Tales -
     Father  And Sons

 

 

by Dwimordene
 

VI 
After Osgiliath

On a warm summer’s eve, as the air begins to cool at last, the earth seems to exhale, as if in relief, and casts up a warm, humid scent that acquires a delicious flavor as it rises through the grass and the river-reeds. That scent trickled through the veils of oblivion, and Faramir breathed it in deeply of a sudden, and felt the air burn sweetly down his throat before he coughed painfully. The spasm was slow to pass, and he felt hands on his shoulders, restraining him as he gasped for air as memories sprang up and crowded so thick behind his eyes he could scarcely comprehend them. I was drowning! The Enemy… the bridge…! In bits and pieces, the battle came back to him, and as the coughing fit subsided at last, he opened his eyes to a star-backed outline.

"Easily, brother, just breathe quietly awhile," a well-loved voice coaxed in the darkness.

"B-Boromir? You… you live!" Faramir stammered, amazed and relieved.

"Aye, thanks to you," his brother replied, and kept a hand on his back, supporting him firmly as Faramir sat up. He felt battered and bruised, and his muscles ached, but miraculously, he had taken no serious hurt. He did shiver, though, for his clothes were quite damp still. "Had you not thrown me aside, the horsemen would have ridden me down as they crossed," Boromir continued. "I lost you for a time when the bridge fell, but fortune must smile upon you, son of Denethor, for I came upon you again lying half out of the river not half a mile from where I ended."

"I thought I would drown," Faramir replied slowly, shaking his head in awe at the fact of his survival. He recalled dimly clawing his way out of Anduin, and then throwing up a small lake’s worth of water before collapsing, unconscious, upon the river bank. "I knew not even whether I had gone east or west." He glanced at the two sets of mail lying discarded in a sodden heap. "The mail was too heavy…"

"I think not many of those who stood with us can have survived. There were none between you and I, and I followed the river downstream to you," Boromir said darkly, and glanced back north towards the reddish glow that lit the night sky. "Osgiliath is burning upon the east shore and the bridge is destroyed. For all the good that it did!" His voice was bitter, and Faramir peered closely at him in the darkness, alarmed. It had been long—ten years at least—since he and his brother had served closely together, and Faramir had now nineteen years of bloody experience in Ithilien. Neither he nor Boromir had passed through those years unscathed or unchanged, and both knew it. Faithful to their promises, the brothers had written each other as often as they could, sending their own messages alongside the dispatches that Ithilien runners regularly brought from Henneth Annûn to Osgiliath, and vice versa. Of late their correspondence had become more sporadic, for in the last four years, Boromir had spent increasingly more time in Minas Tirith, and Faramir knew how hard that was for him.

It was not simply that Boromir, being a man of action, preferred to remain among his men rather than command from afar in safety; there had crept into his occasional letters a note of cynicism, of disillusionment that Faramir found cause for worry. It was in Boromir’s nature to be idealistic to the point of fault, and he had never been one to bear continuous frustration well, but for him to lose heart? For him to doubt the good that he and his people had accomplished, even at so high a cost? That had never seemed a possibility before. And yet perhaps I ought not to be surprised, Faramir thought with no small chagrin. Perhaps I underestimate him. After all, once I would have said that nothing could shake his faith in our father, but then he opened his eyes. Faramir knew that his brother had begun to argue harder with Denethor, both for his own needs and in other matters. Indeed, ever since that night nineteen years ago, an edge of strain had entered very quietly into Boromir’s relationship with their father. It was a strangely passive thing given that Boromir usually feigned no pretense, and it waxed and waned with proximity, but it was there and constant: a subtle disharmony that put Boromir off not only from his father but from the title ‘steward.’

So Faramir read it, at least, from letters and from their increasingly rare encounters. That splinter of doubt, so foreign to his brother’s constitution, made itself known most tellingly through the exacerbation of childhood desires for glory. It had become increasingly more important to Boromir to have renown for its own sake, as something separate from that which he would gain from the stewardship. Ever he pushed and prodded, seeking danger ever more recklessly in the hope, perhaps, of finding in the luster of battle-glory and the willing adulation of Gondor’s people something clean—something untouched by the shadow of resentment that bred quietly between father and son. But given the origin of such a desire, Faramir knew only too well that it was a vain hope. He only wished he knew how to speak to his brother on this matter, but the proper occasion seemed elusive. Or else, Faramir thought sadly, my wisdom, however little it might be, fails in this instance. I have made my own peace with father, however one-sided, but I cannot see my way to helping Boromir achieve a similar truce.

"Your men gave their lives to prevent the Dark Lord’s army from crossing the bridge. And they succeeded in large measure. You do them a disservice to doubt it," Faramir said softly, seeking to turn his brother’s mind from such recrimination, mistrusting his brother’s mood. There came a noise, as of skeptical resignation, but Boromir did not speak for a long while, staring off into the distance.

When he did, he said quietly, "You speak rightly, of course."

Faramir made no answer–what more, indeed, could he say?–and they lapsed silent again. From all about them came the night sounds of Gondor: frogs in the reeds, and the hum of crickets, and of course the rush of water down Anduin’s great channel. Listening, Faramir felt suddenly an overwhelming desire to sleep, worn out after the evening’s long and bloody struggle followed by a swim in the river in full mail suit. Images of the battle flashed through his mind in a disjointed fashion: the charge of the Haradrim, and the coming of the great shadow and its deadly terror; the slow retreat, hastened in places where that darkness struck; step by step until the few remaining defenders were upon the bridge proper and still giving ground. If he closed his eyes, or looked too long into the empty spaces of the night, he could see all over again the shadows come rushing towards them, trampling even their own ranks in a last bid to gain the bridge before the western defenders could destroy it. He had thrown himself at Boromir, intent on pushing him out of the way before it was too late. They had hit the side of the bridge hard, and both had lain stunned. Indeed, he had only just scrambled to his feet when the bridge had heaved beneath him. Máhal fired the supports, he recalled, we were thrown into the river, and there were stones the size of a man falling all about us. I saw Galdon struck by one, and he went under and did not come up again. Rest him well! Anduin ran red about me. It was enough to make a man sick, but Faramir had seen too much bloodshed and stomachs got used to everything with time, he supposed.

Presently, Boromir sighed and stood, rising into a bone-popping stretch. Then he held out a hand and Faramir, grasping it, was pulled to his feet. A moment they stood there, hands clasped, and neither seemed willing to speak. Finally, though, Boromir said, "I doubt not that we could both sleep for days, but I think we ought to make our way back to Osgiliath tonight. After the confusion of that battle, the men will need to know you and I are alive." Faramir nodded, recognizing the wisdom of that plan.

"Let us go, then," he said simply. The brothers passed through the land: grey shadows beneath the sky, survivors granted another lease on life, though they knew not for how long.

 ***

The news, upon their weary return to the west bank of Osgiliath, was both good and bad. Good, in that the bulk of Mordor’s forces had been denied passage over Anduin, and the wreck of the bridge meant they need not fear another attempt for some time. The men were overjoyed that their captains had survived, but it was a grave welcome they gave nonetheless, for many had been lost in the battle of the bridge. The eastern garrisons had been devastated: of those who had been retained upon the opposite shore, there were but four survivors, including the brothers. As for the rest, they had died to a man in the final onslaught. Faramir, relieving Tarodin of the Ithilien command, missed Galdon especially–missed his quiet but stalwart presence, and his dark eyes that softened whenever he welcomed his captain back from some perilous venture. He tried not to think of all those who lay in a watery grave among the fallen stones of Osgiliath, busying himself instead with imposing order upon the chaos of his command. But he could not ignore that his people, having been primarily stationed east of Anduin–for that territory they knew best–had taken much higher losses per unit than had Osgiliath’s garrison, which was evenly split between the banks. And how will father take that, when he compares my report with Boromir’s? He wondered. I do not need him to tell me what I have lost!

He should not have to think of such things, but he did, and then he laughed softly at himself for his earlier thoughts. So I have made my peace with father? Indeed! And here stand I, worrying about what he will think of me. I ought not to look askance at Boromir when I cannot control myself! That helped him to regain his balance, and he wondered if it was merely exhaustion that brought those latent feelings to the fore. It matters not! Faramir sighed and of a sudden decided to walk a bit, to clear his mind before going to bed. For though his eyes were ready to close of their own accord, he could not seem to rest though he knew not why. Something nagged at him, just below the surface, and he was perhaps too tired even to glean it and so be free of it. So instead he wandered through the camp, picking his way carefully through the sleeping ranks. Of their own volition, it seemed, his feet guided him to his brother's tents, and he hesitated. There was light within, but he heard nothing to indicate that Boromir was about. After a moment's hesitation, he ducked inside, letting the flap fall shut behind him. There was a small, partly shuttered lamp upon a low table, but the tent was empty. Well, Faramir thought, sitting down on the edge of the cot pitched in a corner, I will wait for him. In truth, I know not even why I came, for what have we to speak of… other than everything? And much of that we try to ignore, for it concerns our father. But… I think I will wait nonetheless. Sitting there, gazing about at his brother's scattered belongings, he thought of how very long it had been since they had been able to talk, face to face, without fear of interruption. Not that he intended to do that tonight, for both of them craved rest. But perhaps a few words, just the assurance that they would soon have that conversation, and then he would be gone. Yes, I think that will do me good, for I would speak to him ere we leave for Minas Tirith… ere we speak to father. Surely he will return soon.

***

Boromir returned at last from a walk round the perimeter of the camp. It had been an impulsive round, for there was no need in fact for him to check upon the defenses tonight. Yet it was a part of his routine, and he had felt unable to sleep until he had finished that last chore. Now, though, his tasks were done for the remainder of the night, and he felt a weariness such as he had seldom felt in his life as he made his way to his tents. Let me sleep deep and dream not! He thought tiredly, lifting the flap and then stepping within. And then he paused, a look of astonished puzzlement crossing his face. Before him, curled up on his cot, lay Faramir, and from his brother's slow breathing, he guessed he had been asleep some time now. Faramir was still fully clothed, wrapped in one of his older cloaks, and he pillowed his dark head upon one arm. Boromir shook his head finally, and laughed softly so as not to disturb him. Well, it has been long indeed since he has done that! Quietly stripping off his cloak, Boromir wadded it up and tossed it into a corner. He pulled his boots off, debated ridding himself of his shirt and decided against it. He crept to his brother's side and considered the problem for a few moments. I could wake him, send him off to his bed… but if he is that tired, I should be sorry to rouse him! It is not as if I there is any danger of someone discovering him here, since I wake before the guard changes. With a soft sigh, he eased his younger brother carefully to one side and lay down next to him. It was a warm night, so he forsook the blanket, feeling the heat of Faramir's body at his back to be warmth enough.

Thus nestled together, the brothers slept, and waited upon dreams.

V I I 
Dreams

Dark was the land as it lay under shadow, and the stars and moon were quenched, so that it was not possible to tell where earth met sky and so ended. Darkness unutterable wreathed the unwary traveler in its foul vapors and laughed at the fear it incited; and yet it was not complete, for far away–west, instinct insisted, though there was no sign to tell direction–there gleamed one desperate patch of light. There, the darkness swirled and gnawed, but ever the light grew brighter, blinding the onlooker.

And from that light came a voice, crying loudly yet the words were faint, partly stifled by the brooding shadows:

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.*

Echoing in the void, those words rang out, seeming to grow in strength rather than diminish 'til there was no escaping them. The Darkness, too, seemed to cry out, though in anguish that smote the heart and brought even the bravest to his knees. And still the echoes continued:

Doom is near at hand…

Isildur's Bane shall waken… Isildur's Bane…

the Halfling forth shall stand…

stand… stand….

