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Author's very extended and updated note:

I am not homophobic, so the views expressed by characters herein do not reflect my own. They are reflective of another time and another personality (and a borrowed one at that). If you personally agree with the sentiments expressed herein, I am rather confused as to why you are reading this story in the first place. But I'm not going to dictate your conscience, and I'd appreciate it if you'd pay me the same respect.

In any case, I wrote this because although I've seen a fair amount of LOTR slash online, none of it addresses the one character pairing that seems to me to be the most obviously slashable. When this story began to unfold in my mind and dribble onto the screen, most tolkienslash seemed to center around three pairings: Sam/Frodo, Halbarad/Aragorn, and the perennially popular Gimli/Legolas. With the arrival of FOTR the movie, a glut of Aragorn/Legolas fics have appeared as well, and Aragorn/Boromir has a small but dedicated following I would say (I'd follow Aragorn anywhere, heh heh, and I count myself as one of those who looks forward to A/B slash). But so far I seem to be the only one interested in the pairing that serves as the turning point for this story, and that's fine with me. I hate to do things that everyone else is doing, and I had already decided that if ever I wrote a slash story, it would have to be about this particular couple.

As to the genre, if I could call it something other than slash, I would, because to me, good slash is purely and simply good drama. One of the goals of this story is to infuse a homosexual context into LOTR's canon of events in such a way that it stands as a fully integrated and plausible subtext/interpretation, in the same way that a well-executed "missing scenes" fic is inserted and built into the storyline. Even if you don't think that that's possible, I hope that if you're reading this, you know by now that I'm at least not writing the story just for virtual thrills (not that all other slash writers are guilty of that, because many are not); instead, I'm trying to give a plausible explanation of a given character's (or characters') behavior and homosexuality happens to suit this character conveniently well IMHO.

Usually, I build in a lot of references to other stories that I've written as well as book-references (no movie refs, sorry folks), and at first I tried to stay away from that as I felt it would upset some readers less if this were a stand alone. By the time I made it to chapter six, I had abandoned that effort because I realized I was being an idiot not to use the resources I've already created. I can now say that if you've read some of my other fics, I'm essentially reading my own interpretation of certain characters against itself, so the characterization here is doubly derivative… but hopefully only in a good way!

So there you go: the author explains herself in more detail than you could possibly care about! Read if you like, otherwise please don't. I hate it when I see reviews where it's clear that the reviewer looked at the title and summary, then jumped down to the review button without ever having read the story just to flame the author. If you really feel that strongly about LOTR slash, my email isn't a secret. This nice long note serves two purposes: it gives you fair warning of my intentions and background, and it is preventing you from seeing things which may offend you if you are one of the people to whom the bold lettering applies. This is your last chance to safely press "back." Ok? Ok.

This story is now complete, so enjoy it in its uninterrupted fullness, if that is your will.

Oh, the title for this is the fault of this guy in my class, who claims that in German, the expression "From the other river bank" is a euphemism meaning someone is gay. The things you learn…!

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Part I 
Love thy Brother

Boromir, heir to the stewardship of Gondor, stood pressed into an alcove along the hall that led up to his father's study and war room, and he brooded on rumor and suspicion of trouble. Not long ago he had stood upon the bridge of Osgiliath and watched the Shadow sweep over his men, driving them all like sheep before a pack of wolves. And for all their speed in that rout, the collapse of the bridge still killed many! Four of us left alive from the thirty or fifty upon that span of stone, and we four forever haunted by that ugly vision! Curse Mordor and all its works unto the last days of Middle-earth! He felt his lips peel back in a silent snarl as the horror of that memory washed over him once again, and the guilt that accompanied it was poisonous. Shall I ever forgive myself truly, that it was my order that felled that bridge, even knowing we would not–could not–cross it in time to save ourselves? It had been but three days since the attack, and the accusing, suffering faces of drowned soldiers tormented his dreams. And they will for long, that I know! I suppose I must learn to welcome them, and I am not a stranger to shame! Drawing a deep breath, he made himself relax, muscle by taut muscle, and he pulled his cloak more closely about himself as he glanced up the hallway. In point of fact, he had not come hither to this place to relive the misfortune of the Osgiliath garrison; rather, what brought him was trouble of a different kind, one that touched closer to home. Intuition long ago developed had told him that Faramir would not let the matter of the new law lie, and so he had come to wait for his brother to emerge from yet another fruitless argument with their father.

The steward of Gondor had of late sent forth dispatches to all the captains, and those dispatches had been grim reading for all that they were shorter than usual. Contained therein had been the stark publication of a new law of the realm, written according to the legal style of Gondor (which, in Boromir's considered opinion, was an armed assault upon anything remotely resembling 'style'):

"Be it henceforth known throughout the kingdom of Gondor, and let all those vested with the authority of high and low justice take heed: That (item one) the Enemy of the Nameless Land has wrongfully assailed Gondor and its people, wreaking great havoc and resulting in grievous loss of life and property; and that (item two) the spies of the Enemy being numerous and having many forms, therefore the twenty-sixth Steward of the King of Gondor, Denethor son of Ecthelion, of the House of Mardil, has decreed the following:

That in light of these considerations, upon receipt of this writ and until the Steward or one with higher authority see fit to repeal this doom, all creatures not of proved alliance with Gondor or who wander within the borders of that land without the express permission of the Steward, shall be put to death."

There had been some further elaboration of instances in which the law could be temporarily suspended (namely, a single provision stating that under guard or with a captain's consent, a stranger might go to Minas Tirith to present himself to the steward and beg to receive freedom to walk within Gondor's borders unmolested), but clearly it had been written 'with an eye to finality,' as Faramir had so eloquently put it earlier that day. Whether his younger brother would retain that eloquence in the face of Denethor's doubtless steadfast opposition remained to be seen, but Boromir did not have high hopes for either father or brother. He had seen this sort of argument before, and likened the effect to a knight riding at full tilt into a brick wall. The wall would in all likelihood still stand, but the same could not be said for the rider, and he had resigned himself to the fact that Faramir seemed bent upon self-destruction in that respect. Not that I disagree with him in principle, Boromir thought darkly. And I can well understand why the matter touches him most closely! For Faramir's command in Ithilien dealt most often with incursions, but though Ithilien lay under the shadows, still it was home to many innocent creatures. As Faramir was not one to squander lives if there was the least doubt as to their allegiance, he resented the burden that the new law placed upon his company in terms of both the labor involved and in terms of moral responsibility.

And so he waited now, wondering whether Faramir still held forth or whether the meeting had yet degenerated into a paternal tongue-lashing. As his own mood was none too sunny at the moment, Boromir was not certain if he wished his brother to continue to stand firm or cave quickly and thereby end his own vigil sooner. But he grimaced slightly at the selfish flavor of the latter wish, knowing that Faramir would feel the worse if he felt that he had not fought hard enough before surrendering. I should be ashamed in any case! He thought, gritting his teeth. This is a disgrace to us all, that those two are at each other's throats, and I know well that it is not Faramir's fault! But even that did not approach the true reason for his sense of shame. When he had first realized that he loved his brother—loved him as a man and not simply fraternally—he had made certain that he wandered the halls outside the steward's study, as if he were going about some minor bit of business that happened to put him in Faramir's path at just the right—or wrong, depending upon how one chose to look at it!—moment. It had been vital then that he be able to pretend that he did not come for the sole purpose of offering a supportive shoulder for Faramir. But with time, he had realized that such efforts were futile and demeaning to his own sense of honor, which shrank from such contrived "coincidences." And yet for years, for more than half of my life now, I have lived on contrivance. A fine sense of honor indeed! Faramir would laugh me to scorn if he knew but the half of it… assuming he did not flee in disgust! Boromir sighed inwardly, rubbing a hand tiredly over his eyes for the day had been long already. Yet if fatigue could not keep him from this silent surveillance, neither could it erase his perennial doubts. Should I leave? Faramir does not truly need me as he did when we were both still children. He has the strength and the wisdom to stand alone now, and I ought not to undermine that by my too quick support! But again, as it had been for many years now, it was not so much a question of Faramir's need as it was of his own. He needed to see his brother, to see him through his trials at least even if he could not be present for many of his triumphs.

I need to feel needed… or rather, wanted in some way, Boromir admitted guiltily. When they had both been much younger, it had been easy to satisfy that basic longing, for Faramir had truly needed his support until he learned the measure of his own worth. Since that time, Boromir had watched over him most often from a distance, through letters and chance encounters, and the rumors upon which all men depended who spent long months afield in an armed camp. The disastrous defense of Osgiliath had marked one of the few times that he and Faramir had jointly commanded a battle, and despite the disturbing events of that summer's eve, he had relished having his younger brother about. And Faramir, too, had been glad to see him, which gave him much cause for relief. For ever he worried that despite his precautions, despite how very carefully he tread where his brother was concerned, Faramir would by some means divine his secret. Like as not, he would simply read it in my eyes! He and father are alike in that uncanny ability to read what is in another's heart! But thus far, neither had uncovered his hidden core, and that was largely because in all other matters, Boromir was the soul of forthright and even blunt honesty, giving father and brother no reason to ever seek further of him than what he chose to reveal.

For if Faramir ever discovered how very dependent Boromir was upon their rare meetings, and even more so upon arguments like the one taking place now, he would be justly appalled. Boromir was not proud of that, for he knew that their father could wound Faramir more deeply than any enemy and for that he hated him. But buried within that anger towards his father was a seed of gratitude as well, for in those rare moments of utter vulnerability when Faramir was most in need, Boromir's love found its most complete expression. Beyond that, he was forced to keep a certain distance, and brotherly affection, however deep, fell short of what his heart felt. And so I must thank Denethor in the end for wounding the one I love most! Because Faramir turns ever to me afterwards, and that I would not lose! Valar help me, what perversity is that?! How can I love him and wish him to be hurt at the same time? And he is my brother and a man besides! Boromir chewed on his lip as he mulled over the familiar, anguished complaints once again. In the end, he simply closed his eyes in pain for his own weakness, for even self-loathing could not overpower need.

Just then, a door opened and shut and there came the sound of boots clicking on flagstone as someone strode rapidly away. After a moment, the object of his ardent, if troubled, affection emerged from the hall, and from the slight flush to Faramir's cheeks and the set of his taut shoulders, it was clear that the argument had gone just as badly as Boromir had predicted. And so it begins again!

"Faramir!" he called, and the younger man whirled, sinking automatically into a crouch, hand hovering above his sword hilt. But seeing who it was that waited for him, he straightened and closed his eyes in chagrin a moment, ere he sighed:

"Your pardon, brother, that was thoughtless!"

"Well," Boromir grunted as he shoved away from the wall and stalked forward to fall in at his brother's left side. "You doubtless have much to preoccupy you." He replied, reaching about to grip Faramir's right shoulder comfortingly. And when his brother leaned briefly into that embrace, he had to grit his teeth for wanting. For Varda's sake, Faramir, resist a little at least! It is too easy to love you! " Tell me," he continued quickly, hoping to cover that moment of discomfiture, "will you never learn that father's mind, once decided, never repents of its choice?"

"Someone must try to make him see reason! This is madness, Boromir!" Faramir hissed, going rigid, and then glanced quickly about to see if anyone else might have heard him. Which actions, fortunately, opened some space between them, much to Boromir's relief.

But of course, long custom and a masochistic streak could not forbear to suggest: "Come, let us go to my quarters, so that we may speak more freely." And Faramir, oblivious to the subversive meaning that attached to an otherwise harmless request, wordlessly nodded his agreement and let his brother steer him toward the stairs. They mounted up into the tower in silence, and Boromir reluctantly let fall his arm from the other's shoulders, for it would be folly to invite suspicion by too prolonged a display of physical affection. And even were we alone in within this city's walls, it would be foolish to tempt myself further than I already have! I must at least try to keep a certain safe distance! His rooms were in the south-eastern hall, near the top of the staircase: a convenient location in many ways, for not only were they readily accessible from the main hall, they were closest to the steward's suite. Not that Denethor had much occasion to use those rooms, but still, they were close enough that Faramir had declined with alacrity the offer to move into them when Boromir had first left Minas Tirith for the garrisons at Poros. 'Tis a measure of father's power over him that Faramir goes to such lengths to escape his presence! Boromir thought grimly. He would lead his men up to the Black Gate if necessary, but he will not approach this hall if I am not with him! But for tonight, their father was safely below, and Faramir did have his brother at his side, and so he did not hesitate or turn aside.

Boromir let his brother into his room, closing the door firmly behind them once he had dismissed the page waiting within. As was his wont, Faramir went immediately to the window that looked out onto the tiered gardens that marched down each level of the city on the eastern side. "Ironic, is it not, that beauty arranged with such care should look straight into the mouth of evil?" Faramir had once said, and shaken his head as he glanced at his brother. "All the defiance of Gondor can be found in a single shoot of grass that grows in the soil below, and who knows but that the splendor of those gardens owes much to the very darkness which it opposes!" To which reflections, Boromir had simply nodded, thinking that his brother had a very peculiar manner of looking at things. A veritable treasure trove of riddles, word plays and ragged bits of lore from the Valar only knew what language or age of the world, was Faramir—obsessed with words even as a child, always with a pointed turn of phrase, and never able to hold himself to a single layer of meaning when a conversation wandered into the theoretical. Which only makes his blindness to my own double-barbed words and actions the more painfully ironic! That aside, Boromir freely confessed himself dazzled by his brother's intellect, but that same brilliance could easily become a liability. Faramir was prone to overthink things, or so it seemed to him, and he worried that one day that ability to explore deeply conflicting lines of reason would paralyze him when swift judgment was most needed.

