X I I
Family Affairs

X I I I
Stand Divided

It was quite silent as Faramir stepped over the threshold, closed the door, and made his way across the room under Denethor's balefully impassive stare. Even Boromir's presence seemed muted as Faramir halted at his brother's side. To all eyes but knowing ones, he seemed composed enough after his initial moment of shocked startlement, but from long experience, the steward knew the cut and drape of guilt on both his sons, and at the moment, both were shrouded by it. Denethor eyed them both, letting each feel the weight of his opprobrium ere he spoke in a clipped, precise tone: "I had hoped that with time, both of you would outgrow such nonsense, but it seems I was mistaken. Time has cured you of nothing but any sense of shame." Boromir had the good grace to blush at least, but Faramir's eyes hardened, although he seemed rather paler than usual at the reprimand. He said nothing, but the defenses that had sprung instantly to life from the moment the younger man had realized what he had interrupted grew the tighter, the more inscrutable, and Denethor gazed hard at him. And what else have you done, o son of mine?

Alerted by the librarians of Boromir's transgression, he had done his own research, being very careful to use all the time that he had allotted himself for that task, and his thoughts had been black. When at length the chime of bells announced the appointed hour, he had closed his book, handed his own list to the librarians, and then gone to the palantír, wrath washing hotly about his innards. The Seeing Stone's visions had been predictably violent that evening, until at length the steward's anger had cooled to its customary iciness; but once his control was restored, the chaotic swirl of images had subsided to a calm flickering, and he had been able to watch Boromir search frantically through Mardil's Books only to leave empty-handed... and he had watched his meeting with Faramir later on and wondered what his second son's veiled yet intense look had meant. No more had the stone shown, for Denethor could stomach no more. Faramir's involvement in this was clear, but what he had seen was not enough to answer the question that burned in Denethor's mind: had it been Boromir's idea to search the steward's collection, or had he acted upon Faramir's urging? And at the moment, I cannot decide which possibility is more distasteful to me! At least I need not pry an admission from Boromir ere I confront Faramir! What a stroke of luck, that! Denethor thought sourly, flicking his glance back to Boromir as Faramir lowered his eyes at last. "Have you naught to say, either of you? Even when you break the decrees not only of your father but of your lord?" He demanded when neither of his sons spoke in response.

"What would you have me say, my lord?" Boromir asked at length, voice taut, yet oddly soft. "You have my apology, that I broke your commandment. Doubtless you shall deal with me as you see fit." His elder son could not quite look him in the face as he spoke, and the steward felt his jaw clench as he turned now upon Faramir, who was watching Boromir with hooded eyes.

"Faramir!" He snapped.

"My lord?" The younger man replied, his tone leeched of emotion. Denethor stared at him, and the blank wall of the other's guarded appraisal seemed to him to hide more than simply fear. Too careful you are... you are not innocent in this, wretched boy! In that instant, he seemed to his father a younger version of Imrahil, or that other who had troubled Denethor's youth, and it needed a moment for the steward to control his tone of voice.

"There are reasons why I allow few, and certainly not you, into Mardil's collection. I will thank you in the future not to challenge my judgment in this. But you were ever a prier into matters that did not concern you, lad," the steward said in a deadly smooth tone, and the authoritative crack to his voice as he continued seemed but the louder for it. "I would have thought, however, that you would at least not drag others into your willful disobedience!" Faramir's darkened eyes glittered at that and widened as he sucked in a breath, stiffening. Beside him, Boromir jerked his head up to stare first at Denethor, then at his brother.

"I never led another astray, father!" Faramir protested.

"'Tis true, he would tell me nothing--" Boromir spoke up, clearly agitated by this turn of events. But Denethor seemed not to hear him, attention focused on his younger son.

"Did you not? I know you better than that: ever you desire to know what does not concern you, and you would use others to gain that knowledge. You crept into Mardil's Books with Mithrandir twice, that I remember well enough, and you conferred ever with your uncle on matters you would not bring to me. There is much you would hide from me!"

"Accuse me falsely or make of me the worst knave you can imagine, rightly or wrongly, but do not you ever mistake me for that timid child!" Faramir shot back, and Boromir winced slightly, while Denethor stared, unfathomable in his silence. After a moment's heated pause, the younger man continued on, voice still taut with anger, "It is overlate to complain that I bring nothing to you, my father, and well do we both know it. I bring you what is your business, and ask for no more than to be told what I must know in order to act for Gondor's good. Imrahil would tell you gladly that I ask no more and no less of him when the occasion arises," Faramir replied, slithering out of a direct response to that last accusation. The steward continued to gaze at him as he watched the light in the other's eyes begin to fade before that chilly reception, and his own angry disappointment sang bitterly through his breast. On some level, Denethor realized that Faramir could never have answered that charge, but tonight, the evasion was merely another reason to mistrust his second son.

"I see," he replied at length and coldly. "Remember, Faramir, that you swore me an oath to do and to let be at my command. I have told you before never to seek knowledge among Mardil's Books, for there is much there that ought not to be revealed to casual and impertinent curiosity. When I gave that restriction, I meant not that you should look to another to do for you what was forbidden you!"

"He had no part in that, father," Boromir protested again, cutting his brother off ere he could further damage his credibility in Denethor's eyes. "And I think you do not understand the need that this dream instills in us."

So they both stand now together against me! The thought rang chill within the closed corridors of Denethor's mind, and though a part of him quailed to realize that the gap had opened at last between himself and Boromir, habit and the need of the moment put the words in his mouth and into the air ere he could think better of them. "Do I not? In such matters as dreams, Boromir, you are but a novice." Boromir caught his breath, momentarily stymied to find himself on the vicious end of Denethor's tongue, and for an instant, he stared in shock.

"Then as you have the advantage of experience, why can you not understand that we may not let this matter lie, father?" Faramir forced his way back into the conversation then, and Boromir stepped on the urge to throttle him. Be silent, brother mine! It was not usually his way to urge another to surrender, but he had not spent the past twenty-four years in the field without learning to distinguish surrender from a tactical retreat. Faramir, though, seemed not to have learned that lesson, or else he had forgotten it tonight. Or perhaps, Boromir thought suddenly, perhaps he simply does not understand father in this. This is the point at which they diverge-- I think he does not understand father's refusal to understand. For there was in Faramir's voice a note as of utter bewilderment that underlay the anger, as if he simply could not comprehend Denethor's cruelty, and it pained his older brother to hear it. Usually, Faramir was better able to hide his hurt from Denethor, but tonight... What is wrong with the lot of us of late? Boromir wondered. This is not right! Father never tried us both at once, and I have never seen him like this before! He grit his teeth, despairing as he saw the flat, leaden look of Denethor's eyes and their father leveled a darkly disgusted stare upon his younger son.

"The matter does not lie idle, Faramir! I have said I would see to it, and I do. I require nothing more of you than your obedience. Since you choose not to give it but blunder on in your misplaced pride, I will speak with you further on this matter tomorrow. With both of you," Denethor promised, quelling all protests with a look. With that, the Steward of Gondor turned and swept out of the room, leaving his sons to stare after him. For several moments, neither of them moved, but then Faramir made a noise between rage and disbelief and sank down upon the nearest chair. Elbows leaned upon his knees, he bowed his head and let his hands dangle limply between his legs, his whole posture bespeaking dejected frustration. And much though it tore at him to see Faramir's thinly veiled humiliation, Boromir was just incredulous enough to be angry with him as well.

"That went well," he muttered sarcastically, shaking his head and running his hands back through his long hair, raking at the dark strands with claw-like fingers. "Could you not have held your peace for once, Faramir?"

"What peace have I to hold? He thinks I drove you to bluster your way into Mardil's Books!" Faramir said, voice thick with irony. "Ever he turns to me for an explanation when I have none to give, and will not hear me when it is my place to speak! Of course he would never look to you to fall so low, save at my urging!"

"At least he does not think you gullible!" Boromir snapped back, irritated with the other's tone, which seemed to suggest that Faramir at least had no cause to overestimate Boromir. And that perhaps it was impossible to underestimate him either, which did not sit well with the older man. "And I need not to be reminded of childhood faults any more than did you, so speak not with that tone, Faramir!"

His brother snorted with fine contempt and tossed a wry look at him, "Fear not, brother! You remain superior to me in all matters, rest assured of that. I cannot even meddle in father's affairs without your example, nor admit my fault before Denethor. He was right to suspect me, but for the wrong reason!" To which oblique confession, Boromir merely cocked a skeptical brow, awaiting further elaboration. Faramir sighed and continued, "I went to look for your missing page."

"The missing-- where, Faramir?"

"In father's study." And when Boromir simply stared at him in mute astonishment, he sighed again. "I thought he might have taken it, for truly, who else would take a page out of a book listed on the open codex if not father?"

"Begin again at the beginning, Faramir," Boromir managed after a moment. "What is the open codex?"

"You complained of the difficulty of using the indices of works," Faramir replied, his tone shifting wearily to what his men called his 'lecture voice.' "There are two indices, two codices, the open and the closed. The open one is a general index of works that are rare but not dangerous. The closed one, though, is in the keeping of the librarians, and only upon request will they surrender it. Upon those sheets, you will find those works that father fears I would read, given the chance. And perhaps also some of the books that you sought in vain, for it seems Imladris may have secrets that are not meant to be widely known, even among the high of the land."

"And you told me nothing of this?"

"I told you nothing, Boromir, because I never thought you would have cause to use such knowledge!" Faramir snapped in a resurgence of choler. "How was I to know you would brazen your way past the librarians? Had I known you would try, I would at least have warned you about leaving a list for them of the works you read. But even I know not what lies in the codices, open or closed. Even now, we know not whether works concerning Imladris are listed in the closed codex or merely lost to us."

"Nay, we do not know," Boromir replied heavily. Of a sudden he felt quite weary-- weary of riddles and double-talk, weary to death of secrecy. Going over to the chair opposite Faramir he collapsed into it, disgruntled, still somewhat dazed by Faramir's admission. "You broke into father's study... in search of a piece of paper!" He repeated slowly. His brother merely shrugged, seeming to have no defense to offer, and for a time, that ended their conversation. He needs not my recriminations, after all! Boromir thought, absently twining a strand of his hair about his forefinger as he mused in silence. At length, though, he sighed and said, "You found nothing, I take it. Not even notes?"

"Nothing at all. But he has it. He must, who else would want it?" Faramir said, pausing a moment, and his eyes got that distant, vaguely unfocused look that meant he was seeking after something in his mind. Likely a list of suspects! Boromir thought, waiting for the other to return to the present. Fortunately for his rather strained patience, his brother needed but a moment more, and then he shook his head. "No, I can think of no one else. But I know not where he might have it hidden, unless he took it to the top floor..."

"Do not even think of it, Faramir," Boromir interjected as his brother's expression grew speculative once more. "Had he known what you were about, I hesitate to imagine what he might have said or done. Nothing rash or in haste, but certainly you would suffer for it. At least in this, he is mistaken, and perhaps he even knows it. But had he come down through his study instead of taking the outer stair--"

"Then he might be less angry in the end, for he expects nothing good of me. You know I speak truly, Boromir," Faramir added, seeing the pained look on his brother's face. "In this matter, I do but confirm his dislike of me. He should thank me for that, truly!" He laughed in bitter jest.

"Be hush, Faramir!" Boromir snapped back, feeling his alarm begin to grow again in the face of his brother's disaffection. Surprise at his unexpected vehemence, perhaps, quieted the other, and Boromir continued intently, "Self-pity does not become you."

"Nevertheless, we all wallow in it at some point. If you prefer, I can go do so alone," Faramir offered in a more subdued voice. Which magnanimous offer was very nearly too tempting to pass up, for truly, Boromir had no more heart for company this evening, having his own shame to work through. Nevertheless he sighed in exasperation and pressed thumb and forefinger hard against his brow, feeling the throb of a headache building.

"Do not be perverse," he muttered. "We are caught in the same snare, after all. I only wish I knew what father will do now."

"I know not. Valar..." That last word came out as a sighing exhalation, and his brother raised troubled eyes to Boromir's, gazing rather shame-facedly at him. "I am sorry, Boromir. I can make you no excuse for my behavior."

"Best you mend your self-discipline ere dawn, then, for tomorrow shall be worse," Boromir replied, by way of gloomy certainty and warning.

"Is it not ever of late? Ah well. I think I shall take my leave," his brother heaved himself to his feet with less than his usual grace. "There is no point in dwelling further on this, and I think for the moment we do but drag each other further into a mire."