….STAND–

–"Enough!" Boromir woke suddenly, and knew not whether he had spoken aloud his plea. At the moment it mattered not, for he felt someone else near him, and instinctively he leapt up, hand going to his belt in search of a weapon. In the dim light a silhouette crouched across from him, tense and waiting, but as they stared at each other, fear gave way to relief as memory returned. "Faramir!" Boromir sighed, and straightened. He turned and groped atop the table for a match. Finding one, he struck it and lit the candle, which he then held aloft. In the flickering light, the lean shadow gained a face: beyond the cot, which had been overturned by their violent wakening, his brother stood, blinking in the light. Faramir passed a hand before his eyes and shook his head as if in embarrassed chagrin, for in his left hand gleamed a dagger. He, unlike Boromir, had fallen asleep armed.

"Valar be praised that stayed my hand!" He muttered and sheathed the weapon. Then he frowned at his brother, and asked, "When came you back?"

"Three hours after the dead watch," Boromir replied, "You were asleep when I entered." The two of them stooped and set the cot aright, gathering up scattered blankets.

"You should have roused me," Faramir said, then paused. "Did you dream it?" Grey eyes, brilliant in the light, gazed intently upon Boromir, as if in expectation.

Boromir stared back in silence a moment, then nodded. "'Doom is near at hand,'" he quoted, and shivered at the premonition.

"And the Halfling," Faramir said grimly, and sank down once more upon the cot. Running a hand through his still-damp hair, he stared at nothing, and Boromir could see that he was troubled. Over the years, he had grown accustomed to his brother's prophetic and disturbing dreams, and yet he had never thought to experience one himself. He found himself waiting for Faramir to speak, to interpret the staves or indicate what must be done. That both of them had dreamt alike did not strike him as unusual amidst all the other odd and uncanny happenings of the previous day. Finally, Faramir stirred and looked up at him, and a queer humor lit his eyes and touched the corners of his mouth as he said, "I fear I have no answers to the questions I see in your face, brother mine. Nay, not even a guess as to what these words mean in truth, for the symbols are opaque to me. Yet this is not the first time that I have pondered that rhyme."

"What do you mean?" Boromir asked, rather more sharply than he had intended, and so he shook his head and came and sat by Faramir instead, so as not to look down at him. "Do you mean that you have seen this poem somewhere before?" He asked, by way of elaboration.

"Nay! Would that that were all!" Faramir responded with a sigh. "Nay, these words came to me yesterday afternoon… in a dream." Boromir bit his tongue to refrain from an outburst, for he had no cause for anger in truth. When have I ever been overeager for strange portents? Faramir knows me well, and he is circumspect in these matters even with me. Still…

"Why did you say nothing of what troubled you, then? I thought you seemed unsettled yestereve, but I set that aside as the anxiety that all suffered ere the battle."

"What could I have said? I knew nothing of what this dream meant, nor that it would be repeated, even shared by another. I have never heard of such a thing before. And," Faramir paused and gave a ghost of a smile, "I recall some good advice that once someone gave me, that one ought never to reveal one's fears before the enemy."

"Then I think you may have taken my words too much to heart," Boromir growled, but he, too, smiled and shook his head for more innocent times. Innocent! How that word has been sullied if I use it now of those difficult and painful days! "But if you have now dreamt this… this… verse… twice, surely that makes it important."

"Even had I dreamt it but once, and you not at all, it would be important," Faramir countered. "But saying so does nothing to clarify it. Isildur's Bane… who now would know what that means?"

"He was slain by Orcs, and though we see those aplenty, yet I would not call sight of them prophetic," Boromir replied. "And what of the Sword that was Broken?"

"I know not," Faramir shrugged. "Nor have I any counsel concerning Halflings, for never have I heard such a name before."

"Well," Boromir mused as he stood and began pacing, unable to sit still, "if you know not, then I can add nothing to your speculations. And I can think of but one person who might." He stopped and faced Faramir, looking his younger brother squarely in the face.

"Father," Faramir replied in a tone that was painful for its very neutrality. For a moment, they gazed at each other, Boromir silently urging his brother to consider the matter, and Faramir seeming to wish he could resist the obvious conclusion. But in the end, the younger of Denethor's sons lowered his eyes and with a gesture acknowledged defeat. "You are right, and I would be remiss in my duty to Gondor if I did not bring this before him. Yet I am afraid, Boromir, as I have never been before." He raised burning eyes to meet and pin his brother's gaze once again, and continued, "There is in this an urgency, and a summons. Mark you well that the rhyme spoke of a place where these things would be revealed, and so we must discover where this Imladris lies, and go there if we hope to be answered! I fear, though, to make such a case before the seat of the Steward without having sought the answers ourselves first, or how else shall we convince him that we are in earnest?"

"Then we shall do that. We would have sent messengers to Minas Tirith in any case ere this day were done. Let you go, then, and deliver the tidings of what has happened here, but tell our father that I shall come soon for we three must speak together. While you wait, see what may be found in the records of the city, which you know far more intimately than do I," Boromir acknowledged with a wry smile, and Faramir chuckled softly.

"I hear and obey," Faramir replied, rising and he bowed low. "Well, if I am to leave before sunset, I should go and make ready, and see to my men… what is left of them," and there was in his voice a terrible pain that was yet mixed with a fierce pride as he acknowledged how devastated the Ithilieners were. Boromir nodded, approving of the sentiment, and clapped his brother on the shoulder.

"Come find me before you leave. And let Tarodin meet me at the changing of the guards tonight."

"I shall," Faramir started to leave, pulling his cloak tight about him as he stepped towards the entryway. But then he paused and said softly as he lingered there, "Be careful, Boromir, for though Osgiliath be safe for a time, there are other dangers: less visible, perhaps, but no less deadly for that. Time is running out." Ere his brother could respond, Faramir was gone, and Boromir heard him greet a guard on his way out.

"Other perils there are?" He mused, wondering what had inspired that odd warning, which had seemed to come apropos of nothing. "Well, we shall see!" With that, he tried to put the disturbing dream behind him so that he could face the day. Yet though he went about his duties with his usual vigor, ever in the back of his mind a voice whispered: Isildur's Bane… Doom is at hand! And so, gently into his heart slipped the fear that he had kept at bay for so long: fear for Gondor, the seed of doubt and mistrust that lay dormant until events beyond the foresight even of Faramir brought it starkly to dreadful fruition. He did not recognize the change, being concerned with many other things, but his gaze strayed now rather westward than east. And when Faramir left at last, the sun as it set behind the mountains recalled the fading light of the dream, and Boromir shivered as he turned back to the long eastward vigil.

 

* FOTR, 240.

V I I I
Aye, there's the rub ...

Though news travels no faster than the messenger who bears it, to Faramir son of Denethor, it seemed that the city of Minas Tirith had some foreboding of his message. Too silent seemed its folk as he rode the proud streets, and though many cried aloud his name and clustered close about to greet him, he yet sensed a furtive quietude that was lodged deep in his people. Something in their voices and even, he fancied, in the eyes of those who gathered, hinted at some grief; and though the day was fair and warm, for it was the middle of summer, the sun seemed to shine too brightly upon white-stoned walls and houses so that the splendor of the city became a veil that insisted naught was out of place. What can have caused this? He wondered, as he surrendered his mount to the handlers and made his way by foot up the long and gated passages of Minas Tirith. Say not that some ill has befallen here, even! That unhappy thought caused him to quicken his pace, though he could not imagine that any enemy should breech even the walls of the city short of war itself. Gazing up at the pearlescent needle that was the Citadel, Faramir saw that it glittered almost as a star rising up from the ground, so bright that the azure sky seemed dull…

Seek for the Sword that was Broken… ! Faramir paused within the court of the seventh circle, struck by the suddenness of the dream-vision that assailed him again. He blinked, and held his eyes shut a moment longer than usual, hoping to clear the image of the tower from his sight and thereby arrest the progress of the dream-warning. But as when a man looks into the sun, and thereafter even in darkness sees the glowing outline of that fiery orb, the glitter of the Citadel remained, and the world seemed darkened indeed. In Imladris it dwells… Doom is near at hand… Isildur's Bane shall waken, and the Halfling forth shall stand! Faramir shook his head once, sharply, and then went determinedly onward, unwilling to give anyone cause for alarm on his behalf. A waking dream is still a dream, and this one I know well already! So he reminded himself, and bent his will to ignore it, though now that the rhyme was in his head it refused to be silent.

The door wardens admitted him into the tower's pillared halls with grave courtesy, and again, there was something subtlely wrong about their manner. Faramir, seeking to describe that intuition more carefully, decided that they seemed… relieved… to see him—as if they hoped his coming might herald the easing of some difficulty. That was not a sentiment to which he was accustomed upon his infrequent returns: for though it needed no false pride to acknowledge that he was held dear in the hearts of Gondor's citizens, neither did it need false modesty to recognize that those who had served long in the higher circles of the city were well aware of the friction between father and second son. When Faramir returned home, those of the sixth and seventh circles greeted him with affection, but always there was a hint of resigned anticipation as the courtiers prepared to weather whatever storms might come of his presence among them. Therefore, if those same long-suffering guardians and servants saw him now as a cause for cautious hope, something must be badly amiss.

"Húrin!" Faramir caught sight of the Warden of the Keys descending from on high, and hailed him.

"My lord Faramir," Húrin replied, and came quickly to his side. A stolid man of middling years, Húrin had held his title for as long as the younger prince could personally recall, and he treated both Boromir and Faramir as a part of his own extensive family. Therefore once he had bowed, he clasped Faramir's hand in a crushing grip and smiled kindly at him. "'Tis good to see you again, my lord."

"You look well, Húrin," Faramir said. "I heard from Boromir that your daughter married. How goes it with her?"

"Well indeed! I may be a grandfather ere next fall," the other said with understandable pride, and Faramir smiled at that.

"I hope that may come to pass! But, alas! I may not tarry for the moment. I seek the steward, for I come with news out of Osgiliath. Is he within?" asked Faramir, and gestured to the doors that led to the council chambers.

"The lord Denethor is not within the Citadel at this time, for he left some hours ago and rode up the old road into the mountains," Húrin replied, and Faramir nodded. The old road, known as the Aramen, or Royal Road, was little more than a green-grown path that wended its way to a point from which one could gaze down even upon the Citadel's peak. Custom forbade all but those of the ruling family of Gondor—which had for generations meant the Steward's kin—from going upon it. In his youth, Faramir had spent many a happy hour following its twisting ways, 'til at last it ended where Gondor had begun: with Elendil. But Denethor was not one for sentiment, nor did he seek the council of any, whether living or dead, and Faramir wondered what had prompted this journey.

"Then I shall await his return, and perhaps turn this time to my own profit, for it has been long since I have visited the library," he replied.

"I shall leave messages, so that the steward knows where to find you, should he wish it," Húrin said, and paused a moment before he repeated with quiet fervor, "It is good to see you again, my lord. You are most welcome home!"

"Thank you, Húrin," Faramir replied, extracting himself gently from the other's grasp. The Warden of the Keys strode away, then, disappearing down the eastern corridor, leaving Faramir to ponder what might lie hidden behind that welcome. At length, though, he turned north and went to the narrow staircase that descended on an angle into the mountainside itself, to the vaults of Minas Tirith where lay the royal library with its collection of rare scrolls and books of lore. The vaults were built in the days after the Kin Strife, when Gondor's rulers, seeing how close to disaster the realm had come, had decided to copy much of the old library of Osgiliath and remove it to another location, that all might not be lost should tragedy strike again. Those responsible for the great delving had reached deep for the skill of lost Númenór to create a marvelous cluster of dome-shaped rooms, five to be precise, that were set about a central one. Each peripheral room was given over to a certain subject—history, law, poetry and music, philosophy, and the art of war—while the central room held copying tables and indices, as well as more recent works that had yet to be entered into the lists. In this honeycomb of knowledge, Faramir had spent much time as a boy in a (very likely) vain attempt to slake his curiosity. Today, though, he gave thanks to the foresight of his ancestors that had preserved so much when Osgiliath was ruined, for he had need of guidance in his research.

