Part V I
Regret

Another evening and another moonrise! Boromir gazed out of the window of the innermost chamber of his suite and felt each second slither away like thick wax down a candle's corrugated side. There was that painful pause, when it seemed as though the moment would never pass, and then suddenly it slipped away, vanishing like smoke, and leaving a man wishing for just a little more permanence in time's shifting stream. Boromir bowed his head, wishing bitterly that he could retrieve lost time, that lost innocence could be returned him. Innocence… not mine, but Faramir's! He had once thought that nothing could be more painful than his brother's ignorance, but he knew better now. I suppose I always have, or I would not have struggled to keep my secret for so long! To be betrayed–to betray myself!–out of a misinterpretation… But he seemed to know…! And so the circle of anger and hurt, denial and regret turned round. When he had left Faramir the day before, he had made it all the way back to his quarters before he threw up. He had retched 'til his stomach cramped and he had nothing left to vomit, but that had not rid him of the nausea, for it seemed to pervade his very blood, coursing through him like poison. He had huddled on the floor by the garderobe for hours, it had seemed, and his mind had been an utter blank… except for the memory of the hurt and pain and fear in his brother's shocked expression. In many ways, what he had felt was not unlike the shock he had experienced after his first battle, and he supposed that that was not so very surprising. He had suffered wrenching loss both times, and been made to look upon the destruction he had wrought. But if it hurts to see a stranger and an enemy reduced to so much flesh and spilt blood, how much more does it hurt to have wounded the one I love best?

With a sigh, he tore his eyes from the half moon and lowered his gaze once more to the book in his lap. For he sat now in a corner of his bedroom, foregoing the use of a chair or the bed itself, feeling displaced and ill at ease even here, where few came. It was a defensive posture and position, but he could do little to defend against himself. Indeed, he knew not why he continued to search through the volumes of half-legible writing that Faramir had lent him in aid of his search for Imladris. Except that I must do something, and I might as well continue this, for I have no mind for conversation of any sort! He thought, skimming through another page without success. Given his own dislike of such research, he had not even the faint hope of discovering the location of elusive Rivendell, but even had he been so arrogant as to think he might stumble across the information it would be a poor victory. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to search further. It comes down to duty once more, though he to whom I owe it would have no more of me! He thought. I am so far beyond atonement that I can barely fathom the notion. Forgiveness? What is that, when the offense is so grave?

From the time that the brothers had parted, Boromir had scarcely seen hide or hair of Faramir, and he began to feel painfully what Faramir must have felt when he had been driven to confront him outside of Denethor's council chambers. Faramir, whose tact and self-possession were usually such as to make him a very discreet presence, was now conspicuous by his very absence. Clearly, he avoided Boromir, and for one who had spent the better part of twenty years away from Minas Tirith, he had proved himself quite adept at disappearing into it. Only once this morning had his path crossed his older brother's, there in the halls that led to the western side of the seventh circle. Neither had spoken, and though Boromir had stared, unable to help himself, seeking even the smallest measure of acceptance in the other, Faramir had flicked but the barest glance at him ere he turned away. In that brief regard there had been nothing fraternal, unless it were the boundless capacity for brothers to hurt each other. Shaken, but not truly surprised, Boromir had spent an awful morning at his father's side: his concentration in tatters, he predictably performed poorly. And though the steward had snapped at him once or twice, even his father's wrath could not pierce his grief sufficiently to command undivided attention.

The worst of it all was that Boromir knew that he had no one to blame but himself. At least I did not kiss him! He thought, and was disgusted that that was the most positive thing that he could draw out of that disastrous confrontation. Not that he had not been tempted, but he had not even dared to think of his brother's probable reaction to such a violation. Which was likely why one part of him–the part that, in spite of everything, still ached with desire–cried Coward! And to that, reason and decency snapped back Beast! Have I no shame at all? Why must I persist in wanting? Or is it a perverse sort of punishment, that even so painful a loss cannot purge me of this… this flaw? If father does succeed in this match, I should weep for Éowyn, for I doubt not that I shall be a poor husband to her! He knew not whether Denethor had even made the proposal yet, and he wondered if he cared. After losing Faramir so irretrievably, all else seemed to fade in importance. Let her come! Let her hate me if she will, what is that to me? A touch more misery, perhaps, but naught by comparison, he thought. For how indeed could a woman he knew not at all inflict half the pain that came of the breaking of a bond forged over decades? A bond so very integral to his existence that he could not remember a time when he had not loved Faramir.

And where is Faramir now? What might he do at this hour? One might expect him to be asleep after such an ordeal, particularly one that followed upon a week of little or no rest, but Boromir doubted that his brother's dreams, prophetic or otherwise, would allow him that relief. Likely, Faramir had gone whither he always had when in need of space and free air. Likely, he was even now upon that particular tower, where as a boy on the cusp of manhood he had hidden when he could no longer bear their father's harsh and unrelenting criticism. Once, Boromir had been the one to comfort him, to give his brother a reason to return to the earth and leave his troubles on high. But he had forfeited that right–nay, that privilege!–and for all that he wished he dared to follow his brother up onto that turret, he could not. And so he will have to find his own way back down, he thought sadly. He will, I am certain of it, but is it wrong to wish that in doing so he might reconcile himself to me? Boromir sighed and tilted his head back, hissing softly as he fought with himself. Doubtless it was wrong, for he deserved nothing if not his brother's contempt, and yet that did not stop him from wishing.

I must leave this place! I know not how, but I have no choice! Minas Tirith shall forever be my home, but one tainted by shadow, stained by grief and shame. Somehow I shall find a way out from behind its walls, and soon…! Closing his eyes, he sighed softly. He would be forty with the coming of winter, and given the longevity of his line, he could be considered as verging on full maturity, on the prime of his life. And here sit I, feeling as though I were all of nineteen again: uncertain, racked with fear and guilt, despising myself for what I am…! Not that he had ever completely left those feelings behind, but mostly they were muted; he had learned to live with himself, to be comfortable enough in his body in spite of his sexuality. Except in one damning case! Varda's skies, I am tired! So very tired of it all! His head nodded now against his chest, and though he willed to stay awake, to read further, the exhausting emotions of the past two days could not but exact their vengeance upon him. Back braced by the corner and hands laid limply upon the open pages of the book, Boromir fell asleep and cared not what dreams might come.

***

It might have afforded Boromir some small satisfaction to know that his guess was correct, for upon the western tower of Minas Tirith's inner circle, Faramir sat in his customary place, tucked into a crenel that frankly had been more accommodating before he had reached his adult height. But in spite of the cramped quarters, he would sit nowhere else, and at least he could balance his book against his knees. Atop the merlon behind him burned a small lantern that shed warm yellow light, challenging the bright moon above. But Faramir did not read, for he had tried all that day to do so without having managed even thirty pages. Even the prospect of poetry did not entice him; words were too complicated, too abstract, requiring a concentration he simply did not have. And so rather than continue with the futile exercise, he had instead brought with him a somewhat battered sheaf of bound paper that had followed him from Minas Tirith to Ithilien. Not that he had much time for sketching in Ithilien, but perhaps once or twice in a four month period, he would manage an hour or two to himself. The book was a gift, something that his mother had bestowed shortly before her death, and as it had brought her comfort in her loneliness, so it helped him to achieve a measure of peace. There was a definite satisfaction that came of watching something take shape under one's own hands, particularly when so often those same hands wrought death. And usually, the act of drawing was utterly absorbing, enabling him to forget for a time his fears.

But tonight, his mind and hands worked against him, for without quite intending to, he had simply begun to sketch, to the best of his ability to remember, his brother. With a grimace, Faramir cocked his head, trying to decide whether he had put that last line at the right angle, and his fingers traced the mark carefully. Like Boromir's fingers yesterday! The comparison leapt to his mind, and with it the ghost of that caress seemed to burn down his jaw-line. Faramir hissed, jerking his hand back involuntarily. And just as quickly, he shook his head, annoyed with himself for having put the two together. 'Tis a drawing! And if I like it not, then why do I continue it? In truth, he knew not whence came his inspiration, for if he could have but one moment to relive, he would have chosen the moment he had decided to speak to his brother on the practice grounds. I should have held my tongue! I should have walked away and left him alone. He never asked for my help! He never asked for aught, and I… what must I have seemed to him?

Never in his life had he thought to feel so badly conflicted–he, who had thought he had learned the measure of troubled love through his father's contempt! On the one hand, he was horrified by the passion smoldering in his brother's eyes, and felt himself repulsed by the very idea. Even had Boromir not been his brother, Faramir felt naught but disgust for the thought of loving another man thus. And yet, as he reviewed all the days of their lives together, he could not hold himself blameless. How could I have been so naïve? There is so much that I missed, that I took for granted! Unimportant things, little things that defined the channel and course of our love. A kiss, a laugh, a touch… expressions of a love that I thought natural enough, simply the affection that grows out of a lifetime of companionship. So many words and deeds, harmless enough in themselves but seen now through hindsight, they became damning instances of temptation. Unwitting temptation, perhaps, but Faramir was too honest to deny that his own behavior had likely fueled Boromir's lust almost unbearably. I understand now why he sought to place a wall between us after Osgiliath. And I, like a fool, would not let him! His fall is in part my fault! He would have begged his brother's pardon for that, but he simply could not face him. The pain, the sense of betrayal, of having been used, was too great.

Still, he had almost weakened that morning when he had passed Boromir in the hall. His brother's face had frozen, and those grey eyes had been pleading, filled with a world of regret and anguish. And love! Faramir had felt his blood congeal, and he knew that his own eyes had gone absolutely blank as his mind sought to ignore, to simply not see, what lay before him. His legs had held their course without faltering, and before he could even have considered another response, he was past his brother and gone on his way. Since then he had managed to avoid the other. For all the good that that does me! His face and feel haunt me so that I might as well stand before him, Faramir thought with a soft sigh. And I ought to do so before ever we risk appearing jointly before father, for whatever my brother's fault, I would not see him exposed to Denethor's wrath! But how shall we conceal this? Is it even possible? At the moment, the court of Gondor was embroiled in matters political, in the problem of Rohan and the news out of Osgiliath and Cair Andros. But for the distraction provided by war and intrigue, someone would surely have remarked the sudden change in the brothers' relationship with each other. I never thought to be grateful for ill tidings, but I confess that I am. So long as all eyes are drawn towards Rohan and towards Mordor, none shall remark the trouble at home!

If he thought about it too much (which of course he did), he could grow angry beyond words for the very fact that he had now to look askance at his brother. Why did he say aught? I never suspected him, truly! Could he not have kept silent? And now I must wonder, is it only to me that he turns? Or have there been others... and if so, how many? Faramir did not want to contemplate such things, but he could not help himself. He was too familiar with an army's routines to think that even a commander could not steal a few hours with a lover at need. Or even at will! Thus far, he had never had to discipline anyone for "inappropriate conduct with another man" as the formal phrase went, but that did not mean that he never would. And now I am complicit in that crime! Were I at all concerned with justice, I would denounce my brother, but I shall not! How could I? And how could I think that way about Boromir? He is not that shameless a man, or that cruel! I hope… Faramir groaned softly and closed his eyes. In his heart, he still trusted that his brother was fundamentally an honorable man, but that one glaring fault cast the pall of doubt upon all such certainties. Indeed, Faramir felt himself torn in two, caught between wanting to believe that Boromir would never have acted on his desire and inbred suspicion of someone who could lie so well and for so long.

A poor liar I called him! The irony was sickening, and Faramir opened his eyes again, shivering as he recalled all over again the feeling of warmth along the length of his body as Boromir had leaned close to whisper his confession. Almost without realizing what he did, Faramir raised his hand to touch his face where Boromir's hand had lain. He had not managed his brother's oddly graceful retreat yesterday, and as soon as Boromir had disappeared, he had sunk to the ground, shaking. When at last he had managed to find the strength to rise again, he had gone swiftly to his own quarters, stripped out of his clothes and washed thoroughly, feeling absolutely filthy. But water could not wash away guilt, or the feeling of spiritual contamination, and though he had washed again this morning, he still felt dirty. Dirty–because Boromir loved him as he should not; because Faramir had misled his brother, however unintentionally; and because in the end, beneath the anger and hurt, he still loved Boromir and could not bring himself to tell him so.

Stop thinking of him! He ordered himself, closing the sketchbook with sudden resolve and wiping the charcoal off of his hands on a rag. But he could not, and his gaze drifted south to the tower of Ecthelion. White and tall it stood, shimmering in the moonlight, and a greenish light flickered in the highest window. Faramir frowned, wondering at that, but only briefly ere his eyes darted to the windows that he knew were his brother's. Does he sleep, I wonder? Or does he wear the night away as I do? For a long while, he simply stared and thoughts came and went, drifting on the tide of heedless speculation. …

With a hiss of pain, Faramir clutched at his temples, gritting his teeth as the vision took him again, exploding into his mind like a dwarven mine-stick. Will this never end? Faramir doubled over, panting, feeling cold sweat soak him in a heartbeat. If we must find Imladris, could we not at least be told where it lies? I would go if I knew! He knew not to whom he addressed such complaints, but as the vision spun itself out and faded away once more, Faramir winced as he probed his lower lip and tasted blood. I know not how much longer I can withstand this! He realized. Between Boromir's disturbing revelation, Denethor's continued cold treatment of him, and this merciless dream that plagued him, he was fast approaching the limits of his endurance. I cannot change Denethor's heart, and I doubt me that I could change Boromir's; that leaves the dream, and that I must answer if I can for the sake of my sanity! And so, though it seemed every muscle protested, he rose and gathered up his belongings and began the long descent. There were books stacked high on every surface of his room, and one of them had to hold the answer. If he worked through the night, perhaps he might find it!

***

Boromir woke suddenly, a cry upon his lips as the dream faded. White tower… dark mountains… Seek for the Sword that was Broken… The words echoed in his mind with such force that he did not doubt what he had dreamt. But why? The line of the stewards still pulsed strongly with the blood of Númenór, and it was given to many over the long years to dream true. In his generation, such gifts seemed to have passed from Denethor to Faramir alone, and Boromir had never envied his brother his foresight. But it seemed his immunity had just been shattered, and the steward's heir shook his head sharply as he rose, setting aside the book in his lap. Am I certain that I dreamt it truly? He wondered, irritably brushing hair out of his eyes. I have heard that rhyme so often now, searched so many records for mention of Imladris or Isildur or Halflings that perhaps it is but a confusion of waking memory and dream! But such excuses rang hollow, for they could not explain the terrible urgency that he felt now. Indeed, he wondered how Faramir had borne the strain of that unfulfilled command for so long. Imladris! Curse it all, what is it that calls us there? And where is it? Confound it all, where? The skies made no reply to his mute appeal, and Boromir sighed softly.

"We can do little more than we have done already," he murmured, thinking aloud. "If Faramir has not succeeded, there is little chance that I will! But we cannot let this lie… !" A glimmer of inspiration struck suddenly, and he wondered that he had not thought of it before. Likely because it was Faramir's quest, and habits of thought are difficult to escape! Faramir had confided in him, had asked his help, and because of that, Boromir had kept the matter between them, never thinking to look further. But if we wish to succeed, then I think we must! Distasteful as the prospect might be to his brother, Denethor might know enough to help them. His brother's intellect was no less precocious and subtle than their father's, but the steward had had many more years to explore the vaults of the library. If anyone knows, he would! But how shall I broach this with Faramir?

That gave him pause, for even had nothing passed between them the day before, he would have been hard pressed to find a way to convince his brother to go their father with this matter. Faramir had invested too much sweat and frustration in the effort to unravel the rhyme to surrender it to another's keeping, and Boromir knew well that once their father knew of his brother's search, it would all be out of their hands. Denethor, in his inimitable fashion, would brush them both aside and take the task upon himself, and that would deal a blow to Faramir's sense of worth. Boromir had seen that happen too often before, and he was not eager to see it again. But if Denethor did know something… if it were possible that he might help, then Boromir must make Faramir see the necessity of going to the steward. Though in point of fact, and all things being equal, he would usually have done little convincing; rather, he would simply have approached the other with the idea and appealed to Faramir's sense of duty. And failing that, to his trust in me! But Faramir had been searching for a week, and was running himself ragged in pursuit of duty, and after the fight… He will not hear me, for that trust is broken! Boromir clenched his teeth against bitter self-hatred and tried to focus. No use! If this is truly as important as my heart now tells me, then I may not balk at the asking.