"Good night then." Faramir nodded and turned, heading for the door. Just ere he reached it: "Faramir?" His brother hesitated a moment, turning back with his hand already upon the door handle.

"Yes?"

Boromir grimaced slightly, then said, "I am sorry about this. I should never have involved you by telling you... I should not have gone at all, but I felt as though... as though..."

"As though you had to do something," Faramir finished quietly for him. "Me, too. Good night, Boromir."

"Be dreamless tonight!" Faramir only laughed softly at that as he retreated out the door, leaving Boromir alone to the contemplation of the trials that lay ahead. Alone he sat, with his mistrust of Denethor... and with the awful feeling that he had just been given a weapon in a war he ought not to be fighting. Seek for the Sword that was Broken/in Imladris it dwells... and there shall be shown a token/that Doom is nigh at hand... Blinking against the sudden dimming of his vision, Boromir frowned and rubbed at his eyes. Doom... and Isildur's Bane. Gondor hangs by a thread and still father withholds his judgment! 'Tis a simple enough matter-- choose Faramir or I! Why hesitate in this, when in so much else father sees clearly the path, even when others stumble? To that, he had no answer, and the frustration gnawed at his nerves 'til he could no longer stand to sit still. Pushing himself out of the chair, he began pacing-- quick, nervous strides that did almost nothing to relieve his sense of restless anxiety.

What is wrong with us all?Denethor is indecisive and Faramir and I stoop to children's pranks in serious matters! What is this fear that plagues and pulls us apart? His mind returned to the question that had haunted him since Denethor had first dismissed them to the consideration of who would go forth to find Imladris. Nay, earlier than that, for with each year, this darkness has crept upon us. I know its name: hopelessness. And yet there remain many below who know not that they stand as naked before the storm of ... of Mordor. Even in thought, it was difficult to name the dark land to the east, but tonight, there could be no escaping it. For this miasma that lies upon us is more then our collective despair, I am certain of that. I think that Faramir, though he asks no more after the mood of this city, knows that as well, for he was ever more sensitive to such things. I would say it were the Enemy's willful contrivance, that he tries to govern our hearts as he controls the storms of the Mountains of Shadow. And we are too weak to resist!

That was a bitter thought, one that stang at his pride, but it pushed thought of Imladris firmly back into the forefront of his mind. Surely we would not be drawn to that place, lost to the sweep of time 'til now, only to be told with certainty that we are doomed. Surely there must be a grain of hope to be had, some matter that needs deciding else why this dream? Yet the words themselves, what hope do they promise? A broken sword? A Halfling and Isildur's Bane-- wherefore should I find any encouragement in such? And although he felt again the compulsion to go forth, he felt also a sort of dread-laden contempt. I do grow desperate... as do we all, even father. Perhaps especially father, as I said to Faramir not so very long ago. Perhaps... perhaps he, like me, would not risk placing too much faith in these staves. And yet someone must go. Faramir's eyes, bright with anger and confusion, with the frustration of a believer denied the expression of his faith, flashed before his mind's eye, and Boromir sighed. He should ride north; he deserves this task, for it was his dream originally. And yet I cannot leave this to him.

The precise reasoning behind that intuitive conclusion was distasteful enough that Boromir refused to allow it to reach his waking mind. But even as he sought his bed and such rest as an anxious mind and an early morning interview with a wrathful Denethor would permit, he could not quite suppress a grimace. For his heart knew its own workings, and there, where words did not reach, he knew the measure of his own selfishness. For Faramir already believed, but it would need more than a dream to rekindle hope in Boromir. It would need proof-- tangible, visible, physical proof that this dream was trustworthy, that Gondor might yet be saved. And so, like a drowning man, he would pull down even his compatriots who had broken through the water's surface in order that he, too, could learn to breathe again.

***

Imrahil had gone down to the stables early, ere even the sun rose, and with his captain of guard had crept out of Minas Tirith for a quick jaunt about the Pelennor. For after yesterday, I do not wish my day to begin with Denethor! The prince thought with grim amusement as he slapped the glossy grey neck of his faithful Celegaearon and reached into his belt pouch for an apple. The horse whiffled softly in appreciation and Imrahil chuckled as he rubbed Celegaearon's nose. "Well my lad, I shall leave you to your comfort and see you on the morrow. Or perhaps sooner than that!" Leaving his steed to the care of the waiting stable boy, he and captain Aearos hiked back up the winding levels of the city, and Imrahil grinned, clapping the other man on the shoulder. "I am sorry to drag you from your bed, Aearos."

"No need for apologies, my prince, I am ever your servant."

"Yes, and in the mornings, a tired servant."

"Nay, not so, sire..." Which convincing denial was undermined when Aearos yawned in spite of himself. At his prince's soft, yet not unsympathetic laughter, the captain sighed and said, with exaggerated patience, "Laugh if you must, my lord prince! Some of us have difficulty sleeping in strange places." Clearly it was meant as something of a jest, a harmless enough complaint to act as an excuse. Upon hearing that, however, Imrahil paused and, with a touch, halted Aearos' progress as well.

"You have been to Minas Tirith a number of times and never complained of difficulty before, Aearos," the prince said, bending his suddenly sharp gaze upon the other man. "Tell me truly, had you trouble sleeping last night?"

Aearos grunted and rubbed his jaw, clearly unwilling to answer, but at length he nodded. "Aye, my prince. 'Tis naught to concern you," he added quickly, "I am quite well, and I can call upon the others should it affect my ability to perform my duties."

"Please," Imrahil gripped his shoulder. "I never doubted that! This has naught to do with your readiness, only with... call it intuition. Why could you not sleep? Did you dream?"

"If I did, I cannot remember aught. I simply felt... uneasy. I would wake time and again for no reason-- not even one of the younger lads creeping in from duty or pleasure. Is that of significance, sire?" Aearos asked, dark eyes searching his master's closed face. He had been the captain of Imrahil's personal guard for ten years, and a member of the prince's guard for eight years before that. He likely knew the prince as well as Narendis did, and perhaps a bit better than even she, for Narendis never slept in ditches protecting her husband on campaign. He therefore knew well that look and tone of voice, and he wondered what trouble was brewing in the city.

"I cannot say yet. It may be naught, but do question the others gently, and see whether anyone else had the same difficulty."

"As you wish, sire," Aearos replied with a mental sigh. Evidently, he would get no answers this morning. Imrahil smiled slightly at his captain's silent disappointment, but continued on up to the seventh circle in silence. With an absent-minded nod at the guards, Imrahil, with Aearos at his heels, went swiftly to the south-eastern hall where lay the rooms of the steward, his heir, and several large guest suites reserved for family members and others of high rank. Denethor's study also lay along that corridor, and though the sun had just risen, Imrahil would not be surprised to learn that his brother-in-law was already at work. One could scarcely fault the man's industriousness, but though Imrahil was no less dedicated, he preferred to let the day begin ere he turned his attention to business. One must have some time to oneself and for one's family, after all, the prince thought, wondering whether Narendis had awakened yet. His wife preferred to sleep later than did he, but she tended to rise with him when he was at Dol Amroth. Lothíriel was another heavy sleeper in the morning. In fact, thinking about it, he seemed the only one of his family who naturally enjoyed the dawn. Except for Finduilas. She and I would always sneak out to greet the day from horseback together!

That memory brought with it a wave of sorrow, and no little resentment towards the present steward of Gondor. One of the first indications Imrahil had had that there was aught amiss with his sister had been on the occasion of her first visit home. Finduilas had retired at her usual hour, but slept like the dead until nearly midday, which was hardly her custom. He might have shrugged the incident off and attributed it to the fatigue of a long journey, but that she continued to sleep late for the length of her stay, rousing only once to greet the dawn with her brother. And she would not tell me what was wrong. She would never tell me aught specific about her husband for fear that I would do something rash. And though Imrahil had protested that decision, knowing himself for a reasonable man, in the end, he had had to admit that she was probably justified in keeping her secrets. Denethor and I dislike each other enough as it is. If I had memory of Finduilas' grievances, I might have trouble with my temper, for I... Imrahil paused, slowing as he neared the steward's study. Aearos halted as well, though out of habit, he let his momentum carry him a pace or two ahead of his prince, the better to shield him against any threat. But it was no sense of unseen danger that had brought the prince to a standstill, but rather the sound of raised voices coming from the steward's study. Aearos heard them, too, and turned quizzically towards the prince, his face filled with questions.

"Wait a moment," Imrahil murmured, stepping past his captain and drifting towards the noise. Thick, heavy oaken doors and stony walls muffled the argument, but the prince had sharp ears.

"... ever done that makes you distrust me so? If I go to unwonted lengths, it is because I must fight to learn what I need to know, let alone what I would wish to know! And how shall I tell the difference between the two if you will not be frank with me?" Faramir's voice, frustrated and more angered than Imrahil had ever heard, filtered through the barriers of wood and rock, and the prince caught his breath.

"Recall your intrusion into these quarters last night, Faramir!" Denethor's rejoinder came back. What is this? The prince wondered darkly, scrambling to try to put the pieces together.

"And did I not tell you of that this morning? I, like a fool, would tell you for you are my father and my lord, and I was in the wrong! You needed not Boromir's testimony at all!" Another voice, much softer, sounded, but the prince could not make out what was said. Probably but a single word, for Faramir's voice rose swiftly after that, as if to cut his brother off. "Do not try to excuse yourself, either, Boromir. I know not why you think me so dishonest that you needed to run after him to tell my tale in my stead, but kindly do not try to ask my pardon now!"

"I never told him aught! Why will you not believe me?" Boromir's voice came back. And then there was a very pregnant silence that went on for quite some time, and Imrahil could only imagine the scene within as the steward and his sons sought a measure of composure. When next the voices resumed, they were pitched too low and evenly for even the prince to overhear the words, but the tones were cue enough. What happened last night, I wonder? Imrahil's rooms were far enough down the hall that he would not have heard anything, but he berated himself nevertheless. He was about to move on, so as not to get caught in the middle, when suddenly the door opened and out came Faramir, his face flushed with wrath and humiliation, and his expression a mask that did nothing to hide his anger. The steward's second son closed the door with exaggerated care so as not to slam it, and then stood there for several moments, head bowed, seeking after self-control. After a while, he looked up, calmer, though his eyes still glittered angrily, and then he turned to go back towards the stairs. It was only then that he noticed his uncle standing there, sweaty in his older riding clothes, and Faramir blinked in surprise. And then his mouth tightened as color crept into his cheeks once again in spite of himself.

"Uncle," he murmured, voice smooth enough, but with just that edge of embarrassed anguish to give him away.

"Faramir," Imrahil replied, watching him, waiting. When his nephew said naught, he sighed softly. "Lad, do not be your father's son to me. I am not Denethor."

"How much did you overhear?" Faramir demanded in a low, resigned voice.

"Quite enough. Whither are you bound now?" Imrahil asked as the younger man sighed and pressed past him, apparently intent upon leaving ere he could be questioned further.

"Father gave me an errand that will take me out of the city for a few days. If you would speak with me, send to Osgiliath. There is some... recovery work... that needs doing and I must be about it. Good day, uncle!" Faramir called, without a single glance backward.

Imrahil and Aearos exchanged incredulous stares, but there was naught the prince could do short of running after his nephew. And I think me that that is not the best course right now. His dignity is strained enough that it will not bear another confrontation, even... or especially... with me! Aloud he said, "Come, Aearos. I must make ready for my own interview, and I would have you send one of your lads to Boromir with a message. Whatever this is, it has gone too far!"

***

"... has gone too far," Denethor was saying as Boromir bit back a bitter response. "Were you not my heir, I would send you to Cair Andros for a time to think about your actions, but I cannot afford you both absent for this council. Therefore be warned: you will not speak, you will not argue, and you will do precisely as you are told if you wish to be reinstated as a participating member."

"I do as you command, my lord, but if you look askance at me for having kept my brother's secret, then why may I not question you for having said naught in my defense?" That he had himself as early as this morning contemplated using Faramir's guilty actions against his brother in the matter of Imladris only made his anger with Denethor the worse for his private shame. And I still cannot fathom how he learned of that! For Faramir's confession had been greeted not with wrath or surprise, but a rather contemptuous dismissal. "That I knew already, Faramir, so do not waste now my time!" Denethor had said, shocking both his sons. And then Faramir had shot Boromir a look of utter betrayal, and the arguments had begun in earnest. Boromir would have given much to know how their father had managed to uncover Faramir's trespassing, for the steward's knowledge of that matter suggested a network even more extensive than Boromir had ever dreamt. Alas, if he had been unsuccessful in his search of Mardil's Books, then any endeavor to discover Denethor's informants was doomed to failure. And that is not the point of this anyway! "I never told you of his search for that Valar-accursed paper, yet you let him assume that I did! Why, father?"

