell him that I have disobeyed him by letting these travelers walk unhindered and unguarded, against the orders he set for me for the protection of our lands. Perhaps he will approve my decision when he hears of the circumstances -- or, perhaps not! We shall see. Yet though he disapprove, I do not regret the choice I have made. I will stand by it. There is also the matter of Boromir to be told him; any news from one who traveled with my brother must be reported, though it increase our sorrow."

Yet some things there are which ought not to be spoken of openly, thought Faramir, turning his back on the enveloping shadow. May the Valar grant me wisdom! Father must be told of all that has passed, for the proper deployment of our defenses and the full tale of Boromir's quest and journey -- yet what shall I tell him of Isildur's Bane?

*****

**Author's note: Gandalf's words to Denethor are quoted directly from the chapter "Minas Tirith" (ROTK).

"How much further, Henderch?" asked Boromir, eyeing the undulating grasslands stretching out before them in all directions. It was like looking out over a tossing sea of brown and green, where the waves were tall stands of last year's wind-blown grasses touched with new spring growth. Here and there the landscape was broken by small copses of trees crowning the grassy heights and gentle swells of the land, or dotting green slopes with isolated shade -- openings of hardy oak and slender birch, or solitary willows growing beside a watercourse hidden amidst the tall grass.

"We have managed almost two leagues so far today," replied Henderch respectfully. "If we continue at this pace we ought to cover at least one more before setting camp. Another fifteen leagues over the course of three days should see us reaching the Road."

Boromir gazed at Henderch for a long moment, then threw back his head and laughed.

"In other words," he grinned, "we are a league further along than we were the last time I asked you that question. Forgive me, Henderch! I am like the hound that has caught the scent, or a stallion knowing the stable is near after a long journey -- home is before me, and I am eager to arrive! But I shall try to curb my impatience, for I know it is my own weakness which keeps us from making better time."

"You speak ever of your weakness, yet three leagues in a day is no mean feat for a man who still recovers from grave wounds," declared Grithnir stoutly. "And you are recovering well, remarkably so!"

"Indeed, Grithnir! I could manage more than three leagues, perhaps, if Arthad would allow it," commented Boromir, giving Arthad an amused sidelong glance. His implied query was met with a sudden stern look from Arthad in response.

"But no!" Boromir continued smoothly, his face now lit with a smile. "He watches me as carefully as Linhir ever did, and gives me as little room to test myself -- or admittedly, to overextend myself."

"There is little use in overtaxing yourself, my lord," Arthad replied calmly. "You are setting yourself a good even pace, in spite of your impatience, and your healing is not impaired in spite of the need for such continued exertion. Though you are loath to admit it, I know this journey wearies you. And I know well that your questions on our progress are mere ploys to stop and recover your breath without having to admit you require rest!"

Boromir laughed again as he lowered himself gingerly to the ground.  "Well then, Arthad, since I am found out, let us sit and rest a bit longer. I would manage this next league without falling from weariness!"

***

After resting, they continued on their way, treading carefully through grass that in places reached as high as Boromir's shoulder. Though they had left the meads and wetlands of the Entwash behind, the going was still difficult. The ground, while firmer, now gradually rose in ever-increasing slopes and inclines towards the distant foothills, dusky blue against the indigo of the snow-capped mountains rising up behind.

Boromir walked with care, for his legs were weak and wont to betray him. When he least expected it, his legs would tremble, a knee would buckle, and he would stumble. He had actually fallen only once, but it was a fall he did not wish to repeat -- not only for the pain the jolting tumble would cause him, but also for the blow his pride would suffer at being helped to his feet by solicitous and conciliatory comrades.

Progress forward was gradual, but for all his sense of urgency and need to reach home, Boromir could not help but be grateful for the opportunity being presented him. Never before had he traveled this part of his country on foot, and the experience was worth every slow, plodding moment.

He felt like he was seeing the land through new eyes -- eyes that had almost closed in death, but were now open again, unexpectedly awake and capable of seeing all things differently and afresh.

It gave him a strange feeling, as he found himself noticing the world around him as if for the first time. Budding flowers like stars grew in the bright new grass, sprouting up green and fresh through the old grass of winter lying dry, brown, and flattened by the wind. Lark, thrush and finch called to one another in the open spaces, while other small birds rose up twittering from the trees as the men passed beneath, then circled and resettled after they had passed by. The wind sighed in the long grass, bringing with it scents from afar, of water and earth and flowering shrub. The buzzing sound of insects filled the air, and butterflies fluttered up out of the grass as the small company approached to alight upon Boromir's sleeve.

The feeling of wonderment remained with him throughout the day and lent him sufficient energy and easing of his spirit that he was able to travel further and with less pain than he had since his wounding.  But he grew weary at last, and Grithnir -- ever watchful of his captain's mood -- recognized by the droop of his shoulders that it was time to call a halt for the day.

They set their camp upon the crest of a gentle hill, in a copse of trees which opened out southwards with a view of the mountains, now dark in the approaching dusk of evening.

Arthad checked Boromir over to make certain that the day's exertion had not been too much for him, while Grithnir and Henderch meted out the evening meal from the supplies they carried in wallets strapped to their belts. The food was getting low, but there was sufficient for a few more days, at least, without having to resort to hunting. Boromir supplemented his portion with a few bites of lembas which Legolas had left with him. He would have shared with his comrades, but they would not hear of it; convinced that Boromir's rapid recovery was due in part to the benefits of the Elven bread, they made it clear that he was to keep it for himself and make it last as long as possible.

Boromir sat at ease at the edge of the hill and looked out upon the stars in the night sky. The fire behind him was turfed down but still glowing, and he could feel the warmth of it on his back.

A pale gleam of yellow at the edge of his boot caught his eye. Stretching out his hand, he plucked a softly golden flower shaped like a small bell that had been caught in the laces.

"Alfirin," he murmured to himself, twirling the wee blossom in his fingers. "Alfirin, which blooms early before all other flowers in Gondor and carpets the lawns of Lebennin as well as the fields of Anórien. If Faramir were here, he would remind me that the name means 'immortal' -- would that it were so! At least then one fair thing of Gondor might survive the coming onslaught."

He held the flower to his nose; a faint scent of the fields from which it came still clung to it.  Boromir smiled suddenly.  Listen to me! he thought, amazed at himself. Where are such musings coming from? Such thoughts are what might come from the lips of Faramir, worthy Captain of Ithilien, more than from Boromir, proud Sword Arm of the White Tower! What would Faramir think to see me behaving in such a way? Surely he would wonder what has happened to that duty-bound brother of his, who of old had no time for frivolous pursuits such as smelling flowers and gazing at stars -- only time for the business of war!

Boromir sighed and touched lightly the sword of Dirhavel strapped at his side.  That stern warrior is still here, he mused. Yet the more thoughtful man is also here, now -- a man I do not yet know well, who begins to see more worth than before in the fair, quiet things of the world. It would seem that even a foolish, proud man can learn to open his eyes and see things anew, when he has stared his own folly in the face and survived it. Yes, Faramir would marvel at such a change -- but he will be glad of it!

"War is still my business!" Boromir said aloud, but softly, so that the others did not hear him speak. "And I would be about that business, yet I know I can do little more for the coming battle than I am already doing. I may as well take what comfort I can in smelling a flower or gazing at the stars, for it does indeed do something for the spirit which is hard to discount. May it aid me in being ready in both body and mind for that time when I must fight at last!"

He lifted his eyes to the skies once more. His thoughts turned again to Faramir, and his eye was unconsciously drawn eastward, towards Ithilien.

But there were no stars in the eastern sky; only darkness, as if a bank of cloud had risen to cover them. Even as he watched, more stars were eaten up by the darkness, as it moved inexorably westwards. The birds in the nearby trees rustled uneasily and fell silent, and the humming of night insects died away. There was no sound in the land but the mournful voice of wind in dry grass, as if the approaching shadow was quelling the sound of life even as it blotted out the lights in the sky.

Henderch, alert to any change in the wind or the sky, came and knelt beside Boromir.  "What is that cloud, which shadows the night so swiftly?" he asked, concerned. "Are we in for a storm, perhaps? Yet it is like no storm cloud I have ever seen before. The birds are silent now -- I do believe they fear whatever this is that comes."

Boromir's face was grave as he struggled to his feet, the wilted blossom of alfirin falling to the ground, unnoticed.

"They are right to fear it," he growled. "I fear it also! It is a storm of the Enemy’s making, I deem -- some darkness he has prepared that will aid him in the coming battle. His assault on Gondor is indeed under way!"

With a flick of his thumb, Pippin reached up and unfastened the shutter, and opening it, leaned far out across the deep sill of the casement.  He had done the same that morning, after his arrival in the Citadel and his meeting with the old Steward -- how long ago it seemed now!

The morning air had been clear and the view fine: the white walls of the City below him, the mist-shrouded curve of the River beyond the Pelennor, and northward, the Emyn Muil and the Falls of Rauros, glinting on the edge of sight.  It had been a compelling scene, but now, nothing was visible.  The night was dark and the lights of the City were dimmed, by order of the Steward.  The sky seemed overcast; there were no stars to be seen and no moon shone, although Pippin knew it should have appeared by now, full and bright.

He sighed and closed the shutter.  Climbing down from the bench upon which he had stood to look out, Pippin paused in the middle of the room and contemplated the curtained alcove where the bed was set.  He was weary, and wondered if he should attempt sleep, but he still felt restless after the events of the day, and knew that sleep would not come easily with so much on his mind.  He was worn out with excitement and tension.  His head ached from tiredness, and his legs from journeying up and down on the steep, cobbled streets and stairways of the City.

But his heart ached the more.

Pippin was lonely, and the reality of his loneliness smote him like a physical blow.  He missed Merry keenly, and Frodo and Sam, and the others -- but worst of all now was the pain in his heart for Boromir.  Here in Boromir's city among Boromir's people, Pippin had been constantly reminded of the Man who had been his friend, and it was impossible not to think of him and mourn his loss anew.

Indeed, much of the early part of the morning had been spent recalling for Boromir's father every detail of the attack that had wounded his son and left Pippin and Merry prisoners of the Orcs.   Now that he was quiet and alone, the memory of it was difficult for Pippin to dismiss.

When first he had laid eyes on the lord Denethor, Pippin had been struck by his resemblance to Aragorn.  Yet the more time he spent with the Steward, the less he saw of the Ranger and the more he saw of Boromir.  Denethor, Boromir's father, was much like him in looks, in timbre of voice, and in lordly manner.

The Steward had raked him with questions concerning the battle and Pippin's vision of Boromir dead.  That vision in the palantír had shattered the hobbit's hope of ever seeing Boromir again -- hope that had just begun to return after hearing news from Treebeard of Boromir's survival, despite his wounding.  Denethor, too, had seemed to take the vision as final confirmation of something long suspected, and the palpable grief that hung over him had settled on Pippin, and never fully left him, in spite of the excitement of the long day that followed.

When speaking of his vision to the Steward, Pippin had known better than to mention the palantír, realizing it was a thing that Gandalf wished to be kept secret -- yet he had wondered if the old lord knew or guessed what was behind Pippin's vague references to visions and dreams of Boromir dead, and the men with him weeping.  It gave Pippin an uncomfortable feeling, to think of those piercing eyes seeming to see that which was unseen and glimpse that which was unsaid, piercing eyes looking out of a face that was so like Boromir's that it took Pippin's breath away.

Those eyes still haunted him, for though they had looked upon him with aloof kindness and stern courtesy, Pippin had seen the sorrow of loss in their grey depths, and knew nothing but relief whenever that gaze had released him and turned aside for a moment.

Yet even more haunting than the remembered gaze of those sad, stern eyes, was the memory of the ruined Horn of Gondor.  Even now, Pippin could not prevent the sudden flow of tears as he recalled the Horn upon Denethor's lap, split asunder, its voice silenced forever, the stains of Boromir's blood still darkly visible upon its white surface.

Bowing his head, Pippin sank down upon the floor, and buried his face in his hands.

A gentle knock at the door startled him out of his despair.

"Come!" he called in an unsteady voice, as he struggled to his feet.

The door swung open and a Man entered, bearing a salver of bread, cheese and fruit.  He nodded at Pippin warmly and courteously, seeming not to notice the hobbit's tear-streaked face, as he set about laying out the food on a small table near the window.  When all was set to his satisfaction, he turned to Pippin and bowed.

"I am Dûrlin, Master Peregrin," he announced.  "I am at your service while you are here among us, so do not hesitate to call upon me should you have need of anything, at any time.  I anticipated that you might crave a morsel to fortify your strength, even at this late hour.  No doubt you have already taken your evening meal, but the day has been a trying one for you, has it not?  Turmoil and loneliness are somewhat easier to bear if you are not weakened by hunger."

"Thank you!" exclaimed Pippin gratefully.

Suddenly realizing how hungry he really was, Pippin helped himself to some bread and cheese, and sat upon a low bench to eat it.  As he ate, he watched the man Dûrlin as he moved about the room, turning down the cover of the alcoved beds, and checking the level of the water in the silver pitcher beside the wash basin.

"You... you were there this morning, I think," Pippin said at length.  "In the Hall with the lord Steward?  You brought the cakes and drink, and listened while I spoke of... of Boromir."

Dûrlin nodded gravely.

"Yes, I was there, and heard all you had to tell of Boromir.  You spoke well in a hard place!  It is not an easy thing to be questioned by the lord Denethor, particularly over a matter which has occupied his every waking thought and darkened his dreams since first we suspected that Boromir was in danger, and perhaps lost."

"I did feel rather worn out afterwards," admitted Pippin reluctantly.  "But I was glad to tell what I could, if it might help."

"Even news that is hard to bear is helpful to those who are starved for it," replied Dûrlin.  "I was as eager as the Steward to hear news of my lord.  I am Boromir's personal attendant, caring for his every need when he is here in the City.  In the same way, I care for the lords Denethor and Faramir, at my own lord's behest.  And I shall gladly extend that service to you, Boromir's close friend."

As he spoke, Dûrlin smiled down upon the hobbit, and Pippin felt warmed and comforted.  He was suddenly reminded of the grave kindness of Elrond, yet this Man seemed infinitely more approachable, rather like a favorite uncle or even Pippin's own father.   Pippin found himself relaxing, and made no more attempts to hide his melancholy from Dûrlin.

"Yes, Boromir was my friend, and I miss him," he sighed.  "I wish... I wish I could stop thinking about him!"

Dûrlin laid an understanding hand upon Pippin's shoulder.

"Would it ease your heart for us to speak of Boromir together?" he suggested.  "He is on my mind as well, and I fear he will give us little peace, else."

Pippin laughed through his tears.

"I would like that very much!  But... well, I've noticed you speak of Boromir as if he is not dead... as if you expect him to return.  Why is that?"

Dûrlin did not hesitate in giving his answer.

"I am a cheerful man whose heart cannot long be darkened, and I prefer to look at the future with hope, rather than doubt.  My confidence has been sorely tried of late with Boromir's long absence; nevertheless, I cannot find it within me to discount the possibility that he may yet live.  The very proofs which lead others to believe he must be lost are to me still only circumstantial, and not wholly convincing.  So I continue to watch for his return, until I am convinced otherwise."

"Do you think... do you think it's possible I could have been wrong -- in my vision?"  Pippin stammered, amazed.

"I cannot say for certain," replied Dûrlin cautiously.  "But a vision is not the same as seeing with the eye, and thus its meaning and import might easily be misread.  Boromir has been in situations before where he cheated death and returned unlooked for -- and my hope is that this is yet one more instance of that.  I choose not to despair before all the facts of his situation have been uncovered."

"Tell me of one of those times when Boromir cheated death!" begged Pippin.  "I... I think I want to be convinced, too.  Maybe if we speak of him alive, it will be easier for hope to return..."

"It would be my pleasure, Master Peregrin!"

***

"I did not say that I would bid you ride with me..."

The king's final words to him before bidding him good night echoed in Merry's ears as he paced the grassy area in front of his tent, unable to sleep.

"I won't be left behind!" he muttered as he walked to and fro, unsure whether he felt  more frustrated or frightened at the thought of being left alone.  How he wished Pippin were here with him now!

"I offered the king my sword, and I won't be parted from him!  I must go where he goes.  Besides, I don't want to be left here, alone, when all my friends have gone to serve in the battle!"

He glanced at the pavilion next to his small tent, where King Théoden was housed.  All was quiet and still.  Merry wondered if he was the only one in the camp, aside from the guards, who could not sleep this night.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, he heard the approaching sound of booted feet on grass, coming from the direction of the field where the horses of the King's household and guard were picketed.  Out of the gloom strode a tall Man, swathed all in dark green, the small silver star on his helm barely visible in the darkness.  Merry recognized him as Hirgon, the errand rider of Gondor who had arrived earlier that evening, bearing a red arrow as the summons to King Théoden to ride to war.

As the Man approached, Merry was struck once more by his strong resemblance to Boromir, even as he had been when the rider had first entered the king's tent upon his errand.  Merry had been so startled, he had cried out, thinking for the briefest of moments that perhaps Boromir had survived after all and had somehow made his way here to Rohan, to present himself at Théoden's court.

Much to Merry's surprise, Hirgon slowed his pace, and stopped to stand before the hobbit.  He looked down and nodded at him gravely.

"You, too, are restless this night," he observed quietly, in a voice that so reminded Merry of Boromir, that his heart leapt in his chest.

"I have been to see my horse settled," continued Hirgon, "and now I may go to my own rest with lighter heart.  But first, perhaps we might have a few words together, you and I?  For I have heard somewhat of your tale from the lord Éomer, and I would know more of you."

"I would be honored!" stammered Merry, pleased for the chance to talk with this Man who must have known Boromir.  In truth, he had been longing to speak to him ever since he had first seen Hirgon enter the king's pavilion.

"My name is Merry," he said with a bow.  "Meriadoc Brandybuck, hobbit of the Shire, at your service."

"Hobbit?"

"Well, I suppose you in Gondor would say, a halfling."

"Ah, yes, a Halfling!" said Hirgon, gazing at Merry thoughtfully.  "I am honored to meet you, Master Meriadoc.  I have been told that you have been in the company of my lord Boromir, not so long ago.  That is why you cried out when first you saw me, perhaps, because I am much like him, and you thought I was he, returning."

Merry nodded mutely.

"I am sorry," Hirgon said in answer to the nod.  "I fear the sight of me has brought you sorrow anew -- for I have also been told that my lord must surely be dead.  Alas for Boromir, son of Denethor!  Long has it been feared in the City that our captain is lost and will not return.  Perhaps it will be of little comfort to either of us to speak of his final days together, but I would hear what you might tell me, if you can bear it."

"I… I would like to speak of him, I think," replied Merry slowly.  "I miss him very much, and it would be comforting to talk to someone who knew him.  Your voice... well, it reminds me of him a bit, and that's helping me remember things about him -- things I don't want to forget."

"It is good to recall the deeds of lost comrades in this way," Hirgon said solemnly.  "Come then, let us walk together for a time before we go to our rest.  We shall speak of the dead, that they might live forever in our memory."

***

Boromir was restless and could not sleep.  The darkness flowing from Mordor troubled him, and his heart was filled with fear concerning all that his people would surely be facing in the coming days.   Would he reach his City in time to be of help to his father?  How did his brother fare?  Would the Rohirrim be free from war to ride to the aid of Gondor, and would they come in time?

And what of the others?  Where were Merry and Pippin?  Had Aragorn been able to rescue them?  Did Frodo still live, or was the Ring even now in the Nameless One’s possession, and this darkness the beginning of the end...

If only I had some news! sighed Boromir to himself, as he tossed and turned on the hard ground.  If only I knew what was happening....

At last he fell into a troubled sleep, sleep that was filled with dreams of his comrades in grave peril and his City in flames.

Long hours had passed since the sweet silvery tones of the third bell had sounded, calling those captains who were in the City to sit in council, yet Gandalf did not begrudge the time. He had learned much of what was passing in the realm of Gondor, and many of his questions had been answered. Throughout the morning, Gandalf sat listening and watching men's faces carefully as they shared news, considered reports, and sought counsel with one another concerning the defense of the City. Denethor presided, silent yet keenly observant of both word and manner. There was no discernible sign upon his face or in his bearing that indicated he was struggling with grief over the loss of Boromir, or that his people were upon the very edge of a battle that could crush them utterly. As ever, the lord Denethor was in control -- of himself, of those who looked to him for leadership, and of all affairs that touched on the safety of his City.

As he watched Denethor respond with cool decisiveness to a query made by one of his captains, Gandalf recalled his own words shared with Pippin earlier that morning:

"He is not as other men of this time, Pippin, and whatever be his descent from father to son, by some chance the blood of Westernesse runs nearly true in him; as it does in his other son, Faramir, and yet did not in Boromir whom he loved best. He has long sight. He can perceive, if he bends his will thither, much of what is passing in the minds of men, even of those that dwell far off. It is difficult to deceive him, and dangerous to try."

I fear he will not understand the hope we have placed in Frodo and his Quest, thought Gandalf. He will think it folly to jeopardize all we have on such a gamble. As great a leader as Denethor is, and as strongly opposed to Sauron, his vision is oft limited to the all-consuming need of Gondor; that which does not seem to serve Gondor's need is likely to be seen as policy to be spurned. Yet he shall know of our secret hope, nonetheless. The lord Steward and his City of Guard are at the forefront of all we hope to achieve in the destruction of Sauron's evil, and Denethor needs all I can give him -- whether it be hope, or folly. His leadership and long knowledge of Mordor's strength and intentions have made our defense sufficiently strong that there is hope in opposition, if only enough to give Frodo time to accomplish his task.

Gandalf recalled that he had said as much to Théoden, when assuring the newly healed King that neither Rohan nor Gondor stood alone in their fight against the Enemy:

"...that way lies our hope, where sits our greatest fear. Doom hangs still on a thread. Yet hope there is still, if we can but stand unconquered for a little while."

Unconquered, for a little while, sighed Gandalf inwardly. May it be long enough to defeat doom!

***

Imrahil sat at ease in Denethor's private audience chamber, his deep chair drawn up close beside the brazier of coals. The stone walls of the chamber were chill in spite of the heaviness of the air outside, and the Prince welcomed the warmth of the fire after a long day in the saddle. The mulled wine served him by Dûrlin was also welcome.

He watched Denethor closely over the rim of his cup as he sipped his wine, troubled by the set hardness of his kinsman's face and the dull sheen in his eyes. Denethor was as courteous as ever, and his welcome as warm and sincere as such a proud, private man could make it -- but was his face more closed than usual? He seemed to Imrahil like a steed held on a tight rein, straining hard at the bit even as he stood seemingly quiet and at attention.

Glancing at Dûrlin, Imrahil saw him watching his lord with careful attention, and knew that he was not imagining things. There had been no time since Imrahil's arrival shortly before the sundown-bells to do more than greet the Steward briefly, but now that he was here with Denethor in private, Imrahil wondered if the news that would be shared between them was even graver than he had foreseen. Well, he would know soon enough.

"You asked after my sons," Imrahil said aloud, drawing himself back from his thoughts and addressing the question Denethor had just put to him. "Both Erchirion and Amrothos have accompanied me as knights in my company. Elphir, my heir, remains in Dol Amroth, to lead the people in my stead and guard against the danger to the coastal areas, which comes from the Corsair fleets. He was loath to stay behind, for he feels deeply his kinship and his duty to you and your sons, but his family is young, and his place is there while I am away. At his request, I have brought messages from him for you, his uncle, and for Boromir and Faramir...."

He faltered, as a flash of pain crossed Denethor's face before it could be concealed.

He has had news of Boromir! Imrahil thought suddenly, his heart failing him for a moment. Grievous news, it would seem. I feared it might be so, when we heard nothing for so long....

"Alas!" sighed Imrahil. "Though you hide your grief well, I perceive you are in great pain. There is some tale of woe to be told here! And I fear it is a tale which involves Boromir and his quest. Ah, I see I am not mistaken! Is the rumor we have heard then true, that Boromir is lost?"

"He is lost, indeed, and I am bereaved," confirmed Denethor slowly, and though his face was composed once more, his voice rang hollowly and his eyes remained dull. "I have had news of his death from several quarters. On the eve of great battle, the captain we so desperately need at our side is lost to us, fallen in a strange land far from his father."

Dûrlin stirred, as if unable to hold himself still; sensing the movement, Denethor smiled grimly.

"Not all are so despairing, however," Denethor continued. "In spite of all evidence to the contrary, Dûrlin here continues to look in hope for Boromir's return.  'He may yet come,' he says. Let him hope, if he will; as for me, I cannot see it. What little hope I have left that we might stand against this coming darkness is in the hands of the king of Rohan, the hands of the captains of Gondor -- and the hands of the one son left to me."

Imrahil inclined his head to the Steward.  "I would hear more of Boromir and what seems to have befallen him -- for if one man holds out hope for his return, then perhaps there is hope indeed!" he said thoughtfully. "But now is not the time, I deem. Let us speak, rather, of the hope of which you speak, if that is what might encourage you. Tell me, what news have you of Rohan? And where is Faramir? I have not seen him; is he out on an errand upon the borders?"

"The Red Arrow has been dispatched, telling Rohan of our great need," answered Denethor gravely. "Théoden will come, if war upon his own front does not prevent him. Will he come in time to be of aid to us here in Minas Tirith? That remains to be seen."

Denethor stretched out his hand and picked up a rolled parchment that lay beside him on a low table, handing it to Imrahil.

"This written report is old, but still helpful for studying the mind of the Enemy and his policies, particularly as they encompass Ithilien and Gondor's eastern borders. Faramir is most useful to me there, serving me well as captain of the Rangers in Ithilien, where he harries the Enemy as he may. He keeps me informed of the passage of troops into the Black Land and of all such news which may guide me in keeping our defense strong. Of great value to me now is his presence there, for he is on guard against any stranger passing into our lands -- he is under oath to bring any such trespasser before me. I expect him soon, in fact, for surely the errand upon which I most recently sent him has been accomplished."

"Is there any such possibility of strangers passing through Ithilien, who are not the enemy?" questioned Imrahil cautiously. "It seems unlikely, for it is perilous in these days to travel there! Still, there is this -- our borders have not been kept safe these many years by ignoring that which seems unlikely or not worthy of notice."

"Indeed," replied Denethor. "The smallest matter is of great import to me, and the most unlikely incident worthy of my attention, if such might in any way threaten the safety of this land in my charge. When Faramir returns we shall perhaps learn more...."

A gentle knocking at the door interrupted their converse, and Dûrlin stepped forward to answer the summons.

"Mithrandir is without and begs an audience with you," he said upon returning. "Shall I bid him enter?"

"Let him come," replied Denethor smoothly. "I have been expecting him."

Imrahil rose to leave as Gandalf entered, but the Wizard waved him back into his chair.

"Nay, Prince Imrahil, I beg you remain," Gandalf said with a bow to both the Prince and to Denethor. "What I have to say is for your ears as well, for you are a captain high in the counsels of the Lord of the City. With your leave, of course, my lord Steward."

Denethor nodded his acquiescence.  "Tell us, Mithrandir," he said with a sharp look at Gandalf's face. "What brings you here so late in the day? A new piece of news, perhaps, that has not yet reached my ears? Or possibly there is some matter which in your wisdom you have kept secret from me, but now wish to share?"

"Your sight is not dimmed by the many cares which weigh upon you, Denethor," replied Gandalf calmly, drawing a chair close and settling himself into it. "It is as you perceive. I do bring news of a matter which must be heard and taken into account as you plan your defense against the Dark Lord, for he and what he has wrought is at the very heart of it. This is the doom we have long foreseen, yet it is also our hope of release from doom, if we can but stand unconquered for a while longer."

Gandalf paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts or his strength, then continued with serene confidence.

"I would speak to you of Isildur's Bane..."

***

Despite his restless and troubled sleep the night before, Boromir awoke strengthened in heart and limb, and eager to press on. The air was brown with gloom that smote the heart with fear and despair, but Boromir would not be discomfited. The darkness served only to set his will in grim determination to push forward in spite of his pain and weakness.

Grithnir, concerned at the pace Boromir was setting, advised caution.  "My captain, do you think it wise to expend your strength in such a manner? You could easily undo all you have gained by pushing yourself too hard, too soon."

"What use to conserve my strength when by tarrying I come too late?" answered Boromir sternly. "I am no longer so proud, Grithnir, that I think my presence alone will turn the tide of war, but my coming might still make a difference. Just as one small twig can turn the course of the stream and thus divert the river, so too might my presence at the coming battle be an influence for good. I dare not come too late, my friend!"

Boromir peered through the gloom as if trying to discern the mountains that were now shrouded and dark in the dim brown light. His face was set in an expression of unwavering resolve.

"I will rest when I must, Grithnir, and I will halt when I can go no further, but I will not hold back nor conserve my strength for a day that might never come. I must be home, and I shall not be forestalled nor prevented. No evil wind of the Enemy’s make shall hold me back, for I am done with despair and hopelessness. Come, put aside your fear for me, and let us be on our way. I have tarried long enough."

Though it was well past the second hour, the day was as dim and grey as if evening were approaching. Pippin gazed morosely at the candles brightening the gloom in his chamber, as he chewed his meager breakfast under Gandalf's impatient eye. Today he would be learning his duties as esquire to the Steward of Gondor, and Pippin admitted to himself he was daunted by the prospect. In an effort to settle his nervousness and strengthen his resolve for the day, the hobbit was trying to make his meal last as long as possible -- but Gandalf was watching and waiting, so he dared not dawdle too long over his loaf.

"You returned late last night, Gandalf," he commented, as he sipped the thin milk the wizard had brought him and wished heartily for something stronger. "I remember now, you were here in the middle of the night when I awoke; you said you had come back here to have a little peace, alone. It must have been a long day for you, as long as mine was! Were you in council all day long? I looked for you, during the day, but never saw you. Boromir's man, Dûrlin, came to visit me last night, and he said he'd seen you, that you'd come to have a conference with the lord Steward. Did you talk about Frodo and the Quest? I know you wanted to do that yourself.  I tried hard not to say anything when the lord Denethor was questioning me, but it was hard!"

Gandalf smiled and patted the hobbit's shoulder.  "There is never an end to your questions, is there?" he chuckled warmly. "But fear not: you have done well, my dear Pippin! It was a long day for you, in a new and strange place -- but you carried yourself well and spoke well in a difficult situation. You have made some good friends in a very short time, for which I am glad. Dûrlin is a fine man, and I am comforted that he has been looking after you. I am sorry I left you so long alone, but there was much to be done, and much news to be gathered. I was indeed in council much of the day, and yes, I was finally able to speak with the lord Denethor about Frodo and the Quest."

"How did it go?" Pippin asked hesitantly. "Was he... was he angry?"

Gandalf was silent for a long moment, remembering Denethor's strong words in response to the wizard's announcement.

“Did I say you are wont to come when the hour is dark, Mithrandir? This time, you bring the darkness of doom with you, upon your very heels! By your own doing darkness shall fall! I fear our fate has been sealed by your presumption and your folly to send Isildur's Bane into Mordor in the keeping of one who is little more than a child. Oh, I have no doubt this Halfling has some quality which causes you to believe he is worthy of such trust, but to put the fate of all the Free Peoples in such small, weak hands, and then to send him straight into the waiting arms of the Enemy -- Foolishness! Madness!

“What hope is there that such an absurd policy could succeed? None that I can see! What chance could a Halfling possibly have against the awful might of Mordor? For Mordor is strong indeed, far stronger than even you realize, Mithrandir! I know this, and I begin to fear that strength to be too much for even me, and Gondor cannot stand. It has taken all the might of Gondor in these days to hold the Enemy back, and still we barely manage it. Did Boromir not tell you? Did he not speak of how Mordor allies with the Haradrim and with evil men from the East, and presses us until we are nigh to being beaten down? As yet, we are not beaten -- we still have the mastery, and Mordor has not won the River passage.

“Yet all our stalwart valor will be for naught if the Ring goes to Sauron -- which it surely will, for how could it not? The Halfling will be taken, and the Enemy will regain the Ring, and then all shall be lost. I can see no other outcome....

“I should have been told of this, before ever you brought the matter to council -- but now matters have gone beyond me, and my wisdom will avail little to salvage any shred of hope from this foolish venture. I shall do what I can, but you must keep no more secrets from me, Mithrandir....”

Gandalf was silent for a long moment, remembering; then he sighed.