Nevertheless, though he was certain that Faramir slept not, he remained where he was, thinking. And it seemed to him that he could almost feel his brother's restless energy, and knew that all was not well with him. If I go to him now, he may refuse to listen to me at all, and why not? And I know not what I shall do when I see him! Boromir bowed his head, tormented by that truth. If Faramir slammed the door in his face, he knew not what he would do; but if he seemed to admit him, to listen, if only reluctantly, then would he, Boromir, be able to focus solely on the task at hand? Or would he weaken to the point of begging forgiveness? That must not happen, for then I doubt not that Faramir shall think I came only for that reason, and will not hear me on other matters of more import. Valar curse it, what a twisted path I walk! Leaning now upon the window sill, Boromir swore viciously, futilely wishing that he could trust himself to have strength enough to forebear such pleading. But he knew he had it not; and so, as the moon rose to its zenith and began its descent, as the sky grew paler and the sun began to blaze over the dark and dreary peaks of the Ephel Duath, Boromir remained where he was, and cursed for the hurt he was about to do his brother once more.

Part V I I
Torn

A/N: Usually, I choose my chapter titles with great care. I confess, though, the mood in this one changes a lot from start to finish. And although it all holds together (at least I think it does!) it's kind of hard to pick a really good title that conveys a sense of the chapter without being too wordy or disparate. Oh well. Can't have everything. I just hope you like this one. And I think this has to be another record update for me, because I've gotten 3 chapters of this out in a week's time. Sometimes these things just come, and at the moment, "From the Other Riverbank" is being remarkably accomodating in that respect! Thanks to all those who have reviewed this story, because it's probably the most… um… risky one that I've written so far, and I'm glad that in spite of my taking liberties with Tolkien's characters, Boromir and Faramir still seem to shine through as themselves to readers. Of course, by the end of this chapter you may change your minds about that… : )

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

Boromir stood before his father's chambers and sternly reminded himself that he was no longer a child—that he had a right and a reason to speak to his father in private, where he could be certain no others would overhear… and that he had no choice, and so should banish Faramir's haunting image from his mind. I have known for many hours now what I must do. And still I hesitate! He grimaced, wrinkling his nose slightly as he raised his hand and rapped twice, sharply. After some few moments, the door opened and a young face looked out. Denethor's esquire looked as if he would far rather be asleep himself, but the steward of Gondor kept long hours and one did not complain of such incidental things as lost sleep. Still, it was unusual for anyone to come seeking Denethor before the sun had fully risen, and the lad gave a slight frown as he beckoned Boromir within. "A moment, my lord, and I shall return," the esquire went swiftly to the south wall and passed through the door there into his father's inner rooms.

Boromir meanwhile stood and tried not to shift from foot to foot as his eyes wandered over the meticulously kept quarters. This was ostensibly the antechamber where Denethor could receive visitors or entertain a guest of some special significance, but one might not know that from the décor. The chamber did have a small table and some extra chairs, but this was clearly another place of work, like the study below. More intimate, perhaps, for the room gave evidence of Denethor's tastes, but as in all things, the steward was discreet. Maps and books lined every wall, and the furniture was elegant in its simplicity and functionality. The oversized desk along the wall before the window held many reams of paper and a book lay open upon it. Two unlit candles sat upon either corner of the desk and the large pool of wax at their bases testified to their frequent and prolonged use. The carpet that covered the flagstones was a deep blue that was almost black, relieved only by a border of white tracery that seemed almost as lettering. In one corner there stood a clock, and in another a chest whose contents remained a mystery even to Boromir. All was kept in perfect order, and Boromir found himself uneasy, feeling as though he upset the symmetry of the room with his presence. Stop imagining things! He berated himself, which of course only made the feeling grow stronger.

Just then, the door opened again, but instead of the esquire, Denethor himself emerged. "Good morning father," Boromir said, straightening automatically. Let it begin!

"You come early today," Denethor said by way of reply. The steward wore a black, silk over-robe, tied at the waist, as if he had risen not long ago. But despite that, sleep seemed far from him, and the very atmosphere of the room seemed to grow tense with his father's arrival. Like the air before a lightning strike, Boromir thought. Denethor stalked to the table before the hearth where sat a cup and a kettle and poured himself tea. The steward quirked a brow in his son's direction in silent question, and Boromir shook his head.

"No, thank you," he murmured, watching as Denethor set the kettle down once more and then turned to him, eyeing him closely.

"What brings you to me before the accustomed hour?" He asked, cutting straight to the heart of the matter, for even among those closest to him, the steward was not one for idle pleasantries.

If only you knew! Boromir thought, though he was careful to conceal the emotions that surged up within him. Still, he could not hide the worry that he felt, and did not try, for he had reason enough for it that his father ought to see naught in it but the obvious. Drawing a deep breath, he ground under a mental heel the bite of conscience, and answered, "A dream, father. One that seems to me to have some significance."

"Ah?" Denethor raised both brows now, gazing at him over the rim of the teacup as he drank. And if there was a touch of surprise in the sharp interest his father exhibited, Boromir could hardly blame him for it. The last time he had come to his father over a dream, he had been eight years old and his mother had been too ill to comfort him. "Say on, then!"

"I… it is not my wont, father, to heed overmuch dreams, for I have not your gift," Boromir began. Nor Faramir's, thankfully! "But this one I cannot ignore. Know you aught, sir, of Imladris?"

"Imladris… yes, I have heard the name," Denethor replied. "You dreamt of it?"

"Not of it, but it stands in the staves spoken in this dream," Boromir said, watching his father closely. "What is it, sir? Or where is it?"

"I cannot say," the steward replied, taking another swallow of tea ere he set the cup aside. "'Tis the name of a valley in the north. A hidden refuge of the elves it once was, and perhaps it is still. Gondor has never had dealings with it, and I know naught of its location, save that it lies in the Misty Mountains." The Misty Mountains, Boromir thought. No wonder we have found nothing! But Denethor continued now, "Tell me of this rhyme, Boromir, and perhaps we shall learn more." Boromir bit his lip, suddenly reluctant to speak, though he knew not why. Obscurely, now that he had come to the heart of it, the feeling that he was betraying Faramir once more grew stronger, and he glanced away from the steward's sharp gaze. But as he did so, his eyes fell upon the sheaf of paper and inkwell that Denethor kept ever upon the desk, and he crossed to it. Without asking permission, he grasped the pen and quickly wrote down the lines. When he had finished, he blew on the ink to encourage it to dry more swiftly ere he turned back to his father. Extending the paper to the other, Boromir could not help but hold his breath as Denethor reached out and took it, holding it at somewhat less than arm's length. "Far-sighted" men called him, referring to his piercing intellect and wisdom, but as the years drew on, it had begun to be true of his eyesight as well. Boromir watched as his father's eyes flicked over the lines, narrowing slightly as he read. When he had done, he lowered the paper and stared at Boromir with that uncomfortably intense scrutiny that drove many men to distraction as they sought to find a way out from beneath its weight. But Boromir simply gazed back, and even guilt could not master the urgent, nearly desperate hope that filled his heart. "Strange portents, my son!"

"I can make nothing of them, I fear," Boromir replied. Denethor grunted softly and meticulously folded the paper, creasing it as he crossed the room to set it upon his desk.

"Old signs and old legends drawn out of the dark days of the last Age," his father said grimly. "The loremasters despair of finding answers to some questions, and the matter of Isildur has long puzzled them. Out of Arnor, there came few rumors, but I doubt not that had the vaults of Fornost or Annuminas survived, we might have found much there to explain these staves. Alas, they are lost to us!" A pause. "What has Faramir discovered?"

"Father?"

"I hope you do not think that I have overlooked the number of books and scrolls that the two of you have between you examined," Denethor replied, his voice hardening somewhat. "Your brother knows of this. This dream tears at him, wearing him down, I can see it! But he would not come to me, and you have thus far remained silent. What has caused that to change?"

Swallowing an expletive, Boromir glanced down at the floor. I ought to have known better than to think that our activities could go all unnoticed! He thought. "Faramir has found naught of use, sir. And until last night, I did but help him in a quest I could not understand, for I am not one to deal with the uncanny, and as I said, such dreams are not granted me. But once dreamt, the words do not leave one, and I cannot dismiss the urgency that I feel! We must answer this riddle, sir, if we are to have any hope!"

For a long moment, Denethor met his gaze in silence, weighing his son's troubled, eager manner, and the intricate chain of speculation added a few more links to its length. The steward grunted softly, and quoted, "'In Imladris it dwells. There shall be counsels taken... .' So, you have come to me for a boon, and would find Imladris yourself with my permission."

"I would, sir," Boromir replied steadily.

"And why would I allow the heir to my station to leave the realm at such a time as this?" Denethor asked, his voice quite level, as though he were making some polite inquiry as to the other's health. But his son knew that tone too well, and felt the flutter of nervousness in his stomach. "Why should I not send Faramir?"

Boromir was silent for awhile, watching his father with troubled eyes as he considered the best way to respond. Whatever I say, I must be certain that it is honest in the end. Not that I would lie, truly, but if I am not careful, he may press me too hard, and then…! He refused to think about that eventuality, fearing perhaps that even such silent speculation might not be safe when he was alone in his father's presence. Given how long he had delayed his answer, though, he knew that he would have to begin with something that Denethor could question at least, and so he said, "Faramir is weary, father. You have seen what this dream has done to him, you say, but he would also be the first to tell you that we need haste! If one of us must go immediately, then let it not be he! The way is long and the path unknown, and who knows what perils a messenger might meet with? To send him forth as he is now would be to condemn him!"

"Your concern is admirable, but given a few days' rest, he would be well enough. 'Immediately' can be so imprecise a phrase, after all," Denethor replied with a humorless smile.

"That is so," Boromir admitted, drawing a deeper breath, marshaling his next response. "But there are other reasons. I—" He paused as Denethor held up a hand. The steward crossed to the door again and opened it enough to summon the esquire.

"Go, Verethon, and inform the lord Faramir that I would see him in my chambers. Now." With a bow, the esquire went, and Denethor turned shrewd eyes back to Boromir, who stared at him. For his part, Boromir wanted nothing more than to grab the lad and countermand that order, but there was naught that he could do for it was utterly out of his hands. "Since we come to this point, it would be only fair that Faramir be present to defend his claim, do you not think? And to tell me what he has learned and whence he has learned it, so as to shorten any search I might make and avoid redundancy." Boromir bit his lower lip gently, unable to speak, and so he simply nodded, once and sharply. And he tried to ignore the fact that his stomach roiled and his knees felt weak before the prospect of enduring his brother's accusatory looks. I never intended for Faramir to be present! He had planned to present the other with a fait accompli, for at least then he would not need to endure a heated argument, only his brother's recriminations. As forgiveness was already beyond him, he had thought it would be easier than asking his permission. I did not want to argue with him, and now I shall have no choice. Valar on high, help me find the words and do not let me weaken! Blind my father, o spirits of the world, I beg! Do not let him see the true nature of my shame! An unworthy prayer, perhaps, but he could do naught else but wait in silence.

Denethor, for his part, calmly returned to the table and finished the rest of his tea, and if he had any concerns over the imminent confrontation, he did not show them. What, indeed, has he to fear? Boromir thought bitterly. This is to him but another cat-squall, a little thing, and that it will hurt Faramir further is nothing to him. And it is everything to me! Not that he would have done his brother no hurt, but there was a seemingly callous disregard for the other in Denethor's summons. Or is there? It is fair, as father said, that Faramir be present. Even if I would prefer it otherwise! Why must it be so complicated? It seemed an eternity ere a knock sounded once more, and the esquire entered with Faramir in tow. Denethor's younger son had that somewhat glassy-eyed look of one who is not quite aware of his surroundings, but the instant he saw Boromir, those grey eyes sharpened warily. Suspicion entered his gaze as he cast a quick glance from his brother to his father, and though Faramir murmured a very civil 'good morrow' to both men, he clearly mistrusted this summons. The younger man stalked over to stand at Boromir's side, as was his wont in such situations, but Boromir knew with precision how far his brother stood from him. Just out of arm's reach! "May I inquire as to the reason for my presence, father?" Faramir asked, daring his father's gaze.

"You may. Boromir has told me of a dream—" at which point Faramir stiffened and his eyes darted sideways to catch his brother's expression— "that both of you have now had. He proposes to go to Imladris himself, but I would have each of your reasons laid plainly before me."

"I see," Faramir's monotone fooled no one who knew him well, and Boromir felt every muscle in his body tense before the volumes of reproach contained in those two words. "And when we have spoken, will you then decide, father, who is to go?"

"If I think such decision is warranted immediately, then yes. Otherwise, I shall inform you when I have had sufficient time for reflection. Boromir is of the opinion that you at least ought not to go if the journey must be undertaken at once, and I would concur. You have taken no rest since you arrived, and lack of judgment tends to breed further errors of a similar nature," Denethor said, and Faramir grit his teeth at the none too subtle criticism.

"If I have taken no rest, father, think not that it is out of any willful folly of mine, for this dream has tormented me by day as well as by night! But still I would go, for I fear I shall have no rest until this is resolved!" Faramir replied. "Moreover," he continued, reasonably, shooting a quick glance at Boromir, "My brother is your heir. You will have need of him, father. Such tasks as this are a second son's duty, for we cannot risk Boromir's loss."

"Have you an answer, Boromir?" Denethor shifted his gaze to his older son.

"Yes," Boromir replied, striving for an even tone. "Had the news not come two days ago, I might bow to such reasoning, but we hear now that Cair Andros is threatened, and Osgiliath's men must be disbanded and sent to the isle or elsewhere, wherever they are needed. Ithilien will need careful handling until its numbers can be increased. Faramir and I serve you in the field, father, and though we study also policy, it is in Anórien and Ithilien, or south at Poros that we are most needed. But command in Ithilien calls for a particular type of cunning that suits Faramir well. Or so you said many years ago when first he left for that company, father," Boromir pointed out. "If my lord steward wishes me to take my brother's place in Ithilien while he is gone on this errand, then so be it! But though I would learn quickly, I cannot, I think, rival my brother in that post. I cannot match nineteen years of experience, father." He paused, and carefully did not look at his brother. "In this matter, Faramir is more indispensable than am I, who shall shortly lack a command. If someone must be sent, it would be far easier to send me."

There was a silence, and Boromir could feel the heavy chill in the air as father and brother considered his argument. Denethor, he knew, could not deny the validity of it, though he might be loathe to release him. Faramir, on the other hand, had the air of one who fights to control an outburst, and Boromir, bowing his head, noted the other's clenched fists behind his back. Clearly, Faramir, too, recognized the logic of his brother's statements, but that did not ease the sting of betrayal. I am sorry, my love! Boromir thought, wishing that Faramir could hear him in that moment. But I cannot let you take this task! You are needed, and I cannot stay here. I simply cannot! Though I would never be parted from you, it is too late, for the abyss lies deep between us! And if I cannot stand at your side, then better for us both that I am far away, where I cannot hurt you further, and where father will never suspect what has befallen! He had a terrible feeling that he knew what Faramir's response to such an excuse would be, but fortunately, he might never have to hear it.

"Your reasoning is sound, Boromir," Denethor said at length, and beside him, Faramir closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Much though I little like it!"

"Father… please…" Faramir spoke softly, and his voice was taut with dread, with pleading, and Boromir cursed himself inwardly. Say nothing! Say nothing, Faramir, do not humiliate yourself in front of father! Do not beg!

"You have some further consideration to set before us?" Denethor demanded coolly.

"What could I say, but that I wish I had known his intentions earlier?" Faramir asked bitterly. "Why did you say nothing to me, Boromir?" His brother asked sharply, turning on him. Boromir sucked in his breath as he made himself meet Faramir's gaze. It was that or refuse to look at him, but Boromir had never been one to flinch, and if he did so now, it might rouse their father's suspicions. Or it might not! Clearly this is beyond the usual pattern of our interaction. Would he read so much if I had refused? More than he might read now? But all such considerations were swallowed up almost instantly before the anger and loathing that lay in his brother's eyes. How could you? Faramir seemed to ask, and Boromir had no answer for him. None that I can speak of here, at least! He willed his brother to understand, to read his sorrow and his guilt in his silence, but he could not summon his voice to save his life. Something flickered in Faramir's blazing, accusatory regard—something akin to understanding. But for once, understanding bred no pity in Faramir's heart. A look of utter disgust flashed briefly in those grey eyes, and then Faramir turned away. "I bow to the will of the steward in all things," he said tautly, facing Denethor once more. "If it be his will that my brother undertake this task, then I ask only that I be allowed to return to Ithilien soon. For there I shall be needed!" As I am not here! The unspoken retort hung in the air, and Boromir could not prevent himself from wincing slightly.

"The steward's will shall be declared, that I promise," Denethor replied. "But not yet. Though I can make no answer to Boromir's arguments, still I would withhold my judgment for a time. A brief time," the steward amended, letting his glance pass from Boromir to Faramir and then back again. Boromir felt that piercing regard and struggled to hold himself together under its weight. At length, Denethor released him, though a very odd look settled briefly in their father's eyes—a flash of emotion so swift and transitory that Boromir wondered if he had imagined it. "Faramir, I shall require of you a list of all that you have researched, and a brief summary of your findings. Boromir, I would have you do the same. Bring me what you have ere noon, both of you. And then go and rest, for I perceive that neither of you has slept the past night." That last was said in a wry tone, as if the steward found it amusing to have to order his sons to bed as he had when they were both young children. "Go now! I have need of thought."