"Because, my son, the two of you together hatch too many plots, clearly!"

"What plots we hatched were conceived separately, father! I am not Faramir's lackey, nor he mine, to follow ever where bidden! I may share my thoughts with my brother, but for my actions I answer only to the steward of Gondor," Boromir grated.

"See to it that you remember that, then! For even now you tread at the very edge of your oath, for I do not answer to you for my decisions."

"But you must answer me as your son, surely! I see what you do: you seek to punish me, so you drive now a wedge between Faramir and I by allowing him to think that I betrayed him! Is it not enough that you drove one between yourself and Faramir?" Boromir demanded, knowing that he but dug himself deeper into the mire, but for years now he had watched his father and brother snap at each other in private and ignore each other in public. And he was sick of it-- thoroughly sick of all the bickering and cloakroom family politics, and the words spilled out of him uncontainably, tasting faintly of vomit. "He would be your son, father, but you will not let him!" Thank all the Valar Faramir did go to Ithilien, or it would be worse! I do but make this worse, but Valar, I am in enough trouble already, and Faramir... he can hardly fall any further from grace!

"I never drove aught between us, I did what was necessary to chastise a weak prop!"

"A weak..." Boromir spluttered. "Faramir was never weak, father! Why can you not see that, who are accounted so wise? And if you love me so well, how can you stand here and torture one whom I love before my eyes?" Denethor's hands on the back of his chair went white at the knuckles at that as the steward clenched the wood hard, but he never blinked. And before that blank, deadly gaze, Boromir felt his wrath beginning to ebb, to be replaced with dread and a hopeless sort of frustration. He will never see it! Never! He will never learn to see his fault in the matter of my brother! He would sooner die than acknowledge himself in the wrong!

"Go to your duties, captain of Gondor, and return when your temper is cooler," Denethor said simply, but Boromir flinched nonetheless. And then cursed inwardly for having done so. How has Faramir withstood this for so long? He wondered even as he made his father the most grudging bow of his life and turned to stalk angrily out the door. Returning to his quarters, he dismissed his esquire curtly, scarcely heeding the lad's stammered, "But my lord, your uncle's man said to tell you..."

"Out! Now! Take the day and return by nightfall only," Boromir cut him off and shot the bolt on the door behind the fleeing lad. Solitude at last! Although Denethor had just stripped him of the right to participate in the council, he had still to be present to listen, and that meant he had still quite a lot to read ere the day was done. He did not want to think about what Faramir would endure. 'Recovery work' indeed! Images of drowned and broken bodies filled his sight for a moment, and he closed his eyes against them. Anduin never gave up her secrets gratefully, and it would be a hard task to raise those who had but the riverbed for their grave. My poor brother! And I dare not spare you a thought today, for if I do, I shall never finish with my own chores. So resolved, he banished Faramir from his mind as best he could and turned reluctantly to the piled documents on his desk. It would be a very long council session indeed...

X I V
Beneath the Surface

The sound of picks and shovels churning the earth, of grunts and the occasional curse, filled the hot summer air, the noises seeming to swim through the dank humidity that was Gondor under a summer sun. Sweat and the scent of decay assaulted Faramir's nose, and he fought not to grimace in disgust, or in horrified sorrow, for a captain may never display such weakness before his men, lest they lose heart. How fortunate for me, then, that I have none left to lose! Between them, father and brother have conspired to rob me of it, Faramir thought bitterly, and knew such thoughts for lies. For his heart remained within him, aching with every pulsation. And yet the pain was not so bad as it had been only a few short hours ago, when he had first learned of Boromir's treachery. That his brother had had the gall then, to lie in addition, and to lie so well, had only added to his sense of confused, disbelieving grievance, and Faramir sighed softly at the memory. And though he reached now for the exquisite anguish that had come of Boromir's betrayal of him, even now it slipped through his grasp, refusing to cut quite as deeply as it had that morning. For I am accustomed to such pains, I suppose. Father trained me quite well in that respect, perhaps better than he intended, for I doubt not that he meant for me to collapse today when he so casually betrayed my brother's whisperings to me! That thought made his blood simmer, but given that the heat was bad enough to bring a hectic flush to his face, he doubted anyone would notice his anger, or his despair.

I thought we had an understanding at least, that we would never abandon each other to our father's tender mercies, Faramir thought as he watched men struggle through the shallows, calling up to their comrades on the shore. And yet in the end, it seemed that he had been deceived. Perhaps I ought to have known better. Boromir was always competitive, and I know well that he would do anything in the name of Gondor. Anything at all, I fear. This dream affects each of us according to our nature, I suppose... The men half-swam, half-waded towards the bank, gripping the guide-ropes until all could stand safely. Then, with an effort, they heaved yet another bloated, limp, and broken body onto the shore for the burial detail. Valar help me, I do not want to be here should they find Galdon! Faramir thought, fervently praying that they would not. Or failing that, that he had been found already and buried so that he need never see the destruction wrought by time. Five days in the river... Better to leave those who did not surface! There is no dishonor to be found in Anduin's bosom, after all! But Denethor had been adamant, and so Faramir had gone to deliver the steward's orders to the survivors and to oversee their efforts.

As he moved along the ranks of toiling men, he saw many an ashen face despite the heat and the labor. Especially among the younger men, for whom Osgiliath had been their first or second battle, this chore was unwelcome. Ever and anon, one of those younger men, and occasionally even a seasoned warrior, would leave his shovel and retreat a ways to sit with his head between his legs, panting, and then would a lieutenant or some other come to his comfort. For despite the harsh realities of war, most men never saw a burial after so long a wait. Without the immediacy of battle, of aches and pains, shock and weariness to distract them as they went about the task of disposing of bodies, they had too much time to look and to think about what they did now. And so the surgeons made the rounds, faces quite as grim as after a hard-fought battle, and Faramir did not need to imagine what nightmares the traumatized survivors of the battle for Osgiliath would endure in the weeks and months to come. For I shall have them myself! Already, he had seen several faces that he recognized fished out of the river, and that had been quite enough for him. Yet he dared not blink or look away. For the sake of his dignity, and more, for the sake of his men, he could not refuse to look, nor to offer a hand when someone staggered away, unable to stand the sights and smell any longer. And as the hours wore on, and there seemed no end in sight, his wrath flared the hotter. It was one thing for Denethor to punish him for his inexcusable behavior, but had the steward even stopped a moment to consider how others would suffer to teach his little-loved second son a lesson in obedience? And all this for a dream! Valar, but I wish I had never had it...

Alas, perhaps he had stared too long at the bright glitter of the sun upon Anduin's surface, 'til his eyes were dazzled and all else seemed dark. Or perhaps fate conspired with his father to torture him further, for no sooner had he thought that than it came again. White light... white tower... white rays in a darkened sky... 'Seek for the Sword...' Faramir was profoundly grateful that he had not been caught in the middle of a stride, else he was certain he would have tripped. As it was, he stood dead still, staring sightlessly at Anduin, and his arms, folded across his chest, clenched tighter as if to clutch that dream close and not let it escape to trouble others. White light in the darkness... "Captain?" A voice broke through the vision, and as it dissipated, Faramir blinked and turned rather sharply upon the intruder. There at his shoulder stood Tarodin, gazing worriedly at his lord and commander. "Captain, are you well?"

"Aye, I am fine, thank you," Faramir replied as smoothly as he could. Tarodin raised a heavy brow at him, seeming to consider this remark.

"You are certain, my lord? I would say that you had seen a ghost... except that today, that jest falls flat," the other man sighed, his glance straying distressedly over the burial furrows.

"I am certain. I was merely preoccupied. My thoughts stray further than I ought to permit today, I fear," Faramir said, and earned another close stare from his surviving lieutenant.

"As you say, my lord. Is there any word what is to become of us, captain?" Tarodin asked, changing tacts quickly.

"Such recommendations as I have, have been delivered to the steward for consideration, and in that matter lord Boromir has also much to say. But I doubt we shall have word until after the council is closed. It should begin tomorrow morning."

"Ah. 'Tis only that men are anxious, my lord, and I would have something to tell them," the lieutenant replied.

"I know. I shall tell them tonight how that matter stands. It may help relieve some worries to have a time frame." Privately, though, Faramir doubted it. Tonight, men would be more preoccupied with the dreadful task given them, for which he could be guiltily grateful in a way. The present is grim enough that they may not look to the future, or ask those questions that their captain cannot answer. For how shall I find replacements for Tarodin, who must shortly become captain for the southern Ithilien companies? What of officers? Do I dare strip the north and send Mablung or Anborn-- or both!-- with him for a help? I could, if I knew that I would be held in northern Ithilien, but I know not father's mind! For a time, at least, I am condemned to remain here. And with him, the others were doomed to remain and wait, all of them tossed together into the same broad cell that was ruined Osgiliath. Cries from the shore announced the discovery of another corpse, and Faramir chewed the inside of his lip gently, staring past the bright band of Anduin at the dark heights of the Ephel Duath. For if Denethor had sent him here as punishment for his crimes, it was in truth the Dark Lord who deserved the lion's share of the blame for this. Denethor did not kill these men, after all, not truly. Nor I, nor Boromir, though it was by our orders that so many were lost. 'Tis Mordor that shall be the ruin of us all! The heat and humidity hung heavy in the afternoon air, causing the dark mountains to shimmer and tremble. And then they began to fall...

Valar, not again! Faramir clenched his jaw against the outcry that stuck in his throat, and for a moment, all the waking world faded to him as the mountains tumbled beneath Anduin, which rose like a wave, covering the earth, and the roar of it blocked out the sound of the shovels and picks, the cries and complaints of the men. He thought he controlled his reaction somewhat better than he had the first time, and yet Tarodin still gave him an exceedingly odd look as the vision faded and he let out a soft sigh. Of course, most of his lieutenants and captains had, over the course of long years, seen him dream at least once, and many knew the signs that betrayed him. Nevertheless, despite that familiarity, he could not meet the other's eyes quite yet, for fear that Tarodin might read in them too much. I need not the dream of Númenor to remind me of our fate should we fail! He thought, but it was to Denethor that his thoughts turned once again. To Denethor, who could dictate Gondor's fate with but a word, to Faramir's dismay. Years it had been, and yet the conviction had remained ever with him, since that winter's day upon the tower of the sixth circle: Minas Tirith was not safe in his father's hands. Have we just run out of time? Is it already too late even to begin? He wondered fearfully. But the mysterious conjunction of the two dreaded dreams remained opaque, resistant to the probings of the intellect and he had not the privacy to spare a greater effort.

And what if it is too late? He asked himself suddenly. That changes not my responsibility here. Denethor wished me to learn my lesson, and I owe the men-- all of them, be they mine or Boromir's-- what apology I can make for having brought this upon them! Conscious of Tarodin's measuring-- and somewhat perplexed-- gaze, Faramir sighed and unbuckled the clasp of his cloak, folding the garment and tossing it into the shade beneath a mostly tumbled wall. His overtunic followed in quick succession, and he unbuckled the heavy sword-belt to lean the blade up against the remains of the wall. "My lord?" Tarodin questioned, watching these proceedings.

"The sooner this is over, the better for all. And I have watched long enough," Faramir replied, shooting a quelling glare at his lieutenant when the man began to protest. Tugging one-handed at the laces that held his shirt closed, he loosened the collar and breathed an unobtrusive sigh of relief when a wisp of a breeze hit his chest. "Come, Tarodin, we have work to do!"

***

Boromir sat slouched, his head in his hands and both elbows leaned upon his desk as he hurried through the last of the reports. A few more lines only... ! I hate this! Though actively concerned with Gondor's well-being, the time it took to scan, process, and link together the information contained in the deadly dull language of formal reports was time that he rather resented losing, no matter how necessary it might be. Even writing the wretched things was less torturous, since at least he controlled what went on the page, and he knew already what needed to be said. With a sigh, he flipped the parchment up and began the last paragraph though he felt his eyes beginning to close of their own accord as his attention wandered to other subjects... A knock on his door jerked him upright, and he hissed in irritation. One more paragraph... the door can wait! He decided, and began reading again with fresh energy. Ere he had managed even ten more words, the knock was repeated, this time louder, but he ignored it once more, tearing through another few lines with almost reckless haste. Only let me be done with this! It is not as if I shall be able to say aught tomorrow! A third knock, and when he still refused to acknowledge it, a voice sounded from without: "Boromir, I do not wish to hold this discussion with oak between us, but so help me, I will if you do not answer!"