But for the moment, he is sure enough of himself to invite Denethor's scorn. He does have a stubborn streak in him, and in that more than in anything else, Faramir is like father. I wonder, does he realize that? Boromir wondered idly as he stared at the younger man's back, tracing with his eyes the lines of tension. From the tight shoulders to the white-knuckled grip that Faramir had on the window ledge, down the rigid line of his back, such was the intensity of the other's radiated fury and humiliation that Boromir felt his gut knot in sympathetic reaction, while his protective instincts, honed over many years of struggle to a fine edge, fixed upon Faramir with singular focus. Perhaps his brother felt that stare, for he turned his head just enough to catch Boromir in his field of vision and said softly, "Sometimes I think that this war, even if we should win it, will leave nothing but ashes in its wake, though Minas Tirith stand tall as it ever has!"

"I do not follow you," Boromir replied, frowning, as he eased to one side a few paces, the better to see his brother's face.

"There are measures that we must take to protect ourselves as best we can, but this law… it is wanton, Boromir. We kill when we must, and that too often, but under such a law, I fear that there will be many who simply cease to think! They will slay whenever they find anything out of place, regardless of a creature's worth or intentions."

"Mistakes are always made in war, brother. 'Tis part of the tragedy," Boromir responded.

"Yes, but this is not one captain who panics, or who ignores evidence of an attack mounting, or who burns a village in his own territory because he believes it is filled with traitors. This is now a law of the land, and it makes legal the sort of indiscriminate killing that we abhor when Mordor perpetrates it! Do you not see that we grow more alike with the passing years? For to oppose the Dark Lord, we must touch that darkness as well, and I fear that of late it has begun to twist us in earnest," Faramir sighed. "Denethor is… he can be a cruel man, and I fear that in him. For all of our sakes!"

"Father can be a hard man, that I grant you," Boromir said carefully, coming to lean upon the wall near his brother. "And perhaps that does lead to a certain cruelty, but it is not his wish to be cruel for no reason."

"And so he is cruel with reason!" Faramir glanced at him, shook his head and then began to pace in an agitated manner, like a caged wolf. "That is a deadly conjunction, and I like it not at all. Add that he has the power to affect every man, woman and child in Gondor and beyond, and I begin to doubt in earnest what shall become of us!"

"What precisely do you mean?" Boromir asked, eyes narrowing as he watched his brother's restless movements. Although it pained him to admit it, there was something compelling about the way his brother moved when he was truly upset. There was a hard-edged grace to the way his lithe body flowed through the motions, and Boromir found himself fighting the spell his brother, all unwitting, cast over him. This is not the time for distraction! He reminded himself, forcing himself to focus. For he had never heard his brother speak thus before of their father, and felt deeply uneasy, wondering whither this internecine strife would lead in the end.

"There is something at work in him that I like not," Faramir replied, seeming to grope for words for once. "Something that overpowers his reason… or no, that is not right, for he has that aplenty! It is as if reason were all that he had left, and he knows not of feeling any longer, or of faith. There is only logic and Gondor… and the power to preserve both those entities." A pause, and then in a voice low and doubtful came the admission, "And I no longer know whether to trust the gleam in Denethor's eyes!"

"Are you certain that your own anger does not distort your vision, Faramir? Or that you do not judge him more harshly than is your wont?" Boromir asked quietly, and his brother sighed, bowing his head and clasping his hands tightly behind his back. For a while he did not say anything, continuing to pace, though much more slowly now as if the raw edge of frustrated, fearful anger had abated, draining away to leave only the hurt and confusion behind. And as he passed before his brother, Boromir felt an overwhelming desire to reach out and pull him close, to hold him as he once had when both of them were still innocent. But if I do, I shall not want to let go, and that would be… awkward, Boromir decided, and so he settled for folding his arms across his chest, as if to restrain himself. Still, he knew that were he deaf and blind, still he would be able to feel when Faramir's course brought him nearest. It was like instinct, like contained lightning or the pull of a current both strong and deep—invisible and irresistible.

"Perhaps—nay, certainly!—it does cloud my judgment but this has been too long in my mind to dismiss it, Boromir," he sighed, at last ceasing his agitated pacing to stand before his brother. "Or can you tell me now that you are free of all concerns about the lord steward our father?"

"You know I cannot. And I do not ask you to dismiss your worries, only to examine them again… which doubtless you would do anyway!" That evoked a brief smile from the other, who nodded in acknowledgment of the truth of that comment. "If you have failed to convince the steward to share your opinion, then there is little to be done while the war lasts, I fear."

"While it lasts… and how long shall that be? Once begun, it will be swiftly over, for one side or the other," Faramir replied. "And brother mine, do you think that Gondor could possibly stand for long?" When Boromir made no reply, he continued, "I suppose that hope is unnecessary to fight a war, though to win one without it is another matter. And still, that dream haunts me!" Faramir raked his fingers through his hair and seemed to wish he could with that gesture extract said dream from his memory and discard it.

"Have you gleaned aught of its meaning yet?" Boromir asked, curious. It had been several days since Faramir had complained of it first. Indeed, it had come the night of the attack, in the early hours of the morning when the whole camp lay in exhausted slumber amid the reek and ruin of bridgeless Osgiliath. And since then, it had troubled Faramir night and day, to the point that Boromir had begun to be gravely concerned for his brother's sanity.

"Only that Imladris must be found! As for the rest…" Faramir turned his palms upward and shrugged, clearly at a loss. "Nothing I have read or heard tell of begins to touch upon such matters in any substantial way. 'Tis but rumor and legend, and all of it vague!" So very frustrated did he sound that Boromir, without thinking, reached out, caught his shoulders firmly and pulled him closer. He did stop himself before a fraternal enough gesture became an embrace, and the anxious worry that crossed his features could at least be passed off as concern for his brother rather than alarm over his own actions.

"Faramir… do not do this to yourself, I beg you! Such dreams as you have, and have had… who but a prophet or a soothsayer could begin to interpret them? They will make you mad, if you let them wind round you like this!" Boromir said in a low voice, searching his brother's face for a hint of the other's feelings. "And who knows whence this one comes? The Fell Riders remain west of Anduin, and we know not where they be at this moment. Can you be certain that this dream comes not from their witchcraft?"

"Nothing is certain these days but I think it comes not from them. It has not the same feel and the matter of the rhyme, though obscure, is not evil," Faramir replied, and narrowed his eyes as he gazed at his brother. "I did not know you harbored such concerns. Why did you say nothing?"

"The idea has built in my mind since you first told me of the dream," Boromir replied, and shrugged. "But I am not one to go seeking the uncanny."

"No, I meant not that! Do you truly believe that these dreams may drive me to madness?" Faramir seemed puzzled, skeptical… but Boromir perceived a hint of fear in his gaze as well, as if Boromir had wakened a sleeping doubt.

"Well… they have not yet. 'Tis perhaps my own uneasiness over such matters that speaks, and not reason," he admitted. And he gave a lopsided smile as he raised a hand and tapped his brother's left temple, "Only do not let this overpower this," and he dropped his hand to lay it firmly over his brother's heart a moment, ere he released him entirely and stepped back. Faramir gave a bark of low laughter and shook his head.

"I shall not, have no fear!"

"Good. Then Gondor has not Denethor alone: she has Faramir for her conscience," Boromir replied. "Surely she shall not be wholly ruined so long as you remain whole!"

Faramir snorted at that, but gripped his brother's shoulder hard, squeezing gratefully, and where his hand lay Boromir felt his nerves tingle. "And she has Boromir at her heart, so I should have more faith, I suppose!"

"You were ever too skeptical, brother mine," Boromir replied with a low chuckle.

With that, the crisis seemed to pass, and the atmosphere in the room grew noticeably lighter as Faramir relaxed. "Forgive me, I ought not to let myself become so upset over what cannot be changed. Of late, my patience has been lacking!" He sighed, and offered a slight, self-conscious smile as he regarded his brother, and added, "You ought not to let me ramble on like this!"

"If not to me, then to whom would you say such things?" Boromir quickly waved away the apology, feeling utterly undeserving of it.

"I should hope to no one!" Faramir replied. Then, "I am a trial to you at times, am I not?"

"At times," Boromir admitted, and gave a slight smile, "'Tis a brother's prerogative, though."

"Thank you for listening, even if you should not," Faramir said anyway, giving his brother's shoulders a final squeeze. And then he went quietly out, leaving Boromir to stare after him. Once the door had shut, and his footsteps had receded into the distance, Boromir sighed softly and sank down onto a chair, wondering how it was that someone so ignorant could come so very close to the truth without ever realizing it. I ought not to listen indeed! I ought to keep as much distance as possible between us, except that such a break would be too obvious and would only draw him after me seeking a reason for it. And then I doubt not that he would discover all that I keep hidden! The irony of it! I may touch him as much as I please as his brother, but he does not know what feeling lies beneath fraternal gestures! Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and cradle his head in his hands, he grimaced, as the contemptuous voice of self-loathing mocked him and his dishonest passion. More than dishonest, unnatural! No one born to the rarified heights of Gondor's social elite could possibly be ignorant of the fact that there existed—and had always existed—a small number of men who, though respectably married, preferred each other to their wives or to women in general. But Boromir, though he had always known of the phenomenon of homosexuality, was not one of the few who believed that love was its own justification. That he loved not only another man, but his own brother, by turns frightened and appalled him. But his fears could not change what he felt. And as he had tried without success to ignore his feelings, he had learned to disguise them. Deception might come hard to Boromir, but in matters of the heart, he was of necessity an adept liar.

In fact, his careful disguise was the more secure for the fact that he despised that small group who would not deny their sexuality. They were rare, for those who had power enough to protect themselves were usually quite discreet and cautious. But occasionally, there would emerge one or two men who, being born to privilege and heedless of the opprobrium of others, did as they pleased without fear of the legal consequences. But Boromir found such abuse of power disgusting, and even had he not, he loved Faramir too well to risk besmirching his honor along with his own. There is a price to pay for every desire, he mused. That I know well, for Denethor dinned it into my unwilling ears for years! And the price of being allowed to live—and love— in peace is silence! There was therefore a certain perverse comfort to be derived even from his utter frustration: for, as traditional wisdom told it, every sin deserves its shame, and Boromir was not insensitive to such logic. It did not help him now, with the memory of Faramir's voice and body so very close, but later it would. Faramir wishes he could halt his dreams! If he only knew what trouble mine cause me! Boromir thought ruefully, shaking his head again. Of course, should Faramir ever learn of the very vivid role he played in Boromir's dreams, he would feel both disgusted and betrayed. But Faramir never would, and so long as he paid for them in the morning, Boromir was willing to enjoy them at night.

Speaking of night, it is grown late indeed! He thought, rising into a bone-cracking stretch ere he stalked to the window. All unconsciously, he assumed his brother's habitual stance there, and brooded on the summer sky that shone clear and hard outside. Of a sudden, he felt unutterably weary, and any thought of remaining awake awhile longer to consider his brother's latest fears about their father went swiftly to an early grave. Tomorrow will be soon enough. Father will hold us here another week at least ere he releases us back to our duties. Turning from the window, he stripped out of his clothes and crawled under the covers, not even bothering to blow out the candles. His last thought ere he fell asleep was an earnest wish that he would dream of his brother, rather than face the dead of Osgiliath again.

Part I I
Honor thy Father

The sun had not yet appeared over the horizon, but the eastern sky glittered a pale white-gold as Boromir lifted his head from the pillow to stare out of the window. As he watched, the gold grew in intensity, and a brilliant arc edged over the mountains. With a soft sigh, he laid his head down again heavily and contemplated arising. Though he had not woken during the night, his sleep had not been restful, and he was plagued now by half-recalled snippets of dreams. That restlessness made no sense to him, for what he could remember seemed almost mundane; certainly he remembered nothing particularly nightmarish, for which respite he supposed he ought to be grateful. But nevertheless, there was some trouble that attached to his nightly visions and he racked his mind to salvage just that bit more that would explain that sense of uneasiness. But to no avail, for even as he reached for them, the dream fragments seemed to melt away, like ice before the fire. Sighing again, Boromir acceded to the inevitable and dragged himself from his bed with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man.

For the air in his chambers felt heavy and hot against his skin, even allowing for the added warmth of the candles which had burned themselves out. And the water at his wash stand was tepid, which did nothing to help clear the fog of sleep from his mind. The worst days of summer lie ahead of us, too! This is but the beginning, Boromir thought resignedly. It was ever thus in the south, that shortly after Midsummer's Day, the weather grew hot and humid and all suffered until the end of August, when the cool northern winds brought relief. For Gondor's soldiery, this time of year marked a respite from the attacks of the Haradrim, who, though accustomed to worse heat, were ill-equipped to endure the cloyingly moist air. Even the orcs made themselves scarce if their masters would permit. Doubtless, the battle for Osgiliath would be remembered as the last significant fight ere Fall arrived, which explained why the steward felt it safe enough to hold his two ranking captains from their posts for so long.

Boromir, weather-wise from an early age, dressed in light clothing, forgoing the cloak he usually wore, and ran a comb through the snarls in his long hair. There were many commanders who adhered to the prejudice that overly long hair was a liability in a warrior, but Boromir found that it gave him less trouble than the alternative. No one knew precisely how it had happened, given that both Denethor and Finduilas had had uniformly straight hair, but his own tended to curl if cut shorter than shoulder length, and when it did, it was unmanageable. And I look ridiculous! He thought, with a slight smile for that one point of vanity. As a child, Faramir had seemed to suffer the same curse, but with time, the curl had largely gone out of his hair. Now it retained only enough wave to give it body, and his brother kept his hair shorn short for convenience, but just long enough for the weight to tame any residual unruly tendencies. Grunting as he worked through the last tangle, Boromir set the comb down and stalked to the windows. Glaring at the bright sunlight spilling into his room, he closed all of the shutters against the rising temperatures, and then left his chambers to see to what business he could.