"Yes, sir," Boromir replied, bowing slightly.

"As you will it, my lord," Faramir said, voice thick with barely restrained resentment. Both men left, and Boromir held the door for his brother. As the stairway lay beyond Boromir's quarters, they walked together down the hall, and Faramir's pace was quick.

"Faramir," Boromir murmured, feeling that he had to try.

"Speak not to me, since clearly you do not value my conversation!" Faramir retorted without slowing.

"I had no choice…"

"As ever!" Faramir stopped and spun round to face him. "I thought I knew you! I thought you knew me better than any other, and I trusted you with all that I am! And this is what my trust earns? Betrayal twice over? I would have accepted Denethor's judgment in any case, Boromir. Did you not realize that? Did you think me so prodigal a son that I would have rebelled against the command of my lord?"

"Would you have gone to Denethor if I had asked you to do so last night?" Boromir asked, glancing quickly about and praying that no others were near enough to hear them.

"Who can say, for you did not ask!" Faramir replied, pausing as he searched his brother's face. "Last night, I hated myself that I had misled you all these years. I held myself to blame for what passed between us. But this… I had no part in this, and still you betray me. You would have me forgive you that, all in a moment?"

It took Boromir several moments to respond, for his mind was caught upon that revelation: I held myself to blame… ! "You… to blame for… no! Faramir, I… You are not!" Bewildered, he shook his head, automatically reaching out to touch his brother's shoulder. "That is my shame alone!"

"Then add this latest offense to it! And take your hand off of my arm!" Faramir said in a clipped tone, and Boromir recoiled, snatching his hand back. "Father has set us each a task, and I mean not to fail in it. And as I have a longer list, I shall take my leave now. Good day, Boromir!" And then he was gone, though the click of his boot heels against the stone echoed for some minutes. Boromir closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, passing a hand before his eyes as if to wipe away the scene. But he would never forget it, he knew. Varda's stars, how much further can the knife twist ere it kills me? Unfortunately, so far as Boromir knew, no one had ever died of shame short of suicide, and that he could not countenance. The coward's way out! But it hurt, oh how it hurt! We know nothing yet, he reminded himself, struggling to regain his balance as he resumed the short walk to his door. Father has not decided, and he may well choose Faramir instead of me. But that would not appease my brother, not insofar as the matter touches on me! The sick feeling returned with staggering force, and as Boromir shut his door behind him, he leaned back against it as if to keep out the darkened world. What can I do? What can I do to make amends? But nothing came to him, and in the end there was still Denethor's order to obey. Faramir at least has the right of it! With a shaky sigh that was almost a sob, he shoved away from his support and went to do his duty.

***

Faramir lay on his stomach on his bed, still fully clothed, and he had his pillow clasped tightly in his arms and his face pressed into it. His eyes felt gritty, and his thoughts had that befogged quality that came of too many waking hours and worry. Yet he slept not. Noon had come and gone, and he had brought his report to his father—a three-page list of books and maps, with page numbers where appropriate, and forty pages of notes scribbled out over the course of the week, along with a summary that was shorter than either list or notes. It consisted, after all, of but one line: No findings of any significance. Denethor had accepted the pages without comment and then dismissed him, which cut less than it might have, for he had other wounds that ran deeper. Boromir! Wrath flared, and with it pain that would not abate. He felt his brother's betrayal as a steady ache that afflicted his entire being, though it stabbed most sharply in his gut and chest. How could you trust me so little? I thought you did love me, even if in a way I cannot accept, but now all is cast in doubt! If you loved me truly, you would have told me your intentions! You would not have tried to hide them! Faramir was not a violent man at heart, though he was adept at inflicting violence when need called. But it was not in him, usually, to wish another ill, unless it were Sauron; even orcs he did not despise to the point of wishing them to suffer. When he slew them, he did so quickly and cleanly, out of need to remove a threat, not because of blood-lust. And so it cost him something to lie here now and wish that his brother suffered as he did. It was a twisting of his soul that on the one hand only enraged him more, and on the other woke a horror of himself that he had rarely known. In fact, ere the twenty-ninth of June, he had never felt it before. Certainly I never thought to feel thus in connection with my brother! I thought only father could rouse such spite in me!

Let me forget! He begged silently. Let me sleep and forget for awhile my cares! Is that so much to ask? But outrage, hurt and disappointment raced through the corridors of his mind in a frenzied dance, and though he tried to ignore them, he could not. I could hate him, I think, if I let myself. That realization stabbed cruelly at him, and Faramir clenched his teeth, feeling the bile rise in his throat. To hate his brother… to hate the man who had been his protector, his support, his companion and his comforter… he did not want to believe he could, but he knew not what else to call the feeling that pulsed sickly within his breast now. Unless it is love, for still I love him! If I did not, I would not feel thus. At least with father, I have had all of my life to accustom myself to his coldness, to the fact that he will never love me. I do not know if I have the strength to learn to see Boromir in the same light! A pause, as doubt welled up. Or is it light? Is it strength? I know not! He knew only that his world lay dark about him, threatened from without and within, and he felt powerless before it all. As the shadow riders had stricken all who stood before them with mortal terror, such that they could not move to save themselves, he felt utterly vulnerable, to the point that he felt himself beginning to fall under the sway of his pain. Did he even dream my dream? Or did he lie only in order to be sent away? I know well that he would leave this place, but father would never have permitted it without good cause! Valar curse it all!

So bizarre, so nightmarish had the past week been, and particularly the past few days, that he could not seem to resist the fascination—the allure—of that darkness, and found himself reaching out to touch it again and again. Like a man who could not let a wound close, he prodded the hurt, returning in memory to his brother's confession, to the touch on his face, the hand on his chest and the feeling of sick dread that had consumed him. Added to that now was the painful interview with their father, Boromir's guilty silence and looks, and the shameful conversation in the hall. It would have been asking too much of him to let such memories lie, but there was something unhealthy in this preoccupation. He had read once that there comes a point when the victim and the torturer become one, so that the former cannot but relish the pain inflicted, and the latter cannot hurt the other without hurting himself. At the time, he had not been able to fathom such perversity, but now… Now I feel it, and I doubt not that Boromir does as well! Twist the knife a little more, please, brother…! He could confront Boromir again, assail him with his pain and let that agony flay the other to the bone. For Boromir would not resist, he knew; indeed, the other clearly felt he deserved no more, and Faramir was not above rubbing salt in the other's wounds if he asked for it. And that only made his own shame the worse, so that whatever pain he derived also felt merited. It was sadistic; it was masochism of the worst sort, and it was the only bridge left between the brothers—a bridge built of living flesh, and one that took pleasure in its own destruction. Hurt for hurt, we bleed ourselves out and revel in well-deserved pain…!

NO! Faramir gasped and jerked up onto his elbows, realizing that he had been on the edge of falling into his dreams, where thoughts run wild and stray to the furthest boundaries of the soul. His heart pounded in his chest, and sweat drenched him though he shivered. What have I become? What have I become that I can dream this, even? Anger, he could justify; hurt, he was permitted; but hatred…? No, I may not. Surely I cannot! 'Tis exhaustion that speaks now! With a groan he curled up onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut once more. Sleep, Faramir! Recover your wits! If for no other reason than that father ordered you to, rest! And to his great surprise, he did, falling almost instantly into oblivion.

***

When next Faramir woke, it was dark and for a moment, he could not remember how he had gotten into bed. He lay quietly, trying to recall the events of the day, and his body felt heavy and inert as thoughts tumbled through his mind. But they did not careen or scatter like seeds to the wind, which was an improvement, and Denethor's second son sighed softly as memory returned. I walked away from him again! Faramir thought. Never before had he and Boromir gone so long in an argument without resolving their differences. There had always been a sort of unspoken agreement between them that come what may, ere they slept, they would forgive each other. And now that I have broken that agreement, what now? Whither shall we go from this point? Whatever happens, it must happen swiftly, for I doubt me that I shall remain in the city for very long. Denethor will not forget my 'request' and I may not withdraw it! I belong in Ithilien, for better or for worse, and there is much to do there. Faramir did not dare to hope that his father might send him to Imladris, wherever that valley might lie, not after the arguments this morning. Sleep seemed to have transmuted his bitter resentment towards father and brother into a disappointed resignation, however, and it was not as if he disliked Ithilien. At least there, he had purpose and the power to fulfil his duties as befitted a prince. Thus I ought not to lie abed like a slug! I ought to begin to ready myself to return over the river. And still, he did not move, too comfortable to contemplate facing another long night. It had been so long since he had slept for any appreciable amount of time, and though duty called, he knew he needed the rest. In fact, this was the first time since the battle for Osgiliath that he had not dreamed at all. Valar be thanked! Faramir thought, closing his eyes once more. It was so pleasant just to lie still… !

Before he knew it, he had dozed off once more, drifting on the edge of warm darkness. But this time, images did float through his mind, though a part of him knew them for phantasms. Sunrise over Ithilien, as he had seen it so many times over the last score of years and yet he never tired of the sight… Minas Tirith's tower standing tall on the horizon, glittering in the noon day sun… Sun on the river Anduin… But the Haradrim were not shackled to the darkness like the orcs, and Faramir was dazzled by the light that lanced off of their keen blades as the river disgorged them. And behind them were the shadows… ! Run!! His mind screamed, and yet he could not seem to move. The riders spurred for him, and still he stood, rooted to his spot… Someone crashed into him, throwing him to the ground just as the riders thundered past, sweeping by them without slowing. Faramir felt his heart racing, felt the other's weight and panting breath as they lay where they had fallen and waited for the horror to subside. An odd lethargy seemed to suffuse him, as if the warm earth against his back had leeched him of his strength. A hand touched his face, slid down to his chest and paused, and he blinked up at a familiar pair of worried grey eyes. Boromir? His brother said naught, only gazed mutely at him. Boromir, are you hurt?

Only if you are! Boromir replied, sliding his hand down further, and Faramir caught his breath, tensing. Are you?

What do you want? Faramir asked, still unable to move, it seemed. No response, only the feel of the other tracing patterns lightly over his stomach, spiraling down… down…

I love you!

And Faramir opened his eyes with a gasp, automatically reaching to grab his brother's wrist, only to snatch at air. Light streamed through his window—the pale light of dawn, though he could not have slept for very long. When I woke the first time, it must have been early morning! H realized. I slept through the whole day and the night beside! With a soft groan, he rolled onto his back and lay there, staring at the ceiling and listening to the still swift beating of his heart. Boromir… I never shall be rid of you, shall I? He thought, swallowing hard. Sunlight spilled over him, hot though the hour was early yet, and he felt it creep into his blood and bones, its warmth stealing throughout him. 'I love you!' Boromir's voice whispered forlornly in his mind, and on impulse, reacting perhaps to that still-vivid dream presence, Faramir raised his right hand and hesitantly laid it over his heart, as Boromir had done now in life and in dream. And then, under the same odd impulse, he began to follow that dream caress, trying to remember what—if anything—he had felt only minutes ago. Fingers trailed over his chest, lazily over his taut stomach, to brush feather light if lingeringly over his crotch and down his left thigh… Faramir shivered and quickly sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. What am I doing?

Disturbed now, uncertain and quite perplexed, Faramir shook his head sharply, throwing off the mood of the moment before. Dreams! If I never dreamt again, I would account myself most fortunate among men! His own behavior confused him, for he was quite certain that had Boromir attempted to touch him so in waking life, his response would have been violent. Why, then, did I do that? Faramir searched his mind for a rational answer, and could come up with but one: he missed Boromir. Missed him enough to try to find a way through his own disgust to endure what he thought his brother must want of him. But I cannot love him thus! I do not, and I would not have him love me so! If this is what he wants… I cannot give it! I may not. Valar help me, why can I not let go?

For several minutes he sat there, head bowed, wondering at the twists of fate and trying to decide whether he was more angry with Boromir or with himself. In the end, though, he felt naught but a perplexed sort of grief and hurt that wanted no part of anger. He knew not whether he could avoid it, for wrath was a powerful emotion, and he knew himself well enough to know the dark places in his soul whence it might breed and burst forth. But for the moment, his mind turned to less weighty issues. He had slept in his clothes, and as he had not slept at all the night before last, he felt disheveled and in need of a bath. Whatever trouble his dreams still gave him, he still must face the day. Should I speak to Boromir? He wondered as he undressed. A part of him wanted to, but though that part argued hard, the greater part of his heart still quailed and flinched away from the idea of another confrontation. Even though instinct tells me that soon we shall be parted and sent once more upon our separate ways? Faramir frowned slightly, wavering. Father promised us an answer soon, and whatever else I may think of the steward, he has never broken his word. Time grows short, and there is so much to resolve! But in the end, he simply did not feel ready to hold a civilized conversation with his brother today. Tomorrow might be a different matter, but it seemed as if he would avoid his brother yet again in the hopes that time might bring him a measure of peace and of courage.

Part V I I I
A Father's Shadow

Another chapter? Geez, I really do have no life! Except that writing kind of is my life, so maybe I'm not so hopeless as I think! May it be worth the wading through, as I realized kind of late that this was… kind of long but equally inseparable.

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

"Gentlemen," Denethor's voice cut through the babble of astonished and angry–And frightened, Boromir thought darkly–voices, instantly arresting the council's speculations. Across the table, Faramir sat back in his chair, hands steepled before his face as he watched the other councilors sit up (or sit down, whichever was required of them) and focus on the steward again. As always, he had said little this morning, and the news out of Rohan had elicited naught but a raised eyebrow from him. He and Denethor had remained silent and watchful while the rest of the council had erupted into amazed and despairing debate, and Boromir, though he had acceded to the questioning of his neighbor, lord Torost, had also had little to say. What, after all, is there to say? Shock and outrage avail us nothing, and fear but worsens our case! He thought. That was true enough, but a part of his mind sneered at him for his careful omissions. If he were completely honest, he would admit, if only to himself, that Faramir's presence and mood were affecting him, and he suspected that his brother was just as aware and troubled by their proximity as he was. For though Faramir habitually said little unless he had something of importance to say, his quiet observation generally gave no hint of brooding or willful inscrutability, seeming instead quite natural–the product of a circumspect temper. Today, however, there was a stony, determined quality to his silence that felt subtly wrong to anyone who knew him well. As I do! And as father may…! Boromir thought, flicking a glance at the steward himself.

Denethor, as was his wont, sat at the head of the table and his dark eyes touched upon each of the councilors until he grew quiet, attentive once more to the steward's will. It was rather like taming a pack of excited hounds, Boromir had long ago decided, and when his turn came, he quickly surrendered to that probing regard, dropping his eyes to focus on the piece of paper that lay beneath Denethor's hands. A messenger had arrived in the dawn-light bearing Edoras' response to the news of the Shadow Riders, precisely one week after Denethor had sent a man west with the tidings. As the journey from Minas Tirith to Edoras was a hundred leagues, one would expect a certain delay, but either the messenger had tarried on his way or else Edoras' court had taken a good three days to ponder the tidings. That seemed hardly necessary, given their brevity and the fact that naught could truly be done to protect oneself against this menace. That their own messenger had been returned early and with no answer but a terse acknowledgment of the news and a promise of further communication had been ill-borne, so that there were now many on the council who read in Rohan's long silence a none-too-subtle insult. Boromir was one of them, and he chafed at the bit in silence but managed nonetheless to restrain himself. Gondor had few allies who did not already pay her homage, and whatever the position of the court of Edoras, Minas Tirith could not afford to alienate Rohan further. For it is as Faramir and father have said: there are many in Rohan, even those who hold rank, who are disturbed by Théoden's decisions in matters of war. They know their peril, and but that they are loyal to their king, they would act more openly. There is still hope that some may come to our aid in Théoden's despite! Truthfully, Boromir pitied those too-honest souls saddled with a king seemingly gone blind to reality, who were torn now between their oaths to their liege-lord and the need of not only their people, but of a people and nation that had been an ally and friend since Rohan's inception. Nevertheless, pity could not change the message that had come:

The closing formula, being required by legal custom, had done little to appease anyone, or to mask the blunt import of the message: Look to your own borders and trouble us no further! It was bare civility, and who knew how long that would endure before the break finally came? Denethor gazed upon the troubled faces of his council and Boromir sensed a certain grim contempt, as if the steward found their outbursts unworthy of Gondor's elite.