"Uncle?" Frowning, Boromir shoved the chair back and rose, striding quickly across the room to pull the bolt and throw open the door. There stood the prince of Dol Amroth, his expression rather wry though his eyes were serious as he sketched his nephew a slight bow.

"I swore an oath to do all that duty to Gondor demands of me, even to sacrifice my dignity to play the madman at need. Nevertheless, I do thank you for sparing me the looks I would get when it became known that I had been seen talking to walls," Imrahil said, eliciting a chuckle from Boromir.

"We as a family do have appearances to maintain," Boromir acknowledged, but somehow, that comment failed to amuse either of them. "What brings you, uncle?" He asked, quickly waving Imrahil within to cover the awkward pause.

"Did you not receive my message?" The prince asked as Boromir shut the door behind them, turning a frown on his nephew.

"Message?" Boromir frowned. "What mess... oh." Imrahil snorted at that, and Boromir sighed. "I fear I threw Cethril out ere he finished delivering it. I am sorry, uncle, I had no heart for company this morning."

"I understand, lad, you need not ask my pardon. In truth, the delay may have been for the best, for it allowed me to attend to some chores of my own. I see that you are nearly finished with the interminable reports," the prince gestured to the stack shoved to one side of Boromir's desk.

"Very nearly. What business brings you uncle, or shall I guess it?" Denethor's elder son asked, unwilling to wait upon the intricate unfolding of Imrahil's mind and conversation today.

"I doubt not that you know the main matter already," his uncle replied, settling himself on the edge of the desk as he appraised Boromir carefully. At length, he said with deliberate causalness, "I have just had a most... revealing... discussion with the lord steward your father." Instantly, Boromir felt his muscles clench as Imrahil's sea-grey eyes pinioned him again.

"Ah? Indeed?" He replied, striving with such minimal answers to give as little away as he could. For though he doubted not his uncle's good intentions, the idea that Imrahil knew of the disastrous and shameful confrontations between Denethor and his sons made him feel vaguely ill.

"Indeed. Most interesting it was," Imrahil replied, a grim note entering his tone. 'Interesting,' after all, scarcely described the meeting he had had with his brother-in-law...

Denethor was not best pleased with him, Imrahil knew, and felt the other's displeasure as one might a blast of icy wind in the face. "I see no reason to discuss private affairs with you, Prince of Dol Amroth," the steward said neutrally.

"A man's authority in his house is well-nigh inviolable," Imrahil had replied. "But when his private affairs affect the governance of Gondor, then my duty is clear: to discover the root of this trouble and remove it. I thought that you would prefer to discuss such matters with a kinsman rather than before the council proper." And he had smiled thinly as Denethor realized that he was in deadly earnest. If the steward would not speak to him now, then Imrahil would lay the ugly affair before the entire council for discussion. And short of accusing Imrahil of treason or murder, Denethor could not silence him. That made the steward's decision very nearly a foregone conclusion, yet it had still been a tense moment. For the steward knew his council, its strengths and weaknesses, and the locations of any political bodies in Gondor were marked on the map of his long memory. Had Imrahil been any more open in his threat, the provocation might well have convinced Denethor to use that information to impose silence on him anyway. Fortunately, though, it seemed that the steward's sense of duty to Gondor outweighed his personal sense of outrage.

And so: "What would you know?"

"What has happened among the three of you since Osgiliath? I know well that you quarreled, and Faramir departed in a foul mood this morning to do 'recovery work,' I believe he called it. I would have this explained to me."

"You eavesdropped," Denethor said flatly after a moment.

"Nay, my lord, I heard what anyone would have heard who sought my quarters this morning," Imrahil countered. "That I could hear you at all was telling enough, for I have never known you to raise your voice thus, brother. Nor have I heard Faramir so upset, nor Boromir as indignant and despairing. What has happened of late, Denethor?"

"You might have spared me the inquiry and asked Boromir yourself, if you wish to know that," Denethor responded. "But since you are here, your nephews have taken to rifling through the belongings of others and trespassing into rooms forbidden them. They meddle in affairs that are not theirs to decide, and in doing so display an appalling lack of concern over their oaths as officers of this realm. Now, if that is enough...?"

"And was it as an officer of the realm, Denethor, that you played them against each other?" Imrahil demanded. "Or as a father?"

"How I deal with my sons is hardly of concern to you, prince of the realm!"

"If it damages Boromir and Faramir such that they cannot serve Gondor as they ought to, then it is my affair. And as their uncle, you may not tell me that I cannot be concerned with their treatment! You solicited, or seemed to solicit, Boromir's testimony against Faramir, and Boromir appears to believe himself quite wronged by this. He may even be correct, given the manner in which Faramir stormed out of your study. I see not how such animosity between your two ranking captains aids Gondor, and you have done naught to ease it! And so I ask again: was it as an officer of the realm or as their father that you have done this to them?"

"Together the two of them plot their mischief and play games with matters above their heads," Denethor replied, coldly folding his hands behind his back. "Let them now taste the reverse! And now that you have had your answer, I suggest you leave, brother!"

... "Uncle?" Imrahil drew a deeper breath and focused once more upon the present, and upon Boromir, who watched him now rather warily. "You spoke to father about... this?"

"Insofar as my knowledge of 'this' is limited, yes. And although I have not the tale in full, I believe I know enough to guess what must have happened... which I trust you will confirm for me," Imrahil added, raising a brow and holding Boromir under his gaze until his nephew nodded reluctantly. "Good. But first I have a question for you, and I would have your plainest answer," the prince paused a moment, searching Boromir's face once more ere he asked sharply, "Did you in fact tell Denethor of Faramir's transgression?"

"No!" Which immediate and vehement response did much to reassure Imrahil. Boromir stared back at him, grey eyes lit like clouds in a lightning storm, as he continued on in a tone of forced restraint, "I know not how he discovered Faramir's intrusion, but it was not my doing." And still, the fury in the other's voice was such that Imrahil held up his hands in a gesture of appeasement.

"Peace, Boromir," he murmured. "The charge never struck me true, but I owe it to all concerned to be certain of your innocence."

"And are you certain of it?"

"I am. You were never one to lie," Imrahil replied simply. Boromir still gazed at him as if with distrust for a few moments, but then he sighed and the rigid set of his shoulders relaxed somewhat, if not completely. "Tell me, though, what precisely it is that Faramir did, for I still know nothing of that matter, nor of your own fault. What happened last night after you left me?"

"It was not all done after our discussion," Boromir admitted, and went on to give a terse account of what had occurred while Imrahil listened in silence. And when he had finished, the prince said:

"All of this disturbs me on a number of levels, and I fear at the moment that the thread that would ravel the knot eludes me. Something troubles us all," Imrahil pushed himself off the desk to wander over to a little case of books, atop which lay an ornately carved wooden coffer. Laying his hands upon the lid, the prince's long, agile fingers began to trace the patterns while he stared at the wall in a meditative fashion. "Last night, I told you I had not dreamt any prophetic dreams, but my dreams have come more frequently, and I miss the clarity of them, for I no longer recognize the faces that haunt them. Aearos reports that he and a number of the other members of my guard have had trouble sleeping, and rouse at odd hours with feelings of unease. You, who abhor the vaults of the library, are driven to search even the steward's private collection, where no man may go without his permission, while your brother trespasses in his father's private haven, which no man dares who values his life. And Denethor..."

"What of father?" Boromir asked, eyes narrowing as he sought a better look at his uncle's face. For he knew well that Imrahil was perceptive, and often seemed to know more than he did simply because he had a talent for deduction. As does Faramir... and father, Boromir thought, wincing inwardly in pain and frustration. When Imrahil merely turned his head and stared mildly at him, the heir of the steward of Gondor grimaced and shook his head. "Do not do this, uncle! All of my family have a gift for misdirection, for teasing out revelations from others who think that they know already the answer. But I have not the patience to pick at words tonight! If you know aught and think I should know it as well, tell me!"

"Forgive me," Imrahil said again, smiling slightly, though the expression was marred somewhat by the shadow in his eyes. "I meant to say that I think your father, too, suffers from the same ailment, for though I do not like him, nor even love him, he has grown too closed in recent years. Too harsh, too demanding and secretive, as if he trusts no one any more. Not even his well-loved son."

"Father has been... difficult, it is true," Boromir replied, uncomfortably aware that Imrahil's words gave voice to his own troubled, half thought-out musings.

"And you have watched him more closely than I, who have been banished to Dol Amroth for lo! these many years," Imrahil continued. "It is perhaps fortunate that it was you and not Faramir who watched him change, for I doubt not that your brother would have suffered more for his too-discerning gaze. But you are not immune to this either, Boromir. In truth," Imrahil said softly, "When I saw you both yesterday, I found much in the two of you that alarmed me." And at Boromir's surprised and somewhat suspicious look, the prince raised a fine brow and said, "Oh yes. You are both your father's sons, though Denethor may not choose to see that often in Faramir's case. And even in yours, for the two of you are more often seen as opposite each other. Yet it is not so, and I cannot say that I am pleased by the comparison." At that, those shrewd eyes caught Boromir's once more and he felt their pressure. But whereas Denethor's penetrating gaze could hurt, and Faramir's left one feeling somewhat self-conscious, Imrahil's was quick as the flick of a dagger-- ere Boromir could muster a defense, his uncle had withdrawn again, leaving him to wonder what it was that Imrahil had taken from that exchange.

"What mean you to say by this?" he asked at length.

"That you should be careful, Boromir, for although we have each of us that grain of darkness within, exposure to the shadow that lingers over this city may grow it in our despite if we are not attentive to such things." Which words were particularly troublesome in light of his less than chivalrous intentions regarding Faramir's confidence last night, and Boromir grunted softly, glancing down at the floor. Imrahil was silent for a few moments ere he began again, "Enough of that, though. I would not add to your troubles, nephew, but I would be remiss if I spoke not frankly with you in this matter. Minas Tirith is troubled, and we tend to overlook smaller signs within ourselves in our search for answers among the rumors and tales that circulate the city."

"True enough," Boromir admitted, but then added, with a quick, brooding smile, "But few are the problems solved by seeking symptoms within, unless one is a madman. I wonder sometimes whether we are not all gone mad in this murk! Men watch the light in the tower and await the ghost of Mardil Voronwë, or say that father wrestles the Nameless Enemy! Others complain that the cats of Beruthiel are returned, for some know more than they ought to... father included. What is a man to make of such tales? For myself, I would know how the steward of Gondor learned of Faramir's guilt, for I would swear there were no others to hear him confess but myself! And we spoke not loudly, for we did not argue."

"I hesitate to suggest your esquire..."

"Nay, father told him to wait outside, and Cethril never entered the room 'til after Faramir had left. I tell you, uncle, we were quite alone, and I went to bed not long after my brother left."

"And Faramir told no one else?"
"No one. Why should he speak of this to another?" Boromir watched as Imrahil frowned thoughtfully, his mind clearly groping for an answer to the mystery. "'Tis not the first time that the lord of the city has surprised us with his knowledge, but usually he is more subtle about it. Usually, there is some plausible excuse for it, however doubtful, for I cannot remember a time when any had cause to question the source of his knowledge. Not to his face, at least," he added ruefully.

"Well, your father is foresighted, that we learned early," Imrahil murmured. "But usually, foresight attaches to greater events, or to persons close to one... loved ones..." And Faramir is not loved! The implication hung in the air, and Boromir bit his tongue against a protest. "I suppose Faramir was seen leaving or entering your father's rooms," he said at last, though it was clear that he did not believe his own explanation. For he knew well that Faramir was not one to let himself be observed at unawares, not after all his years in Ithilien. "Unless the steward merely pretended to foreknowledge, the better to drive you apart, I can think of no other explanation."

"It seems a reasonable one," Boromir admitted, but then hesitated. "And yet... it does not ring true to me. My father may not be the most open of men, yet he rarely needs to lie for he knows well how to evade giving an answer."

"True enough. Yet it remains our best explanation," Imrahil grimaced and finally stepped back from the box, trailing his fingers over the lid, as if reluctant to relinquish its feel. "But let us not think on it further, for there are many other matters that need our attention, not least of which is the council. Forlong came latest, but all the councilors of the realm are within the city now. I have heard," Imrahil said, shooting him a considering glance, "that you shall listen but not speak throughout."

"Unless Denethor becomes convinced of my merits once more," Boromir replied, attempting to keep his voice even, to crush the note of resentment that threatened to twist his tone. Alas, it was nearly impossible to fool any of the men of his family, and even Lothiríel was not one to be easily deceived; Imrahil heard the anger that lay beneath that careful neutrality.