From Minas Tirith, he could do little for Osgiliath, save to ensure that supplies and additional men were sent forth in a timely fashion. Otherwise, his chief duty was to aid his father, the better to learn his statecraft, but as Faramir's worries surfaced once more, he found himself dreading the prospect. After that conversation, he was in no mood to tread that careful line between confrontation and deference, yet as always, he had no choice in the matter. As a young man, and one who needed still to prove himself in the field, Denethor's sway over him had been complete, for he had lacked the confidence to trust his own judgment of his father's actions. As a grown man, however, he had other reasons to avoid bringing the full wrath of the steward down upon him, for Denethor could strip a man bare to the bones with just his eyes. Boromir had seen venerable councilors stagger out of his father's chambers in a daze, white-faced from shock, and such men rarely risked a second confrontation. Only my uncle Imrahil seems immune to Denethor's cold rage, and distance may account for much of that! Boromir thought. But to keep my distance, I dare not give the steward reason to suspect that my love for Faramir is anything but a brother's affection. If he knew…! He shuddered to think of it, for Denethor had a short way with those who were too flagrant in their affairs. To save his lover from the gallows on the charge of adultery, one of Minas Tirith's lords had had to sacrifice much of his family's fortune. "If you have not paid for his affections before, then you will do so now or learn to live with his loss," Denethor had informed the offending lord, and the man had had no choice but to agree, and thereby make of his lover a prostitute in order to keep him alive.

Boromir doubted that his father would threaten one of his sons with the other, if only because they were both his sons. But Denethor would find other ways to punish him, and Faramir would still suffer his father's disaffection. Perhaps Faramir is right to fear this coldness of his, for it does breed cruelty under the guise of sternness. But it is so deeply planted in our father, I would not know how to begin to root it out! He grimaced slightly, but then schooled his expression to reflect nothing more noteworthy than concern. He took a moment to settle himself and ensure that his mask would not slip and betray him, and then knocked at his father's door. The door opened, and his father's esquire peered out, but ere the young man could open his mouth to announce him, Denethor called from within, "Let him enter!" Boromir obediently stepped inside, gave the esquire a brusque, but not unkind, nod, and then went to where his father stood studying a map of Gondor. "Good morning. I trust you slept well?" Denethor asked, briefly glancing up at him, eyes narrowing as he saw the other's weariness.

"Good morrow father," Boromir replied, choosing to avoid the question. "How may I serve?"

"For the moment, you may tell me more of Osgiliath," the steward replied, raising his eyes to scrutinize Boromir's face. "The memory will fade with time, and I would learn what I can ere it fades entirely."

"I think you need not fear that!" Boromir replied softly, and Denethor's expression sharpened at his words, and his son quickly continued, "But when we arrived yesterday, we told you of the battle…"

"Yes, but in imprecise terms. I would hear from you now another recounting, and this time, take care to recall all that you can of these riders of whom you spoke with such dread."

Boromir would more gladly have offered to cut his tongue out rather than speak overmuch of them, but he could not refuse his father's command. And pride, too, resisted such unseemly fear of a mere recollection. So, drawing a deep breath, he said, "As you wish." He paused, ordering his thoughts as much as he could ere he continued, "The Haradrim attacked first, in the late afternoon of the twentieth of June. Some of the Ithilieners came flying back from their patrols to warn of their approach. They were at least a match for our forces, and we fought them long upon the eastern bank, until the sun went down. Just at dusk, the orcs came to their aid, and it was clear that they had lain in wait for the moment," Boromir shook his head. "The affray grew more fierce, seemingly with their coming, but now I think it must have been the presence of the riders that caused the Haradrim and the orcs to abandon their caution. 'Twas as if they were stricken with a madness, and cared not for injury or death, but where that shadow touched, they flung themselves into our faces and overwhelmed those in their path."

"And the riders? You saw them?"

"Yes," Boromir replied, and felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine, as memory momentarily overshadowed waking life. "Yes," he murmured in a low, sick voice. "I saw them. Horsemen in black, riding black steeds, they moved as one among our enemies as sharks through a school of fish. The Haradrim and the orcs fled aside, and then closed again to follow them into our midst, for none could stand before the terror of those riders."

"But they were Men?" Denethor prompted.

"Some say they saw naught but a great shadow, or an emptiness, if one may speak thus; others say the sky itself seemed darkened unnaturally. All such reports ring true enough to me, but I did see cloaked forms upon horses, though I did not count them. Few in number, but that still enough. Of Man-form they seemed, but beneath their garb … I cannot say. For I could see no face… no face though one spurred straight for me upon the bridge!" Such was the malice in that hideous, eyeless regard that Boromir had nearly been lost, frozen in place by a mixture of horror and awed incomprehension. At the last moment, he had leapt aside, and the rider had thundered past; the Haradrim had then come swarming forward in their wake. But with the passing of the shadow-riders, Gondor's ranks had recovered and closed once more against them. Badly outnumbered now, they had fought a battle of bloody attrition, hoping for nothing more than to inflict as much damage as they could ere they ended. "Those upon the west bank destroyed the supports, as I ordered, and the bridge collapsed beneath us. But it is certain that the riders escaped, and roam now at will in the west lands. What their purpose is, I cannot guess. Phantoms of the Dark Lord, I deem them, and I know not how to defend against the spell that they wield."

"There is no defense against such creatures that will long endure," Denethor responded, and Boromir frowned. The steward's voice was grim, and he shook his grizzled head slowly. "And with their coming, the game is opened and we have lost the first move!" The steward paused and regarded his elder son closely ere he continued in a gentler voice, "Mourn not overmuch hard necessity, Boromir, since I see that you blame yourself for the deaths of your men. You did well, and though the gambit failed, you would have had no other choice, not though a hundred men remained upon that bridge."

"I do not understand, father," Boromir replied after a moment, unwilling or unable yet to accept such comfort. Instead, he turned back to the riders, and asked, "What manner of creature are they?"

"They are Men, my son," the steward said with a tight, frosty smile. "Servants chosen by the Dark Lord to be his own, and though their names be lost in the ash heap of forgotten history, still it is certain that Men they are… or rather were."

"What are they now?"

"Vessels to hold the Dark Lord's hatred, no more and no less. Thus no man can slay them, or so the legends hold. And now they are loose in the land!" Denethor sighed, bowing his head. "Well," he said after a moment, straightening once more, "It is done, the battle is lost, and we can do nothing to halt their progress. Nevertheless, I shall send messengers to all posts west of here to keep watch for them. But no one shall approach them or hinder them from any task save only in defense of others. We cannot afford to waste lives in a confrontation!" To that, Boromir nodded sharply in agreement. "Rohan, also, should know of these riders, and together we may at least learn something of their movements."

"Courtesy aside, will asking avail us anything?" Boromir asked skeptically. "Théoden king is fallen into a grievous state, and I would not put much faith in his cooperation in any venture."

"Nonetheless, by the oath that binds us, I may not keep this from him. And whatever dotage is upon him, there are others under his command who chafe at the bit and they shall help if they can. His son, for one, and that young firebrand of a nephew, Éomer." Denethor chuckled dryly, "That one may do much in the service of Rohan, but if he is not given proper guidance, he may also mar much. We shall see! At the least, he shall take care that little passes through the Eastfold unbeknownst to him." Boromir nodded thoughtfully, for he remembered Éomer, having met him once some years ago. Young he was, and the steward's son had swiftly perceived that Éomer was not entirely at ease in his new rank of Third Marshal. Nevertheless, he had impressed Boromir favorably, and the cloud of royal disapproval under which he was rumored to lie was a cause for grief not only in Edoras but in Minas Tirith. "I had intended to send to Edoras in any case, to inform the court of new laws that affect them."

Which brought last night's worries squarely to fore again, and Boromir frowned. To speak now will likely serve no purpose… But do I not owe Faramir that much, in payment for all that I make of him without his knowledge or consent? "The Rohirrim should certainly be put on their guard against the overzealous in the field," he replied, watching his father closely. Denethor did not look up for a moment, seeming to study the markers spread about Anórien. But then he did raise his head, and the weight of his displeasure was evident in the cold, set expression on his father's face. Nevertheless, Boromir pushed onward, "Faramir is right: there will be many mistakes made under this latest law, and I would be ashamed if one of them happened to concern one sent on Rohan's business!"

"That would be no accident, for if you read closely, you will note that those allied with us are exempt."

"As I said, father, mistakes will happen. A flag is no protection against the fears that prey on the minds of all men these days!" Boromir refused to surrender, and Denethor grunted, straightening.

"And did you glean this from your brother as well?"

"I am always mindful of my brother's opinion, for he is more thoughtful than many."

"See to it that you do not give it greater weight than it deserves!"

"I am my own man, father," Boromir said, a bit more forcefully, beginning to feel rather insulted. But offended pride had never saved anyone from Denethor's cutting attacks, and so he reined his temper in, and changed tack, "I know not why you trust him so little, father. Do you not see that he is concerned for you and for this realm?" And can you not see, father, that when you belittle him, you wound me as well!? Father and son stared eye to eye for a long moment, and perhaps Denethor sensed his thoughts, for some of the ice seemed to ease, and the glitter in his eyes faded slightly.

"I will not deny that his heart is in the right place," the steward said at last, in a gruff voice. "But his head is in the clouds half the time, and that I cannot tolerate. Be certain, since you are his keeper, that you keep your eyes open to what is needed here and now, and do not follow him too far afield."

"Yes father," Boromir replied, drawing a circumspect breath to settle his nerves. It was a rare day that he was able to back Denethor down in a confrontation, and he was not about to lose that victory now with too conspicuous a display of either relief or elation. By unspoken agreement, they moved on to other subjects, and Denethor did not mention Faramir again. By the time he released his elder son, the day was in its decline.

***

Much of the afternoon was devoted to executing Denethor's orders to him, and Boromir found time to speak with the quartermaster about his men in Osgiliath as well. And once those necessary chores were done, he found himself once again with little to do and missing his brother's company. I should stay away from him! His conscience growled. If I find him now, we will end by talking late into the night, and I know well where my thoughts will fly! Surely there must be some other task that needs doing, or I could find something to read… But in truth, a commander away from his post had little to do, and Boromir had few friends in the city. As with most children born to great power, peers were hard to come by, and his childhood had been rather isolated by the standards of most people. And those friends I did have are largely afield themselves! Or else they have their own tasks to attend to here in Minas Tirith, and no time to talk. That left him with few alternatives, for it was too hot for most activities, and he had never been one to spend much time in the library. History held little interest for him, though he knew it well enough of necessity; philosophy was too far above him, and he knew it; poetry tended to bore him, and after Osgiliath, he had no mind to read about the successes of other commanders… and even less a mind to read of their defeats. No, the library was not an appealing prospect, much though it might be a relief from the merciless heat.

In the end, he simply wandered about the sixth circle, following the ramparts and causeways, taking what short cuts he knew while trying to remain in the shaded areas. Even the guards found excuses to cluster in strips of shade as they stood their watches, or else paced back and forth between towers, pausing in every shadow. Not that Boromir would complain of such efforts, for he knew quite well how hot and heavy chain mail could be after hours under a southern sky. Even his light tunic seemed to trap the damp heat against his skin, and he gazed balefully at the sun that hovered still too far above the horizon. Turning north, he recalled a particular spot on the eastern side of one of the guard towers where one might catch a breeze on a day such as this. Needing no further prompting, he struck out briskly for it, with no greater ambition than to escape for awhile from the heat.

The tower for which he aimed abutted the mountain, and as a precaution, there were high walls at odd angles all along the north side to prevent enemies from taking it and thereby gaining entry into the city. That architectural oddity meant that there were a number of alcoves and other spaces where one knowledgeable of the city's design and with the proper passwords might find some peace. And that I need! After this morning's long visit to father I cannot seem to escape from the memory of Osgiliath! He sighed softly, rounding a bend. Past the guards who hastily saluted, then up the winding stairs until he reached the fourth northward-facing door, and then he stepped outside onto the low-walled ledge. Following it east, he had almost reached his destination when he heard someone move up ahead. Curious, wondering who else had come so far, he quickened his pace and was in time to see—

"Faramir?" He demanded. His younger brother, sitting slouched on a low, stony bench nestled in an alcove, glanced up from his reading.

"Good day," the other replied somewhat absently.

"What do you here?" That elicited a snort and an appraising look, and Boromir realized how sharp his question had sounded. Faramir held up the book in one hand, silent and self-evident response, then asked:

"By your temper, I guess you came to escape your worries. Which ones, though?" And when Boromir made no immediate reply, he narrowed his eyes and guessed, "Father? Or Osgiliath?"

"Both," Boromir admitted. And neither now! the nagging voice of scorn added silently. Now I must forget father and foes to guard against the distraction of my brother! But that was but a part of him, and after a moment's hesitation, he sighed softly, bowing his head, and leaned back against the wall, feeling the stones cool through his shirt. Faramir at least is an unwitting tormentor, and if I must suffer, then I would rather it be at his hands! Stop that! He tried too late to censor his own subversive imagination which had supplied that very… adroit… turn of phrase. And the image that goes with it! Why do I do this to myself? Or are we all idiots when the fit called 'love' takes us? That was doubtless a question for the philosophers, and he had no mind to pursue it, afraid to go down that path. Instead he asked, "What matter so heavy brings you to this place? History?"

