They did not stand a chance. At that, Boromir laughed shortly and ran a grimy hand through his equally grimy hair.
The battle was long, hard and brutal; scores of men were injured but more of the enemy was killed. Gondor made them regret the evil that they've visited on her lands. But the victory had a sour tang, for his brother was not with him.
He could have shared in this victory! He would have made Father proud! He thought bitterly. Now, they have to face the consequences of his actions, and it would not be pleasant. Denethor would probably demote him, or worse, banish him to a forsaken outpost. Boromir did not wish that humiliation for his brother at all – especially since Boromir did not know how to handle the thought of his brother being away from him in a distant land.
He made his way through the crude camping site. Some of his soldiers were cleaning their swords, others, nursing injuries, sat in quiet huddles around a campfire. A rough healing tent had been erected at the centre of the camp, and many wounded – some dying – lay in there, protected from the chilly wind. Yet there were many who celebrated in various areas of the camp, loudly proclaiming their victory over ale and roasted venison.
Boromir smiled at that and gazed at the moon. The happiness, however, lasted a mere second because he immediately thought how wonderful it would have been if his brother was here, laughing and sharing an ale with him.
Grumbling, Boromir shifted his eyes away from the moon and …
He faltered in his steps when his eyes landed on his brother, standing in the middle of the chaos of the camp. Faramir stared at him with pensive eyes; he made no move towards him but merely stood there – as if waiting for him to come.
"Faramir?" Boromir exclaimed. Was he at the battle after all? Did he join the battle without his knowledge? His heart soared at the hope. He was about to run towards Faramir when a soldier blocked his path, obscuring his brother's figure for a moment.
Annoyed, Boromir pushed the man aside, but to his dismay, Faramir was gone.
"Faramir?" he called out. Running now, he made his way to the spot where Faramir was. He looked around, and saw that they were at the edge of the woods. Could Faramir had gone back inside the thick of the woods? What game was this?
"Brother!" he called out as he stepped into the forest. "Do not hide yourself from me! There's no shame between brothers!"
Silence.
Frowning, Boromir ran deeper into the forest. Could he be injured? Was that why he kept silent? The thought made him move faster – until soon, the forest ended and he ended up in a field full of tall, golden grass. No ... it was wheat, ripe and golden, ready to be reaped ... only, there was something wrong with the field ...
A blood-soaked field. And in the field sprawled motionless dark shapes.
His eyes widened at the sight. Bodies – both orc and Man – lay strewn across the field. The grass was stained with red and black blood; some parts were bald from violent scuffles …
He counted only 15 men, all dressed in the ranger's garb. The orcs that had fallen beside them were far too many to count. 15 men against this tide? How could this battle have gone unnoticed?
Heart beating frantically, he called out: "Faramir! Faramir!"
No answer.
Nay! His brother was alive, Boromir saw him standing at the camp just now. He must have been injured or Valar forbid it, addled of mind. It is not uncommon, after a battle, to find some men that had to be led off the battlefield like children. What they had seen had been too much for them.
"Faramir!" he called out again, then bent down to overturn the first ranger corpse he saw. Brown eyes on a blood-stained face stared up at him. It was not Faramir. But he could not be lying here. He was alive still!
Then he saw it. The tinge of strawberry blonde hair amidst the more common Gondorian black. He gasped, and moved clumsily towards the spot of colour, heedless of the corpses, stepping on them as a result.
When he got closer, there was no more denying it. He recognised the vambraces that the body wore.
"No," he whispered as he reached out with a shaky hand to the corpse. A filthy orc body lay over Faramir, obscuring his face. Brusquely, he pushed the corpse away, but it refused to move. Confused, Boromir pushed harder, and then only realized from the sickening sound that it was impaled upon a sword held by Faramir from beneath.
He pulled the creature away, and what he saw made him howl with grief.
Faramir's sightless eyes were the first to greet him. His brother stared blankly at the blood-red moon, the blue orbs already starting to be covered with film. Yet, Boromir could still see the infinite sadness in them, captured in the last moments of death.
"No … it can't be…" he gasped, brushing a shaking hand on his brother's cold cheek. Faramir still held the sword that had impaled the orc, gifted by their Father on his 18th birthday, in his stiff hands.
"Oh by the Valar … no," he moaned when he saw the crude-looking orc blade impaled in his brother's side. It had been plunged with such force that the blade had gone into the ground, pinning him, for Boromir could not even move Faramir.
He had bled to death, with the body of the orc pinning him. He had been unable to move … and had waited for death with the stench of orc flesh in his nostrils.
Boromir moaned, and with as much care as he could he removed the orc blade, weeping at the sound it made as he did so. Then he gathered Faramir into his arms. The body was limp and unusually heavy, as corpses are won't to be …
"Little brother … Faramir. Why did you not tell us that you were here?" He held his brother close, but it brought not comfort, for the thing in his arms was no longer his brother. Faramir had fled this world into another land.