"And what would it need to win his confidence once more?"

Boromir gave a frustrated shrug and then folded his arms across his chest. "I know not, for he told me nothing specific! I am simply to obey his commands, nothing more."

"Will you do that, then?"

"What choice have I? For am I not a loyal son of my father?" Boromir asked, forcing himself to speak almost calmly. Remember that, Boromir: you are loyal... that above all, for what else is there?

"Be careful, then, and watch your words should you speak with Denethor later. In fact," Imrahil paused, frowning suddenly. "Were I you, Boromir, I would be quite careful to do nothing that Denethor would not approve of. Be certain that you act alone as you would in a public place."

"Leaving aside recent events, why would I do otherwise?"

"I do not say that you would, only that even private meetings with friends or family ought to be conducted carefully. One never knows what might be overseen..."

"And the walls have ears, yes, I have heard that often," Boromir finished, and Imrahil nodded. "I like this not, and I wish we had not spoken for my mind is now restless, but I thank you nonetheless, uncle."

"I am your mother's brother, and you may always call upon me, should you desire someone to listen," Imrahil replied, clasping arms with his nephew as farewell. But ere he released him, he added, "I shall send a letter to Osgiliath with one of my men, to be certain it arrives unopened. If you wish, I can play messenger for us both." And if your letter arrives with mine, it stands less chance of rejection! So Imrahil's faint smile conveyed, and Boromir had to admit it was a good idea.

"When shall you send your runner?"

"Tomorrow morning, when I go out for my ride before the council begins. Join me, if you will, or else have the letter in my possession before then."

"I shall join you, for I doubt not it shall be the only pleasant part of the whole day," Boromir sighed. "Until tomorrow, uncle. Good night!"

"Good night, Boromir!" Imrahil replied, and left quietly. With a soft sigh, Boromir returned to his desk, and with a minimum of searching found a clean sheet of paper and sat down to write his letter. I wonder how many they found today... He heard his breath hiss through his teeth at the thought of the wreckage beneath Anduin's glistening surface. He doubted, though, that Faramir would welcome his pity over such an awful assignment, and so he focused instead upon convincing his brother that he had had naught to do with what had passed in their father's office that morning. Unfortunately, he had no real evidence to offer, only his word, and so in the end, it was a rather short letter that made its way into Imrahil's hands and out to the river bank the next morn:

X V
Thus conscience Doth Make Cowards of Us All

********

Papers whispered coyly against each other and Boromir made himself stand quietly, without sighing or shifting his weight too obviously while Denethor read. Hands clasped behind his back, feeling the air of the study close and stifling despite the open window, he waited, and while his hands were out of sight, Boromir massaged his right hand and wrist. One would imagine that after twenty-four years of campaigns and thirty years spent mastering the blade, writer's cramp would be beneath my dignity, something to scoff at rather than curse! But muscles accustomed to the violence of battle might not be as suited to hours of fine, precise, yet swift movements and he splayed his fingers, feeling the tingling ease just a bit. As if writer's cramp were not irritation enough, Denethor had complained of his penmanship the first day, forcing him to rewrite the entire document. I will never again take for granted father's secretaries, he thought fervently. The idea of being a copyist and note-keeper for the steward was not one that roused envy in Boromir's heart; indeed, after the past two days, it not only inspired no jealousy, it inspired dread and no little respect. Give me Poros and a Haradrim horde over a pen and paper! For although Faramir was wont to say that the pen could cut as deeply as the sword, Boromir suspected his brother referred to poets or satirical playwrights, not transcribers. Having been stripped of a speaking role in the council, he had been 'gifted' with the responsibility of secretary, and that had sufficed to keep him busy enough that he could not afford a stray thought for hours on end until a recess was called or the day was done. It also sufficed to insure that he got ink-stains up his sleeves and recalled the deadly dull hours of short-hand that his tutors had forced both him and Faramir to learn. At the time, he had complained of the useless skill, but now he blessed those same maligned tutors for their insistence.

Unfortunately, short-hand did not spare him this interview. The Steward of Gondor had made a point of reading over his laboriously copied notes in front of him that first night and had found them wanting in clarity. And when Boromir had returned a few hours later with a cleaner copy, he had again been made to wait while his father reread every single line. Tonight, he had reluctantly followed Denethor to his study, there to endure the humiliation a third time, and he foresaw this ritual continuing for days on end while the council deliberated. That was enough to stir a heartfelt groan in a tried warrior, but he wisely made no sound or move that could be interpreted as impatience or frustration, let alone dread. For Denethor would not take kindly to such displays and Boromir had no desire to test his father's aptitude for creative punishment once more. To sit in the council chambers and feel the uneasy glances of the councilors as they tried to decipher precisely how deeply in the shadow of Denethor's displeasure he lay was embarrassment enough. There was no need to risk further humiliation, although Boromir did wonder whether Denethor had always intended to have these 'interviews' or whether he had somehow merited another slap in the face. And so he waited, speculating on his father's probable intentions while his temper grew fouler by the minute and his resentment waxed the greater, growing more difficult to suppress.

Think of Faramir! He reminded himself for the fourth time since he had crossed the threshold of the study. Remember why he is now upon Anduin's banks raising the dead! Give Denethor no reason to use him against you again! That unpleasant thought helped to cool Boromir's wrath somewhat, for he had come swiftly to the realization that however wroth the steward was with Faramir, Faramir's punitive duties at Osgiliath were a greater torment to him, Boromir, than all the records-keeping that a tense council session could produce. More, Denethor surely knew that quite well, and if Boromir allowed his frustration to govern him too obviously, it seemed too likely that Faramir would suffer some new indignity. Even now, thought of what his younger brother dealt with made him feel quite uneasy, and that did not take into consideration his worry for how this must affect one of Faramir's sensitivity. It is not that I believe in ghost stories, Boromir reflected, unsuccessfully trying to quell his anxiety. But this feels indecent to me, and no argument can rid me of that feeling! Let them lie, for is not Anduin a fitting bier for those who fought above those waters? What honor, being plucked from a river to be thrown into a ditch? Not that he supposed he need truly fear for that: Faramir would see that the bodies at least were handled as respectfully as possible. Nor would he simply bid men shovel dirt over them, for his brother was not one to neglect what rites might be available to ease men's hearts and hallow the ground that bore now a vast treasury of bone. Nevertheless, and despite his faith in Faramir's sense of propriety, unease continued to gnaw at him whenever he let himself think of his brother's task.

Which is less often than I ought! His conscience was quick to respond. He could excuse himself that failing during the day, for the councilors talked in ceaseless circles and it was his duty to record it all. But at night... When he lay awake due to the frustration roiling in his stomach and tried to resign himself to sleep, then did his thoughts turn not east but north: north to a place he had never seen, nor even heard tell of before in his life, which yet might hold the key to Gondor's salvation. Possibly! Imladris... The name haunted him, danced ever on the tip of his tongue and behind his eyelids when he closed them. Yet he dared not utter it, bound to silence by the steward's will. Someone must go, and yet we wait... how long dare we wait to decide this matter? Which brought him back to Faramir once again, and the accusatory stares and bitter words they had last exchanged in this office. He has not written in return yet either. Does that mean that he still blames me? That he does not believe me? Boromir fretted, wishing that he had the freedom to go to Anduin and confront Faramir face-to-face. His brother might be more adept at dealing with the written word, but Boromir could not trust that his brother's skill in interpretation would compensate for his own clumsy written efforts to redeem himself.

At that moment, Denethor squared the papers, aligning them with each other through a quick tap of the edges against his desk, and then he set them aside. "Satisfactory. Now, regarding lord Anthir's proposal to negotiate a loan of cavalry from the Rohirrim to help cover Anórien, what think you?"

"'Tis sound enough in theory, and I would welcome the Rohirrim in any endeavor. But will our coffers support the cost?" Boromir replied, breathing a mental sigh of relief that his notes had passed muster today. The one trial over, the next began, but this, at least, was a test he could accept without qualms. For if he had been silenced in public, in private, Denethor seemed genuinely concerned that he should have a sound grasp of all such matters as were raised in the council. And at least taking notes forces me to remember everything! His father might interrogate him to within an inch of his life in such sessions, but in a way, such intimate and intense debates over policy were more beneficial than the council itself. Freed of the need to listen to every objection, he could concentrate on those that seemed most relevant, while Denethor did the same. And however inexplicable Denethor's moods with regard to his second son, Boromir could not deny that within his element, his father had no equal.

Perhaps it was simply that such private discussions of policy demanded so much of his attention, or perhaps... perhaps it was Denethor's particular glamour, but Boromir could feel anger draining away, and with it, all thought of the argument that lay still between them. In his heart, he knew well that the truce would not last for long, but for the moment, he was content to lose himself in such matters as befitted his station. And even the steward seemed to lose some of his remove, and to grow more animated than many would have believed possible of him. For whatever else might be said of Denethor and his sons, of their differences and dislikes, an abiding love of Gondor at least had bred true in them all, and it bound them together where lesser men would have fallen entirely away from each other.

***

It was late when father and son came at last to a halt in their discussion, the two of them having thoroughly worked through and examined the most prominent points of debate. Boromir at last leaned back in the seat he had taken and fell silent, thinking. For his own part, Denethor steepled his fingers before his face and stared back, but without bothering to probe the other's meditative silence. Such efforts were generally unnecessary with Boromir, who had never been as adept as Faramir at concealing his thoughts, but of late... We all know what has happened of late! Denethor thought, shoving aside such concerns. Not that he would not reflect upon such unpleasantness, but he refused to do so in front of Boromir. And as the moments slipped by, marked by the quiet tick of a clock in the corner, the quality of their silence began to change. A flicker in Boromir's grey eyes told of the resurgence of concerns and grievances held in abeyance for the better part of the day, and certainly during these interludes of relative peace. And with those concerns came a certain confusion that expressed itself in the slightest narrowing of his son's eyes, the barest cant of his head as Boromir stared at him, and Denethor knew quite well the questions that passed through the other's mind. Fortunately or unfortunately, he could not answer them and so sought only to deflect them, his face and eyes assuming a closed expression of perfect neutrality. Boromir's mouth tightened slightly as he recognized the mask, and then his son glanced about uneasily ere he spoke: "So. We bargain with the Rohirrim and since Poros is more or less useless with Pelargir occupied, we pull that garrison back to help cover Ithilien and Lebennin. I can write the commander there, Darthalas, if you will."

"Do so. If you would, also draft a letter for Théodred about the possibility of cooperation in Anórien. It will help our case if he argues for the proposal, or can arrange that matter separately with Éomer, since at least the King's son is discreet," Denethor replied.

"As you wish." And here Boromir paused, seeming to search his father's face ere he asked, "Is there aught else you would have me do, my lord, ere I retire? Aught else you would speak of?"

And much though a part of Denethor longed to say 'yes,' the division in his mind favored a dismissal. So he simply shook his head and replied, "Nay, I think we have no further pressing business tonight." Boromir's jaw clenched and a look of angry disappointment flashed clearly in his eyes before he could control himself. But then he shook his head and passed a hand over his eyes as if with weariness, as he responded:

"Very well then. Good night." With that, he rose, bowed quickly, and then turned and quietly left the room.

"Good night... " Denethor muttered once the door was shut, closing his eyes as he leaned his forehead against his fingertips, feeling his pulse throb, reverberating painfully against his aching temples. When Faramir called him 'my lord,' it was usually meant as a ploy to keep a certain distance between himself and the steward. 'Father,' on the other hand, was reserved for those particular occasions when his younger son was angry enough that he felt it was of no use to hide behind the barrier of rank. With Boromir, the reverse was usually true, depending upon context. It was, however, unusual for either of them to forego altogether a form of address upon departures. Faramir in particular was quite careful in this respect, but Boromir, too, was not wont to be abrupt. And so tonight he bids me a good evening and says nothing else! I suppose that would measure half-way between anger and affection, the steward thought wryly, but did not long sustain that sarcastic humor. Valar but I am weary! Ever since Imrahil arrived...