"Nay," Faramir replied. "I have spent enough time among musty scrolls this morning!"

"The entire library is nothing but musty scrolls!" Boromir muttered.

"Not so!" Faramir said, sounding amused.

"Oh? Then why came you here, if not for some fresh air? What do you read?" Expecting a title, he frowned when he heard naught but the flipping of pages, and darted a glance sideways. But the veil of his hair obscured his vision, and just then, Faramir began to speak again:

"There is a seed that blooms but once, that shapes all mortal hearts.

A birth of light that while it lasts

Doth in peace all worry cast:

A pain that heals, a whisper loud, yet when it's sparked

Glory is past then doth man learn its nature true

The lighter side, the dizzied cry, the brazen hue,

Is within the darkness bound.

For in that dark doth love endure: the lover gone

It blooms anew."

I think I hate him! Boromir decided, wishing that were true, feeling wretched. He was suddenly glad of the fact that he had such long hair, for with his head bowed thus it formed an effective screen so that Faramir could not see him blush. Though whether that came of embarrassment or the heat that flared within him, or both, he was unwilling to speculate. Of all the books in the library, he had to pick a book of love poetry! And he had to read it to me instead of simply telling me what it was! What have I done of late to earn this torture? At which point, a half dozen examples of miscreance came to mind, beginning with the fact that he was hopelessly enamored of his brother and ending with the bridge of Osgiliath as it gave way; and so he heaved a silent sigh and tried to think of something unincriminating to say.

"Mm… I had not heard that before," he managed after a moment, and hoped his voice did not sound too strained. "Who wrote it?"

"Silvariél of Arnor," his brother replied.

"A woman?"

"Aye, one quite famous in her day. The daughter of a nobleman, she was blind, but touched by some grace, for she claimed she 'dreamed sightful' as she says elsewhere. All her poetry is centered round a paradox of feeling: 'pain that heals' and 'whispers loud' and such like. She is much decried in this late Age, but nevertheless, I find her words comforting. And insightful," Faramir added thoughtfully. "What think you?"

"I know not enough of her to form a judgment. Does she write nothing but love poems?" Boromir asked, fearing the response. For of a sudden it occurred to him that perhaps this was not some chance reading, that the choice of works had not been a matter of a moment's fancy. Does he love another? Jealousy born of an instant sank its fangs deep into his soul, and Boromir bit his tongue. What if he does? Surely that is a good thing if it is true. But why would he have said nothing to me earlier?

"A fair amount, but she speaks of other things as well," came the easy reply.

"Ah. And which do you prefer?" Boromir asked, striving for just that touch of nonchalance as he fished for the answer to his oblique question.

"In truth, it matters not. But whenever I think of father, I recall this poem." Faramir shook his head, sitting up straighter as he gazed up at the Citadel. "It gives me hope that perhaps one day… ."

"Perhaps one day pain truly will heal?"

"Yes, just that." Faramir responded softly, turning to see that Boromir had raised his head and was now watching him intently. His elder brother shook his head slowly, and a hint of a perplexed smile crossed his face.

"Whomever you marry had best be well versed in Silvariél or I doubt she would know what to make of you!" At which Faramir gave a bark of laughter, letting his head fall back as he closed his eyes, seeming to try to imagine the scenario. And Boromir, staring at the graceful line of his brother's throat and the wistful look on his face, had to tear his eyes away quickly and step down hard upon rising desire when Faramir turned to him once more.

"Well, whoever she may be, she will have plenty of time for such scholarly pursuits! It seems pointless to seek romance when father may at any time decide I may be more profitably married elsewhere for the sake of Gondor," Faramir sighed, and could not quite suppress the bitterness he felt at that prospect. "I sometimes marvel that he has not already done so." He cocked his head at Boromir and, struck by the turn of conversation, asked, "What of yourself? Do you hope for love or only for tolerance when the time comes?"

"As you say, father rules my future, so there is no point in hoping for more than tolerance," Boromir replied, but there was in his tone just that touch of tension that underlay his resignation, prompting Faramir to ask further.

"So you have never loved another?" He demanded. "Not a single woman of Minas Tirith has ever caught your eye?"

"No… not yet," Boromir responded, relieved that his brother had phrased the question so in the end. For how would I have answered otherwise? And would he have heard the lie in my voice? Fortunately, he would never need to discover the truth. His brother fell silent as of a sudden a light wind sprang up, and if it was not truly cool, it seemed less hot than the surrounding still air, and Faramir gave a soft sigh of relief. And Boromir, watching him, felt that relief run through him like water. So he does not love another. Not yet! I would say he were too sensible, but that I know him too well! One day that will change, for Faramir was never meant to be alone. Not like me. And how will I bear to see him turn to her ever? Intellectually he knew quite well that he had never had a prayer of having his love requited, but that did not mean he would not hate the woman who ended as Faramir's wife. Jealousy was not a feeling he particularly liked, but for the moment he could set it aside, shelve it in the recesses of his mind and forget it. Until she arrives, or father decrees a political match! I have still awhile longer to dream, I suppose… "Tell me more of this poet of yours. What else has she written?"

Faramir tossed a rather surprised—but not displeased—look at him at that. "You were never one for poetry, brother!"

"Humor me then! You will some day have to instruct your wife, if you aspire to peace in your life. So, practice! Tell me of her!" Boromir replied, unable to resist the temptation.

"A passing strange wife you make me, even in role-play!" Faramir replied, with a mischievous grin. But he was willing to accept his brother's invitation, for it had been a long time indeed since they had had so much time together that was not wholly taken up by matters of war or worry.

"For the water is wide, an' I cannot get over

And neither have I wings to fly

Give me a boat that will carry two

And both shall row… my love and I!"*

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

*A/N: By now, I think you know I suck at poetry with a capital 'S', so I don't know why I inflict it upon myself (or anyone else!). I unabashedly stole the above-marked verse from a folk song entitled "The Water is Wide." It's gorgeous, listen to the Steeleye Span version of it if you like. I just couldn't make myself try to write another poem for this, and I apologize to you all for the first one. Hopefully no one was permanently scarred by it!

Part I I I
Speaking in Obscurity

In the west, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky awash in fire, it seemed. The air remained hot and thick as glass, though a light breeze blew occasionally, coyly hinting at relief without ever lingering long enough or strongly enough to fulfill its promise. Boromir and Faramir sat still in their alcove, watching the crepuscular splendor fade slowly into night, and the Ephel Duath–hazy, looming shapes in the twilight–seemed almost peaceful for once, as if even Mordor were grateful for a respite from the humid day. Sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest and his back wedged into the corner, Boromir gave a soft sigh and raked the fingers of one hand through his hair, dragging it back out of his face. Beside him, Faramir sat very still, legs crossed and feet tucked up under him so he could hold the book comfortably in his lap as he read. But as the light had grown increasingly feeble, Faramir had stopped reading, and now they sat in comfortable silence, as if awaiting a sign. Stars began to glitter ever so faintly in the sky, appearing first in the deeper night overhead and spreading outward erratically, pinwheeling across the sky. Faramir gazed up at them, leaning back against the wall, and Boromir smiled slightly, letting his eyes wander over him under the cover of darkness, while bits and snatches of Silvaríel's poetry ran through his mind.

It is an odd thing, to love another so well, and yet know that there are depths to him that I shall never be able to plumb, Boromir thought. Listening to his brother read, and then discuss, the work of this obscure poet of Arnor had been… illuminating. He had always known that his brother read avidly all that he could find, and he supposed that if he thought about it, Faramir's love of poetry was only too logical. But I have never listened to him talk about it before, not like this! I have never let him talk to me about it before! Which struck him as a failure on his part, for ere that afternoon he had never truly realized how very vital was this pursuit to his brother. He knew of Faramir's interests, of course, but there was a vast difference between knowing a thing with his head and feeling the truth of that knowledge in his heart. Boromir knew himself sufficiently well to recognize that intellectual comprehension stood a poor second to knowledge that he could touch, that he could feel in his bones. And until that afternoon, he had never managed to penetrate Faramir's aesthetic sensibility. It was as if he had spent his days trying to see through a high-set window: he could see the light that spilled out, but the source of that radiance had remained invisible and inaccessible to one earthbound. But as his brother had read, Boromir had listened intently to the telling change in the timbre and quality of Faramir's voice that bespoke some internal, private, yet irrepressible, transformation or transmutation. And as the words poured over him, he had wished that this strangely eager Faramir might find in him the inspiration for that ecstatic tone. Alas, I know too well that that will never be!

And so, as the slow afternoon wore away, he had found himself trying to follow where his brother led, not so much in the words that they exchanged about Silvaríel's poetry but in the feeling that Faramir evinced. I would know what it is that touches him this deeply, and what these words work in him! Boromir thought longingly. He would know, because that might be as close as he could ever come to touching that elusive part of Faramir's soul where dwelt the capacity to love to excess. Something draws him on, and I know not what precisely. Perhaps I find this poet too unsettling to fathom Faramir's attraction to her! There is a darkness to her words, and an ambiguity to that darkness, he thought, trying to sort out his troubled response to Silvaríel. In her strangely shaped staves, undeniably powerful and piercing, there was yet an undercurrent–or an undertone, rather!–that, while inviting one to fall more deeply under the poem's spell, threatened to go too deep. A man could drown in this, Boromir thought. I know not how, but I know that it is possible–I can feel it!

"Boromir? Are you well?" Faramir's concerned voice plucked him from his reflections.

"Mmm? Why do you ask?"

In the last light of the dying day, Boromir caught the glitter of his brother's eyes as Faramir cocked his head at him silently a moment ere he replied, "The manner of your staring: I have never seen you look at me so before! As if you were troubled…" At which point, Boromir realized that he had, indeed, been staring, and he shook his head sharply, feeling his heart race. How much did he glean from that lapse? He wondered as he strove to regain himself.

"Troubled is an apt word," he muttered, holding as close to the truth as he dared, for he could feel Faramir's scrutiny as a physical thing. "I know not what to make of some of these verses, nor of your own fascination with them." He paused, seeking the such words as could convey one meaning without betraying another. "There is a … darkness… in them that I like not, for I cannot see its base."

Faramir was silent, seeming to consider this, but he did not take his eyes from his brother. Indeed, he went so long without speaking that Boromir began to fear that his brother had recognized his dissembling. But then, "Strange that you should say that! That is why I return to her in time of trouble, to remind myself that even blind night is not wholly evil." Faramir sighed softly. "Otherwise, I would agree with you, for it is too easy to forget that ere ever there was day, all of Arda lay under the stars. Even darkness has its purposes."

"Where it lies, there hide things best left unseen," Boromir replied, by way of uneasy criticism.

"Aye, but not all that it conceals is ill, and without it there are no revelations," Faramir countered.

"Is that why you read Silvaríel?"

"I read her poems because they are beautiful. And because, as I said, I find some comfort in her words, strange though that may seem. Sometimes I fear the darkness that is within me, as well, and I need to be reminded that such is a part of all of Mankind," his brother replied, running a fingertip down the opened page before him. Then more softly, "Sometimes one needs to believe that confusion has its purpose too."

Boromir considered these words a moment, and then asked archly, "Do you speak now of that dream again?" A nod in the gloom came as answer, and he blew out a perplexed sigh. "Is that why you came here yourself?"

"Even as you did, to escape trouble. I still know nothing, Boromir, though not for want of searching all the morning and much of the afternoon! And I know I shall not sleep much tonight, for it plagues me even in waking life," Faramir said, pressing thumb and forefinger against tired eyes.

"Have you spoken to a physician?" Boromir asked, and was not surprised when his brother shook his head 'no.' "Have you slept at all since the night of Osgiliath?" Another negative shake of the head, and Boromir hissed. "Well and good that you test your endurance, Faramir, but is this not too much? Soon enough, you will be needed again, and your judgment cannot be impaired by exhaustion! If nothing else, Denethor will take it as a sign of weakness, if you appear before him muddled by weariness."

"Denethor! He needs me little, and we both know it. His errand boy am I, and only if there are no others to do the running," Faramir replied, disgruntled. "He shall not send for me, unless he sends for us both for he does not trust my words unless he knows first your thoughts on any matter."

"Faramir…"

"Tell me, whom did he summon this morning to tell of Osgiliath again? Not I! Not that my tale would have differed from yours, but he does not care to ask. Your word is sufficient for him!" Faramir sighed and lowered his hand, leaning his head back against the smooth tower wall ere he turned slightly to gaze at Boromir's silhouette. "I am sorry, Boromir, but though I do not grudge you that trust that you have, 'tis hard to have dangled before me what I want most but may never have: father's good will!"

"I understand," Boromir managed, resisting the urge to grab his brother and shake him. Or else embrace him, as he might have when they had been still boys, but if he did that, he would be sorely tempted to kiss him. And so he did nothing, only let the ache of longing wash through him as he wondered: How does he manage to strike ever squarely upon truth without ever intending or realizing it? To have his desire dangled before him, indeed! He fears father's cruelty for its reasonableness, but does he begin to imagine his own unintentional cruelty, which otherwise would be kindness? Ah, Faramir, if only you knew how well I understand your pain! And to his surprise, he felt Faramir fumble for his hand in the darkness and squeeze gently. Then his brother sighed, softly and with feeling, ere he released him again. In another world, it might have been much, but Boromir bit his lip and reminded himself sternly that that gesture meant absolutely nothing to Faramir, except that he was grateful for Boromir's support.