"Yes, Pippin, he was angry -- rightly so, to his mind. But even in his anger, the lord Denethor is master of himself, and though he does not understand what I have done -- nor does he approve -- he will still aid us, for he is not our enemy. Harsh and cold he may seem, but he is fair and honorable, and wholeheartedly opposed to Sauron, no matter Denethor's own opinion of my policies. So do not fear to serve him, as you have promised to do. He will not fail you, if you do not fail him."

Pippin nodded, though he felt only vaguely comforted. Not for the first time did he wonder what he had gotten himself into.

"Come along, now," Gandalf said, once more impatient to be gone. "We are late, the Steward is expecting us -- and today, he will not be in any humor to be delayed, particularly by a Halfling!"

***

Denethor paced the Great Hall, which was yet dim, grey and cold in the twilit morning. The silence of the Hall was broken only by the faint swish of the Steward's robes and the echoes raised by his feet upon the marble floor. He was not troubled by the cold or the gloom, and the silence was welcome, for it was calming and conducive to thought.

He had great need of calm. He had been shaken, deeply shaken, by the news that the fate of Gondor -- indeed, the whole world -- had been placed in the feeble hands of a simple Halfling, who had been sent alone and unprotected into Mordor. It had taken him the better part of the night and a lengthy session with the palantír to settle himself and quiet his own bleak fears for the future.

"Obstinate fool!" Denethor muttered, as he recalled again the confidence with which Mithrandir had spoken the previous evening. "You speak cleverly of your own stewardship and of your care for all worthy things that are in peril. Your talk is all of aid offered and of realms preserved for the king returning, so that even my kinsman Imrahil is persuaded to consider your plans as wise and worthy of consideration. But you plan and scheme without consulting me, and that will cost us all dearly, if your fool's errand fails."

He paused in his pacing and, looking up, found himself gazing into the looming face of a graven statue, an ancient stone king standing shadowed in a recess between the black marble pillars lining the Hall. In the king's hand was a large stone globe that reminded Denethor of a palantír. At the sight of it, Denethor smiled and relaxed. He was not so uninformed as it might seem, he knew, though Mithrandir chose to keep from him many secret counsels. Nay! He knew something of this matter that even Mithrandir did not.

Had he not but a few days ago seen two Halflings in the crystal, seeking a way through the pathless hills of the Emyn Muil? And again, more recently, had he not seen a glimpse of them, walking under fir trees in a land that could only be Ithilien?

He had been right in believing these two had something to do with the riddling dream that had taken Boromir from him; something to do with Isildur's Bane, and yes, with Thorongil. He had been wise to caution Faramir against them, and to give him explicit orders concerning strangers in the land:

“It may be that you will meet strangers passing through the land,” he had said to Faramir, ere sending him on his errand to Ithilien. “Be cautious of them; do not allow anyone passage without close questioning. Need I remind you of the penalty for those who attempt to pass through our lands without the leave of the Lord of Gondor?”

And Faramir had answered with a promise to serve him with all his heart and loyalty. Yes, Faramir would serve him faithfully in this matter. All would be well! He would obey his father, and if the Halflings were found, he would bring them to the City. Disaster would be avoided, and Sauron cheated of his prize. With the Ring safe in the keeping of Gondor, the world need not quake in fear.

"Aye," Denethor repeated with a satisfied smile. "Faramir will not fail me."

With his anger for the most part spent and his fear under tight rein, Denethor ceased his pacing; returning to his Steward's Chair, he settled himself to await the coming of those who would seek his counsel for the day. As he waited, his thoughts turned to Rohan. Just as he depended upon Faramir's obedience, so too he also depended upon Théoden’s aid in this, Gondor's moment of most dire need. He did not doubt that Théoden would remember old friendships and oaths long spoken. He would heed the call, if nothing prevented....

"I must know more of what passes in Rohan," Denethor mused aloud to the silent chamber. "I know much, but it is not enough. Perhaps Mithrandir will relent in his secrecy and be willing to share some of his knowledge of recent happenings in that land. I would know more of this young Éomer who is heir to King Théoden; what his standing is, and what sort of man and ally.  Boromir has spoken of him, I believe...."

***

Éomer peered thoughtfully through the lowering gloom as he tightened the girth on Firefoot's saddle and checked the harness and tack, all the while murmuring soft words of comfort to his mount. About him and beside him, other Riders were doing the same. The horses were uneasy, for though they were undaunted by the gathering assembly and fearless in the face of coming battle, the oppressive shadow that settled over the land affected the mood of the Riders, and that which brought unease to men's hearts was communicated in kind to their steeds.

Still, the darkness will serve us well, Éomer reflected. No matter that it is the design of the Evil One to dishearten us and strengthen our enemy! The shadowy gloom will effectively shroud us, so that we are free to ride eastward in all haste, without taking thought for concealment. Much-needed speed will be lent to our journey if we may ride unhindered upon the open road.

Unhindered! The thought gave Éomer pause. Would that they could actually reach the encircling walls of Mundburg without meeting resistance! But it was unlikely. No reports of the enemy advancing upon the road east had as yet reached his ears, but the journey would take several days, even with such haste as they could afford without needlessly taxing horse and man -- and who knew what manner of Orc or beast might be awaiting them as they approached the Stone City?

But Éomer had already taken thought for such matters, for he had no wish to be taken unawares by the enemy. Even now, men of his own household who served as scouts in the Eastfold were passing through Anórien in Gondor, well in advance of the Rohan’s army. They would range far and wide, north and east, and ride swiftly back with report of any movement along the Road.

If anything or anyone moved in the land, Éomer would know of it.

Eadric frowned as he peered moodily into the grey twilight, silently cursing the darkness that was making his scouting more difficult than it ought to have been. It was just past midday, yet the light was such that it seemed to be evening, that dim hour of half-darkness before true night falls. The air felt thick somehow, though not as with fog or mist, and even sound seemed deadened in the still greyness. Nevertheless, Eadric could see and hear well enough and he knew he would miss nothing of import, in spite of the darkness. A clear and complete report would be made to his lord Éomer of what passed here in the land of Gondor, for an accurate and timely report was vital. The Sons of Eorl rode to Mundburg at speed, and could ill afford delay caused by unexpected enemy entanglement along the way.

Above and behind him loomed a high green hill, treeless upon its crown, where stood one of the beacons of Gondor: the beacon of Erelas. The fires that had burned there less than two days ago were now spent. Eadric wondered if those who attended the beacon worked to replace the wood in expectation of an answering signal from Rohan; no doubt it was their duty to do so, whether an answer came or no. Erelas was one of the smaller beacons, and little used except at the most urgent need, but it was kept in readiness nonetheless. In this case, no fire signaling the coming of Rohan to Gondor's aid would be laid, for that coming must be kept secret from the One who had his Eye upon the western Road, and from the spies who might be on alert for any sign of movement upon it.

At least this twilight will hide our riding, thought Eadric, though it takes the heart out of the stoutest of Men, and makes it difficult to do my duty to my lord Éomer. Unless the eyes of the servants of the Dark Lord are keener than mine, they will have as much difficulty as I in this murk. Let us use it to our advantage, then.

He turned in his saddle to the men who waited expectantly beside him.

"Thrydwulf and Hunlaf, you shall continue east upon the road, but go no farther than halfway to the next beacon-hill; circle round in a wide sweep north into the grasslands, then return to the road. Brynhere and Guthwald have already begun their sweep north of the beacon-hill of Minrimmon, which we passed yestereve; their circling should join yours at some point before you turn back to the road. I shall turn north here and search beyond the road, and hope to meet you on the far side of your sweep.

"Bring report of any sign of movement, be it Orc or troop or wandering stranger. Be alert, watchful, and keep your weapons close to hand. But do not strike unless you are attacked or know without a doubt that you have met an enemy -- it may be that not all the inhabitants of this area of Gondor have fled to safety in Mundburg, and they must not come to harm.

"Go now, and fare well!"

Thrydwulf and Hunlaf nodded sharply, and with a flick of their reins, they were gone. Eadric's eyes followed them until they were but dim shadows moving swiftly through the twilight. Then, giving a sharp whistle to his steed, he galloped away southwards.
 
***

"Is this information accurate, Hathol?"

"Yes, Captain Beregar. The scout who brought word is one of Lord Faramir's rangers, left in Ithilien to keep watch on Sauron's movements. An army of Orcs and Easterling Men from Mordor approaches Cair Andros, some 6,000 strong and heavily armed."

"How long before they reach us?"

"We have until evening, perhaps. They come swiftly, in spite of their numbers."

"So it begins here!" replied Beregar grimly. "Very well, then. We are ready -- as ready as we can be with what few men we have posted here! It may be enough. The fortifications are strong and will hold for some time -- though not forever, against such a force! Still, we must hold them as best we can, for if the isle is taken, the enemy will have passage across the River, and Minas Tirith will be threatened from the North as well as the East, and the Great Western Road will be blocked. That is no doubt their intention: to prevent Rohan's aid from reaching the City in our time of need. But they shall not pass without a fight."

He pushed aside his midday meal, and rising from the table, strode to the door of his chamber, beckoning Hathol to follow him.  "Go quickly and sound the general alarm, then return to your post. I shall gather the other captains and hold council. Is this ranger available for further questioning?"

"Yes, Captain, he awaits you in the council chambers."

"That is well. I shall go there at once to speak with him. Go now, Hathol, our time is short."
 
***

"What is this place we now approach?" asked Legolas thoughtfully, gazing ahead through the gloom to the river that flowed swift and wide through the meadows below. "I see the river, and a fording place with surrounding town; there are no folk stirring, though it is now midday."

"No doubt they fear this darkness from Mordor -- if they have not already heard of the coming of the Dead and fled far away," muttered Gimli, casting an apprehensive glance back over his shoulder, as if to make certain the Oathbreakers still followed at a distance.

"This is Ethring," replied Aragorn. "Ethring upon the River Ringló. It is one of the few places where travelers can ford the cold waters of Ringló that flow from the snowfields in the mountains to the Sea."

"Ringló!" exclaimed Legolas, turning his head to follow the river's course towards the southwest, a bright light in his eyes. "That river flows to Edhellond, the Elf-haven upon the Bay of Belfalas, whence the Elves once sailed from Middle-earth. There it was that Amroth in his grey ship awaited Nimrodel -- but in vain, for she came not."

Legolas sighed deeply, recalling that sad tale. He began to chant in a soft voice:

"The elven-ship in haven grey
Beneath the mountain-lee
Awaited her for many a day
Beside the roaring sea.**

"One day, perhaps, I shall visit that place, and look upon the Sea for myself. Will there be a ship waiting there still, I wonder?"

"Not for you, my friend!" growled Gimli shortly. "And not today! Let us be on our way. The Dead grow impatient, and I do not wish them overtaking us yet again."

"Fear not!" Aragorn said with a faint smile. "I have forbidden them, and they will not attempt to pass us by again. They follow me now, and they will not disobey. Let us go on until the river is behind us; then we will stop to take some food."
 
***

Boromir and his men stopped only briefly throughout the day, to rest and take nourishment, after which he was pressing them forward once again. At times, he would stop and stare scowling into the murk, as though to pierce the obscurity with his stare alone, to see what passed ahead of him. Then he would gesture them onward.

As the day progressed, the shadow deepened, the dark cloud from Mordor streaming ever westwards, covering the sky like a door closing to shut out the light. Beneath that door the air was heavy and close, and Boromir and his men were oppressed by it.

"Almost I would fear that we had lost our way," murmured Grithnir, "did I not know without doubt that Henderch leads truly, even in darkness."

"Aye, we do progress!" assured Henderch. "I have not lost the way, and in spite of how it may seem, we make good time. Distance is hard to judge in this poor light, but I would say we are but three or four days from the Road."

Grithnir acknowledged the confirmation with a grateful nod.

"It is this wretched darkness which makes us anxious!" cried Arthad. "It presses against us, confusing and stifling the will, and whispers of despair...."

"Fear not!" exclaimed Boromir firmly, so firmly that his men were immediately soothed and encouraged. "I vowed to be done with despair, and I shall keep that vow, no matter what storm of darkness or irritation Mordor brings to plague me!"

He glared fiercely at the eastern sky, whence the dark clouds of war continued to billow, then turned to face the mountains to the south, all but invisible now in the increasing twilight.

"Alas!" he sighed. "I have need of Elven sight here. I can no longer see clearly the beacon mount of Nardol that has served as our guide these past days. It is barely the time of sunset, yet night has seemingly fallen. Would that the fire still burned upon the mountain to guide our way! Though perhaps even that light would be quenched in this gloom!"

The red blaze of beacon-fire still burned brightly in Boromir's dreams and memory, for it had been but two nights since they had sighted the signal fires racing towards Rohan. When Osgiliath had been attacked the summer before, the beacons of Amon Dîn and Eilenach had been set ablaze, to warn the farmers and herdsman of Anorién of their possible danger -- but never before in his time had there been such a need, when one after another, all of the northern beacons had been lit.

As if in answer to his thought, a blaze of light struck the side of Boromir's face, and he turned to see what it could be.

Far away in the West, the sun had escaped the shadows as it sank towards the rim of the world, and a brief glow of red light shone out across the lands in defiance of Mordor. Boromir, accustomed to the dimness that had closed them in all that day, was momentarily dazzled.

But in that brief instant, as his eyes adjusted to the changing light, Boromir saw silhouetted against the glow several Men on tall horses, riding swiftly towards them from out of the West.

*****

**Author's note: This stanza is taken from the song Legolas sings of Nimrodel in "Lothlorién" (FOTR).

The fear was slow to dissipate -- very slow, indeed.

Even now, as he began to relax somewhat in the safety of Mithrandir's fiercely protective presence, Faramir fought the urge to glance upwards in expectation of another attack, another wave of sickly stench from dark wings beating above him, another ear-splitting shriek leaving him feeling cold with dread. Almost he would have welcomed a wound in that attack, for the pain might have helped to keep his mind from the pursuing fear, as the fell beasts with their dark riders swooped and harried him and his men across the plain of the Pelennor.

But the Nazgûl had not attacked with weapons, nor had the beasts torn at them with tooth or claw, though they had been close enough to do so with ease. Whether that had been because it was not their intention to do more than terrorize, or because Mithrandir had come in time to thwart their purpose, Faramir did not know nor did he care to dwell upon it. The less he thought on those evil creatures, the better. Even the memory of their presence froze the heart!

The fear was slow to dissipate -- not only his fear of the winged Nazgûl, but also his fear of losing his companions who had been unhorsed during the attack. It had been all Faramir could do to master his dread and control his own terror-stricken horse to ride back to them, to give what aid he could. Little use his valor seemed in retrospect, for what could he have done against five such formidable foes? But he had taken no thought for that then; he knew only that his men were in danger and he must go to them. He dared not contemplate what might have happened to them all if Mithrandir had not come.

"Fear not!" Mithrandir said quietly beside him, as if reading his thoughts. They were drawing nigh the Great Gate of the City, pacing slowly so that the men on foot could keep up with them.

"Fear not," he repeated. "Your men have taken no serious injury from this encounter. You led them well, and stood firm between them and great evil. Have you taken any hurt yourself?"

"Nay," replied Faramir, shaking his head. "I am unscathed, but for the memory of great dread that is slow to pass."

"Alas, such terror is their greatest weapon," sighed the wizard. "Where the Nazgûl come, fear lingers and hope fades. But we are not yet beaten, and we shall not be, if we do not allow our hope to be buried in fear!"

As Faramir gazed upon Mithrandir's calm face, the shadow of fear which lurked on the edges of his mind faded, and the darkness which had threatened to envelope him retreated.

"Yes," he replied gratefully, as they passed under the arch of the Gate and into the City. "Hope is not buried, though fear is still very strong. But I am as yet the master of my fear, and it shall not overcome me. Mithrandir, I am glad you have come."

The wizard clasped Faramir's shoulder and smiled briefly.  "I have been most desirous to speak with you, Faramir. There is much I wish to discuss -- but not before you have taken what rest you may, and have made your report to your father."

Faramir sighed heavily.  "I am indeed weary,” he replied, “but I cannot yet rest. My father will not wait, nor ought he. But neither shall you wait. You will accompany me and hear my report, Mithrandir, for I bear news which you must receive as well."

"Assuredly I shall come."

***

Denethor awaited them in his private audience chamber, where a brazier was lit against the chill of the evening. He bade Faramir sit close beside him upon his left, while Dûrlin served him wine and a loaf of fresh white bread. Faramir's low chair was set near the brazier, and it seemed to Dûrlin that Faramir welcomed the warmth of the coals as well as the glow of light. Upon his face a faint shadow of the fear he had endured so recently could still be seen, along with a weariness that was only partly soothed by the wine and the food.

As Faramir began to speak of his errand, of the news of what passed in Ithilien and the movements of the Enemy in that area, Dûrlin stood aside, observing the faces of those who listened.

The wizard Mithrandir sat with his eyes closed, almost as if he slept, but Dûrlin knew it was more likely he was listening to all that was said with a keen ear and an even more discerning mind. The halfling, on the other hand, made no attempt to hide the eagerness with which he listened. He was obviously fascinated by news of places he had never seen and by tales of battles he had never dreamed of fighting. Dûrlin also thought he detected a growing admiration for Faramir in the halfling's gaze -- which was hardly surprising, given the captain's close resemblance to his brother, Boromir, and his manner which put at ease all who were near him.

The Lord Denethor gave Faramir his full attention, listening quietly to all he had to relate, showing neither approval nor disapproval. He seemed strangely expectant, Dûrlin noted. It was as if the Steward waited for a piece of news that had not yet been shared, but which he knew must surely be coming.

As if in confirmation of Dûrlin's impression, Faramir paused suddenly in the telling of his tale, and looked at Pippin.

"But now we come to strange matters," he said. "For this is not the first halfling that I have seen walking out of northern legends into the Southlands..." **

***

Denethor watched his son closely and with growing dismay, as he shared the details of his encounter with the halflings in the wilds of Ithilien and related his decision to allow them to continue their journey to Mordor. Every cautious word Faramir spoke -- every glance towards Mithrandir as if to confirm that he did not say too much -- caused the Steward's heart to sink further within him as hope receded and fear grew.

Faramir, what have you done? Denethor cried silently, even as he schooled his face to reveal nothing of his pain and growing anger. How could you have done this? What of your promise to serve me with all your heart and loyalty? I see no loyalty here -- not to me, nor to our people who trust you to protect them from evil. In place of loyalty, you give me betrayal; instead of service, you set aside my will and my commands! What of that law which bade you slay all who pass through our lands without my leave? What of that? Did you forget it?

I think not! Rather, you have chosen your own way, without thought for our need, ignoring my wishes in this matter. That law was not made on a whim -- nor, perhaps, was your decision to set it aside. But whim or no, your decision will be the death of us, and you should have taken more thought for that! Your mercy and your trust in a fool's hope have doomed us all to slavery!

How my heart failed me when Mithrandir first told me of his foolish plan to destroy the Enemy's Ring -- but I consoled myself with thoughts of your faithfulness. I knew you could not fail to keep in mind the need of your people, that you would not allow passage to anyone or anything that would endanger Gondor and the White City. I trusted you to bring them to me, these two who carry the fate of the world with them. They have the Ring of Power, Faramir, and they are taking it to Mordor -- straight to the hand of our Enemy! And you did not stop them. Rather, you aided them and helped them on their journey, knowing it would be our doom.

Faithless one! How can I still trust you after this? To whom shall I turn now, if you are disloyal? Will you still heed me if I command you? Or will you turn away once more, spurn my wisdom, and follow your own counsel?

And why do you look thus to Mithrandir? Is he your father? Does he rule your heart so that you now hasten to follow in his madness, forgetting that you are my son, that your duty is to me and to your brother who is no more?

It would seem so….

Alas that Boromir is no longer here to champion my cause! Had he been there in Ithilien, all would have fallen differently! He would not have forgotten his duty to me; he would have brought me this thing! Then there would be no need for fear, no looming prospect of bondage and slavery under a Dark Lord soon to become invincible....

What have you done to me, my son?

Still and unmoving Denethor sat, listening and watching without a word, and his fear and anger grew behind a face that was cold and hard as stone.

***

Dûrlin listened helplessly and with growing despair as Denethor's words became cold, stern and proud. His opposition to both Faramir and Mithrandir was firm, and he would not be swayed by any argument.

"...You are wise, maybe, Mithrandir, yet with all your subtleties you have not all wisdom. Counsels may be found that are neither the webs of wizards nor the haste of fools. I have in this matter more lore and wisdom than you deem."

"What then is your wisdom?"

"Enough to perceive that there are two follies to avoid. To use this thing is perilous. At this hour, to send it in the hands of a witless halfling into the land of the Enemy himself, as you have done, and this son of mine, that is madness."

"And the Lord Denethor what would he have done?"

"Neither. But most surely not for any argument would he have set this thing at a hazard beyond all but a fool's hope, risking our utter ruin, if the Enemy should recover what he lost. Nay, it should have been kept, hidden, hidden dark and deep. Not used, I say, unless at the uttermost end of need, but set beyond his grasp, save by a victory so final that what then befell would not trouble us, being dead."

"You think, as is your wont, my lord, of Gondor only," said Gandalf. "Yet there are other men and other lives, and time still to be. And for me, I pity even his slaves."

"And where will other men look for help, if Gondor falls?" answered Denethor.**

***

Faramir gazed with aching heart upon the cold, strained face of his father as he argued with the wizard, and he felt close to weeping.

He does not understand, Faramir thought sadly. I was afraid it might be so. He does not understand why I have acted thus, and that makes him so very angry! He does not raise his voice now to us, but I am not fooled. I know he is angry and hurt. He believes I have betrayed his confidence in me.

My father! Why do you not trust me to do what is right? If only I could explain so you would understand -- but I fear I have not the words, not when you are in this mood. You believe I have been disloyal to you, I know -- yet it is not so! Yes, I followed my own counsel in this matter, but not without thought, and not without care for what it might mean to you, and to this City and her people -- my people....

Do you not see I could not have acted otherwise, no matter how grave the danger? You were not there; you did not see those little ones, or have speech with them! I deemed the chance to be worth taking, worth placing my trust in Frodo and his quest. It is not such a fool's errand, my father!

I did not forget what you expected of me in such a circumstance -- or that Boromir might have chosen differently -- but it was for me to choose, for better or worse. Though you speak eloquently and firmly against it, still I believe my choice to have been the right one. Would that you understood it so!

I have not forgotten my duty to you, my father, nor my loyalty as a son or as a captain of Gondor. This I shall prove to you in the coming days -- through deeds, if you will not hear my words. May you see that what I have done was right. May it lead to hope for all of us, and an escape from despair, instead of the slavery and death you fear!

"If I had! If you had!" he heard his father say. "Such words and ifs are vain. It has gone into the Shadow, and only time will show what doom awaits it and us. The time will not be long. In what is left, let all who fight the Enemy in their fashion be at one, and keep hope while they may -- and after hope still the hardihood to die free...." **

With those words, anger and dismay were for the time being set aside, and matters turned again to the discussion of war. Denethor was once more the Lord Steward, and Faramir, his captain.

"What think you of the garrison at Osgiliath?"

"It is not strong...." **

*****

** Author's note: Faramir's words concerning meeting the Halflings in Ithilien, Gandalf and Denethor's heated discussion, Denethor's words about keeping hope while they may, and the final sentences concerning the garrison at Osgiliath are all quoted directly from Return of the King, the chapter entitled, "The Siege of Gondor."

It was a dismal day of searching the empty lands of Anórien, but Eadric and his fellow Rohirrim scouts did not let the darkness or the emptiness oppress them, nor deter them from their duty to lord and king. Far and wide across the plains they ranged in a wide arc, meeting again at last as the day drew to a close.

There had been no sign of the sun all that long day; nevertheless, it was still apparent when evening at last approached, for the brownness in the air grew even denser as what daylight there was dimmed and grew faint. Far off in the West, at the uttermost limit of the darkness that flowed from Mordor, the sky was still faintly clear, and the glow that came with the setting of the sun could be seen beyond the edge of the shadow as it creeped ever westwards. Soon, however, even that bit of light would be extinguished, for the darkness showed no sign of halting its inexorable covering of the land. Once the sun set, the ensuing night would be dark indeed.

"What say you, my fellows?" said Eadric. "Shall we press on eastwards for a few miles more, while we have some light left? Or shall we make camp for the night, and on the morrow send our report to the lord Éomer?"

"It would be best to be thorough, perhaps, and continue a while longer," suggested Brynhere, and the others nodded their agreement. "Though we have seen no sign of evil, the further east we press, the more likely 'twill be that we come upon some sign of enemy movement."

"Such were my thoughts also," replied Eadric. "Very well, then. Let us ride while we may. The light is poor enough, but our eyes are not yet defeated by the darkness. We may still come upon something significant to report ere the sun goes down. If nothing else, we will assure ourselves of a safe camp, knowing that the lands about us are truly empty."

They rode swiftly eastwards, and were able to cover several miles before the light began to fail. Behind them, far away in the West, the sun sank towards the rim of the world and at last briefly escaped the shadows that strove to hide it. As Eadric and his men reached the top of a high hill, a shaft of bright sunlight shone out, and for a fleeting moment, the darkness drew back and the Riders could see clearly what lay before them.

On the hillside opposite the slope on which they rode, not more than a mile distant, four Men were making their way slowly on foot through the long grass. The light of the setting sun glinted redly upon mail and sword.

Thrydwulf uttered an exclamation and laid a hand to his spear, but at a sharp command from Eadric, his hand fell away.

"They are Men of Gondor!" cried Eadric.

***

For a moment, Boromir could not understand what he was seeing. He passed a hand over his eyes, dazzled from the light of the setting sun, which even now was growing dim and faint. But when he took his hand away, the horsemen were still there, riding towards them at a swift and steady pace.

"Riders!" he breathed.

Arthad was immediately at his side, arrow nocked and bow drawn, but he quickly lowered his weapon again when he realized who was approaching.  "Riders of Rohan!" he exclaimed.

"Are you certain?" asked Grithnir, shading his eyes against the fast-receding light. "But yes -- I see it is so. No Orc rides a horse such as these, and no ally of Sauron bears such arms or wears such armor. They are from Rohan, indeed!"

"Scouts, perhaps?" wondered Henderch. "Riding in advance of the army?"

"We shall know soon enough," replied Boromir. "They approach at speed."

They had not long to wait. With a pounding of hoofs, the horsemen rode up, and reined in their mounts as one. Four of the Riders held back, while the fifth dismounted, tossing the reins to one of his fellows.

"Well met, Men of Gondor," he said, striding forward.

Halting before Boromir, he bowed respectfully, and extended his hands palm upwards in token of friendship.

"I am Eadric, chief scout of the house of Éomer, Third Marshal of Riddermark. These men with me are my fellow scouts. We serve our lord Éomer in the Eastfold, and at his bidding, we have come to Anórien in Gondor to seek news and give report of what passes here ere Théoden King rides to Mundburg."

"I rejoice to hear what brings you to our lands," exclaimed Boromir. "But you surprise me, Eadric of Eastfold. We are strangers met by chance in the wild, and yet you speak freely to us your name and your purpose, and that of your lord, without first seeking our names or news of our business."

"Surely it is my duty to tell you all, my lord, and freely!" Eadric answered with a smile. "Are you not Men of Gondor? Do we not travel in your lands unannounced? But as it happens, I do know you, and I know it is safe to speak with you freely. We have not been introduced, but I have seen you from afar, and know you to be Boromir, son of the lord Steward Denethor of Gondor -- and the lord Boromir is a Man to be trusted!"

Even as he smiled and spoke lightly, Eadric had been observing Boromir and his men carefully, and a look of concern now replaced the smile upon his face.

"Tell me, my lord Boromir!" he asked urgently. "Why do you travel afoot in these dangerous times, with so few men to protect you? I see you are all weary and worn -- and surely you are wounded, my lord! Have you seen battle? Do you require assistance? Let us help you; we are at your service!"

Boromir bowed his head gratefully.  "I thank you, Eadric," he said warmly. "It is true, we are in some need -- it is not by choice that we travel on foot! It is a long tale, but we will share it with you gladly, if you have the time to spare from your duty to your lord."

"Our duty to our lord includes service to you, our friend and ally. I will hear your tale; there is time."

"Let us make camp then, for what light there was has almost gone, and it is time I rested."

Eadric gestured to his men, and they dismounted. Thrydwulf came forward and made to hand over the reins of Eadric's mount to him. But before Eadric could grasp them, the horse tossed its head and pulled away. Ignoring Eadric's whistle, the horse trotted straight to Boromir and after a moment's hesitation, nudged him gently with his nose and whickered softly.

Boromir stood, bemused and uncertain, but only for a moment. Reaching out slowly, he laid a light hand on the side of the horse's face.

"Is it you, my friend?" he murmured. "Surefoot? Yes! It is you!"

At the sound of the Man's voice close beside him, the horse Surefoot pressed closer, and nuzzled Boromir's face, breathing deep, long breaths which blew warmly into the Man's nose. Boromir's smile widened, and he stood quietly glad, and accepting of the horse's attention.

"So, my friend!" he chuckled when loving greetings had at last been exchanged. "I had thought never to see you again, yet here you are, returned safely from the North where you left me so precipitously -- not that I blame you! The crossing at Tharbad was more dangerous than either of us bargained for, was it not? But you have lived up to your name and what was told me when first you were given me as my steed for the journey: 'His feet always find a path.'  I am grateful that it should be so!"

Boromir stroked the animal's strong neck, and was glad of the gathering night, for it hid the tears which suddenly sprang to his eyes.

"I see there is more than one tale to be told here," remarked Eadric cheerfully. "It is clear to me that you are well acquainted with our Stánfót*, and he with you. Among the horses of the Rohirrim, Stánfót -- or Surefoot, in your tongue -- is a favorite with all who have need of a swift and reliable steed, for his stride is firm and unfaltering, his heart steadfastly loyal, and he always finds the safe path."

"Yes," answered Boromir. "We know one another, and that is part of the long tale I have for you. Let us sit at our ease, and I will begin it, when I have rested."

*****

Author's note: Stánfót literally means Stonefoot, a word put together with the help of a dictionary of Old English.

Throughout Faramir's report and the ensuing angry discussion, Dûrlin had remained silent and unobtrusive in the background, stepping forward only to refill goblets with wine. Nevertheless, his keen eye had taken note of every glance and expression on the faces of those in the room, and he had missed no spoken word -- nor those words which remained unspoken, yet still palpable in the air and obvious to one who knew well the moods and tones of voice of those he served.

Yet when the argument had suddenly included mention of Boromir, Dûrlin had stepped forward to listen more attentively, not caring if anyone thought him out of order for doing so. He was responsible to serve and care for each member of the Steward's household, but he was first and foremost Boromir's man, and that which concerned Boromir concerned him.

What he had heard of his lord only deepened his already keen sorrow.

"...in desperate hours gentleness may be repaid with death," Denethor had said, angry with Faramir for what he considered grave disobedience of his strict orders.  "But not with your death only, Lord Faramir: with the death also of your father, and of all your people, whom it is your part to protect now that Boromir is gone."

"Do you wish then that our places had been exchanged?"

"Yes, I wish that indeed. For Boromir was loyal to me and no wizard's pupil. He would have remembered his father's need, and would not have squandered what fortune gave. He would have brought me a mighty gift."

"I would ask you, my father, to remember why it was that I, not he, was in Ithilien. On one occasion at least your counsel has prevailed, not long ago. It was the Lord of the City that gave the errand to him."

"Stir not the bitterness in the cup that I mixed for myself! Have I not tasted it now many nights upon my tongue foreboding that worse yet lay in the dregs? As now indeed I find. Would it were not so! Would that this thing had come to me!"

Dûrlin wondered again what this thing was that Denethor so feared and yet so desired, and that Faramir seemingly had let go when he could have had it in his possession. Whatever it was, it would seem it had held some influence over Boromir, as well...

"Comfort yourself!" Mithrandir had interjected. "In no case would Boromir have brought it to you. He is dead, and died well; may he sleep in peace! Yet you deceive yourself. He would have stretched out his hand to this thing, and taking it he would have fallen. He would have kept it for his own, and when he returned you would not have known your son."

Denethor had spoken softly in reply.  "You found Boromir less apt to your hand, did you not? But I who was his father say that he would have brought it to me..." **

Dûrlin was grateful for the wizard's defense of his lord, and though he was not yet quite convinced that Boromir was actually dead and gone, he was soothed by the thought that whatever had confronted him in that hard time, he had done well in the end. But Dûrlin's heart ached for Denethor and Faramir, for it seemed to him that a rift was growing between father and son. It widened with every passing moment, while he stood by, powerless to stop it.