Though well-versed in the history of the Númenórian realms in Exile, Faramir yet suspected little of the location or significance of Imladris. He recalled no mention of it in his studies, though he knew that it meant Deep-cloven Valley, or something very near to that when translated. And it is a Sindarin name, which may mean much… or naught at all, he thought as he began his search through the indices of geography. Unhappily, the collection of maps of Middle-earth had been one of the sections of the old Osgiliath library that had not been preserved, possibly because of the skill required to copy them, but also due, perhaps, to a lack of interest. We were turned inward even then, he thought sadly, even as he turned a page. Once rooted in soil we call our own, we soon cease to find value beyond it, even in our own kin. After Aranarth, Arnor very nearly disappears from our records, and I doubt not that as Middle-earth wanes, this forgetfulness will grow ever greater. Such a fate for the last remnant of Númenór seemed grievous indeed to him, but he shook his head and turned resolutely to his work. Not to think of that now! Think rather to preserve Minas Tirith beyond this darkness, so that it may have the luxury of forgetfulness!

***

Above the city, the sun was setting, and still Faramir labored on in pursuit of evidence of the existence of Imladris. The hours of searching had yielded very little, and he had long since abandoned the indices, immersing himself in the arcane material of ancient days. Having little indeed to build upon, Faramir had turned to the rhyme itself once more, and decided that the conjunction of Isildur's Bane and Imladris probably set him amid the records of the last quarter of the Second Age at least. More, assuming that Imladris was not a name given by Men to an Elvish haven in their midst, then it seemed safe to guess that Imladris lay near either to Mirkwood, since that kingdom was little known to Gondor, or to the Mithlond on the westernmost shores of Middle-earth. Or it could have been a city of Arnor that had survived neither the fall of that kingdom nor the discriminating pens of the loremasters. But that leaves all of Eriador open to scrutiny, for wherever there are hills or mountains there may be one valley steep enough to merit the name, he thought. Best to hope that my first guesses are correct!

Alas, though, logic availed him little, for because both Mirkwood and the Mithlond had little to do with Gondor, mention of either Elf-haven was extremely rare. The last record of the Elves of Mirkwood had been a passing reference to envoys sent to witness the oath of Cirion and Éorl, as the Elves of Thranduil (as the king of that realm was then named) had had some part in the fight for Calenardhon, though Faramir knew not whether their actions were simply in defense of their home or in alliance with Gondor. And then they pass out of history and into the obscurity of vague legend! Faramir thought, frustrated. As for Mithlond… One long-dead scribe writes that Elendil and his sons originally purposed to make landfall in the Grey Havens, but were blown off course by the storm. And the records agree that Cirdan the Shipwright sent warriors to strengthen the ranks of the Last Alliance; but who they were and how many, none say.

Faramir leaned upon a copying table and turned the problem over in his mind. It would do him no good to try to comb through the contents of the entire library, for such a task needed an Elvish life-span to complete, even assuming nothing more were ever added to the collection. Somehow, he had to find a way of narrowing his search still further…

"Húrin of the Keys sent word that you might be found here, Faramir." The voice at his elbow startled him, and Faramir turned quickly to see his father standing not far away, watching him. For a long, uncomfortable moment, father and son stared at each other and neither moved, until Denethor at last cast a look round, noting the books Faramir had pulled from their shelves or niches and laid upon three different tables. He picked one up and gazed a moment at the title, ere he continued, "You choose a difficult subject, it seems."

"I… yes, sir," Faramir managed after a beat. For his part, his silence had been the product of surprise, but also of a certain shock. In the last four years, his visits to Minas Tirith, though somewhat more frequent than usual, had been mostly to Boromir, who acted as an intermediary between Denethor and himself. He had seen Denethor, of course, and knew that his father, for all that he retained his vigor, yet had aged in appearance as the burden of governance in dark times took its toll. But as he gazed now at the steward, he perceived that there was a weariness or a doubtfulness deeply embedded in him, one that Faramir had never noticed before. He met Denethor's eyes, and some subtle signal passed between them: the steward's eyes hardened, and Faramir realized that he had erred badly. He had seen what he should not have, and his shock had betrayed his knowledge to the steward. His father knew now that his troublesome younger son had seen his weakness, well-cloaked though it was, and Denethor had never taken kindly to the searching regards of others.

Even when my eyes seek not, only see what is revealed! The sins I commit without intending them! Faramir bemoaned silently, as he averted his eyes. And now what do I say? Shall I speak of Osgiliath or of the dream? "There is a matter that weighs upon me, and upon Boromir, of which we together would speak with you, if you will. Hence this," he gestured to the volumes, then after a minute pause, continued, "But I came first to bear the steward of the realm news out of Osgiliath." Under the silent pressure of his father's gaze, Faramir told then of the battle, and of the breaking of the bridge of Osgiliath, and the loss of the eastern garrisons. "We would have lost many in that battle in any case, for the Haradrim are more fell than Orcs, and they stand firm in the face of victory or defeat. But there was some other power at work, the like of which none had ever seen: a darkness that shaped itself as riders, I would call it, and where it came, none could stand against it for long. Some that were touched by it ran witless and heedless 'til they were slain; others were laid low by it, and huddled upon the ground as if paralyzed." Faramir felt his gorge rise in horror of the memory, and his hands upon the table gripped the edges tightly 'til his knuckles whitened. Denethor's eyes flickered slightly, as he took in these signs of distress, but he gave no indication of his private thought. "The riders at the last forced passage, and they fled westward over the bridge ere it was cast down beneath us. Of those upon the bridge, only four lived to tell of it, including your sons." Faramir paused, forcing himself back from the memory, and his tone was nearly normal as he concluded, "The Haradrim army remains still upon the eastern bank, but it shall be long ere it can threaten Gondor's western lands, though in Ithilien we may yet see much of them."

"Your news does not surprise me. " Denethor said after a moment, and shook his grey head, "Osgiliath has long been our weakest link, and short of the rebirth of our ancient strength and numbers, nothing could hold it against a determined attack. It was perhaps pointless to send a part of the Ithilien garrison there," and Faramir, hearing this, struggled not to let his bitterness over that remark show, "but now more than ever, we shall yield nothing unfought! These riders concern me, but if I am not mistaken, they will trouble us little for a time."

"What are these riders, then, for it seems clear that you know of them?"

"For the moment, that I know of them is enough," the steward replied, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. "There is little use in telling you more of them, for you have observed more of them than any mortal man has since the kings failed." A slight, sardonic smile curved Denethor's lips. "I doubt not that that is more than you would wish, but I assure you, they have powers held in check that only war shall see unveiled." Faramir's eyes narrowed at that, but he said nothing, though his mind sought already after the clues his father had revealed. Since the kings failed, is it? We shall see!

"As you will it," was all that he said in reply, and then, "Does the steward ask anything further of me tonight?"

"No." Denethor said. "Attend me upon the morrow, at the sixth hour, for there are other matters that must be made known to you ere the council convenes. Good night."

"Your servant," Faramir replied formally, and bowed, waiting until he heard the door to the vault shut again ere he raised his eyes and sighed. It struck him forcibly, even after so many years of painful formality, that at this first meeting in nearly four years, neither he nor Denethor had once addressed each other familiarly. This had been a meeting of strangers, not of family, and neither had bothered to sully the words "father" and "son" by employing them. "Will it ever be thus?" He wondered aloud, and then, with less than enthusiasm, he turned back to his research. In his mind again, the darkened sky lay close about, pierced by one slender ray of light that touched upon words now too familiar: Seek for the Sword that was Broken! In Imladris it dwells…

I X
Discord

Faramir had emerged late from the library, and none the wiser for his efforts, at least as concerned Imladris. Already, he looked to the next day's labors in that deep place, wondering how long he might spend in Denethor's study and if there would be some opportunity to quit the steward's presence early. But for the moment, he could read no more. As he walked slowly through the halls, he paused before his father's door, wondering if he ought to knock and seek admittance. Custom in Gondor held that a captain or lord of the realm dined the first night with his liege-lord. But Denethor had not extended any invitation, and Faramir would have been reluctant to accept one, even had it been offered. Shall I stand on protocol, or go now to the company commons? It is late in any case…

"My lord!" Húrin's voice sounded at the end of the hall, and Faramir turned to see the older man coming toward him.

"Good evening, Húrin," he replied. "Once again, well met!"

"Indeed! I trust your research was fruitful?"

"It may prove so in the end," Faramir hedged, unwilling to speak overmuch of his errand. Having brought it to Denethor's attention, he did not wish for whispers to reach the steward that he had already discussed it with another, even one so loyal and long in service as Húrin.

"Good. The steward, I fear, works late, and will see no one tonight," the warden glanced at the closed door, then caught Faramir's arm in his and began leading him away, steering him towards the western periphery of the tower. "And we who work at his side keep often long hours as well!"

"Well do I know that," the younger man chuckled sympathetically. "Whither are you bound now? To your home, I hope."

"I am that. And," Húrin paused, turning to face him, "if it please you, my lord Faramir, you would be welcome at my table. For do I guess rightly that you have taken no time for a meal yet?"

"In truth, I have not. Thank you, Húrin. It has been many years since last I saw your family," Faramir replied, eagerly seizing the opportunity presented. It had been long since he had had time to sit and speak with old friends, and there were many matters about which he was curious, and which Húrin might be able to clarify for him. Not least of which is my father's mood, for upon that topic, I can be certain that not a whisper will go astray. Men know better in Minas Tirith than to speak overmuch of the steward behind his back! Put thus, it sounded dishonest, and Faramir frowned slightly as he walked at Húrin's side, but he had no other means of learning what he most wished to know: what was the source of the uneasiness that gripped Minas Tirith's people?

Húrin lived in the sixth circle, just past the gates, in one of Minas Tirith's oldest mansions. His forebears had risen to prominence in the war that had brought the Second Age to its end. After the Kin Strife had wreaked its havoc, his family had been granted the title of Warden of the Keys, and the Warden, more than any other within the walls, was the steward's right hand and stood first among councilors. Should Mardil Voronwë's line fail, rule would pass to Húrin or his descendents until the loremasters could reach a decision as to who was most entitled to the steward's rod. And it may yet come to pass, Faramir thought grimly. Who knows what may befall us in the years to come? Sauron sleeps not, and his memory is long, and Minas Tirith has ever opposed him. We may lose all or the better part of it when war breaks loose at last! But for tonight, at least, such grand worries could be set aside, and Faramir resolved firmly to think no more on them for a time. No one could bear up under such burdens unrelieved by moments of peace, and Húrin's house had always been a safe haven for a lonely boy.

For though only very distantly a cousin given the intricate ties of blood and marriage among Gondor's ruling classes, the warden was more family to him than any other, save Boromir alone. And when Yvaren, Húrin's diminutive wife greeted them, she clasped him to her as a long-lost son. In former years, theirs had been a large household, and a loud one, for Yvaren was six times a mother. But with the youngest daughter recently married, there reigned now an aura of relaxed quietude in the house, as if the very stones exuded relief at the break in the hectic atmosphere. Their conversation that night ranged over a number of topics, but they returned ever and anon to matters of family. Yvaren had naturally much to say in this matter, with more than fifteen grand-children still within the walls of the city, but she questioned Faramir much about himself as well. "I hear tell of you sometimes, when Boromir visits. But even he says that he knows not the tenth of what happens in Ithilien."

"Much, and yet also little," Faramir replied with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "Much bickering with many of the same enemies we have always known, and yet little of great import, it seems. They do but test us, and though the testing grows fiercer with the passing of years, still it is but a feint and a taunt."