"Once again, you ought not to let me complain to you like this. It becomes a habit!"

"It has always been a habit between us," Boromir responded, attempting with a shrug to recast his composure. "And why should it not? Whatever your Silvaríel writes, some secrets can kill us if we hold onto them too long!"

"I hope I have none of those," Faramir replied. And I know that I have too many of them! Boromir thought. "Or rather, that I shall release them ere they wound too deep!" A pause, then, "What of you, brother?"

"What of me?"

Another silence, then, Faramir laughed softly and seeming somewhat embarrassed, said, "A foolish question, I suppose, for I have never known you to keep secrets."

"This from the man who spilled ink across father's desk once, and spent the better part of the rest of the day hiding beneath my bed!" Boromir parried, trying to inject a touch of levity into their conversation and turn aside from matters that touched him too closely. "I recall keeping that a secret!"

His brother laughed and gave him a playful shove, and then had to dodge the jab at his ribs that came as answer. "And I recall that it was you who said we should creep into the study to play! And had you not insisted on chasing me, I would never have tried to dive between the desk and the chair, so the ink atop the former would have been safe enough!" Faramir shook his head. "You had as much stake in keeping that quiet as did I!"

"Not that it helped, for Denethor had but to look at me sternly for a moment, and he knew what had happened," Boromir said. "But I did not tell him who broke mother's clock!"

"No, you did not. But as you said, father discovered the guilty party in spite of your silence," Faramir replied. "And once he had, you confessed that you had known it was me, so you did very poorly on both occasions to keep the secret secret!"

"Is it my fault that we have Denethor for a father?"

"Alas, if it is, I am as much to blame for that as are you." Faramir chuckled, and then shook his head. "He slapped me for that ink in any case, and the harder for having been a coward not to face him immediately! After the clock incident, I found it better to simply tell him and let him spend his anger quickly, ere it had time to build and brood for very long. The bruising was not so bad that way," he added.

"I tried to intervene on your behalf, but I fear an eleven year-old boy has little sway with his father at such times."

"And I thank you for it, but I likely deserved a slap," Faramir replied, amused.

"Well, father thrashed me for my part in it, too," Boromir replied. "He thought I set a bad example, by encouraging you to hide or by keeping secret your misdeeds. As the elder of us, I was to keep you honest. Thus my fault was the graver, or so he said then, and deserved a harsher punishment."

"Perhaps there are some benefits to being ever overlooked," his brother replied sympathetically.

"Perhaps," Boromir allowed generously, and shook his head for the boy he had been. For the children we both were once! Life was much simpler then! "I say it only to remind you that you did not suffer alone!"

"I never have," Faramir said softly, sobering again. "You stood ever at my side in all my trials, or else just before me. Why do you choose that post, Boromir? Why, when you know full well that there is no end to the hurt this world can inflict?"

"Because you are my brother," Boromir replied. And then, after a heartbeat's hesitation: "Because I love you." And was surprised at how much it hurt to say that, and know that his brother would not–could not possibly–begin to realize how true were those words, or how deep his feelings ran. But at least I had the chance to tell him, even if I dare not say all that is in my heart.

"I know," Faramir replied, and as they stood to return to the Citadel, "I know it well, for I love you too." He laid a hand upon his brother's shoulder and walked beside him as they descended, and Boromir did not speak as they went, unable to trust his voice to answer.

Part I V
Ambiguity

I love you… Words whispered into his mouth, brushing against his lips… dark hair and grey eyes that seemed so very familiar, and yet inscrutable… yearning so powerful he could scarcely breathe. Faramir? Sand beneath his feet… Why am I in Harad? Where are we?

Here, Faramir replied and crouched suddenly near him, holding something up in his hand. We are here.

Where? He reached for the object in his brother's cupped hand, and received a book.

The world blooms but once in each man's heart, Faramir said helpfully. We are the seeds.

But nothing grows here! He objected, watching as Faramir scooped a handful of sand from the ground and let the yellow grains flow away through his fingers.

This is the kingdom of Denethor, and soon it will be yours, brother, Faramir replied. Tend it well, and be certain that you recall the words.

What words? He demanded, opening the book. But the pages were blank; they fell out of their binding, and ere they touched the ground they crumbled to ash.

I love you! Faramir whispered, stretching out a hand to touch him…

Boromir gasped and woke, rigid with anticipation, expecting at any moment to feel the brush of his brother's fingers. Sweat drenched him, and he hissed as he buried his face in his pillow, attempting to concentrate, to step back from the throbbing sensuality of the last few moments of that dream, and to ignore his body's eager response to it. Finally, cursing softly, he threw the sheets off and clambered off to the washroom, where he bent over the basin and poured the entire pitcher of water over his head, letting the water run down him, while he strove to make his mind go blank as the pages of the dream-book. The tactic might have been more effective had the water been cooler, but the heat was merciless, having grown only worse in the past two days. Nevertheless, after another few minutes, he felt the tension unwind within him, and he sighed softly as he reused the water to take a more thorough bath. What did that mean in any case? He wondered, reviewing in his mind as much of the dream sequence as he could recall. Books with empty pages and Faramir spouting cryptic nonsense… We are the seeds? Shaking his head, he wrung the water out of his hair and went to find some clean clothes.

And as he dressed, he considered that final segment, for there was that 'I love you' still to deal with, will he or nil he. "I love you," Faramir had told him two nights ago, and he could not seem to forget it. It was so very maddening in its superficial resemblance to the declaration he so desperately longed to hear, seeming to mock his anguished desire! Why does it seem as though all of Arda conspires against me in the matter of my brother? He demanded of the unfeeling sky as he belted his trousers and pulled on one of his older shirts. As he did so, he glanced over at the writing desk, which bore now a number of thick, leather-bound volumes, and he sighed softly. Doubtless some of the confusion of his dreams stemmed from late nights spent reading the convoluted prose of long-dead loremasters. Such learned pursuits were hardly his passion, particularly after a long, sweltering day, but neither were they his idea. But I could never refuse Faramir anything, and especially in this matter I worry about him! His brother had very nearly missed a step on the long and steep way down from the tower two nights ago, so suddenly and sharply had that accursed dream-vision assailed him. And while Faramir still insisted that he was well enough, the very next day he had asked Boromir to help him in his hunt for the key to the rhyme's riddling words. And loathe though he was to be drawn into such research, Boromir had agreed, for the paradoxical reasons that his brother had asked him… and that such activities gave him a perfect excuse to avoid the other in the evenings.

For after he and Faramir had descended from the rampart on the eastern tower's heights, Boromir had resolved that he would no longer seek our his younger brother. Every encounter does naught but make it more difficult to hide what I feel, and I dare not risk discovery! More than that, it hurt too much to be constantly reminded that his brother could never love him as he wished to be loved. Besides, he had other tasks that needed careful and undivided attention, and Denethor claimed much of his time, especially in the mornings, which were devoted to the enigma of Rohan. For no sooner had the steward sent out a messenger bearing the dark tidings of the Riders, than another had thundered through the gates of Minas Tirith. A messenger out of Rohan, the man had been grim-faced as he delivered his message: a new menace had been spotted that took the guise of riders in black, and what did Gondor know of them? Such questions and tidings might not be cause for surprise coming from Edoras, but the man had born Éomer's livery, not Théoden's, and that breach of protocol called for careful handling. Rohan's king might be aged and obdurate in his despairing opposition to war, but let him learn of his nephew's overtures to Gondor, even if not made in Rohan's name, and the wrath of the court would fall upon Éomer like an avalanche. "Indisputably, the boy has an instinct for trouble!" Denethor had said behind closed doors, when he and Boromir were alone. "He might make a fine politician if only he would learn subtlety!"

Doubtless that was true. But privately, Boromir could not but admire Éomer's quick response, and the sheer nerve it took to dare even a sovereign's wrath at need. The Third Marshall did not lack for guts, but Denethor might be quite correct to think him an unstable political force, and one that could not be relied upon too closely lest Gondor offend Rohan's royal house. Even if Éomer does what is needed, while the House of Éorl sits stagnating and waits for doom to fall! If it were Théodred who had sent the message, Minas Tirith might fear less to put its trust in such under-the-table dealings, but Éomer had lost too much in standing at home to warrant good faith. Cold logic, that, as politics demanded, but Boromir had felt his disgust simmer hotly beneath the mask of his neutrality before the messenger. He may lack the subtlety of an ink-swiller, he thought, but at least we know always where we stand with him! That to me is much! Éomer recognizes the danger and would do something to oppose it at least, and that is a rare courage that deserves to be treated with greater honor than we can give! His father, he suspected, knew what he felt, for Denethor had watched him closely throughout the interview, but Boromir had said nothing, only listened as the steward politely but adroitly avoided a firm answer.

What would happen next between Gondor and Rohan was now a matter of guesswork, but Boromir had listened to the table talk, the off-watch (and on-watch!) conversations, and knew that men were nervous, uncertain whether the old ties that had bound the two realms together would endure. They are hopeful of it, at least, Boromir thought. Since its creation, Rohan has been an ally: having been birthed out of Gondor's woes, there was much blood in common between us, even then. Still, that was long ago, and before the threat of Mordor, who could say whether ancient amity would remain true? "Have faith!" Faramir had advised him. "The Ithilien guard and that of Cair Andros often meet Rohan's sweep riders in the eastern reaches of Anórien, and sometimes we do cross into the Eastfold at need. Whatever word comes out of Edoras, the people at least are not blind. They have suffered Mordor's incursions, and they know well that war comes to all, heedless of the court's stated position. I think that when the pinch comes, if Théoden does not declare himself opposed to the Dark Lord, there will be a ground swell of rebellion in that land."

But for the moment, at least, rebellion—or the promise of it—was of little use, and Boromir woke each morning under a cloud of dread as he listened to his father's councilors argue among themselves. There were no fools who advised the steward, for Denethor would not tolerate such, but there were those who were more optimistic than many… and others who were depressingly pessimistic. For his part, Boromir had decided already that Gondor's prospects were bleak, and though none could call Minas Tirith weak or overly vulnerable, it came down to the question of steel and men. And we have not enough of either to throw the enemy back for long. We have, perhaps, enough strength to hurt him, even badly, and thereby diminish Mordor's capacity to wage war for some years ere the Dark Lord rises again, but Gondor shall fall. Sooner or later, we will be overwhelmed, and Rohan with us. And then what? Who shall stand if we are laid low? Boromir knew not the answer to that question, and no one else on the council could hazard a guess, but then again, what mattered such concerns? By the time they were ripe for consideration, it was doubtful that any who stood on this humid morning before the steward would be left alive. It was hard enough to sit in session and discuss the need to remove the greater part of the noncombatants of the city to the remote reaches of the realm, so that in the end there would be still Gondorrim, though the kingdom lie in ashes. To look beyond their own children to those of the scattered folk of Eriador was beyond them, and Boromir, no more or less than any other, put thought of such rustics quickly from his mind. There was no time, none at all, to spare for them, and though he wished them well, they were not his concern. And all the while, as he listened to and argued with the councilors and the steward, in the back of his mind he thought now ever of those accursed words that had begun to haunt him no less than Faramir: There shall be shown a token/that doom is near at hand/ Isildur's Bane shall waken/and the Halfling forth shall stand…!

***

Faramir stood outside his father's study, waiting, and he found it ironic, though not unfitting, that he should take his brother's place and lie in wait for the other. For of late, Boromir had taken to spending more and more hours in the steward's presence, and their conversations—when they had them—were hurried and brief. Curt, almost, and there is in his voice and gestures an uncharacteristic agitation, Faramir mused. Almost, I would think he does not wish to speak to me, or even to see me. To be fair, his brother had many excuses, and he knew full well how hard Denethor could drive others to do his will and bidding, but he sensed an aura of deliberate avoidance in Boromir's recent schedule. Avoidance… and something not unlike pain, the younger man continued his reflections, tugging at a longish strand of hair in a gesture habitual to him when he was attempting to chase down some elusive insight. I noticed it first three days ago, after we stayed late up on the tower ramparts. He was strangely silent all the way down to the level streets, and I sensed that something troubled him, though I know not what! It was enough to make him wonder whether he had said or done something to offend Boromir, but if he had, it was most unlike his brother to keep silent about the matter.

In the end, his speculations chased themselves in circles, returning ever to his ignorance of the cause of Boromir's behavior, and he sighed softly. If I am at fault, then I would make amends, but I cannot do so unless he will speak with me at least! Weary and dispirited, Faramir bowed his head and wondered darkly whether Denethor might not be at the base of this evasiveness. For certain it is that the lord steward my father does not wish me to know overmuch of what passes in council, for Boromir is not the only councilor of whom I see little, where in former times we spoke often! If it were true, and Boromir was hiding something from him on Denethor's orders, then it hurt that his brother could not simply tell him so and have done with it. Surely he does not think me so cruelly disrespectful that I would force him to choose between the command of our father and liege lord and a brother's sense of slight! Faramir thought, and could not help but feel somewhat insulted by the idea that his brother could misread him so. Or perhaps I helped him there, too. Perhaps I said more than I realized that night, when I complained of Denethor's obvious favor for him!