"Look after them, Dûrlin," Boromir had said to him, before leaving upon the quest from which he had not yet returned. "Look after my father and my brother... see that they are not too hard on one another. I do what I can to bridge the gap between them, but it is widening -- and with me not here, I cannot say what will happen. My father will expect much from Faramir, and he will give it willingly -- even if it breaks him. But I do not want it to come to that. You know much, you see much of what goes on in this household -- do what you can for them."

Alas! thought Dûrlin sorrowfully. I gave you my word, Boromir, to look after them in your stead, but that promise grows harder to keep. There is indeed a gap separating them now, and it is suddenly wide and deep. I wonder how such a chasm can be crossed? I fear this new sorrow which lies between them is beyond my ability to heal or repair. Yet I must try for your sake, while you are not here. For your sake -- and for my own! I cannot bear to see these two so at odds! Despite their differences of temperament, there is still love between them. I only hope this current trouble will not bury that love too deep....

Sudden tears filled Dûrlin's eyes, and he turned away so that no one would see them.

Ah, Boromir! he silently cried. What has befallen you upon the journey you undertook, that they should speak of you so? What is this fearsome thing that, if you had taken it, would have changed you in such a manner? I am not certain I wish to know, for I fear it is terrible!

"Alas for my brother!" he heard Faramir say, as if echoing Dûrlin's own thoughts.

Mastering his emotion, Dûrlin turned back to his duty, in time to see Faramir rise. Even as he asked for leave to go, Faramir swayed, leaning wearily against his father's chair.

"You are weary, I see," said Denethor. "You have ridden fast and far, and under shadows of evil in the air, I am told."

"Let us not speak of that!"

"Then we will not," said Denethor. "Go now and rest as you may. Tomorrow's need will be sterner." **

Dûrlin was dismayed to see that though Denethor's words were no longer angry and he spoke fairly to Faramir, he still held himself stiffly aloof. The Steward was putting distance between himself and his son, and that did not bode well. It would be up to Dûrlin, then, to temper the stark sternness with some warmth.

As Faramir passed on his way from the chamber, he turned and smiled at Dûrlin, and for all his weariness and sorrow over his father's mood, the smile was warm and open. Dûrlin seized his opportunity and spoke, taking care that the others heard his words, as well.

"Rest well, my lord Faramir," he said, returning Faramir's smile. "Let no shadow of fear or strife cloud your heart! The words of hope your father has spoken so recently are ones I would repeat, for they are on my heart as well: '...let all who fight the Enemy in their fashion be at one, and keep hope while they may.' Let us truly be at one, and keep our hope alive."

"...and after hope still the hardihood to die free," added Denethor softly. "Yes, Dûrlin, let us keep hope while we may -- until that day when hope is gone and the time to die free has come."
 
***

The sharing of news between the Men of Gondor and the Rohirrim scouts lasted well into the night, for there was much to tell on both sides. Boromir spoke long about his journey north after leaving Rohan, of the time spent with the horse Surefoot and how they had come to be separated. He spoke, too, of his journey to Rivendell and his subsequent return to Gondor, sharing as much as he felt free to tell of the quest, and how he had come to this place, wounded and on foot.

Eadric in turn did his best to answer Boromir's many questions concerning Rohan and Gondor, though he had little enough knowledge of details beyond that which he needed to know as a scout. His latest news of Rohan was days old. Word from Éomer had come of victory at great cost at Helm's Deep, and of the mustering of the Rohirrim, but beyond that he knew little more.

Boromir was grateful for any piece of news, no matter how incomplete, particularly the report Eadric shared of the observations he and his fellow scouts had made during their passage through Anórien. That the land had been entirely emptied of people -- even the scattered herdsmen and husbandmen who dwelt there -- told him something of the state of affairs in Gondor. War was imminent, and his people were being gathered to places of safety.

"So, there was no sign of any enemy in the land?" Boromir asked, watching Eadric's face thoughtfully.

"No sign, my lord," Eadric confirmed. "But I fear that will change any day now. You say your goal is to attain the Road at the beacon hill of Nardol? That is the straightway from here, but it may no longer be safe by the time you reach it."

"Alas, we can go no faster on foot with me wounded; and even if we come to the Road in safety, we would still have the journey to the City before us. I fear I cannot reach her in time! At this pace, we will find the way barred by the Enemy."

Eadric was silent for a time, lost in thought. Leaning suddenly towards Thrydwulf, he conferred with him in a low voice before turning back to Boromir.

"I have a suggestion, lord, if you are willing to hear it."

"Of course, you have but to speak," answered Boromir eagerly.

"Horses would ease your journey greatly. Therefore, my suggestion is this: I will send one of my scouts to the nearest waypost along the Road where horses are kept for your Gondorian errand riders. He will bring back horses for you and your men. Once you are mounted, you should ride with all haste to the Road -- but not towards Mundburg. Ride to meet the Rohirrim along the way, and join your numbers to ours. Théoden King will welcome you, and arm you for your further protection as you have need. Thus, you may ride in safety and in a timely manner to your City, with an army at your back and allies to support you."

Boromir drew in a great breath, and let it out slowly.

"Your suggestion is a sound one," he replied with a relieved smile. "More than sound! It is excellent, and answers our need well. I thank you, Eadric -- not only for your help, but for the encouraging news you bear. It heartens me greatly to know of Théoden's riding to our aid."

Eadric waved Boromir's thanks aside.   "It is my pleasure to serve you, lord, in any way I can."

"Pleasure or no, it is well done," Boromir replied firmly. "Now, my friends, we should go to our rest. Tomorrow's need will be stern enough without meeting it weary from lack of sleep!"
 
*****

Author's note:

** The words spoken concerning Boromir, and Denethor's words to Faramir as he asks leave to go are all quoted directly from The Return of the King, from the chapter entitled, "The Siege of Gondor."

Frodo stretched out his legs with a sigh that was almost a moan. His feet and knees burned and ached from the steep climb, and the thought of more stairs just now was intolerable. Sméagol had been reluctant to grant them a rest at this stage of the climb, but Frodo knew neither he nor Sam could ascend any further without some moments to ease strained muscles and labored breath. Therefore, they rested while they could, and tried to steel their hearts and bodies for the next effort.

The darkness all about them was oppressive here in this strange high place, but at least they had traveled far enough to put some distance between themselves and the evil of Minas Morgul below. Frodo was exceedingly glad for that, though it did little to help him feel safer. Try as he would, Frodo could not keep his thoughts from being drawn back to that place, just as he had been physically drawn to it as he passed nigh the pale white bridge that led to the loathsome fortress. A faint stabbing of cold in his shoulder caused him to stir restlessly.

The sight of the immense army marching away from the Morgul Valley to Osgiliath had disturbed him mightily. Faramir had known it was coming, but had not known the hour. Would he be ready in time? Would he be able to cross the River and reach Minas Tirith in advance of the army, in time to warn his people that war had at last broken and was advancing swiftly towards them? Moreover, how would they be able to hold against such a massive force -- which was no doubt only a small part of the vast numbers of enemy troops sworn to the service of Mordor?

"What hope have you for that city in your long war?" Frodo recalled asking Faramir, as they had spoken together in the caves of Henneth Annûn.

"What hope have we?" Faramir had replied. "It is long since we had any hope. The sword of Elendil, if it returns indeed, may rekindle it, but I do not think that it will do more than put off the evil day, unless other help unlooked-for also comes, from Elves or Men. For the Enemy increases and we decrease. We are a failing people, a springless autumn."

Suddenly, as if out of the darkness, came the memory of another voice speaking in urgent warning:

"By our valor the wild folk of the East are still restrained, and the terror of Morgul kept at bay; and thus alone are peace and freedom maintained in the lands behind us, bulwark of the West. But if the passages of the River should be won, what then?"

Such had been Boromir's words at the Council of Elrond -- and now, for the first time, Frodo understood why he had spoken so urgently and with such passion, and realized the full extent of the Man of Gondor's concern and despair for his country and his people. Boromir had known what Faramir also knew -- that there was little hope left that Gondor would be able to stand when the evil day finally came, when Sauron loosed the hordes he had been preparing over long, dark years. Boromir, as the military leader of his people, had faced the terror of Mordor and Morgul daily, and had been desperate to prepare against it in any way he could, even as he saw his own forces dwindling and the Enemy's growing vast beyond measure. No wonder the Ring had drawn him so inexorably! It must surely have presented the best way to lasting victory for a Man who had lost all hope of ever turning the dark tide away from those he had sworn to protect.

Intruding sharply into his thoughts came another memory of Boromir, of those last moments upon the hill of Amon Hen, and the wild, crazed look in the Man's eye as he succumbed to the draw of the Ring -- but Frodo forced himself to turn away from that fearful memory. He would only be doing the Ring's bidding if he let himself judge the Man solely by those final moments together, giving the Ring more power over him by letting It control how he remembered his friends. With effort, Frodo drew his thoughts away from anger and despair, and thought of other things, recalling other memories of the Man who had been his protector.

... Boromir's tall frame set like a protecting stone between him and the attacking wolves in Hollin... Boromir in the snows of Caradhras, lifting Frodo from a drift to keep him from a sleep that could have meant his death... their defense together of the western door in Balin's tomb against the troll that had threatened to cut off their escape... the note of grief and memory in Faramir's voice that told of love and loyalty and shared fellowship that none could fully understand who were not brothers.

Frodo had been shaken to his very core to learn from Faramir that Boromir was dead, not only because of what it might mean for the others who had been his companions, but for the loss of the Man himself. No matter what stood between them at their parting, they had been true companions for many months, and it hurt desperately to think of him gone.

A grief-stricken Faramir had shared with the hobbits how he and his father had heard the sounding of the Horn on that fateful day, of the waking dream he had been sent of Boromir wounded in battle, and of the finding of the shards of his Horn on the River -- all proof of Boromir's demise. Frodo and Sam had recalled for him what they could of that day, but it had done more to confirm Faramir's sorrow than to appease it, for the hobbits, too, had heard the Horn blowing faintly on the day of parting at Amon Hen. At the time, Sam had thought it only a sign that the search for the missing Frodo was on, rather than a call for help in the midst of a battle that brought death to Gondor's captain.

Alas, if Boromir truly is dead! Frodo mourned. What will Gondor do now? What will Faramir do?

Such a loss was hard to bear for anyone close to Boromir, but for the people of Gondor to be without their best captain and leader at such a time as this, it was even more devastating. It would all fall upon the shoulders of Faramir now, to do the job of Boromir as well as his own -- and while those shoulders were broad and strong, they were not sufficient to carry the whole world, alone.

Alas for Boromir! Frodo thought -- and heard the echo of Faramir's own lament in his mind's ear.

"'Twill be hard going for Faramir and his folk, won't it now?" said Sam softly in his ear.

Frodo turned to him, amazed to realize that Sam must have been thinking similar thoughts as they sat together, resting. Sam looked back at him solemnly.

"Sad it is, about poor old Boromir!" mused Sam with a small sigh of regret. "It'll go hard for Faramir and his White City to be without him, when the fightin' starts. Boromir might've had his faults, bein' suspicious of Elves and such, and thinkin' too much about the Ring, which weren't good for him -- but he was a brave one and a wonder when it came to fighting! If I knew he was out there fightin' those Orcs tramping off to Minas Tirith, I wouldn't feel so worried 'bout how it's all going to turn out. I know he didn't do fair by you there at the end, Mr. Frodo, but it's still sad to think of him bein' dead, and his brother having to face it all alone."

Frodo smiled dolefully.

"Yes, Sam," he nodded. "I was just thinking that very thing!"

Gollum approached them from out of the darkness, and beckoned anxiously.

"Time to go, Master. No more resting now. There's another stair still! Much longer stair. Rest when we get to the top of next stair. Not yet..."**

***

Although he was very weary after the long and eventful day, Pippin was unable to sleep. He could not stop thinking about all he had heard and seen that day. The dramatic announcement Faramir had made to the lord Denethor concerning his meeting with Frodo in Ithilien, and Gandalf's palpable fear at the news of Frodo's intention to travel with Gollum, had occupied his thoughts all evening, so that he hardly paid any attention to what else had gone on at the council session. Distracted as he was, however, he could tell that matters were for some reason quite strained between the lord and his son.

But now that he was alone and quiet, conversations that had gone half-heard were recurring in Pippin's mind, and what he was learning from those remembered words disturbed him mightily.

"Boromir was loyal to me and no wizard's pupil. He would have remembered his father's need, and would not have squandered what fortune gave...."

"In no case would Boromir have brought it to you... He would have stretched out his hand to this thing, and taking it he would have fallen. He would have kept it for his own...."

"I who was his father say that he would have brought it to me!"

Boromir falling prey to the lure of the Ring? thought Pippin in disbelief. Boromir taking the Ring and keeping it for his own? No, it was impossible! Not that strong, stern Man who was so fair, so invincible, so firm in his commitment to his purpose and his people! Such a thing would never have happened! Boromir could never have done such a thing!

And yet....

Other words came to mind, then, from a time that seemed so distant, so very long ago, yet in truth was only a matter of weeks past -- Boromir, bowed with grief, telling of his last moments with Frodo, before everything had changed....

"I found him some way up the hill, and I spoke to him. I urged him to come to Minas Tirith and not to go east. I grew angry and he left me. He vanished... He must have put the Ring on. I could not find him again. I thought he would return to you... I have wandered for some time since...."

Pippin gasped in horror and dismay as the truth struck home, and leaping from his bed, he began to pace the room in great agitation. He was hardly surprised to find that he was weeping as he paced.

Could it be? Could Boromir have actually tried to take the Ring from Frodo, and that was why Frodo had gone away, leaving him and Merry behind? How could Boromir have done such a thing?

Yet before Pippin even had time to feel anger at this betrayal by a Man who had been such a friend to him, he knew; he knew in his heart how Boromir -- so strong, so fair, so firm in his commitment -- had been assailed so that he had fallen.

Pippin had only been in Minas Tirith for a matter of two days, yet he instinctively sensed this was a city without hope, a people standing on the brink of final despair and desperation. He had met some who still stood firm in the face of fear; nevertheless, they were afraid, and Pippin knew their bravery came with great effort. Year after year, the people of Gondor had fought against the evil that threatened them from the East, and yet they felt no safer for their endurance, no more confident of victory because of their valiance. It seemed to Pippin that they went in greater fear than ever, now that war was at last upon them, and they were losing hope in the face of their own inability to stand against the unimaginable strength of Mordor. It was true that the people of Gondor had great confidence in the person of their lord, the Steward Denethor, and in his sons, as well -- but that confidence was not enough to save them from fear, and from their sense of certain and inescapable danger.

Boromir would have known all this, Pippin realized. He would have come to the Council of Elrond with this in his mind and in his heart. It would have weighed heavily on him all those long miles journeying with the Fellowship back to his City, accompanied by one who held a talisman with the power to defeat the Enemy once and for all, with no more loss of life....

"Why should we not think that the Great Ring has come into our hands to serve us in the very hour of need? Wielding it the Free Lords of the Free may surely defeat the Enemy. That is what he most fears, I deem. The Men of Gondor are valiant, and they will never submit; but they may be beaten down. Valor needs first strength, and then a weapon. Let the Ring be your weapon, if it has such power as you say. Take it and go forth to victory!"

Boromir had said that -- Pippin had not heard him speak those words with his own ears, but Bilbo had remembered the Council session in great detail, and had been more than willing to repeat what had been said to anyone willing to listen. Pippin had listened, and though little of it had made sense to him at the time, some of it now was coming back to him, all too clearly.

Poor, dear Boromir! lamented Pippin. It was too much for him, maybe, wanting so much to help his people that the Ring was able to get at him. Now that I see what it's like for them here, living in the shadow of Mordor, I can understand how desperate he must have been to save them. He must have felt so bad afterwards, after the madness left him -- for it did; it must have. He was sad that day when he saw that Frodo didn't return, and later, he fought so valiantly to save me and Merry -- he was his own strong self then, I know he was....

Pippin sighed deeply, and scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand, wiping away the tears that had continued to fall.

Poor Boromir! he thought again. And poor Frodo! Having to fight all that when he wasn't expecting it, to see the Ring twist someone he had trusted into an enemy, even if only for a moment! Oh, I hope Frodo won't blame him too much!

Pippin made his way over to the bedside table and sipped at water from a cup set there, until the lump in his throat gradually dissolved and he could breathe freely again. He suddenly felt very tired, and setting the cup aside, he crawled into bed and pulled the thick coverlet up to his chin. After a few moments, he felt himself relaxing.

"It's hard being a soldier of Gondor, isn't it, Boromir?" he murmured softly. "So hard, living here on Mordor's doorstep, always seeing the fire of Mount Doom on the horizon, always wondering if the next fight is going to be the one that destroys everything...."

 His voice dropped to a whisper as weariness crept over him and sleep approached.

"But don't you worry, Boromir! I just hope Dûrlin is right, and you really are alive somewhere, trying to get back. Because then I can tell you myself that I don't blame you for trying to take the Ring! I understand, Boromir... I do...."

*****

**Note: The passages in italics as well as most of the words spoke by Gollum are direct quotes from the books.

Húrin of the Keys, Warden of the City, watched as Denethor paced back and forth in front of the charcoal brazier, as if to release a surfeit of anger or distress. Húrin had come to the Steward's private chamber to report on the state of the City and the status of the evacuation of her inhabitants.  He knew Denethor was eager for this news, but he also knew well his lord's moods. This was a time for patience and not for interruption, in spite of his concern for the Steward. Denethor's aggravation would work its way out soon enough, and Húrin was sufficiently patient to wait his dark mood to pass.

At last, there was a pause in the pacing, and Húrin spoke.

"I am most sorry to see that you are distraught, my lord Denethor," he said, approaching the Steward until he stood beside him. "What has upset you so? Did Faramir bring you ill tidings?”

"Ill tidings, indeed!" replied Denethor bitterly. "What he has brought me is the worst news I have yet to receive, since word came of the death of my Boromir. I am unexpectedly betrayed!"

"Surely not!" cried Húrin in surprised concern.

"It would seem so," Denethor answered, nodding grimly. "It was most unexpected, and it has greatly shaken me."

He stood silent for a long moment, then with a shrug, he lowered himself heavily into his chair and grasped his cup of unfinished wine.

"You do not ask who has betrayed me," Denethor said quietly.

Húrin moved forward to the table, and picking up the decanter of mulled wine, he refilled Denethor's cup.

"You will tell me when I have a need to know," replied Húrin calmly, setting down the wine. "But whether you tell me or no, I am at your service."

Denethor smiled and some of the bitterness left his face.  "Your faith in me is still strong, then. I am content! Long has it been since we two fought together, I as your captain and you as my right hand -- yet you remain steadfast in your support of me. And your sword arm? It is as weighty as ever?"

"Fear not! I have not neglected my training, my captain, nor have my duties as Warden of the Keys softened me."

"That is well," nodded Denethor, "for this is no time for softness."

Húrin smiled.  "A formidable pair we are, as ever, Lord Denethor. Between us, the City is well in hand!"

Denethor smiled in return, and though the smile was faint, Húrin could read in it his Steward's pleasure at the statement.

"Shall I proceed with my report?" he asked, with a respectful bow.

"Yes, Húrin, proceed with your report and omit no detail. When I have heard all you have to share with me, we will take thought together concerning tomorrow's Council session...."

***

Merry lay quietly at the edge of the encampment, gazing up at the long draping branches of willow trees above him. He found himself thinking of his encounter with the willows of the Old Forest, so long ago; he was surprised to realize he felt no fear at the memory. So much had happened since then, and the fear of that time now seemed more like a dream than reality. He had known then that the journey ahead would not be easy, but he had never anticipated he might come to a place where the journey would continue without his close companions at his side.

The sounds of a vast army of Men and horses were all around him, drowning out the creak of willow branches and the sighing of the river beside which they camped. Thousands of people were all around him, yet he still felt strangely alone. There was no one to talk to, not even his riding companion, Dernhelm, who was keeping to himself and conversed little. The others were strangers who ignored him or were oblivious to his presence. There was little comfort to be had for a lone hobbit in the midst of an army of Men.

He wished the Man Hirgon still rode with them. The errand rider had reminded Merry so much of Boromir, it had been pleasant to have him nearby, even when they did not speak much together. But Hirgon and his companion had been gone for many hours now, returning to Minas Tirith with the news that Rohan was riding to the aid of the City.

Thoughts of Minas Tirith brought Pippin to mind, and Merry could not help but sigh a little, for he missed his friend keenly. How he wished he could talk to him of their friends who were far away -- Frodo and Sam, and Aragorn and the others. And Boromir, too, of course. He did so wish to speak to someone about Boromir, for somehow it seemed easier to bear the loss and the separation when someone who understood was nearby.

I wonder if any of these Riders even knew Boromir? Merry thought, and sighed again.

The sound of a boot scuffing on turf interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to see Dernhelm kneeling beside him, unrolling his blanket.

"Is all well with you?" Dernhelm queried softly, his eyes filled with concern. "You sigh as though you are in pain. The ride did not hurt you in any way, I trust? We did not travel far this first day, but perhaps you are not used to sitting astride a horse such as mine?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Merry assured him. "At least, I'm feeling well enough after the ride... I'm just feeling rather lonely, I suppose, and missing my friends."

"Ah!" replied Dernhelm thoughtfully. "Yes, it is difficult to be alone, even amongst many. Which of your friends holds your thoughts now, that makes you sigh so heavily?"

"Well, I miss them all very much, and I'm very worried about how they are doing. They're all so far away right now, and each one of them in danger of one kind or another. I don't even know what's happening with them, and that makes it worse! But just now, I was thinking of my friend Boromir. That rider Hirgon from Gondor reminded me of him, and now I can't stop thinking about how much I miss him, and how I wish he weren't dead!"

Dernhelm nodded, his face sadly sober.

"His death is a blow to us all! He was a mighty warrior, and a great friend to Rohan."

"You knew him?" exclaimed Merry in surprise.

"Nay!" answered Dernhelm hurriedly. "I did not know him. But I have seen him, for he came at times to Meduseld. A strong man and bold, I thought him -- a man worthy to be called the hope of Gondor in these dark times. I... I have heard that he and the king's son were friendly. Alas, that two such warriors should be lost to us!"

"Alas!" agreed Merry fervently. "I'm glad to hear you knew of him, though; that makes me feel better. Would you... would you mind if I talked about him a bit? It would help me not feel so lonely, I think, if I could talk to someone...."

Dernhelm bowed his head in grave assent.

"If it will help you, then let us speak of him. Perhaps... perhaps my heart, too, will be eased as we speak of your companions...."

***

The Grey Company camped for the night in the midst of the open plain, and took what rest they could in the face of the urgency with which they pressed forward, and the presence of the Dead all around them that disturbed their slumber.

Legolas was not plagued by such restlessness, nor did he need sleep, so he walked the perimeter of the camp and watched over the sleeping Company, awaiting the dawn when they could move forward once again. He noted that Gimli did not sleep, though he lay upon the ground, resolutely facing away from the shadowy host. The Dwarf seemed determined not to look at them, nor let down his guard against the fear of the Dead that threatened to engulf him.

"Rest, Gimli," he said, as he stooped to sit next to where his friend lay. "The Dead will not harm you. They obey Aragorn, and will not trouble us who are the means by which they may fulfill their oath and have peace."

"I'd like some peace from them! They make me feel cold to my very bones!" muttered Gimli. "It's easy enough for you to say the Dead won't harm us. You're an Elf! I suppose Elves have no fear of such creatures?"

"No, I do not fear them," replied Legolas.

Sensing movement behind him, Legolas turned to see Aragorn approaching.

"The Dead are indeed fearsome, Gimli," Aragorn said as he sat next to Legolas. "We all feel it -- except Legolas, of course! In truth, they mean us no harm, though the dread they instill in the heart is difficult to bear. The Oathbreakers will serve our needs well, for that dreadful terror will soon be turned against our enemies, and not against us."

They sat quietly without speaking, taking comfort in the presence of one another. After a time, Legolas broke the silence with an uncharacteristic sigh.

"Alas for this storm from Mordor," he lamented. "The land through which we pass must be pleasant to behold in the daylight. Can you not smell the sweetness of flowers in the green grass? And there is also a tang in the air that speaks to me of the Sea. Do we draw nigh to the Great Water, Aragorn?"

"No," Aragorn shook his head. "We are not yet close to the Sea, Legolas. You have a keen nose if you can smell the salt air at this distance, with no breeze to stir the shadows from Mordor!"

"Then our road does not take us to the Sea?"

"Not to the shore itself, but we will come very close. If fortune smiles upon us, we shall reach the town of Linhir tomorrow, which is some twenty miles upriver from the Bay of Belfalas. There we will see battle, I fear, for at Linhir is a key crossing over the river and the enemy will surely take steps to hold it against Gondor. Did you note the smoldering beacons on the southern slopes of the mountains as we passed through the vale of Tarlang's Neck and the uplands of Lamedon, before Mordor's shadow fell? And again upon the northern bluff of the Hills of Tarnost that lay to the west of where we took our noon meal?"

"I saw the beacons," said Legolas. "They are an effective means of alerting people of danger, in time for them to flee. That would explain why there are so few people in these lands, which must usually be heavily populated. They have been warned, and they are either hidden away in places of safety, or they have gone to fight, those who are able."

"You say there will be battle on the morrow, Aragorn?" Gimli asked, as if welcoming the thought.

"Yes," answered Aragorn heavily. "I do not think we can go much further now without encountering the enemy."

"Shouldn't you be resting, then, lad?" Gimli answered back. "You don't want to come to the battle weakened by little sleep!"

"I could say the same to you," replied Aragorn with a smile, "though I suspect you will tell me that Dwarves do not need as much sleep as do Men."

"And you would be right!"

Legolas, ignoring the interchange between the two, leaned forward and looked keenly at Aragorn, noting his drawn face.

"Aragorn," he said thoughtfully. "You are more weary than you ought to be, perhaps! You have pushed yourself hard in these last days, and yet it is more than simple weariness here that troubles you, I deem. What has taxed you so?"

Aragorn was silent for a moment.  "Do you recall when we stopped at the crossing of the Ringló to rest and take our noon meal?"

"Yes, you went aside alone for a time, saying you needed time to yourself for thought."

"That I did," agreed Aragorn. "Not only that, I needed news, and the only way to obtain it was to use the Orthanc stone once more."

"You looked in that cursed Stone again?" cried Gimli. "Is that why you are so weary?"

"I did look," said Aragorn quietly. "And yes, it taxed me -- but I was in no danger, for it is not cursed for my use. I saw much that was helpful to me, of the movements of the Black Fleet in the south, and the gathering of the enemy in the north beyond the White Mountains. I saw much that fills me with fear and dread, but I also saw things that bring me such hope, I can scarce speak of it!"

"What is it?" pressed Legolas. "I sense you are strangely stirred! Did you speak with the Dark Lord again?"

"Nay! I did not look that way, for I have not the strength to meet him again; not yet. Though I suspect his thoughts are elsewhere now, for he has begun his war upon the West. Even now Mordor moves against the White City!"

"Tell us everything!" demanded Gimli.

"You shall hear it," smiled Aragorn. "Why else do you think I am here sitting with you, wakeful when I should be resting? There are things you two must know, to warn you of what is to come, as well as to lighten your sorrow. I would have told you sooner, but I felt the need to ponder for some hours all I have seen, for it would not do to speak before I was certain. But now I am certain."

He drew in a deep, steadying breath before continuing.  "The Stone shows many things, and often the visions it reveals are by chance -- random and unexpected. One who is not skilled in its use or who lacks the necessary strength to exert his will over the visions cannot control what is seen, nor can he withdraw one noteworthy sighting from among the confusion of other visions for a closer look. However, one who has the necessary skill and strength can see much, particularly when driven by need or concern, and aided by information already available. My skill is not, perhaps, as honed as it should be, but my strength has been sufficient so far, and my right, as well as my need, is not in doubt.

"Chance and desire have revealed something to me, something other than news of the Black Fleet and the situation in Minas Tirith, or even the coming of Mordor to the plains of the Pelennor. I have seen something that gives me great hope in spite of all the darkness that is arrayed before us!"

Legolas and Gimli stared at Aragorn, whose face seemed lit suddenly by great joy. Slowly, an idea formed in both their minds, and they spoke it out simultaneously.

"Not... not Boromir? Does he live?"

"Did you see aught of Boromir, by chance? Alive?"

Aragorn smiled broadly, and laughed, so that Halbarad, who slept nearby, sat up startled and reached for his sword.

"Just so!" exclaimed Aragorn joyfully. "I did indeed see Boromir, alive! And he is coming, making his way to Minas Tirith!"

Dûrlin hesitated in the hall outside Faramir's room, a laden tray of food upon his arm. The door to the chamber was open, and Faramir's gear was visible upon the bed where he had seemingly cast it aside -- but there was no sign of Faramir.

Where has he gone? Dûrlin wondered. Was he not planning to return directly to his chamber? Perhaps he had other matters to attend to before taking his rest, however unlikely that might seem....

He stood irresolute for a moment, then on an impulse, he set the tray down upon a table beside the doorway, and stepped across the hall to Boromir's chamber.

Faramir was there, sitting upon the edge of the bed, his head between his hands. He did not seem to notice Dûrlin's entrance, for he did not stir or look up. Dûrlin moved quietly to the grate, and picking up the flint and steel that was set upon the mantel, he struck a spark to the tinder that was laid ready. Firelight filled the room and drove away the shadows and the dampness of disuse.

"Almost a year it has been since this room felt the warmth of a fire. It is high time!"

Faramir lifted his head and looked towards the hearth. As the flames consumed the tinder and light grew in the room, an object upon the mantelpiece caught the firelight and drew his attention. Rising, Faramir approached the mantel and stood before it in amazement and awe.

"What is this?" he exclaimed, reaching forth a trembling hand. "Boromir's Horn? But how came it to be whole once more?"

Dûrlin smiled as Faramir lifted the horn carefully and tenderly, as if he were afraid it would break in his hands.

"As you will see if you look closely, it is not truly whole, only mended," Dûrlin said apologetically. "I have a talent with such things, so I thought I would try my hand at undoing some of the damage. It is an imperfect job, for it will not stand up to any use."

"So you say," said Faramir, smiling at Dûrlin's self-deprecating air. "Nevertheless, it is well done, and it pleases me. Imperfect though your work may be, yet it eases the heart to see the Horn whole once more, instead of in pieces! Looking at it now, one can almost pretend it had never come to harm. I see you have succeeded in cleansing it, as well. The..."  Faramir faltered, but then pressed on with what he had been about to say.  "The stain is scarcely visible, even when one holds it close to the fire."

"Aye," replied Dûrlin. "Such a stain cannot wholly be washed away. But it can be lightened enough that it will not be so noticeable. One day, it will be seen as a mark of the Horn's character, rather than a stain that the eye avoids."

Faramir sighed heavily. "I wish that day were here now!"

"As do I!" agreed Dûrlin fervently. "And no doubt your father feels the same. As it is, he can no longer bear the sight of the Horn cloven and bloodied, and so he has given it into my hand, to put away out of sight."

"Ah!" Faramir said thoughtfully. "I wondered how it came to be here. But it is fitting."

Faramir replaced the mended Horn carefully at the center of the mantelpiece. Turning away from the fire, he began to wander slowly about the room, gently touching an ornament here, longingly fingering a wall hanging there.

"Why do you not stay the night here in this chamber, Faramir?" suggested Dûrlin suddenly. "It is ready for use, for I have kept it prepared for the day when Boromir will return."

"And now that day will never come!" Faramir lamented.

Dûrlin shook his head. "I am not so certain of that, Faramir," he answered. "We have seen dire signs that point to tragedy, yes -- but are they proof he is lost? It may be so... and yet, it may not! I think… I believe I shall choose to hope for his return awhile longer."

"You have ever been one to be hopeful in the face of dismay and discouragement, Dûrlin. I do not know if I can follow you in this, however. As I said to the Halfling, Frodo, it is long since we had any hope -- and it is hard to begin again."

"Yes," answered Dûrlin slowly. "It is difficult to sustain hope when it is dark outside, and one is weary and sore at heart. If you cannot manage such hope now, do not fret. I have enough hope for the both of us! Even so, perhaps you will find it not so hard to begin again as you think. However, even the most hopeful heart quails in the face of hunger, and you must indeed be hungry after your difficult day!"