The admission came hard, even to himself, but however unwilling, he no longer cared to waste the effort needed to keep such thoughts under close wraps. And since he was courting unwelcome confessions, he admitted also that Imrahil was but the straw too many for a laden horse. It has been long since I knew the meaning of a night's sleep! Of rest... Exhaustion had dogged his steps for years, mayhap ever since Finduilas' untimely death, or even before that. A wince managed to work its way past his mask as he remembered the occasion of his father's passing, and the awful night he and his wife had passed. Senseless, both of us, and yet not so much so that we could avoid hurting each other! There were nights when he still woke to the memory of her tears that evening and his own self-revulsion. He had been tired beyond belief then as well, and if his stamina had grown since that disgraceful episode, it meant only that when at last weariness caught up with him, it struck the harder. And I cannot afford to let it knock me senseless again! Not now! The multitude of competing demands for his attention might trouble him less did they not all require such exquisite and prolonged concentration to deal with. Alas that as time passed, it grew harder to spare that sort of attention, for the flood of questions and worrisome problems threatened him with a sort of death by dissolution. It was truly a relief in many ways to have Boromir to himself in the evening and let his heir wrestle with some of them. Even the council was something of a relief, and although it pained him to be grateful to Imrahil, it would be foolish to ignore the man's contributions.

Unfortunately, second opinions and the occasionally brilliant solution only freed him to worry about the main matter the more. For although it was obvious to anyone with a modicum of intelligence that Gondor would be unable to repel the Dark Lord's armies this time, it needed significantly more information to realize that Gondor would not even be a threat to Mordor. Denethor had such information, though he was careful not to share it with even Boromir. There was no point, after all, in disheartening others prematurely. Better to let the shock come at the end, when there shall be no time to think on it. For however desperately they scraped and clawed to find men and weapons to throw in the path of the horde, it would be like trying to halt a flood by catching the water in a milk pail. A bitter end for all of them, and well-nigh intolerable to one who had fought the long and losing battle much of his life, in one way or another. Indeed, sitting there with his head in his hands, brooding on the coming ruin, he could feel the ache of injuries incurred long ago, as if his very being protested the idea that all the suffering was ultimately in vain. Against the trickery of his own mind and body, the touch of steel against his skin helped reinforce a refusal made long ago: never to surrender to the weakness of the flesh when he needed all his faculties to hold Gondor together until the very last moment.

But will we reach that moment, or do we falter already? If he could ask that question, then he, at least, was faltering, which thought was agony to bear. But as he dared not ignore it and risk a fatal mistake that would hasten the fall of Gondor, he considered it closely. Clearly, something had to give way-- he must find some way of easing the strain on himself, and at the moment, the largest distractions stemmed from the most ironic of sources: family. For the moment, Faramir's absence helped, but it inflamed other difficulties to the point that he wondered whether it had been worth it to send him away. He could do little to be rid of Imrahil-- cursed meddler!-- and he suspected that the Prince of Dol Amroth would find excuses to extend his stay at Minas Tirith for as long as possible, the better to watch Denethor. For as long as his brother-in-law remained, he would have no peace, and Imrahil would have too much time to whisper into Boromir's ears. At least Boromir is somewhat less susceptible to such! But his elder son's immunity to murmured words and sidelong glances might be approaching its limits, for he had been too quiet since the day of Imrahil's arrival. More, the lad's resentment over that unhappy episode with Faramir continued to build rather than abate. Only in their discussions of Gondor did Boromir forget his brother's position long enough to feel comfortable in his father's presence. I should never have conducted those interviews with them both in the same room. I should have berated each separately, but time was short, and I thought it would be easier... simpler... to have done with them both at once. Certainly it had let him break their alliance effectively, which gave him one less concern to carry. At the time, it had never occurred to him to worry about the possible consequences of such a falling out: in the steward's experience, affection was not a precursor to the proper doing of one's duties, after all.

Nevertheless, he ought to have recognized the danger, for he had thereby failed to control other factors that ought to have been clear to him in advance. For I do not deal with others like myself! He had not allowed for the fact that Boromir, concrete soul that he was, would be more inclined to anger if he witnessed Faramir's sentencing than he would have had he merely been told of it. And Boromir and Faramir both carried their mother's legacy in their hearts-- they were more emotional beings than was Denethor, more prone to look first to feeling rather than to logic, and that made it dangerous to disturb such bonds as they had forged between them. Elementary errors of judgment are the first signs of danger, Ecthelion had been wont to say, and Denethor sighed for the truth of those words. And of course, his father had tended to add: Stupid mistakes, on the other hand, are simply inexcusable! "And now I reap the benefits of such inexcusable errors!" Denethor murmured softly, mind racing as he sought a way to correct for them.

The obvious solution-- to return Faramir to Minas Tirith and allow nature to take its course and heal the rift between the two brothers-- was unpalatable. To bring him back without ridding himself of one of the other terms in the tangled equation that described the relationships among Boromir, Faramir, Imrahil, and himself would not ease the strain on Denethor. Faramir alone was exasperating enough to be infuriating, and he refused to deal with his younger son when the other two men remained. Not now. I cannot deal with him now! As for Imrahil, short of ordering him to leave, the steward could do little to mitigate the effects of the man's presence in Minas Tirith. Assuming he found an excuse to order Imrahil away, he must still wait until the end of the council, which meant another few days at the least of his unwanted company. Moreover, although he trusted the prince to recall his duty to Gondor, it did no one good to antagonize him unduly when the realm would shortly need his services. And what of Boromir? His son's affection for his uncle would bear careful handling, for if Boromir perceived Imrahil's departure as less than willing, he would grow the more resentful. Assume, then, that Imrahil shall stay as long as he likes. How then to deal with my son? On the one hand, Denethor knew very well that Boromir was angry with him. That in itself did not trouble the steward unduly, for it had happened before. Rather, it was more the manner in which that anger expressed itself that robbed Denethor of his sleep. He is too quiet. That is not like him! Since Faramir was sent away, he has not said a word, nor come to plead on his brother's behalf as is his wont.

And so for once, Denethor dared not take the direct path with Boromir: he dared not try to bring this grievance into the open, for he knew not what might explode in his face. He could not simply berate him for his brooding silences, nor for the air of accusation that hung round him... Not again. I cannot stomach more of this! Denethor grit his teeth, disgusted with himself. Why should I fear to deal with him as I see fit? If his manner offends or distracts me from my proper tasks, it is his place to amend it! For he is my son and my captain, bound to obey me: and if I tell him to jump from the citadel to the first circle, that would still be the case! But he could not face him, and deep within the closed recesses of his heart, Denethor knew why. It was quite simple, really-- simple and implacable, and certain as sunrise on a summer's day. He could not face Boromir because he was afraid-- deathly afraid, there in the very marrow of his bones. He feared that if he took his elder son to task for moodiness that arose of the division between himself and his brother, that he would lose Boromir completely. Faramir might be considered a lost cause already, for he had never been close to his second son. Still, honesty nagged at him, compelling him to remember that there had been a time when it had hurt to watch Faramir walk out of those doors and out of the city as the new-minted captain of Ithilien. It still did, in some elemental sense, though the steward never permitted himself to dwell on that fact.

It should have been obvious from the beginning that there would come a point when Boromir would choose his brother over his father when it came to affection. Although Denethor had made an effort to reach Boromir, he knew very well that he was not an easy man to like or to love, particularly for children. He had made an honest effort with Boromir, but he knew that his elder son turned often to Faramir to make up the lack, though at least Boromir never questioned the causes of that lack of feeling. Whereas Faramir accused him with his every look, Boromir simply looked elsewhere. And I like a fool stepped between them this time! 'Tis like separating a bear from her cub! Yet he had not seen the danger three days ago; what should have been obvious had been... lost. Lost and buried in amid the thousand other details that clamored for the steward's attention: amid the news of the armies building at Durthang, the levies on the move in Harad and in far Khand; amid the reports of the massing of the Corsairs at Pelargir, and the shadows that lay over the west. And last but not least, a brief and disturbing set of images, coming disjointedly through the glass of the palantír, of Mithrandir. Denethor could not place the settings, though all had been different, nor could he determine how deeply into the past the stone had reached to bring him such images. But at least a few of them seemed quite recent. And in one or two of them, Mithrandir had not been alone. At his side had walked another-- tall, dark-haired, always just at the edge of the vision. A Man, surely, and one who went clad not unlike a Ranger of Ithilien. But it was the face that commanded Denethor's attention, for this wanderer in green and brown who kept the company of wizards looked oddly... eerily... like--

Enough! Denethor shook himself, forcing a halt to that train of thought ere it truly began. The palantír, with its sometimes coy unpredictability was almost more hindrance than help at times, yet for better or worse he relied upon it. Even knowing that much of his fatigue was due to the exhausting effort to control it, he needed the information that only the stone could provide him. He needed-- craved-- that knowledge, and so again and again he returned to wrestle with it, though the toll on his strength increased along with his burdens. The headaches were becoming more frequent, and ever they stabbed the sharper when he came to the palantír weary already. Indeed, he had not been free of the pain for some weeks now, yet he never failed to mount those steps to the upper chamber. In his mind's eye, he could see its green flickering and feel its call... . Hissing softly, Denethor opened his eyes and he stared down at the piled documents on his desk: a wealth of information, an embarrassment of riches, all dedicated to the maintenance of Gondor. To the preservation of Anárion's realm for as long as it is granted me to protect it. Surely I need not go up tonight! For how does it help me solve my present problem?

Indeed, in a manner of speaking, without the palantír, he might not have so much to deal with. For had a second session before the Seeing Stone not revealed Faramir's clandestine search of his study, he might never have had a reason to wish to drive his sons so far from each other. And then, in his weariness, he had let his wrath get the better of him and revealed more of his hidden knowledge than he ought to have done. Discretion seems to be sadly lacking in the Citadel of late! He thought wryly, thinking of Imrahil's visit to Boromir and the pair's morning rides-- all viewed through the lens of the palantír and confirmed by more conventional means. And so he guessed that Faramir likely knew all of Imrahil's suspicions as to his father's possible motives, and probably he had by now forgiven Boromir for a betrayal he had never committed. Likely, his younger son would be impossible to handle for a time, which only made it the more necessary that Denethor find some means of controlling him.

How to put an end to this tension? How to serve Gondor best? Automatically, he reached for the paper on which was written the Rhyme of Imladris and stared down at the words, while visions of wizards and wanderers swam through his head, all framed in the green-cast light of the palantír. Faramir's eyes, kindled to a chartreuse flame in his imagination as the lad walked along with Mithrandir, listening to old tales. Tales, perhaps, that told of things that ought not to be mentioned: Seeing Stones and the heirs of houses long dead; of heroes without graves and the rise of the Enemy from the ashes of defeat. And Boromir intruded as well, disappointment writ plain across his face, and Denethor sighed. Loathe though he was to admit it, he could see but one way to balance out the competing demands of family and still serve his country. One way to vindicate Faramir while ridding him of Boromir's accusatory silence, and ending Imrahil's involvement, even if he could not physically be rid of the Prince of Dol Amroth until the end of the week at least. And perhaps then I may find some time to rest! Rising, he went to the door and opened it to the sight of Verethon kicking his heels against the wall, waiting for his master's call.

"M'lord steward?" The lanky young man glanced up, startled.

"I have some errands for you, and be certain that you are swift to complete them," Denethor replied.

"Aye my lord," Verethon replied.

***

Boromir wiped futilely at the ink that smeared his right forearm, succeeding only spreading the stuff further as it mixed with sweat. Despite all efforts to keep a breeze flowing through the council chambers, the high hall remained hot, and many were they who had abandoned the formality of the session to rid themselves of as many layers as was respectful. Boromir had long ago shed his jerkin, sleeveless though it was, and had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. From the opposite end of the table, Imrahil spared him a brief, sympathetic look. His uncle, too, had his overtunic draped over the back of his chair, and his collar was open at the throat. He had been fairly quiet today, unlike the past two days, and Boromir wondered whether the steward had aught to do with that, for Imrahil's gaze had remained firmly on Denethor much of the time. The prospect of another confrontation between his uncle and father was not one that pleased him, but he knew not whether there was anything he could do to prevent it. They need not my meddling as an excuse, after all, for uncle had his grievances long before! Boromir sighed inwardly and wondered whether anyone else was as ready for this to end as he was. These will be illegible thanks to the smearing, he thought grimly. That meant he would be forced to recopy the notes in parts, to which task he did not look forward. In the mean time, he scribbled as quickly as he could and hoped he would be able to decipher his own handwriting.

At last, though, Denethor called a halt to the day's session, and all around the table, the lords of Gondor breathed sighs of relief as they rose and collected clothing, filing out by pairs. All save Imrahil, who seemed to await the chance to catch Denethor alone. As Boromir tossed the latest page onto the table to let it dry a bit, his uncle glided forward and Denethor glanced up at him. Before the two of them could begin their silent sparring match in earnest, Boromir rose, imposing his bulk between them and denying them a clear field of vision. Flicking a glance at Imrahil out of the corner of his eye, he noted that his uncle seemed rather amused by this tactic. "What is it you wish, my lord of Dol Amroth?" Denethor asked, his voice betraying a certain dry humor.