Truthfully, even he was surprised by the level of bitterness that Denethor's favoritism awoke in him, for he had thought that long years of absence would wear away his sense of grievance, or at least inure him against it. But though former visits home had been marked by a cold, if generally civilized, formality between himself and the steward, it needed but the stimulus of Boromir's presence to send the three of them plummeting back into patterns of interaction that hearkened back to the brothers' childhood. Denethor's younger son was on the one hand vastly disappointed by this, but also darkly amused by the fact that the steward, no less than he, was weak enough to let old prejudice color his behavior. At least I do not envy Boromir, not to the point of anger or spiteful jealousy! Faramir thought, and heaved another sigh, wondering just how late his brother planned to remain shut up in their father's chambers. Not that it matters! He thought. It is not as if I shall get any rest tonight, any more than I have any other night since Osgiliath. That dream, so laden with desperate urgency, refused to leave him, and though he thought he had adapted to its day-time visitations well enough so that he did not falter in his tasks, by night it grew in strength, tearing him from his sleep. It has been almost a week since I slept more than an hour or two! Faramir bit his lip, and for all that he believed sincerely that it was a sign and in itself benign, that did not mean it could not kill him. If I have not solved this puzzle ere I return to Ithilien, it will take but little time for weariness to catch up to me, and then… ! There were myriad ways that a mistake could kill a man in the wild, and Faramir had seen most of them. He was therefore not eager to be added to that list of unfortunates who had paid for their unwitting errors with their lives.

In the meantime, fatigue had other, less deadly, but to him no less worrisome consequences, for his exhaustion only exacerbated his sense of grievance toward his father, and made him both short-tempered and short-sighted. For one accustomed to swift comprehension of any problem put to him, it was frustrating to read and reread the same passage four or five times because he could scarcely keep his eyes open or his thoughts from wandering. And the weight of weariness threatened to mire him in that frustration and agonized desperation. Now do I need most Boromir's help and support, and so of course he is more distant than I have ever known him to be! What is this strange… resistance… to me that I sense in him? Whence comes it, and what can I do to change it? Such questions could only be answered by one man, and Faramir sat on the urge to pace, trying to conserve his energy. What under Varda's skies do they speak of in there?! Closing his eyes, he tried to shut out worry, anticipation, and all such lesser demons, struggling for equilibrium. I need him… I need his help, and more than that his friendship… his affection… I need him to believe me when I say that I cannot do this alone!

At last, the sound of a door opening quietly drew him once more out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Boromir emerge from the hall. His brother was in the process of tying his long hair back out of his face, and he seemed to be rather preoccupied, which might have given Faramir pause but that he was desperate to resolve whatever lay between them and so be rid of the distraction. "Another late night?" He queried, and Boromir turned sharply toward the sound of his voice.

"Quite," the other replied, and to one who knew him well, there was no mistaking the subtle cues of voice and body language. Boromir was nervous, anticipating some unpleasant conversation, clearly, and Faramir carefully drew a deep breath to settle his own nerves. He had never truly faced Boromir as an opponent, not though they had sparred often together, either physically or verbally, and it was a wrench to see his brother through the eyes of an antagonist. "How long have you waited here?"

"An hour perhaps," Faramir replied, coming forward to stand directly before the other, and he sensed Boromir tense. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" Boromir demanded, rather more defensively than he had intended.

"Please!" Faramir sighed, letting a note of pleading enter his voice, "Do not seek to turn me aside with so poor a gambit! I ask little enough, just the answer to one question!"

"And what question is that?"

"Have I done aught to offend you of late?" He demanded, and pinned his brother under a penetrating stare that would permit no evasion. Boromir was silent for awhile—for so long, in fact, that Faramir began to worry indeed, for he had rather counted upon a response, one way or the other. But patience won the day, and at last, his brother sighed softly.

"No, you have not," he replied heavily.

"Then why do you avoid my company so diligently? Or is my temper so very short as to make me unbearable even to you?" Faramir asked, striving for an element of biting humor with that last remark, but Boromir did not seem to catch on to it.

"Of course not," he said instead, and glanced down and to one side in troubled reflection as he considered his words. "I simply… there has been much on my mind, and I feel a need to be alone, that is all."

Is it truly, brother? Faramir wondered, eyes narrowing. Weary though he was, he did not miss the hesitation in his brother's voice, nor its implications. "I think that that is not all, Boromir," he said as gently as he could manage while remaining still firm. "If I trouble you in some way, tell me and I shall take care not to do so in the future, but a clumsy lie does little to quiet my doubts in this matter, whatever it be!" And Boromir, desperately seeking an escape, found himself simply staring at his brother, feeling caught in a snare of his own crafting. What shall I say? What can I say? Nothing less than the truth will suffice to appease him now, but I dare not speak it! "Boromir…" Faramir murmured softly, sounding desperate himself, and the older man closed his eyes in pain for a moment.

Finally, he drew a breath and, gazing straight into his brother's eyes and praying that what he said now would suffice without driving Faramir from him, "There are things that I cannot share, not even with you, Faramir. Believe me when I say that I wish it were otherwise, for secrecy hurts, but I cannot tell you all!" There followed another profound silence, as Faramir searched his face intently, and for a moment, Boromir was certain that the ploy had failed, and that his brother, having been slighted now for several days, would ask further. But then:

"Then why did you not simply say so, Boromir?" Faramir asked, and the tension seemed to go out of him in a rush. "I would never ask you to tell me something that you were not free to tell, you know that, do you not?"

"I should," Boromir replied, feeling almost giddy with relief that he had been spared. "I am sorry, Faramir, I never intended to slight you."

"And I should have asked sooner, but I, too, have had much on my mind." Faramir replied, letting drop the matter, though something nagged at him. Some doubt or a sense that for all the honesty of that answer, there was another meaning to it that he had missed. But for the moment, he was too weary to pursue the matter with his usual vigor, doubting, even, that he read the other aright. Later, he decided, I shall give it what attention I can manage, but not now. I cannot manage an argument with him now! Instead, he asked, "When I first went to Ithilien, I did so in part because I felt I would depend too much upon you. Do you recall that?"

"How could I forget it?" Boromir asked, shaking his head, drawing his brother alongside him as he resumed walking.

"It has been nineteen years, but I still depend upon you." Faramir admitted, and proffered a somewhat melancholy half-smile, "I fear you shall never be rid of me!"

Boromir managed to laugh at that, though the bittersweet ache in his heart was hard to ignore or disguise. Never could I wish to be wholly rid of him, for the fault lies in me. What marvelous irony, that you say ever all that I could wish to hear, brother, and yet mean none of it as I would wish you to mean it! Had he noted the look in his brother's eyes, he might have recognized those words for what they were: an oblique warning, and a promise, but he kept his eyes on the hall before him, unwilling to tempt fate. It was a small thing, a slight misstep in the elaborate dance that kept him ever beyond his brother's suspicion, but fate has a way of seizing upon such errors. But his relief at having escaped was such that the seed of doubt did not take root in his heart. And if it did not itself bear fruit, it was yet fertile ground for the growth of other things…

Part V
Ties that Bind

Barren sand and ashes rising… hot winds and a dark sky hung with dust. Yellow dust. Gold dust. Star dust perhaps, who could say? A white tower gleamed in the distance ere it faded to naught. Boromir… Boromir… That sing-song voice, still so very familiar! … Leave me be! He struggled against the temptation. Hands upon his shoulders, sliding down over his chest to wrap about his waist, turning him about… or did the world turn? Faramir's hands, Faramir's scent… so very close… Leave me alone!

You will never be rid of me, his brother murmured, voice echoing softly in the silence. Wind begins to blow again, hot and dry… painfully hot… like fire. Faramir, let me go!

You will never be rid of me. For your kind come always to me, my love… you come always to me! And his brother's eyes blazed suddenly with red and cruel brilliance. The Eye! Sauron! Trumpets beneath the earth, and he was falling to pieces—

Boromir groaned as he crawled out of bed again, greeting the new day with curses once more for his nightmares. Why is it that I sleep better in armed camps than in my own bed? His dreams were certainly growing more intense with the passing days, and more disturbing at that! But he set his private worries aside, for the trumpets of his nightmares were transmuted now into the clear notes of Gondor's gate-watch. Who comes now to Minas Tirith? Whoever it was, the news was not good, for Boromir recognized the signal calls that chased the new arrivals up the streets of the Tower of the Guard. Hastily, he made himself presentable and darted from his chambers, still buckling his belt. Though it was barely dawn, the halls of the tower of Ecthelion were alive with the sounds of men rushing about, seeking to discover what had caused the alarm.

"Boromir!" The heir of Denethor whirled at the sound of his brother's voice. Faramir stood in the stairwell, having paused to let someone pass before him, then quickly he emerged from that narrow space and strode to Boromir's side, his eyes dark. "What have you heard?" Boromir asked, sensing that the other knew something of the morning's alert.

"Little enough beside the horns, but I saw the rider arrive. He bore the colors of Cair Andros," the younger man said with grim certainty. Boromir closed his eyes a moment, drawing a deep breath.

"Osgiliath we know is weak—it always has been. If Cair Andros has fallen…"

"I think it has not, for I saw no black flag," Faramir replied, shaking his head as he watched Gondor's elite scramble. "But Boromir, that isle is the gateway to Gondor from the Morannon, and it has always been understrength. We cannot lose both outposts at once, but neither can we hold them both! Not after the battle for the bridge."

"I know it, and father must also, but I confess, I know not how he inclines in this matter. Osgiliath may be useless now but it has been a matter of pride for long! Let us hope that this messenger does not bring news of investiture!" Boromir muttered as he began once more to make his way to Denethor's war room. Without bothering to knock, he opened the door and strode in, and was mildly surprised when his brother followed him inside. Apparently, the younger of Denethor's sons had grown weary of being ever shut out. Their father glanced up from his work, face impassive as he took in the pair, seeming to accept Faramir's presence as expected. Already, Húrin of the Keys was there, as was one lord Mirhal, and their faces were grim. "What news, father?" Boromir asked without preamble.

"I fear Cair Andros has suffered grievous loss this past night," the steward replied, and if he did not permit anxiety to show in his voice, there was a sharp edge to it that cut like a knife and commanded instant attention. "The messenger shall elaborate it for us, but I doubt not that we know already the meat of the matter: we are beset, and we shall soon be faced with an… unpalatable… range of choices. Faramir," Denethor's voice cracked like a whip, and his younger son stiffened as he stepped forward, meeting his father's eyes reluctantly. Boromir unobtrusively laid a supportive hand on the other's back before he could think the better of such an action. And though his brother appeared admirably composed, he could feel his heart beat, swift and powerful, and a shiver of he knew not what emotion worked its way up his spine.

"Yes, my lord?" Faramir asked.

"Ithilien works often with Cair Andros. Since you are come, acquaint these gentlemen with your opinion of the situation at the isle," Denethor replied, rising to beckon three more councilors into the chamber.

"As you wish, sir." Faramir stepped away from his brother, though not without darting a quick, grateful but somewhat puzzled look at him ere he assumed the formal mask that his men knew well, for he wore it ever into battle. Boromir knew it too, but in his mind, that carefully neutral, intent look would be forever associated with these painful sessions with their father. And it was then that he realized that Denethor was watching him rather closely, and Boromir wondered whether the steward had caught the exchange between brothers.

"As this council is well aware, Cair Andros, along with the Ithilien company, patrol Anórien and guard the most direct route across the river. For many years, however, that post has been hard pressed to fulfill its duties. We have enough men to hold the fortress on the isle, but not enough to make it an effective outpost without the aid of another company—Ithilien, as fate has had it. During the battle for Osgiliath's bridge, however, the north Ithilien guard suffered losses close to sixty percent, and of the company present at the battle, nearly ninety percent were killed when the bridge fell," Faramir stated grimly, pinning each man under a weighty gaze as his words sank in. It was painful to announce that fact, but Denethor's younger son was not accustomed to flinching before the truth, though if the grim, shocked faces were any indication, the steward had not yet spoken to his council of such losses. But when Faramir met his father's eyes, Denethor merely nodded slightly, tacit permission to continue. "Osgiliath's garrison stands at half-strength, and until my scouts are redistributed to cover the gap in our northern flank, Cair Andros is vulnerable. And with it, so also is Rohan, for we often protect a common border."

"Clearly, gentlemen, we are faced with a hard choice," Denethor broke in smoothly, taking control of the meeting. "Cair Andros's utility is limited, but its strategic position is such that we may not abandon it. As the men of Ithilien and the isle work closely in tandem, it would be convenient to strengthen the latter with troops drawn from the former, but the nature of Ithilien's operations demand a higher degree of skill than most other postings. I dare not bolster the one by weakening the other, especially now."

"What of Osgiliath's men, then?" Boromir asked. Like his father, he was reluctant to abandon Gondor's ancient capital, for it was his command even were it not a matter of pride. But Gondor needs more than symbols! And with the fall of the bridge, it is the most concrete thing I can offer! "Without the bridge, Osgiliath has little importance. Use the remaining garrison to support Cair Andros!"

"I doubt not that it shall come to that, but that does not solve the fundamental problem, gentlemen. We run short of men, while the Dark Lord's armies increase daily. If the disparity in our manpower continues to grow, it shall not need even a long war for attrition to wear away our ability to resist effectively. The transfer of Osgiliath's men is but a delaying tactic. If open war comes not soon, then we shall have no choice but to sacrifice all with the knowledge that it buys nothing, perhaps not even time enough to move some of our population northwest."

"But there is naught that we can do to prevent that disparity from increasing," Húrin pointed out, frowning. "We cannot breed and train a generation in the time given us; we can barely make a start at it!"

Ere anyone could say aught in response, though, the door swung open again, and one of the Tower guard approached, shepherding a man in the blue, black and white of Cair Andros. The man was white-faced, exhausted and there was in his eyes a nervousness that Boromir did not like. What horrors has he seen? He asked himself, wondering if the horsemen of Osgiliath might have reappeared in Gondor. But even they would need more time than that to pass from Rohan to the isle, and surely we would not have overlooked their journey were that so! From Faramir's intent look, he guessed that his brother's thoughts ran along similar lines, and the company seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the messenger to speak.

