A/N:  This was written for the Teitho challenge “Promises.”  It has been edited slightly from the version that appeared in the contest.  It is unbetaed.

Faramir woke suddenly and completely as the earliest pre-dawn light filtered into his tent.  He lay still for a moment, listening to the crickets chirp and cursing the old Ranger instincts that drew him so quickly to full alertness, even after more than four years of peace.  His survival instincts, he’d found, could not differentiate between a few hours’ sleep in enemy territory and a night in the King’s well-fortified encampment on the banks of the Anduin.  Normally, he enjoyed rising early; he appreciated the chance to quietly collect his thoughts before the bustle of the day overcame him.  But, on mornings such as this, he would have welcomed a few more hours of oblivious slumber.

His mind was drawn to another morning, five years past when he rose even earlier, driven from sleep by troubling dreams.

Resigning himself to wakefulness, he rose and dressed in silence.  A few goosebumps rose under his sleeves as he stepped out of his tent.  It had been an unusually cool spring, and the night air still held traces of that chill, even in June.  The sentries greeted him with the tiniest of nods.  They were well-used to their Steward’s early morning strolls.

Sunrise was still nearly an hour off.  A pale light in the east rendered the world in indistinct shadows of shifting blue-gray.  A light fog shrouded the camp, adding to its surreal quality.  Faramir skirted the King’s tent, circled around the cool ashes of the previous night’s fires, and cut between lines of smaller tents belonging to the various guards and attachés that had accompanied them.  Slipping past the perimeter of the camp, he tried to wander aimlessly through the grassy lowlands beyond.  But, the shore of the Anduin drew him, like iron before a lodestone.

Osgiliath was a jagged silhouette less than half a league distant.  When dawn came, they would march to the city and formally pay their respects to all who had perished in the War of the Ring, commemorating their sacrifice on the fifth anniversary of Sauron’s first onslaught.  For now, though, the ghosts were left to wait out the night in peace.

Faramir tore his gaze from the stark ruins only to have it drawn, inexorably, to the river before his feet.  The Anduin was still here, but strong beneath its placid surface—swollen with snowmelt from distant peaks.  He remembered all too well the water’s icy grasp tugging at his limbs as foam flecked with blood eddied around his head, threatening to steal his breath . . . Had it really been five years?  It could almost have been yesterday.

It could almost have been a lifetime ago.

He rolled a tiny scrap of metal between his fingers.  It was a simple thing—just a clasp used to pin cloaks.  There was no reason for him to have it in his pocket on this particular morning, and even less reason for him to carry it everywhere he went for five years, like it was some charm against evil.

When a warm hand brushed his shoulder, Faramir nearly jumped out of his skin.  At his half-stifled cry, the hand drew back.

“I’m sorry,” a low voice murmured.  Doubtless, the newcomer hadn’t meant to sneak up on him, but he moved more lightly than any other Man Faramir had ever met.  Sternly, the young Steward reminded himself that he was not the only former Ranger in camp.

“No, my lord, it is I who am sorry.”  Faramir struggled to get his heart rate under control.  “You startled me, is all.”

Aragorn took a half step forward.  “May I join you?”

Faramir studied him out of the corner of his eye.  The king was dressed much like Faramir himself in a simple tunic and breeches.  Over that, though, he wore a thick belt bearing his famous sword, as he always did when outside the city.

“Of course.”  But, though Faramir normally enjoyed Aragorn’s company, today he was only being polite.  The sight of Andúril—the Sword-That-Was-Broken—was just one more uncomfortable reminder of a dream-riddle and its terrible cost.  And on a day when such reminders were as common as the stones on the riverbank, it bothered him more than it ought to.

“You seem troubled, my friend.”  The king’s voice was soft and measured.

Faramir shrugged without meeting his gaze.  “Old wounds rob me of sleep.  ‘Tis the warrior’s lot.”

“Indeed, I know such pains well.”  He cast a side glance at the younger Man.  “But I have seen enough of wounds to know when a man is troubled not by pain but by burdens.”

Faramir opened his mouth to say something dismissive and reassuring, but immediately closed it again.

“Pain is a solitary curse,” Aragorn continued, “But, at times, burdens can be shared.  What is troubling you, Faramir?”

A bit of fog drifted slowly over the face of the water, creeping towards them like reaching fingers.  “Memories.  Regrets.  Thoughts of . . . the ones we’ve lost.”

“Like your brother?”

Faramir wondered, not for the first time, how and when his King had learned to read the hearts of men so well.  He nodded without taking his eyes off the calm water.  “Though I can’t imagine why he should.  Boromir did not die here.”

“Was this the last place you saw him?”