Turning, Dûrlin left the room; he was gone but a moment, and when he returned, he was bearing the salver of food he had left in the hall.  "Here is food to strengthen your body, and drink to ease your spirit. And after you have eaten, here is a bed, ready for you, and a warm fire laid. Stay here in Boromir's chamber this night; he will not mind!"

"He may!" replied Faramir sadly, his voice full of pain. "He might mind very much, if he knew how I misused him to gain the confidence of the Halfling!"

Dûrlin's response was to gently steer Faramir to a chair by the curtained window and urge him to sit. Drawing a small table close with one hand, he set down the tray of food.

"You are my charge while you are in the City, Faramir," he said as he poured wine and set the cup at Faramir's right hand. "I will do all I can to ease your stay here, however long or brief it may be. You are much disheartened by your father's mood, weary in mind as well as in body, and worn by your brush with evil before the Gate."

Dûrlin handed Faramir a plate of bread, cheese and cold meat, then proceeded to slice fruit onto a second plate and set it beside the cup of wine.

"Eat now and refresh yourself," Dûrlin enjoined. "And while you eat, gather your thoughts, then tell me all that happened to cause you so much doubt and regret."

Faramir meekly obeyed. By the time he had eaten the last bite and drunk the last drop under Dûrlin's watchful and compassionate eye, the tension in his shoulders had eased and his eyes had brightened, though the look on his face remained somber and thoughtful.

"I am indeed weary, Dûrlin" he said ruefully. "I doubt not that I shall be wearier still, before the end of things. Not long ago I told Mablung that my shoulders are broad enough to carry the load of Boromir's duties as well as my own, without begrudging it -- and that is the truth. I do not regret my increased responsibility or the hard choices I face. But the load is often heavy, and I miss being able to share it with my brother."

Faramir turned towards the east-facing window, and though it was shuttered and curtained, he gazed at it as if he were looking through and out upon the walls of the City, and beyond to the Anduin and the shadowed forests of Ithilien.

"I thought my heart was settled and resigned to the loss of him," he sighed. "But a chance meeting in Ithilien showed me it was not so. Chance, I say; but I doubt it was mere chance that led me to that meeting with two who had actually traveled with Boromir and could speak of what had befallen him at the end. But alas, they would not speak, and I was denied the answers for which my heart ached!"

Rising, he paced slowly in front of his chair, deep in thought, as if trying to recall the details of his meeting with Frodo and Sam.

"I cannot remember ever being in such a difficult position!" he exclaimed, shaking his head. "A fierce battle against unnumbered foes would have seemed simple and straightforward by contrast. Yet this was a battle of another sort; I was caught between great urgency and a fear of delay, a desperate need for information and news of Boromir, and the necessity of dealing with the courteous but firm distrust of one who knew all the answers I sought but would not share them!"

Faramir stopped in the middle of the room, and stood silent, once again lost in thought. Dûrlin quietly cleared away the remains of the meal while he waited for Faramir to continue.

"You heard the tale of how I met the Halflings, did you not, Dûrlin?" Faramir asked after a short time.

"Yes," replied Dûrlin. "I rather suspect that it was not the whole tale, however."

"Indeed it was not," answered Faramir with a slight smile. "When I gave my report to my father, I spoke only of the facts of that meeting and gave few details of that which led to my decision to allow Frodo to continue his journey. It was better so, I deemed, though my father might think otherwise. And for that reason, I also said nothing of how difficult it was to gather the information I needed to come to that choice."

"One does indeed need knowledge in order to choose wisely," Dûrlin said thoughtfully. "But if the knowledge is not forthcoming, the choices are made with difficulty."

"In truth, that was the way of it," Faramir said, nodding. "Frodo did not trust me. He was courteous and well-spoken in answer to my queries, but I was not satisfied with many of those answers. It was obvious he was not telling all he knew and was holding back vital information. For the sake and safety of Gondor, I had to know why he traveled in Ithilien, what his part had been in the company that had also included Boromir, and what, if anything, did he have to do with the dream and the prophetic words that took Boromir away from us to seek for answers in the far north. But more than that, even, I was desperate to know what had happened to Boromir and why this Halfling was so reluctant to speak of him.

"For indeed, he was reluctant. It irked me that he was holding back, and I could not let that pass. He named himself Boromir's friend, but he did so with hesitation, and I fear that hesitation made me hard and grim for a time, and distrustful of him. Why would he hesitate, unless he had something to do with Boromir's death? Might he even have been responsible in some way? Treachery can be found anywhere, and is no stranger to even the most fair-seeming individual."

Faramir paused, shaking his head.  "But I soon realized it could not be so," he continued. "As obvious as it was that he was not being forthright with me, it was also very clear to me that he was holding back for honorable reasons. Something about his journey was of such import that it could not be shared freely with others. I had some idea of what it might have been, but even when I pressed him with my guesses, he held firm in his silence. Perhaps he would have been reluctant to share his purpose with me even if the matter of Boromir did not stand between us -- but it did, very much so. And for that reason, he did not trust me.

"He was shaken when he learned that Boromir was lost -- yet rather than speak freely after hearing the news, he became even more reticent. Even though I shared with him my vision of Boromir in the midst of battle, bloodied and bruised, his Horn cloven and his body pierced with black arrows -- even then, he would not speak of what had been between them when they parted."

Dûrlin sighed heavily, and laid a cautionary hand on Faramir's arm.  "I missed little of what was said -- or left unsaid -- between you and your father this evening," he said gravely. "Nor did I miss that which passed between my lord Denethor and Mithrandir in the argument which followed. So I know there is a tale to be told of Boromir and the Halfling, Frodo. Speak freely, Faramir, of your thoughts and fears, but do not tell me what it is that lay between them. I shall be patient, and trust that Boromir himself can tell me the full tale. For now, let it be enough that I know that there was something that caused distance to grow between them, at least for a time."

"I will gladly refrain from speaking of it, then," said Faramir gratefully. "If your hope cheats you and Boromir does not return to tell the tale, then I shall speak of it another time. For now, it is difficult enough remembering that one so kind and understanding as Frodo could feel antipathy towards Boromir the Bold, prince of the White City and honored by all!"

He paused for a moment, his brow knit.

"Frodo's sorrow over the news of Boromir's fall was great, nonetheless, and I could tell he was afraid. Afraid, yet still determined to do the task that was laid upon him. He begged me to put aside my doubt of him for the sake of his quest and to let him go. I knew him to be true, then, and I doubted him no longer -- but alas! I could not simply let him go for that reason alone. For Gondor's safety, for my promise to my father to deal sternly with strangers in the land, and yes, for the sake of Boromir -- I had to know more before making such a decision. I could not judge the matter justly without knowing what it was that kept Frodo silent on the matter of Boromir and Frodo's own quest, for what if that silence could mean danger for my people? No, I had to know more."

Faramir began to pace the room once more.

"I knew that somehow I must win Frodo's trust," he explained to Dûrlin. "Certainly he did not feel safe enough in my presence to speak freely of that which I needed to know -- whether because of my relationship with Boromir or because his quest was so secret. Or both! I suspected that his reluctance to speak of his purpose was bound up in the reserve he felt for Boromir; I thought that if I could learn more of what had passed between them, then perhaps I might learn something of the other matter.

"And so... and so, I spoke to him of my brother. At every opportunity, I brought the conversation around to Boromir. Frodo must have dearly wished for peace on that subject! But how could I stay away from it, even as I strove to discover the other secrets he was keeping from me? To learn more of Boromir was what I wanted most in the world -- and to have that, I had to speak of him myself, in spite of Frodo's reluctance!"

Faramir stopped pacing suddenly, and looked at Dûrlin keenly and with doubt in his eyes.

"But not all my words were of praise for Boromir," he said sadly. "And that is what gives me pause now as I look back upon my conversations with Frodo. Did I speak only of that which was harsh and none that was good? Did I present Boromir in a starker light than is my wont in order to set myself against him as more trustworthy?

"When Frodo and I spoke of fell weapons that give advantage in battle and sure victory over the Dark Lord, did I speak of Boromir's valor and his dauntless courage in the face of danger? No, I spoke only of his pride and his rashness, and his desire for that glory which is attained in great victory. When we spoke of the riddling dream and of Isildur's Bane, of mighty heirlooms and the strife they bring among confederates, did I speak of Boromir's loyalty in friendship, and his selfless devotion to those for whom he is responsible -- even unto death? No, instead I confirmed only that he was the kind of man who would contend for his own way, particularly if it had to do with the safety of Gondor and her people.

"And when we spoke of kings, did I recall for Frodo Boromir's long years of dedicated and fearless service to the kingdom as Captain-general and heir to the Steward, to preserve our borders and keep our people safe? No, I recalled only that it displeased him that his father was not king, and that it irked him that the king did not return."

Faramir shook his head sorrowfully, and opened his mouth to continue, but Dûrlin spoke first.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "I remember well how that matter bothered him. It was a fair question for a young man to be asking when learning the rule of his city and his people; a question that many another Steward has no doubt asked himself over the long years! Leave it to Boromir the Bold to voice the question that was secret in everyone's heart! But he asked as much on his father's behalf as on his own, it seemed to me -- jealous as any young man would be for his father to have the full honor he thought was deserved. Difficult it was, too, for him to feel forgotten by the one who returned not. If there was a king in the world, why did he not come? They were hard matters for a young one to dwell upon, but unavoidable for the heir to the Steward's Chair -- and his brother. At least Boromir strove to learn, as he grew, what it was to be royal through good service to his people, though his house did not have the name of king."

"Yes," sighed Faramir. "At least he learned that -- but I said nothing of such lessons to Frodo. Instead I went so far as to suggest that Boromir might see a returning king as a rival! As perhaps he would, though that does not necessarily mean he would not still honor him...."

Faramir sighed again.

"And that is how I spoke of Boromir with Frodo over the course of our time together. Almost he trusted me, several times. Almost Frodo spoke out... But something stopped him every time. Partly it was fear to say too much, a reluctance to compromise his errand, or to put me at risk with knowledge of it. No doubt much of his mistrust was fear for my safety lest the thing that had come between him and Boromir afflict me as well! But alas! It was also surely a fear of opening himself to me, Boromir's kin, and finding me to be untrue....

"In the end, it was the other who trusted me first -- Frodo's companion, Sam. He spoke heedlessly and let matters slip that he had not intended, but I think it was because he felt safe with me and he was willing to take the chance, even if unconsciously so. Frodo could not take it on his own, for his sense of responsibility was too great. It was well that Sam slipped, for I was able to make my choice then, the more easily because of all I had gleaned from our conversations about Boromir and because of vows I had taken to remain staunch and undeterred.

"Thus I made my choice, and gave them the aid they needed, though it has set my father against me. What would Boromir say of it all, I wonder? Do you think he would honor my choice, and my means of making it? Or would he feel I had misused him to no purpose? And did I fall into that which I swore I would never do -- not to snare even an Orc in a falsehood? Was I false in presenting Boromir in a stark light, in order to win the trust of the Halflings?"

"Ah, Faramir!" replied Dûrlin sorrowfully. "Do not think that clear decisions made in the daytime change at the coming of night when doubts grow strong due to weariness and care. You do not need me to tell you that you are doubting yourself for no reason, do you? You are indeed weary, and have much on your mind -- sufficient cause to begin regretting a choice made, though it be a right one and the best choice imaginable. Fear not! Your wisdom has not failed, nor has your knowledge of your brother and his esteem for you. Ever he has urged you to act as you see fit, and he trusts you to do so, for he knows your heart is gentle and generous, and full of wisdom. Do not allow any fear of his displeasure to cloud your way forward.  It is a fear that is false, and has no basis in truth.

"Nor are you false, because you have spoken truth in this way to achieve what you needed in order to make a hard choice. These are hard times, when folk who would naturally trust one another are held apart because of fear. I say it again -- you have done well, and your heart has led you truly. I think this Frodo who now calls you friend would say the same to you, and whatever lies between him and Boromir, he will go forward now more at peace, having known you and discerned in you an unshakable love for your brother. This is something which is most evident to all who come to know you, and speaks louder than any words you might say. Boromir also knows this well, and his confidence in your love and respect cannot be shaken."

"You comfort me, Dûrlin!" Faramir said, and at last his smile was free of doubt and care. "Not only with your sensible words of assurance, but also by the way you speak of Boromir as if he were alive and present. Would that your faith in his living might somehow make it true! You are right, of course. It is foolish of me to doubt my own actions and choices, even for a moment -- and even more, to doubt my brother's reception of them. No matter how often he would complain of my choices when they were other than his, nevertheless he respected my wisdom in making them, and had confidence in the decisions that resulted. I can do no less than he; and so I shall continue to trust myself now, as I did in the light of day."

Dûrlin nodded, but still did not seem wholly satisfied.  "I am content that you will trust yourself," he replied, "for there is little reason to do otherwise. All you have done today was well done and honorable! But now, will you do as I suggest, and set aside all your fears, to sleep? You are in sore need of rest. As your father suggested, tomorrow's need will be stern, more so than even today, perhaps!"

"Ah, Dûrlin!" Faramir grinned fondly. "Ever you are urging us to take more food or get more rest. It is your answer to everything! The Dark Lord will not be defeated by food or by slumber, will he?"

Dûrlin chuckled but did not back down.  "Perhaps not," he replied. "But a little food restores the body's strength, and casting away worry in sleep restores the heart to renewed vigor, and even hope. Thus will the war be won by the leader who obeys his own need for renewal, and who does not squander his strength with thoughts of gaining more time for the day of need by neglecting himself."

"I do have need of such renewals, I know," admitted Faramir. "Tomorrow's need will indeed be stern, and I will meet it better if I rest. Thank you for your great wisdom, Dûrlin, which remains firm and true in the face of my stubbornness!"

"That firmness has been well-honed these past years, through practice with you two!" Dûrlin laughed. "Yes, you are stubborn, and Boromir more so! But I am right, in this at least, and that will win out over stubbornness in the end."

Moving to the bedside, Dûrlin pulled down the coverlet and patted the pillow until it was invitingly plump and soft.  "Take your rest here in peace and in the knowledge of a day well-spent and in decisions well-made. I shall call you early, so that you may prepare yourself for the morning's Council session. If you have any need of me in the night, do not hesitate to call for me; I am here at your service."

"I do not doubt it in the least!" said Faramir gratefully. "I shall surely call upon you, if there be need. Good night to you, Dûrlin! And thank you!”

Boromir slept well that night. The darkness around him was oppressive and unnaturally heavy, as if a storm was about to break with thunder and lightning and torrential rain – but no storm came to relieve the heaviness, no breath of wind came to blow away the dark clouds that covered the moon and the stars. Even so, his heart was lighter than it had been for many, many days. The reality of his return to Minas Tirith was suddenly, unexpectedly, within his grasp, and the hope that he might come in time was renewed.

In spite of his newfound determination to be done with despair, Boromir had continued to struggle with the feeling that, if he arrived home at all, it would be too late to be of use to anyone. Each day of wandering through fen and over plain had become so like the next that it seemed he was making no progress at all, and his frustration with his own weakness and inability to press forward with any speed added to that feeling.

But now, with the promise of horses, the miles that lay between him and his City seemed remarkably shortened and his weakness of less consequence; hope was renewed that there was still a part for him to play in the defense of his people. The battle he had always known would come one day was to be fought before the gates of Minas Tirith, and there was a very good chance that he would be there to fight alongside his people.

The coming of dawn was marked only by the slightest change in the quality of the murk that surrounded them; the heavy darkness became a little less dark, the brown air a little less close – though still no breeze came to stir the grass and the morning songbirds remained silent.

As soon as they were able to see well enough to advance without danger to their steeds, Guthwald set out for the outpost at Nardol, while Thrydwulf and Hunlaf headed west at a gallop, to take word to Éomer of all that had passed on their scouting mission. Eadric and Brynhere remained behind to assist Boromir and his men, should they require their aid.

“If all goes well, Guthwald should return by nightfall with mounts from the outpost,” Eadric reassured Boromir. “We have not pushed our horses so hard on this venture that they are too weary to make a swift, short journey of it – for the Road is not far for those who go mounted and are not nursing injuries. Tomorrow will find you resting at the Nardol way station.”

Boromir grinned, not even attempting to hide his eagerness at the thought of reaching the Road so soon.

Behind him, Arthad stood quietly conferring with Grithnir. “What do you think?” he said to Grithnir in a low voice. “Would it not be wise to await the coming of the scout bringing mounts, in order to give Captain Boromir a day to rest? He does well enough, but a full day taken with no walking might....”

Arthad broke off as Boromir turned and approached him.

“I am not so weary or so ill that I need you to be making decisions for me, Arthad!” Boromir chided. “We will press on. A day of sitting and waiting will hardly benefit me at this point – I fear the dullness of it will do me harm, in fact! Time will be saved if we move forward as we are able, and meet the scout as he returns.”

Arthad stifled a sigh as Grithnir smiled at Boromir.

“I knew he would be of that mind, Arthad,” Grithnir chuckled. “As did you, no doubt. But it was a good thought, nonetheless, and worth the attempt to suggest it!”

“Indeed!” Boromir laid his hand lightly on Arthad’s arm. “You have my thanks, Arthad, for your wisdom and concern. You are right to remind me that I should not expend all my strength in my eagerness to end this journey. Therefore, we will press forward – but at a slower pace than of late. And you have permission to call a halt for the purpose of rest whenever you see fit – and I shall obey you without grumbling.”

“If I can get you to rest without grumbling, then I shall indeed be satisfied!” laughed Arthad.

***

"I'm up, I'm up!" groaned Pippin, rolling over and pulling the coverlet up over his head. "There's no need to shine the lamp in my face!"

"You are not 'up'," Gandalf said sternly, "until you are out of bed with your two feet on the floor and your eyes open."

Grasping the edge of the blanket, the wizard pulled it out of Pippin's tightened fist and tossed it onto the floor in a heap beside the bed.

"Come, my lad," he said firmly. "It is high time you were up and preparing yourself for what lies ahead. I cannot leave until I am certain you will not be late for your duties. The lord Denethor will brook no delay this day."

"Well I know it!" sighed Pippin as he scrambled out of bed and headed for the washbasin to splash his face with cold water. "But I'm not late yet, am I? I didn't mean to oversleep...."

"No, no, do not be alarmed," Gandalf quickly replied. "I have roused you early, for a reason. You need ample time to ready yourself and collect your thoughts and your strength before today's Council session."

Pippin nodded with understanding. He sat on the edge of his bed, and looked up at Gandalf with a serious face. "This is an important Council meeting, isn't it?" he asked. "More so than the others you have attended since coming here, maybe?"

"I believe so," Gandalf said gravely. "All the captains are present now, and Faramir, also. Today will be the final laying of plans and strategies before battle breaks."

"Will the battle begin soon?"

"It has already begun – that is the meaning behind this darkness that covers the land. But the tide of war has not reached us here as yet. Even Sauron, for all his power, cannot force his armies to approach any faster than they are physically able to travel. But they are coming, and we must be ready."

Pippin shivered, then squared his shoulders, hoping that no sign of his anxiety showed on his face.

"Do you know what Denethor has in mind for the battle, Gandalf?"

"I do not. But I have no doubt he has long prepared for this, and that it will take but a word from him to set things in motion. He is a good, strong leader, and a tactician not to be rivaled. He knows his people as well as he does his enemy, and they follow him and his sons faithfully and with great trust. They are as ready as they can be, if one can ever be ready for such a war as this will be."

Pippin sighed heavily. "It... it's hard to think of Boromir not being here. He was so certain he would be needed when the time came to fight!"

Gandalf laid a hand on Pippin's shoulder, and squeezed it comfortingly. "He is very much needed!" he agreed. "It is a severe blow to Gondor that he is not here; many plans and strategies must be thrown out and rethought to make up for such a loss. It will fall to Faramir to take Boromir's part as well as his own. He is also a capable leader, but one man can only do so much...."

Gandalf paused when he saw that Pippin was paying little attention to his concerns for Faramir; his mind was all too obviously still taken up with Boromir and his absence. Pippin's next words confirmed it.

"Gandalf, do you think Boromir could possibly still be alive?"

"Ah, so our friend Dûrlin has been talking to you of his hopes for Boromir's return, has he?" Gandalf looked thoughtful as he considered the possibility. "Dûrlin is a wise man, and does not speak without due consideration for what impact his words might have. He must be quite confident of Boromir's chances, for he does not fear to speak of his hope. And yet... I do not know, Pippin. Aragorn, too, has asked me this question, and I could not comfort him, either – not with any certainty. In such times as these, it is unwise to speak of that which is not yet certain. Even so, this I do know – if Boromir does live, he will come. If he is alive, then nothing will keep Boromir away."

Pippin nodded, satisfied. "That's what I think, too."

"Well, then!" replied Gandalf with a slight smile. "If you have no further questions for me about matters I may or may not be able to answer at this early hour, I shall be off about my own business. I would suggest you attend to your dress, and to taking what food you can in what remains of your free time. Your duties today may involve little opportunity for eating, even if they are not physically strenuous."

"Well I know it!" muttered Pippin ruefully as the door shut quietly behind Gandalf.

***

Pippin was eying his meager breakfast with a wan look upon his face, when there came a light tap at the door of his chamber.

"I hope that's Dûrlin with some extra breakfast," he muttered as he went to the door.

A man stood there, holding a tray covered with a cloth, but it was not Dûrlin. It was Faramir.

"Good morning," said Faramir, bowing carefully so as not to disturb the tray he carried.

"Good... good morning!" stammered Pippin, trying not to stare. Faramir looked so much like Boromir, it took his breath away. Even his voice was similar!

"I trust I am not disturbing you," continued Faramir kindly, seemingly oblivious to Pippin's staring. "Mithrandir assured me you would be awake, even at this early hour. I thought that perhaps we two could speak together before the Council session begins. I do not know what chance there may be otherwise. Have you broken your fast as yet? May I join you?"

"Of course, come in!" exclaimed Pippin, recovering his composure. "I have been keen to talk to you as well, but didn't see how I could manage it. Do come in and sit. I was just about to have my breakfast. There is little enough to eat here, but what I have I will gladly share with you!"

"As it happens," Faramir smiled, "I have brought some breakfast with me. Dûrlin sent it along for both of us to share. I believe he said something about the two of us having hard duty today, so that we would need our full strength to face whatever the day might bring. Food is being rationed now, even for those of us of high rank – so what I bring is simple fare. But combined with what you have laid out there, it should be more than satisfying!"

"Oh, how excellent!" cried Pippin, quickly making room for the tray on the table. "Dûrlin takes good care of us, doesn't he?"

"He does indeed!" laughed Faramir.

Pippin watched happily while Faramir removed the dishes from the tray and arranged them on the table. There would indeed be plenty to eat, even enough to satisfy a famished hobbit. The prospect of sharing it with Faramir was pleasant as well.

"Gandalf knew you were coming, didn't he?" Pippin asked. "That's why he got me up so early!"

Faramir smiled down at the hobbit. "Yes, he knew. We had speech together this morning about matters that concern both of us, and I told him I wished to visit with you if chance allowed. And this is our chance."

"I expect you want to hear about Boromir," Pippin said hesitantly. "You haven't said so, but... well, I can just tell he's on your mind."

Faramir's answering smile was both eager and sad. "You are right; Boromir is much on my mind. Indeed, that is one of the reasons I wished to speak with you while I could. I would very much like you to tell me of him, even of his last moments – if it does not hurt you too much to speak of it. In return, perhaps I can share a little of what passed between me and your kinsman, Frodo. I deem you are as eager for news of him as I am for news of my brother."

"Oh, yes!" cried Pippin. "I have been so worried about Frodo and Sam; I would dearly like to hear how they are doing!"

"Then you shall hear whatever I can tell. But first, let us eat what Dûrlin has prepared. He will not be happy if we do not finish every crumb."

Yet Faramir did not immediately sit. Pippin watched him, puzzled, as the Man stood gazing upon the table laid with food and drink for a long, thoughtful moment. Then, as if coming to a sudden decision, Faramir unbuckled his sword belt and laid his weapon gently against the wall beside the table.

"There!" he said, satisfied. "We shall put aside war for a time and eat in peace. It is not often I have opportunity to go unarmed in these days; this may be my last chance to set aside my weapon for a time, in relative peace and safety. Such safety may be fleeting, but it should all the more be celebrated for that."

Pippin nodded solemnly, his eyes wide and admiring. As they sat down, he craned his neck to get a better look at the sword.

"That sword looks a lot like Boromir's – the hilt, anyway," Pippin remarked as he filled his plate with bread, cheese and fruit. "The scabbard is a bit different, I think, but the hilt is very much the same as Boromir's, if I remember aright...."

"You remember well," smiled Faramir. "This sword and Boromir's were a pair, handed down to us by my grandfather, Ecthelion, who was Steward before my father. Ecthelion bore one of them himself, and that was the sword which Boromir received from Ecthelion's hand upon his death. Boromir was only a child at the time, but he took on the full burden of his duty to Gondor from that day forward. Harthad his sword was named, which means Hope. Wielding that sword, Boromir became the embodiment of hope for all the people of Gondor."

Faramir sighed heavily and was silent for a moment, before continuing to speak. "The other sword that was my grandfather's was put aside for me until later, for I was too young for such things then – I was only a babe in my mother's arms! When my father deemed me old enough, he gave Narthad into my hand."

"Narthad!" repeated Pippin. ""The name is like the name of Boromir's sword, too. What does it mean?"

"Narthad means Kindler."

"Ah!" breathed Pippin. "That is a good name!"

Faramir nodded. "It is indeed! Boromir used to always say that as long as we two wielded our swords together, we could kindle hope in the hearts of our people and win against the darkness that threatens to extinguish the light that is Gondor."

He smiled fondly, remembering. Then he sighed again and shook his head. "Yet I fear it has not happened as Boromir foresaw. Hope is waning in our hearts rather than being kindled – and we two brothers are no longer together."

"Oh, but he may yet come, Faramir!" Pippin cried. "If he lives, he will come. Gandalf said so!"

Faramir turned his head slowly to gaze upon Pippin's eager, open face. "Do you believe him to be alive?" he asked in wonder.

"I don't know for sure," Pippin replied thoughtfully. "I think... Well, yes, I think he might be. I believed he was dead. I saw it, saw it in the... in a vision, I mean. But visions don't always tell all the story, right? So I'm thinking I might have been wrong about what I saw. I hope so, anyway!"

Faramir looked doubtful. "Dûrlin has been trying to encourage me in similar ways," he admitted. "He is quite confident that Boromir lives and will return to us. I trust Dûrlin, but I do not know... I, too, have seen visions, but even if they only tell a partial truth, it is sufficient to make me fear for Boromir and doubt his survival."

He hesitated, uncertain. "No, perhaps it would be more truthful to say I fear to trust in his survival. I have seen so many hopes dashed or crushed, that I fear to have this hope come to naught. I seem no longer to have the strength to keep such a hope alive in the face of all that shows me it is a false hope."

Pippin noted the weight of worry on Faramir's face that could not be hidden by his smile, and realized suddenly just how much had fallen to this Man, now that his brother was no longer here to carry the load.

"I suppose it's easier to keep hoping when all the responsibility for taking care of things isn't laid at your doorstep," he said.

Faramir smiled. "You are wise, young Peregrin," he confirmed. "It is so; great responsibility has a way of making the bearer of it forget all else but the burden. I used to tell Boromir that my shoulders were wide enough to bear his burden as well as my own – and they are. But it is heavy at times, and grows heavier the longer I carry it. Even so, hope should not be swayed by such burdens; rather, it should be strengthened by them!"

Faramir straightened his shoulders and looked upon Pippin with a clear steady gaze.

"Do not fear for me, little one," he said encouragingly. "I said hope was waning – but it is not yet gone. Perhaps it can still be rekindled to its former strength. You can help me with that, by speaking to me of Boromir, as he was when you traveled with him. Let us put aside the tale of his final battle until after we finish our meal; for now, let us remember only his strength and his honor, his confidence and his joy in defending those under his care. That is the kind of tale that quickens hope, and reminds those who doubt that all is not vain."

"Yes, yes!" cried Pippin. "That is how he was, always! So kind and lordly and confident, and eager to leap to the defense! I don't think he was ever afraid, not of anything. Let me tell you about the time he saved us in the snow at the pass of Caradhras...."

"Snow, you say? Ah, yes!" Faramir laughed. "Boromir would not be daunted by snow, not in the least! Please, do tell me about that time!"

Imrahil watched silently as the other captains filed out of the council chamber.  They went without a sound, each one taken up with thoughts of duties to be performed, orders to be given, final arrangements to be reviewed with the men under their command.  Time was of the essence, for soon there would be no more opportunity for such preparations.  Imrahil's own knights awaited his report of what had passed in council, and there were plans to be put into motion concerning what part Dol Amroth would play in the defense of the City.  It had been judged by the captains that their numbers were too few to make an effective strike against Mordor; too much strength had been drawn away towards the threat of the Corsairs in the south.  If Rohan came, there might be force enough for a stroke of war, but for now, the only thing to be done was to man the walls and wait.

He watched as Denethor gave crisp orders to the young Halfling who had attended the door, and the look of relief on the small one's face told Imrahil that he was to be allowed some respite after the performance of whatever task the Steward had just given him.  The Prince smiled at that, and wished fleetingly that he could set aside his concerns as easily, if only for a short time.  But his smile fell away as he caught sight of the stern expression on Denethor's face, and he sighed heavily.

Denethor looked up, his glance sharp and knowing.  "You think me harsh, do you not, Imrahil?  You believe I have sent Faramir off on a fool's errand, to perhaps waste his life and the lives of his men in a vain defense of the Rammas and the River passage against overmatching forces."

An echo of Faramir's voice urging restraint sounded in Imrahil's mind:  "Today we may make the Enemy pay ten times our loss at the passage and yet rue the exchange.  For he can afford to lose a host better than we to lose a company.  And the retreat of those that we put out far afield will be perilous, if he wins across in force."

"I did not say so," replied Imrahil quietly.

"Spoken words are not necessary with you, my brother," answered Denethor.  "Your thoughts are written clearly upon your face."

Imrahil smiled ruefully.  "If that is so, my brother, then perhaps you also see written upon my face a fear that there is some barrier between you and Faramir."

"Yes, I see that, also."

"Why is that, then?  What has happened to make you so stern and cold towards your son?"

Denethor was silent for a long moment, and Imrahil feared he had said too much.  But at last, Denethor stirred and nodded grimly.

"What has happened is that Faramir chose to disobey me in a matter of great importance, thinking he knew better than I what course of action to take.  What will come of his choice and how it will affect our safety remains to be seen.  Today, at least, he has chosen otherwise, and does not oppose my will.  Whatever his own opinion of my policy, I trust he will now be obedient to my commands."

"I do not oppose your will, sire," came the echo once more of Faramir's voice in Imrahil's ear. "Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead –- if you command it."

Whatever the outcome! Imrahil thought, suppressing another sigh.  He inclined his head to Denethor and hid his disquiet behind a smile.

"I thank you for your answer, brother," he said softly.  "It encourages me that you are willing to speak of it to me, even a little -- though my heart is heavy to learn that such trouble has come between you."

"I trust your allegiance to me will not waver because of it?"

"It will not!" exclaimed Imrahil stoutly.

Denethor nodded, content with his answer.  "I thank you, brother.  But you have some question still to ask me, do you not?"

"Yes," Imrahil said thoughtfully.  "It is true that Faramir goes obediently to defend the crossing at Osgiliath, but what he said about that defense is also true -- there is great danger that it will be overcome and that the retreat will be in peril.  We must take thought for that...."

"I have done so," interrupted Denethor.  "A sortie shall be prepared and you shall lead it...."

***

Though time was pressing, Faramir did not hurry as he checked over his horse's barding, shifting the pad under the saddle for maximum comfort, and adjusting girth and bridle.  Such adjustments were hardly necessary, for the grooms in the stables of Minas Tirith knew their office well and no horse went from their hands into battle improperly equipped.  But Faramir found comfort in the familiar routine, and no groom begrudged the captain his ritual.

Boromir had taught him to take advantage of such quiet moments before battle to settle the mind and heart, to put aside all the discussion and disagreement that had gone before in planning and councils of strategy, in order to have before him only the final plan for the battle ahead.  Boromir knew as well as anyone that fighting with a divided mind was begging disaster, and so he had developed this discipline of checking harness and tack as a way to steady himself.