"My lords and steward," the Tower guard gestured to the messenger, "Here is one Tarvelon, bearing news from Cair Andros." And the man bowed, retreating from the room until he should be needed again. Tarvelon, credit to him, faced the assembled council of Gondor and did not flinch, though he seemed to sigh softly, as though wishing he need not speak his part.

"My lord steward," the messenger said in a low voice, and his eyes flicked quickly over the others, "Councilors. I bring ill news indeed. A strong company of orcs and what we believe is a new breed of troll crossed into Anórien the night of the twenty-seventh. There they found and engaged one of our outrider companies, to our bitter regret! We know not yet the true cost of that encounter, but only three men staggered back to the fortress the next morning. And though they believe some others were scattered and so escaped, the majority of that company is lost, and their horses with them." Murmurs and several dark looks were exchanged, for though Gondor did not rely upon horses as the Riddermark did, still, those that they had were a precious resource, and one of the few measures that made Cair Andros' understrength company worth maintaining. To lose an entire outrider company in one night was a sore blow, and Boromir rubbed at the stubble along his jaw and mouth to cover his frown.

"Does Rohan know?" Faramir's voice rose above the other whispered comments, and all eyes fixed on him once more. "A company that strong usually has more than Gondor as its objective: often, a large force will strike northwest to raid the herds of the Rohirrim, and Ithilien cannot intercept so strong a unit on its way back to the Morannon. Not now. Not without help, that is."

"Another messenger was sent west, my lord, but who knows whether he will arrive in time?" Or at all! Boromir thought, hearing the unspoken qualifier. Faramir glanced at him, and the older man offered a minute shrug, acknowledging their helplessness before this turn of events. One outrider unit… Osgiliath's survivors may fill places in the watch roster, but we have not the horses to put them where they are most needed! And Ithilien, too, needs bodies, and more than that, heads! Where shall we find them? The messenger remained some while longer, answering what questions arose, but it was plain to all present that Denethor had already struck the heart of the matter: they had not enough soldiers equipped to take the posts that were most in need and most needed.

When Tarvelon had been dismissed, Boromir asked, "Would Rohan agree to help us? They have horses aplenty, and riders trained in their use. Anórien is, as Faramir has said, a common border, commonly threatened, and there is much contact between our peoples there. It would be in their interest to work with us in this case."

"Éomer would do it," Faramir replied, glancing at Denethor swiftly ere he continued. "But I would hesitate to put it too bluntly. Already, he walks a dangerously thin line between the letter of the law and outright disobedience, and I would not wish to pressure him into an untenable position. I doubt not that if we give him his head, though, that he will come to us, as he has before." Yes, doubtless he shall, Boromir thought, unwilling to meet his father's eyes, recalling the steward's response to the latest overture from the Third Marshal. He rather expected Denethor to speak firmly with Faramir once the council was dismissed, for so far as Boromir knew, his brother had never openly mentioned such explicit cooperation between Rohan and Gondor. Given the steward's manifest unwillingness to try the precarious friendship that still existed between the two realms, the rebuke would likely become a scathing critique, and Boromir winced in anticipatory sympathy. And yet we ought to thank them both, for were it not for Faramir and Éomer's illicit cooperation, how many more losses might we have suffered? How many more would Rohan have suffered? How badly would Gondor have failed in its traditional obligations? But of late, that sort of battlefield honor had been a secondary consideration in the elaboration of policy, which troubled Boromir more than he liked to admit. Is it not ironic? He thought, considering his brother's willingness to take the initiative even in matters that touched upon treaties. Faramir seeks ever to earn his birthright, and he would serve Gondor as more than one captain among many if only father would trust him with other responsibilities! And I who am my father's heir would gladly surrender a part of my duties to him if I could! But I cannot, and father will not see the heart that Faramir has! Between them they tear me apart, quartering me on the ties of our love for each other!

The discussion went on and on, dragging itself over well-worn circles as everyone attempted to find some way out of the rut, only to stumble over the problem of skill and resources once again. But what else can we do? We approach the chasm, and there is no escaping the plunge! Boromir thought, aware of his brother's eyes upon him as the two of them listened silently. There was something about that solemn gaze that unsettled him. That burning regard reminded him too much of his nightmare, and in spite of all his caution, memory of that dream-embrace woke his longing once again. Remember how it ended! He berated himself, fearing that in his troubled frame of mind he might slip and accidentally reveal something of his hidden desire before his brother's piercing regard. Worse, father might notice, and then where would I be? To which question, the answer came with immediate and unpleasant certainty: On my knees! As unobtrusively as possible, Boromir pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off fatigue and frustration, but to no avail. And as he listened, and tried not to look at Faramir, the thought came suddenly to his mind: I must escape this place! I must get back to the field, if I can, else I fear I shall be trapped here indeed! But he had his duty, and that he could not abandon. So he bit his tongue, and bided his time, and hoped that when Osgiliath's men were restationed, that he would be sent with them rather than retained at his father's side.

And still, the discussion went on… .

***

Faramir watched his brother carefully, and in spite of his exhaustion, he did not miss the subtle disaffection that his brother evinced. Something does eat at him, but what I know not. It was very unlike Boromir, and that worried him, for in a world of shifting grounds and fading stars, when all hopes seemed to spiral into darkness, he had always felt that he could rely upon his brother's unflagging character. But of late he, too, has seemed weary. And why not? We have both touched upon darkness, and glad am I that I did not need to give the order to collapse the bridge! Still… Boromir was gazing back at him now, and his grey eyes grew sharper, more inscrutable, and yet Faramir sensed the other's uneasiness grow. He watched as his brother pinched the bridge of his nose, then passed that hand over his eyes, as if seeking to wipe away some troubling thought. Mayhap it is only this situation; hopelessness is a deadly disease, and we have been too long exposed to it. Boromir has perhaps seen the worst of it, for he is in father's confidance and likely knows more of our peril than he could wish. Faramir would have done anything he could to help his brother and father, but the latter scorned him and the former was bound to silence over just those matters.

Or so I am told! Still, Denethor's younger son puzzled over his brother's impassioned plea the night before last, at once honest and yet hiding something. Hiding what? The more he thought about it, the less convinced he became that he had understood that excuse properly. There was something… personal in it—some private worry that Boromir refused to surrender to another. In fact, as Faramir heard again his brother's voice in his memory, those words felt as personal as the hand upon his back earlier that morning. Why can I not seem to find a way through to understand this? He wondered, and cursed his own molasses-minded fatigue that interfered with his reasoning. Denethor rapped his knuckles sharply on the table before them, and Faramir hastily drew his attention back to the matter at hand, berating himself once more for drifting so far when council was in session. But if the steward had noted his lapse, he gave no sign as he ended the debate, saying, "Rohan must know of our need, but we ought not to expect anything of them at this time. The pinch is not yet come, and short of it, I doubt they will mobilize, unless the Marshals do individually. But we may not deal openly with any of them. Faramir!" What now? Faramir felt his spine stiffen at his father's summons, "if Éomer sends to you, I would know it! And from now on, you will refer him to me, rather than dealing in secret. I do not need you to complicate matters!"

"As you wish, sir," Faramir replied, and bit his tongue against a longer reply. Send to you indeed! How does that help us? Éomer never sends to us unless it is a matter of immediate and mutual peril! If I wait for your approval, we may lose all! Steadily, Faramir, he rebuked himself, trying to rein in his temper. The steward has all of Gondor to think of, not one province! But though he understood the political motivation, he could not help but doubt the steward's judgment in this case. And of course, I dislike being humiliated in front of my father's council! But as always, there was naught that he could do to change Denethor's opinion of him, and he made himself accept the reprimand without visible resentment. I am only one captain, and though my rank as his son places me second only to Boromir, in truth I am still junior to many of the men on this council! Remember that, when your pride hurts! Father may despise you, but that does not make his judgment of your actions wrong! So he told himself, but believed it not at all in this case.

As the session ended, Faramir made his way out, brushing past his brother once more, who, at Denethor's request, was waiting for the room to clear so he could speak with their father. And as he passed, Boromir reached out and caught his shoulder, walking with him a little ways to the door as he murmured a voice pitched for his ears only: "You did rightly, whatever father may say." Just that, and then he was gone again, turning back to Denethor. And though that helped to ease the sting of their father's rebuke, still, that touch did naught to help ravel the complicated knot of his brother's concerns. It had felt… hesitant, almost… as if Boromir were now reluctant to touch him, though he had done so readily earlier. There is some ambivalence there that I do not understand! Faramir sighed softly as he walked the halls alone, passing between little knots of men. Their lowered voices and taut shoulders told him that they discussed the latest bad news, and likely they knew as well as he did that Gondor was one step closer to destruction. As he passed, he felt their eyes on him, but even the out of favor son of a lord may not betray his insecurity. So Faramir left the tower with his head held high and refused to look back, but his heart was troubled. But not so much for Gondor at the moment as for his brother. Once we never thought to hide aught from each other, but in these past several days, Boromir has become… elusive… shadowy, almost. Why is that? Is it something I have done, in spite of his assurance otherwise? And as frustration, honed keen by exhaustion and disappointment, rose with the soaring summer temperatures, something snapped in him. I will know his secret! He decided. This has to end, because I cannot deal any longer with this doubt!

***

"How may I serve, father?" Denethor looked up at his son's question, and gave a slight, humorless smile for the wary puzzlement in the other's voice. Clearly, Boromir anticipated more ill news, and was not eager to hear it.

"In many ways yet," he replied. "Whatever his faults, your brother is correct that we must address Rohan's needs, and if possible bind them closely to our own."

"They are already bound closely," Boromir protested, "Edoras simply will not see the truth!"

"Politics is not always truth, my son, it is often merely perception. We must make Théoden king, or the majority of his captains, perceive that their ties with Gondor are such that they may not stand by while we fight Mordor." Boromir's eyes flickered at that, for he liked not the implication of his father's disjunction.

"Think you that even Éomer and the other marshals would dare to keep Éorl's oath if the king breaks it, father?" He asked, and carefully did not mention Faramir's own concurrent speculations on that matter.

"A much debated question," Denethor replied, prowling about the council table on which lay a map of Gondor and Rohan's borders. And perhaps because his brother was now much on his mind, Boromir, watching him, was struck by how very like Faramir he moved… or rather, the reverse. Having a discerning eye where Faramir was concerned, Boromir had noted before how very like his younger brother and father were. Physically, Faramir took after Denethor's lanky build, and his face had the same narrow, fine-boned structure. In fact, in everything except temperament, Faramir was his father's son, and today's parting shot had only demonstrated the extent of that vital difference. But even that animosity, he realized, came of a common source, and their temperaments differed as the opposite sides of the same coin differed.

And that troubles me, Boromir thought, recalling the flashes of bitter hurt and anger that his brother occasionally evinced, and more often of late than in all the years since he had left Minas Tirith. That troubles me deeply! For given that basic sameness, what might lurk in the depths of Faramir's soul? What would it require to make Faramir into our father? To leech him of his compassion and turn him into Denethor? And would I love him still were he to change so? It seemed horrible to hope that perhaps he would not; it seemed even worse to think that he might very well continue to love Faramir in any eventuality. But that a part of him actually wished that something would happen to transform his brother into a younger version of their father just so that he might not be troubled by his longings any more…? That was… obscene. What is it in me that constantly seeks a way for life to maim him? He demanded of himself, disgusted. "I have given thought to it often of late," the steward continued, breaking his son's private reflections. "The Rohirrim are a proud people, but between their king and a wayward lord, I would not put much faith that the bulk of them will follow the lord. Not until it is too late. I cannot blame them for that, but Gondor's protection is my business, and it behooves me to encourage rebellion if it will aid us at the pinch." And seeing Boromir's frown, he snorted. "You do not approve, I see! I ought to have phrased it differently."

"Call it what you will, father, but you speak of an assault upon the king's authority, do you not?"

"Say not an assault," Denethor countered, "Say rather that I seek to provide them with a more immediate reason to come to our aid. The Rohirrim are a close-knit folk, and slow to accept an outsider with no ties to them. And though Thengel married Morwen, she was not in the direct line of descent. But if another such marriage were to occur that linked Rohan firmly to us, then there would be many among the mighty of that land who would not accept that Gondor be left to its own defense, let Théoden say what he will against open war." And though such reasoning made perfect sense, Boromir felt a growing sense of dread anticipation rise in him. One that blossomed into full-blown fear as the steward pinned him under his gaze and continued, "Éowyn of Rohan is of an age for marriage, but the king has thus far refused her suitors, claiming them to be of unsuitable lineage. Yet I think he shall bow in the end to a proposal to bring our two realms closer together, and a steward's heir need not fear rejection for lack of a pedigree!"

***

Despite the heat of the mid-day sun, the practice grounds of Minas Tirith's soldiery were not empty. A solitary figure stood there, sword in hand, and moved with a steady grace and sureness through the drills and forms that any well-trained swordsman knew. But beneath that apparent focus, Boromir's emotions were in turmoil. Concentrate! He admonished himself, correcting for a slight flaw in his routine, feeling unaccountably irritated with that minor error. And then he was irritated with himself for such anger, knowing its source. I came here to forget father's words! Drills such as these he could perform almost in his sleep, and no one but he would be the wiser for any mistakes of form, but today they did not help to focus his attention as they usually did. It was as if he had spent his focus already that morning, and having managed to accept his father's decision to arrange his marriage to Éowyn with at least outward equanimity, he no longer had it in him to contain his anger… and his horror. Éowyn… he tried to remember her, to picture her in his mind, but nothing came to him, really. He supposed she looked like her brother, Éomer, but that did little to help him. Éomer he found attractive enough, but he could not seem to move from brother to sister, and he eventually gave up on the attempt. "She has attended to the king for many years now, since she was quite young. As such, she will certainly have listened to many a debate, and may even recall them. At the very least, she is devoted to her uncle's house and affairs, and that will reassure the Rohirrim," Denethor had said.