"You are not alone in that opinion," Húrin said. "Many are the captains who report regular incursions or who write of being watched ever by spies. I may say that the lord steward has ordered many companies to alter their daily routines, the better to conceal their activities from unfriendly eyes." Faramir nodded, having seen that dispatch. But Ithilien's operations were by nature secretive and changing. There was little chance that an enemy would find a pattern in a routine that deliberately had none! "We hope now only that we are granted time enough to gird ourselves against siege."

"Is that the cause of the anxiety I perceive in Minas Tirith these days?" Faramir asked, leaping swiftly into the opening Húrin provided. When the warden raised a heavy brow, he continued, "You know whereof I speak, for the seventh circle is awash in it, and it spills over into all the levels of the city. Even my lord father is not insensitive to it, I think." Húrin pursed his lips, as if considering, and Yvaren's eyes darted towards her husband ere they cut back again to the grave young man who sat across from her. Faramir noted that exchange, and waited patiently for revelation.

Finally, Húrin spoke, though very carefully, as if wary of his own words. "Yes, and no. All of Minas Tirith awaits the stroke that will plunge us into war, and slowly it has become clear that all our efforts are for naught." The warden paused, meeting Faramir's eyes as he reached across the table to clasp his wife's hand protectively. "That will not surprise you, of course, for few know better than you our desperation. But for many, such concerns are too far above them. Until the day the armies of the Nameless Land are upon our very threshold, and the gates are ready to burst asunder, they will not cease to hope for victory, nor understand that it is already beyond our grasp, long though we may delay the final defeat. But there are more concrete matters that trouble our councils of late. A letter arrived out of Isengard not long ago, warning of danger unlooked for."

"No longer wholly unlooked for now, I trust?"

"Again, yea and nay," Húrin cautioned. "Curunir warns only that Mithrandir's activities of late are grown strange and secretive indeed, and that seems to him a matter of concern. He sought to learn of Mithrandir's purpose in coming to Gondor a year ago. Do you recall that visit?"

"I recall hearing of it from Boromir," Faramir replied. "I was in Ithilien throughout the summer, for then are attacks more frequent."

"Yes, well," Húrin gestured lightly with one hand to indicate that it mattered little. "As I understand it, the Grey Pilgrim wished to learn something of the foundation of the city, and the Lord Denethor granted him leave to search the library vaults. He stayed perhaps a week, and then was gone again, as is ever his way. Now, though, I think the steward seeks to find more reason in that visit than was formerly revealed."

"I doubt not that there was much Mithrandir kept to himself," Faramir mused, "Wizards are not in the habit of declaring all their purpose, even to those accounted mighty. But though I cannot believe that he would weave a plot against us, I can well believe that my father would distrust him, and misconstrue the message!"

"It may be no more than that," Húrin conceded.

"But it may be, and I think you speak now of something other than wizards," Faramir responded. "My father's mood, Húrin, is grown strange, or so it seemed to me. Do I not speak truly when I say that that more than anything else is what troubles the upper circles of Minas Tirith?"

"Have a care, lad!" the older man warned, proffering a faint smile nonetheless as he lapsed into a more familiar tone. "We of the seventh circle speak not of that among ourselves, yet it is true."

"And you know not the source of this change in him?"

"Nay, we do not. But the steward has been sharp in his speech of late, and more particular in his habits than ever. And most of all does he resent any attention drawn to these things, or to such activities as a journey upon the Aramen." Húrin paused. "What think you, Faramir?"

"He seemed to me weary, unaccountably so…" Denethor's second son trailed off into silence, eyes distant as he considered once more the scene in the library. "Heavy is the burden of his rule, yet he guards it jealously, and with pride. I cannot think he will let it crush him beneath it." With a sigh, Faramir shook his head and gazed at the warden in frustrated bewilderment. "Others there are, surely, who have been more at his side than have I! I fear my opinion must weigh little beside theirs."

"As I said, we speak not of it overmuch. The walls have ears, and the more so the closer one is to the Citadel," Húrin replied with a grim smile, then seemed to change the subject. "There is a window in the high room near the summit, and from it ever and anon shines forth a flickering light."

"What of it?" Faramir asked, puzzled by the seeming non sequitur.

"What indeed? It has shone there for many years now, though it seems to grow brighter with time. The guards say that by night your father wrestles with the Dark Lord, and many are they who believe it."

"Why do you tell me this?"

"So that you will know it," Húrin replied with a minute shrug. "Boromir has heard the rumor, I am certain, and if he has not shared it with you, then I am surprised for I think he liked it not."

"Well can I believe that! Boromir never was one for uncanny tales," Faramir replied with a soft chuckle as he rose, though in his heart he pondered that odd remark. Húrin was not one to speak to no end, so this stray bit of gossip must mean something. The walls have ears… and my father burns oil later into the night than even Húrin can explain. Doubtless he sifts what information he has then, but whence comes some of it? "I thank you for your company, my friends, and for all your past kindness. This is the first meal I have eaten in peace for a long while, and that is a great gift."

"You are always welcome in our house," Yvaren said, smiling. Husband and wife accompanied him to the hall where they bid each other good evening, and he felt their eyes upon him as he went out into the full night. As soon as he was out of sight and earshot, Húrin sighed, and his wife cast a glance upward. "What is it, love?"

"There goes one who, but for the accidents of birth, could have worn a crown, and worn it well. And yet his father esteems him as lower than the dullest knave!" Húrin shook his head. "I fear for him, Yvaren. For him, and for his brother both!"

 

***

Boromir's steed whinnied fiercely as it clattered into the busy streets of Minas Tirith. But he had eyes only for the slender figure clad in Ithilien green and black that awaited him, lounging against the wall with arms folded across its chest. Clicking his teeth at the horse to calm its nervous, mincing gait, Boromir swung out of the saddle, handing off the reins to a handler as he strode quickly to his brother's side. "I hope that your presence here augers well for our purpose today!" He said by way of greeting, clapping the younger man on the shoulder with somewhat absent-minded affection.

"I could wish to bring auspicious tidings, but alas, I have none such to give!" Faramir responded. "With enough time perhaps I could uncover something of Imladris, but for the moment, two days of searching have proved insufficient. If we must move soon to discover these things, then we must hope father has a better answer to our questions than I have been able to find." He paused as Boromir grimaced and then nodded, accepting that conclusion. "There are other matters, though, which concern me, and I wonder if you can tell me more of them."

"Ask then!"

"Know you aught of what has infected Denethor's moods these days?" Faramir asked, glancing sideways at his brother. Boromir's expression did not change, yet he seemed to grimace nonetheless.

"What has he said now?"

"It is less what he said," replied Faramir, "but how he spoke, and how others have reacted that worries me. And why should he go upon the Aramen unannounced? I would say…" Here he paused, searching once more through all of his exchanges with the steward, seeking to find one word that would express the sum of his impressions. "I would say," he finally concluded, and was surprised that he had not seen it before, "that he were frightened, but that I find that hard to conceive!"

At that, Boromir paused, glancing about, and then he caught his brother's arm and pulled him into a recessed guard station along the wall of the second level. Faramir felt in that touch a fierce anxiety, and he wondered suddenly whether he ought to have inquired more closely after his brother's recent stay in Minas Tirith. "Hear me, brother!" said Boromir in a low tone, "I cannot argue that there is some… doubt, I would call it, that underlies all of father's words of late. But it may stem from no more than natural—if anything that comes from Mordor may be so named!—fear of the power in the east. Father knows much, and he has many eyes in his employ, more than I had fathomed earlier. And he knows that the trial ahead will be bitter and could cost us all that we have, even in victory. In such straits, what steward or king, even, would not know fear?"

"True," Faramir conceded, but frowned nonetheless. "Still, it is to me too sudden a change. If it come from a too thorough knowledge of our enemy's might, then what new intelligence has arrived to awaken such fear in him? Boromir, I can feel it in him! And whence comes such news, if it be so dreadful? We have not spies within Mordor," said he, and his voice lowered almost to a whisper at the naming of that land. "That we both know, for the Ephel Duath are an effective veil to the workings of the Dark Lord. And between us, we see in time all else that crosses Denethor's desk!"

Boromir gave a soft grunt, as of worried consideration, ere he said, "I know not the answer to that."

"What of this light in the tower?"

"Do not tell me you believe that bit of nonsense!" Boromir's tone was scathing, and Faramir's eyes narrowed as he tasted denial on the other's tongue.

"Why should I not consider it? After all, brother, we two are bound to the steward our father with a request to find Imladris on the basis of a shared dream! How is this rumor more or less mad than our errand?" That gave the other pause, and after a time, the elder prince sighed.

"Logic is elusive of late! Forgive me, I had not stopped to think of that," Boromir replied, squeezing Faramir's shoulder.

"There is no need of forgiveness," the other responded gracefully. "But let us not quarrel over Denethor's moodiness, at least not now. I should have awaited a more opportune moment to broach the subject."

"Or I should have been less harsh," Boromir countered, but then he sighed once more and the two of them moved forward again. "Have you had better luck deciphering other parts of the rhyme?"

"None," Faramir replied flatly, disheartened. "Of Isildur's death, we have only the records that came out of Arnor by way of a herald. If there were survivors, they must have been badly confused, or else too badly injured to give a coherent account. All we know with certainty is that Isildur's host was waylaid on the Gladden field by orcs. What happened ere the end, we know not, and his body was never recovered."

"And the Halfling…?"

"Naught that I have found in the records, but there is one hint that might lead somewhere given enough time to pursue it," Faramir replied. "You recall our visit to Rohan?"

"A year after mother's death, yes," Boromir said. "What of it?"

"I was too young then to be of much help to anyone, and I spent my days with the younger children of our hosts. I remember, though, that among the stories I was told was one of a race of small, Man-like creatures called…" and here Faramir paused, for though he spoke Rohirric, the word was archaic and not in common usage, and he had to fight to recall it. "Holbytlan, I think it was. An odd tale, being much concerned with nothing at all, yet I remember it clearly. Among other things, they were said to be half the height of a Man."

Boromir shook his head, this time with surprised amusement, and said, "You have always had a better head for such things than I! Holbytlan! They may be no more than a myth!"

"Perhaps, yet it came to my mind. Who knows but that it may prove to have more significance than we imagine?" Faramir shrugged.

"Or it may have none," Boromir replied.

"Or none, as you say, but after all my long hours in the vaults, I will admit any possibility!" Faramir sighed. His brother gave him a sympathetic look at that, and Faramir smiled slightly. Boromir had never been one to spend overmuch time in the library, finding research to be a deadly tedium in most instances. And worse than useless in this case! The younger man admitted, steeling himself as he glanced involuntarily up at the Citadel that loomed high above them. It stuck in his craw to turn the matter over to Denethor, yet he knew they had no choice. Let pride say what it will, father is the better versed in the lore of this city and if ever we knew of Imladris or Halflings or Isildur's Bane, then our best hope lies with him!

***

 

Denethor met his sons in his study, rather than in the council chambers. He had watched Faramir carefully since his arrival, wondering what matter led to searches among the archives of the Second Age. He had himself gone down into the vaults to retrace his younger son's steps, but though he knew well the tale of Isildur, insofar as any in the South knew it, he could see no connection between the events of that distant time and Gondor's current woes. Not yet, at least! The steward thought, gazing intently from one to the other of his sons as they stood before him, and already his mind assembled from the myriad clues of posture and proximity the brothers' relationship. Faramir, as was ever his habit in his father's presence, stood silently, and though his posture was not overly rigid, it was too affected to be natural. He stood today at Boromir's shoulder, letting his brother speak today, and Denethor knew perfectly well the reasoning that lay behind such tactics.