Faramir shook his head.  “We rode back to Minas Tirith together to take council with our father.  I stayed in the city until he set out for Imladris at the beginning of July.  There’s no reason I should dwell on him on this day, when I lost so many of my men at Osgiliath.  Only . . .”  He trailed off when he realized how ridiculous what he’d been about to say would have sounded.

Aragorn did not let him escape so easily.  “Only what?” He prompted gently.

Faramir shook his head.  “It’s nothing, my lord.  A triviality.  Superstition, almost.”

“If it troubles you, it’s not nothing.”  Aragorn searched his face.  “Share your burdens, friend.  They will only grow heavier if you do not.”

There was no arguing with that tone of voice.  Faramir drew a steadying breath and began to speak.  As he told the brief tale, he felt himself being drawn back into painfully vivid memories.

“It was June, five years ago.  Summer of the year before the fall of Sauron . . .”

Faramir swung his sword in a vicious downward arc.  The orc caught it on a small buckler and drove him back.  The stone parapet of the bridge connected with the center of his back, driving all the breath out of him in a rush.  The orc bent him backwards over the Anduin, grinning with yellowed teeth . . .

“Boromir!”

His brother was less than a pace away, or the cry never would have carried.  Boromir was in the midst of trying to extricate his sword from a goblin’s ribcage, so he struck out with his shield, catching Faramir’s assailant under the jaw.  As the creature reeled slightly, Faramir kicked out, pulled away, and spun to decapitate the thing.  He glanced at Boromir.  “Thank you.”

Denethor’s heir grinned through bloodied teeth, blithe and carefree as he always was in battle.  “For what, little brother?  You got the orc off my flank.”  Without another word, he turned to catch a flail on his shield and stab its owner through the neck.  Faramir had no time for thought either as he parried a sword thrust and rained a series of blows down on a new orc, driving it back a few steps.

An arrow bounced off the stones behind him.  From all around came the screams of the dying—mostly orc, but not all, and the orcs had far more fighters to spare.  This bridge had been built so that wagons could cross four abreast—an advantage in a sprawling trade city, a distinct disadvantage in a fortification.  Their garrison was strong, but the attackers seemed endless.

The advancing wave drew back a few steps, giving Faramir a moment to catch his breath and hang on to hope.  But, only a few heartbeats later, that hope was crushed as a fresh wave of Easterling arrows rained down from the far shore.  A man to his left fell with a gurgle rather than a cry.  Faramir sprang to his side, but there was nothing to be done about the black-fletched dart buried in the man’s throat.  Before he could summon even a word of comfort for the dying man, the other’s eyes became fixed.  Then came a thud and a grunt from his right, and Faramir felt his heart pound a little faster.

He turned just in time to see Boromir fall to one knee, clutching his chest.  Swallowing a cry of horror, Faramir raced to him, fearing the worst, but Boromir met his gaze.  He even managed another smile, though his face was ten shades paler than it had been moments before.  “It’s alright, Faramir,” he gasped.  Lowering his hand, he revealed a breastplate that was badly dented just above his ribs.  “’Twas a grazing shot, and my armor turned the worst of it.”  Faramir didn’t bother to hide the relief in his face.  Arrows and crossbow bolts could punch through even solid plate armor, if they struck it directly.  Even a glancing blow could feel like being kicked by a horse. 

Boromir staggered to his feet.  The front ranks of their own soldiers pushed past the two, driving the orcs further back to give them a moment to breathe.  It was the mark of how much pain Boromir was in that he did not try to advance with them.

“They are too many!”  Faramir almost had to shout to be heard above the din of battle.  “We must fall back!”  His brother straightened, gave a quick nod, and lifted his horn to his lips.  When he tried to inflate his lungs to sound the retreat, though, he nearly doubled over again in pain.  Wordlessly, he handed the horn to Faramir, who winded it with two, long blasts.  Behind them, ranks of soldiers began to fall back in orderly lines.  Archers at their backs discouraged pursuit with wave after wave of arrows.

The task of covering the retreat—like all the most difficult battles—fell to the sons of Denethor.  A handful of their most loyal men—mostly Rangers under Faramir’s command—pressed forward with them.  Faramir stayed close to his brother, though after a few moments, Boromir seemed almost to have forgotten his bruised side.  Together, they drove back the next wave of dark bodies.  And the next.  On the slopes behind him, Faramir knew, catapults stood loaded, ready to destroy a few support struts and drop the bridge into the Anduin.  They needed only a few moments . . . time for the remaining defenders to reach dry land . . .

