"That will depend on the manner of your return."

The doors of the Tower opened and Faramir, only surviving son of the Steward of Gondor, strode out into the Place of the Fountain. There were tears in his eyes that glistened, unshed; he understood all too well the implications of his father's orders. He was not meant to return from Osgiliath.

Two men from his regiment were waiting there by the doors, to escort him down into the City and back to the barracks. He shook his head slowly, with a sad smile on his face.

"My father has given his orders; we are to ride for Osgiliath in the morning. We are to retake the city."

"But, Captain, the city is overrun!" said the first man, a trusted lieutenant. He was of stout heart not easily shaken, but this news brought a frown of deep concern to his brow.

"I know," said Faramir, laying his hand on the man's armour-clad shoulder. He nodded. "I know. Tell the men to go to their families; let them spend this night in the company of those they love."

His lieutenant nodded gravely. "And you, Captain?"

"I shall spend the night in my father's home. I..." He sighed, then straightened his back, coming back to himself as the Captain he was. "I would understand should I find the barracks poorly manned come the morning."

The lieutenant smiled. "But I should not," he said. "We will muster at daybreak."

Faramir watched as the man strode away, down the steps and out into the City. He was a good man, the grey-haired head of a family out of Ithilien; the second soldier there by Faramir was this lieutenant's only son, barely twenty years old. He stepped forward; he was hesitant but firm, with a good sword-arm. When battle came to Minas Tirith, they would miss good men like him.

"We will follow you," he said, holding Faramir's gaze steadily, though his voice cracked over his words. There was something burning in the young man's grey eyes, stronger than the fear he felt. "We will follow you to whatever end."

He did not wait for a reply but turned then and strode away; Faramir was grateful, for he had no reply to give save one shed tear.

---

The house of the Stewards lay to the rear of Ecthelion's tower, two levels high, with vaulted ceilings and carved stone walls. Two guards stood by the doors – young men, they were, and barely more than boys, all that could be spared from Gondor's army. Had there been logic left in the Steward's rule, even these boys would have been excused their petty duty and have been sent to man the wall. With sincere, deferential nods, they opened the doors before Faramir.

He had not set foot inside his childhood home for months; as a Ranger he had slept at night under the cover of the trees, well hidden, and as a soldier he lived with his men in the barracks. He felt, though, that this night of all nights he should return. His father need not know. Word was, from the Tower Guard, that the Steward kept to his own company in the Tower's upper levels; Denethor would never know, and that was a comfort to him.

He could have found his way in the house even blindfolded. He had once done so, as a child, as a bet against his brother. Looking back, Boromir had let him win; at stake had been a book that Faramir had wanted and that Denethor had instead gifted to his eldest. He could still remember the smile on his brother's face as he'd placed the book into his hands. Faramir still had the book, in his rooms, on the table at his bedside.

It was to there that Faramir had, at first, intended to go. He walked slowly through the hallways, allowing his eyes to wander over the walls and the draperies hanging there, the paintings, the finest things of the finest artisans in all the country. He stopped, bemused; he ran his hand over the fine embroidery of the hanging at his side and he sighed, turned, rested his back against the wall. He had taken a wrong turn – he was not by his own rooms but by the door to his brother's. Wearily, his fingers reached and clasped the handle. He let himself inside.

A mirror hung on the wall into which Faramir could not bring himself to look. His brother's armour shone on its stand in the dim light cast from the window. There were books and scrolls and parchment littering the wide wooden desk to his left, melted wax and burned-down candles, discarded quills... Items of familiar clothing lay scatted over the chairs and the worn old couch, the sleeve of a deep red tunic that Faramir had let his brother borrow trailed onto the thick animal skins that covered the cold stone floor. Nothing had been touched. Nothing had changed. Faramir felt hot tears prick at his eyes anew.

He closed the door behind him and then leant back against it, letting his eyes wander over all his brother's things. Knives and swords adorned the walls, and a book of strategy lay on the table by his bed; the bed was unmade, the sheets rumpled, pillows haphazardly arranged. Faramir smiled to himself, just a small smile, and pushed himself from the door – he walked over to the bed and sat down, ran his hands over the mattress, let himself imagine Boromir there the night before he left to carry out his errand to the north. How their father wished it had been Faramir that had left and not his brother. How Faramir did then also.

He pulled off his boots and lay back. He had missed his brother cruelly, and his death had increased that torment at the very least tenfold. He closed his eyes, and remembered that last night.

They had returned to the City together, full of ale and of good cheer. Their father had important business closeted with his advisors, and as he retired to the conference rooms in the upper levels of the Tower, so Boromir and Faramir had retired to their home, and to Boromir's rooms. Faramir had helped his brother to remove his armour and to set it on its stand beneath the window; Boromir had tugged at his younger brother's leather breastplate until his resolve weakened and he had allowed his brother's fingers closer to unlace it, and to discard it into a waiting chair. Boromir's smile then was drunken and sincere, his face flushed and eyes tinged with sadness. Faramir could not have refused him anything he asked.

He had not asked much; Boromir's hands circled his brother's wrists and tugged him, smiling, shirtless, in front of the mirror. They looked so very similar, so unlike their father, with matching eyes and matching smiles. Boromir's fingers grazed the line of his younger brother's jaw and Faramir watched in the glass as Boromir moved behind him, and lowered his lips to his shoulder.

"Stay with me tonight," he said, his hand coming down to rest on the buckle of Faramir's belt, his thumb tucking down behind it. His lips pressed in softly against his neck.

"I'll stay forever, if you ask me to."

Faramir turned and brushed his hand over his brother's pale shoulder, up to the back of his neck, fingers twining in the ends of his hair.

"Just wait for me, little brother." Boromir stepped back and shucked off his trousers, standing naked in the candlelight with a wide smile upon his face. "Stay safe." He took Faramir's head in his hands and quickly kissed his lips. "Now, come to bed."

He took his hand and led him by it; they slipped between the sheets and lay together, in each other's arms. Boromir soon fell asleep, his hand resting lightly at his brother's waist, and Faramir remembered how he watched him sleep then. Somehow he'd known that night would be the last that they would lie together.

Boromir had set out the following morning. He looked back along the path as he rode away, and he smiled. Faramir hoped that was the way he would remember him, always.

---

He woke before dawn, but not long before. He rubbed his eyes. He did not want to leave the bed. The scent on the pillow reminded him of his brother; he could almost feel the warm touch of his skin. He did not want to let that go, yet he knew he must.

He stepped out of the bed. It was nearing dawn and he was not prepared to leave – his armour was back in the barracks. But that did not matter. He smiled. His brother's armour was right there.

As he rode from the White City he found that the weight of memory was, perhaps, not so very hard to bear. He raised one gloved hand and traced the stars upon his chest. He sat tall in his saddle as he led his men toward the river. He took his brother with him.