Faramir had great need of such a steadying discipline.  He leaned his head against the neck of his steed and sighed, as he recalled the final words which had passed between himself and his father.

"I do not oppose your will, sire.  Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead -- if you command it."

"I do so."

"Then farewell!  But if I should return, think better of me!"

"That depends upon the manner of your return...."

What makes us speak so to one another, when it is all too likely these will be our last words together? Faramir thought despairingly.  Why, I was as irritable as he, and spoke just as proudly!  Yes, he treated me as one of his underlings whom he little trusts -- yet I called him 'sire' rather than father, and indicated my obedience required a command from him.  I should have been more gentle, and not let his cold manner sting me into putting even more distance between us.  He grieves for Boromir, and he hides the keenness of his loss behind his anger, that is why he is so harsh, perhaps.  Yet, I am grieving, also!  Surely he must know that.  Why must he be so stern with me?  Why must I go out to an uncertain fate with cold words in place of a smile and a blessing....

"Do not let bitterness take root in your heart, Faramir."

Gandalf had come quietly into the stable and now stood beside Faramir.  He laid a comforting hand upon Faramir's shoulder, and gripped it as if to accentuate his words.

"Do not go out in bitterness," Gandalf repeated.  "Do not throw away your life rashly, thinking you are forsaken.  You are needed here, and not simply for matters of war.  Your father loves you, and he shall remember it ere the end."**

Faramir sighed heavily.

"I know he loves me, Mithrandir, though it seems often enough that he has forgotten it!  I know it well.  I am not bitter -- or, at least, I am striving to put bitterness and regret aside..."

"Regret?"

"Regret for his manner and my own proud words as we parted.  A father deserves better from his son, no matter what argument lies between them."

"You are a good son to him," replied Gandalf confidently.  "One who gives him nothing but good, and he knows it.  Think not that he compares you to Boromir in his sorrow and finds you wanting.  It is not so!"

Faramir smiled ruefully at Gandalf's words.

"That thought is one to which I must not attend, not even in my darkest hours, lest I fall into despair from which there is no return!  You do well to remind me that it is not so.  Boromir would say the same, and no doubt more forcefully than you!"

"Fare you well, then, Faramir," said Gandalf.  "May the Valar attend your going and your return."

"May the Valar attend me!" agreed Faramir fervently.  "Take you good care of my father in my stead, Mithrandir, as much as he will allow.  And tell my uncle, Imrahil, to do the same.  Farewell!"

***

Gwaeron looked up as the outside door opened and a group of men trooped into the common room.  They were covered in grime and soot, weariness showing in every line of their faces, but they had also the look of men satisfied with a job well done.

He gestured to a jug on the table.

"There is water for drinking, drawn fresh from the spring not long ago.  I expect you are in need of it, after your long labor."

"Long it was, indeed!" exclaimed Larnach, reaching for the jug and dashing water into a cup.  "Long and hot, for the embers still smoldered and had to be pulled down before fresh wood and kindling could be set."

"Would that a guard was still stationed here, as in days of old!" sighed Thorvel, grabbing the water jug from Larnach.  He poured out several more cups and passed them around to the other men who gathered around.  "Then we would have had help, and then some!  The task of setting wood afresh for the beacon fire was almost too much for us few men!"

"I was afraid of that," frowned Gwaeron.  "I should have aided you...."

"Nay!  Mind not my complaining!" interrupted Thorvel.  "Your task was here, along with Hirvegil, securing the waypost and caring for the horses that must be kept at the ready for Gondor's errand riders.  We managed well enough!  Urthal and Talagen lent a hand towards the end, as well, before they took up their duties manning the beacon for the next shift."

"Indeed, we managed well, though we were few," Iarnen said.  "Even so, it took the better part of two days to accomplish it, and this evil murk from Mordor made it well-nigh impossible to work in the gloom."

The men nodded solemnly.

"It weighs on the heart, and makes heavy work an even greater burden," said Radhruin, with a shake of his head.

"But the task is completed, no?" queried Gwaeron.  "Then all is well!  We must keep the beacon ready to be fired if another signal comes -- though I do not expect one.  Should Rohan answer Gondor's call for aid, it would be unwise to send word of it by beacon fire.  That would do little to keep secret the news of their riding."

"Well, at least this wretched darkness will aid them in that," commented Thorvel wearily.  "The Riders of Rohan will travel as secretly as Orcs in this murk.  Yet I imagine Orcs will welcome it, while Rohan will be no less burdened by it than are we."

"I imagine that is the purpose of this brown fog," Radhruin said wryly.  "Those who oppose Mordor are unmanned by it, while Orcs are strengthened.  No doubt they can see keenly in the darkness, while we can barely see our hand before our faces!  The vermin could be upon us before ever we saw them coming!"

"We will have to trust to Hirvegil's keen ears, then, since eyes will not avail us," Iarnen interjected.  "Perhaps the drummers in the forest will also give warning of an approaching enemy.  They say those who dwell secretly there are no friends to the Orcs."

"Let us hope that what they say is true," sighed Gwaeron, "for when war breaks upon us, we shall have need of such help along the Road."

"Rohan will come, will they not?" Larnach asked, his face creased with worry.  "Surely they will come soon.  The errand rider Hirgon should have reached there by now...."

"Indeed, he and those who rode with him may even now be returning; with news to put hope back into our lord Steward's heart, if I know anything about Rohan's commitment to our alliance," replied Gwaeron.  "We may see Hirgon stop here to change horses as he did before, or we may not.  We are not the only waypost along the Western Road, after all."

"If they return with news of Rohan's riding, then that will indeed put the heart back into the lord Denethor," nodded Iarnen.  "He and all Gondor will need such hope, after the word Hirgon brought us of the landing of black Corsair ships, and the rumors of the loss of Boromir."

At the mention of Boromir, there was a collective sigh of sorrow from the men present.

"I was glad Hirgon spoke to us of Boromir," said Gwaeron sadly.  "He was reluctant at first, for the news of his likely death is not being circulated widely as yet -- but when I told him Boromir had changed horses here on his way north and that we knew of his errand, Hirgon relented."

"I, too, was glad to hear the news, though it was news of woe," Larnach agreed.  "It is hard knowing that we were likely the last in Gondor to see him living!"

"A dubious honor, to be sure!" Iarnen sighed.

They were all silent for a long moment, then Gwaeron stirred.

"Now that you have wetted your dry throats a bit, go have a wash," he said, rising to his feet.  "You are in sore need of it!  While you see to that task, I shall go see what is keeping Hirvegil.  It is some time now since he went to tend the horses...."

***

Gwaeron tread carefully as he crossed the area between the waypost buildings and the enclosure where the horses were tethered.  The day's light showed only dully through the thick gloom, as if it were the twilight of evening instead of midmorning.  He could not see the broad Road below, except dimly, and the beacon hill of Nardol that towered above and behind him was lost in heavy shadow.

"Hirvegil!" he called out as he approached the picket.  "Is all well with you?"

Even as he spoke, he saw Hirvegil ahead of him, standing among the horses.  Gwaeron was surprised to see that he was not alone.  A tall man stood with him, dressed as one from Rohan.

"All is well, indeed!" answered Hirvegil, drawing the stranger with him as he moved forward to greet Gwaeron.  "Gwaeron, this is Guthwald, a scout of Rohan; he comes with amazing news!  Look!"

Hirvegil reached out and pressed a small object into Gwaeron's hand.  Gwaeron peered at it closely and gasped at what he saw.

"This... this is Lord Boromir's signet ring!" he stammered.  "How does it come here?  Could it be... could it possibly be that you have news of him?"

Guthwald bowed, his hand to his breast.  "I have news," he said solemnly.  "Truth be told, I have seen him; it is he who gave this token into my hand, and I bring it as proof that the words I bear from him are truth indeed.  I have been sent for horses to bring him hither, for he goes on foot across the plains of Anórien.  Being wounded, he can only go slowly, and horses would be a great boon to him.  He intends to stop here with you until Théoden King comes, and then accompany him to Mundburg."

Gwaeron stared at Guthwald and the now-grinning Hirvegil, stunned into silence at the news he had just heard.  "He lives, then?" A look of cautious hope spread slowly across his face.  "But... you say he is wounded...."

"Sorely wounded, though he is mending.  Weakness plagues him still."

"And he is coming here?  Why, I can scarcely believe this news!  And yet, I would have believed you without this token, for the Men of Rohan are renowned in Gondor as truthsayers!"

Guthwald bowed at the courtesy.

"I would hear the rest of this tale!" Gwaeron exclaimed.  "How you came to be in Anórien, how you met our lord, as well as further word of King Théoden and the coming of the Riders -- but that full tale can wait until it can be told before the others.  Come inside, now, Guthwald.  Take food with us and be refreshed; share with us all you can of Boromir before you must be away.  We will provide you with all you need to bring our lord home to us -- the sooner, the better!"

*****

Notes:

*barding = equipped armor for horses

**These words spoken by Gandalf to Faramir -- some of which are quoted directly -- are taken from The Return of the King, from the chapter entitled, "The Siege of Gondor."

The men of Gondor sat stunned and silent as Guthwald related his tale of meeting Boromir upon the plains of Anórien, and of Boromir's plans to join them at the Nardol waypost to await the coming of the Rohirrim.  Such news this was!  That Rohan was bringing an army to Gondor was marvelous enough, though it was not unexpected news to those who trusted in the alliance with their close neighbor.  These men had little doubt aid would come from that direction; it simply remained to be seen how many riders Rohan would bring to the battle.

But the Captain-General alive?  In the face of all the rumors of him dead and lost forever?  This was news indeed, and it stopped their mouths with astonishment.

"How soon can he be here?" asked Larnach eagerly, the first of the men to find his voice.

Guthwald considered the matter carefully.  "With a fresh horse and leading mounts, I can return in a matter of a few hours, in spite of this troubling darkness from Mordor.  I know the way now, even in the dark, and can travel at a good pace.  I imagine my captain Eadric and the others will mount and ride here directly; Lord Boromir seems quite eager to be done with this leg of his journey, in spite of the need to rest due to his wounds."

The men laughed and nodded.  This was the captain they knew -- disdainful of injury, always eager to press forward when a goal was in sight.

"Then they should be here by nightfall?" Gwaeron asked.

"Yes," replied Guthwald.  "I guess it is now nigh on to midday; if I depart within the hour, I shall arrive soon enough for them to return before full night falls."

"That gives us plenty of time, then, to organize a proper welcome for the captain," announced Radhruin.

"Agreed!" answered Thorvel.  "And a proper welcome includes food.  We shall be feeding more mouths than usual, so we had best get to it.  Though our fare here be simple, we shall make certain it is plentiful and filling!"

"But first we must see to Guthwald's needs," Gwaeron reminded them.  "Bring more ale -- and a fresh loaf, with some cheese and apples.  We will not let this bearer of good news return hungry to our lord.  Speaking of apples and cheese, set aside a fair helping for Guthwald to take with him.  Perhaps it will whet Captain Boromir's appetite for the best simple fare this waypost has to offer!"

***

Thorvel slowly stirred the hearty stew simmering on the hearth.  Spooning a small portion into a bowl, he tested it, swirling it around in his mouth before swallowing.  He gazed at the empty spoon, considering.

"Well?" asked Larnach impatiently.  "How is it?"

"More salt, I think," replied Thorvel indistinctly, taking another mouthful of broth.  This time he made certain to scoop a piece of meat and some vegetables onto his spoon.

Larnach grabbed the bowl and spoon from him, and handed it to Iarnen who stood nearby.

"I see what you are doing!" Larnach cried.  "You take your share now on the pretense of tasting it, while your fellows go hungry, waiting for our lord to arrive!"

Thorvel grinned in reply.  He added a pinch of salt to the stew, then covered it with a heavy lid.

"All it lacks now is Captain Boromir and his men to come bless it, and then we can all eat," he said.  "Any sign of them as yet?"

"No sign.  Hirvegil is on watch down below.  He has the sharpest eyes, though they will avail him little in this murk!  But his keen ears are tuned to the sound of approaching horsemen.  Mark you, he will hail us as soon as they come."

The men sighed in unison, and resigned themselves to more waiting.

***

At last the signal came:  a shout from below, the sound of horses being led to the picket, a murmur of new voices and Gwaeron's glad cry of greeting, the sturdy tread of a heavy boot upon the threshold -- and he was there.

Boromir was there before them, overpowering them with his presence as he had always done.  He was thinner than they remembered, with a worn face that spoke of much suffering.  He had obviously been wounded, and though he was now on the mend, he still held himself stiffly and moved with care.  Nevertheless, the joy that came from him in waves belied his pain and weariness.  The warm twinkle in his eye and the happy smile upon his face was what held their attention, and they could not look away.

"Am I a ghost that you stare at me so?"  Boromir grumbled, trying to sound stern, but failing.  "At your ease, my men!  Give me a proper Gondorian greeting!"

The men cheered and ran to him, grabbing his hands to shake them heartily, gripping him by the arm and clapping his back so joyfully that Grithnir wondered if Boromir would be able to stand the pain of it.  But his captain gave no sign of being disturbed by the jostling; rather, the warm welcome seemed to be giving him new strength, and Grithnir marveled to see Boromir's face grow calm and peaceful before his eyes.

And why not? he thought.  This is what gives him strength -- being together with his men, knowing they love him as he loves them.  It is as healing a balm as any Linhir himself ever applied to Boromir's wounds!

Grithnir smiled as he watched the men before him rejoicing and laughing with Boromir.  He still recalled very clearly his own reunion with his captain, whom he once feared was lost beyond any hope of finding.

"Well met," he whispered.  "Well met!"

***

Boromir lay at ease in his cot, resting but not sleeping.  He almost felt as if he needed no sleep, it was so restful simply being among his own people once again.  Nearby, he could hear Grithnir and the others talking quietly amongst themselves.  The sound of their speech together, with the occasional lilt of Eadric's Rohirric voice, was extraordinarily comforting.

Lulled to sleep at last by the music of their talk, he slept more soundly than he had since first leaving Gondor to follow the elusive quest for the Sword that Was Broken.  He was wandering no longer; he had returned to Gondor and was surrounded by his own -- and though his City was yet many miles away, he had no doubt whatsoever of his coming there once more.

***

Celeborn hesitated as he neared the bottom of the long flight of stairs which descended into the hollow where Galadriel's mirror stood in its enclosed garden.  He could see her below him, leaning over the silver basin, her attitude still and intent.  He tried never to interrupt her when she was gazing into the Mirror, but this night would have to be an exception -- his news could not wait.  In any case, he knew he was expected, for the event he came to report had been foretold by her and her Mirror.

As he drew close, he again paused, for he could see a change in countenance that signaled the vision of something significant.  Most often in these dark days, Galadriel's expression was one of sadness or stern resolve after time spent with the Mirror, but this time he saw a smile upon her face and a lightening of expression that made his heart glad.  Good things must be happening in the world outside, despite the darkness at hand.

He stepped forward, even as she rose swiftly and turned to meet him.

"Has it begun?" she asked.

"Soon," he replied.  "Very soon.  Our presence will be required.  Haldir reports..."

He broke off what he had been about to say.  "Forgive me for interrupting if your viewing is not complete," he went on, concern for Galadriel in his voice.  "My news is of great import, but there is a little time yet for you to finish here, if there is more to be seen -- particularly if what the Mirror reveals is something of hope and not simply more war and darkness."

"Nay," Galadriel answered gently.  "I am finished here."

"What has your Mirror revealed to you, then?"

"Your own news is of great import, yet you will set it aside to hear mine?"  Galadriel smiled fondly at Celeborn.  "I understand!  You are in need of encouragement, I deem.  Then you shall have it!  It does indeed grow dark in the outside world, and Sauron is moving.  His hand will be heavy when it smites those who struggle to stand against him.  Even so, hope remains and is growing stronger.  Despite the darkness, light is not yet extinguished!"

Celeborn’s heart rose.  "Tell me what you have seen."

"The Fellowship is scattered; yet in spite of this, they still press forward, each along his own path, braving the darkness.  Minas Tirith is besieged, yet Rohan remembers its oath and comes to Gondor's aid.  Elessar has received my messages and takes the path appointed for him; we shall see what comes of that choice!  The Ringbearer’s path is not clear to me; I know only that his feet are set firmly upon the road of his own choosing, though it be a road toward danger and dread."

"What of the other who was in danger?" Celeborn asked, unable to keep anxiety from his voice.  "The son of Gondor?  How goes it with him?  Does he live?"

Galadriel stepped forward and took Celeborn's hand in hers.  For a moment, his heart failed him, fearing some further calamity had befallen the Man who had captured his attention and concern -- but then she smiled, and at the sight of it, Celeborn felt an immense sense of relief flood his heart.

"He is safe, my husband!" Galadriel replied, pressing his hand lovingly.  "He was at the very brink of disaster, but pulled back in time.  Every step he now takes draws him further away from that precipice toward solid ground."

"His hope is restored, then?"

"Indeed!  And if he continues upon the path he now treads, he will himself become a restorer of hope long lost."

"Ah!  This pleases me!" exclaimed Celeborn.  "I have not the same skill as you to discern thoughts and intentions, but even I could see the Man was troubled and torn, divided in mind and purpose.  It distressed me to see his noble heart so darkened!  If I could have gifted him peace, I would have done so."

"It was his part to find such a gift on his own," answered Galadriel quietly.

Celeborn nodded.  "Yes, it was.  Now that it is within his grasp, he will be strengthened in both heart and mind, which can only be to the good of all.  Gondor needs him now to be steadfast and firm in his resolve to oppose the Dark Lord, to defend his people with honor and not with the tools of the Enemy."           

Galadriel laughed gently.  "I see this son of Gondor has touched your heart as few Men have been able to do!"

Celeborn bowed in return.  "It is so.  I am glad he lives, and glad that the shadow of darkness which threatened him is no more."

Celeborn fell silent briefly, then lifted Galadriel's hand to his lips for a light kiss.  "As for our own darkness..." he began.

"I perceive it is almost upon us," finished Galadriel.  "Which is what you came to tell me, yes?"

"Yes, that is why I have come.  I have word from Haldir; the Enemy draws nigh and will attack soon.  We are needed at the border, for the defense of the Golden Wood begins.  The Dark Lord has sent a powerful force against us, and it will take a strong hand to turn them back."

"The Dark One is powerful, indeed," Galadriel declared, "but the Lord of the Golden Wood and his Lady have not yet revealed their full strength.  I think we shall give him something to fear.  Let us show them that strength and turn back the shadow which threatens us!"

"Yes!" agreed Celeborn.  "Let us go, then.  It is long since I took part in such a conflict, but I am ready now -- ready to do battle!"

The darkness of night blanketed the vast plain that was the Wold of Rohan -- a darkness intensified only slightly by the thinning edge of Mordor’s gloom.  Sauron’s might was great and his fog of war stretched for many miles, but it could not stretch forever, and so it was here on the plains of Rohan that it began to dissipate and lose its potency.

The Orcs of Dol Guldur did not, however, require Mordor’s darkness in order to travel without losing their strength in the light.  The night was enough for them, and the waning moon that shone out from time to time from above the murky shreds did not hinder them.

Their attack upon the hated wood of the Elves had been repelled and they had been forced to retreat.  But they still had work to do, for their purpose had been twofold.  There was other prey to the south; prey that went unsuspecting while the king of the land was away to war.  The horse lords were weak and unprotected now and could be easily overpowered.  Thus the Orcs would have their revenge for their recent defeat at the hands of the Elves; they would take out their anger and frustration at their losses in battle with Rohan.  Men were no less hated by the Great Eye, so perhaps his wrath at their earlier failure would be lessened by a successful slaughter in the country of the horse lords.

Yet even as the Orc horde crossed the Limlight and headed south across the upland grasslands, they met with an obstacle they did not expect.  What was this dark forest of wind-stirred trees that blocked their path?  There should have been no wood here, according to the reports of spies from Dol Goldur who had scouted the land thoroughly while plans for battle were being laid.  Whence came the trees that threatened them now?  The wind in the branches was loud and persistent, seeming to speak of a rising wrath and anger that gave even the Orcs pause.  The army hesitated in its march forward, ill at ease.  But fear of failure and the punishment it would bring was greater than any other fear, even of the strange trees.  So they pressed on...

...until it was too late to turn back.

***

Treebeard stood patiently waiting while Quickbeam approached as swiftly as he could without seeming hasty.

“So, then,” Treebeard rumbled as Quickbeam drew nigh.  “Is all well?  Have those burárum, those vermin of Orcs been routed?”

“They have been thoroughly routed,” answered Quickbeam, bowing low before Treebeard.  “Those who escaped our wrath will go no further than the river, I expect.  Those who did not escape are no more.”

“Hoom.... Hom!” Treebeard hummed, satisfied.  “Very good, very good!  Rohan will be safe now, and the king of the grassland will be free to ride to the aid of the Stone City.  Hom, hoom!  That is well, he will be needed there.  What of the Huorns, then?  Tell me, did any trees come to harm?”

“No great harm,” answered Quickbeam.  “No harm that will not mend in time.”

Treebeard nodded, content.  He inclined his head slightly, as if listening to sounds on the wind.  “Hoom, huummm... I sense their anger is lessened now, but they are not yet at peace.”

“Not yet at peace, no,” sighed Quickbeam in reply.  “They were slow to awaken, but now that their awakening has come, they wish to continue the fight.”

“Ahhhhh!  Hmmm... Well!” replied Treebeard thoughtfully.  “Perhaps that can be arranged....”

***

In spite of the sense of urgency he felt that a swift return to Minas Tirith was imperative, Boromir knew there was little use in wasting his strength in fretting.  It was unwise to continue his journey until he could join the Muster of Rohan, and it would be at least a day or longer before Théoden and his Rohirrim passed by the Nardol outpost.  So he resigned himself to the wait and determined to take full advantage of the time to spend a restful day of conversation with the men at the way station.  Boromir made certain to spend time with each one of them, inquiring about their families and questioning them about their day-to-day tasks, as they in turn begged for stories of his adventures.  Grithnir had flatly refused to let him climb the hill to greet Urthal and Talaven who were on beacon duty, so Larnach and Thorvel went to relieve them in order that they, too, could sit with their Captain-general.

Boromir was engrossed in relating the details of a battle with wolves he had encountered on his journey to Rivendell when Gwaeron pulled Grithnir aside.

“I am concerned for Lord Boromir’s lack of armor," Gwaeron replied in answer to Grithnir's inquiring look.  "He is going into unavoidable battle and he must be better protected!  Leather will not turn the swords of Orcs from Mordor or the spears of the Haradrim.”

“Well I know it!" sighed Grithnir.  “But his wounds are such that he cannot bear anything but the lightest hauberk....”

“I can provide him with that,” interrupted Gwaeron with a smile.  “We have all manner of armor and weapons stored here for the needs of errand riders who pass this way.  Their duties are not always free of incident or danger!  We have often seen a rider stop here whose mail is damaged, or whose weapon needs repair, and it is far easier to switch it out than to repair it when the rider is pressed for time.  All our armor is lightweight so as to not burden the horses or slow the rider -- nor is it so heavy that a wounded warrior will find it burdensome.”

"You ease my mind greatly!" Grithnir replied in relief.  "I will tell our lord Boromir of this immediately.  I am certain he will not refuse your offer of armor for the battle to come!  I do not know if he cares one way or the other whether he is better armed or no, but we will all fight better knowing he is protected and less vulnerable to harm or hurt."

"Indeed!" answered Gwaeron.  "He will not want you who accompany him to endanger your own lives by being forced to shield him in battle for lack of armor -- that, if nothing else, will be reason enough for him to accept our offer.  I will go open the store now, and lay out anything that might be of use to him.  We will see him armed and ready for battle before day's end!"

***

The garrison at Cair Andros stood valiantly against the army of Orcs and Easterlings sent from the Black Gate, knowing that every hour they held out was one more hour of opportunity for the Lord Denethor to prepare his defenses in the City; one more hour for Captain Faramir to fortify the garrison at Osgiliath; one more hour for allies from Rohan to arrive in support of Gondor.  Once the isle was taken, the enemy would have passage across the River, both Minas Tirith and Osgiliath would be threatened on two fronts, and the Great Western Road would be blocked.

But against an enemy six thousand strong, they were far outnumbered, and it was only a matter of time before the island fortress fell.  When Hathol came to report that the inner wall had at last been breached, Captain Beregar knew the time had come to give the order for retreat.  It pained him mightily to abandon the garrison that had protected the river passage for so many long years, but he knew well that the need now was to bring as many men as he could alive to Minas Tirith and to expand the defenses there.

This is but a small sampling of what Mordor has ready to fling at us, Beregar lamented as he led his men in an orderly but hasty retreat along the shortest road to the City.  How will Captain Faramir hold the line at Osgiliath with so many coming against him?   May the Valar protect him, and may they bring Rohan swiftly to our aid!

Faramir peered cautiously through the gloom, across the landscape of tumbled walls, broken foundations and fallen towers -- all that remained of the once magnificent city of Osgiliath.  What had in times past been the bright capital of Gondor was now an abandoned ruin, stained by time and war, long darkened by Mordor's encroaching shadow.  The city had been lost long ago to civil war and plague, and for many years now had been little more than an outpost for Gondor's garrisoned troops guarding the passages across the River against incursions from Mordor.

Ruined or no, the city of Osgiliath was vital to the safety of Minas Tirith and Gondor, for if ever Mordor gained a footing on the western bank, the garrison would be hard pressed to prevent the advance of the enemy to the very gates of Minas Tirith.  Yet that was indeed the situation now.  Even strengthened by the company of Ithilien Rangers, the garrison of Osgiliath had been insufficient to stem the tide of Orcs and Men allied with the Dark Lord which had passed over the River on barges and floats and now threatened to overrun the western bank.

"...the Enemy must pay dearly for the crossing of the River," Denethor had stated unequivocally. "That he cannot do, in force to assail the City, either north of Cair Andros because of the marshes, or southwards towards Lebennin because of the breadth of the River, that needs many boats. It is at Osgiliath that he will put his weight, as before when Boromir denied him the passage."

I am sorry, Father, thought Faramir sadly.  I have done what I could for you here in Osgiliath, but it will not be enough.  The Enemy has been preparing many boats in secret, and the River was no barrier to their approach.  Forgive me, Boromir, for losing what you so bravely fought to keep....

"Will you sound the retreat, my lord?" inquired Anborn, interrupting Faramir's thoughts.  The Ranger was crouched at his captain's side in the lee of a crumbling archway, straining to see through the darkness.  "I fear we will not be able to hold out much longer...."

"Nay, not yet," answered Faramir.  "I await word from the last of the garrison commanders; his report is needed before I can make a final decision.  Alas, retreat is inevitable, for we cannot win here!  We have done great damage to their forces and yet it has done little good; still they come and we are overmatched.  Yet if we can hold out a little longer, it will delay them from advancing that much longer.  Even a little delay here can allow the defense in Minas Tirith more time to prepare, and provide those few minutes that could mean the difference between victory and defeat."

Faramir did his best to sound hopeful, but there was no hope in his heart.  Ever since the coming of the Dark Captain at the head of the main army from Mordor, he had found himself sinking further and further into despair.  The forces of Gondor could not stand against the cloaked Rider with the helm like a crown; even as his own men quailed in fear in the presence of this foe, the black army grew in strength and evil power.  Faramir fought hard against the despair even as he battled the foe all around him, but he knew it weakened him.

It is like that time Boromir and I fought to destroy the bridge over the River, Faramir remembered.  We were faced with just such a foe, who unmanned us and gave the enemy great strength and the will to fight.  How can we stand against such a force of evil?

Struggling to keep his fear from showing on his face, Faramir turned once more to Anborn.  "We will wait only a little longer for the commander; if he does not come soon, I shall assume he is not coming at all and give the signal for retreat.  We will pull back as far as the Causeway Forts and take up another stand there to hold it against the enemy for as long as possible.  Take word now to as many as you can -- tell them to meet up again at the Forts.  Get Mablung and Damrod to help you.  See that the wounded have the help they need to reach the Forts safely."

"As many as could be saved are already being escorted there," Anborn replied.  "How long it will remain a place of safety remains to be seen, however!"

"I will send a messenger to Minas Tirith," Faramir nodded grimly.  "They must hear the news of our defeat and our retreat to the Causeway Forts, so that thought maybe taken for provision for the wounded.  I fear there will be more wounded to care for before the day is done, and perhaps another retreat from the Causeway wall to the City."

"That retreat will be perilous."

"Indeed!" sighed Faramir.  "Perilous indeed...."

***

Pippin stood upon the wall and looked out eastward.  His heart was filled with fear and a great loneliness; everyone had left him and there was no one left to turn to for help or encouragement.  Even Gandalf was gone, riding into the eastern darkness to the aid of Faramir.
 
"If he wins back at all across the Pelennor, his enemies will be on his heels," Faramir's messenger had reported. "They have paid dear for the crossing but less dearly than we hoped. The plan has been well laid. It is now seen that in secret they have long been building floats and barges in great numbers in East Osgiliath. They swarmed across like beetles. But it is the Black Captain that defeats us. Few will stand and abide even the rumour of his coming. His own folk quail at him, and they would slay themselves at his bidding."

"Then I am needed there more than here," Gandalf had said, and off he rode, leaving Pippin behind to watch and wait in growing fear.

What is to become of us? Pippin wondered, shivering.

"It is cold to be standing here all night long," said a voice behind him.  "Were you ordered by your lord to stand watch here upon the wall?  Or rather, is it a task you have taken upon yourself of your own will?"

Pippin turned to find Dûrlin facing him, an understanding smile on his face.

"Watching through the night with no sleep or food will make your day tomorrow quite hard to bear," Dûrlin said gently.

"I know!" Pippin sighed, turning back to the wall.  "But I just can't seem to stop or look away.  Will any of them come back, do you think?"

"I am one who always believes that good will triumph and that those in my charge will stay safe to return to me," Dûrlin replied.  "Perhaps that makes me unreliable in giving an honest answer to you or predicting the return of those for whom we both wait.  It hardly seems possible in the face of the greatest evil of my lifetime that anyone could return from that darkness -- yet I believe they will.  Faramir is a resourceful captain who has long prepared for this battle; he may be outnumbered, but he will not be easily defeated.  And he will have the aid of Mithrandir now.  Do you doubt the wizard, then?"

"No," answered Pippin slowly.  "No, I don't doubt him.  He'll come back, and he'll do his best to make sure Faramir comes back, too.  It's just hard to be the one waiting!"

"It is indeed hard to wait," Dûrlin nodded.  "And it is easy to despair if the waiting is long.  But if you have faith in the strength and abilities of those you know and love, then waiting with hope is the best way to support them."

"Is that why you believe that Boromir is alive and will return?  Because your faith in him is so strong?  It's not just wishful thinking?"

"No, my hope is not wishful thinking, nor is it a refusal to face facts, as some might suggest.  It is a confident expectation that he lives still and is on his way home.  I have little upon which to base my confidence, other than experience and long practice in trust.  But my faith in Boromir's strength and his seeming ability to cheat death in the past keeps my hope alive.  And when faith is dimmed and hope wanes, I ask the Valar to strengthen me, that I might not grow weary in hope and continue to be of support to him, wherever he might be.  It is my sworn duty to Boromir to be strong in the face of despair and to be a light of hope to all around me until that day when my hope is proved to be foolish.  Until such proof is given me, my hope for his return will not waver.  That holds true for Faramir and Mithrandir, as well, and for those others who are close to you who no longer walk by your side.  You will see them again."

Pippin sighed, but the look on his face was determined and less despairing.  He looked up at Dûrlin.  "It's a hard job, isn't it?  Being hopeful when everyone else is assuming the worst, I mean."

Dûrlin smiled and laid a comforting hand on Pippin's shoulder.  "Indeed, it is the hardest job in the world, especially when matters seem truly grim.  Yet that is just the time when hope is most important, for everyone."

"I'll do it, then," Pippin declared, straightening his back and standing tall.  "I'll be like you and keep hope alive!  I'll keep watching here, not because I'm afraid and sad because everyone left me, but because they need me to be here waiting for when they return."

Dûrlin bowed to Pippin, and the smile on his face was one of pleasure mixed with relief.  "You honor your friends and this City you now serve with your courage!  May I support you now in your resolve to wait by bringing some rations to fuel your hope?"

It was Pippin's turn to smile with pleasure.  "I won't say no to that!"