"Gentlemen," Denethor repeated, "We are not come to indulge our outrage, but to determine what course we might take that would strengthen our cause. Rohan's message, uncouth and unwarranted though it may be, is not yet a breech of treaty and we cannot make it one. In Rohan lies our best hope of allegiance in arms, and to whom else, indeed, could we turn?" There was a dispirited silence, for all knew well the answer to that question: no one. Although Gondor traded to the north with the Bardings of Dale and Laketown, the distance was too great, and the resources of both kingdoms too strapped, to make supply lines and war-time allegiance feasible. They had each their own borders to protect, and as with Arnor of old, any help that either kingdom sent would likely arrive too late and leave he who sent such aid vulnerable. Eriador was a wasteland in terms of men and armies, and to the south, the wary contacts with the northernmost Haradrim had long since been broken. Dunland was hostile to Rohan, and Isengard seemed to disdain all such troubles and refused to intervene in any way.

"What answer, though, should we make to that, my lord?" Mirhal asked, indicating the scroll with distaste quite evident in his tone.

"To that I have already given thought," Denethor replied. "It is true that we cannot answer this latest insolence with threat, for the court of Edoras knows well our position. But there are other ways of conveying our displeasure. Messengers will be sent back to Edoras by various routes, and along their way they shall visit the Marshals of the Mark. The Marshals see reason, and know well that the safety of their borders is guaranteed in part by Gondor, and that however many orcs may traverse Rohan's fields now, more would come were our protection withdrawn."

"I thought, sir, that we sought to abstain from dealings with the Marshals," Faramir spoke softly, but many were the faces that turned to him. Father and son locked eyes, and Faramir did not back down, remaining impassive before Denethor's lancing regard.

"We do," the steward replied after a moment. "But a messenger may have more than one message, and not all of them need be official. What a man says as a private citizen is not the same as what he says as a herald."

"That seems a thin ruse, sir," Faramir replied. "Even with a marriage proposal as the carrot to the stick." That elicited another flurry of murmurs and gasps, and Denethor actually glared at Faramir for that indiscretion. Boromir simply bowed his head and wished he were somewhere else. Anywhere else! The borders of Umbar are always active, and the watch on the Black Gate is ever in need of fresh blood! He had not thought his brother would dare to speak that far out of turn, for as of yet, Denethor had made no announcement of his scheme. Boromir certainly had not spoken of it to anyone. And though it made perfect sense to bring the issue into the open now, Faramir knew well that Denethor reserved that choice to himself. What do you hope to accomplish, brother? Boromir wondered, unable to fathom this uncharacteristic behavior. Other than to rouse Denethor's ire? Unless he wishes father to send him away… but that would not get him to Imladris. It might eventually see him to the inside of a cell! That last was highly unlikely, for Faramir was not that rash, but Boromir did not understand his brother's motives.

"Let it be transparently thin, Faramir, it does not matter so long as they say nothing of it. Which they shall not," Denethor replied in a rather clipped tone. "If you have naught of use to say, then I pray you remain silent!" All around the table, a stillness fell, as if every man held his breath, awaiting the response. The lord of the city rarely told a proven captain to shut his mouth, not in public, and no one was certain what to expect. Boromir, even, feared his brother's response, and he leaned forward, trying to catch Faramir's eye in warning.

But Faramir said nothing, only bowed his head in smooth acceptance of the rebuke and settled back into his seat as if he had been awaiting just such a dismissal. And though others cautiously relaxed, sensing that the confrontation was over ere it could truly begin, Boromir felt queasy, uncertain what to make of the gleam in the other's eyes. Denethor spared a moment more to glare at his younger son ere he turned to the others once more. "Since the matter has arisen, the content of the official message shall be a proposal to Éowyn of Rohan through her uncle, cousin, and brother. That excuses the employment of three messengers, for haste is needed, and we do but observe the custom of Rohan in alerting three male relatives of our interest. Now, such a proposal will be a matter for much discussion, and there are many who would see a match between Gondor and Rohan prosper, for it would benefit us both. Between Théodred, Éomer, and other such captains as must by law be present to discuss the idea, that may be pressure enough to force Théoden into a very explicit alliance with us. If successful, Rohan shall have little choice but to aid us. Either that, or Théoden must disown his sister's daughter." Which was highly unlikely, for however fallen Rohan's king, it was well known that he loved his niece. Of course, it was also well known that he loved his nephew, Boromir thought, and did not miss the look that Faramir tossed him. Clearly, his brother was thinking the same thing, but what point was there in bringing up the possibility of failure? The attempt had to be made, even if Boromir found himself feeling sick all over again at the prospect.

"There is little else to be done about Rohan for the present," Denethor concluded, after a long moment. Boromir, still gazing at the table top, felt his father's eyes slide off of him after that pause, and risked looking up. Mirhal, who sat directly across from him, was looking at him as if with pity, but Faramir was apparently absorbed by the table as well. Except that beneath the veil of thick lashes, Boromir caught the glimmer of the other's eyes, and realized that his brother was very carefully watching their father. The steward, fortunately, did not seem to notice, having passed to other issues. "We must turn to our own defenses once more, even as Théoden king would bid us do," said he. That got an uneasy spate of chuckling, but the mood did not lighten appreciably. "I have delayed our council this morning in order to give Faramir the time to reconsider his deployment in Ithilien, and also to let Boromir look more carefully into the matter of Osgiliath's garrison." At that, Faramir shifted his gaze to his brother, and Boromir, too, frowned slightly. He had not known that Denethor had requested that of his brother, and apparently Faramir had not known that Boromir too had been asked to address the problem of making their manpower stretch to cover the gaps in their borders. But in the end, that was a minor thing, and their mutual ignorance was none of their own doing but the product of their father's manipulation.

There are so many other points upon which to hang our grievance, after all! Boromir thought miserably. He listened in silence as Denethor laid out his synthesis of the brothers' solutions and recommendations, and others began to discuss the merits or deficiencies of the redeployment. In all fairness, it was likely the best plan they could manage, given their shortcomings, but Boromir had no heart for such debate today. He had hoped that perhaps Faramir might speak to him before the council had begun, but his brother had sent no word. Hardly surprising, now that he knew what he had been doing, though he was rather suspicious of his presence today. Denethor had made such a point of refusing to invite his younger son to participate, and of dismissing him from council that his inclusion, apparently at the steward's request, felt anomalous. Granted, it does make sense in light of Denethor's desire to discuss our movements in Ithilien and elsewhere, but I cannot be at ease with that excuse! Unfortunately, Boromir had no objective reason for such concern, and he needed what attention he could spare to keeping in check his troubled reaction to his brother. To be in his presence and yet have no opportunity to speak to him was torture; the need to conceal his suffering only worsened it. But Denethor's eyes haunted him, and he feared the occasional probing regard. At least Faramir is in better control of himself today, in spite of that misstep earlier, Boromir thought. His brother seemed much more alert, as if he might actually have slept for some length of time, and his attention was much more focused and less emotional. Denethor was far less likely to read anything from Faramir today, though what he might have gleaned from that awful meeting two days ago, Boromir still did not know. He himself had been very discreet in his father's presence ever since, and he had seen no further hint that the steward had discerned aught of the real issue that lay between the brothers. Mayhap I truly did imagine that look out of my own fearfulness!

"A question, if the steward will permit," Faramir's voice broke through his thoughts just then, momentarily putting an end to the discussion as all eyes turned once more to him. Denethor turned and locked eyes with his son, and for a long moment, the two strove thus in silence, while the others looked on uneasily. What now, Faramir? Boromir wondered with a sudden thrill of dread. You would not be so rash, would you? Valar help me, is this your response to my maneuverings? For he could think of naught else that would so occupy father and brother, and Boromir clenched his fists so hard under the table he felt his nails bite into his palms. A glance at Denethor proved that the steward was less than pleased with his younger son, but once again, Faramir's question could not be forever kept silent, and if he had brought it out earlier than Denethor might wish, there was now point in refusing it.

"Be brief, since I know well whereof you would speak," Denethor said after a lengthy pause.

"My thanks," Faramir replied neutrally, and for the life of him, Boromir could not have said whether that gratitude was sincere. "Whom would the steward choose to oversee these changes? For in our private words, it has become clear that we shall soon lack a captain." Everyone sat up straighter at this, and many a dark and doubtful glance was cast up the table to where Denethor sat, watching Faramir with a measuring gaze. "The only question, is which one?"

"What mean you by that?" Mirhal demanded of Ithilien's commander, adding a "my lord" hastily to the back of that sharp question.

"Yes, what new counsel is this, my lord steward?" Húrin asked, daring to address Denethor directly. And when the steward spoke not, he turned to gaze at Boromir. "My lord?" For if Faramir knew, then it was understood that Boromir did as well, and had for longer at that. But neither brother spoke, instead choosing to leave the matter now with Denethor, and the steward glanced from Faramir's direct gaze to Boromir's reluctant one and then back again.

"Counsel I would not call it," he said at last. "But nonetheless, we must deal with it, though I had thought to keep it awhile longer." The rebuke was unmistakable, but Faramir refused to retreat, and the steward continued. "The line of Mardil dreams true still, it seems, and we have been set a riddle. A rhyme that may contain the seeds of our salvation… or else our doom." Denethor's heavy gaze swept the room, and no one stirred, bound now to silence by a sort of eager, yet dreadful, fascination. "'Seek for the Sword that was Broken: In Imladris it dwells/ There shall be counsels taken stronger than Morgul-spells./There shall be shown a token that Doom is near at hand,/ For Isildur's Bane shall waken, and the Halfling forth shall stand.'* So Faramir and Boromir both report, and have sought to discover the meaning of these staves. As of now, I have had no more success than they in this task"–which news was greeted with the exchange of ominous looks–"and though I am loathe to dispense with the services of either, it is apparent that short of sending a messenger to Imladris, we shall never know the answers to our questions."

"And what is Imladris?" Húrin asked.

"It is the home of Elrond Half-Elven," Denethor replied, which caused Boromir to flick a glance in Faramir's direction. His younger brother, too, seemed surprised by this, but a thoughtful look settled on his face as he considered this new bit of information. Elrond Half-Elven… Gil-galad's herald… But other than the role he had played at the battle of Dagorlad, Boromir knew nothing of Elrond's history. He desperately wanted to ask whether Faramir knew more, but even had they had the chance, he could not be certain his brother would tell him. Not as things now stand between us! "Imladris lies somewhere in the northern reaches of the Misty Mountains, and is or was an Elf-haven. But long since has it passed from the knowledge of Men into vague legend. Yet it may be that we shall rediscover the truth of the matter, for as Faramir correctly discerned, it is there that we must go. I would gladly send a herald or an errand-rider were it a simple matter of alerting a neighbor of long standing. But we know naught of that land, and I fear I must send someone of greater rank… and also greater knowledge."

"Whom will you send, my lord?" Torost broke in, unable to contain himself, and from the attention of the others, it was clear that the same question occupied every mind at that table. Boromir found himself holding his breath, and he noted that his brother leaned forward slightly, back tense.

"That I shall not yet declare," Denethor replied after a moment, and immediately, protests arose. Faramir sank back into his seat and closed his eyes, partially shielding his face from view as he leaned his forehead against his hand. Boromir read the other's disappointment, and indeed, he also felt it. Perhaps that was all he wished, to push father to an open decision, Boromir thought suddenly. But why would he choose to do so in council? It was well-done, but almost reckless, I should say, if he hopes to go himself! Faramir, will you not speak to me? Tell me what you think! Alas, his silent demands went unmet, for Faramir appeared not to notice him at all. Indeed, he seemed to have withdrawn into himself, away from the clamor of the others and beyond his brother's reach.

***

The council ended in confusion, which was a rare thing, and Faramir wondered sarcastically if he ought to count that an accomplishment on his part. After he had arisen that morning, and just ere he was ready to leave his room, Verethon had arrived to tell him of Denethor's commands concerning Ithilien. "The steward would have you be present in council to answer any questions, my lord," the boy had added, which invitation had been most unexpected. Faramir had pondered it all that morning as he had worked to fulfill his father's command, wondering at the motive behind it. He had thought he had guessed it, for what else could Denethor want than to declare himself in the matter of the rhyme? There was literally no other reason for Faramir to be present there, for Denethor was quite capable of presenting his own work to the others and of handling any queries. And yet I guessed wrong, it seems! Curse it all, why do you toy with us like this, father? Can you not for once trust us? Even Boromir knew not what your intentions were! That much he had read easily, and also his brother's alarm over his own seeming-brashness. And his pain. Faramir grit his teeth, fighting against his own conscience which whispered ever and anon that he must speak to Boromir. He owed his brother that much at least, and yet he could not! I am afraid of what I may say… and of what I may see in him!

In the mean time, he waited in silence for the other councilors to leave, steeling himself for the inevitable lecture and carefully marshaling his defenses so that Denethor might not read more of his troubles than met the eye. For I at least am not a traitor! So said forlorn pride and despairing love, and as the door shut behind him, he raised his eyes to meet Denethor's. His father's expression was carved flint, and Faramir rose without being asked. "I suppose you regret your actions, Faramir," the steward said coldly. "Confusion, bewilderment, chaos… we cannot afford such luxuries in time of war, as you well know, and yet you have brought them upon us. What have you to say?"

"I am sorry, father, that the council parts divided, but I thought the issue could wait no longer."

"Sorry, are you?" Denethor snapped, and Faramir felt his cheeks heat in response. "Do you think that a steward's son can waste energy on being sorry? If you will challenge me, then best you forget regret for you cannot afford it! Have you learned nothing over the years?"

"If my actions were wrong, then it is only meet that I regret them! That at least you taught me! But was I wrong, father, to bring this matter to their attention? Is it not the council's place to know of all that may affect the govern of this realm?" Faramir responded, striving to answer with logic his father's demands. For as the sun rises, I dare not flinch too badly before him now!

"That is my judgment to make, wretch! I did not ask you here to speak of these matters."

"Then why, father, did you ask me here? What purpose, a councilor who will not speak his mind? Or did you wish only a mindless repetition of my report? That you could have done yourself, and have done often enough since you will not have me be present at these sessions! Boromir could have done it, had you asked him!" Faramir responded tautly, meeting his father's gaze once more. "I would gladly learn my purpose here, and do whatever it is that duty demands, but you will not speak plainly to me in such matters!"

"Your purpose here is to learn, nothing more! And to teach me the matter that lies between you and your brother," Denethor shot back coldly, and Faramir went very still. Teach me the matter… Valar protect us! "I know not what it is that sets you now against each other," the steward continued, advancing slowly toward him. "But I will have an end to it! Well? Speak! You have said that you would do as duty required of you, so hold to your words, son of mine!"

Faramir tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry, and he felt suddenly very light-headed. I cannot tell him! If he were to know… And yet if I do not, he will never forget it or forgive me my silence! Is this what Boromir felt all these years? Is this what he felt when I faced him that night and demanded an answer? When we sparred in that courtyard? Trying to quell the rising tide of panic, Faramir took a deep breath and frantically searched for some plausible lie that he could offer up. "I did not wish him to go to you with this, sir." He managed, which was true enough at least.

"That I saw quite readily, and so find your indiscretion today ironic." A hand caught his chin and forced him to look into his father's eyes, which flashed now with cold fury. "Do not think to feed me a half-truth, Faramir. This is more than a broken promise, for I saw it in you the moment you entered my chambers two days ago. Before that, I saw it in Boromir's distraction, in your avoidance of each other. What has happened?" A half-dozen curses chased through Faramir's mind, and he wished the creativity that had spawned them would inspire him to answer his father's question. But nothing came to him. His mind seemed to have shut down, as if to protect the secret, for what he could not even articulate to himself could not be betrayed so readily. Denethor's grip tightened to the point of pain, but he still said nothing, enduring the other's merciless gaze. "Faramir…!" The lashing intensity of his father's voice made him recoil involuntarily, which only caused the steward to clutch him more strongly and Faramir fought his gag reflex as the steward's fingers stretched further to grip higher, closer to the juncture of his throat. He was beginning to feel as though his jaw would be dislocated, and Faramir clutched blindly at his father's arm, nails digging in automatically in defense. Yet to no avail, for he felt not flesh but… metal! His eyes widened in surprise at the feel of fine chain mail hidden beneath the steward's clothing, and Denethor's eyes narrowed as he released him suddenly. Just as quickly, Faramir let go, sensing that the steward would take it very ill if he continued to hang on. Folding his hands tightly behind his back, Faramir refrained from rubbing his aching jaw and drew a deep breath. I must not show weakness! No more than I already have…!

"Whatever this matter be, it is between us, father," he finally managed, and his voice sounded harsh and unnatural to his ears, but fierce nonetheless. "And only between us! This is not your business, steward of Gondor!"