"A word with Boromir, my lord. Since you needs must wait a moment for these to dry," Imrahil gestured to the latest few pages, "Perhaps you would excuse us for a short time. I shall return him promptly." Boromir shot his father a questioning stare, half-expecting the steward to deny the request, but to his surprise, Denethor simply nodded and waved the pair of them away. "My thanks. Come," Imrahil beckoned, slinging his tunic over his shoulder, and Boromir obeyed.

Once out in the hall and away from listening ears, though, he demanded, "What was that about, uncle? I do not need to become a piece in your chess match with father!"

"My apologies, Boromir," Imrahil replied, "I meant it not thus. But I do need to speak with you, if only briefly. This arrived for you today." And his uncle reached inside his belt pouch to retrieve a folded piece of paper with Boromir's name written on it. Faramir's script-- he recognized it immediately and felt his heart speed in response. Glancing up at Imrahil, he unfolded it and skimmed the lines. True to form, Faramir had filled the entire page, and Boromir felt his expression grow taut and mask-like as he read further. When at last he had finished, he gave a soft grunt and refolded it, stuffing it into his own belt pouch.

"What said he?" Imrahil asked. "Or ought I not to ask?"

"Much. He complains of his dreams again. It seems he has not had much peace since returning to Osgiliath," Boromir replied grimly, letting that statement stand as it would. Imrahil would understand well enough, of that he had no doubt. "And he, too, is now in doubt as to whence father's knowledge of his own transgression came." He sighed. "It needed only two days for him to make up his mind!"

"But he did in the end decide in your favor. That eases my heart somewhat."

"Mine as well, though I think he may need further convincing ere he is fully satisfied. I suppose that I cannot blame him, given the circumstances. He says he would speak with the two of us when he returns tomorrow evening."

"He can wait with me in my quarters, then, until you are finished with your business with the steward. That ought to keep him out of trouble."

Boromir snorted at that. "You and he placidly together in one room? Hardly, uncle!"

Imrahil gave a soft laugh and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Go now. For myself, I believe I shall take what air I can find this evening!"

"From the back of a horse, I doubt not!" His nephew retorted, feeling a quick stab of heart-felt envy.

"Aye, quite likely. I have much to think about tonight," With that parting comment, Imrahil left him, disappearing quickly down the corridor. Shaking his head over the prince's good spirits, he reluctantly returned to the council chambers. Denethor was carefully collecting the papers into neatly ordered stacks, a shadow-draped wraith in his long, formal dark robes. Of all of them, the steward alone had refused to make any concessions to the heat, yet he seemed rather pale. With a frown, Boromir tried to decide whether his father had seemed to him ill of late, but nothing came to him. In truth, much of the time he had been too preoccupied with his own anger and frustration to notice. Was that perhaps why Imrahil watched him so closely today? He wondered. Could it be that my uncle worries over my father somewhat?

"Shall I recopy them?" He made himself ask, dreading the answer. Denethor was silent a few moments, paging through the sheets as if examining them. Finally, though:

"No."

"Father?" Boromir asked, his frown deepening as he sensed some weighty pronouncement hanging in the air.

"I shall have another see to that task, for you have other business to attend to."

"What business is that?"

"You leave tomorrow morning on a long journey," Denethor replied, and Boromir blinked. The steward raised unreadable grey eyes to meet Boromir's, and Gondor's captain general caught his breath as the implication sank in at last. "You will find such directions as my searching has revealed in your chambers, upon your desk. Verethon and Cethril have seen to all other necessary arrangements. Your route will take you through Rohan to the Gap, and thence north... I know not whither."

Boromir was silent for a long while, caught between relief and sudden dread. He has decided... he has decided, and what does that mean? That we truly are that desperate? Does he believe it all, then? Should I believe... "Does Faramir know?" He blurted out, then cursed inwardly, for that was not the most diplomatic of questions.

"No."

"But..."

"He does not know, but he shall learn of this when he returns tomorrow. You are dismissed, Boromir. See to whatever needs your esquire might have forgotten. Go carefully, and mind you: sift every word they tell you in Imladris. Elves will say one thing and mean four others. Therefore be attentive, and be careful. And find the answer." Boromir could only nod, and Denethor laid his hands on his shoulders and kissed him quickly on the brow ere he swept out of the room. I ride for Imladris after all... Boromir could not quite believe it, but he touched his brow as if to assure himself that Denethor had, indeed, kissed him. And what of Faramir? Osgiliath was a good two hours' ride, which was not a large detour in a journey that ought to last weeks at least. I could go there in the morning... But then he paused in his thoughts, returning once more to Denethor's farewell. That means he shall not see me ere I leave, but I know that he rises early. Which meant that his father likely expected him to be gone this very evening... Gone to Osgiliath. What of Imrahil? After a few moments' further consideration, he sighed. Unless he chanced across his uncle's course, it was unlikely he would see him ere he left. I cannot worry about him now. I shall leave him a message with one of his men, but 'tis Faramir with whom I must speak!

His decision made, Boromir squared his shoulders and hurried out of the council room. If he was swift, he could be gone within the hour.

***

Although it was quite late, Denethor had not quite managed to retire for the evening when a knock sounded on his door. Ah yes, he thought wryly, glancing out at the evenstar that hung low in the sky beyond his window. By now, Boromir ought to be well on his way... At the same time, Verethon opened the door, took in the visitor's identity, and then murmured a polite greeting as he stood aside to admit the prince of Dol Amroth, as per the steward's standing order. "Verethon, you may leave us for a time," Denethor informed his squire, who bowed and then gratefully scurried out, clearly relieved that he would not need to stay to listen. Tearing his gaze from the starry sky, Denethor impassively faced his brother-in-law, meeting the other's probing stare with one of his own. Imrahil's face was a still mask, but his grey eyes blazed silver. "Good evening, Imrahil. I trust you will be brief."

"I could wax eloquent all night, Denethor, but I have not the stomach for it!" the prince replied in a rare display of undisguised disgust. The steward said naught, simply waited for the questions that he knew must come. And Imrahil, being perceptive, did not disappoint him. "Do you truly believe that this will earn you Boromir's forgiveness?"

"I believe it is not your concern what I believe," Denethor replied.

"And what of Faramir? What excuse will you make him?"

"I need make no excuse to him. I should think, my lord prince," the steward continued after a momentary pause, "that you would be pleased for him. Faramir is worthy of more trust, you say. Very well! He has it now of necessity, for he shall need to take Boromir's place for a time. Is that not precisely what you feel he deserves?"

Imrahil gazed stonily at him, and though his anger was apparent, Denethor detected no real surprise in the other. And now for the final query, the last step in our dance... "And what of Gondor?"

"Gondor stands condemned already. What fear should you or I have, that I send Boromir north and leave his post to Faramir? What difference shall it make?" A pause, while Imrahil fumed silently. "Have you nothing further to tell?"

"Is there aught else to say?" The prince countered, folding his arms across his chest as he cocked a brow at the steward. Presently, though, despite the rhetorical question, he continued, "I know not how it is, Steward of Gondor, that one so cold at heart could rise so high and yet remain firmly within his people's affections. But I will say this ere I bid you good night: you are not infallible. I know not whence comes the source of your knowledge, but I know well that you have means you refuse to speak of. Dangerous means: they take their toll on you, and I doubt not that the worst is yet to come. And if it is within my power to prevent it, I will! Good night, my lord steward."

"Good night, Prince of Dol Amroth." Once Imrahil had left, Denethor sighed softly. So ends that matter at least, for he can make no objection to the reasons I have given, nor can he know my sources. For long ago, he had seen to it that none ever would. Ere even his father had died, he had removed the only reference that might lead an inquisitive soul (like one Thorongil) to discover what lay in the high chamber of the Citadel. Seven Stars and Seven Stones, and one White Tree. No Stars have we now, and the Tree has withered, but the Stones exist still. Ironic, that one chase should lead to another after so wide a waste of time!

With that thought, the steward of Gondor went to seek such rest as he might find. And if, beneath the ice of his soul, he wished indeed that forgiveness might be so easily bought, he kept it buried deeply enough that that forlorn wish could not trouble his dreams.

********

TTT, 258.

X V I
Epilogue: For Lazarus Remains

1 Corinthians Chapter 13. (Authorized King James Version):

"When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought

as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things./ For now

we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face; now I know in part;

but then shall I know even as also I am known./ And now abideth faith,

hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity."*

********

Ithilien. There is in the air... in the very earth... something that seems to breathe that name into the hearts of those who know best the tarnished jewel of Gondor's crown. Faramir was nearly dizzy with that call, for after long months of absence he felt it as the cry of home-coming. Were I blindfold and deaf... were I drowning... still, I could not mistake this place for any other! So he thought, such was the feeling of relief and of belonging. From Minas Tirith to Poros to Osgiliath, Anórien to Lebennin and even Belfalas, he had seen, it seemed, every corner of Gondor since his brother had gone north. There were stretches of time when he remembered little more than riding from one village to the next, and he had once counted twenty of them that he had passed in the course of five days, going from Lossarnach to his uncle's seat at Dol Amroth. It had been an unsettling eight months, marked by constant fear and an overwhelming number of duties, and he had been plagued by a feeling of uprootedness. But despite that, the worst memories came of the weeks when he stood still, when he stayed in Minas Tirith and lived with the ghost of Boromir ever between himself and his father. Particularly once it had been made devastatingly clear that that was not simply a figure of speech, the shadow of death had lain heavy over the fair ways of Gondor's chief city, and Faramir had longed for escape. When Denethor had ordered him to cross Anduin and harry the Haradrim, he had gone with a swiftness that was almost insulting. It was the first time in his life that he had been glad to ride to Ithilien with the knowledge that battle awaited him, and he felt it a strange and painful thing, that he should gain such a profound insight into his brother only now, when it was too late.

But even Ithilien was changed by the loss of Gondor's captain-general, and it had been a very somber Mablung who had greeted him upon his return. "Captain," his lieutenant had said, searching his face with eyes that too clearly betrayed his concern.

"Mablung," Faramir had replied, clasping arms with him, and squeezing tightly to halt the next words ere they could even take shape. "Time is short. Send word that the men are to ready themselves, and bring Anborn and Damrod to me."

"Aye, sir." And Mablung had wisely let drop the subject, sensing that the pain was still far too close for Faramir to want to speak of his loss. Of their loss, the steward's second, and now only, son reminded himself firmly. Our loss. Gondor's loss. We all of us could claim my brother. It ought to hurt less because of that! Surely if I cannot claim him solely for myself, and must share his memory with a nation, even, my grief should be diminished, confined to the portion that is mine! But it was not so, for where others grieved openly, Faramir could not. He dared not, for if a captain must hold his fears tightly within, the heir to the stewardship of Gondor must never be seen weeping like a lost babe in public. But it did not help that men looked at him with pity in their eyes, as if he were an amputee. Even if I am one! Which is perhaps why I can scarce bear the reminder. But I must. I must, for I cannot fail my people. Not in this, when we are all bereft and in need of someone... anyone... to step to fore in Boromir's stead. And since Boromir had been remembered best for his leadership in time of war, and his courage in the face of battle, Faramir found himself assuming the role of warlord and captain-general in deadly earnest. He hated it, but he did it and received the adoration of the people for whom he suffered and fought with what he hoped was grace, but which felt more like grave pity that hovered too close to resentment.

And that was another reason he was grateful to be back in Ithilien. If the Rangers, too, looked at him now with grieving eyes, he knew their faces, their habits and mannerisms... their off-color jokes, their pranks and indiscretions, their loves and their losses. They were people-- friends-- not strangers, come to look upon Gondor's latest sacrificial lamb and to thank him ere they sent him out again to the slaughter fields in their places. They were his men, and if he was to be the next offering to Mordor's malice, they would march beside him and fall with him, part and parcel of a prince's bid for immortal remembrance in the minds of Gondor's masses. He was easy with them, and felt himself able to breathe at last. For, as Boromir would doubtless put it, there is little room for rank among the condemned. They might look to him with hope and fierce pride, but just as they were his because given him, he was theirs because he bled with them. He felt owned here, in a way that he did not when he walked the streets of Minas Tirith, or clattered into Lossarnach on his father's errands. And I need that. Without Boromir, there is no other who can claim me thus, except the Rangers.