***

The high peak of Min-Rimmon, one of the oldest of Gondor's beacon hills, towered above the Rohirrim camp, its height only to be guessed in the darkness that covered the land.  Théoden's tent had been pitched upon a slope above the road, and there his commanders gathered to discuss plans for the next leg of the trip and to hear the reports of those scouting ahead.

"Where is Éomer?" Théoden queried, noting that his sister-son was missing from the meeting.

Elfhelm bowed to the King as he answered.  "Éomer sends his regrets, my lord, and bids you wait for him.  Scouts of his éored have just now arrived, who were assigned to investigate matters in Gondor some days ago.  He is hearing their report and will come to you directly."

Théoden nodded.  "We shall await Éomer, then.  There are other reports to be heard, but I do not wish him to miss them, and the news his scouts bring may be significant, if they have been in Gondor before us.  We will wait."

They did not have to wait long.  Éomer appeared out of the darkness, and stood before the King, panting as if he had been running, his face flushed with excitement.

"My king!" he said, bowing low.  "Forgive my tardiness, but I have news of great import to share!  Two of my scouts have returned to report a chance meeting in the wilderness with a small group of men from Mundburg in Gondor."

"Men from Mundburg?" exclaimed Théoden.  "Do you mean the rider Hirgon and his men, who brought to us the Red Arrow from Denethor's hand?"

"Nay, my king, 'twas not Hirgon.  These men were encountered well north of the road upon the plain, traveling on foot."

"On foot?  What strange errand had them abroad in the wilderness at such a perilous time as this, so far from their city?"

"Strange, indeed!" Éomer replied.  "But that is not the strangest piece of news I bear.  This group of men was led by none other than Boromir of Gondor!"

"Boromir!" cried Théoden, as Elfhelm and the other commanders gasped in amazement.  "But Gandalf told me he was dead...."

"He was somehow mistaken," Éomer answered, shaking his head.  "Boromir lives, though he has been wounded in battle and is still mending from his hurts.  My scouts escorted him to the Gondorian waypost at Nardol, whence he sent a message to Théoden King.  He begs the King to turn aside at Nardol so that he and his men might join the muster, and ride with Rohan to battle before the gates of Mundburg!"

Merry sat in stunned silence, hardly daring to move for fear he would wake up and discover he had been dreaming.  Boromir alive?  How could this be?  It was simply too incredible!

"Are... are you certain of this?" he stammered, grasping Dernhelm's sleeve anxiously.  "Did you see him yourself?"

"No, of course not," Dernhelm replied patiently.  "We two have hardly been out of one another's sight these past days, so how could I have seen him?"

"You're right, I'm being foolish," Merry said, shaking his head.  "I remember now, you said that commander told you about Boromir -- Elfhelm, his name is, I think?  Did he see Boromir, then?  Can it really be true?"

Dernhelm gently removed his sleeve from Merry's clenched fist and sat down next to him. He took Merry's hand in his and patted it soothingly.  "Elfhelm did not see him, no.  But the scouts who met with the King this evening have seen him; they reported that Boromir and his men are only half a day's ride from here.  The commanders have met with these scouts and questioned every detail, but there is no doubt that the message they bring is no falsehood.  Thrydwulf and Hunlaf are honorable men devoted to the house of Éomer and they speak the truth -- Boromir of Gondor lives and awaits the coming of Théoden King so that he may join us on the morrow and ride to Mundburg."

Merry sat quietly for a moment, letting the reality of the news sink in.

"Boromir's alive!" he said wonderingly.  "He's waiting for us...  he's going to join us!  Tomorrow!  I'm going to see him tomorrow!"

Merry suddenly leaped to his feet, whooping for joy. A few Riders who were resting nearby started at the unexpected shout, but their alarm quickly turned to amusement when they realized the cause.

"Hush now," Dernhelm cautioned.  "It is good news, indeed, but you must try to be more quiet in your excitement."

"I'm sorry," said Merry contritely.  "It's hard not to shout, though.  I'm that happy!  I can't wait to meet him, he'll be so surprised to see me here!"

Merry looked suddenly thoughtful.  "Boromir won't know I'm here, will he?" he said slowly.  "He hasn't seen me since that day when... when he fought the Orcs, and Pip and I were captured.  He probably thinks we're still captives, he won't know any of the news."

"When he sees you, he will learn otherwise," Dernhelm reassured him.

"But how will I meet him?" Merry fretted.  "He'll probably ride with the King and Éomer, and I won't be able to get close."  Merry sighed deeply.  "It won't be enough for me to just see him from afar.  I want... I have to talk to him, to touch him... to be sure he's really all right...."

"Fear not!" Dernhelm broke in.  "My lord Elfhelm will see to it.  He will inform the lord Boromir of your presence with us and arrange for you to meet him.  It is true that you may not be able to travel together, for Boromir will most certainly ride with the King; but you will have your time together, nonetheless.  It will not be enough for all you have to say to one another, perhaps, but it will have to do."

"It will be enough," Merry said happily.  "Just to talk with him a bit, face to face, will be enough."

***

While the others cleared away the remains of the evening meal and made final preparations for riding out the following day, Boromir sat gazing into the fire, lost in thought.  Grithnir watched him for a time, trying to discern his captain's mood.  He was concerned about Boromir's long silence, but he hesitated to interrupt.

"Come, Grithnir!" Boromir said, suddenly turning to face his lieutenant.  "Sit with me and ask your questions.  I know you are concerned about something; that frown of yours gives you away."

Grithnir ducked his head, embarrassed.  "You know me too well, lord!" he said as he joined Boromir by the fire.  "I did not realize I was frowning.  I thought I was better at hiding my concern than that!"  

"I should not have told you," Boromir chuckled.  "Now you will learn to school your face and I will have to learn anew how to read you!  But tell me now, what troubles you?"

"I would ask you the same, my captain, for you are the source of my trouble," Grithnir responded.  "You have been very quiet this evening, more so than has been your wont of late.  It concerns me.  Is there anything wrong?  Are your wounds paining you?"

"Nay, Grithnir, I am not in pain," Boromir said reassuringly.  "I am well-rested and stronger than I have been for some time.  I am feeling more confident in my ability to take part in the coming battle, as well, thanks to the light hauberk and helm Gwaeron has found for me.  I may not be able to swing a sword at full strength just yet, but at least I have armor now that will protect me from the enemy's blade and bow."

"It comforts us also to know that you have such protection," Grithnir agreed.  "I am pleased to hear your wounds are not giving you discomfort.  But something troubles you, nonetheless.  What is it, if I may ask?"

"You know me well, Grithnir," Boromir laughed.  "Well enough to know when I am troubled and keeping it to myself.  I suspect you might even be able to guess some of what is on my mind.  Am I right?"

Grithnir smiled.  "Yes, I suppose I could hazard a guess or two.  I imagine your thoughts are taken up with tomorrow and our meeting with the Riders of Rohan.  You think of the words of condolence you must say to Théoden at the loss of his son and heir, even as you wonder how your own brother fares on the battlefront.  And you wonder if any of your companions still live, and if so, do they ride with the Rohirrim?"

"See?" Boromir nodded.  "You do know me well.  You are right, of course.  All those things are indeed weighing heavily on my mind."  The look on Boromir's face grew serious, and he sighed heavily.  "It was a grievous blow to hear from Eadric of the loss of Théodred.  We were of similar age, we two, and had formed a friendship over the years, though we did not meet often.  I will miss him.  His loss makes me feel all the more concerned for Faramir, as you suggest -- but also for my friends with whom I was traveling, particularly since I have had no word of them since we parted.  I have some hope in my heart that I might see them soon, even tomorrow, if they ride with Théoden.  I wish I knew for certain where they might be and how they fare...."

Boromir's voice trailed off, and he was silent for a time.  Then he smiled and rose to his feet.

"Indeed, you have guessed well, Grithnir," Boromir said, reaching out a hand to draw Grithnir to his feet.  "But you do not know all that is on my mind.  Come with me, now.  There is a matter I wish to share with you, but I would do so in a more private place."

"As you wish, my lord!"

***

Grithnir followed Boromir outside, where they stood together on the porch, leaning against the railing as they gazed out into the darkness.  The night was heavy with the murk of Mordor, and the pale glimmer of torches that lit the path to the horses' picket did little to dispel the gloom.

When Boromir spoke again it was slowly, as if he chose his words carefully.  "As I said just now, I do wonder how my companions fare, and if I will see them again ere long.  It does seem possible, if not likely, that some of them might have met with the Rohirrim and be riding with them to battle in Gondor.  I must admit, my heart yearns to see them again -- but there is more to it than that."

Grithnir gave no answer, for he knew none was expected.  He waited for his captain to find the words he needed to share what was on his heart.

"You are younger than I," Boromir continued.  "You would not have met him, but perhaps you remember tales of the great warrior Thorongil?"

"Yes, of course I do," Grithnir responded, surprised.  "He was a strong man, so they say; a fearsome warrior who served Gondor under Echthelion for a time, then went away never to return.  His prowess with a sword was renowned and men everywhere loved him and followed him."

"Yes," Boromir said with a smile.  "That was Thorongil.  You wonder why I mention him, who was important at a point in Gondor's past, but has little bearing on the present?  But I say to you, he has everything to do with the present!  I have met him, Grithnir.  In fact, I traveled with him on my journey south; it is he who brought me back from the brink of death before you arrived with Linhir to continue my healing."

"But... my lord, how can this be?" Grithnir stammered.  "Do you tell me that this Aragorn you have spoken of, who healed you; your companion since you began your journey from the northern valley -- he is Thorongil?  How is that possible?"

Boromir shook his head.  "I know, it is hard to fathom.  Yet it is so.  I knew Thorongil when I was a child, during that brief time before he went away.  Though I was very young then, when I saw him once more at the Council of Elrond in Imladris, I recognized him.  He knew me, as well."  

"Why... why are you telling me this, my lord?" Grithnir hesitated.  "This hardly seems like a matter suitable to share with a subordinate, no matter how trusted.  Such a personal matter...."

"It is that, Grithnir.  But I am not telling you all this simply on a whim.  I do not lightly burden you with such personal matters -- no, there is another reason why you must hear what I have to say."

"Go on then, my captain.  I am listening."

"You have heard me speak of my traveling companions; you know Aragorn was a member of my party, though you did not have the opportunity to meet him.  You also know that Legolas the Elf went to join him in the pursuit of the Uruk-hai who made captive several of our companions.  When that task is completed, Aragorn will come to Gondor.  He has promised to come.  By what road, I do not know, but he will come to Minas Tirith to lend his strength in her defense.  I am glad of this, for he is a worthy man, strong and capable; I have come to know him and trust him.  But it will change things in ways you cannot imagine, Grithnir."

"I do not understand, my lord.  Change things how?  Because he is also Thorongil, who was once a great warrior of Gondor?  I can see he might be welcomed for that, but would that change things so very much?"

"It will, Grithnir," Boromir said emphatically.  "For not only is Aragorn Thorongil, he is also the heir of Isildur, and the bearer of the Sword that was Broken.  He lays claim to Gondor's throne as King."

Grithnir gasped.  "The King?  He is the King returning?"

"Indeed!"

"But then..."  Grithnir paused, hesitating.  "Do you... do you support his claim, my lord?"

"At first, I was not sure of him," Boromir said slowly.  "It was something to recognize him and know him as someone I had trusted once, and might trust again.  It was reassuring to know that he was no stranger to Gondor and her needs.  But it took time for me to sort out, time to come to terms with the implications for my father -- and yes, for myself.  But truly, there is no questioning his claim, nor his ability to back that claim with strength and honor.  I realize that now.  He is a worthy man and will make a good King.  So yes, I do support him.  And yet, it is not as simple as that.  I do not know what my father will think of this, nor do I know as yet what my role will be in presenting it to him.  But we shall worry about that when the time comes.  What matters now is what may come tomorrow.  In the event Aragorn rides with the Rohirrim, I wanted you to know who he is in truth, for his coming will affect all of us deeply.  Eadric and his scouts did not speak of him, yet it may be.... I do not know.  In any case, I felt you should know."

"Yes, I understand now," Grithnir nodded.  "I thank you, my lord, for entrusting me with word of the King returned!  It is a deep matter, to be sure, and one that must have weighed heavily on you, even though you care for this man and call him a friend.  But fear not -- he will be welcome!  I will support you, of course, and I know the others will feel as I do.  We serve you and your house, to the death.  If this man has won your allegiance and you support his claim as King, that is all we need to know.  We will follow you -- and him, if that is where you lead.  A man who has won the love and support of my lord Boromir of Gondor must indeed be a man to follow!"

"You honor me with your service, Grithnir," Boromir said gratefully.  "I thank you.  Your unquestioning loyalty will not go unrewarded!"

"Serving you all the days of my life is the only reward I require, my captain!"

"So be it, Grithnir.  I would have it no other way."

*****

Author's note:  For the tale of Boromir's recognition of Aragorn as Thorongil, see Reforged at http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=6843

The beacon hill of Erelas was behind them when the army of Rohan stopped at midday for a brief rest and to partake of food for both man and horse.  A tent for the king and his guard was swiftly erected, and the commanders of each éored now met together as they waited for the coming of the son of Denethor and his men.  Word had spread throughout the ranks that Boromir of Gondor lived and would join them in their ride to the stone city.  He and his men were few in number, but great in renown, even among the Rohirrim, and the riders saw Boromir's arrival as a good omen at a time when fortune seemed to be turning against them.  King Théoden welcomed the men of Gondor, and anything that cheered the king and encouraged him was also an encouragement to the riders who followed him faithfully.

The troops rested and ate where they halted, strung out along the road and upon the open grassland northward.  They remained alert and poised ready to move on as soon as the signal was given.  Scouts had been sent ahead to keep watch for any enemy passing along the road and to guide Boromir to the king.

"Can't we get any closer?"  Merry complained, straining to see through the gloom ahead.  "I can't really see anything from here, not even the king's tent.  In fact, I can hardly see my hand in front of my face, it's so dark, even though it's the middle of the day now and time for nuncheon!"

"I am sorry," replied Dernhelm quietly.  "It is not possible to get any closer at this time.  We must remain grouped with our assigned éored, particularly now while we are stopped and the darkness hinders our sight.  It would be too easy to become separated in this gloom.  The signal to move forward could come at any time, and we must be ready to set out in an orderly fashion."  He looked at Merry with compassion and laid a comforting hand on the halfling's shoulder.  "I know you are eager to see your friend once more, but you will have to trust Elfhelm to get word to him that you are here and that you await him.  He will not fail you!  He will surely speak to Boromir, and the man of Gondor will swiftly seek you out as soon as he knows you are here."  

Merry sighed heavily and looked morosely at the piece of bread in his hand.  "I know.  I'm sorry for being so impatient, Dernhelm.  It's just that I wanted to see Boromir come if I could, and see his meeting with the king.  But I guess I can't have that, so there's no point in wishing otherwise!  I'll try to stay calm and wait quietly, and be ready to ride again when it's time.  Oh, I do hope that the marshal is able to get word to Boromir soon.  I can't wait to see the look on his face when he sees me up close!"

***

Even as Boromir dismounted before Théoden's tent, the king emerged and strode forward to embrace him.

"Well met, Boromir son of Denethor!" Théoden exclaimed, holding Boromir at arm's length and looking him up and down as if to reassure himself of Boromir's good health.  "We have heard many a tale of your struggles upon your journey, and had thought you lost to us forever.  I was exceedingly glad to learn that the news of your loss was in error.  To see you alive and standing before me gives my old heart renewed hope!"

"Would that all such news of death and loss could be overturned as untrue!" Boromir replied, bowing over the king's hand and kissing it reverently.  "I was greatly saddened to learn of your own bereavement, my lord.  Eadric of the Rohirrim scouts told me of the slaying of your son Théodred at the Fords of Isen -- I grieve the loss of one who was my friend and a strong ally of Gondor and your only heir.  I did not doubt Eadric's word of that loss, but to not see Théodred here at your side as you ride to war is like hearing the news of his death for the first time.  It is a blow to both our peoples and I mourn with you, King Théoden."

"I thank you for these words from your heart and for the tears I see upon your face as you speak them," Théoden answered with a sad smile.  "It is a great loss indeed to Rohan and to my family.  Éomer is my heir now, and he rides with me in the place of my son.  Our grief over Théodred's absence is keen, but it serves this good purpose -- to sharpen our desire to see justice done and to avenge our son and brother in battle!"

Boromir straightened and his face set resolutely.  "May I ride with you and join in that battle, my lord?"

"You may indeed, my son!  You are most welcome, and I shall be much honored to have the son of Gondor at my side as I ride in aid to his people!"  Théoden made to return to his tent.  "We are just finishing our midday meal, and will ride out soon.  Have you eaten as yet?  Will you and your men come and break bread with me before we ride together?"

"I am honored!"  Boromir agreed.  "I will gladly share Théoden's table, and hear what news he has to tell me of recent days."

Éomer stepped forward then and greeted Boromir with a firm embrace and a stout slap on his shoulder.

"It is good to see you again, as well, Éomer!" Boromir laughed, returning the embrace.  "It has been long days and many miles between us since last we met upon the grassy plains of Rohan."

"I see you are once more united with the steed who bore you away upon that long journey and then left you to return to us," Éomer grinned.

"Indeed!  I am happy to be reunited with Surefoot; he is all you claimed him to be when you offered him to me -- loyal and faithful, whose feet always find the path.  I am content that he found his way back to safety, though my road was long and slow after we parted."

As Boromir gave Surefoot an affectionate pat, he looked about him as if seeking something or someone.  Éomer was quick to notice.

"Do you seek the other companions who were with you upon your journey?" he questioned.  "Yes, we know of them, Boromir.  My éored met with Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas upon the plains as they sought your lost companions, and they joined with us to fight at Helm's Deep.  They were with us until just recently, but they have gone their way again, each to his own doom or destiny."

Boromir's face fell, as he tried unsuccessfully to hide his disappointment.  "What of the halflings?" he asked urgently.  "Did they find them?  Were they rescued?"

"They were indeed, though not by your friends," Éomer replied.  "That is a long tale, of which I know but a small part.  But I can tell you what I know while we take food together."

"I will be glad to hear it!" Boromir cried, forgetting his dismay at not seeing Aragorn.  "Where are they now?  Did they ride with Aragorn?"

Boromir was surprised to see Éomer's face darken, and wondered at the change.  But Éomer only shook his head in reply.

"No, they did not take Aragorn's road," he said gravely.  "One of the small ones swore service to my lord the King, and remained behind in Edoras in the care of my sister, while the other rode with Gandalf to Mundburg some four days ago."

Boromir gasped and struggled to speak, but he was stunned and totally at a loss for words.  "Gandalf!" he stammered at last.  "Mithrandir lives?  But... how is this possible?  I saw him fall in Moria...  How can he be alive?"

Éomer laughed and clapped Boromir on the shoulder once more.  "You traveled with a wizard and learned nothing of his ways or his magic?  Yes, he lives and he returns more powerful than ever before.  Gandalf the White they call him now.  But there is much you do not know, I see.  Come and eat now, my friend, and you will hear an amazing tale of lost ones who are found, of fabled creatures in children's songs walking about on the green earth, and of the dead who return to life and sway the counsels of kings.  I would hear as well the tale of your own return from death, for though we first heard from Aragorn that you had survived your dealings with Saruman's Uruk-hai, news later received seemed to indicate you were once more lost to us, to our great woe and detriment."

Boromir heaved a sigh and shook his head in wonderment.  "I have had an adventure or two since then," he affirmed, a smile growing on his face.  "I will tell you the tale, and gladly hear yours in return!  Let me just see our horses cared for and we will join you and the king directly."

Boromir turned to speak to Grithnir and the others, but came face to face with the marshal Elfhelm who had been waiting quietly to speak with him.

"Elfhelm, is it not?" Boromir queried.  "I remember you; you have come to Minas Tirith a number of times in the past on business for Rohan."

"I am pleased you remember not only my face but my name!"  Elfhelm exclaimed.  "Yes, I am he, and I am honored to be able to greet you once again."

Taking Boromir's arm, Elfhelm drew him a short distance away from the group.  "My lord Boromir, if you please, I will see that your horses are watered and fed for the next leg of the journey.  But first, if I might have a brief private word with you?  I bear a message that I think you will want to hear...."

***

Horns were blown to signal the end of resting and the Rohirrim set forth once again upon the road to Minas Tirith.  Merry waited beside Dernhelm's tall horse, wondering where the rider had gone.  Just as he began to worry that he had lost the rider and would be somehow left behind, Dernhelm appeared out of the gloom and came forward to where Merry stood.

"Were you afraid I had left you?" Dernhelm asked.  "Have no fear, you shall go with me, to the bitter end if need be.  We need every valiant warrior for this fight, no matter his size."  Lifting him, Dernhelm set the halfling securely upon the horse and mounted behind him.

"I have just come from Elfhelm," Dernhelm said into Merry's ear.  "I have news for you from him, and a message."

Merry sat up straighter and turned eagerly towards Dernhelm.

"Boromir of Gondor has been told of your presence with us, and he sends word to you that he will seek you out when we make camp for the night.  Only a few hours more and he will be with you, as you wished.  And he also says this, according to Elfhelm:  'Tell Merry to stay out of trouble and try not to get lost before our meeting, or I shall be very unhappy with him!'.  It is a strange response from one who professes to be a close friend, but that is what he said."

"It's not so strange a response," Merry laughed happily.  "That's just the kind of thing Boromir would say, even if we'd been apart for a year!  Pippin and I have caused no end of trouble to Boromir -- at least, that's what he's always telling us.  But he'd not have it any other way, I bet.  Him growling at me about staying out of trouble is his way of saying he's glad I'm alive and that he can't wait to see me.  I expect I'll get a cuff to the head into the bargain, as well, but I'll take it!  His hand is gentle to me and his growling has nothing but love in it!"

"I see," said Dernhelm softly.  "A true friend, indeed."

"He is that, for sure," Merry answered.

"Tighten your grip now," Dernhelm cautioned as he urged his horse into a faster pace.  "We will be riding hard until evening.  This could be our last night camp before we approach the walls of Mundburg and see battle before the Great Gate."

The air was heavy with the murk of Mordor, and the darkness under the trees was thick and close.  As he picked his way carefully forward, Boromir found himself thankful for the lantern he carried.  Even though it was partially shrouded to obscure the light as much as possible, it was still sufficient to prevent him from stumbling over tree roots or the uneven ground.  He was cautious as he moved through the surrounding gloom, and he remained alert to the danger of possible attack; word from scouts that the enemy had taken the road west of Amon Dîn and that evil Men and Orcs were approaching to within a few leagues of their camp was grim news.  Boromir knew that an assault could come at any time, and it would not do to let down his defenses simply because he was now surrounded by a host of Rohirrim warriors.

Even so, when the attack came, he was unprepared.

Out of the darkness flew a small form, grabbing him tightly about the waist.  Stifling a shout, Boromir dropped his lantern and clutched at his attacker.  But his grip quickly turned into an embrace when he realized who it was that held him.

"Merry!" Boromir cried, his voice suddenly hoarse with emotion.  "Merry...."

"Boromir!" Merry laughed, his voice muffled as he pressed his face against Boromir and tightened his arms around him.  "I'm sorry if I startled you, but I couldn't wait another minute!  I saw your lantern and knew it was you.  I couldn't stop myself running to you to surprise you!"  Merry drew back suddenly and pulled away.  "But I forgot, you were wounded by those Orcs.  I didn't even think about your injuries, are you all right?  I didn't hurt you just now, did I?"

Boromir laughed in reply.  "Fear not, Merry!  I am not so fragile as that.  In any case, a hug from you can bring only healing, not hurt.  I assure you, I am well, and my wounds do not trouble me.  Come, fetch that lantern you caused me drop before it sets the undergrowth ablaze, and you shall see for yourself.  I want a good look at you, as well!"

Stooping, Merry grasped the lantern and handed it to Boromir who held it high.  The silence between them was long as each one drank in the sight of the other.

"You do look like you feel all right," Merry said, relieved.  "I'm not sure I quite believe you, though, that your wounds don't trouble you!  But I guess you wouldn't really admit it if they did, would you?"

"I would not!" Boromir laughed, and Merry grinned at the sound.

"Your laughter is more proof of your healing than the look of you," Merry commented.  "You sound happy, and it shows in your face, too."

"My heart is lighter than it has been in a long time, little one," Boromir replied.  "Much of that is due to seeing you whole once again, of course!  It has been less than a month since our parting, yet it seems as though years have passed since I saw you last; I feared the worst when you were taken by the Orcs.  I am glad to see you escaped them, though they seem to have treated you roughly.  I like not the look of that scar on your head!  But the rest of you looks surprisingly well, considering the ordeal you had.  You seem taller somehow, or is that my imagination?"

Merry grinned.  "Taller?  Well, it could be so.  Lots of interesting things happened after our escape, which was largely thanks to Pippin's quick thinking, if you believe it.  I don't suppose you've heard the tale of any of our adventures as yet, have you?"

"No, I have not.  Éomer has given me as much news as he could in a short time, but I doubt he knows everything, even if he had time to tell it.  But such a tale would not be a proper one unless it comes from your lips, so I hope we will have the opportunity to speak together of your adventures.  I am eager to hear of Pippin's cleverness, and yours as well, since I am certain you played no small role."

Merry beamed proudly.  "Well, it's a long story, but worth the telling!  Say, did you hear about Gandalf coming back?  He's the White Wizard now!"

"Indeed, I only just heard of Mithrandir's return.  I still find it difficult to believe he is not dead!  So he has gone to Minas Tirith with Pippin, has he?"

"Yes," answered Merry, suddenly sad.  "I wish he was here, Boromir!  Pippin, I mean.  I miss him so much...."

Boromir drew Merry close in a comforting embrace.  "Yes," he said softly.  "It does not seem right to see you here alone without him.  I miss him, too, and wish I could see him.  But do not be afraid, Merry.  If he is with Mithrandir in Minas Tirith, then he is as safe as anyone can be in these days.  My City will not fall easily, not even if the whole host of Mordor comes against it!  We will see him soon.  We shall go to him and make certain that he remains safe."

Merry nodded and scrubbed at his eyes, dashing away tears that had sprung up at the thought of Pippin far away.  "Can we sit together for a bit?  There's a lot I don't know about you, either.  You have your own story of escape to tell!  I suppose you'll have to go take part in plans for battle and such with the King, but it would be nice if there was a bit of time for a few stories."

"I fear I must go, sooner than I want to," Boromir confessed.  "There will be a council soon, and I must be present for it.  Do you hear the sound of drums echoing in the trees?  That is the Drúedain, an ancient folk of wild men who live in this wood.  I have never seen them, but those of us who live in Minas Tirith know of them.  They have never bothered us, and seem to protect the road, though no one ever sees them amidst the trees.  They are not evil, and hate Orcs with a passion, it is said.  I do not know what their intention is now, but from what I understand, one of their leaders has requested an audience with Théoden.  That is the council I must attend.  But there is still time for us, I think; time enough to sit and talk together.  I want to hear at least some of your story, and tell you a bit of mine.  But truth be told, there are things I must say to you now that cannot wait any longer.  Before our reunion can proceed, there is something you should know."

They sat side by side upon the log of a fallen tree, the lamp between them at their feet.  Merry looked up at Boromir, waiting for him to begin.  He seemed to realize that what Boromir wanted to tell him was more than just a simple tale of his adventures.  

Boromir was silent for a long moment, then he sighed deeply.  "Do you remember that day when our Fellowship was broken?"

"As if I could forget it!" Merry exclaimed.  "That's the day Frodo left without us, and the day you were hurt trying to rescue us from the Orcs."

"It is of Frodo I wish to speak," Boromir said gravely.  "Our fellowship was broken in another manner that day.  I speak of my fellowship with Frodo.  While you waited patiently for him to make a decision, I met him in the forest and pressed him to decide in my favor.  Worse than that, I became angry and threatened him...."

Boromir faltered and his voice trailed away.

"It's all right, Boromir," Merry said gently.  "Tell me what happened."

***

Merry was quiet for so long after hearing the tale of Boromir's betrayal of Frodo, that Boromir began to be afraid.  It had been as difficult as he had imagined to tell Merry of what had passed between himself and Frodo, but it was also a relief to have it done.  Whatever the result, having spoken of his guilt to Frodo's close kin and friend was almost like speaking to Frodo himself.  He craved forgiveness and Merry's continued friendship, but he wondered if that would even be possible.  Boromir was surprised when Merry suddenly leaned against him and put his arms around him.

"I'm sorry, Boromir," Merry said, his voice filled with tears.  "I should have been more aware of what was going on with you.  I knew you were upset about things, but I didn't even think it had to do with the Ring!  But I should have known, shouldn't I?  Frodo was always warning us about it being evil, how it could twist even strong people to its will, and he was careful not to let any of us touch it for fear of us being affected.  I never even thought of you being hurt by it!  I'm so sorry!"

Merry looked up at Boromir, and now he was scowling angrily.  "But you should have said something!" he scolded.  "We're friends.  You could have told me and I would have tried to help you.  Well, maybe it wasn't the kind of thing you could talk about.  I suppose you didn't really know what was happening yourself, until it was too late.  But I wish I had realized.  Maybe I could have helped, somehow...."

"Ah, Merry," sighed Boromir, resting his cheek on Merry's head.  "It amazes me to hear you blaming yourself for this, rather than me!  You have every right to hate me for trying to harm Frodo, and yet here you are, filled with regret that you couldn't do more to help me!"

"Boromir!" cried Merry, aghast.  "How could I ever hate you?  Of course Frodo is kin and a friend, but you -- you were ready to die for us!  And almost did, too.  Do you think that counts for nothing just because you behaved badly that once?  Aren't you my friend, too?  Of course you are!  Don't you go thinking for one minute that this is enough to make me stop being your friend!  It was a bad thing, I don't deny that, but you're sorry about it, I can tell, and that's good enough for me."

"Thank you, Merry," Boromir said gratefully.  "Forgive me for doubting the strength of your love for me!"

Merry hugged Boromir hard.  "So, are you all right?  I mean, it must have been pretty grim for you...."

"I am at peace for now," Boromir assured Merry.  "I have spoken of this to Aragorn and the others, and have their forgiveness.  Your loving words and vow of friendship have soothed my heart, as well!  But I will not be fully reconciled until Frodo himself absolves me of my crime -- if he will do so by forgiving me and extending his hand to me once more as a friend."

"Oh, don't worry about that, Boromir." Merry was unconcerned.  "Frodo is the most generous of hobbits and is really bad at holding grudges.  He's probably already realized it was the Ring working on your desire to help your people, and he'd know better than anyone how hard it is to resist that kind of temptation.  Besides, it worked out for good in the end."

"What?" Boromir stammered, confused.  "How could such a thing work for good?"

"Well, you see," Merry said confidently, "I know Frodo well, and I know for a fact that he was afraid to go to Mordor on his own.  I've been thinking about it for a while now, and I figure he probably thought he had to do just that, eventually.  Once he made the decision, he would have insisted on going alone, to keep the rest of us safe.  It would take something big to push him to make the decision, though, because he was that frightened!  Back when we first were leaving the Shire at the beginning of the journey, it was all I could do to keep ahead of Frodo and prevent him from going alone, he was so determined not to bring harm on anyone.  But this time, he really wanted to make the decision to go to Mordor alone, and he couldn't screw himself up for it.  So you see, you helped push him to make that decision and that's why it worked for good.  Not that it's really good that Frodo went to Mordor alone, not by half -- but I think it was what he had to do, in the end.  At least, that's how he probably saw it.  I heard from Aragorn and the others that Sam ended up going along with Frodo, so that makes me feel better about the whole thing."

"It makes sense when you explain it that way," Boromir marveled, "but I still cannot quite bring myself to believe that my harmful intent resulted in something good!"

Merry patted Boromir on the arm.  "Trust me, Boromir.  It's true.  Frodo will tell you the same when you see him again.  I just know he will!"

Imrahil sat in Denethor's antechamber with his head in his hands, only looking up when he heard the scrape of footsteps near by -- it was Dûrlin bringing a tray of food and drink.  Imrahil smiled in spite of himself.

"I have been told many times by both Boromir and Faramir that your meals work wonders for the weary warrior, and that plying food is your way of influencing the battle."

"I do what I can," replied Dûrlin.  "It has been more than a few years since I myself stood on the battlefield, but I remember well the strength that is needed, and what it takes to renew that strength daily in order to be able to face adversity."  He lifted a thick piece of bread and spread it with a generous helping of fruit preserves.  "You have faced great adversity today, not to mention despair and a bad shock; food will restore you so you can face what comes next.  Eat this first, I have found that something sweet is best after such an experience."