Denethor stared at him for so long that Faramir began to think that he had struck too hard with that last denial. But it was said, and could not be retracted now. And I do not wish to retract it! He realized. This is not his business! Not as the steward, and at least as concerns me, not even as my father for he has been none for too long a time now. Indeed, Faramir had never thought that the steward's interrogation had aught to do with concern for his, Faramir's, sake. If the steward had any worries, they were for his first-born; and if he asked Faramir to speak now, it was only because the steward viewed him as the weaker of the two and thus more readily manipulated. That stung his pride, but also his resolution: he would not be used against his brother. Let him ask Boromir, if he is so concerned! Let him ask the one he loves and leave me be! For Boromir can defend himself well enough! Denethor hissed softly in apparent frustration, which frightened Faramir badly. He had never seen his father lose control so badly before, and as one who might be considered a connoisseur of Denethor's wrath, that was saying much. "May I leave, father?" He asked, and felt greatly daring for having done so.

"Get out!" Denethor said softly, in a tone that would have chilled the fires of Orodruin. Faramir did not even bother to bow ere he turned and walked away. As soon as the door had shut behind him, he began to run, and there was but one thought in his mind: I must tell Boromir! I must warn him!

***

Boromir was on his way back to the library with an armload of the books he still had, courtesy of Faramir, when running footsteps caught his attention. Probably one of father's servants, for who else has cause to rush to this place? He thought. His own esquire had very helpfully made a start at the task, but Boromir had dismissed him for the afternoon once again. Poor lad likely feels unappreciated, I have used him so little! But he was in no mood for company, and even though it was a menial task, it was physical, and gave him something to do other than worry about what Denethor must be saying to his brother. Certainly it was better than wondering how under Varda's stars he would approach Faramir himself if the other came not to him in the next day or so. And it helped distract him somewhat from the uncertainty that the steward's refusal to declare himself had awakened. Unfortunately, all three concerns together were too much to forget in the doing of this one insignificant chore, and he was quite preoccupied as he strode towards the library entrance.

"Boromir!" His head jerked up at the sound of his brother's voice calling him, and he turned to see the other careen around the last corner, apparently having caught glimpse of him just in time to follow.

"Faramir? What–?" Boromir quickly glanced around, fearful of eavesdroppers, and he lowered his voice. "What is it? What is wrong?"

"We need to speak. Now!" Faramir half-wrenched a book from his grasp and hailed a man whose dress marked him as one of the librarians. "Return these for us, good sir," Faramir ordered, darting a look at his brother that would brook no delay or refusal, and Boromir wordlessly surrendered his cache to the man. "Thank you. Come!"

"Come whither?" Boromir demanded as he followed in Faramir's wake, confused, unsure of what to make of this sudden urgency. On the one hand, he was relieved that his brother even spoke to him, but Faramir's obvious fear filled him with foreboding. It did not take him long to realize where they went, and he suppressed a sigh as the two of them made for the western tower of the seventh circle. Whatever it is that troubles him now, it must be serious indeed to bring me to this place once more! He thought as they began the long ascent. Boromir followed Faramir up the ladder and through the trap door onto the platform and as a precaution, he drew up the ladder ere he shut the door.

Faramir was waiting for him when he turned around, and the glowing intensity in those grey eyes sent a shiver down Boromir's spine. Whatever the news, it seemed terrible. And yet despite the urgency of the moment, Faramir remained silent, watching Boromir like a hawk, seeming to try to read his thoughts and mood. Boromir, for his part, frowned slightly as he noticed something like bruising beneath the stubble that covered his brother's jaw-line. Faramir preferred to be clean-shaven, but of late he had had too many other cares to worry overmuch about incidental things like shaving. Perhaps I imagine things… Boromir took a step closer, but froze instantly when Faramir eased back to hold the distance between them open. "Faramir… I will not touch you," Boromir promised, spreading his hands at his sides as if to show himself unarmed. "I only want a look at you."

"Look then from where you stand," Faramir replied, but though there was tension in his voice, his tone held none of the scathing contempt and anger that it had held two days ago. There was discomfort, certainly, and a touch of fear, but Boromir could not honestly begrudge him that. And so he nodded slowly and clasped his hands behind his back to drive the point home, feeling his own tension ease a bit when Faramir relaxed slightly.

"As you wish. But what is that on your face?" Faramir traced the darker area and grimaced slightly.

"Denethor…" he growled, low under his breath but Boromir caught it.

"Did father strike you?" He could not keep the incredulity from his tone, for it had been long indeed since their father had raised his hand to either of them.

"No, he grabbed me," Faramir replied darkly. "He did not wish me to be able to escape him, for he would know what matter drives us apart!" Faramir folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against a merlon almost defensively, though there was now anger in his voice as well. "I know not what he suspects, but he has known of this for too long already: since the day after we fought, if not that same day!" Boromir felt himself go absolutely rigid with fear and he closed his eyes, counting his heartbeats until he felt as though he might be able to breathe again.

"And… learned he aught from you?" Boromir asked hoarsely, opening his eyes once more.

"Do you truly believe me to be that hard-hearted?" Faramir asked, cocking a brow and gazing candidly at his brother.

"No… I … I meant it not thus…"

"Or perhaps I am, I know not!" Faramir sighed softly and released his brother from his gaze. "I told him nothing, only that it would remain between us, and that it was not his affair."

"Thank you," Boromir breathed.

"There is naught to thank. For it is between us alone, and Denethor has no place in this," Faramir replied, and then surprisingly, he laughed softly, incredulously. "I told him that! He will not forget it, ever!" Just as quickly, though, he sobered once more and raised pained eyes to Boromir's face as he admitted, "But who knows how much he may have read in my despite? Something in my face or manner may have betrayed us, I know not!" Betrayed us… betrayed us… not 'you'… 'us'… Boromir knew quite well that his brother could not love him, not the way that Boromir loved him or would love him. But that he did not reject him utterly, that he still counted himself somehow bound to Boromir in spite of it all, was more than Boromir would have dared to hope and relief flowed through him like water. "He will summon you, brother. He will ask you, and he will expect you to tell him. I cannot even guess what will happen when you refuse, but be cautious! He was in a fey mood today, and I know not why this should matter to him so! Perhaps because he sees that it upsets you, but I like not the feeling that I have now. There is something dangerous in our father, Boromir, and I know not how to counter it! Nor even what it is!" Faramir slid down the merlon to sit with his knees drawn up and his arms locked loosely about them as he gazed up at his brother. Boromir stood there, looking back, and fear and dread warred with relief, hope, and concern. After a moment, he sighed softly himself and let himself down a good arm's length away, though he sat cross-legged so he could rest his elbows on his knees.

"I never thought," he said slowly, "that I would account Minas Tirith more perilous to me than orcs!"

"Nor I, though I have rarely been easy here." Faramir replied. A pause followed, and Boromir darted a look at the other out of the corners of his eyes. Faramir seemed to be struggling with himself, considering his next words apprehensively… nervously. Finally, "Do you recall our conversation that night upon the high tower?"

"Only too well!" Boromir sighed, running a hand through his hair to cover in part his discomfiture. How could I forget?

"I asked you then, whether any woman of Gondor had caught your eye, and you said no. I realize now why that is, but…" Faramir flushed, which was hardly like him, and he cleared his throat ere he continued softly, "I would still know… was there ever anyone in Gondor whom you have loved?"

"Only one," Boromir replied, meeting his brother's tormented gaze. "And though it be quite hopeless a love, he has still my heart in his keeping. He always shall, for I have never met another who was his match! Nor shall I ever." Which confession and promise only unsettled Faramir further, he could see it; but after a moment, his brother drew a deep breath and nodded, as if in acceptance of something he could not change.

"Twice now, I have told you that I depended upon you. Minas Tirith I could call my home only when you were there as well. After… after I learned how you felt about me, I felt beset, and I have had no peace–nor even hope of it!–since," he replied.

"Faramir… I never meant to tell you, but that it seemed to me that you knew already. When I realized that you did not…" Boromir fell silent, the words stuck in his throat. How indeed could he explain precisely the degree of utter dejection and horror that he had felt? Would even Faramir know words that could express those feelings? I doubt it! With an effort, he continued, "I would never have acted, for I knew well that you did not love me."

"I do love you," Faramir replied, firmly, but gave his brother a slight, sad smile when he looked up, "But not like that!"

"Then do not fear me, for I would never do aught to you. Can you not see that? I am still your brother, and a man not unconcerned with honor, in spite of my weakness! If you ask me not to touch you, I will not! Not in friendship, nor even in play! And I will not look your way again if that is what you wish. But you cannot ask me to cease to love you, Faramir! Sooner ask me to be Denethor, for I might have a better chance!"

"Nay, you would fail, for to be our father you would of necessity have to learn to despise me, brother," Faramir replied dryly, with just a hint of real humor. "I am sorry that I doubted your honor, Boromir. And I have complained of you in my thoughts for misreading me!" He shook his head mournfully. "Unjustly, as I now perceive!"

"You could never be unjust, Faramir," Boromir replied, dismissing the possibility. "'Tis not in you to be thus!"

Faramir gave a slight shake of his head as he raised his eyes to his brother's face once more. "You think too much of me, Boromir!"

"Aye, I do," the other replied, and miraculously managed to elicit a soft snort of laughter from his brother for that double-entendre. But Faramir's humor faded swiftly, and Boromir sighed. "It is too soon for laughter, I suppose."

"It is just… I wish that it were otherwise, but I need more time, Boromir, to learn to trust once more and fully. Were it not for Denethor, I would not have sought you out today." Which revelation hurt, but Boromir made himself accept it, and he nodded.

"Then take the time. And know that I am grateful that you did so, for at least I will not face our father unprepared." He stood then, feeling that it would be best to end this while there was a note of cautious optimism in the air. Faramir stood as well and hauled the trap door open once again, then waited while Boromir settled the ladder securely in the hooks in the ceiling. There followed an awkward pause, as both men hesitated, neither willing to make a move lest it be misinterpreted. At length, though, Boromir took the initiative, descending quickly, and he went and stood by the stairs, careful not to watch while his brother climbed down, afraid to jeopardize their fragile rapprochement. And to be perfectly safe, he led the way down the steep steps, feeling Faramir's eyes on him the while. At least he will look at me now! At least we have spoken, and perhaps one day we may retrieve something of what we once shared! It would never be the same, but so long as there was something solid upon which Boromir could depend, he would be well content. At least now I need not fear revelations!

"Boromir," Faramir said when they had almost reached the ground level, and the older man paused, turning to look up at the other. Faramir's face was downcast, but that hardly mattered at that angle, and so he saw the quick spasm of pain that rippled across the other's features. "You understand that I cannot promise you aught! Only that I shall try, in whatever time we have, for one of us must soon depart. But do not hope for too much!"

Boromir swallowed hard, then nodded. "I understand."

"Good. Then I shall go now and see to Ithilien, for it would not do to ignore my own advice in that matter!" His brother managed a slight smile for that, and then ducked past him, going quickly back towards the tower. Boromir, on the other hand, stood in silence for a long while, turning their words over in his mind. It was hard not to hope, and he knew not what constituted "too much" as Faramir had left it, but whatever the case, their conversation was something, and he was desperate enough to take whatever acceptance his brother could manage.

Set that aside now, Boromir, he told himself firmly, drawing a deep breath as he began his own walk back towards Ecthelion's white tower. And for the first time, that brilliant spire cast a shadow of dread over him. For I have still father to face!

******

*FOTR, 240 (In the Council of Elrond for those with different page numbers).

Part I X
Come Undone

A/N: Rating was upped for possibly disturbing references to Denethor's methods of disciplining the kids and for one particular scene that sort of… "extends"… those methods into adulthood. No one said Middle-earth was a place of enlightened parenthood after all.

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--Silvaríel of Arnor

***********

Boromir did not like what he saw, and he scowled as he rubbed at his eyes, vainly wishing that perhaps the situation would improve in that brief interval. Alas, not even an elf or a wizard could change the hard facts: even with the additions from Osgiliath, Cair Andros would need either a vastly increased food supply or a drastically increased number of horses in order to adequately defend the swift route into Gondor. Minas Tirith could provide it with neither in short order, and though Denethor's heir searched through the military records and pushed markers about on a map, the fundamental equation did not alter. There were simply too many posts in need, not enough men to cover them all, and not enough money to make a difference. Denethor had the dubious distinction of having levied the heaviest set of taxes since the Kin-Strife of Gondor, but given the escalating expenses of an undeclared yet fomenting war, Minas Tirith did well to balance its expenditures against its income and have enough left over to manage some foreign trade. We are stretched too thin, and soon something must break! If we knew with certainty whence the enemy would come, we might be able to mount a credible defense and even win a battle, but the Dark Lord is not a fool, whatever else he may be! If Gondor had Rohan's open support and cooperation, Denethor could replace the bulk of Cair Andros' company with the horsemen and disperse those relieved from both Osgiliath and the isle to other places. But even were Rohan willing, it has Saruman at its back, threatening to raze Edoras, and so can spare us little attention. We might be able to buy horses, I suppose, but even in times of peace, the Rohirrim do not barter their steeds cheaply. The Bardings are more reasonable in matters of cost, but their mounts are smaller, less able to endure hard use, not as intelligent, and fewer in number in the first place. I doubt they have horses enough to export, not in the quantities that we need in Anórien, Boromir mused.

With a snort of exasperation, Boromir tossed his pen down on the ledgers and pushed back from his desk, abandoning the effort for the nonce. Since mid-afternoon, he had devoted his time to the problem of trying to make Cair Andros even marginally more effective, but the costs were prohibitive for too small a return. A part of him—the part concerned solely with a warrior's honor—sneered at such motives and excuses, but he was Denethor's heir and could not ignore the economics of the situation, even though he knew he would sentence the bulk of the survivors of Osgiliath to a grim end when the Dark Lord at last moved. After what they had already suffered in defense of Gondor, it seemed cruel to abandon them to another doomed outpost, but there was no other choice. For all that it is acrawl with orcs and other enemies these days, they would be safer in Ithilien! He thought darkly. At least they would have Faramir to lead them! Not that he mistrusted Brindithal, the captain assigned to Cair Andros, but the man was not his brother. Of course, he would not want Faramir in Cair Andros, either, whatever its need, and he sighed again for the contrary, tangled logic of the heart. And while he pondered the recommendations he must inevitably give Denethor in this matter, he wondered whether he could possibly manage to submit them through a proxy. At least then I might find use for my esquire! But the steward would send for him anyway, and so such a tactic merely delayed the hour of confrontation. I am truly thankful that Faramir warned me, but this feels too much like standing on the edge of a battle, waiting for the enemy to show himself! He thought, grimacing.

Why did Denethor wait? If he were concerned enough to ask Faramir, why, then, did he not demand an answer of Boromir in similarly short order? Does father even begin to conceive what torture he inflicts? Boromir wondered. Given Faramir's agitation this morning, he found it hard to believe that the steward was unaware of the brothers' meeting, or that Denethor could fail to recognize his younger son's intentions in seeking out Boromir. And still, the steward said no word and sent no summons, which left his older son in a state of dread confusion. What does he truly know? Has he any knowledge of what Faramir is to me? Or is it no more than a father's perception of some trouble between his children? It might simply be that, for why else would Denethor let the matter lie? But if it were that simple, would he wait so long to call me before him? Unable to contain his own nervous energy, Boromir rose and began to pace, while his thoughts went in circles like a falcon in search of prey. Unfortunately, the prey was armed with weapons more powerful than a falcon's talons, and Boromir did not know how deeply Denethor might cut. And as patience had never come easily to him, the delay gnawed at his nerves 'til he was nearly frantic. Indeed, he was surprised by how long he had been able to concentrate this afternoon, given the unsteady state of his soul. Easily, Boromir, do not let your father drive you! The first lesson of the battlefield is that one must never allow the enemy to dictate the encounter!

Which means what in this case? That I should return to the problems of Cair Andros? Or that I should continue the equally futile speculation as to father's probable knowledge and motives? Gritting his teeth in frustration, Boromir made himself stand still, attempting to still his mind with the cessation of his physical movements. Faramir was the one who studied philosophy, but Boromir did not need books to know that the troubles of his mind were reflected in his posture and gestures, and that the reverse to some extent also held true. I need to do something, he thought. Something useful, but what can I achieve here? Nothing! The Black Gate watch looks better all the time! Blowing out a large sigh, Boromir returned to his work, to the tedium of dotting i's and crossing t's on a report that stated nothing either new or good, and he tried to ignore the tension in his back and shoulders. Making a concerted effort, he looked again over the list of Osgiliath's survivors, feeling a terrible pang of guilt for what he was about to do to them once again. Mayhap I had the right idea earlier, he thought suddenly, turning his eyes to Ithilien once more. Some, at least, have the skills that Faramir needs east of Anduin… yes. There may be some chance yet that a few may be spared a hopeless position! Spurred on by the idea, he threw himself into the task with more energy than he had managed the entire day. Faramir had not asked for them, but he needed men, and would welcome anyone with enough forest-craft and initiative to help fill the duty rosters. And at least this is one gift that he can accept from me!