Boromir, for his part, seemed uneasy, restless, and Denethor wondered briefly whether this was another of Faramir's attempts to use his brother against Boromir's better judgment. But then Boromir began to speak, and that doubt was laid swiftly to rest by the urgency in his elder son's voice. "Father, I know that Faramir has warned you of our errand, though not in precise terms. Therefore I shall be brief: after the battle of Osgiliath, we were wakened from our sleep by a dream. We swiftly discovered that we had both dreamt alike, and it seemed to us both that Minas Tirith's fate hung upon the staves heard in that vision." Boromir paused here, and Denethor sensed the troubled, yet strangely eager, anxiety that permeated the other. "As there were many tasks to attend to, we agreed between us that Faramir should return first, to see whether the meaning of the strange words could be discovered among Gondor's records of past events, and that I would follow later. As his efforts have proven in vain, we bring our questions now to you, sir, in the hope that perhaps you will be able to unravel them."

"I see," Denethor replied gravely, considering this unusual turn of events. His eyes darted to Faramir, and he read in the other's stillness hope held in check, and a brief, mocking smile quirked his lips. "Faramir," he said sharply, and his younger son raised his eyes, tensing ever so slightly at the sound of his name. "What are the staves that Boromir has spoken of?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Faramir drew a breath and began to recite, eyes blank as memory unfolded:

"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."

He fell silent and closed his eyes a moment, seeming to withdraw from the presence of father and brother. But ere Denethor could prompt him, bright grey eyes snapped open, focused once more on the present, and Faramir continued, "Since my return, yesterday morning, I have sought the location of Imladris, for as I understand the words, it is there that the answers to our questions lie. And I believe that we must find this place swiftly if we are to play our part in the events and war to come!"

"What say you, father?" Boromir asked, leaning forward slightly, eyes sharp with interest.

Denethor stood in silence, pondering what he had heard, thoughts racing. He had seen naught in the palantír that hinted at any of this, which might mean little. Isildur's Bane… Cold calculation made it evident that orcs had been merely the indirect cause of that worthy's death, and a dark, chill suspicion entered Denethor's heart. He was not so bent to Sauron's lies that he did not read, behind the mocking supremacy and confidence that imbued all of Mordor's works, an uneasiness. What does the Dark Lord seek if not Isildur's Bane? But what could it be? An object of great power, clearly, and yet not so great in appearance that any would recognize it, even among Isildur's followers. Neither Boromir nor Faramir, though, had any least idea with respect to that matter, he was certain of it. But Faramir is right in this, at least: in Imladris, they know what this thing is. And I doubt not that they may know more than that!

"An interesting puzzle," he said at length. "I shall give it some thought ere we speak of it again. But I mark well that Faramir," and here again, he glanced sharply at him, "has looked to find Imladris. 'We' you say, but I wonder which of you proposes to undertake such a journey?" Denethor paused, and watched as Boromir and Faramir glanced swiftly at each other. So, they have not discussed this issue yet! This may prove interesting! The steward thought with cold amusement, even as he waved a hand in dismissal of such considerations. "For the moment, it matters little! There is much still to be decided ere any venture be begun. And perhaps neither of you shall dare it, for I have need of you both here." There was a heavy silence, each man withdrawn into his own thoughts.

"With your leave, sir," Faramir spoke suddenly, and raised resolute eyes to meet Denethor's unflinchingly. "If we must find this place, as I believe, then I would ask that the task fall to me." At this, Boromir tensed, clearly displeased by that idea, but Faramir continued on reasonably, "My brother is your right hand, and he commands the loyalty of every man in Gondor as your heir. And though I do not take my command lightly, Minas Tirith can afford my absence."

"I would beg to differ," Boromir replied, "We know little of Imladris, nor what may await any wanderer who seeks it. And if this concerns Gondor's future, then it may need one who can speak for Gondor as a whole." Faramir looked ready to contest that, but the impassive look that the steward leveled at them both prevented any more outbursts.

"You have made your points, and I have said that I shall consider the matter. Now, I have much to do ere the council convenes in the next three days, and I expect both of you to attend. I think you would not be remiss to spend some time preparing yourselves for that, rather than seeking after dreams whose import you cannot yet fathom," Denethor suggested sternly.

"As you wish, father," Boromir acceded, though unhappily. He stepped back and touched Faramir's arm briefly, silently beckoning him to follow him out. But Faramir remained in his place, and the steward quirked a disapproving brow at him.

"I shall obey, sir, only I would ask one final question: do you know where Imladris lies, or what is its significance?"

Denethor felt the spark of his displeasure at the boy's forwardness flare beneath the ice, but there was no denying that his second son showed commendable poise in the asking. He has grown bolder with time, and learned to cloak it in courtesy. That amused him, in a strange way, and so rather than rebuking him, he replied, "This only will I say: Imladris was the northern valley where once dwelt Elrond Half-Elven, of whom legend speaks. Whether it exists still, or whether Elrond has passed over the sea, I know not." And Faramir, sensing that he would learn nothing more, bowed as one fully answered and then turned on his heel and strode out ahead of Boromir. The door closed softly, but firmly, behind them, and Denethor gazed long at it, thinking and dark thoughts they were indeed. Isildur's Bane and the Sword that was Broken… It shall be a hard trial tonight before the Seeing Stone!

X
From These Dreams ...

"There is but one explanation!" Faramir declared, pacing the confines of his brother's room in a most unusual show of frustration and anxiety. The walk back to Boromir’s chambers had been silent, but his brother's cold anger had been palpable, and every movement bespoke barely restrained wrath. That was enough to unsettle anyone who knew Faramir, and Boromir frowned from his place by the hearth, drumming his fingers on his belt. Given the stakes and his brother's tension, he was too restless to sit, and yet he felt obscurely as though he dared not move overmuch. As if we stand upon a wire, and too much movement will plunge us both into the chasm below!! Why did we never think to discuss who might undertake this errand? And though the steward's heir recognized that their father's question had been merited, it could not have been more divisive if Denethor had crafted it for years. For the first time, the brothers each felt as though they were competing for a favor from their father, and though they fought that sentiment, their resistance to it was lessened by the need that drove them both. "Boromir!" His brother paused now before him and grasped his shoulders, expression sharp and eyes intent. "I have searched that library as well as I know how, I have sought every account dealing with either Isildur or Imladris or the Gladden Fields and I have found nothing! Nothing at all! Do you not see it?"

"See what?" Boromir demanded, trying to rein in his sharp tone and failing. For he had no idea what the other meant by such a question, and his own ignorance before his brother felt… threatening… today.

"The answer!"

"It would help if I knew the question," Boromir growled, pinning his brother under a frustrated glare. Faramir's lips thinned as he pressed them hard together, searching the other's face briefly ere he drew a deep breath and replied:

"Where could our father have found information about Imladris? And whence might come any knowledge of Isildur's fate? If it is not in the general records, then there is but one place left to look!" Faramir paused expectantly again, and Boromir blew out a sigh.

"And where, pray tell, might that be?" He asked.

"Among Mardil’s Books, the private collection of the stewards that one may access only with our father's permission," Faramir replied grimly. His hands on Boromir's arms tightened as he stared at him, and Boromir closed his eyes a moment in disgusted resignation.

"And you have not his permission!"

"Of course not," Faramir replied bitterly. "What reason would I have to require such material? If anyone has managed to extract such rights from the steward since Mithrandir's last visit, I have not heard of it! And if he sought to deny a wizard, then he certainly would not permit a son whom he has already twice refused!"

"And he has now no reason to let me in either, or I might have tried," Boromir said, shaking his head slowly.

"He knows more than he tells, as is ever the case," the younger man said, resuming his agitated pacing. "But not enough, I would wager my life! Someone must go to Imladris if we are to learn the meaning of this damnable verse!" The curse sounded explosive–perhaps because Faramir so rarely profaned–and punctuated the other's fervor with an almost frightening determination. Normally, Boromir would have tried to calm his brother, to ease his concern, but today he held back. It was not in him to give with one hand only, and the left at that; and if he comforted Faramir now, he would feel as though he deceived him. For as Faramir locked eyes with Boromir once more, there shone in them clear purpose to find some way to Imladris… a purpose reflected in Boromir's eyes as well. Desire mirrored by each, desire claimed–owned–in spirit so thoroughly that the tension between them seemed as a tangible thing. And though it troubled Boromir that they worked now against each other in what ought to be a common cause, he could not surrender to the supplication that edged into the other's glance. For though Boromir had not the faintest idea what Isildur's Bane might be, the very fact that it had earned that name made it more dangerous than any weapon he knew of. And that makes it my errand to discover this… thing… and not Faramir's! It is too dangerous, and upon it hinges the fate of Gondor. If father claimed the task, perhaps I might accede, but if he does not–as I know he shall not–then it falls to me. Faramir may never forgive me that, but I shall risk it.

Very likely, Faramir had read his thoughts as they stared, motionless, at each other, for those grey eyes flickered and his brother straightened and shook his head slightly as if in frustrated denial. "Boromir, how can you consider leaving Gondor on the brink of war? Your place is here!"

"Is it? This dream concerns all of our fates! How could I remain, knowing that?"

"Father needs you," the other retorted, "What use has he for me? Ithilien is but one company, and one badly reduced at that! It will be slow to recover, for men with the necessary skills grow scarce, but even so, Anborn could hold it together in my absence. It is a matter of logistics as much as of manpower, and I can make the equation stretch far enough to cover us. Can you say the same?"

"Faramir, I will not be surprised if father disperses the Osgiliath company, for there is no longer anything of value to protect there. Indeed, I know not what made him hold onto it for so long! If I have no company, then I can scarcely be accused of deserting my command!"

"Gondor's army is your command: from Osgiliath to Ithilien, from Poros to Anórien, your word is law after Denethor's! That is written into your commission, and every steward's heir has borne that responsibility since Mardil Voronwë!" Faramir countered. "If you leave Gondor, you desert your post. Whereas if I go, I leave behind nothing that cannot be safely and legally entrusted to another. Moreover, I am only a second son! If aught happens to me, the chain of succession is in less jeopardy, for father confides little in me, but all in you. Should you come never back, the gap in my knowledge might be fatal to Gondor, surely you see that!"

"No, I do not! Denethor may speak with you less about such matters, but I know you better! If aught were to happen to me–and we know not what the future brings! Either of us could have died at Osgiliath when the bridge fell, or I might break my neck tomorrow!–you would become the steward's heir whatever the state of your knowledge. That you live is part of the reason why it would be safe enough–or at least, as safe as anything is in such times as these!–for me to leave."

"Boromir, were I to show you a plan for battle that relied on such reasoning, you would rebuke me for ignoring logic! Would you risk us all simply because there is a chain of command, however weak?"

"'Tis hardly the risk you paint it, brother, for I know you better. I could leave Gondor in no better hands than yours under Denethor’s guidance, for I would trust no other above you." Boromir replied, reaching out to grasp the other by the shoulders and give him a shake. "If there is aught that concerns me here it is your own low opinion of yourself in this matter. And if you would not trust yourself to hold command over all of Gondor, then how can you ask me to trust you with the future of the realm as it lies hidden in this rhyme?"

Faramir tensed at that, and there was genuine anger as both brothers stared at each other, seeking some sign of yielding, perhaps, but as before, neither was willing to surrender. At last, though, Faramir sighed softly and gripped his brother’s wrists as he shook his head. "This argument gains us nothing, and it goes no where! In the end, it is Denethor who shall decide which of us shall go–assuming he does not simply give the chore to another! I doubt either of us shall find any arguments to persuade him as to who ought to be sent: as in all other matters, he shall keep his own counsel. As shall we, I think, for I do not wish to argue with you!" And with that, Faramir gently broke his brother’s grip, taking a step backward and sliding his hands down Boromir’s arms to grasp his brother’s hands firmly. "Are we agreed in that at least?"