Imrahil took the bread, then hesitated.  "What of the young Halfling, who now attends Denethor as his Lord?  He performs his duty admirably, even now standing at attendance in the inner chamber; yet, he, too, must be full of fear and despair, seeing Faramir so wounded.  He does not know Faramir well, but he was close to Boromir, I hear, and that would surely cause him to care for the welfare of Boromir's brother."

"It is so," Dûrlin replied, shaking his head.  "He is saddened by Faramir's wounding, and no doubt afraid for Faramir's life -- for not only does he care for him as Boromir's brother, but they have had some converse together, and he esteems him highly in spite of having only recently met him.  But fear not!  I bade him eat and drink a little, though he was loath to do so against orders.  He takes his duties most seriously!  I will keep my eye on him, to make certain he remains well and is not too often alone."

"That is well," Imrahil answered, reassured.  He motioned Dûrlin to sit beside him."You also have had a shock, I know, and look as if you, too, need restoring.  Please join me, you have brought enough food here for the two of us.  It will comfort me to have someone with me as I try to make sense of all that has happened today."

"I am honored to serve you in any way I can, Prince Imrahil."  Dûrlin sat and reached for bread and preserves.  "Speak of what is on your heart if you wish, or remain silent: whichever is most helpful to you in your distress.  I am here to listen and support you, and to gain comfort for myself as well."

Imrahil was silent for a time as he ate and drank.  Dûrlin watched him with concern, waiting patiently.

"You know much of what has transpired, I am certain," Imrahil said at last.  "But perhaps you do not know all that your heart desires to know.  Therefore I will speak of this day from the beginning as I saw it unfold so that you are informed of all that has led up to our current sorrow.  

"Faramir was sent by the Lord Steward to defend the Rammas and the River passage.  He was, as I feared, overmatched, and his retreat became a rout.  The field of Pelennor was already overrun by the enemy, and Faramir could not lead his remnant through without battle.  Horsemen of the enemy were there, followed by innumerable Orcs and a horde of fierce Southrons.  As few as they were, and wounded, they might have held true to their course and made it safely to the gate, but for the Nazgûl.  The men could not bear that terror, and their will was broken.  Even Faramir could not hold them in place."

"You witnessed this?" Dûrlin asked quietly.

"The lord Denethor had prepared a sortie to bring Faramir's troops safely into the City should the retreat from the Rammas approach the walls; I was there to lead it, hidden in the shadow of the outside Gate, awaiting the signal.  Even I felt the fear that blanketed the Pelennor at the arrival of those dreadful creatures!  But when the signal came to advance, we threw our fear aside and rode to Faramir's aid.  Mithrandir went before us, and that was well, for his power was needed to turn back the Nazgûl and allow the company to find their courage once more.  We drove the enemy back long enough for the men to gather once more and make their way to City.  But Faramir..."

Imrahil's voice wavered briefly, and he sighed deeply.

"Yes, Faramir... " Dûrlin repeated.  "You came too late, then?"

"We were too late to prevent his wounding, but at least we prevented his death at the hands of the Southrons after he had fallen.  Yet I fear his wound is deadly!  It seems likely to me that it came from a dart of the Nazgûl as it flew overhead. Faramir was holding at bay a mounted Southron so that his men could flee, and he was open to such an attack.  I came too late to defend him, I could only bear his wounded body to his father.  Alas!"

"Alas!" Dûrlin echoed.  "I know the tale from here, all too well.  I helped make a bed for Faramir in my lord's chamber, and tended him somewhat, until I was sent from the room and the Steward ascended the Tower.  Truly, I fear for him as much as for Faramir; I cannot read his mood at all.  Where has he gone, I wonder?  What errand does he have that takes him away from his son's side, so sorely wounded?"

"I know not," answered Imrahil heavily.  "I, too, sense a strange mood in him.  They did not part on good terms, I fear.  Perhaps he regrets sending his son away to undertake such a hopeless task -- though regret is not a word I would often associate with my brother, the Steward!"

"No, he is not one to regret his decisions, made with confidence after much thought and the gathering of knowledge.  Yet it is possible that even the most decisive of men who commands even his sons without regret will reach that point where he breaks.  Boromir has not returned, and he deems him lost forever; now he is about to lose Faramir, as well, perhaps.  That is likely how he sees it."

Imrahil gazed at Dûrlin thoughtfully.  "I have heard it said that you believe Boromir will yet return, is this so?"

"I do believe that," Dûrlin replied.  "I cannot say why I believe it so firmly, but it is true.  I have no proof that he lives, but I also have no proof that he is truly dead, and because of that, I refuse to despair.  My heart tells me he is not dead, and may return at any moment, and therefore I have hope."

Dûrlin's glance strayed towards the closed door of Denethor's inner chamber where the wounded Faramir lay, and Imrahil followed his gaze.

"I do not know what to think concerning Boromir," Imrahil said, "but if he does return, may it not be to the news that his brother is lost!"

***

Denethor's hands dropped to his lap and he bowed his head in despair until the cold hard surface of the palantír pressed against his forehead.  He had come to the Stone once again for guidance, but what it had revealed to him had left him with no hope.

He had searched above all else for Boromir, for any sign that he might yet live, that he might be on his way home -- but he knew in his heart it was hopeless.  No matter how he turned the Stone, he could see nothing but the vast might of Mordor gathering against him.  Northwards, Orcs and evil Men with axes moved across the plains into Anórien.  If they reached the North Gate of the Pelennor and move onwards towards the Great West Road, the Riders of Rohan would be cut off from the City.  If they were even coming!  No word had come from the West, and none of his errand riders had returned.  For all Denethor knew, Théoden had refused the summons.

Cair Andros had fallen and a multitude marched southward to join the immense army that poured out of Mordor and advanced on Gondor from the East.  The palantír showed a limitless stretch of seething black shapes like a dark sea flowing towards Minas Tirith.  There was no hope for the City against such a force!

Denethor shuddered.  It is obvious the Enemy has obtained the Ring, he thought.  Why else would he empty his land and send his forces with such abandon?  The whole might of Mordor is being thrown at us, and we cannot stand against it!  How?  How did he obtain it?  I cannot say, but it must be so... there is no other answer... If the Ring is back on the Black Hand, then we are lost.  Lost!  There is nothing we can do against him that will not result in horrible death...  Why did I send Faramir into such a hopeless situation?  What is the point of defense if the Ring has been found?  All is lost...

Denethor rose slowly, stiffly, and covered the palantír once more with its cloth.  Little use the Stone had been to him in the end, when he needed it most.  The wisdom and vision he had gained from it in the past which had aided him in determining the course of his City and his people had all been for naught.  In the end, he had failed -- failed the free peoples of the West, failed Gondor, failed his people, failed even his own sons.  He had sent them to their deaths when there had never been any hope of success against a mighty Enemy.

"I shall go to Faramir and wait with him until the end," Denethor said to the empty room.  "At least he will not be alone during his final moments.  Perhaps... perhaps we might even leave this world together..."

***

Imrahil had returned to his men, in order to prepare them for the battle that was surely coming.  Dûrlin returned to Faramir's side, tending him as best he could.  The wound he had received had been cleansed and wrapped, but Faramir was beginning to burn with fever, and Dûrlin was concerned.

"Dûrlin, sir?"  Pippin spoke from the doorway where he stood at attention, awaiting Denethor's return.  "Faramir doesn't look well, does he?  Should we call healers to come?  Not that you don't best know how to tend him, I didn't mean that..."  He stammered in embarrassment.

"You are right," Dûrlin agreed.  "He is not well.  I fear he has a fever now.  I have some knowledge of healing, of course, and I have seen Faramir through many a fever and illness, but this is beyond me.  He should be in the Houses of Healing.  But I cannot move him without the consent of his father.  Perhaps when he returns, I can convince him to have Faramir moved there."

"Where has the Lord Denethor gone?" Pippin wondered.  "He just disappeared without saying a word.  Is he all right?"

"I do not know, Pippin," Dûrlin sighed.  "I fear he is not all right.  What father would be, in such a situation?  We must wait for him to return, and then we shall see how he fares, perhaps."

They did not wait long.  The door of the chamber opened, and Denethor entered.  Dûrlin and Pippin stared at him, aghast at the change they saw.  The stern, proud man in command of the City was gone, replaced by a broken, defeated old man.  Denethor looked back at them, his gaze unseeing.  After a moment, he moved slowly on past to a chair set beside Faramir's bed.  He sat down beside him without speaking a word, staring at his son's face with bleak, empty eyes and a face as grey as death.

As Merry readied himself for the summons to march, he remained on the watch for Boromir.  He was not certain Boromir would be able to meet with him again before they departed, but he hoped he would be able to manage it.  The Riders of Rohan were preparing to set out in search of the secret road the Wild Men had revealed to Théoden; it seemed it was now the only hope they had of reaching Minas Tirith unhindered by the enemy.  They had learned that the main road to the City was taken, and the enemy had cast trenches and stakes across the way to hinder anyone coming from the West.  But the hidden road would take them safely past all that; they just had to follow the lead of the Wild Men.

"Are you watching for your friend Boromir?" asked Dernhelm.  "I am certain he will do everything within his power to meet with you before we begin our march.  It is likely he will ride with the King, so this may be his last opportunity to spend time with you.  He knows you wish to keep your presence from becoming known to the King, at least for now, so he will only be able to come if he is unwatched or unaccompanied."

"Yes, I was thinking just that," Merry confirmed.  "Boromir will do his best, I'm sure!"  Merry shook his head.  "I do feel bad about keeping secrets from the King, but I don't want to upset him at this important time.  He has so many decisions to make now before that battle, and I don't want to distract him.  He'd be unhappy that I disobeyed him!  I know he thought he was protecting me by telling me to stay behind, but I just couldn't do it, even if it means disobeying and risking him being very angry with me when he finds out I'm not safe in Edoras!"

"Yes," agreed Dernhelm in a firm voice.  "It had to be done.  This is not a time for safety, all who are willing to serve are needed.  He will need us with him, I deem, before the end."

"I hope so," Merry sighed.  "That is what I want most, to be needed and to serve well."

"That is also my wish."

Merry shook his head again, still amazed at what he had heard and witnessed from outside the tent during the council between the headman Ghân-buri-Ghân, and Théoden and his advisors.  Ghân-buri-Ghân had known Boromir!  He had acknowledged him as a lord of the Stone-city and honored him as a great killer of Orcs.  It made sense that they would know of him, as they seemed to be a very observant people, and anyone who was an enemy of Orcs would be someone they would notice and honor.  Boromir had been as surprised as the others to hear of the hidden way through the forest, but once he knew of it, he understood immediately how well it would serve their need.  Knowing the history of how his own city had been built, he realized the road had been used to transport stone from quarries in the foothills to Minas Tirith.  That meant the road would be as direct a route and as level and hard-surfaced as possible -- an excellent path for horsemen wishing to travel swiftly.  Once the quarry stones were no longer needed for Minas Tirith, the road had been abandoned, the entrances overgrown and forgotten by all but the Wild Men of the Drúadan Forest.

Merry turned at a sound behind him, in time to see Boromir coming towards him out of the darkness.

"There you are, Boromir!" Merry said happily.  "Dernhelm and I were just wondering when you'd be able to come.  I'm glad you were able to manage it!"

"I cannot stay long, alas!  But I could not go forward without taking proper leave of you, Merry."  Boromir turned to Dernhelm.  "This is Dernhelm, of whom you have spoken so highly?"  He bowed low, hand upon his chest.  "My thanks, Dernhelm, for your kindness and care for my friend.  Because of your willingness to bear him, we have been able to meet again, where a meeting might not have otherwise been possible.  Seeing Merry whole and well-cared for has encouraged me mightily, more than you can know!"

Dernhelm ducked his head and turned away shyly.  "Nay, it is both duty and pleasure to serve you and Master Merry," he muttered in a gruff voice.

"Please continue to serve us both by watching over him, to keep him safe from harm -- as far as you are able!  I entrust him to your care, Dernhelm."

"I will guard him well, lord.  You may rely upon me."

Boromir nodded his thanks, then looked at Dernhelm thoughtfully.  "Have we met before, Dernhelm?" he asked suddenly.  "You have a familiar air about you..."

"It is possible, lord," Dernhelm replied, stammering slightly.  "You have traveled in our lands and to Edoras, you may have seen me there... going about my duties..."

"Indeed, that is a likely possibility," Boromir answered.  "Fare well, then, Dernhelm.  May we meet again in my City!"

Boromir turned to Merry and kneeling, held out his arms.  "Merry, I must go.  The King awaits.  Take great care of yourself, and do as Dernhelm advises.  May the Valar grant us more time together, when we can sit at peace and enjoy one another's company at our leisure!"

"I'll be waiting for that time, Boromir!"  Merry's voice was muffled as he buried his face in Boromir's shoulder.  "And may Pippin be there, too!  And all the others!"

"Indeed," said Boromir softly.  "Pippin must be there, as well, and all the others..."

He gently pulled himself away, and with a wave of his hand to Merry, walked away into the darkness.

"Take care of yourself, Boromir!" Merry called after him.  "Fare well!"

***

Aragorn stood on the deck of the great ship, looking out across the water where the Anduin met the harbor basin of the port city of Pelargir.  Legolas and Gimli were at his side.  The River was wide and deep, quiet in the dark hours before dawn. The noise of the harbor below them seemed strangely stilled and distant, and the sound of gulls keening strove with the sound of creaking masts, the thud of ships' keels against the docks, and the shout of men as they readied those ships for sailing. It had been a long day, full of fear and battle, death and victory, vows fulfilled and vows taken.  The brief quiet after a night of hard, desperate labor was welcome -- but they could not tarry long.  Aragorn would soon give the order to depart, for time was of the essence.  Dawn approached and with it, a new day of fear and battle.

Aragorn turned, beckoning to his companions.  "Come, it is time.  We are needed in Minas Tirith.  I fear the City will not stand long on her own, so we must go swiftly to her aid."

"'Tis a pity the Dead cannot help us now, when the real battle is about to begin," Gimli muttered.

"You surprise me, Gimli!" Legolas exclaimed.  "Before this, you wanted nothing but to see them gone!"

"Aye, it's true, I wanted nothing to do with them," Gimli confessed.  "But I cannot deny the effect they had on the fierce men of Umbar -- terrorized they were, we barely had to lift a finger to fight!  The battle here at the docks was over before it started!"

Aragorn smiled.  "The Dead did their part and fulfilled their vow.  They cannot help us now, nor do they need to.  But there are others here who are willing to join us, now that the Dead are gone.  And we need them, for the coming battle will not be over so quickly as this one was!"

"What news have you had then of the coming battle?" Legolas inquired.

"Before ever we reached Pelargir, I knew through the palantír that Minas Tirith was assailed," Aragorn replied, "Sauron has thrown open the gates of Mordor and his armies move against the White City.  Time grows short.  We must reach her on the morrow or all will be lost."

"And Boromir?"  Gimli asked, hope in his voice.  "Was there aught of Boromir to be seen in the Stone?"

"Alas, no new word of Boromir," Aragorn sighed.  "But he lives, and that continues to give me hope until I learn otherwise.  I am eager to see him again!"

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" Gimli grumbled.  "Give the order so we can be on our way. The sooner we get to Minas Tirith and deal with the Enemy's armies, the sooner we can see Boromir!"

The healer who had been called from the Houses of Healing confirmed what Dûrlin had suspected, that Faramir was feverish and needed tending by expert healers.  But Denethor would not allow Faramir to be moved.

"Do not move him.  If you must tend him, then do so, but he must stay here... with me..."  No amount of urging from Dûrlin or the healer could make him change his mind; Denethor was determined to stay where he was and his son with him.

With a heavy sigh, the healer did what he could to make Faramir more comfortable, making certain his wound was well-bandaged and clean, with herbs and healing draughts at hand to help with fever and pain. As he left, he gave instructions to Dûrlin.

"I must return to the Houses of Healing, to prepare for the wounded who will soon come, as well as tend those who are already there. You are well-equipped to care for Faramir, but you may call us at need if he takes a turn for the worse or if you feel his needs are beyond your expertise.  I fear this fever may worsen, so do your best to keep him cool.  I will check on him as I am able, but that may not be possible once the battle begins."

"Thank you for what you have done," Dûrlin reassured him.  "I will do everything in my power to tend Faramir well."

"Watch closely and care for the Lord Steward, as well, if he allows it.  It is a grave blow to have his son so ill, and I fear he will also fall ill if he does not take care."

"Fear not, I will not let him fall into illness or despair!" Dûrlin vowed.  "He and his sons have been my charge for many a year, and I will not fail when the hour seems darkest."

Pippin watched the door close after the healer, then turned to Dûrlin.

"Will Faramir die?" he asked, unable to keep from expressing the fear that was foremost in his mind.

Dûrlin laid a comforting hand on Pippin's shoulder.  "Did you hear my vow to the healer just now?  I meant every word.  Faramir will not die, for we will do everything we can to keep him from death.  We will also strive to keep his father from despair; I fear his spirit is broken, but perhaps it can be restored when Faramir recovers and Boromir returns."

Pippin smiled in spite of his worry.  "You are always so positive with how you look at things!  You speak as if you know Faramir will recover and Boromir return.  That encourages me!"

"I feel it is always best to remain hopeful in the face of fear.  What is the use in expecting the worst when nothing has yet been confirmed?  Many likely consider me a fool that I remain so certain in the face of what seems to be reality, but a positive outlook is a strength against all manner of difficulties.  Denethor believes all is lost, that is written clearly on his face -- but we must do what we can to change that for him, and to do that, we must look forward in hope.  You have joined me in my belief that Boromir still lives; can you also share my confidence that Faramir will live, as well?"

"Somehow it seems easier to believe in Boromir's return than to believe Faramir will recover, seeing how sick he looks -- but I'll do my best, Dûrlin!  Just tell me how I can help."

"I will see to Faramir and his needs.  As his page, your duty now is to watch over our lord Denethor and keep him from losing heart.  It will not be a simple task, but it is the best way you can serve him now."

"I'll do it, whatever it takes," Pippin vowed.

***

Word spread throughout the City that Faramir was wounded, perhaps nearing death, and the Lord Steward had fallen ill in his despair at the loss of his sons.  The thought of their strong and decisive Steward being unable to lead was frightening to the people of Minas Tirith, but before long, the rumor that Denethor had given over leadership for the coming battle to Mithrandir was confirmed, as the wizard strode about the City, giving orders as well as encouragement to those manning the walls.  Prince Imrahil accompanied him wherever he went, upholding Mithrandir's leadership.

"Do you think the Rohirrim will come?" Imrahil asked as they walked the walls and made plans for the defense of the City.

"Ingold reports that they cannot come," replied Gandalf, shaking his head.  "He led the guard stationed at the North Gate of the Rammas, so he would be in a position to see the strength of the enemy there.  He and his men were the last to return within the walls before the siege began; according to him, the road west to Rohan is blocked by the enemy, so Théoden is cut off.  He would encounter a fierce battle on the road before he can even get close to the City.  It is my belief that the Rohirrim are coming, but whether they will reach the City in time or in numbers sufficient to aid us, I cannot say.  Even so, I will not lose hope just yet, for the future is not set and we cannot know what fortune may yet come to us."

"I hear the rumor has already gone forth in the City that Rohan cannot come," Imrahil sighed.  "We must keep the fighting men encouraged so that they do not fall into despair at the enormity of the battle before us.  Let us hope Théoden finds a way to reach us before it is too late!  Whether aid comes or no, we cannot lose heart before the battle has even begun!"

"It is as you say," Gandalf agreed.  "There is much we can do to oppose the enemy, while we wait for aid to come, and keeping hope alive is not the least of our weapons of defense!"

***

The Riders of Rohan had broken camp in the early morning darkness, picking their way slowly and carefully over rough ridges and through thick woodland, seeking paths down into the hidden Stonewain Valley.  Once they reached the forgotten wain-road, they made steady progress.  The road was broken and thick with fallen leaves, but wide enough that the long files of Riders could move forward side by side.  All was quiet under the trees, and the air grew steadily dimmer as they slowly drew closer to Minas Tirith.  There was no sight or sound of any enemy, and the Wild Men who accompanied them kept watch before and behind to make certain no Orc scout or spy of evil Men might learn of their movement and thwart their progress.

Though they were now nearing the edge of the wood, they made camp in the late afternoon, in order to rest and receive reports from the scouts Éomer had sent to spy out the road ahead.  Wild Men also came with reports of a large contingent of the enemy encamped near Amon Din to the northeast, no more than an hour's walk away from where the Riders rested, hidden among the grey trees.  However, southwards along the road and straight ahead from their camp, there was no enemy to be found between them and the walls of the Rammas Echor.  Ghân-buri-Ghân reported with a strange gurgling laugh that many Orcs were present at the North Gate walls, but they were heedless and not keeping watch, as they busied themselves with breaking down the walls, assuming no enemy could pass to disturb them.

Éomer was delighted with this news.  He had feared the out-wall would be held against them, but now their way forward was unimpeded and the enemy was open to attack.  They would be able to sweep through, thus reaching the open road and the grassy plain beyond where they would be able to ride more swiftly.

Yet Éomer's scouts also brought news that was not so good: the errand-riders of Gondor had been found dead along with their horses, not far from the edge of the grey wood where the Riders of Rohan were encamped.  They had been struck down and their heads hewn off.   One of the riders still clasped the Red Arrow that had been sent as the signal to call Rohan to the aid of Gondor.  It was evident that the riders had found the enemy already on the out-wall, and had been forced to turn back without reaching the City.

"Alas!" cried Théoden. "Denethor has heard no news of our riding to his aid!  He will despair of our coming!"

Boromir buried his face in his hands, mourning the loss of these good men of Gondor who had been unable to bring hopeful news to the City.  He groaned at the thought of his father's despair.

"This is unfortunate," Éomer said regretfully.  "The need to reach the City swiftly seems ever more urgent now, knowing they have not heard of our coming.  Yet it is unwise to move forward without rest to regain our strength.  Do not lose heart!  We will rest now, but if we move forward tonight, we will reach the fields at first light and ride like the wind to the City.  Then, at the sounding of the horns of Rohan, shall the lord Denethor hear of our coming!"

Long hours passed as Pippin waited on the Steward in the dark, unlit room.  Denethor sat heedless, stroking Faramir's hand, ignoring all who came and went.  From time to time, Dûrlin would pass through to check on his two charges, and to give an encouraging word to Pippin.  The hobbit needed that encouragement, for it was a dismal time, waiting to serve a lord who did not need him and who did not even seem to realize he was there.  Several times, Pippin opened his mouth to speak words that might bring some hope back to the Steward, but the sight of tears on Denethor's face stopped him.  Denethor was no longer the stern, proud lord of the City; his spirit was broken.

Finally, Pippin could bear it no more, he felt he must speak.

"My lord!" he said haltingly.  "Please don't weep!  Faramir is very ill, but he may still get well.  If you would just let the healers care for him..."

"No," Denethor shook his head.  "He cannot leave my side.  He must stay with me, his father, though I have failed him.  He may still speak before the end."

"He may not die, sir!  If you don't want him to leave your side, then call for someone to come here to tend him; Dûrlin is doing what he can, but Gandalf maybe could do more.  Gandalf might know how to help Faramir in a way the healers don't!"

"Speak not of wizards to me!  It is because of his foolish plan that our hope has failed.  The Enemy has it and is now strong beyond all imagining.  He sends the full might of Mordor against us, and we can do nothing to stop it.  We are doomed to defeat!  Faramir will die, and my line will be at an end."

The Enemy has it? thought Pippin.  What does he mean?  Is he talking about the Ring?

Fear gripped Pippin's heart at the thought that Frodo might have failed in his Quest and that the Ring might be back on the hand of Sauron.  But how would Denethor know that?  And if it were so, wouldn't Gandalf had known, as well?  Gandalf still held out hope that Frodo would succeed, so perhaps it wasn't true, no matter what Denethor said.  The Steward was obviously grieving and had lost all hope, so maybe he was just assuming the worst...

Pippin's thoughts were interrupted by a messenger coming with the news that the first Circle of the City was burning with fire from the Enemy's siege weapons, and that men were abandoning the walls.

"Why tell me this?" Denethor responded.  "Let Mithrandir deal with it, though his hope has failed.  It would be better to face the fire and burn sooner rather than later, for we will all burn when the Enemy comes."

Denethor turned away, then turned back to the retreating messenger as if he had come to some sudden decision.  "Yes, go now; leave me to my own burning.  The Enemy will not touch me nor will my son's body be dishonored.  I will protect him from being defiled by the Enemy... we will burn together and thus go to meet Boromir..."

Pippin, horrified at Denethor's words, barely heard the Steward speaking to him, bidding him farewell and thanking him for his service.

"Nay, Lord," he stammered.  "I wish to stay with you, to serve and protect you if it comes to that.  Besides, there is still hope -- do not speak of burning and death!"

"Nay, the end is near.  Go meet it in whatever way suits you.  I will do the same, for my life is over.  Send for my servants!"

Pippin fled the room.

I do not know what he has in mind but it sounds bad! he thought as he ran.  Where is Dûrlin?  I must find him, he will know what to do.  The lord Denethor said to call his servants, but I'm afraid of what he is planning.  Dûrlin is his chief servant, though, and knows him better than anyone; Dûrlin has to have a chance to talk to him before anything else!  If anyone can break through the lord Denethor's despair, it's Dûrlin!

***

Sam tried to be quick in his search for Orc gear to disguise himself and Frodo so they could enter Mordor, but it was difficult to find things small enough to fit a hobbit-sized frame.

"I've got to hurry and get back to Mr. Frodo," he muttered to himself.  "I don't like leaving him alone in this horrid place.  Not just because of the bad time he's been through, what with getting poisoned by that wretched spider and then being captured and tortured, no doubt.  He's got the Ring back now, and it's sure a burden for him to carry!  I could see it weighing him down straight away after handing it back to him, even though I know he was relieved to have it back.  I just wish I could've kept it and carried it for him, to ease his trouble.  But I guess it's too late for that now, he can't let no one else take it!"

You could take it anyway, a thought niggled.  He'd be lighter for it, once he got used to the idea.  It's for his own good to take it from him, it's such a heavy burden...

Sam quashed the thought before it went any further.  He knew it was the Ring trying to get at him, and he knew better than to believe its lies.  He'd only carried it a short time, but that was long enough to realize what a powerful force it was on the will and the desire, and how it could twist thoughts and perceptions.

"It may be a burden for Mr. Frodo, but it's his burden to carry, and I won't stand in the way of that.  I can help him in other ways, and I will, whatever it takes!  I ain't gonna listen to those lies, or be tricked into thinking having the Ring myself is going to help anybody.  Boromir got tricked like that, and look what came of it!  Poor Boromir, I guess I know a bit what it was like now, having that Ring whispering at you all the time!  I sure do wish I could tell him so..."

***

Denethor looked up as Dûrlin hurriedly entered the room, followed closely by Pippin.

"Where are my attendants?" he asked with a frown.

"Am I not your attendant, my Lord Denethor?" Dûrlin said gently, stepping forward to stand before the Steward.  "I have long served you and your sons, have I not?"

"Yes, yes," Denethor replied impatiently.  "Of course you have, and you have served us very well.  But you cannot lift Faramir on his bier alone, can you?"

"Why do you speak of his bier, my lord?  Faramir yet lives!  Where is it you wish to take him?  Are you ready to release him to the healers in the Houses of Healing?"

"Nay, not to the healers!" Denethor objected.  "What more can they do?  It is too late!"

"As long as he has life, it is not too late..."

"Nay!" Denethor interrupted.  "What use is living now if it only brings us to death and mutilation at the hands of the Dark Lord's evil creatures?  No, we go now to Rath Dínen to meet our fate together and prevent just that.  I will not allow my last remaining son to be dishonored in death by the minions of the Enemy.  I shall take him where no evil can reach him, and I shall go with him!"

Pippin gasped in fear, as Dûrlin took a long deep breath to steady himself.

"My lord Denethor!" he implored.  "I am under oath to Boromir to see to your good health and that of Faramir, also.  I am happy to call your other attendants if your desire is to allow Faramir the healing attention he needs -- but I will not allow you to even contemplate a plan such as this, bringing harm to yourself and your own son simply because you have lost hope!  How does an act such as that honor anyone?"

"You will not allow it?" Denethor scowled.  "I am your lord!  You must obey me!"

"You are indeed my lord, but I cannot obey you in this.  No lord of Men takes himself out of the battle in such a manner, leaving his people destitute, conceding defeat before the victory or loss is even decided."

"My people..." Denethor's shoulders slumped.  "I have already failed my people.  All I have done for Gondor has been for naught!  What else is left but to concede?"

"You have not failed Gondor," Dûrlin objected.  "But you will indeed do so if you go forward with this folly.  What will Boromir say when he comes to find you making such decisions that harm yourself and Faramir, leaving Gondor leaderless, open to the whims of the enemy?"

"Boromir!"  Denethor sighed heavily.  "He is gone and will not return.  Why do you speak of him as if he lives and will be affected by what I do?"

"I know he lives and he is coming to us!" Dûrlin declared boldly.

Denethor straightened, looking at Dûrlin as if seeing him clearly for the first time.  "How... how can you know this?  I have seen nothing... nothing!  Have you -- have you seen him?  How do you know, in truth?"

"I have not seen him, but I believe it to be true."

"You believe!" Denethor scoffed angrily, looking away in disappointment.  "Always you are so certain, even when all others despair.  It is impossible!"

"Have I ever been wrong in my strong belief, my lord?"

Denethor hesitated, then shook his head.  "No... no, you have not.  But it is foolishness!  I cannot accept this, it is not enough to sway me.  You have no proof.  I need proof!"

"Then I will give it to you," Dûrlin said resolutely.  "Let me send for Mithrandir.  You may doubt his intentions towards you and this City, but you cannot deny that he has power, and sight that allows him to see that which others cannot.  Let him look for us to see if Boromir comes."

Denethor frowned.  "I, too, have sight, and I have seen nothing -- nothing, though I have searched and searched..."

Dûrlin laid a gentle hand on Denethor's shoulder.  "It is true, my lord.  You have great insight and see more than any man in Gondor, and it has aided you in your rule of Gondor's people.  But no longer; you are not yourself!  You are broken and your wisdom is lacking.  This is not the time to be making decisions that bring harm to you and your son -- nay, to all of Gondor and the West!  Can you tell me truthfully that what you now contemplate is a course the Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor, would take -- that Lord Denethor whose goal has always been to do whatever is necessary for Gondor's protection and success and best good, even at great cost?"

Denethor hesitated, then hung his head wearily.  He said nothing for long silent moments, gazing at Faramir's pale face.  Faramir, in his fever, moaned faintly and shifted slightly on his bed, his hand brushing his father's knee as he sat close beside him.  Denethor grasped Faramir's hand firmly, blinking away tears.

"Is that a course the Lord Denethor would take?" he repeated slowly.  "No... no, it is not.  The welfare of Gondor and her people has always been my charge and my great desire, no matter the cost.  Yet that cost has been great!  Would that I had considered my own sons as highly as I have my people!  Perhaps I would not have come to such grief..."

Denethor stroked Faramir's hand gently, then sighed deeply.  "Very well, then.  I will wait.  Send to Mithrandir.  We shall see if his sight is greater than mine.  My heart tells me he will see nothing, if he even deigns to look on my behalf, I who have opposed him for so long!"

"You do Mithrandir an injustice if you believe him an enemy, my lord," Dûrlin replied.  "He honors you and your sons highly!  I have no doubt whatsoever he will look on our behalf, and do so gladly.  To see Boromir living and coming to Gondor's aid would encourage him, as well, I deem!"

"Yes, yes!" cried Pippin, who had been breathlessly watching the exchange between Denethor and Dûrlin.  "Gandalf has great power and sight, I know he has looked with eyes of power in such a way as this, to see what might be coming.  He loves Boromir greatly and honors you, my lord, I heard him say just that!  I'm sure he will be happy to help us find Boromir, especially if it will help relieve your despair."

"So Dûrlin has convinced you to hope, as well, has he?"  Denethor said, regarding Pippin thoughtfully.  He sighed again, but his face seemed less grey and drawn.  "Go, then -- I submit to your hope, at least for now!  But if it should prove false..."