***

Meanwhile, Faramir left one of the barracks and tugged at his collar against a warm wind that whistled through the evening. After his conversation with Boromir, Faramir kept himself busy for the rest of the afternoon, afraid that if he let his mind wander too far, he would fall back into brooding over father and brother. Addressing Ithilien's needs at least made him feel useful, and by the end of the day, he had managed to recruit a number of forest-wise men with sufficient arms training to make good scouts and useful additions to the company. Obtaining a release for them from their current duties ought not to pose a large problem, since word had gone down days ago that Ithilien stood at the head of the list for replacement of its losses. Still, he imagined he would be accused of poaching for a time, but as it was his company at stake, he would willingly endure the reproachful mutterings of company commanders. Unfortunately, once the sun set and he had finished with his work, that left him entirely too much time to think. At least I have achieved an economy of worry, for now it is not Denethor or Boromir separately that I fear, but the two of them together! He thought with wry, almost morbid humor as he walked the streets of Minas Tirith, moving up from the lower circles where he had gone to speak with the men he had tapped. Lamps were being lit all over the city, and he paused to watch the proliferation of lights. Like fallen stars they gleamed, racing up and down the streets, recalling the war-beacons that lay along the approach to Rohan: one after the other after the other. Like time… like life… one moment follows the next and one never knows where it all leads, Faramir thought, resuming his walk.

Men and women flowed about him as they finished their daily business and went now to their homes. And if they gave him a somewhat wider berth for the sword at his side and the finer cut of his clothes that proclaimed him a nobleman, in the lamp-lit obscurity he was essentially anonymous. Just another of those who dwelt on the heights, a half-seen face without a name, and he found it a relief not to have to respond to the formal courtesies usually extended him. And given what faced him in the seventh circle, Faramir indulged in a brief fantasy of leaving title and rank behind. To have a father who is not Denethor, and a brother whose love I could safely return…! It was a lovely fantasy, but one that he quickly discarded, feeling rather irritated with himself for having entertained it, however briefly. It would not help him tonight, nor ease his doubts and fears; indeed, it could only make them seem worse. And I could never surrender the responsibility, or the craving for it! He admitted. I am perhaps more ambitious than many believe. In that at least, I am my father's son! Is that why we rub each other raw whenever we face each other? That was certainly a part of it, Faramir mused, thoughtfully tangling a finger in a clinging forelock. But there had been more behind his father's outburst earlier that day than strained and abraded ambition, though he could not seem to chase down the precise terms for the emotion that had flashed in Denethor's eyes.

And how shall Boromir fare with him? Have they spoken yet, I wonder? Faramir was not certain how Denethor's affection for his brother would affect his interrogation of his older son. He knew very well that their father was capable of punishing Boromir, and sometimes quite painfully. That night upon the tower, Boromir had reminded him of that; and as much as Faramir had suffered emotionally in his early years, Boromir had usually been the one to suffer more severely the physical punishments their father had doled out to his sometimes unruly sons. There was that time when Boromir could not lie on his back for a week, Faramir remembered. And after the window incident…! For years, both boys had feared their father's opprobrium, knowing well that he would not spare the rod if he caught them. Such things seemed less serious now, for Faramir had been hurt far worse in sword practice, not to mention the injuries that came of too many years in the field. And we knew that he did not intend to hurt us for the sake of causing pain, but because we had overstepped the boundaries. It was love, of a particular and difficult kind, that had driven those painful but necessary punitive encounters, and even as a very young child, Faramir had recognized that. Perhaps that was why he had never dreaded the lash so much as his father's tongue; and upon reflection, it was only when the lash disappeared that his relationship with Denethor had truly begun to sour. For then I had naught but his contempt and cold lectures! It was enough to make him wary of the prospect of fatherhood, but having suffered through Denethor's hard ways, he was convinced he could not possibly do worse.

Of course, it appears that Boromir will likely be a father before I am, he thought with a grimace. He had no idea how his brother would manage in a marriage, but Faramir did not look forward to watching him flounder. And at the moment, though he wished that he could change his heart, he could not stomach the thought of his brother's need for him. It was hard enough for him to look to the immediate future, to the argument between Boromir and Denethor that he knew must come—and soon!—and know how badly his brother would need his support. And how could I withhold it, when Boromir has caught me so often when I stumbled? How could I fail to stand by him, either now or in twenty years? The younger prince sighed inwardly, firmly quelling the flutter of nervousness in the pit of his stomach that roused at the thought of his brother's touch. As he had told Boromir frankly that afternoon, he simply was not ready to resume anything approaching their former affectionate relationship, but he had the feeling that as with many endeavors, preparation would be cut short. Need brooked no wavering, no hesitation or delay, and as he had been forced into command early by his own desperation, he would doubtless be forced back into the crucible of fraternal obligation earlier than he would prefer. I wanted responsibility! Well, he thought with grim amusement, I have it now in this matter, so I ought not to complain of it!

In the mean time, he could at least be grateful for the fact that the dream-verse had not assailed him even once today. Were it not for his own anxiety over Denethor's delayed choice, he would perhaps not even have thought of it. But thanks to father's evasions, I return to it constantly. Imladris, home of Elrond Half-Elven, whom many account among the wisest of the Age! Of the other sages, legend had little to say, but that Galadriel of Lórien was one, and the Shipwright Cirdan another; but whether those shadowy figures out of the days of Eldarin dominion remained upon Middle-earth's shores, no tale told. Of the wizards Curúnir and Mithrandir, the former seemed to have grown disinterested in the troubles of the time, which Faramir accounted an alarming state of affairs, and as for Mithrandir… He does as he will, and though I doubt not that he lives still, his movements are a mystery to we who dwell here. Would that he were in Minas Tirith, for perhaps he would be able to shed light upon that wretched rhyme! Faramir thought. Alas, if Mithrandir did appear, he also had no doubt that Denethor, ever mistrustful, would do all in his power to keep his younger son away from the wizard. 'Meddling trouble-maker', Denethor had labeled him more than once, and cuffed his son for hanging upon the wanderer's words. But Faramir had always been drawn to the aura of kindly nobility and the old man's obvious wisdom. And there is something else about him, something that I cannot name but which draws men to him… or ought to, at any rate! It was no more than a feeling, and one that lay just beyond the verbal, but the sight or thought of Mithrandir stirred it to life each time, so that Faramir knew—beyond certainty, beyond his ability to express—that the Grey Pilgrim would never fail them at need. And after so many years of doubt about my father, that is a welcome feeling! He thought as he approached the final gates.

For one in good health and accustomed to exercise, it was a half hour's walk from the lowest level to the highest circle of the city, and Faramir, not eager to return to the turmoil of the seventh circuit, had tarried somewhat along the way. Nevertheless, he made good time out of habit, and returned the salute of the guards who admitted him without question. Faramir, ever observant, noted the change in the atmosphere as one ascended to the heights: tension had grown steadily the higher he climbed, and that was not surprising. For if Denethor kept secrets from his own council, there was much that did not reach the lower levels of the city. In the common neighborhoods, where the bulk of Minas Tirith's citizens dwelt, Rohan's increasing isolation was but a rumor of trouble; the threat of Mordor overshadowed considerations of political fracture and strained resources; and the losses at Osgiliath and Cair Andros had yet to be made known in full. What had fascinated Faramir as he had passed through the levels of the city was the fact that the rhyme of his dreams had somehow leaked out to the population at large, for he had heard much discussion of Isildur's Bane and Halflings, and he wondered who had let loose that bit of information. Perhaps Denethor himself, he thought, for given that the verse gave cause for some hope, the steward might well have decided to use it as a bulwark against the dark tidings of heavy losses that might otherwise have damaged the city's will to continue the fight. But here in the heart of Minas Tirith, such tidings were as a drop of water in the desert: almost a mockery of hope, though one that could not be refused. And so we wait, and hope that Denethor shall soon release us from this interminable guessing game! Faramir thought.

As he glanced up at the tower of Ecthelion, he noted again that odd greenish light that flickered in the window of the highest room, and he frowned. What is that? He wondered, eyes narrowing. A torch I would call it, but that it seems too powerful… and green! Over the long centuries, Minas Tirith had acquired its ghost stories and legendary hauntings. There were those who held that the spirit of the long-dead Mardil Voronwë kept watch of late in that isolated chamber, awaiting either the end of the city or perhaps the return of the kings of old. Faramir doubted that such tales were anything more than another sign of the fear and desperate will to hope under which all now lived, but he was not prepared to dismiss such ideas categorically. I have dreamed too often, and read of too many strange accounts to think that Arda is only what we see before us. Still… there is something about that light that stirs doubt in me. I know not why, though. Tearing his eyes from the unnatural radiance, Faramir drew a steadying breath and continued on his way to the tower where his father held sway. There is yet one company that I have not considered raiding, he thought, and felt anxiety tingle at the base of his spine. Boromir's!

***

Boromir jumped at the knock on his door, and cursed softly over his own startlement. Rising from the table, he gave himself to the count of five to settle his nerves and assume a more dignified mask. In that brief pause, the knock was repeated, a little more loudly, and this time, Boromir called back, "Enter!" The knob twisted, the door swung open wide enough to show Faramir standing there like an apparition, and Boromir blinked. This was certainly unexpected, for he had thought his brother would continue to avoid him unless pushed by necessity to speak with him. Which was why, when he found his voice, he asked, "Faramir… is something the matter?"

"No, nothing," the other replied, and though the younger man's tone seemed quite calm, Boromir could see the strain in his brother's eyes: the effort and determination to mask his uneasiness, to come and deal with Boromir in spite of his misgivings. "I would speak to you, though, about Osgiliath's survivors. If you have a moment," he added after a minute but telling pause. Does he wish me to be busy? Or does that question bespeak his own anxiety? Likely, his brother had spent so much time working up the nerve to come here that he had only just thought to wonder whether Boromir might have other tasks to oversee.

"Come in then, for I, too, have given thought to their fate today," Boromir replied, matching his brother's neutrality. Faramir obeyed, quietly, almost reluctantly, closing the door behind him, before he approached the table. And Boromir, reading his brother's uncertainty, clasped his hands behind his back again to reassure him. "Sit, if you will."

"I would prefer to stand for the moment," Faramir replied, and the other nodded, trying not to feel hurt.

"As you wish, of course," Boromir turned his attention away from his brother and quickly rifled through the stack of papers that lay atop the table, searching for the one he wanted. "Do I guess rightly that you come in the hopes of filling the empty places in Ithilien's guard?"

"You do. I have asked men of every company stationed in the city this afternoon, and I doubt not that the officers gather even now to curse my name," he added with a certain wry humor. "I should have asked you first, but I did not think of it."

"Perhaps it is better you did not, for it gave me the time to consider the question myself. Here is my list, and if any of these suit your need, then take them with my blessing. 'Tis a less uncertain fate than restationing at Cair Andros!" Boromir said fervently. Faramir grimaced and accepted the list that his brother slid across the table to him.

"What had the steward to say to your analysis?"

"Naught. I have not seen him yet," Boromir admitted somewhat shame-facedly.

"I see." Faramir replied, his tone indicating that he did indeed. With a sigh, he quickly glanced over the names his brother had supplied and nodded as he folded the paper and tucked it into his belt. "Thank you. I shall take the recommendations and I doubt not that father will approve." Their business essentially concluded, there came then an awkward pause as each man sought for something to say, either to end the meeting gracefully or find some harmless topic of conversation. Faramir lowered his gaze, feeling very much aware of his brother's eyes on him, of Boromir's effort not to look too closely. On the one hand, he was grateful for the consideration, but on the other, he felt unaccountably guilty for the lengths his brother went to on his behalf. As he scrambled for something to say to break the painful silence, his glance strayed across an open book on the table, and he cocked his head curiously as he reached out and snagged it, turning it so he could read it properly.

"'And so I come now to the edge, to the nighttime of my soul,'" he read aloud, and gave a soft grunt of surprise. "Silvaríel!" He glanced up at Boromir. "You surprise me, brother."

Boromir shrugged, feeling the heat rush to his cheeks. "It… seemed appropriate tonight. In truth I know not why I turned to it, except that your words stuck in my mind that evening."

"And has it helped, her poetry?"

"Perhaps," Boromir admitted with a faint smile. "It keeps my mind occupied, at least, and that is much to me today." He paused, considering what he might say next. A part of him wanted to take Faramir by the hand and reassure him of his good intentions, but he doubted that that would do more than stir the other's fears again. Yet he could not bear to let this silence endure. "Faramir, I—"

"Do not say it!" Faramir cut him off quickly. "I cannot hear it. Not now."

Boromir shut his mouth and looked away, drawing a deep breath. "As you like it, then."

"I am sorry, Boromir, I… I should go. Thank you for your help." Faramir sounded sincerely chagrined. And for all that he walked without haste, he seemed almost to flee out the door.

Boromir stared after him for a long moment, feeling the ghost of his presence hovering in the room. Then, with a sigh, he grabbed the book off the table and retreated to the bedroom to finish reading. It had struck him, as he had sat there trying to decipher Silvaríel's striking yet somewhat cryptic verses that he was in some sense waiting for someone to come, though he had had no reason to think that that someone would be Faramir. But now that Faramir had, he felt a certain relief, as if he had exhausted his purpose here and no longer needed to remain in the outer chamber. He crossed the floor quickly and had almost reached the inner door when another knock sounded, and he let out an exasperated oath. What now? In addition to Faramir, he had had a few other visitors, all of them councilors come seeking some further insight into the matter of that wretched dream. If I have to tell one more person that I know nothing more than I have told and been told…! He thought gloweringly, and rather than call out to whoever waited on the other side, he strode quickly across the room and yanked the door open. "What matter—?"

"What matter indeed," Denethor said, cutting into the silence that followed Boromir's abortive question. And from the dark glitter in his eyes, it was clear that he would tolerate no evasions.

***

An icy chill wafted in with the steward as Denethor crossed the threshold and pulled the door firmly shut behind him. Boromir stared at him, his expression mask-like but to one who had mastered a palantír, it was but a feeble disguise for the dread that lurked beneath. Denethor could feel the tendrils of his son's fear reaching out to him, probing and withdrawing as if burned, and though he had come to expect such furtive evaluations–and indeed, found a certain satisfaction in rebuffing them–tonight he felt nothing. Nothing, unless it were the agonized disappointment that lay beneath his iron will. Clearly, his son had anticipated this meeting, and though he bid Denethor good evening as he set the book aside, there was an edge to his voice that was telling: Boromir had awaited this hour with the enthusiasm of a man facing the gallows. Ah, but my son, you were condemned long ago, and your present dread is late in coming to you! Denethor thought, eyes flicking over the other's person, noting the tension of the other's frame that betrayed itself in the attempt to give a relaxed appearance. "What brings you, father?" Boromir asked, managing a neutral tone.

As if you do not know well my motives! Denethor thought, and wondered whether he approved of the other's refusal to be pushed into a confession. On the one hand, it bespoke a certain measure of self-control not to allow panic to drive him, and one who aspired to the rule of Gondor must never admit to weakness; but on the other, Denethor felt his contempt snarl loudly at the other's maneuverings. For it is over, and he knows it! The steward gave a mental head shake. That is of no concern! He reminded himself. Let him writhe how he likes, he shall not escape in the end. And ere I am done, he shall see and say what he is, and learn the meaning of shame! It was a hard lesson to learn, as Denethor knew well from his own experience, but it could not be postponed any longer. The steward had always kept a close watch on his children, the better to correct their mistakes and teach them the meaning of vigilance; and though he had not set out to use it thus, the palantír had greatly aided him in his observations. Thus, he was aware of Faramir's periodic dealings with Éomer, and of the long hours that he spent with his brother whenever the opportunity arose.

For indeed, it had been Faramir who had at first warranted Denethor's suspicion and surveillance– Faramir, whose love of literature and music had early earned him twitters from other children who preferred to play at war; Faramir, whose affectionate demeanor as a child and a young man had made others despair of his ever rising to competent command; Faramir, who adored his brother with all the fervor of one smitten. What had begun as a useful means of gaining information about the far-flung reaches of Gondor and Mordor, even, had gradually become as well a means of cataloging Faramir's faults and building a very detailed map of the other's personality and decisions. Except that in one important respect, that map was flawed. Much to his shame, Denethor had not realized his error until that very week, until Faramir's inexplicably angry and fearful response to his brother and subsequent avoidance of him. That had forced the steward to reevaluate his conclusions, to look back through the lens of illicit insight, combined with his own formidable intuition and deductive powers, and the result had come as a shock even to him: faced with a sudden wealth of minor but telling details, the situation had reversed itself, and he had turned his eyes to Boromir with suspicion and horrified disappointment.