Boromir grunted, managing a slight half-smile, and he nodded. "Agreed! Let us not then speak of it again, save only if either of us have some insight as to the meaning of the rhyme."

"Then I shall not speak of it, for I have done all that I know how to do," Faramir replied, sounding rather disgusted yet resigned nonetheless. Releasing his brother, he ran a hand through his hair and stalked to the center of the room ere he sighed and turned round again. Raising his hands in a defeated gesture, he concluded in a tone and manner that bespoke his utter frustration, "And yet that is not enough!"

"Let it lie, then," Boromir said, shrugging and feeling a bit helpless before his brother’s gloomy mood, for he knew not how to lighten it nor what to say to counter such self-deprecating sentiments. Usually it was Denethor who inspired such self-doubt, and Boromir had learned as a boy what Faramir needed to hear in order to step out from beneath their father’s shadow. But when he drives himself to such a bleak state without any help at all from the steward, I fear I know not what to do! That only fed his own restlessness, and after another moment, he gave in to the impulse and began pacing, though as slowly as possible. "What think you of this council that father has summoned?" He asked by way of half-desperate diversion. "Even Imrahil shall be there if I read the dispatches aright."

"To me, it bodes ill. Imrahil has long been an advisor of this realm, but I have seen our uncle very seldom since I went away. And I think he has not been so frequent a visitor in Minas Tirith in the past five years. What say you? You have been in the city more often than I; has he come to see the steward more frequently than I think?"

"Nay, he has not. And I should say it was closer to eight years ago that the break began to make itself felt in earnest… or at least, that is when I first remarked it with concern. Father and he had an argument then–over what, even I know not, but however secret it was, and however civil they were to each other afterwards, it soon spread throughout the upper circles that somewhat had happened between them. After that, Imrahil came more seldom to Minas Tirith, preferring to send his views by letter instead. Of late, even that correspondence has declined, and it seems to me that he saves his advice for greater matters, for his letters come ever at the clinch of crisis, as it were," said Boromir.

"I did not know," Faramir admitted, frowning. "I always assumed that as the times grew worse, he dared not leave Dol Amroth for very long, or very often. Once again, no one tells me of such matters; I had to ask Húrin outright about our father’s strange mood of late!" The younger man shook his head, folding his arms over his chest as he walked a few paces back to the hearth, there to lean on outstretched arms against the mantle while he stared into the flames. "So… why has Imrahil been summoned?"

"Who can fathom father’s mind at times? This will likely be the last gathering of the lords of Gondor ere winter and you know our straits!"

"Aye, I know them, but I doubt me that Imrahil’s presence shall improve them by any considerable measure. I suppose that father looks to fulfil the letter of the law…"

"Perhaps," Boromir allowed. "And many are they who would know more of Dol Amroth’s position, and not simply through pieces of paper handed to the steward." Faramir grunted softly, seeming to acknowledge the truth of that statement. Boromir chewed the inside of his lip, debating with himself a moment, staring at Faramir’s back. "In truth, I shall be glad to see him, for the council respects him and looks to him for other views… other opinions…"

"I doubt our uncle’s opinion shall differ from the main this time! What, after all, could he say that would make our situation less black? But I, too, shall be happy to greet him once more, for it has been long. And he exerts a calming influence on the councilors, unlike father!" Faramir said, turning to set his back against the mantle, watching his brother’s reaction to that criticism. Boromir seemed to want to object to his characterization of Denethor, but after but a few moments, he grimaced and bowed his head, raising a hand slightly to acknowledge the truth of those words. Outside, the bells tolled out the hour: one, two, three… Mid-afternoon, and already the day feels old! Boromir thought. His thoughts drifted back to Osgiliath, where the remainder of his company and a part of Faramir’s still kept guard amid the ruins. The worst of the wounded had left for Minas Tirith hard upon Faramir’s heels, and tomorrow, those with lighter, yet still serious, injuries would be sent back to the city. As for the rest… They are alone in this, and I can only hope that nothing more shall happen there! Boromir sighed inwardly, wishing that he could have remained with them. "Well," Faramir’s voice broke the silence that had fallen, and his older brother blinked, focusing once more on the other’s face. "Since father bade us prepare for this session, I shall take my leave to learn what I may. I have far more news to catch up on than do you, after all!"

"Come find me later this evening. If we must stay here, we can at least break bread in safety for once."

"I should think you would eat with father, though," Faramir reminded him, cocking a dark brow at him. "It is your first night back home, after all."

"Then join us!"

"If he sends for me, then I shall. Otherwise, and meaning no offense, I shall fend for myself 'til the morrow. Perhaps then…" Faramir shrugged. But behind his apparently easy acceptance of his rejection, Boromir felt the other’s hurt, and he silently cursed himself for a fool for having brought up the matter.

"Very well. Tomorrow then, and use well the time!"

"I shall, have no fear. Good night, Boromir," Faramir replied, and went silently on his way. Though just ere he closed the door behind him, he seemed to cast a backward glance at Boromir. And though he also had much to do to obey their father’s command, Boromir stood long in silence, pondering the significance of that brief regard.

***

"If I can convince Denethor to let me in to search Mardil’s Books, will you tell me what to look for? Or rather, where to look?"

Faramir sighed softly as he laid his head in his hands, leaning on his elbows as he sat across from his brother. He had not intended to have lunch with his brother; in fact, he had not planned to eat at all, but Boromir had caught him between Húrin’s home and Lord Amdil’s and, with a combination of verbal persuasion and an arm round his shoulders that would not allow him to consider moving in the opposite direction, had steered him toward the nearly empty officers’ mess. The two of them had found a place in the corner and for a time, they had talked of Gondor and Rohan, of their uncle (who was due to arrive in the evening) and old Forlong of Lossarnach, and even (to Faramir’s surprise) of the mystery surrounding the light in the tower. Given Boromir’s most recent question, however, Faramir wondered that he had not perceived his brother’s intention earlier. "I thought we had agreed yesterday to let fall that matter between us!"

"On the assumption that we had no new insight into it, yes, we did. But what if we could learn more?"

"We shall not," Faramir said flatly, without looking up. "Denethor knows now what we seek, he shall not permit either of us to learn enough independently of him to perhaps threaten his control of the situation. You know this as well as I do, Boromir!"

"But if…"

"Boromir," Faramir cut him off and lowered his hands, leaning forward to gaze directly into the other’s eyes. "Hear me! Nay, listen to me! I have tried for many years to get a glimpse of Mardil’s Books. Only once was I able to enter the room where they were housed, and only because I was, unbeknownst to father, in Mithrandir’s company. At the time, I was all of thirteen, and though all things seem larger at that age, the steward’s collection is vast and difficult to decipher. Mithrandir stayed but a little while and would not let me touch anything, nor move too freely about the room: ‘Some things there are that are dangerous to the uninitiated,’ he said. ‘You are too young yet for such secrets!’ So, assuming that either of us could search the collection, I would not be able to tell you the lay of the room, nor begin to catalogue its contents. And in any case, 'tis futile to ask! I know not what art Mithrandir has to have persuaded Denethor to allow him a second and a third visit, but certainly no other has managed to wrest permission from the steward since then."

"Say for a moment that that were not the case," Boromir replied, attempting to circumvent Faramir’s refusals with a hypothesis. "If he were to let either of us in, what would you look for there?"

His brother blinked, then gave a slight shake of his head as if in surprised consideration, and he gazed down at the floor. Long lashes partially hid his eyes, but Boromir could see their motion, as if Faramir were mentally reading something, or else wandering through the library of his mind, seeking answers to who knew how many questions in that moment. After a long pause, the other sighed softly and shook his head, as if in resignation, "In that case, I should seek scrolls or volumes concerning the end of the Second Age. We know that Elrond Half-elven was Gil-galad’s herald, but he fought his first significant battle in his own name in Eregion. That much I know, and that he retreated to a high place in the Misty Mountains for a time until the high king could bring relief. After that, he marched with the Last Alliance into Mordor. What became of him afterwards, I cannot say, though I guess now that that refuge in the mountains may well be Imladris. But until father told me of his association with that name, it had never entered my mind that Imladris and that hide-away might be one and the same place."

"Why should you have?" Boromir asked, trying to ease the self-recrimination in the other’s tone.

"Because in the end, it is the solution that fits best the limited state of our knowledge. And yet I could not see it." Faramir still sounded frustrated with himself, and Boromir reached across the table to give him a slight shake. "I should have, though!"

"Stop this nonsense! What is Elrond to us today but a figure of legends? Who would guess that such still… walked…" He trailed off, for though Boromir had never loved history overmuch, he knew far more than enough to realize how ridiculous that sounded.

"Say we who live daily in the shadow of just such a legend!" Faramir finished for him, offering a crooked smile. "Another play, and the Nameless One wins another piece: we, who by blood and choice, ought most to reverence and ally ourselves with the ancient enemies of the Dark Lord scarcely think on them. Indeed, we can barely comprehend a time when the elves stood alongside us, fast-bound to Númenor as brothers. Elrond is a legend, we say, yet Mithrandir and Cúrunir both admit that he was instrumental in driving the Dark Lord from his hiding place in Rhovanion."

"That was fifty years ago!" Boromir protested.

"And well within our father’s life time. Another ten years, brother, and you shall see that age yourself; and yet we still account one who lives to see five decades in the prime of his life. What is fifty years to one of Númenorean descent, much less to an elf?"

"Will you help me or not?"

"If I thought that you might succeed, I would help. But for all that father loves you, Boromir, and bends more easily to your suggestions and supplications than ever he did to mine, I would sooner look to see the king return than expect you to gain entrance to the steward’s collection." Faramir replied, finishing his ale. "Good day, Boromir." He rose, then, and stared down at his brother considerately for a time ere he turned away, making as if to leave.

"You did not answer my question," Boromir called after him, keeping his tone carefully neutral. Faramir paused and glanced back over his shoulder.

"What question was that?"

"Were it not impossible to view Mardil’s Books, would you help me?" To Boromir’s mind, Faramir hesitated briefly, but that hesitation seemed to contain less surprise than simple reconsideration. Whatever had factored into that minute pause, it was with eyes quite inscrutable that his brother pinned him and said simply, but quiet finality:

"No." And then he left, leaving Boromir to stare after him with narrowed eyes. What splinter of doubt prods him, that he looks at me thus? He wondered. But for the moment, his brother was far enough away that to call him back might create a scene. And I have other things to think of, after all. Soon enough, I shall learn the truth… all the truth, if I can manage it!

X I
... What Deeds May Come

It was just past noon when visitors arrived in Minas Tirith. Silver swans adorned blue tabards, and as men of the city's guard swarmed about, Imrahil dismounted, leaving his horse to one of the tenders who came immediately to lead the beast away. With a gesture, the prince conveyed to his guard captain that he was to take himself and his men off to the guest-house, and he waited until they were well on their way ere he turned to the captain of the Gate-watch. "How many others have arrived, captain?" He asked.

"None yet, my lord prince," the other replied. "Forlong is not due to arrive 'til tomorrow morning, and the others will come after him."

"And what of the steward's sons?" the prince of Dol Amroth asked.

"They arrived three days ago, or at least the lord Faramir did. Lord Boromir came the day after, and both are to remain here for a time, sire."

"Good," Imrahil murmured, well-pleased indeed, and clapped the man on the shoulder. "My thanks, captain."

"Of course, sire! You are quite welcome."

Having learned what he wished to know for the moment, Imrahil began the hike up into the city and as he walked he went over in his mind the likely points of discussion that would occupy the council. Anticipation being one of his many virtues, the prince had already a good idea as to who would bring up certain issues, who was most likely to support what views, and accordingly, he had formulated his own responses to fit a variety of scenarios. What concerned him now was how the steward would react to his words, for though Denethor was the epitome of cold calculation Imrahil knew too well that his brother-in-law was not above petty power plays. Indeed, it had been that very habit which had led to the rift between Imrahil and Denethor, and the prince had been very careful since then to say and do nothing further to rouse the steward's ire. Unfortunately, my presence may be enough to accomplish that! That was why he had sent a herald to warn Minas Tirith to expect him early, for it would be better to make a trial of the steward's good will with respect to himself in relative privacy, where other councilors were not present to see it.