I care not for her qualifications! Boromir thought. Indeed, I care not for her! But it is as I said before, father rules my future. How many other heirs have married for expediency, rather than for love of any sort? But others might at least learn to love their wives, the voice of doubt replied. Does that matter? He asked, trying to counter that nagging voice. Many doubtless did not learn to do so, and in the end, it is Gondor that I serve in all things. If this is what is needed, then so be it! Surely I did not think to remain forever a bachelor, given my station? Perhaps not in his head, but his heart seemed to have assumed so, flesh and blood being weaker than bodiless, abstracted logic.

"You have gone through the same set of drills for more than an hour now, Boromir, ever since you left father's presence," a voice from behind him startled him so badly that Boromir whirled, automatically bringing up his sword in a sharp cut, as if to ward off an opponent. Faramir! His brother lounged against the doorframe of the armory, arms folded across his chest. The heat was such that he had his overtunic draped about his shoulders, and the plain white shirt beneath was open at the collar. Boromir wiped sweat from his brow and out of his eyes as he stared at him. Faramir was to all appearances quite nonchalant, but his tired eyes were serious as he gazed across the open yard, and when he spoke, his voice held a certain brittle edge that made Boromir's stomach knot to hear it. "An hour, and I think your form worsens. Clearly you gain no peace, brother. Why not try something else?"

"Have you been watching all that time?" At his brother's sharp nod, he asked rather sharply, "Why?"

"I have had much on my mind," Faramir replied, which caused Boromir to narrow his eyes as he regarded him. The younger man seemed almost to unfold from his position, tossing the discarded garment onto a low bend and taking up a practice sword that someone had left there. "But why do you ask questions whose answers you know well?"

"I know not whereof you speak," Boromir hedged.

"Do you not?" Faramir asked, raising the dulled weapon in a salute as he came to stand across from him. "You seemed composed enough this morning, until Denethor called you aside. Seemed, I say, for there is something that troubles you… that has troubled you, and for long I should say. What could father have said that brings forth desperation so strongly?"

"What makes you think it is anything father said?" Boromir demanded in automatic defense. That earned him a withering glare, and he flushed, realizing how stupid that must sound. It is always father, is it not? Or Faramir himself! "It is nothing, Faramir. Believe me!"

"I would that I could," the other replied, settling into a high guard stance. "But I fear that your behavior counts against you, brother." A slight, sad smile that was nonetheless edged with a certain anger twisted his brother's mouth, as he said, "You were ever a poor liar!" A pause, then, seeing that Boromir did not move, "Come now, drills have done naught to clear your mind, and why should they? You need a target that stands clearly before you, and so do I!" With that, Faramir struck, moving into a quick series of testing feints that Boromir countered easily. What has gotten into him? The older man wondered, and feared that he knew the answer. Still, it was not in him to surrender so easily.

"If you think to clear my mind with a challenge, then you shall have to try harder than that! I am in no mood for play, Faramir!" He replied, and struck back, throwing himself into the fight. Faramir met him head on, which Boromir found rather unusual for his brother's style tended to be more subtle at least in the beginning. But then again, I would not have thought he would approach me thus, either! Valar help me, what does he know? What does he suspect? His brother caught his blade on his own, then pushed off of it into a quick spin that added momentum to the low swing that Boromir had to jump over. Faramir ducked beneath the follow-up, and ere he tucked into a roll, his left leg shot out. He caught Boromir's ankle, and the older man cursed as he stumbled and nearly did fall.

"Then let us not seek mere diversion here," Faramir panted as he came quickly to his feet. The two of them stood there, breathing hard, and the sun's light dazzled their eyes, but not enough to deter them. Faramir attacked again, putting together a long combination that Boromir managed to deflect, though his brother's sword once whistled so close to his head that he felt the blade rustle his hair. As Faramir brought his weapon down and across his body on the back stroke, Boromir angled his sword and caught the blade against the cross hilts. Striving against each other, seeking that extra bit of purchase that would break the lock, they stared at each other over crossed blades, and Faramir asked, "Tell me, since you would be in earnest, what troubles you? Something lies between us, and I would know what it is!"

"Nothing lies between us," Boromir grated, lying through his teeth as he thrust hard, backing his brother down ere he followed through with a hard, overhand cut. Faramir side-stepped it, then had to parry quickly as Boromir shifted his grip and swung back to his left. Steel rang again, and Faramir turned on his toes, gracefully brushing the other's sword aside.

"Another clumsy lie, brother mine! I see the way that you look at me! And there is that in your touch that makes me doubt you!" Faramir's eyes flashed bright silver, and for a moment, Boromir's defense faltered badly. Indeed, he had no defense, for against the sick shock that ran through him, he could not seem to muster any resistance. Valar save me, he knows! He must! And what shall I say? What could I possibly say that would excuse me? Naught! Faramir, however, suffered from no such shock, and he took advantage of his brother's moment of immobility to cut hard to the inside and then come back at him with a short combination that almost drew blood. As it was, in his distraction, Boromir found himself staring down the length of his brother's sword, his own weapon out of position to one side. "What say you, Boromir?" Faramir asked. And seeing his brother's expression, he realized, with a terrible, sinking sensation, that there could be no avoiding the conversation that he had sought for so many years to avoid.

"What should I say?" He asked in a low, harsh voice.

"Whatever is true, I should hope! Since Osgiliath, you have not been yourself. And I did not blame you at first, for who among us who saw the horror of that shadow can say truly that he is himself today? But this has gone too long in silence and guilt, Boromir! Speak!"

"I cannot!"

"Find a way," Faramir replied evenly, without wavering or standing down. And if I refuse, brother, will you end my misery and stab me with that sword? It may be blunted for practice, but in your hands it can still bite deep enough to kill! And perhaps that would not be so terrible a thing! If Denethor succeeded in his plans, he would need Faramir as never before, even though it was largely because of his brother that he could not stomach the idea of marriage. But if after this they could share naught but anger and disgust, then there was a part of him that wondered why all of it ought not to end now. He stared mutely at the other, unable to speak, and something akin to despair stirred in him… and then just as quickly it twisted, transmuting into a rare spite for all the long years of struggle and denial of his own nature—for the decades during which his brother had played the innocent tormentor, merciless in his guilelessness. And it was suddenly more than Boromir could bear! Faramir for his part perceived the shift in his brother's mood, and caught his breath. Uncertainty and a touch of bewilderment flickered in his eyes, and in that moment, Boromir struck. Faramir staggered back, hastily flinging up his guard again as his older brother attacked.

"You wish to know what troubles me?" Boromir demanded between ragged breaths as he pressed his advantage with all the fervor he normally reserved for the battlefield. For what is this if not a war? See what comes of a too-curious mind, brother! "You truly wish to know? Then listen well!" Faramir ducked under a strike and rolled to clear the range of a backhanded swipe ere he managed to regain his feet. He was retreating now, seeming at once startled by Boromir's ferocity, but also determined to see this through. "I have done all that father has asked of me since I was old enough to decide such things! I have never disobeyed him, I have always bowed to his wishes, and I have tried to serve Gondor to the best of my ability, Faramir! Valar know that I have tried! I would give my life, but that I can sacrifice but once! And while I live, all that I am shall never be enough, for even were Sauron to cease in this very instant, father would find still more for me to be and do. There are things that I do that I hate myself for having done! That I hate myself for accepting! But I cannot refuse them either! I cannot refuse our father's will!"

"And what—"Faramir's question was interrupted as the younger man parried and then dodged the back-thrust that followed. "What is father's will now, Boromir, that it has touched you so close?" Faramir demanded, voice harsh with the strain of defending himself against the fury of his brother's onslaught. And as he asked, he glanced back, for he realized that he was running swiftly out of space to maneuver. Cutting hard to the left, he tried to turn them both, but his brother was too canny a swordsman. Not that Faramir was incompetent—he was a match for any man save perhaps his brother and possibly a younger Denethor—but his own weary, grieving frustration was little indeed to oppose the powerful emotion that fueled Boromir's strokes. With a curse, Boromir drove him back still further, 'til the wall of the armory was but a few feet distant.

"He would have me marry Éowyn of Rohan!" Boromir snarled, and as he caught Faramir's sword on his own, he thrust back with such force that his brother grunted in anguish as he hit the wall and all the air was driven out of his lungs. But Faramir, too, had seen too many battles, and he did not collapse. Fighting breathlessness and the tingling numbness that radiated out from his abused spinal column, the younger man stared at Boromir with darkened eyes, feeling his brother's body close as the two of them leaned hard against their locked weapons, seeking to hold each other in place. "Is that not enough?"

"Enough? Is what enough? Is this your ill news?" He managed, utterly confused by this unexpected turn. For of all the revelations that Boromir might have made, this seemed the most harmless. For a moment, his brother simply stared at him, as if he could not comprehend Faramir's question. Then a look akin to denial flashed across his face, and Boromir hung his head, lowering his sword as his shoulders shook with some odd emotion. Does he laugh or cry? Faramir wondered, half-collapsing against the wall now that he had no reason to stand straight, and he knew not what to hope. He had come here hoping to drive whatever it was that troubled his brother into the open, but it seemed he had walked into a mire. What have I stirred in him, and why?

Boromir, for his part, wanted to be sick, but amazement still held the upper hand over revulsion. He does not know! Or does he? I was so certain that he did, and now… ! The world seemed to spin dizzily about him, and he fancied he could hear the mocking laughter of some evil demon, but he squeezed his eyes shut against such illusions and willed the ground to steady itself. What is in his heart and mind now? Does he see it now? Boromir could feel the other's gaze upon him, and he feared to face it, knowing the power of those gorgeous eyes and the mind that lay behind them. But surely he knows… surely… ! And if he did, then what point was there in hiding? Valar help me, he is so close… so very close I can almost feel him against me! Boromir bit his lip hard, amazed to discover that even now, when everything hung on the edge of a knife, that he could still want his brother so badly. And for all the times that he had hugged Faramir, or held him close, or tussled with him in their periodic fits of playfulness, it seemed that he had never felt his presence so strongly as now, when their bodies hovered on the edge of contact without ever touching. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he had crossed the line at last that lent to the eroticism of the moment: for although uncertainty tore at him, his decision was made at last.

Faramir frowned, watching as Boromir slowly raised his head once more and locked eyes with him. A very odd fire seemed to burn there as his brother cocked his head slightly, staring at Faramir as if to pierce through to his very soul. The younger man's brow furrowed as he struggled with the sensation that he looked the answer to all his questions in the face and yet could not—quite—fathom it. It was as the feeling of losing a word when one needed it, and one felt it skitter about one's mouth without ever being able to pronounce it. What… what do I see? Boromir saw his puzzlement, his painful incomprehension, and some of the light died in his eyes as a sound almost like a soft sob escaped him; and for a moment, Faramir's confusion was mirrored in his brother's face. Boromir lifted his left hand and ever so gently wiped a strand of sweat-soaked dark hair from Faramir's eyes. Then he paused a bare second ere he let that hand stray down the side of Faramir's face to cradle his cheek. His thumb trailed down over Faramir's lips, as if pressing them closed to contain a secret. The puzzlement in Faramir's eyes waxed greater, and he blinked as Boromir pressed his forehead against his brow and shook his head minutely as if in exhausted disbelief.

"My poor Faramir, can you truly be such an innocent?" Boromir asked, the whispered question breathed out into the gap between their lips. And when Faramir said naught, only struggled with the glimmer of understanding that had begun to break its way through his muddled confusion, Boromir continued softly, "As always, so unwitting, and yet so very near the mark! Were it any other, I would not believe that he could aim so straight, and yet know not his quarry!"

"Boromir…?" Faramir could hardly speak, overwhelmed by the import of that confession. His brother felt so very close—he could feel the heat trapped between their bodies!—and Boromir's breath gusted raggedly. The hand on his face dropped now to his shoulder, then to his chest, and he could feel his own heartbeat race against the pressure of the other's palm. Varda above me, what do I say? What do I do? I know he loves me… I know that… but… I never thought…! For the first time in his life, he felt his brother's touch as… alien, unwanted, and he shivered. Surely not! But when Boromir backed slightly, just enough so that they could look each other once more in the eyes, there was no denying the truth.

For his part, Boromir no longer wished to deny it, for having been brought to the point of admission by mutual misunderstanding, the only scrap of dignity he had left lay in his willingness to own that confession. But he could say nothing, only wait and watch the horror and incredulity work through his brother. And grieve, for Faramir shall never trust me again after this! I cannot even blame him, for the shame is mine! That was why, rather than let his brother walk away from him, Boromir withdrew a pace, tossing the practice sword at the other's feet. Faramir's eyes darted to the weapon, then back to his brother's face with wary confusion, and Boromir spread his hands slightly and bowed, a warrior accepting his defeat. It was his shame, his own displaced, misdirected, helpless—hopeless!—desire that had led them to this point, and an odd sort of pride woke from the ashes of Boromir's self-esteem. A moment longer he gazed at his brother, committing to memory the scene, then he turned on his heel and walked quickly away, and tried to pretend that his heart did not break.

to Part VI - X
to Part XI - The End