And guilt–that, too, and if Denethor reproached himself bitterly for his own fault, the anger and resentment born of that guilt spilled out onto his sons. The confrontation with Faramir had on the one hand blunted the edge of those seething emotions, but his absolute refusal to discuss what specifically had passed between himself and his brother had only added to Denethor's fury. Boromir being guilty in any case, it was now his turn to face his father's complicated wrath. For the steward had invested much time in the crafting of this confrontation, and the various permutations were worked out in exquisite detail. And if Boromir wishes for the moment to pretend that he knows not whereof I speak, then so be it! "What brings me is a matter of some importance to us both," Denethor replied coolly, watching his son carefully. Boromir gave no visible sign, but it seemed that he flinched nonetheless, and the steward pressed onward, demanding sharply, "Where is your brother?"

"I suppose that he has gone to his room," Boromir replied somewhat evasively.

"Then it was he that I saw leaving but a few moments ago?" Denethor asked, though he knew the answer quite well.

"Yes, sir…"

"And what was his business with you this night?"

"We discussed transferring some of Osgiliath's men to Ithilien," Boromir replied, then added helpfully, "I doubt not that you shall see his requests delivered tomorrow."

"You advised him in this?"

"Nay, I but gave him a list of prospects, father."

"And did you speak further afterwards?" Denethor pressed, sensing the other begin to squirm inwardly.

"Not truly," Boromir seemed to hedge, and his father narrowed his eyes as he paced forward, bending his course to circle his son. Denethor's heir stood still, unwilling to try to turn to follow his progress, but clearly he was uncomfortable. As well he ought to be!

"Did he stay long?"

"There was little to discuss…" Boromir frowned anxiously as Denethor planted himself before the younger man.

"Do you love him?"

"I–he is my brother, father!" At that, the steward pinned his first-born under a piercing gaze, watching as Boromir strove first to return it, then to endure it, and finally simply to hold himself still beneath the lancing regard. Cleverly done, Boromir, and I had not thought you had it in you to lie so well! Denethor thought with a certain grudging admiration for the other's determination to play this out to the final throw. A part of the steward had rather expected Boromir to cave more quickly than this, for his elder son had a less complicated view of the truth than did Faramir. But I ought to have known better, for what he lacks in sophistication, he compensates for with a warrior's obstinacy! From the desperate yet determined gleam in his son's eyes, Denethor realized that this oblique approach would let him he wear away at Boromir's defenses all night, but without piercing them. And so we abandon the more subtle pressures for more obvious ones! Denethor felt something twist within him at the prospect, for he knew full well what that might require of him if he were truly to force his son to a recognition of the fatal flaw in his makeup. But every sin deserves its shame–this is mine, and his as well!

"Do you tell me then that you love him or that you do not?" He queried.

"I… of course I love him… how could I not, since we have grown up together?"

"And he knows this?"

"Yes…"

"Ah," Denethor responded mildly, cocking his head at his son, and then demanded rather more sharply, "Did you take him to bed with you?"

"I–What?!" Boromir exclaimed, retreating a pace from the steward.

"Have you loved him, Boromir?" Denethor advanced a step, and Boromir retreated again, shaking his head as if dazed. "Do you dream of him? Or have you done more than that?" Another step, and another retreat, pace for pace in a parody of a dance. "Answer me!"

"Father…" Boromir gazed at him with mute horror, unable to speak, shocked by how very bluntly his father confronted him.

"Your silence has always been your best defense, Boromir," Denethor spoke now scathingly, sneeringly almost, and one who knew him well might have recognized the despair that underlay such accusations. But Boromir had no eyes for such subtleties, not at the moment, as Denethor continued to advance on him with such menace and threat that he could do naught but give ground before him. The wall pressed hard against his back, and Denethor stood too far within his space, eyeing him with a sort of resigned contempt. "But once pierced, it does but mark you as guilty!"

"I have done nothing!"

"'Nothing' did not drive Faramir from you, Boromir!" Denethor shot back, dismissing that claim.

"This is our affair–"

"That is precisely what I fear!" Denethor snapped, and Boromir flinched openly, unable to withstand that cutting tone of voice. "You share everything between the two of you, and always have, after all."

"Not everything," Boromir protested.

"But you do desire him. Do not attempt to deny it, Boromir, I see it in your eyes! You lust after him, like a bitch hound in heat! Did you think I would not notice?" Denethor demanded, sparing Boromir not at all. "You are my son and the heir to the stewardship, and what affects you affects Gondor above all else! I will not see that office sullied with this filth!" And on that last word, Denethor's left hand shot out and down, quick as a fox and twice as desperate. Boromir gasped, almost choking as his father pressed thumb and fingers hard against his crotch, digging in just above his testicles. Any other man would have found himself flung across the room out of sheer, combative reflex if nothing else, but despite the completely unexpected pain, Boromir simply cringed back. Such was the power that Denethor projected in that instant that even reflex could not challenge him. And when Boromir started to collapse under the pressure, the steward simply used his other arm to press him back, pinning him to the wall. "Did you think me blind?" Denethor demanded, and in the face of the other's shocked disbelief and hurt, his voice lost some of its icy tone as the agony seeped through at last. "You love your brother too well, Boromir! I ask now only how far it has gone: did you take him to your bed? Well?"

"I never did aught to him!" Boromir protested desperately, reaching down to clutch ineffectually at his father's wrist. "Or with him! I swear it!"

"And what worth, your word, when you have sought to deceive for so long?" Denethor asked in a low voice. "You cannot excuse this incestuous… this profane… desire of yours!"

"N-no excuse… I know I s-should not, but I cannot… ai… cannot help this!" His son shook his head despairingly. "You cannot understand…!" Boromir's voice rose on that last word, hitting an octave he had not managed in years as Denethor thrust, pressing harder still. Agony lanced through Boromir, and he blanched sheet white as a moan caught in his throat and the world began to grey about the edges. "Father!"

"Can I not?" Denethor ignored the plea, and his voice was silken smooth, laden with scorn and disappointment. "In the beginning I thought you safe enough; it was Faramir who gave your mother and I cause for concern. Alas that the taint bred true in you!" And as Boromir dragged incredulous eyes up to search his father's face despite the excruciating pain, Denethor shook his head slowly as he murmured softly, almost gently: "I know what you are, my son, and I know well what it is that you feel. But I never weakened! I did my duty to my house and realm… married your mother, had children by her… watched as realization turned to revulsion and thence to despair and sickness, ending finally in death! It will be the same, I doubt not, with you and Éowyn. But that is your duty to curse now. I do not know how you betrayed yourself to Faramir, and I do not wish to know! What hold you have on him I know not, but I fear the consequences." The steward gazed intently at the shocked expression on Boromir's pale face, and he proffered a grim smile, which gesture felt as obscene as it likely looked. "So tell me not that I cannot understand, my son! Rest assured that I do!" With that, disgusted—sickened—by the awful tableau, Denethor released the other, easily breaking the wrist-lock to step away.

Boromir felt his legs give way beneath him as the steward retreated. And though he managed somehow to refrain from cradling injured parts, he drew his knees up defensively and bowed his head, willing the nausea to subside, trying to keep his hold on the world. He knew… he knew … because father, too, is… He could not manage to complete that thought, and felt himself shaking as if chilled. Over the faint ringing in his ears, he could hear his father's voice, grim and taut, continue on, and the words burned into his soul as if set there with a brand: "Blood always tells, they say, and it is true enough. I would have spared you this if I knew how, but I could not dissuade you in your affection for Faramir, though I tried! He is weak himself, but in a different way, and if you must love a man, at least let it be one other than he who is your brother! Well that Finduilas died without knowing your nature! I have made a practice of being sparing in my sorrow, but if there is one thing that I regret it is that this taint did not die with me!" Boromir flinched at the fury in his father's tone, but was still too shocked to muster a response. Revelations aside, he had never seen his father so deeply disturbed by anything, and a part of him cringed in shame for the fact that he had been the catalyst for this uncharacteristic display. Desperately seeking an anchor for his sanity amid the pain and disorientation, Boromir remained huddled on the floor, and it was long ere he registered Denethor's dark-swathed form kneeling before him, the better to watch him, apparently.

"What would you have me do?" Boromir whispered at last, unable to meet his father's eyes. "I cannot change this… Valar know I have tried! I tried for so long to deny it…!" At which point his voice broke, and he could not continue as the years of frustration and agonized acceptance seemed to fall squarely on his head all at once. Humiliation washed sickly about his innards, and he rather felt like crying, except that that would only embarrass him further.

"You shall leave for Imladris in two days' time," Denethor informed his son flatly. "I have already ordered preparations begun. Be you ready come the dawn of the fourth." There came a long and painful moment's silence, in which Boromir struggled to find a verbal response. Once or twice, he tried to articulate even a minimal 'yes sir' but nothing came out. It was as if he had been struck dumb, and he could not seem to recall how to form words, how to make his mouth and tongue and throat force the sounds out and shape them intelligibly. At length, he heard a soft sigh, and felt a hand land upon his shoulder. After how badly Denethor had hurt him, he recoiled, though the touch was in truth remarkably gentle. In fact, he could not remember the last time his father had touched him like that. Not since I was a child! some distant part of his mind replied. That might have been why he risked looking up, and as Denethor's storm-grey eyes captured his again, he was stunned by the tormented sympathy that shone there. Disappointment and a vast sea of anger for a world that had inflicted such a burden on both of them blazed there as well, but did not quite smother that glimmer of compassion. "I can do no more than send you away from the object of your desire, Boromir, and hope that distance shall do what I could not: sever the connection that binds the two of you." Denethor said softly. "Go! Redeem yourself if you can, and failing that, return to face Mordor with what pride you can muster."

With that, Denethor rose silently. For a long moment, he stood gazing down at his son, and then swiftly he turned and left him. Boromir bit his lip so hard against his anguish that he tasted blood. At least the sting distracted him somewhat from the pain in other places, but nothing could pierce the shadow that had fallen on his heart. Denethor too… and I called Faramir naïve! Redeem myself? How? Cursing softly, Boromir bowed his head and let the tears come.

*******

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Part X
Foundering

Why am I here? Faramir wondered as he listened to Mirhal argue against diverting strength to the south when the north was so very vulnerable. "We seek even now to rebuild three garrisons! What strength have we to send south, my lords?" the wiry councilor demanded. It was a good point, and ordinarily, Faramir would have supported it fully. Alas that the times were extraordinary, and it was only too evident that the same argument could be made to support Imrahil's plea for more assistance. For the Corsairs were not idle: Ithilien's scouts had reported the massing of their enemies at Pelargir five years ago, and late last night, a messenger had come from the prince of Dol Amroth bearing tidings of increased activity, coastal raids, and the possibility of a full-scale attack. The news was not wholly unexpected, for though periodic raids striking out from Lebennin and southern Ithilien had helped to delay the rebuilding of the fleet, there was now a considerable clutch of ships sitting at harbor. Were he the Haradrim commander at Pelargir, Faramir would hardly have hesitated to use those ships to harry Gondor and try to draw off strength from Minas Tirith or even Dol Amroth. Alas that the current captain is similarly ambitious!

As others weighed in with their opinions, Faramir sat in silence, mentally adding a tally mark each time he anticipated a councilor's position, and he wondered once again why he had been invited back to the council chambers. After yesterday's argument, I was certain I would be barred from further sessions! But this morning Verethon roused me early to tell me I was needed here. Why? Faramir's jaw still ached somewhat from his father's crushing grip, tangible reminder of his outcast status, and he stared at the steward down the length of the table. Irresistibly, his eyes drifted to the empty seat at the steward's elbow, which was even more of an anomaly than his own presence. Boromir usually sat there, but today he was absent, and no one on the council had overlooked that monumental irregularity. Many a dark and worried glance had been cast at the steward, but Denethor had ignored them. To all appearances, he was his usual stern and somber self this morning, but to Faramir, there was something subtly wrong. Whatever it was, it did not diminish the steward's dominance of his own council; rather, it seemed to have made him even less tractable! Before ever the council had properly opened, Denethor's razor sharp glance had cut a brutal swath through the assembled lords, so that the arguments had been slow to start. Faramir, despite his reluctance to endure his father's regard, had actually been relieved to be the first to speak, for Ithilien's needs were uncontroversial and his report—precise, simple, and untroublesome—had helped to settle everyone's nerves a bit. The calm had not lasted, though—given the news, it was destined to be short-lived—and Faramir's mental tally slate was becoming quite crowded. With a soft sigh, he leaned forward to enter the debate.

"A point, if I may," he interjected into a heartbeat's silence as Mirhal drew breath. "We may be weak to the north, but each ship in that harbor shall cost us dear in the end. Ithilien and levies from Lebennin and even Dol Amroth have harried the quays before, and we can do so again. We need not even field a large force, so long as we send archers enough to sink three or four vessels—fewer, even, if we catch some of them in the shallows. The wrecks will keep the others at harbor for some time, and a navy bottled at Anduin's mouth is no threat to Minas Tirith."

"Yet, my lord, you propose to move a large percentage of Ithilien's strength northwards. I do not see how you shall manage to find even so few as you speak of, since Imrahil reports that small raids out of Pelargir have wreaked havoc among Lebennin's fisherfolk. And that would not stop the Corsairs from following the ebb tide and attacking Dol Amroth itself," Mirhal replied.

"I do not doubt that you are correct, councilor," Faramir responded, "But we stand at the fulcrum now, and to either side lie unpleasant consequences. The south shall suffer: we cannot change that, whatever our actions, so we must accept it. But we may at least help ourselves in the north, and give Imrahil a few fewer ships to face should the Corsairs turn on him."

"But such a move does but postpone the hour," Mirhal sighed. "As they have before, they shall clear the waters and come again. And I am not convinced a small force could prevail against such strength as Imrahil reports. The Corsairs are dug in, they have erected barriers and manned watch towers around the harbor, building on our own ancient defenses! If we do not strike with force, we risk losing all."

"Even if we do strike with force, we may lose all. But I believe that this could be accomplished, for we have succeeded against their defenses before. If we knew the hour of the Dark Lord's offensive, we might launch a raid just prior to it in the hopes of holding the fleet out of any confrontation, but we possess no such knowledge. Yet the Corsairs remain a significant threat, and though the cost may be high, we can at least mitigate it for the moment. We should not dismiss the possibility of attacking them out of hand, my lords." Faramir glanced at each man, gauging the reaction. Of the lot, he had the most recent military experience against the Corsairs, and he judged that about half of the council was inclined to follow his advice. The other half wavered, or else were opposed. "Well do I know the gravity of perhaps committing men who shall go into battle knowing that they are a sacrifice, but have we another choice? We cannot allow the Corsairs to remain unmolested, or we risk giving them free reign in the future, when we are engaged elsewhere and can do nothing to halt their advance." Mirhal met his eyes, and the two gazed at each other long, but Faramir could feel the other's resolve disintegrating…

"I still say that it is too risky, my lord captain," Mirhal made a last effort, and a little further down the table, Torost gave an exasperated sigh.

"Can you not see that risk becomes relative in such straits as these?" Torost demanded, and the argument was off again. Faramir, having made the best case that he could for a bad situation, sighed inwardly and sank back down into his seat to listen. And think! Well that the council attends to its business, however fractious, rather than hang their differences upon personal matters, but I, for one, would know where my brother is now! It was quite clear that no one, save Denethor, had anticipated his absence, and ordinarily—ah, that word again!—questions would have arisen instantly. Yet before the threat of the steward's eyes, no one dared Denethor's wrath by pushing him to speak ere he was willing to do so. The councilors had seen enough tension the day before, and were unwilling to suffer a repetition. Besides, this could mean little, Faramir reminded himself. Denethor might have had an errand for Boromir, one that he does not feel the rest of us need know of yet. There could be a perfectly rational explanation for his silence and Boromir's absence. Mirhal was arguing now in earnest with lord Torost, and lord Geldan had the look of one who fought to hold his tongue; Húrin of the Keys leaned his head against his hand and waited for the explosion to come; and others were watching with the sort of fascinated dread that comes sometimes to those who stand powerlessly watching a disaster unfold. Faramir sat back in his seat and watched Denethor, who sat perfectly still save for the tapping of one finger upon the table top. Tap… tap… tap… Seconds unwound in accordance with that slight, slow movement. There is a logical reason for my brother's absence… And if I believed a word of that, I would look to see Eärnur himself return from Minas Morgul!

"Enough!" Denethor's voice instantly silenced the interlocutors, and Mirhal and Torost flinched slightly at the reprove in the steward's tone. "Imrahil's request shall be declined. Dol Amroth is well-defended and easily defensible even by a small force. The coastlands are more sparsely populated between that fortress and Anduin in any case, and if we must lose support against the Nameless Enemy, then let it be from that area rather than from Belfalas. And although some here would willingly risk a company entire"—Denethor pinned Faramir under his gaze a moment ere he continued—"We cannot afford an additional loss so soon after Osgiliath and Cair Andros." Faramir stared back at his father, and felt a knot forming in his stomach. He has just made a mistake! Faramir was as certain of it as he had ever been of anything in his life. Worse, he could find no real reason for Denethor's apparent refusal to recognize the threat he was leaving to breed in peace. Granted the decision was a hard one—Faramir certainly did not relish the prospect of ordering or leading a battle that would almost certainly require a sacrificial unit—but in the end, the Corsairs would damage their own defense on so many levels it scarcely bore thinking on. But one did not argue that particular tone of voice, and though a part of his mind screamed that he had to say something, he simply bowed his head in acceptance of his liege-lord's decision. Mayhap if I had not crossed the line yesterday, I would argue harder today, Faramir thought guiltily. But he would not. Not now, and not until he knew what it was that had the steward on edge this morning. And where Boromir is!