For if it goes ill, then I shall have to tread very carefully indeed! I-- "Uncle!" Imrahil prided himself on his uncanny ability to know precisely who and what occupied the space surrounding him at any given moment. Thus his startled reaction to the hail was both unexpected and embarrassing, but he quickly identified the caller and offered a smile.

"Faramir!" He said, allowing his relief to color his tone as his nephew shoved away from the wall he had been leaning against. Clearly the younger man had come to wait, and Imrahil shook his head for the other's patience. "I had thought to meet you later, but well met indeed!" The young man approached with the quick grace of a cat and Imrahil laid his hands on his nephew’s shoulders and kissed his brow in greeting. But afterward he did not release him, holding him at arm's length to study him carefully. Faramir had always been a slender child, and he had grown into a lanky youth before he left for Ithilien. Since then, he had filled out nicely though he would never have his brother's raw strength. But what he had was quite sufficient, and Imrahil was more interested in what lay within, knowing well the reasons for Faramir's flight to Ithilien and the war front. And what he saw now in those grey eyes filled him at once with both pity and pride… and fear. Faramir gazed back steadily, and Imrahil knew he must quickly but carefully turn the other's attention aside, ere he realized the trend of his uncle's thoughts. Giving a soft and utterly untranslatable grunt, Imrahil said, "Once I watched you grow in inches every time I saw you. And though that time is well past, still I may say: you have grown, Faramir." Alas that some of that growth is in weeds… There is something brittle to his composure—something brooding. What is this fear that I sense in him?

"It is good to see you again, uncle," Faramir replied smoothly, but by the flicker in his nephew’s eyes, Imrahil gathered that the other was not unaware of the trend of his thoughts. And if he can read me, then so also can Denethor! Imrahil was not best pleased by the prospect of a week or more in his brother-in-law’s company, but such feelings had no place in Gondor’s politics at a time like this. So, rather than berate himself for the lapse, the prince of Dol Amroth thanked the Valar that it was Faramir that he stood before, and resolved to be more careful. It would not do for Denethor to know all that I think of him, after all! For quite apart from the way that the steward had treated Finduilas—though in honesty, he grew to be a husband to her after a time… but by then the damage had been done!—Imrahil was disgusted by the way that he treated his sons. Especially Faramir! The prince of Dol Amroth had been born to a rank scarcely less high than Denethor's, and the title was no empty one. His holdings were vast and so far south that he ruled almost as a king in his own right, and so he knew how heavy lay the mantel of sovereignty on mortal shoulders. It aged a man, and the people for whom a prince lived (and for whom he might well die one day in the not too distant future) competed ever with those who stood nearest the heart. Imrahil had seen his parents struggle through their marriage when the needs of Dol Amroth tore them ever apart, and as the years grew darker, he and his wife had also known their share of strain and sorrow. But we fought for what we had, and for what we would have, and she is with me still: every morning we face together, and if she cries sometimes at night, well… so also do I, when no other can see. Denethor, on the other hand…

There were days when Imrahil was convinced that his brother-in-law was beyond anything so human as care or concern for another. He is as a man possessed. A man possessed by this, Imrahil mused, and waved a mental hand about at the ramparts and high-built homes and towers by which he and Faramir passed as they climbed ever upwards. A man possessed by the shadow of the past made physical, wrought into this fair bauble of a city… and by the ruins that lie along Anduin. What affection the steward had had, he had spent already on Finduilas and on Boromir, and it seemed that he had none left for Faramir. Or rather, that he would not have any for him, for fear that such affection might distract him from other tasks and callings. And so he spends what energy he has resenting him rather than rejoicing to have such a son, Imrahil thought grimly. The long years in Ithilien had taught the younger of the steward's sons to stand tall and alone in the face of adversity, but it had not cured him of his desire to please his father. The prince rather doubted that anything ever would, and much though he longed to tell his nephew to leave off hoping, he could not. To do so might spare Faramir much anguish, but Imrahil knew that it would do him violence as well and in the worst possible way. And so he said only, "It has been too long. How have your fared?"

"All things considered, not badly. For soldiers of Ithilien, only to live is accounted a triumph," Faramir responded, and for all his light tone, Imrahil knew he was deadly serious. Any warrior could say the same, in truth, for the Enemy's troops grew ever fiercer, ever bolder, and companies stretched too far and thin bled themselves white trying to stem the tide.

"And how is Boromir? Is he about?"

"He fares well enough, though I fear I know not where he might be. I have not seen him since early this morning. 'Tis likely he has some errand to perform for father, for he seemed rather preoccupied," the other said, and Imrahil frowned inwardly, hearing the worry that gave the lie to that otherwise neutral assessment. I miss something here. What has happened of late in this city? But much though he longed to ask, the streets of Gondor, broad and public, were no place to hold a serious discussion, and so he filed his questions away for a more opportune hour.

"I am glad to hear it, then," he replied instead. "We must find time to speak later, you and Boromir and I, for there is much to tell of each other, I doubt not. War is not everything, after all. Have I told you about that roan that threw your cousin last spring? No? I never saw a more ill-tempered beast and thought he might have to go to the knackers, but then again, you know Cirthon prides himself on his horsemanship…" Faramir listened as his uncle spun the tale, and Imrahil was pleased to note that he at least knew still how to laugh. And apparently, he also knew how to tell his own tales, for when Imrahil had finished, Faramir recounted some of the more entertaining moments of duty in Ithilien. Of inconsequential things they spoke, each knowing quite well that the other held more important matters from him, but they smiled nonetheless and ignored that knowledge. For that was the way of things among the high of the land, even between family long missed.

***

"Valar curse it all!" The muttered curse fell heavy into the still, musty air, and Boromir stared up at the ladder that led to the upper shelves. Why it should be that the book he wanted would be stored on the topmost row, he had no idea, but he suspected fate of taking a perverse pleasure in his discomfiture. Deciphering the codex of works was task enough, he grumbled to himself as he began the climb. What cross-eyed old fool decided on this filing system? 'Tis a marvel a man can find anything at all in here! He reached the end of the ladder and ran a sleeve over the bindings of the nearest volumes to clear away enough of the dust to read the titles without squinting. Then he perched there, translating furiously whenever possible as he brushed at his arm and dust motes drifted down towards the floor below. Now do I wish I had Faramir here! I speak well enough, but this… this is arcane! I am not even certain what dialect this is, though it seems clearly Sindarin… almost. At last, however, he located the book he thought he needed, pulled it carefully from its place, and descended with as much speed as he dared. In the middle of the room there was a table with chairs and someone had thoughtfully left paper and ink for the use of whomever might come to do research here, in the Steward's private collection.

How he had gained entry was a secret he hoped he would never have to tell, for if fortune were kind, he would be in and out with no one the wiser for his activities. For although Faramir was quite correct to say that the steward their father would not give his permission for any to search Mardil's Books, Boromir was wise in the ways of warfare. If a frontal assault would not yield the coveted benediction, then there were still guile and cunning to fall back upon. So, rather than disturb Denethor, who was hard at work preparing for the council, Boromir had risen early and made his unnoticed way to the library. Beyond the honeycombed delving, there was a passage, and that passage led to an isolated chamber guarded by the senior librarians. Pale-faced and somber, they reminded Boromir of embalmers, and doubtless their severe and disapproving eyes would intimidate most men into leaving. But the confrontation with the librarians was where the aforementioned guile and cunning came into play. Thus, when one had glided forward to frown at him and ask, "Mayhap the young lord is lost?" Boromir had had his response ready.

"Would that I were, but I have an errand to pursue here." Grey brows had shot up in surprise, and thin lips had pursed thoughtfully as the man stared at him, considering this unprecedented turn of affairs. They knew who he was, of course, for no one who lived or worked in the upper circles did not recognize the steward and his family. Likely, they knew Faramir even better, for his brother was one of the library's more frequent visitors whenever he returned home. But never had Denethor permitted either son access to the library's sanctum sanctorum, and the chief librarian had been clearly taken aback. And while the man had stood there in silence, trying to digest this, Boromir had sighed loudly and suggested, as if with impatience, "Send for my father if you must, but be swift, I beg, for the morning wears away and I shall need the time! I am not my brother, after all!" For if Faramir were well known here for his scholarly pursuits, Boromir was famous for his avoidance of the library save when duty required him to research some position or policy. Thus if he had come to the keepers of Mardil's Books, he must have a reason for being there other than his own volition, which shrank from the prospect of pouring over ancient texts. And since only one person could compel another to come and do research in the collection of the stewards, then it must logically be the case that Denethor had sent his reluctant elder son to them…

And so here he was, searching through the pages of "Quenta Aranorion"-- which he hoped was indeed the history of Arnor, as the Sindarin subtitle listed in the codex was conveniently missing from the cover of the book--and cursing the obscure minds of loremasters. As far as any knew, Imladris was no part of Arnor, so why it should be that a reference to it would be listed in a history of the fallen North Kingdom, Boromir had no idea. Doubtless there was a tangled web of tortured logic to it somewhere, but he wasted no efforts trying to reconstruct it, preferring to concentrate on the task at hand. On Faramir's advice, he had already gone through four or five volumes pertaining to the end of the Second Age, and he had followed the paper trail to this point out of desperation. Most of the works had some reference to Elrond's retreat, and even to the founding of Imladris, but none of the scribes had seen fit, apparently, to include a location for the vale, which struck Boromir as a deliberate omission. Many, indeed, referred to some other work which concerned itself with the elvish haven, but inevitably, a search through the codex revealed that Mardil and his heirs had not seen fit to collect that particular work. Curse the lot of you, what sought you to protect? Boromir wondered furiously, flipping through several pages of genealogical charts. All well and good that somewhere, the cadet branches of Arvedui's royal house were listed, but he could do without them at the moment.

For despite the fact that it was highly unlikely that Denethor's chores would lead him to this place, Boromir could not shake the fear of discovery. What he would do, should any surprise him, he could not predict even to himself. It would be beneath his dignity to hide, but his traitor memory kept reminding him of his own childhood exploits… exploits that had often ended with he and Faramir huddled in some dark corner, waiting for their father's temper to cool. The Rise of Angmar… The Wargs of Eriador… The Tale of the Noble Line of Arvedui…The Laws of Inheritance in Arnor… Boromir skimmed with nearly reckless haste, eyes devouring the lines of neat elvish script, and despite his impatience was fairly impressed that his translating skills were up to the task, since the dialect differed in significant ways from the one he was most comfortable using. The Fall of Cardolan in the Wake of the Civil Strife… The Collapse of Rhudaur: A Treatise on the Corruptive Influence of the Kingdom of Angmar… The Disposition of the North Kingdom According to the Decree of Aranarth… Why is it that these headings are so bloody long? With a sigh, he paged ahead, pausing but once to look at a map--No help there, of course!--and was about to flip to the next section when he saw it.

There, at the bottom of the page, it stood, and the lettering fairly leapt out at him as his eyes swept across the text: "And so it was agreed, by common consent, that Elrond Peredhel should hold in his keeping the heirlooms of the royal line, and that Imladris should shelter the Heirs of Isildur unto perpetuity, for the valley of the elves, hidden in…" Boromir paused in his recitation to turn the page. On the back lay a second map, though it was about as helpful as the first. It showed an area of Rhudaur that extended south to the edge of Eregion, north to the Ettenmoors, west to the Last Bridge, and east to the Misty Mountains, and Boromir saw nothing resembling 'Imladris' written anywhere on it. Turning to back to the text, he read the following: "… spoke the Seer Malbeth in ancient times that the royal line of Arnor should at last face the darkness of Mordor, and be called to own the words and deeds of Isildur… What!?" Disbelieving, Boromir turned back a page, re-read the passage about Elrond and Imladris, and then carefully turned the page again, being careful not to skip any. But no, the map was indeed drawn onto the back of that page, which meant that the tale ought to continue on that which faced it… but it did not. And upon closer inspection, Boromir, drawing a fingertip along the break in the pages, could feel the torn edges where someone-- May the Valar condemn him!-- had ripped out the one page that he needed.