A low call, as of a lark, drifted to his ears, and he pursed his lips and answered with a rising note: All is clear: advance! And as he slipped quietly through the dense stands of trees and clinging underbrush, in his mind, he tracked the unseen progress of his men as they moved stealthily into position, checking for spies and look-outs as they came. They ought to have more than enough time, in truth, for the sun had not yet cleared the heights of the Ephel Dúath, and the filthy reek that clung to the eastern horizon would give them another half an hour perhaps of darkness. The Haradrim would come, and when they dared the road upon the steep embankment, they would find Ithilien's Rangers waiting for them. It took but little time for the men to reach their positions, and Faramir signed to Damrod to go and make a discreet round, to be certain that all were under cover. He watched as the archer collected another Ranger for a help and companion, waiting until they disappeared into the brush. Then he leaned back against the great tree beneath which he stood and waited, while visions of ruin flitted uneasily through his mind.

It was an odd thing, he thought, but it seemed to him as he stood there, waiting on the edge of another battle from which he might not return, that his life had always been lived by halves. For long, he had ordered his life about the division that Ithilien had made in it: there had been Before Ithilien, and After Ithilien. Before Ithilien, he had been a child still, no matter that the law made him an adult at fifteen. Ithilien had slain the child and put a man in his place, one who despised that murder but who had learned to accept that it was necessary. And I thought I was happy enough... and I suppose I was, mostly. Now, though, my life no longer balances about Ithilien. There is only before and after his death, and I cannot foresee that that should ever change. He sighed inwardly, gazing up at the gnarled, knotty tree that spread its canopy over him. Here in the darkness, beneath its eaves, he let himself move from thoughts of his beloved brother to his father. If Faramir had been devastated by Boromir's death, at least he had had the chance to speak to him ere he had left for Imladris, and to part on good terms. And I saw him again, and knew that he was at peace, he thought, seeing once more the boat, and his brother's still form within it. But Denethor had not seen, and though Faramir had never asked, he thought that his father and Boromir had not parted well. They had had still some business between them, or so it seemed to him.

Not that Denethor would admit any such thing, of course, and Faramir's hesitant attempts to speak to him on the subject of his brother's death had earned naught but harsh rejection. Likely, that I was the messenger who brought the ill-news did not help my case either! So he thought, yet it was not enough to make him forget his hurt and his anger. Verily, the feeling of sick, helpless rage had not left him, and but that he knew that his father suffered, he might well have loosed it on the steward. Suffering breeds compassion, his mother had said once. It was one of the very few memories that he had of anything that she had ever told him, and he smiled beneath his mask as the day drew nearer. Mother was wiser than she knew, perhaps, for I think it must be true at least of some. And she ought to know, who suffered so much from her illness. I wonder, if she were still alive, would it be different between father and me? I wonder if Denethor asks himself that when sleep is elusive?

Faramir could not answer such questions, and he knew it, but still the idea appealed to him. It was necessary, somehow: necessary that he be able to think of his father as loving another creature, and feeling regret as to the absence of his beloved. Of course, Denethor loved Boromir, but he had also hurt his elder son, possibly quite deeply, and he had not seemed at the time to notice it. But now, when his brother was gone, it was all too evident to Faramir's eyes that the steward had simply hidden that guilty recognition of his fault. Father has always hidden too much. Perhaps that is why he is so cold: he sees secrets everywhere, secrets unworthy of men, perhaps, and so he refuses to touch them in any way. Perhaps that is why he loved Boromir so, for he kept few, and none of them bad. Not, at least, until I came between him and father. Does Denethor realize that that is what happened? He wondered. It is so difficult to know what passes through father’s mind. If he does understand, though, he must be terrified! I would have died if Boromir had turned away from me that night, when I was fifteen and everything began to shift. Father must feel something similar, surely. Faramir had never before thought to consider whether he might not pity his father, but now that he looked more closely, he saw clearly for the first time: Denethor was pitiable! Always before, he had looked upon his father and felt confusion, ambivalence, disappointment, fear or anger, and he had felt these things as bearing down upon him, weighing heavily because of the dignity and authority with which his father, as steward, was invested. Now though…now that he saw it, he wondered that he had not noticed before how very alone and miserable his father must be.

Is it enough, I wonder, to make me bear his scorn now, when I feel the weight of my brother's legacy so heavy? From the spasms of anger and fear that still racked him whenever he faced his father, he tended to doubt it. What he bore now, he did because he had no choice, and indeed, he resented Denethor, that his father would not, even now, let him grieve. The steward had shut him out when he had brought the awful news home, and subsequent attempts to speak to him of Boromir's death had been painfully repulsed. As if my grief is unworthy, because I was only his brother, and not his father! As if I loved him less! Valar, what a poor excuse for family we are! Were it not for Imrahil, I know not to whom I would turn! Imrahil, when he had learned of the disaster, had done his best to provide Faramir some release, and Faramir was privately rather ashamed of the flood of words he had written his uncle in an outpouring of frustrated grief. Granted, his father had never been a man of warm and lively affection, but his present coldness seemed of the tomb, and even now Faramir suppressed a shiver at the thought. It was as if something had died in him, and perhaps that was not far from the truth. Nevertheless, he ought not to burden his uncle, who had troubles enough with Pelargir raiding his coasts and threatening his harbors. And Imrahil, too, must grieve.

And I ought not to court such thoughts when battle looms! Faramir berated himself. For the sun had broken through the murk, and he could feel the tension rise with it. Soon enough, he would be needed, and--

A sharp call sounded, and Faramir stiffened as, all through the ranks, heads whipped about at the jay's cries. Damrod? Alert to what...? But as he moved forward to gaze towards the sounds, he saw it: a thin wisp of smoke in the morning air. "Intruders? Here?" Mablung's incredulous murmur at his shoulder made him smile slightly. His lieutenant sounded scandalized! Of course there are intruders, that is how our luck has been of late: one task needs full attention, and so of course something happens to distract us. Gondor falters, and then a boat appears upon Anduin...

"Come Mablung. It seems we have hunting to do!" With that, Faramir reached and picked up his bow, while Mablung, with a snap of his gloved fingers, solicited a spear from a nearby Ranger, who surrendered his weapon readily.

"Shall we go, captain?"

"Anborn, you have the watch."

"Aye, captain!"

Let us see what the fair morn hides indeed! His father would not be pleased with him, he knew, for his orders were to slay those who trespassed. But though I feel the emptiness where once I kept my heart, father, still I am not heartless! And I am tired of death. Green shades beneath the trees, they slipped away, hunters in Ithilien and unaware that their quarry bore the fate of Arda on a slender chain: the fate of Arda, and Isildur's Bane. Boromir's Bane. It was a hard-fought battle with the Haradrim, but in the end, it was not the most memorable event of the day. When in the late night, most men slept the sleep of the dead after a great battle, Faramir brooded on the Hobbits' revelation. Frodo's exhausted face mirrored the exhaustion of his battered soul and he sighed as he stood and watched the moonlight play off of the water. And he cupped his hands to catch some of it and splash it on his face, to keep him watchful and to hide his tears. You took the chance, sir... showed your quality. The very highest! Samwise's voice sounded again and again in his mind, and ever the answer remained the same: There was naught in this to praise. I had no lure or desire to do other than I have done.* Faramir drew a deep breath, trying to calm the shivers that wanted to rack him. Not like Boromir! Pride might desire to be tested, but love would refuse. If I were to fall... I could not risk that, for what honor would that do my brother's memory?

That last night in Osgiliath, when his brother had come to stay with him, to tell him the news, and bid him farewell, they had talked long, 'til it felt as though the stain of strife and rivalry on their long friendship had been cleansed. And when the sun had risen, and Boromir made ready to depart, he had paused and cast a rather troubled look at Faramir. "I know that you would go, Faramir, but the way is long and beset with who knows what perils? Do not grudge me that I take the quest and am glad that you will remain behind! Skeptic that I am, it will need more faith than perhaps I have to do this, and so you have the easier part, or so my heart says." Had there been some way to reassure his brother's doubts, Faramir would have done it in that moment. Alas that I could not speak! He had simply nodded and said his farewells, and watched his brother ride out of Gondor, and out of his life. No fanfare, nothing to announce a last time... Am I truly that naïve that I believe all such partings are somehow marked? For would that not mean that Boromir's death was sealed even then? That he had no choice, that it was his place to die beneath Tol Brandir, and mine to remain behind? He hoped that he was not so painfully innocent, yet he still felt somewhat betrayed that foresight had failed him in that instant.

All stands now in disarray, and I would think the world had grown mad: Boromir has visions when he lacks faith; Mithrandir, seeming deathless, falls to ruin in Moria; steadfast Rohan wavers; and two Hobbits, scarcely more than children to my eyes and yet not so, dare the land that Men will not name! And I... I become my brother in the hearts of my people. I never wanted that! But that was his lot, to lose his faith, perhaps, even as Boromir had, it seemed, found his in the end. Wiping the water from his face with his sleeve, he turned at the sound of footsteps, nodding to Anborn as the best bowman of the company yawningly took up his post. "Captain," Anborn murmured. "'Tis a beautiful night!"

"Hmmm... yes, it is." He felt Anborn's eyes upon him and knew that the other was concerned. All of the men were, though they said nothing. But he knew that he was watched, and not only out of pity. His men stood guard over him, rarely leaving him alone whether by day or by night. The company-wide vigil was too carefully coordinated to be an accident, and his chief suspects in the plot were his own lieutenants, who tended magically to appear during the dead shifts, either to sleep or stand at his side. He was fortunate tonight that it was Anborn who was his minder, for he was an easier man than was Mablung. Perhaps because he had endured such watches before, having lost a great part of his family, and he knew the signs. So, having satisfied himself that Faramir would not throw himself over the edge to his death tonight or break down in a shaking fit, the archer shifted his attention to the night and left his captain alone with his thoughts. I could tell them that they need not worry so. I doubt they would believe me, but it is true. For Boromir is gone, and were I to follow him in death, who then would remember him as I do? Who then would see past his glory and remember that he could be gentle? That his honor was Gondor's, and that he gave it freely? Who would remember the one who redeemed himself from despair in the end? Such is the charity of these days, that I spare myself to honor you! To honor you, and all your difficult ways, and not the idol that others make of you!

Anborn glanced sideways at his captain, alerted by what seemed a soft sob. But when he caught a glimpse of Faramir's face in the moonlight, there was a slight, but genuine smile on his lips, and the heir of Denethor sighed as he glanced up at the moon. Well, that I have not seen in too long! Anborn thought, heartened by the sight of that smile. That does make it a fair night indeed! And so feeling much encouraged on his lord captain's behalf, he settled into the watch with an easier heart, and waited for the long darkness to end.

*******

* Thanks to Alawa, without whose classical education I would never have found that citation, nor realized that it wasn't a poem!

*TTT, p. 368

Author's Note

This story started out being only a chapter long. And then it reproduced amoebically. And then it spawned another six projected chapters. And then those episodes bred incestuously amongst themselves until there were fifteen full-length chapters and an epilogue (which latest addition I hope feels complete. Suggestions welcome on that topic!).

Because this is now becoming quite a tangled web, I thought you might want to know how this story fits in with my other Gondor stories-- "Love Sweet as Poison," "From the Other River Bank," and (eventually) "Star and Stone." Clearly they break down along the slash/non-slash line, and so should not be confused with each other, despite the number of common incidents that they share. But neither of them have priority over each other in my mind: I see both story arcs as being legitimate gap-fillers, intended to try to explain the motivations of some of the most complex characters in Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings." They are not intended to be AU's, but rather are two competing interpretations of the same set of characters and the defining events of their lives. You can read the stories against each other, or simply enjoy (assuming that you do in fact enjoy this much angst) them separately.

Title of the epilogue arose out of I know not what corner of my fevered brain. If I ever dip into Biblical fiction again, it might be a tale to write: "For Lazarus remains..." dead. Call it a reaction to the "Boromir lives!" fic that occasionally appears. Not that some of them aren't good, but to me, the the most profound act of Boromir's life was his willingness to die to redeem himself, even though that meant he would never know whether Gondor-- and all those that he loved-- would stand or fall. Where Aragorn is allowed to surrender the ring and live, it is only through death that Boromir is allowed to relinquish the quest. And of course now his family has to live with his decision. Anyhow... there's your bit of odd reflection for this fic!

Thanks to all those who have reviewed, who have offered their comments and concerns, listened to me complain about Imrahil (Isabeau of Greenlea, in particular), and who generally let me do some serious playing in the realm of common imagination!

--Dwimordene

back to Part I -V
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