"I have faith that it will not prove false,"  Dûrlin responded.  He turned to Pippin.  "You have heard what has passed between us; my lord Denethor needs something to rekindle his hope.  Perhaps Mithrandir can provide that spark, if he is willing.   Seek him now swiftly, and put this request before him, if you will.  You know him best of all who are here in the city, save Faramir; may he heed you and come to our rescue and encourage our hearts with fresh hope!"

"Of course I will" Pippin agreed.  "I'll fetch him now, I'm sure he'll come.  We'll be back before you know it!"

The Black Fleet sailed north at dawn after the defeat of the Corsairs at Pelargir, the black ships now manned by free men of Lebennin and Ethir and led by Aragorn.  Putting all their strength and will into wielding the oars, they strove against the current.  Aragorn stood like a statue in the prow of the greatest ship, and though he spoke little, all knew he was driven by fear that they had no time to spare if they were to arrive in time to aid Minas Tirith.

"It is forty leagues and two from Pelargir to the landings at the Harlond," Aragorn said. "Yet we must reach the Harlond tomorrow or fail utterly."  

All day they strove against the current; night fell and no breath of wind came to aid them.  A red glow under the cloud of darkness added to their fear, for all now knew the City was burning.

Gimli and Legolas stood beside Aragorn, watching with him as the dark shores on either side slide slowly past.

"The oarsmen are doing their best, but the going is so slow!" grumbled Gimli.  "Can we make it in time?"

"We must," replied Aragorn, eyes on the red glow in the sky.

"Do not lose heart, Gimli!" Legolas urged.  "All seems forlorn, but there is yet hope!"

"So you say!" Gimli muttered.  "I see little that speaks to hope!"

Yet as midnight came and went, a stirring among the men was heard.  Sea-crafty men of Ethir came forward with a report for Aragorn -- a fresh wind from the Sea was blowing in, and it seemed it might not be long before it would be enough to fill the sails.  Hardly had they finished speaking when the breeze quickened so that all could feel it.  Aragorn gave the command for the sails to be unfurled, and before long their speed grew until the white foam breaking at the prows of the ships flew up into their faces as they strained forward with renewed hope.

"Did I not say to not lose heart, my friend?" Legolas laughed.

"Aye, that you did!  Well, then, we might just make it in time after all!"  Gimli patted the ax that hung on his belt.  "When we do, I'll be ready!"

***

When the host of Rohan at last reached the end of the hidden road, they passed silently out of the wood on to the plain that bordered either side of the main road to Minas Tirith.  Boromir recognized the place immediately.  Even in the dark, that road was familiar to him -- almost straight south it led, through the North Gate of the Rammas Echor that encircled the Pelennor Fields, and on to the Great Gate.  They were close now, so close!  How long ago had it been when last he had passed this way, at the beginning of his journey north to find the answer to the riddling dream?  Boromir did the calculations in his head; eight months had passed since that day!  

Though it was night and the darkness was further deepened by the murk flowing out of Mordor, Boromir lifted his eyes hopefully for a glimpse of the distant City.  What he saw filled him with despair -- a red glow lit the southern sky above the City, illuminating the sides of the dark mountain that loomed up behind Minas Tirith.  

"The attack has begun,” Grithnir lamented quietly, drawing up his horse beside Boromir.  "Do you think the siege fires have reached within the City walls?"

"I cannot tell from here, in this darkness,” Boromir sighed in reply.  "Even if they have, the City is well able to deal with the situation, to prevent fire from spreading to the upper levels.  My fear is more for the Pelennor; many folk have farmsteads there, with crops and livestock..."

"They will be safe inside the walls, or evacuated further south," Grithnir reassured Boromir.  "Remember the beacons?  Those living outside the walls will have heeded that warning and are surely in a place of safety by now.  They will be as safe as anyone can be in these perilous times."

"Alas!" Boromir groaned. "I knew in my heart we could not reach Minas Tirith before the Enemy struck, yet it fills me with dismay to not be there now, to lead the defense at my father's side!"

"Soon, my Captain!  Our chance to strike a blow on behalf of our people comes soon!"

"Indeed!"  Boromir drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.  "You are right to remind me of the hope we have, Grithnir!  The battle may have begun without us, but we do not come too late to join it!  We will strike from an unexpected direction, and that very well may work to our advantage in the coming battle!"

Boromir fell silent as he cast his eye over his small group of men who rode beside him in the leading company surrounding Théoden and Éomer.  Elfhelm’s éored was close behind.  Among Elfhelm’s group would be Dernhelm, with whom Merry rode; Boromir sought them out, as much for reassurance as with concern for the small hobbit taking part in the coming battle.  He had seen enough of the Halflings’ strength and resourcefulness during his journey with them to know that Merry was as likely as any of them to pass through the fight safely, but he could not help worrying about Merry's welfare.  He was surprised to see that Dernhelm had left his place with Elfhelm's group and was now riding to the rear of the King's guard.  

Before he could wonder further about Dernhelm's purpose in moving away from his assigned éored, Boromir was hailed quietly by Éomer.

"Come, Boromir," Éomer spoke softly.  "The King calls you to come forward to hear the latest news from the scouts."

Out-riders had ventured as far as the Rammas Echor and had much to report.

"We advanced almost to the outer wall, my lord," one stated.  "The field beyond is full of foes and there are many fires, set all about the City.  There seems to be fire in the lower levels, as well.  Few of the enemy remain on the out-wall, however!  They seem to have all been drawn away to the main assault, leaving only a few at the wall.  As the Wild Men reported, the Orcs there are heedless, concerned only with tearing down the stones and widening the breach."

"So we should be able to pass the out-wall easily, with only a brief fight that may not delay us overmuch," Théoden mused.  "This news is good.  I feared the wall would impede the horses, but the Orcs have dealt with that hindrance for us!"

Another out-rider broke in.  "There is also this, my lord.  The wind is turning.  You do not feel it yet, but I tell you, it is so!  The chief of the Wild Men said the same before he left us; a breath of wind comes from the South, with the tang of the Sea upon it.  In more peaceful days, I lived out upon the open Wold, and like the Wild Men, I understand the messages the wind brings.  The wind is faint, but it is freshening.  The dawn will bring new things!"

"Your words bring me hope, my son," replied Théoden.  Turning to the men who were nearby, he raised his voice and spoke clearly so that others could hear him well:  "Now is the hour come, Riders of the Mark, sons of Éorl, sons of Gondor! Foes and fire are before you, and your homes far behind. Yet, though you fight upon an alien field, the glory that you reap there shall be your own forever. Oaths you have taken: now fulfil them all, to lord and land and league of friendship!

"Éomer, my son! You lead the first éored; it shall go behind the king’s banner in the centre. Elfhelm, lead your company to the right when we pass the wall. And Grimbold shall lead his towards the left.  Let the other companies behind follow these three that lead, as they have chance. Strike wherever the enemy gathers. Other plans we cannot make, for we know not yet how things stand upon the field. Forth now, and fear no darkness!"¹

Théoden turned to Boromir.

"Boromir, son of Denethor, friend and brother in our alliance!  You must do as you see fit, of course, and go whither your heart leads you once battle is enjoined.  Yet it would honor me greatly if you would ride with me and my house as we go into battle.  Boromir, will you ride with me?"

"King Théoden, it is you who honor me greatly!" Boromir answered with a bow.  "My men and I will ride with you gladly, for as long as we are able!  Let us go forth together and push back the darkness that threatens both our peoples!"

"So be it!"

***

Pippin ran through the streets of Minas Tirith, seeking the quickest way down to the lower levels.  Gandalf would no doubt be found where the fighting was the thickest.  No enemy had yet entered the City, so Pippin assumed he might have to find his way all the way down to first level in order to locate the wizard.  He had heard that the first level was burning, and he worried whether he would be able to get through.  

I'll just have to find a way, he thought.  I must find Gandalf, and if I have to run through the fire to do it, I will!

It was slow going at first, but as he ran, he recalled his journey with Gandalf on Shadowfax only a few days ago, riding upward through the winding streets to reach the Citadel.  His memory of the way the streets turned first one direction and then another as they passed through the gates on each level helped give him his bearings, and he was able to move along at a good speed, without too many wrong turns.  He just had to make sure not to stumble and fall in his haste, as he passed through the steep tunnels between levels.

As he reached the lower levels, he met men running in the other direction.  They shouted to him to turn back, that the first level was burning, but he waved their warnings away and sped onward.  Passing through the Second Gate, he was met by a blast of heat from the many great flames that leaped and burned between the walls.  Even so, the road ahead seemed passable, and he forced himself to brave the heat and move forward.  Yet as he took his first step, he hesitated, realizing suddenly how silent everything was; only the crackling sound of fire filled the air. No shouts of battle or clash of weapons could be heard.

A piercing cry unexpectedly split the air, a cry full of evil intent that reminded him immediately of the Black Rider's call that he and the others had heard in the woods of the Shire.  Fear shook him and he fell to his knees in horror.  Before he could struggle to his feet again, a flash of bright light nearly blinded him, as a great booming noise sounded, shaking the air around him and the earth beneath him, so that he would have fallen if he had not already been down on his knees.

Something awful is happening! Pippin thought.  I daren't go on, what if that cry came from a Black Rider?  It sure sounded like one.  I daren't face one of those!  But... but I must, I must!  Dûrlin is relying on me, and the Lord Denethor needs Gandalf to come.  Gandalf is surely there, in the thick of things, and I have to find him.  I must do it!  Get up, now -- get up!

He spoke thus to give himself the courage he needed to stand and move forward, but it still took several deep breaths and a huge effort of will before he could make himself rise from his knees to take the first step, then the second, then the third.

Turning a corner, Pippin found himself facing a wide open space behind the City Gate.  Gandalf was there, just as he had guessed, but Pippin could not speak or call to him, or even move from the spot where he had stopped, stricken with horror.

Gandalf sat upon Shadowfax in the midst of the ruins of what had once been the Great Gate, facing down the enemy that threatened to enter the City.  That enemy loomed like a great black shape against the fires beyond, menacing and evil, a tall horseman cloaked all in black.  At the sight of him, Pippin shrank back and hid himself in the shadow of the wall.

It was a Black Rider.

*****

Notes:

1.  Théoden's words are quoted from Chapter 5 "Ride of the Rohirrim" in Return of the King.

The clash with the Orcs at the outwall was fierce but brief; their numbers were few, and as they had not been expecting an attack, they were swiftly dealt with by the leading company of Riders.  Boromir had barely even had opportunity to swing his sword to take down the Orc in front of him before the fight was over.

Boromir noticed that Grithnir and his other men had kept as close by his side as they could during the skirmish.  He knew they were there to protect him as well as to fight; no doubt they were still somewhat doubtful of his ability to hold his own in a battle with his wounds still healing and his strength not at the full.  He had been doubtful himself until the first swing of the sword, and then his arm remembered what to do.  Yes, he had felt stiffness, and some pain in his shoulder, but it did not impair him, and the sword that had been Dirhavel's was sufficiently light that it made the work easy enough.

He saw the question forming on Grithnir's lips and cut it off before he could speak.  "You wish to know how I am faring after putting my sword arm to the test in an actual battle?  Do not fear, Grithnir, I am well, I have come through unscathed!  Arthad did masterful work binding my healing wounds prior to the fight so that none of them have reopened.  I will admit to some stiffness and pain, but that is to be expected and will have to be borne."

Boromir looked at each one of his men in turn and smiled.

"I thank you for your care for me, I know you were acting as shields to protect me from the main brunt of the attack, small though it was.  Your protection spared me from using up too much of my strength on a small battle, so I will better be able to face the larger one to come -- but you cannot protect me forever!  I must be able to fight my own battles sooner or later."

"That we know, my lord," Grithnir acknowledged.  "Please be assured that we do not intend to prevent you from fighting, that would be a hopeless endeavor!  But you are our leader and we are your men, who are sworn to act as a shield to you while we are with you.  If we can make your battle a bit lighter by our presence and our effort, it is our duty and our honor!"

Arthad nodded in stern agreement.  "I am pleased to hear my bandaging was sufficient to the task, my lord!  I trust it will remain so in the coming hours!"

He dug in his tunic and removed a wrapped packet.  "My lord Boromir, please take this and eat it now while we have a short time of peace before the next battle.  It is the last of the waybread Linhir had in his keeping -- lembas, I believe you called it.  Linhir passed it on to me before he died, urging me to save it for you for such a time as this.  May it give you the additional strength you need for this next battle!"

Boromir accepted the packet gratefully.  "I thought I had finished the lembas long ago!  This is a timely gift, which I happily accept, knowing it will strengthen me in my time of need!  I eat it in honor of Linhir and Dirhavel, who were taken from us too soon."  He ate the wafer of lembas as his men watched and washed it down with a swallow of water from a skin handed to him by Grithnir.

"Now that we have honored one of Linhir's final wishes, let us go forth and avenge his death and that of Dirhavel.  His sword which is now mine has tasted Orc blood at last, but it is not enough!"

***

The Riders spread out, making their way through the broken Rammas wall and onto the plain of Gondor.  The first éored remained with the King to guard him, though there seemed to be no enemy nearby; Grimbold led his group of riders off to the east through a great gap in the wall, while Éomer and his éored made their way off to the west.  They advanced slowly yet surely, unchallenged and unseen in the darkness that lay heavily over the land.  Before them stretched the dark fields of the Pelennor, lit only with lines of flame that were trenches of siege fire cutting across the plain. Off in the distance a great burning could be seen; whether it was flames burning in the lower levels or great siege fires before the City Gate, it was impossible to tell at this distance.

Turning east, the Riders advanced still further until they were between the siege fires and the outer fields.  There was still no challenge from any enemy, as the fires were unmanned, set there only to impede attack from the direction of the Great Road.  They were now near enough to the City to smell the burning, which made the horses restive and uneasy.  A heavy feeling of fear seemed to stretch forth from the direction of the City, as if a shadow of death threatened to engulf them.  It was a familiar feeling to Boromir; he had sensed such fear when facing the Dark Rider of Mordor at the bridge of Osgiliath.  It was after that defense on the bridge against Mordor's attempt to take it that he and Faramir had both dreamed the riddling dream, and he had taken on the quest to seek the Sword that was Broken.

We are too late!  Boromir thought, doubt rising in his heart.  The Dark Rider is there, I can feel his presence even from afar!  The King feels it, as well.  Will he turn back?  Please, my lord!  Do not turn back...

Boromir made to speak to the King, to break the spell that fear had laid on them all, but at that very moment, he sensed a change around him.  A movement of air touched his face, movement that became a slight breeze, and then a light, steady wind blowing in their faces.  Light glimmered on the horizon and they could see more clearly in the gray light of beginning dawn.  A murmur of joy spread through the gathered Riders and the horses stood more at ease, their noses lifted to catch the freshening breeze.  Those who had sensed the turning of the wind and predicted a change had been right -- the wind from the Sea had come.

Yet their joy was suddenly interrupted.  A flash of bright light rent what was left of the night, sharply illuminating the City and all its towers, and a rolling booming sound came to them over the plain.

As if the lightning flash was a signal to action, Théoden rose up on his horse and called out to the Riders surrounding him:

        Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden!
        Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter!
        spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,
        a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!
        Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!1

Grabbing a horn from his standard bearer he blew a great blast upon it, and all the other horns are loosed in triumphant music, growing in intensity as the sound echoed over the plain.  With Théoden King leading the way, and Boromir of Gondor by his side, the Riders of Rohan charged forward to the defense of Minas Tirith, singing as they rode.

***

Pippin watched in terror as the Black Rider moved forward to pass under the great archway of the Gate and enter the City.  But Gandalf blocked his way and would not allow him passage.

"You cannot enter here," said Gandalf.  "Go back to the abyss prepared for you! Go back! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master. Go!"

The Black Rider flung back his hood, and Pippin gasped in horror.  The Rider wore a crown upon his head, yet there was no visible head to be seen; only red fire shone between the crown and his dark mantle.

"Old fool!" the Black Rider sneered.  His laughter made Pippin's flesh crawl.  "Old fool! This is my hour. Do you not know Death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!" He lifted his sword high, and flames ran down the blade.2

Gandalf still did not move, nor did he flinch at the sight of the sword. Tension crackled between the two enemies as Pippin cowered in his hiding place, fearful of what would happen.  Yet the very next moment, the tension was broken by the shrill sound of a cock crowing in a nearby courtyard, greeting the dawn of a new day.  Above the flames and the darkness of Mordor, morning was breaking and the cock welcomed the dawn as he did every day, oblivious to fire and battle.

As if in answer to that sound, there came another from out of the north -- the music of horns blowing, echoing against the walls of Mindolluin.  The great horns of the North were blowing!  Rohan had come at last!

The Black Rider turned abruptly away and vanished from the Gate.  The moment he disappeared, Pippin felt a great weight fall away from him, as if he had been bound by strong chains and was suddenly freed.  He could move again, and stand to his feet.  Even Gandalf seemed to feel that same release; he still sat straight and tall on the back of Shadowfax in defiance of the enemy beyond the Gate, yet he bowed his head and sighed deeply.

The horns of the coming Riders continued to sound, echoing against the walls of the City, filling Pippin's heart with joy.  He felt limp with relief and happiness, but when he heard Gandalf click his tongue to Shadowfax to guide the horse forward out of the Gate and onto the field of battle, he remembered his errand and dashed forward to stop the wizard.

"Gandalf!" he called out urgently.  "Gandalf, wait!"

Gandalf turned back, a look of great surprise on his face.  "What is this?  Why are you here, Peregrin Took?  It is not allowed for those who wear the black and silver of the Tower Guard to depart the Citadel without leave of the lord Denethor.  What has happened that you have left your post?"

"I have leave, Gandalf!" Pippin gasped, stumbling over his words as he hurried to try to explain the urgency of his errand.  "The lord Denethor gave me his leave!  He sent me to find you, will you come?"

Gandalf frowned, startled and concerned.  "Denethor sent you to find me?  That is not something I expected to hear!  Tell me quickly, what has happened?"

"He's changed, Gandalf!" Pippin stammered, grasping at the corner of the wizard's robe in his agitation.  "When he saw how hurt and ill Faramir was, he went away and when he came back, he was changed.  He looked so old and frail all of a sudden, like something had broken inside him.  So full of despair, as if he doesn't want to live anymore!  He... he spoke of burning, of taking Faramir away and burning with him to protect him from the enemy that is surely coming... that they would burn together and go to meet Boromir..."

"He cannot be considering such a course of action!" Gandalf exclaimed, horrified.

"He is!" Pippin cried.  "Or, at least, he was... He has lost all hope, Gandalf.  He has given up and I'm afraid of what he might do if we can't stop him or help him!"

"Burning!" Gandalf shook his head sadly.  "Denethor's despair is great, indeed, if he has allowed himself to even consider such a thing!"  He looked at Pippin sharply.  "You said he 'is' considering this, then amended your words to 'was' -- so something has changed his mind?  And he has sent for me, you say?"

"Yes!  Well... he allowed that we call for you, anyway.  Dûrlin spoke sternly to him and got him to listen.  I was so afraid, but Dûrlin knew what to say.  He wouldn't let the lord Denethor do anything to Faramir unless it was to let him be taken to the Houses of Healing, nothing more.  He made Denethor realize he was not thinking right, that he needs to have hope instead of despairing and not fail in his duty to his people.  Dûrlin believes he can be made to hope again and he believes Boromir is not lost.  Dûrlin believes this so much, he is certain Boromir is coming even now!  He convinced me and he may have convinced the lord Denethor... at least a bit, maybe.  Dûrlin thought... he says that if you can look with your sight and see Boromir alive, it will sway Denethor and change his mind.  Even a little bit of hope could save him, Gandalf!  Denethor said he was willing to submit to our hope and let you try it, even though he wasn't sure if you would want to help after he opposed you for so long.  But we told him you surely would want to help him, because you honor him and love Boromir..."

Pippin looked up beseechingly.  "You can do this, can't you, Gandalf?  You can see with a special sight that sees things others can't see, right?  Will you look for us to help Denethor have hope again?"

Gandalf was silent for a long moment, as if considering, and then he nodded.

"Yes, Pippin, of course I will do this!  I have such power, and I also see that this is the best way I can use it.  I had thought my role to play in this battle was to balance the power of the Black Rider, who is the Witch King of old and Lord of the Nazgûl -- perhaps even to destroy him who cannot be harmed by man, according to prophecy.  Lives will be lost, no doubt, because he is abroad and I cannot follow him -- yet this task you lay before me is also vital for the winning of a battle!  If my power of sight is what is needed to preserve the lord Denethor as a leader and restore his strength by defeating his despair through looking for Boromir, then I will be doing more than just saving a single man or two; I will be taking part in restoring the fortunes of Gondor, which is vital to our victory against Mordor.  Of course I will look for you, and for him!"

Gandalf urged Shadowfax forward to stand where the Black Rider had stood moments before, and shading his eyes, he gazed out across the battlefield, northwards and then westward.  Long he looked, while Pippin held his breath.  Long he looked, while soldiers of Gondor gathered all around them to defend and barricade the ruined Gate.  At last Gandalf turned away and Pippin ran forward to meet him.  One look at Gandalf's face made Pippin whoop with joy, for he saw the wizard was smiling and his eyes were twinkling with his own suppressed joy.

"Tell me the truth, Pippin!" Gandalf said sternly, yet with a smile on his face.  "Did you truly believe I would see Boromir alive when I looked out just now with my sight?  Or did you doubt?"

"I did!  I really did believe you would, because Dûrlin convinced me he is still alive and coming.  Well, maybe I doubted for a minute just then when it took you so long to find him, but... no, no!  I believed!  You saw him, yes?  He is coming?"

Gandalf laughed, and the dim light of dawn seemed to brighten perceptibly.  "Yes, I saw him.  He rides with King Théoden and Rohan, surrounded by other men of Gondor.  He is alive and well, and coming to us.  I cannot say how long he will remain well, however, since he is riding into battle with the host of Mordor facing him, and the Black Rider is loose on the field..."

Pippin was undismayed.  "I'm not worried!  Boromir has cheated death so many times, he'll come out of this battle alive, too, I'm sure of it!  Besides, he's fighting a battle defending his own city, and you know that will give him extra courage!  It will probably make him invincible or indestructible or something!"

"You speak with much wisdom, Peregrin Took.  You know Boromir well!  No doubt it will be as you say."  Gandalf offered Pippin a hand and pulled him up to sit before him on Shadowfax.  "Come, the full tale of what I have seen must be told to the Lord Denethor, and swiftly.  There is no time to waste!"

*****

Notes:

1.  Théoden's words are quoted from Chapter 5 "Ride of the Rohirrim" in Return of the King.

2.  The words of the Black Rider and Gandalf are from Chapter 4 "The Siege of Gondor" in Return of the King.

Imrahil felt a sense of rising panic as he saw the flash of light and heard the crack of the gate succumbing to Mordor's battering ram. He had left his knights in charge of defending the Gate and the outer wall along with the City's garrison and was on the upper levels of the City in order to gather more men to prevent the enemy entering the Gate once it was breached. The defense of the Gate had been stout, but it was not enough; they needed reinforcements without delay.

I must hurry! he thought, even as he gestured to those who had gathered to follow him down to the first level. Mithrandir is there, but can he hold back the horde of Mordor alone, if the Gate is breached and the garrison cannot withstand the onslaught?

They moved as quickly as they could through the winding streets of the city and the tunnels down to the lower levels. At the second level Imrahil met Húrin, the Warden of the Keys, who had also been working at gathering more men to defend the gate.

"It is well that you are here with men at your back!" he called as he closed the gap between himself and Imrahil. "The Gate has fallen and there is no telling who is left to defend the City from being entered by the enemy. Mithrandir is there, I believe, but will he be enough without men behind him to support the defense? I have gathered all those I could find here from the lower levels."

"I have gathered as many from the upper levels as are able to leave their assigned posts," Imrahil answered. "It will have to be enough. Let us go swiftly to support Mithrandir!"

Even as they turned towards the tunnel leading down to the first level and the gate, another sound halted them in their tracks. Horns were sounding in the distance, echoing in the streets and off the mountainous wall above them. The music swelled then ebbed as a slight breeze caught it and carried it away. Swelling again, the horns built to a crescendo then died out to be replaced by the murmur and shouts of hope from the men listening keenly the announcement that help had arrived at last.

"The Rohirrim!" cried Imrahil. "The Rohirrim have arrived!

*** 

The sound of clattering hooves as Imrahil led his men through the streets echoed in the air, almost drowning out the sound of approaching hoof beats coming towards them. Gandalf on Shadowfax unexpectedly rode up out of the tunnel to the lowest levels, Pippin sitting before him clinging to the white mane. Imrahil reined in his mount and signaled the men behind him to halt, even as Gandalf slowed Shadowfax to a standstill.

"Mithrandir!" he exclaimed, confusion in his voice. "Where are you headed with such haste?  The Rohirrim are here, fighting on the fields of Gondor! We must gather all the strength that we can find and go to aid them!"

"Indeed, I have just come from the Gate and the battle is fierce there; you will need every man and more," Gandalf responded. "Make all haste!  I will come when I can. But I have an errand to the Lord Denethor that will not wait. Take command in the Lord’s absence!"

Imrahil froze in sudden fear at Gandalf’s words.

“Has something happened to Denethor?” he gasped. “Or Faramir -- is it Faramir?”

“Nay, not as yet,” Gandalf replied, quick to reassure the Prince. “Faramir is still very ill, but he has not succumbed as yet to his injuries. Denethor, on the other hand, has fallen into grave and dangerous despair -- but I bring news that will surely lift him out of it and bring hope as nothing else can!”

“Tell me!” cried Imrahil. “Can it be? Can it possibly news of Boromir?”

“It is indeed news of Boromir. I have seen with my sight that Boromir has come. He rides with King Théoden and even now approaches the City and the battle before the Gate. You go now to lend aid to Théoden King; watch for Boromir and tell him if you can of the situation in the City. Let him know I have taken charge of the situation with his father and Faramir. He need not fear for them.”

“I will tell him!” Imrahil nodded.

“And tell him I am waiting for him!” Pippin cried. “Say Pippin is waiting to see him as soon as he can manage it. Tell him not to worry, that everything will be okay, Gandalf and I have it well in hand!”

Imrahil smiled and saluted the Halfling. “Indeed, I will deliver your message, Knight of Gondor!  May your reunion with your friend not be delayed!”

***

Dûrlin watch Denethor carefully as he sat silent, his face set, eyes fixed upon Faramir. Though the look on his face was stern and sad, it seemed softer than before, as if owning his own weakness and despair had made a difference in his outlook. Not a big difference, perhaps, but even a small change in Denethor’s harshness was a vast improvement and opened up the possibility of hope, which for Dûrlin was the key to all things.

After a time, Denethor spoke, without taking his eyes from Faramir’s face.

“Tell me, Dûrlin.  Do you truly believe that Mithrandir will see something of Boromir alive, when all I can see points to the certainty of his death?”

“I do,” Dûrlin replied, his voice strong and certain.

“Why do you believe so, with no doubt whatsoever?”

Dûrlin was silent for a long moment, then he spoke slowly, as if measuring his words, or recalling them from the distant past.

“No doubt whatsoever? I confess I have at times doubted, at least early on. It is hard to keep one's spirits up in the face of everyone else's sorrow! But of course, I have known Boromir to cheat death so many times I find it difficult to believe this is not just another of those times! And I am at heart a positive person who struggles to not see even the smallest spark of light in the darkness. That is what makes me such an encourager of those who are downcast, I suppose; I see people sad and discouraged, so I will do all I can to counteract the sadness, and in doing so I am able to see the light in the situation and convince myself to hope.”

Denethor scowled.

“It seems to me your hope is built upon a weak foundation, if it is simply a glimpse of light that no one else can see and the ability to convince yourself that bad things cannot be true!”

“I could say the same to you, my Lord!" Dûrlin countered.  “You see through eyes dimmed with despair and miss the light that is there, and thus assume there is none, and look no further, convinced there is no reason to hope.  Tell me, you were convinced the Rohirrim would not come, were you not?  Not perhaps because the King would not heed your call for aid, but because it seemed impossible for Rohan to break through the enemy lines.”

“Yes, I was convinced it was impossible. All the news I had received from various quarters revealed there was no way through for them, even if they responded to the Red Arrow.”

“And yet, what has happened? You heard the sound of the horns just now as clearly as I did. The Rohirrim have come! Against all odds, they have come! Your interpretation of the news and your evaluation of the situation preventing them from coming turned out to be inaccurate, because they did indeed come, though it was impossible to you. If such an impossible event can occur, then why not a similar miracle with Boromir?”

Denethor looked thoughtful.

“Perhaps,” he responded slowly. “But you have believed in Boromir's coming all along, while everyone else doubted. There was ample evidence of his death, but you did not accept it. Was that because you saw some kind of light of hope that no one else could see, or were you just being stubborn?”

“Perhaps!” Dûrlin laughed quietly.  “I have been known to be so stubborn! But I do not believe I am stubborn for no reason. I am not trying to avoid pain or reality by clinging to hope. For me, hope is a choice, and I when I choose to hope, I am able to see that the evidence of Boromir's death is only circumstantial, it is not positive proof.”

“You think the sundered horn that returned in pieces is not proof? What of Faramir's vision of Boromir in battle, wounded with black arrows? Even the Halfling confirmed that vision as true! And he later saw Boromir again in a second vision, as if dead, being mourned by the men Faramir sent to find him in the wilderness. We have spoken of this already, when Mithrandir first came to us with the Halfling.”

“Yes, I remember well. It seems long ago, yet it has only been a matter of days! You said you knew much of visions and that they do not lie. You must also recall my reply: that visions are not the same as seeing an event with the eye. To my mind they cannot tell a whole truth. Visions should not be relied upon as proof of anything.”

Denethor leaned forward, startled and frowning. “You do not believe that visions are true?”

“They can contain truth and therefore are possibly useful as a guide to some extent, but to have full faith in them and base all your decisions upon them is folly!”

“Folly...” Denethor's voice died away and he was silent for a long time. When he spoke again, it was as if he was struggling to understand. “If it is folly to rely upon visions, then is it not also folly to base all decisions on a false sense of hope that things do not mean what they actually mean, as you do? That is not realistic!”

“Perhaps not, but how realistic is it to base all your decisions on a viewpoint colored by despair? I would rather choose hope as the glass I look through, and trust that it is not false.”

“Just now you said my eyes are dimmed with despair and I cannot see light even when it is there. Now you are saying I choose to despair, and therefore all I see points towards death and loss, whether that is actually the case or not.”

“Yes, my Lord. Yes, I am saying just that.”

Denethor did not speak for a time, as Dûrlin watched him with some trepidation. At last, the Steward nodded to Dûrlin, and though he did not smile, his face was not stern.

“I thank you for your honesty, Dûrlin. You have always been faithful to me and my family, ready to speak the truth we needed to hear, yet kindly and with love. I know you are speaking thus now, though it is hard to accept what you say. Even so, not long ago, I acknowledged that I have been on the verge of making decisions that were not for Gondor's best good in my despair, and I submitted myself to your hope. I do not understand it, but I find myself strangely heartened in the face of it. But I have one more question for you, if you will allow it.”

“Of course, my Lord Denethor! You may ask as many questions of me as you wish, I am at your service!”

“You say visions are folly, and yet you are putting your faith in Mithrandir now to see something to confirm your hope. How is this different?”

“You ask a good question!” Dûrlin replied, a thoughtful look on his face. “I am not certain I can tell you how it is different, except that I believe Mithrandir has great power and sees with true sight, more truly than even our eyes can see. That is why I trust him with this matter.”

“No doubt you are right. But if he sees nothing? What then?”

“I do not know!" Dûrlin sighed. “It is hard to think of what I might do if there is nothing to substantiate my hope. I believe strongly in Boromir's survival, not only because I have seen little to prove it is otherwise, but also because there is so much despair around me, I feel I must keep hoping to provide some light in the darkness for everyone. That will be easier if Boromir returns alive, but if Mithrandir cannot confirm that, then I have no doubt I will simply go on believing he will still come! If positive proof comes of his death, then I will have to accept it. That will be hard to bear indeed -- but even that will not be enough for me to give up my choice to hope.”

“You are a stronger man than I, Dûrlin!” Denethor exclaimed, smiling sadly. “It takes a special kind of strength to hope as you do!”

"You have that strength, Lord Denethor. You just need to find it again. Let go of the despair, even just a little bit, and that strength will return.”

“I will try, Dûrlin. Perhaps the news Mithrandir brings will help me with that letting go.”

“That is my hope, indeed!”