Boromir laid his head in his hands and listened to the brooding silence mock him while he waited for the initial spasm of outrage to subside. One… single… wretched page! And if that were not enough to prove that someone-- or possibly a number of people-- sought to keep the location of Imladris secret, he knew not what might constitute further proof. Why, though? What care we for elves? Granted, Boromir had never seen one, he knew them to be enemies of the Dark Lord. That alone was enough to guarantee his good will, or at least his neutrality, with regards to their business. Evidently, however, Imladris and Master Elrond might have other secrets to hide that some unknown steward had deemed too dangerous to allow his heirs to stumble over. Faramir said Mithrandir warned him that some of the books and scrolls in this room contained dangerous knowledge… is this what he meant, or am I foiled by a lot of silverfish? But the pests did not eat pages like that, and he had seen no evidence of their existence in this or any other book. Doubtless the librarians saw to it that Mardil's Books were protected from such things.

Raising his head, Boromir cast his glance round at the room, with its myriad volumes and scrolls stacked from floor to ceiling. He had gone to this book as a last resort, and though he could not help but think that somewhere in this collection, Imladris' secrets lay exposed, there for the taking, he knew not how to find that one book. Faramir might have had better luck in such an endeavor, but Boromir had just exhausted his resources. Short of beginning anew and going through every book on the shelves, he would not find what he sought. And I have not the time! I must have been in here for hours already. With a sigh, he bowed his head, staring at the map on the back of the page. Imladris must lie somewhere within that region, or why else would the map be there? Denethor's elder son hesitated a moment, wondering why that page had escaped destruction… and then wondering whether anyone would miss it should it disappear as mysteriously as its neighbor. But then he sighed and reached for a sheet of paper and the pen. However much he detested research, he was not one to destroy or mutilate a thing of worth for no reason, and so he copied out the relevant portion of the text and noted the boundaries of the map, plus any changes in the landscape or names that caught his eye. It was little enough, but it was something, and Boromir resolved to check elsewhere for a more detailed map of that area in the main library. Closing the book, he tucked it under his left arm and hauled it back up the ladder to its place on the uppermost shelf.

Then, being careful to put all back in the order that he had found it, Boromir left Mardil's Books behind, nodding a brusque thanks to the librarians as he passed through their midst. Up the passageway he went, but when he reached the half-way point, he slowed, coming finally to a halt. What have I just done? He wondered of a sudden. What do I go to do now? His heart pounded in his chest, and though Boromir knew his father would not be pleased with him should he ever discover his illicit visit, there was no reason to suspect that Denethor would ever know of it. There lay upon him, it seemed, a fear that strained filial loyalty could not explain, and as he thought over the past few days, he realized that it had never truly left him. It was there, burned into him since Osgiliath it seemed, and he knew not why.

But if this dread remained somewhat mysterious to him, he could at least answer his second question, and with a sigh, he began moving again. I go to find my brother, as I suppose I knew I must ere ever I thought it! For now I must decide: shall I tell Faramir of this, or not?

***

"Faramir!" Faramir paused, turning to see his brother striding quickly up to him.

"And where have you been all day? I had begun to think you had left the city again!" Faramir replied, offering a half-smile to show that he meant no criticism. "Imrahil missed you earlier."

"Ah, so he has arrived safely," the other said, somewhat unnecessarily, and the younger man frowned slightly, wondering at that. Boromir usually did not waste words on the obvious. "I suppose he has gone to see father, then?"

"Yes, though to my mind he did not look forward to the meeting," Faramir replied.

"'Tis the first time those two have been alone in a room together for some time now," Boromir reminded him. "I imagine it would be wise to avoid them both when the meeting ends."

"You may be right, though I think our uncle's temper shall run its course swiftly. He asked me to invite you to join us a little later on, before supper."

"Of course," Boromir replied, and Faramir sighed inwardly, knowing that yesterday's brief lapse aside, his brother knew quite well why Imrahil did not invite them to sup with him. I wonder, would father dare to shut him out should their argument break loose again, whatever it is? 'Tis one thing to ignore a troublesome second son, but another, after all, to snub a prince of the realm and one's brother-in-law! But he put such thoughts swiftly from his mind, for they were truly none of his affair, and instead he cocked his head at his brother.

"What brought you to me, Boromir?" He asked after a moment's silence.

"Naught specific… I saw you and hailed you, that is all. Are you well?" The question caught him somewhat by surprise, and Faramir's sense of puzzlement deepened.

"Of course… why should I not be?"

"You seem to me pensive," Boromir replied.

"Do I not always? From our earliest days you have teased me about that!" Faramir gave him a smile and an elbow, wondering at his brother's strange mood.

"I do at that. I only… that is," his brother paused awkwardly, lapsing into a rather anxious, dark silence, and Faramir felt himself tense before this unusual display of indecision. Boromir seemed to be groping for the right words-- or for any words!-- as if he were uncertain what he himself thought. After a lengthy several moments, he glanced about to be certain no others were close enough to hear, and then tugged Faramir to a halt. Laying heavy hands on his shoulders, Boromir raked him with troubled eyes, and Faramir felt his lips part slightly in worried astonishment at the other's grave look. Boromir noticed, and sighed softly, shaking his head. "I know not how to say this, so bear with me! Since the night we faced the Fell Riders and we shared that dream, I have been… uneasy. I spoke harshly to you the other day in the second circle, and I should not have troubled you yesterday. But in me there is some… some…"

"Fear?" Faramir suggested helpfully, perceiving suddenly his brother's trouble. For it does not come naturally to him to admit to any such 'weakness' as fear.

"Yes," the other replied in a low tone, folding his arms across his chest.

"There is no shame in that, you know," Faramir replied. "I feel it too, likely more often than do you. And you are right: since Osgiliath and the Shadow Riders, fear has come to roost in my heart, and I cannot seem to be rid of it."

"But you do not let it affect you so. I fear that this dread has colored my words and actions of late, and I let that spill onto you, as should not be. Mayhap if there were some useful task to perform here…"

"True. But we have sworn to wait and let our father pursue all useful tasks," Faramir responded with a wry smile, seeking to draw his brother out a bit from under the shadow. "Perhaps he, too, as you suggested, suffers under this malaise!"

"Mmm… yes." For some reason, that seemed actually to increase Boromir's discomfiture, and Faramir frowned. Something in his brother's manner drew his mind back to their childhood, to memories of laughter and boyhood pranks that went predictably awry, sometimes with fairly spectacular results.

"Boromir…" he cocked his head at him suspiciously, "Why is it that you seem to me… guilty?" If he had hoped to receive a swift denial of any such condition, he was disappointed. Boromir simply gazed at him heavily, and Faramir scrubbed a hand over his face, wishing vainly that they had chosen some more private place to have this discussion than in a side-street, however quiet, of the Sixth Circle. "What have you done, since by your silence you seem to confess?"

"Imladris lies near the Misty Mountains."

It took Faramir several seconds of staring to realize just what he was being told, and then he gaped at him. "You crept in to look at Mardil's Books?!"

Boromir winced. "Not so loudly!" He hissed, glancing around once more. Faramir caught his brother's arm in an iron grip and dragged him a little further up the street, further away from the main thoroughfare.

"What were you thinking, risking Denethor's ire like that?" He demanded once they had paused again. "And how did you gain entry in any case? The librarians know that none are to enter without the steward's express permission!"

"Nay, brother, they know that you are not to enter, for you have no such permission and likely never shall short of father's death. But they know that I hate the library vaults and would not inquire of them without reason. What reasons I might have had, they were free to assume what they would. They chose to assume Denethor had sent me." Boromir corrected, and knew it was no excuse. Faramir bowed his head, dithering as he digested this, and Boromir sighed inaudibly. In truth, he believed that his attempt to find answers in spite of their father's interference was justified. But he still felt the bite of an uneasy conscience, and that was a rare enough feeling that whatever his own beliefs, he felt he could not keep the secret to himself. But I should not have put this on Faramir either, he realized. Although his brother had as much stake in this errand as he did, he ought not to have involved the other in his own deceptive dealings. Should they ever face Denethor, Faramir would suffer if it somehow slipped out that he had known of Boromir's trespassing. Yet he does deserve to know… and I would ask him if he remembers aught more of that long ago conversation with Mithrandir.

"At least you found its location," Faramir sighed just then, which startled Boromir greatly. The younger man greeted his surprise with a rueful half-smile that did nothing to brighten his eyes, and then asked, "Where exactly does it lie?"

"Would you believe that the rest of the sentence was missing?"

"What?"

"Just so. Look," Boromir pulled the paper from his belt pouch and watched as Faramir unfolded it and read off what he had written there.

"It just ends?"

"The next page is missing entirely, and you begin to read about Malbeth the Seer if you continue on uninterrupted. Someone tore it out. More, most of the volumes that supposedly deal with Imladris refer to manuscripts that are not listed in the codex. Unless I missed them, which is possible. Whoever created that guide must have been half-blind or half-mad… or a bit of both! It took me nearly an hour to learn how to use the wretched thing with any success!"

"Why that one page? Or were there others?"

"I know not if there were others, for I did not look. It was a clean tear, though, very close to the binding. Does it not strike you as odd that information concerning Imladris seems to be quite conveniently missing?"

"It does at that. How many volumes did you search?"

"I kept no count, but I should say a dozen or so that had anything to do with Imladris at all."

"Mmm… no wonder you were gone so long!" Faramir frowned thoughtfully, and Boromir could see the gleam in his eyes as his brother mulled over this information.

"You said yesterday that Mithrandir, when he brought you into that chamber with him, would not allow you to look about on your own, for some of the books had dangerous information in them. Can you remember aught else he might have said on that topic? Did he mention Imladris?"

"Nay, he did not, or I would have remembered it, for I have racked my mind for days over this matter. I fear that unless I can manage my own visit to the steward's private collection, I cannot further any of your speculations. But clearly, Imladris must lie within the region of this map," Faramir folded the paper once more and handed it back. Boromir received it and replaced it in his belt pouch, watching his brother carefully. Something in his voice and manner roused instinct, and Boromir frowned.

"Are you certain? For it seems to me that you have some thoughts on this…"

"We all have our secrets, Boromir," Faramir replied, and gave him a rather tight smile. "This one I shall keep for a time, for I know not what to make of it, nor how best to deal with it. Mayhap by this evening, when we meet with our uncle, I shall be able to tell you, but not before then, certainly. Now, I must go, for Húrin asked me to meet him, and I would not be late. You will come, will you not?" Faramir caught his arm tightly, the pressure of his fingers causing Boromir's arm to tingle as he pressed against nerves.

"I shall. Give my greetings to Húrin."

"Until later, then," Faramir nodded, and so the brothers parted-- Boromir more thoughtfully, and Faramir with an air of driven preoccupation. And they knew not that above, in the Seventh Circle, they were being discussed…

*******

A/N: I really hope that this wasn't as painful to read as it was to write, because I had a tough time with this one. Isabeau, I commend you for your Imrahil, but I'd so much rather leave him to you than deal with him at this point! Oh well. He's inveigled his way into this story, and I'm not getting rid of him, however much fun that might be. >:-D

 

 

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Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R Tolkien, and the movie to NewLineCinema.