Boromir had abandoned his brother when he needed him most. And that thought made him cry out in grief.
"Faramir! No!" Boromir moaned, burying his face in Faramir' hair. But it brought no relief, for the hair was as dry as straw, lifeless and limp.
The crackling sound, he first ignored, for nothing mattered then. But then the sound grew with such force, Boromir had to know what it was. Then there was the heat that suddenly engulfed them.
And when Boromir lifted his eyes, he saw that the field was on fire. The monstrous, raging tempest of fire leapt around them, hungrily devouring the corpses in its path.
The field was on fire.
It wasted no time and engulfed Boromir and Faramir in its embrace.
And the blood-red moon was the last thing he saw.
"My lord?!" came a startled cry from outside. The tent entrance was pushed open, and a very startled Mablung came inside.
Boromir looked at the man in confusion before he realized that he was sitting up on his pallet and breathing heavily. The man had been beside himself when he discovered that Faramir had not joined them in the battle.
Faramir.
He pushed the thin blanket aside and dazedly raised his eyes to the ranger's.
"My lord, I heard shouts. You are not harmed?"
"No," he whispered, then eyes widening, he got up and pushed the man aside, not caring that he had no shirt on.
"My lord!" he heard Mablung call, but Boromir made his way determinedly to the edge of the forest – the same place where he saw Faramir … no, the phantom in his dream.
"My Lord," Mablung caught his arm and Boromir was about to shake it off when Mablung turned him around so that he faced him.
"What is it, Captain Boromir? It is not safe to wander into the forest at the dead of the night, especially now."
He lowered his eyes in acknowledgement, but then shook his head. He would not brush away the dream and ignore it. Something told him that it would be folly. "What lies in the forest, Mablung? Is there a field inside?"
"A field?" Mablung frowned in puzzlement. "Nay… the forest spreads for many miles yet. Even then it ends at the foot of a mountain. It is near no field."
"No field," he muttered to himself. It was a dream. A terrible dream, but yet it troubled him too greatly for him to ignore.
"The moon was red," he muttered again, remembering the strange sight he last saw in his dream.
Strangely, Mablung turned pale. Boromir saw that and quickly gripped the man's shoulders.
"Speak!" he demanded.
"Captain Faramir … he once cried out in his dream the very same words. 'The moon is red!' It woke the entire camp. He had the same dream many times."
"When?"
"Just four days ago and many times before that. Captain, he had not slept well for weeks because of the ill dream. The men feared that he would become ill. Now, he is not here with us!" Mablung's eyes shone with fear, and Boromir felt his heart quickening. What is it that Faramir's men knew that he did not?
"And his dreams … they are important?" Boromir demanded.
Mablung clearly looked surprised. He must have thought that Boromir, his Captain's beloved brother, would know more than he. Boromir felt the sting of shame at that.
"Aye. We never spoke about it aloud, but we believe that Captain Faramir has foresight, my Lord."
And do I, too? Is that what the dream is trying to tell me – that Faramir is in peril? Perhaps the Valar is mocking me for pride, sending me a dream my way to mock me of my arrogance! Boromir thought bitterly.
Then he realized … the field … Endh Aes.
By the Valar.
"Mablung. Rouse the men. We are leaving for Endh Aes," he commanded in as steady a voice as possible.
Mablung merely nodded, and in haste called out to the rangers. Soon, the camp was in utter chaos as the men that were able donned their armour and saddled their horses.
"We ride for Endh Aes!" he roared to his men, marching to his horse as he put on his vambraces.
Endh Aes was at least a day's ride away, and Boromir cursed himself for his foolishness. They have traveled for many hours since leaving the camp last night; It was already late morning. He prayed that the battle had not taken place – or that Faramir's dream was false, but his heart said otherwise. The only hope he had was that the battle had not yet begun and that he was not too late.
For the hundredth time Boromir cursed himself for his thoughtlessness. He should have questioned his brother further about his determination to go to Endh Aes. Instead, he had jumped to conclusions and had thought that Faramir wanted to abandon him when he needed him. How selfish he was, to think only of himself!
It was when they were at least a mile's ride away from Endh Aes when they encountered the Guards of the Tower, the men who patrolled the Rammas, and kept guard there. That they were called away from their posts meant that the Steward had sent them.
"What news?" he demanded of the commanding officer.
"The Lord Steward sends us, Captain, to defend Endh Aes," he replied. The man was clearly confused at that order, and his men shared the same puzzled looks. They must feel as if they were called from a post watching the wolves at their gates to fight against phantoms.
"What else did he say?" Boromir spurred his horse onward.
"Only that we are to go in haste. Captain, what is it in Endh Aes that warrants such haste?"