An orc scrambled over the fallen body of one of Faramir’s men.  Along with three of its fellows, it broke for the western shore, only to be felled by archers a dozen paces from the nearest siege engine.  “There’s no more time!”  Boromir bellowed, “If we lose the catapults, we lose the city!”

“Not yet!” Faramir cried.  He threw himself at the nearest orc.  If they could just survive one more wave . . .

“We swore we’d hold the bank!”

“We just need a little more time!”

But, Boromir lifted his horn and let out three short blasts.  Faramir cast a glance over his shoulder and saw men staring at them with wide eyes, stricken at what they were being asked to do.  Boromir repeated the command.  Three blasts.  Launch catapults.  Faramir heard a distant creak . . . and then a thousand pounds of rock smashed into the abutments beneath his feet.  Granite and mortar crumbled like damp sand, falling away in a shower of gravel and boulders.  The flagstones under his feet leapt, knocking him to the ground.  Boromir hauled him back up by the shoulder, casting aside his weapons even as he did so.  “We must jump!”  Behind, the catapults creaked again, even as the supports began to break apart.

Faramir dropped his sword and staggered towards the side of the bridge, knowing they’d never make the long yards back to shore before the stone beneath them gave out.  His brother beside him, he scrambled over the parapet and launched himself into the open air.  Time seemed to slow for a moment, as the river rushed up at him, but it was an illusion.  The Anduin struck hard enough to knock the breath out of him.  For a moment, he simply sank, stunned as he watched the rippled surface of the water rise farther and farther above him.  Bars of sunlight were filtering down through clouds of red and black.  Great stones were drifting past him to sink to the riverbed.  It was strangely peaceful . . .

The shocking cold suddenly drew him back to himself.  Stretching out his arms, he kicked, swam, and clawed his way back toward the distant sunlight.  When his head finally burst through that barrier, he gasped, sucking in great lungfuls of air that made his chest burn.

A few yards away, Boromir’s dark head also rose above the waves.  But, something was wrong.  Instead of swimming to him, his brother could only gasp a quick breath before sinking back down.  The water splashed and churned as he fought his way back up, only to sink again.

For a moment, Faramir could only stare.  This wasn’t right, his brother was a strong swimmer . . . Then he felt the wet weight of his leather jerkin pull at his shoulders, and felt like twelve kinds of fool.  Of course Faramir could swim, dressed as he was in light, Ranger leathers.  But, Boromir had gone to battle in plate armor—a heavy metal cuirass with pauldrons over his shoulders.  Nearly thirty pounds of steel dragged him below the waves.  Faramir swam towards him as fast as he could, but by the time he covered the distance, only a few bubbles greeted him.  Taking a great lungful of air, he dove below the surface, searching the shadowed waters.  All around him, orcs were sinking to their doom, dragged down by their mismatched mail.  Great clouds of dirt and gravel drifted through the water, obstructing his vision.

There.  His brother was a struggling figure, many yards below him.  Boromir had managed to free himself of the shoulder plates, but the cuirass was still far too heavy.  Faramir dove down with great strokes, his heart racing, burning precious air by the moment.  He reached Boromir and seized him by the front of his cloak, dragging him upwards.  Together, they kicked and struggled . . . the distant surface grew closer . . . for a moment it seemed they might make it . . . Then the cloak pin in Faramir’s hand snapped, and Boromir sank a few feet.  Faramir turned and dove toward him once more.  When he reached him, Boromir grabbed his arm.

Go, his eyes said, Leave me.

No.

Drawing a dagger from his belt, Faramir fumbled at the armor.  There.  The leather straps that bound it to his brother’s chest.  Summoning the last of his strength, he dragged his blade through one . . . another . . . another . . . and then the metal was coming free and sinking fast towards the riverbed.  Together, they kicked upwards.  It was too far.  They’d never make it.  Faramir’s lungs were screaming and black spots were dancing before his eyes . . .

An instant before he would have breathed water, their heads broke the surface and he sucked down air instead.  Sweet, sweet air stabbed into his chest like knives, reminding him that he was alive.  For a moment, he just gloried in filling his lungs.  He opened his eyes to find Boromir just floating, his head upturned so that only his face pierced the surface, his eyes closed as he breathed.  Small blooms of red billowed from his body; in his haste, Faramir had cut him.

Now, he pulled Boromir’s arm over his shoulders and kicked towards the shoreline.  The current had carried them away from the crumbling bridge and the bulk of the battle, but a few of their men waited ashore.  “It’s alright,” Faramir gasped, though his own body felt like it was on fire, “We live yet.  It’s not far to shore.  Lean on me . . .”

But even wounded, exhausted, and half-drowned, Boromir had always been stronger than his brother.  By the time they reached the shoreline, it was he who carried Faramir along, bearing the bulk of his weight until strong arms reached out to pull them to dry land.