With an inward sigh, Faramir reconsidered the possible reasons for Boromir's absence, listening with but half an ear to his father's closing speech. Amid the defeats of the session, it was actually a minor victory in itself that his concentration was focused enough to permit him to follow the trend of his father's conclusions while entertaining other considerations simultaneously. After Osgiliath, he had been at the mercy of that rhyme, to the detriment of his ability to efficiently and effectively concentrate on aught else. But ever since Denethor had learned of the dream, its power over Faramir seemed to have been broken: he could sleep at night, and sleep deeply he did as his body and mind sought to make up for lost time. Perhaps it needed but the attention of the right person, he thought. Mulling over that possibility, he decided it was not without merit. If so, then I ought to have brought the problem to Denethor immediately. But fear undermines judgement, and so also do pride and resentment! He admitted, and tasted the irony as bitter on his tongue. How much of my misery was of my own crafting, being due to my inability to trust my father with one of my dreams? 'My' dreams… Boromir has proved the lie of that notion! In the end, what am I to a dream? I am nothing—only a convenient vessel, but the jar that holds the water may believe itself to be far more, for is the water not in it? Is the dream not in the dreamer? It is so hard to let go of what feels so very personal! I ought to thank Boromir for seeing the truth of the matter, and for doing what I could not bring myself to do. Perhaps it is because he has never dreamt thus, and feels no attachment to such visions that he could entertain the notion of going to father with it.

"If there are no further comments, then this council is closed," Denethor said then, and to the sounds of chairs scraping on flagstone, Faramir rose with the rest. Singly or in pairs, the councilors began to file out, but Faramir hesitated a moment. The steward was organizing his notes and the reports and dispatches that had been brought in that morning or last night, seeming quite intent upon the task. I would ask him about Boromir… Faramir pursed his lips slightly, on the edge of speaking. But in the end, he turned and left in silence, sensing that Denethor was in no mood to tolerate unwanted company. If Boromir had some errand to perform, I shall likely see him soon enough, he reasoned. To which the skeptic in him replied, If! You do not believe that, surely? You know perfectly well why you hesitated: if the steward's temper is so foul and Boromir is missing, then they must have argued. And if it were an argument serious enough to banish Boromir from this morning's session, then Faramir, much to his shame, simply could not face Denethor with his questions.

But if he could not bring himself to turn about and retrace his steps to a second confrontation, he could at least see to other responsibilities and so not wholly waste the time given him. For he had still a number of men with whom he wished to speak before he set them on the route to Ithilien, for he had always felt it best to know something of those new to the company. Besides, this was no ordinary reassignment, and given the enormity of the task ahead of them all, he would vastly prefer to learn now the mettle of those who would share the burden and responsibility of maintaining Ithlien's borders. The sun was drifting towards eleven o'clock as Faramir stepped out of the tower and began the trek down to the lower circles of the city. And as he walked, he kept an eye out for sign of his brother, though he would have been hard pressed to say what he would have done had he seen him. It had been hard enough to knock on his door last night, and harder still to leave on such poor terms. But the note of almost painful hope and apology in Boromir's voice had been too much for him to bear. He had felt his heart speed and nervous energy skitter instantly down every nerve, and that he had not backed away but turned away had seemed a miracle at the time. And what shall I do if he sees me and seeks me out? Thus far, he has let me come to him, and for that I am grateful. But soon enough, he shall try to call me to him, and I know not what I shall do then! He hoped that he would not run, or freeze, or shut down inside, all of which seemed equally plausible possibilities at the moment.

His response would depend, he decided, upon the level of need that Boromir displayed. A chance encounter that had no object, or else one born of some military or political matter, would be bearable. But if he has argued with father, then have I the courage to face my brother? Or has fear crippled my capacity to care for him when most he needs it? For that matter, he could not be certain that Boromir would approach him in that context, for his brother was not one to share his troubles lightly. Ever the captain and warrior, Boromir hesitated to show weakness or pain to any, even to Faramir; rather, he was accustomed to support others in time of need. Which meant only that if he did seek Faramir out to discuss what had passed between himself and the steward, it would be a serious matter indeed, and demand the most delicate handling on Faramir's part. Square your shoulders, Faramir! He is your brother, and in truth he never asked of you aught else than what once you gave willingly!

The gates of the fourth circle loomed before him, and he easily slipped out into the lower circle. But on the other side of the gates there was a large crowd seeking admittance to the fifth level, for today was a market day, and many were the merchants seeking a way to avoid a heavier tax by selling in the fifth circle. Turgon it was who had come up with the idea of staggering the taxes according to the level of the city. The first level had the lowest levy, but also no formal market area, which almost forced merchants to the second level and a second set of taxes. The more valuable the goods, the higher up into the city one had to go to sell them, and the sixth circle had the most expensive market in Minas Tirith. It differed little in terms of available goods, but it was up to the warden at the fifth gate to determine which level a merchant could sell in. Unsurprisingly, the merchants argued vociferously for the fifth level, even though selling one or two items in the sixth circle might very well cover the cost of the so-called "gate tax," but it was a risk to try to sell to the lords of the city on an open market. Faramir knew the wardens of the gates, and they were all of them honest men who made an effort to direct the merchants to their proper level; but though he knew this, and also how badly Minas Tirith needed the money, the system tended to sit somewhat ill with him.

It also, he reflected as he slithered between a pair of pack animals, made it difficult to avoid the crush. Glancing about, he spotted a secondary street which was less crowded and went in the direction he wanted to go, and so he made for it as quickly as he could. Reviewing in his mind the points he wanted to make before those who would likely precede him to Ithilien, he did not notice in time the flash of movement as he rounded the corner, and there came a startled yelp as he collided with someone. Someone much shorter than himself, he realized with a quick flash of chagrin for his carelessness as he reached out to steady the boy who rocked back from him. The lad looked to be nine or ten, with a mop of dark hair that curled over his ears and a pair of large, dark eyes that stared up at him in surprised embarrassment. Skinny, awkward, and apparently undamaged by their encounter, save for his ego, Faramir judged. Still, he asked, "Are you alright, lad?"

"Y-yes my lord," the boy replied, blushing darkly. "I meant no offense!" He added quickly.

"Of course not," Faramir reassured him, glancing about. "I see few children so high in the city. Where is your father?" If the boy were some merchant's son, it might take some doing to see him reunited with his family, and he would not see a child lost in the warren of Minas Tirith's streets and gates.

"Um… not far, my lord," the lad replied somewhat nervously. "But I can find him. You need not stay, sir."

That drew a sharp look from Faramir. "What mischief have you gotten into, son?"

"Naught! Truly, my lord! I only wanted to come and see him…"

"See who?"

"My father," the boy explained, warming to the subject rather endearingly. "He's up there somewhere," and he pointed toward the gate leading to the fifth circle, "And I thought… with everyone coming in…"

"You thought to slip in with them, is that it?"

"Yes, my lord," the child hung his head, but Faramir suppressed a grin as he caught the boy trying to roll his eyes upward so he could stare without seeming to do so.

"And what is your father?"

"A guard, sir!"

"I see. Well," Faramir glanced back at the throng of merchants once more. "I fear you shall not get past Nardistan if you know not the password. What shift has your father? Or do you know?"

"He left ere dawn, my lord, to come up here."

Which meant that he would shortly take his midday break, Faramir thought, and quirked a brow at the lad, who gazed back hopefully. I have enough chores for three men, and here I stand! He thought with a slight shake of his head. But he had decided, and so he kept a firm grip on the boy's shoulder and tugged him before him, walking him back up towards the gate. "Come then, for you shall need an escort." Together, they made their way back up to the gate, and as they approached, Nardistan, the warden straightened, darting a somewhat puzzled look from the boy to Faramir and back again.

"My lord?" The warden asked as they approached. "And what has this imp done now?"

"You know him, then?" Faramir asked, and glanced down at the boy.

"Aye, he has been up here a few times today, my lord, trying to get in. Rascal!" Nardistan replied, though to Faramir's mind, there was rather less malice than simple exasperation in the man's tone. "That is Beregond's son."

"And when does Beregond's relief arrive?"

"Just now, I should think," Nardistan replied, then called over Faramir's shoulder, "Ah, no sir, that will not do! Back in line, and let the inspectors do their job! Sorry, my lord," the warden added.

"Will you let us through at least, so as not to take more of your time?"

"Well… since you will vouch for him, my lord, I suppose I may," the man said, gesturing for two men to clear the way a bit, and Faramir escorted the lad through the cavernous entryway. "Beregond ought to be along shortly, my lord! Third company guardsman!" Nardistan called after the pair.

Faramir raised a hand in acknowledgment and quickly hustled the lad to the side, where they would present no obstacle to the flow of traffic. "Rascal, are you?" He asked, smiling as the boy blushed again. "Well, since you are here on my honor, I trust you shall not abuse it, hmm?"

"Of course not, my lord! And thank you for letting me in! The warden does not trust me."

"He does but his duty, lad. You ought to know that children are not permitted to come so high without an elder."

"I would never steal anything…"

"Bergil!" A voice called out, and both Faramir and the boy turned toward it. A guardsman came swiftly towards them, an expression of mixed astonishment, fondness, and exasperation on his face. "Why have you come? More, how came you to pass the gates?"

"He brought me in, father," Bergil replied, indicating Faramir. Beregond raised his eyes to search Faramir's face, and he blinked in wonder, then quickly bowed.

"My lord, I am sorry if he troubled you! I did not think that he would ask—"

"He did not, so you need not apologize," Faramir replied. "He seems an honest enough child, for all that he dares Nardistan's displeasure at the gates!" Beregond gave a slight smile at that, shaking his head.

"He is at that!" The other said with the glow of quiet pride in his son, and Faramir glanced at Bergil as the boy grinned and leaned against his father. "Well, my lord, I shall see to him now."

"How came he all this way, if I may ask?" Faramir asked, curious.

"Well, he has a good instinct for escaping his keepers, for none are his mother. My wife…last year, she…" Beregond paused, and instantly, Faramir regretted his question.

"I am sorry," he murmured, laying a hand on the other's shoulder. "Forgive me, I should not have asked." Beregond only shrugged a bit and with an effort, tucked his pain away once more, covering the last traces of it with a brief smile as he draped an arm about Bergil's shoulders.

"We should not take any more of your time, my lord Faramir," Beregond suggested, and the steward's son gave a smile and nodded for the truth of that statement. "Thank you for seeing him through that mess."

"Yes, thank you, my lord!" A wide-eyed Bergil added quickly.

"Come then, let us go! Good day to you, captain!" With his arm still about Bergil's shoulders, Beregond quickly guided his son away down the street, leaving Faramir to watch after them. Bergil was already chattering excitedly, and his father laughed at something, reaching down to tousle the boy's hair, and Faramir sighed softly. Born to privilege and instilled with a deep sense of responsibility, he admitted that he was largely content with his lot, in spite of the pains and trials. He therefore envied few men, but by the Valar he felt almost jealous of Bergil in that instant! Watching Beregond's easy manner with his son, he was very much aware of what he had lacked as a child, and it was hard not to compare that affection with Denethor's distance and isolation. Come, Faramir, you have work to do! He reminded himself, tearing his eyes away from the retreating pair. Once more, he made his way down, through the gates, down the alleyways, seeking a way down to the third circle. At each gate, there was a crowd and he wound up taking a rather circuitous route to avoid them. Still, he did not curse the longer walk, for Faramir never tired of exploring (and re-exploring) the ways of the ancient city. Were it not for father, I would have been reluctant ever to leave these walls! Even for fair Ithilien!

Just at that moment, he registered a figure on the periphery of his vision… a very familiar figure. "Boromir!" His brother jerked at the sound of his name, glancing over his shoulder out of reflex. For a split second, the brothers stared at each other, and the passers-by who wandered heedless between them, intent upon their own business, seemed as ghosts—insubstantial and powerless to break the spell that held both men transfixed. But then Boromir shook himself and turned away, quickly following the crowd that moved up towards the gates; and Faramir hesitated only a moment before he abandoned his task to follow him. For in that brief contact, he had felt a horror twist within him as he saw the leaden look in his brother's eyes, as if the spark of life had been extinguished. Valar help me, what happened between those two? Had he had any doubts as to the reason behind Boromir's absence in council, they were quelled in that instant's regard: Denethor and Boromir had done more than argue. And despite his earlier reflections, despite his own agonized misgivings and fears, Faramir refused to let his brother suffer alone. Not when I know too well what it feels like to bear Denethor's scorn!

Dodging through the stream of people, Faramir kept Boromir ever in his sight, though it was clear that his brother sought to lose him, pressing on at a terrific pace. But Faramir had spent years tracking foes with the best foresters Gondor had to offer, and he clung to the other's trail like a hound on the hunt, gaining slowly but steadily. Ever and anon, Denethor's elder son would glance back to mark his adversary, but that dulled, lifeless look did not dissipate, which only spurred Faramir onward. Boromir turned a corner, and Faramir cursed, knowing whither his brother went. The market square of the third circle opened broad off the end of the street, and Faramir stood a moment, trying to get his bearings amid the influx of people. Have I lost him? Ithlien's captain took a hesitant step forward, glancing right, then quickly left, then back again in a slow scan of the area. Boromir and he both had the height of their forebears, though Boromir had a few inches on him, so it ought not to be so difficult to spot him in crowd. But then again, Gondor's citizens also had Númenórean blood in them, and in the sea of faces, even Boromir might not stand out immediately. Steady, Faramir! Do not lose your discipline now. He is here… somewhere. Where could he go? He has no business here, save to lose me. There are six ways out, and I bar one of them. The square was crossed by one major carrefour, and a lesser street as well. Boromir seemed to wish to go higher, and if he takes the downward path, he shall have a long walk back… Faramir began pushing through the throng towards the ascending side of Rath Celebdar, the lesser street. The distance was not too great, and as he cleared the crowd at last, he was just in time to catch sight of the hem of a cloak as someone turned left into an alleyway.

With a soft oath, Faramir abandoned dignity and sprinted the distance to come skidding round the corner. "Boromir!" The tall figure halfway up the narrow street stopped at last and tension seemed to ripple through his frame. When Faramir was perhaps five feet away, Boromir turned at last, meeting his brother's concerned gaze with a certain defiance that yet reeked of defeat and anger. The younger man cocked his head, slowing his advance noticeably, for something in the other's manner warned him not to approach too recklessly. As one does not approach an injured creature lightly! The comparison was unavoidable, and Faramir sucked in a breath at the hunted wariness in the other's gaze. "We missed you in council this morning," he offered carefully.

"Father did not," Boromir replied stiffly. "And I doubt that you did either."

"What happened?" Faramir asked, choosing to ignore the rebuff.

"Give it some thought, brother, and I doubt not you shall be able to tell me in such detail that I shall believe you were present!" Boromir snapped rather bitterly, and turned away, making as if to continue on his way. Which was when Faramir's caution abandoned him, and he reached out and caught his brother's arm to restrain him.

With a low growl, Boromir broke his brother's grip and pulled away with hardly a pause. "Leave me be, Faramir!" He tossed back over his shoulder, sounding at once sharply angry, anguished, and weary beyond belief. Swiftly, he cut down the alleyway as it turned back to a main thoroughfare. And Faramir, stunned, stood stock still and watched as his older brother, with a toss of his head, squared his shoulders and rejoined the crowd on the streets. Not another word from him, and though he likely seemed still the proud, determined prince to any who looked upon him, Faramir ached for the hollowness that lay behind that mask. What under Varda's skies did fath-Denethor say to him? And though at the moment Faramir felt almost physically compelled to run after Boromir, he made himself remain where he was, recognizing the other's need for time and privacy. Later, he promised himself. Later I shall go to him. Let him recover himself a bit ere he is forced to deal with another, and especially me! In the mean time, he had his chores—duties to Gondor that must always come before any personal relationship. With an effort of will, he returned to the market square and began to make his way across it, letting the buffeting of the crowd against him jar him out of his dazed state. 'Tis better thus, he reasoned, drawing a deep breath. I need time as well, or I fear I shall be more of a hindrance than a help. Valar help us both! Until tonight, Boromir! He thought, sending that vow out into the void, and hoping that somehow, his brother would hear it.

back to Part I - V
to Part XI - The End