Before Boromir could answer, there was suddenly a commotion behind the ranks of Tower Guards. A man on a horse pushed his way to the front to stand beside the commander, clearly out of breath. His horse was also breathing hard – both having raced hard.
"Captain, I am Bereth, of the Northern Tower Guard and I came from Endh Aes. The village is under attack! Orcs ... there are orcs in the village!" he stammered.
Boromir's heart nearly stopped at that. "My brother? Captain Faramir?"
"My Lord, I was ordered by one of the rangers to return to inform the Tower Guards of the danger! I believe there are few rangers defending Endh Aes, and some of the Northern Guard have joined them - but they are also few, only 20 – for the orcs number by the hundreds!"
"By the Valar!" Mablung whispered beside him.
Boromir shuddered at the implication of the scout's words. Faramir and his men were vastly outnumbered - how long could they stand against the tide?
"We waste time talking!" Boromir barked, then spurred his horse. His men and the Tower Guards followed, riding as fast as their horses could take them – as if death was on their heels.
His vision blurred and Faramir had to force himself to rest. He leaned against the wall of the half-burnt cottage, hoping that the thin brush by the side of the house would conceal him. He despised having to hide, but the blow to his head – delivered by an over-eager orc that met the end of his sword – had been severe enough to knock him unconscious for a few seconds. It was fortunate that the orc had fallen on him, covering him from the eyes of the other orcs. When he regained consciousness, he was alone in an area full of orc bodies – all killed with his sword, he thought in satisfaction.
Not so fortunate was his shoulder – for it had been pierced by an arrow almost two hours ago and he had been fighting with it inside, having no time to pull it out.
When he did have the time, the effort it took for him to break off the tail of the shaft was enough to send him under again, which was why Faramir had chosen to rest here, behind the meager protection of the hut.
Waves of pain made the world tilt for a while, but Faramir clenched his sword tightly, willing himself to stay conscious. Every hour, every minute, was needed to keep the fields from burning – and from the looks of things, the harvest remained intact. He felt a surge of pride for his men. Only 15 strong, but they could hold an army four times their size.
Around him, the battle raged on, and Faramir wondered how his men fared. How many had fallen? Were they all still standing? How long could they last? And he bowed his head in regret, knowing that he had led them to their deaths. There is no way they could escape this alive, lest some miracle delivered them the armies of Gondor.
Perhaps I should have been less proud, Faramir thought in despair. Perhaps I should have begged on my knees for Boromir's men.
The whistling sound of an arrow jolted Faramir from his musings and he ducked just in time before the arrow landed on the wall – where his head had been.
"There is that filthy human! Ah, a good sized one; fit for the fire tonight!" an orc crowed, appearing just a few feet from him.
The fall had jolted the arrow wound, and the world darkened for a while. He had no strength to sit up and the orc knew that and manipulated that to his advantage.
The orc took a fistful of his hair and pulled his head up.
"Look at that! A pretty one, is he not? Perhaps his skull will form a good helmet?" The other orcs laughed at that jibe and the orc, proud of his wit, threw his head back and let out a guttural roar.
That tiny moment of distraction gave Faramir the chance to pull his sword from beneath him and plunge it into the orc's gut. The orc's laugh turned into a howl, and it stiffened for a moment before collapsing in a heap beside him.
Faramir got to his feet before the other orcs could react.
"Oooo. 'es a strong one!" an orc with a crude spear crowed. "But we will have you in a pit before sunset yet, manling!" the orc growled, pointing his spear at Faramir.
Faramir smiled a ghastly smile. "Not before I put as many of you filthy creatures as I can into your graves!" he spat out.
With a roar, the orcs surged forward haphazardly with their swords and spears flailing about.
It took all his strength to keep standing, and it took all his concentration to fight and to will the pain in his shoulder to disappear as he thrust, parried and stabbed.
He reeled when an orc hit him across the face. He felt his lip split and blood trickle down his chin. But somehow, he had enough strength to hit the orc back with the pommel of his sword.
Then they heard it ... a sound he never thought he would hear.
The horn of Gondor.
Faramir smiled. Boromir. You did come after all.
That moment of distraction proved deadly.
He felt a sharp burst of pain at his left side. Then it consumed his whole being until he was paralyzed, afraid that one move would worsen the blinding pain. And for a moment he did not understand why it hurt so much until he saw the sneering face of an orc at his side.
"How does it feel, manling?" the creature crowed. Then, viciously, it twisted the sword slowly. Faramir bit his lip – this orc will not have the pleasure of hearing him cry out.
Snarling, it brutally pulled the blade out.
Faramir remembered falling to his knees ... feeling the warm, sickening trickle of blood oozing down his side ... then looking up and seeing Boromir, his face ashen with horror, screaming at him.
Then something hit him on the side of his head, and he knew no more.