Faramir paused in his tale.  He stared out at the water’s surface, now still save for soft ripples.  The frantic battle of five years past was now no more than rusting metal and old bones collected on its bottom.  Aragorn waited patiently, his face betraying nothing.  He knew most of this tale, Faramir knew.  He had heard it from Boromir’s own lips in Imladris and recently read the full account in the archives, in preparation for this day’s ceremony.

Faramir slowly opened his hand and stared down once more at the bent cloak pin.  He’d clutched it so tightly that it had nearly pierced his palm.  White lines now crisscrossed his skin, turning an angry red, even as he watched.  “But when we reached shore,” he continued with difficulty, “I grew suddenly furious with Boromir.  He knew well the consequences of a fall into water while armored, but he’d worn the breastplate, he’d felled the bridge, he’d jumped into the Anduin all the same.”

He swallowed hard.  “It made no sense to feel that way.  I knew full well the risks we all had to take in battle.  I couldn’t even fault him for destroying the bridge, though I knew that not all of our men survived its fall.  I learned the full toll later; twelve of us still stood when the catapults launched.  Two others survived, besides Boromir and me.  Eight drowned or were crushed.  But, had the orcs taken the bridge, we would have lost so many more.”

The words soured in his mouth even as he spoke them.  He imagined the ghosts of Osgiliath gazing out at him in reproach.  He’d known their names:  Faron and Laerchen, Maegron and Rochir and so many others besides.  He stared into the water and reminded himself that his regrets could only cheapen their sacrifice.

“It made no sense, but I was furious with Boromir, all the same.  So, I latched onto the one bit of perceived folly that I could find—his heavy armor.  I made him swear that he’d never be so foolish again.  That he’d never wear plate armor if there was a chance he could fall into water.”

He stared out into the brightening mists.  The sun would be rising soon.  “He laughed.  He’d already shaken off the fear and pain.  ‘If it will set your mind at ease, Faramir,’ he told me, ‘Then I promise.  I swear it.’”  His jaw clenched.  He resisted the urge to clutch the pin tightly once more and feel it dig into his flesh.  “And then you told me of Amon Hen.  A journey by boat, a riverside battle, archers in the woods . . . and Boromir did not have his breastplate.”

For long moments, both men were silent.  There was so much more Faramir wanted to say—so much more blame that should be laid.  It was his dream, after all.  It was the urgency of his words that had driven Boromir north, when Faramir should have gone in his place.  It was the elder who should be Steward now, and the younger who should be bones in a riverbed . . . but even after half a decade, those wounds were still too deep and too fresh.  Though Aragorn might suspect his guilt, this was the one burden he was not yet ready to part with.

When it was clear that Faramir would speak no more, Aragorn filled the silence with gentle words.  “Many leagues, we traveled.  Over mountains and under them.  By foot and by boat through days and nights that seemed endless.  No Man could travel so far bearing armor.  Even Gimli wore only a bit of chainmail.  And the strongest plate would not have stopped the darts of the orcs.”  He paused.  “It was not his word to you, Faramir, that led to his death.”

Faramir swallowed hard.  “I . . . I know.  I told you it was folly to be troubled.”

“No,” his King shook his head sadly, “It is natural.  It is human.  Because though you may know better, you’ve not truly accepted the truth.  Only time will allow that.”  Faramir chanced a glance at Aragorn’s face, and found it shadowed.  It was clear he spoke from experience, and painful experience, at that.  Which wounds, Faramir wondered, still cut deep enough to trouble the King?  Was it terrible to hope that somewhere among the ghosts haunting Elessar’s thoughts, Faramir might find his brother?  That somewhere between Aragorn’s many cares, he still spared a thought for a son of Gondor who died so far from grace and so far from home?

Aragorn met his gaze.  He closed his hand gently around Faramir’s, bending his fingers lightly around the pin.  “And while you wait for time to heal you, you must remind yourself of the truth.  As often as need be, whenever doubt creeps in, you must tell yourself again.  Carry this truth with you like a talisman, and in time, the doubt will fade.”  He paused.  “Boromir’s death was not your fault.”

His throat tight, his heart heavy with burdens spoken and unspoken, Faramir could only nod.  Aragorn clasped his shoulder, and moved away, giving him the space he needed.

When the King was out of earshot, the Steward swallowed hard.  He cleared his throat and blinked away the moisture that, for some reason, had settled in his eyes.  His voice was a quavering whisper, heard only by the river.

“It wasn’t my fault.”

The only answer was the soft murmur of the Anduin.

Fin